An Interview with Akaky Bashmachkin

You've all heard of the great and wondrous Neilochka's Great & Wondrous Interview scheme in which a whole helluva lotta bloggers signed on to interview and be interviewed by each other. I know you've all heard of this because I wrote about it when I posted my interview. Now the shoe is on the other foots, and what you're about to read is an interview I did with Akaky of Passing Parade. He is a crafty bugger, deliberately dense and wholesomely amusing. I did my best to crack his pose, but t'was all for naught I believe. Read on...enjoy...chortle or not, as the case may be. I myself am in love with the erudition dripping from his dreadlocks, and I intend to propose at the least a longterm affair--as soon as I can learn the exact site of the Vampire State.

• You've been on Blogger for six years. That dates back to before blogging was the darling of the social media set. How did you happen to be such an early adopter?

I have grown psychic in my old age, although sheer luck may have had something to do with it. I read about this strange new phenomenon somewhere—where escapes me at the moment—and thought that I might like to give that a try. So I did, and I continue to do so, for reasons I am not sure I fathom at the moment. Unlike Neil, I do not flirt with the lady bloggers, I am not involved in an ongoing stormy relationship with the always lovely Sophia, and the only part of my body that speaks to me is my pancreas, which has very little to say about anything except that it doesn't want to work for me anymore; I am not sure if my pancreas has joined a union at this point, but frankly, it wouldn't surprise me at all. In short, no one has any reason to come to my blog and hence, everyone ignores me. I am a digital nobody, a cart stuck in the blogospheric mud, going nowhere and getting there quickly. I've thought of changing the tone of my blog to one of complete earnestness and high moral dudgeon, thereby gaining an easy readership of anal retentives, all of us intent on changing the world, but I am distracted easily, I fear, and so I can only keep the dudgeon going for only so long before I have to bring it into the shop for an oil change and maybe a new filter. So there on Blogger I remain, while many another blogger moves onwards and upwards in their blogging career, moving on up to their own Web sites, and then on to fame and fortune. Life is not fair sometimes.

• Do you have facial hair, and if so, would you consider running for office?

I do not have facial hair, except on weekends, when I don't bother to shave, and I would not run for public office unless I did not have to do anything during working hours. Not working on the public's dime is the whole point of having a government job in the first place and I see no reason why I should have to work harder than the people at the DMV just because I ran for the office. If I really wanted to work for a living, I'd get a real job in private industry, at IBM or General Motors or someplace like that. I also dislike the idea of running for re-election. I am not alone in this; most politicians dislike the idea of running for re-election. Here in the Vampire State, politicians regard incumbency as one of their civil rights, and more than one defeated pol has sued his constituents for voting against him in droves. This strategy hasn't actually worked up to now; it actually annoys the electorate no end, but the public's annoyance hasn't stopped some out of work solons from trying, and it's only a matter of time before some judge who owes his job to his party chairman accommodates the losers of both parties and orders the electoral hoi polloi to send Senator Gotmine or Assemblyman Porkbarrel back to the tax trough to feed in peace and contentment for perpetuity.

• Your list of favorite books could have been compiled by someone who voted for Eisenhower. Did you vote for Eisenhower? Or Stevenson? Or, is there some other reason that your favorite authors are dead white guys who topped the bestseller lists in the 1930s?

I did not vote for either General Eisenhower or Governor Stevenson. I thought long and hard about the issues of the day: Korea, taxes, inflation, the Communist threat, and the untoward antics of the junior Senator from Wisconsin; and decided that neither candidate really meshed with my political views in either 1952 or 1956. Consequently, I waited until the summer of 1958 to be born, just in time to register for the midterm elections that year. I voted for Homer T. Veatch, the candidate of the Prohibition Party, not because I have anything against alcohol myself, but because Homer is a nice guy and his mom lived right down the street from us. Now that I think on it, I'm pretty sure that his mother and I were the only two people in the county to vote for Homer in 1958; I think even the Socialist Workers candidate got more votes than Homer did. Homer took the loss badly, I fear; he thought he had a real chance of pulling out an upset in the general election, and I felt terrible telling him after the polls had closed that he never stood a snowball's chance in hell of winning. No American will ever vote for a politician who wears a brown clip-on bowtie with a pink short-sleeved shirt. That made his dejection even worse; he had a lot of faith in his lucky bowtie, his mother told me later; and I really didn't know what to do next. It's not like you can offer the candidate of the Prohibition Party a good stiff drink, can you? Homer went on to bigger and better things, just as I knew he would. A few years later, the public elected him district attorney, a position he held for a good many years, and then he ran for the state assembly and won. He seems fairly content up there in the state capital, but I think that first loss of his political career still grates on him a bit, and I think he still plans on making another run for Congress someday. He still has that silly bowtie, too.

Is there some reason why my list of favorite authors are dead white guys who topped the bestseller lists in the 1930's? I don't think of them as dead white guys who topped the bestseller lists in the 1930's; I think of them as great American writers and their works as masterpieces of American literature. No two people will look at the same thing the same way. For example, many people in this country regard the United States Air Force's refusal to nuke Fenway Park during a Red Sox home game as an example of the Air Force's high regard for the lives and property of their fellow citizens. Still others regard the Air Force's refusal to nuke Fenway Park as proof positive that the Air Force is in league with the Anti-Christ. It all depends on where you stand, really.

• When I read your blog posts, I am reminded of Tristram Shandy. Are you?

I seldom read my own blog posts; having written them, I see no reason why I should prolong the agony and read them as well; but when I do read them I am not reminded of Tristram Shandy, except in the sense that both the posts and the book seem to go on and on about nothing at all for a prolonged period of time, a quality I usually associate more with Proust than with Sterne. As anyone who has read A la recherché du temps perdu all the way through can tell you, nothing much happens in Proust and Proust spends an inordinate amount of time describing how the nothing that isn't happening isn't happening and how the Narrator, who may or may not be Proust himself, depending on what critic you believe, feels about how the nothing that isn't happening isn't happening and how the nothing that isn't happening reminds the Narrator of something else that didn't happen in excruciating detail. It took me two years to get through those damn books; I kept bogging down in The Fugitive and The Captive, bogging down to the point where I couldn't wait for Proust to get on with it and kill off Albertine , who may be one of the most annoying characters in all of literature, the Narrator being number one on that list. No, I do not think of myself as in anyway like either Sterne or Proust. Rather, I am more in the tradition of Hemingway, a follower of Strunk and White's Elements of Style, which, if you'll remember, chides the author to omit needless words entirely and to stick to the point of whatever it is you are writing, unlike Sterne, who apparently never met a digression he didn't like, taking the opportunity to go off on tangents that had nothing to do with the story he was telling simply for the pleasure of wandering down the tangent and seeing if he could get some more literary frequent flyer miles for doing so.

Unless you're asking me if I am Tristram Shandy, which doesn't seem likely from either literary or an actuarial standpoint; most people, real and imagined, born in the 18^th century are now long dead and probably making a habit of it at this point. You might wonder why anyone why anyone would choose to acquire this particular habit out of the plethora of habits they might otherwise choose to acquire, but people will make some very strange choices when left to their own devices.

• There is about your blog posts a certain je ne sais quois, perhaps a smidgeon of the sort of arch, yet ironic, erudite, yet pop-cultish humor that I have long associated with British graduates of English universities. Have you ever lived in Britain? Why or why not?

I do not now, nor have I ever, lived in Great Britain, the British Commonwealth of Nations, or in any of the tatty bits of the Empire that still remain under the direct rule of the Crown. My grandparents did live in Liverpool before their emigration to this our Great Republic in 1928, but I don't think that counts. I was in New Jersey once too, but I don't think that counts, either. Why do I not live in Great Britain? As I work in upstate New York, I suspect that the commute would be hard on my car. That's as good a reason as any, I guess.

• What motivated you to write three reponses to the Curb Your Enthusiasm bulletin boards, and then no more?

I am all for curbing one's enthusiasm, yes I am, and I am not all averse in telling people that haven't curbed their enthusiasm that other people have to use the sidewalks and would they please clean up after their enthusiasm from now on? Most people are apologetic—they know they shouldn't be letting their enthusiasm go wherever it wants, but they're too tired or too lazy to really care. One guy did sic his enthusiasm on me when I told him to curb his enthusiasm, but I lucked out; a cop saw the whole thing and he arrested this dolt for assault and took him and his enthusiasm down to the police station. The cop called me the next day and asked if I wanted to press charges, but I told him no, you know, no harm, no foul, and so that was the end of that.

On re-reading the question, though, I see that Curb Your Enthusiasm begins with capital letters, denoting a noun, possibly a name or a title. Curious as to this sudden change of interrogatory direction, I checked the Internet and I find that this is, in fact, a title, the title of a program that airs, if anything can actually air on cable, on HBO. I even found the three comments by Akaky that you ask about on the program's bulletin board, but I must officially forswear any responsibility for said comments. I do not get HBO; I am content with the basic cable I get and I see no reason to expand my horizons any further; and therefore I have never seen any episodes of this program and did not know the program existed until you asked about it. I am not your commenter, despite the obvious shared taste for Gogol's overcoat and other fashion accessories

• What is your writing utensil of choice?

A pencil.

• Why did you want to participate in Neilochka's Grand Interview Experiment (or whatever he's calling it these days)?

I did not want to participate at all; I was drafted against my will and my better judgment, but people prevailed on my good nature, as they are wont to do, and I am going along with this silliness for the sake of their sanity. If I did not participate, Neil was going to whine about my not participating for weeks without end. Neither Neil's penis nor the always lovely Sophia want to listen to him when he goes into one of these sulks; Neil nearly drove them both to San Luis Obispo when Neil's mom gave his kugel to his cousin about a year or so ago. He gets whiny, nasty, and cranky at the same time, obsessively reorganizes his collection of Uzbek dental floss containers according to height, and annoys goyim in Pig's Knuckle, Arkansas by calling them late at night and demanding that they make hefty contributions to the United Jewish Appeal. The UJA had to get a restraining order against him to keep him from doing this last year; he was giving the organization a bad name and drying up contributions to boot. It's hard to ask someone for money when Neil's been calling these same people at four o'clock in the morning and asking them if they knew that the word Arkansas appears on the state flag of Arkansas so that the people in Arkansas will know where they are. This is not the way to win friends and influence people. In the depths of a very deep kvetch, Neil turns violent, punching innocent refrigerators until the Freon bleeds. I don't think he would actually beat the always-lovely Sophia, as she would kick his ass into next year if he tried, and as for his penis…well, let's not go there. So that's how I got involved in this thing, much to my chagrin. I'm opposed to this entire concept myself; to my mind letting Neil talk us into doing interviews is just another way of enabling him to act out his strange obsessions. He's never going to get over these compulsions of his until someone finally says no, or gives him his cousin's kugel, whichever comes first.

• Bonus question: what question should I have asked you?????

As to the bonus: you could have asked if putting ketchup on a hot dog is a sign of psychological and sexual immaturity. I say no, but there is a vast school of psychological thought that holds that the only psychologically permissible condiment for a hot dog is yellow mustard. This strikes me as a strangely neo-Freudian notion, and I understand how they could feel that way, but the empirical research does not bear their theory out. Studies done on Canadian lab rats clearly show that using yellow mustard on a hot dog for a prolonged period of time leads inevitably to depression, mental instability, and rooting for the Boston Red Sox, and is therefore best avoided, especially in the presence of small children, whom this horrific experience may scar for life.

Sprint Sucks

Is there a website for that? Because if so, I want to sign up immediately. And if not, hey someone, SprintSucks.com is so incredibly alliterative, how could it miss?

I have--ahem!--just come from paying my Sprint bill. I am not a happy cellphone user. I would not mind pay the bill if I could use the phone. But I can't. Because, according to all that I've spoken to about this on-line, in-person, and on-phone (landline), I live in what they call a "hole." That is, a place where service ranges from non-existent to spotty because...because...because Sprint sucks and they can't get their signals to my house. All that talk about how many bars one gets on one's cell phone? I get one. And then mid-conversation that one cuts out and I get "Lost Signal." The consequence of this is that I cannot and do not use my cell phone in my house. Which means that I am forced to use my landline and the consequence of that is my long distance phone calls from home are billed. So my landline phone is expensive and my Sprint phone is expensive--and I'm just bleeding money to all these carriers.

Sprint was never my carrier of choice. When I got this account, I was a Nextel user. I deliberately chose them because Nextel seemed to market to adults, who were interested more in service than the sound of their ring tone. But Nextel sold out to Sprint and my contract was such that I had no choice but to go along. However, said contract is up next month and--I'm outta here, guys. Screw you...toodleloo...and fuck off. I wish you had spent more money on improving service and less on advertising, but that would have un-American, wouldn't it.

Am I mad? You bet. So I'm joining SprintSucks.com. Wanna come along?

Hungry Hill: A Memoir, by Carole O’Malley Gaunt

Hungry Hill: A Memoir, by Carole O’Malley Gaunt. University of Massachusetts Press, 2007.

Carole O’Malley Gaunt is quite obviously Irish, and center stage of her memoir is her alcoholic father. How much more does one need to know to slot it into the genre of memoirs that detail the ills the Irish child suffers at the hands of his or her drunken parent? Think the McCourts, for one. It seems that her publisher and her publicist are aiming at that audience. Here’s the back flap copy they’ve written to entice readers:

“The author recounts her sad and turbulent story with remarkable clarity, humor, and insight, punctuating the narrative with occasional fictional scenes that allow the adult Carole to comment on her teenage experiences and to probe the impact of her mother’s death and her father’s alcoholism.”

Just makes you want to run right out and buy the book, doesn’t it. If you said, no, then you would be missing something, because the deathly prose in Hungry Hill is confined to the jacket copy. O’Malley Gaunt herself is a talented writer whose way with words and faculty for specific details makes this story of her teenage years come alive as only the best of memoirists have the wherewithal to achieve.

I am not Irish and my parents were merely social drinkers, but I grew up in roughly the same era as O’Malley Gaunt details here, and I can tell you: she’s got it down, right to the penny loafers and the headbands. Time and again, she transported me back to that time and that place. Here’s Carole on a double date:

“…Richie leans over, looks at Gordie, and lifts his eyebrows, a signal if I ever saw one. When Gordie puts thirty cents down for their cokes, Kathy pulls out her wallet from her straw bag while I reach into the pocket of my Bermuda shorts for the exact change. Because Gordie and Richie do not fork money up for our sodas, my neck relaxes a little….Out on the street, a blast of hot air hits us as if the July heat had been waiting for a Friday night meltdown. As we walk up the street, Richie and Gordie talk about cars—engines, headlights, and prices, but I can’t tell one car from another and have only just learned what a tailfin is….In the middle of Newbury Street, while talking about the pits in chrome fenders, Gordie reaches for my hand. It’s not as if he’s going to lift my hand with its short fingernails to his lips and kiss it, after all this is Springfield, not Paree. But still I don’t like it.”

I was on that double date, only mine was in Pittsburgh and we had just come from Gammon’ s and what made me uncomfortable was the boys hooting and hollering at a sign in the butcher’s window: Breasts, 79 cents. But the straw bag, the Bermuda shorts, the endless talk about cars and such that we all listened to with such feigned admiration—she’s nailed it.

But if you’re not looking for a trip down memory lane, there are those other reasons to read this book. It has something to do with the fact that her mother died early and her father was a handsome alcoholic and she was the only girl with six brothers. But at heart, Hungry Hill is really a coming of age story. The specifics of her life are less important than watching her make her way through the landmines that are always waiting for young girls growing up. This is not to minimize the impact that her father’s drinking had on her, but really, it is more important to her now, probably. There is about those fictional scenes with the adult Carole and the parental figure who wronged her a Twelve Step patina that rings false with the intense truthfulness of O’Malley Gaunt’s written memories of the time.

Hungry Hill is, despite the jacket copy, not a “sad and turbulent story.” Far from it. It is a counter to the bloated tales we're getting of the good old days of the Sixties and Seventies, stories of the movers and shakers, as it were, by the movers and shakers of today. This, on the other hand, is just a book about a girl in a time and a place; it’s a window into Growing Up Girl then—and I suspect—now as well. And it captures the era far better than all the retrospectives in the glossy weeklies have done.

Sundown plus Four

This was taken on February 7, 2008 at 5:51 p.m.

This was taken four minutes later at 5:55 p.m. One difference in lighting is, I think, that the outside spot came on when I went out to take the second shot. That's why there's so much light on the fence. Not so nice and dramatic, but what I'm really interested in is the sky.

Give a Dog a Bone--Again

This time Molly elected to chow down on her beef short rib, straight out of the pot, on the living room rug. A girl's got to be comfy when she eats, doesn't she???

Car Shopping

Whatcha think? Yes? No? Maybe?

Kninking..err, Knitting & Drinking

Another glorious night of it, my friends. This time at a lovely little wine bar in Elk Grove (don't you wish you lived nearby). We came and we ate and we drank and we knit. I think I've only dropped one stitch. At least just one that I know about. No one looked askance. Everyone seemed to feel it was perfectly natural for a group of seven and eight women to be knitting and drinking...kninking.

Here's a pitcher for you. Don't say I don't illustrate my posts, please:

This is Sarah

And this is Brenda The rest of the group is--well, they're reflected in the many wine glasses before Sarah and Brenda. We decided we're going to do this once a month, on the third Friday. Come join us.

Roses For Sale...Love To Buy

The scene at my local supermarket was unbelievable tonight. The aisles were jampacked at 6:15 with men lined up to buy identical bouquets of long-stemmed red roses. Complete with tissue, baby's breath, and a fern or two. At the supermarket. Just down from the meat and across the aisle from the lettuce.

This is romance? This is love? This is necessary?

Hi, honey, I'm home...I love you...here's your roses....what's for dinner?

I don't get this holiday at all. Never did, not even in my most absurdly in love moments. The only time I really remember enjoying Valentine's Day was in grade school when I got to make the classroom box that all our Valentines would go in. I was the diva of crepe paper then and created the most fantastic orgies of hearts and ruffles and shiny stuff and more ruffles, all very tasteful, mind you, but still over-the-top. But the actual exchanging of cards? That seemed a chore to me. All those little cards to sign my name to. All those weeny envelopes to lick. It was obvious to me even back then that the holiday really had no meaning. It wasn't even a proper popularity contest, because we had to send a Valentine to everyone in the class.

The whole idea of Valentine's Day seems such an artificial construct to me. And the expectations that are loaded into it--well, they're just plain scary. I'd hate to be a guy on February 14th--talk about performance pressure...

But I'm not a guy, and I do love you--so here are some roses I picked. I grew them myself, and they smell real purty. Happy Valentine's Day.

Today, Tomorrow, but never yesterday...

I don't really know what that means. It just came to me, and when things like that come, I write them down, and some time later, I say, Oh yeah, that's what that meant.

I had a hard day today. It didn't start out that way. For the first half of the day, I was charging through--gettin' stuff done, achieving, crossing items off the list. Then I went to this meeting I have every Wednesday. I went vowing to keep my mouth shut and my nose clean, and pretty much, I succeeded--but at what cost?

Why am I so bothered by other people's bullshit? Why can I not sit still when those around me are doing their paltry little ego dances? Why does this stuff not drive others nuts the way it does me? Why am I so intolerant? Why am I gritting my teeth--still, hours later?

I recall a dressing down I got from a boss a long time ago. He said, and I quote, "You walk around this office as if we owe you a living." And I was pretty proud of that, thought it acknowledged my obvious superiority which could not be hidden underneath that proverbial bushel. Now I think--man, how arrogant I was--and am. I really do have a sense of entitlement that is somewhat off-kilter. And if it drives other people crazy, you can't imagine what it's doing to me. I'm the one that lives inside this head, and somedays, I'll tell you, it just ain't fun.

Tonight I saw that Polly Williams died. You can read about it here: Polly Williams Of HBOs Thin Found Dead Did you see Thin, Lauren Greenfield's documentary on eating disorders? I've never had an eating disorder, so watching that doc was like visiting a foreign land to me. I sort of spoke the language--had a couple of nouns and verbs here and there--because after all, I am an American woman and I have spent my life not liking my body. But if I had a hard time understanding what motivated the other women to binge and purge and starve themselves to such drastic measures, I was completely undone by Polly Williams. She was just what I want to be: beautiful and outspoken and smart and not giving a damn and so very sure of herself and seemingly accepting of who she was. And yet--not. She died of an overdose, and intentional or not, she is gone. Jesus, I think, if someone like Polly Williams can't make it, what hope is there for the rest of us? And then I remember where I got to know her: on a TV program about eating disorders. Which are, as we know, a form of suicide. Which is, as we know, the response of a body in unbearable pain. Yet I envied her, eating disorder and all, I wanted to be her.

I can't come up with some grand summation here. Or maybe I could, but it would be trite, facile, bullshitty. Best to leave well enough alone, and say Goodnight, Polly, I will not soon forget you and I will someday make sense of what you're telling me.

Real Brits and Fake Brits

When I drive back from the parent-teen group I do on Tuesday nights, I listen to NPR. When I drive anywhere, I listen to NPR, actually, but the Tuesday night thing is what I'm on about now. Linda Hunt moderates an Arts Something or Other program. You know, Linda Hunt, the wee American actress who so wonderfully played a guy in that movie with Mel Gibson. (I saw her once in the produce section at my local supermarket--and she was sorta wonderfully playing a guy there too.) I don't know why Linda Hunt is moderating this arts program, but she clearly intends her accent to show how artsy she is. She speaks the Queen's English thicker than a Buckingham Palace valet--except when she doesn't, when she forgets or gets excited or somehow slips right back into an American twang. It annoys me. Phoniness annoys me. Bad phoniness in particular annoys me. Because I am such a straight shooter myself.

Connections...

So here's the meme for which I was tagged (get that grammar, suckas) by Babs at AWalkabout. As she wrote, so do I:

• Once you are tagged, link back to the person who tagged you.
• Post the rules on your blog.
• Post 7 random or weird facts about yourself on your blog.
• Tag 7 people and link to them.
• Comment on their blog to let them know they have been tagged.

Fact the First: When I was 14, I won a date with a pop star.

Fact the Second: I skipped Twelfth Grade.

Fact the Third: My cousin's son is married to Robert Redford's daughter.

Fourth Fact: I would like to be a poultrytarian--that is, a person who refuses on matter of conscience to eat chicken.

Fifth Fact: A friend told me yesterday, and I agree, that I'm easily bored and bitchy.

Six: I struggle with completing things, all things, and my life, house, and career show that.

7: I wish I were athletic, and I'm sure that somewhere there's a sport I'd be good at, but thus far, I haven't found it.

And I'm tagging: House of Prince, Citizen of the Month, Thursday Drive, AsKatKnits, ToadyJoe, Nannygoatsinpanties, AverageJane.

The Grammy's

I don't know that I've ever watched them before. I didn't intend to watch them tonight. But I did and now I don't know why this is my first time. I watch the Oscars, but then I go to movies. I watch the Emmy's, but then I see a lot of TV. The logical assumption, one would think, is that I don't listen to music. I do, except that I resist a lot of the time, and until tonight, I didn't really know why. Now I do.

Music just gets to me too much. Watching the Grammy's, I kept finding myself in tears. I cried over Cirque du Soleil's Love and Ringo Starr presenting the award to George Martin. I cried over Rhapsody in Blue and Great Balls of Fire. I cried when I sang Good Golly, Miss Molly (with Little Richard) to my dog who didn't know WTF was going on. I cried when Josh Groban sang and I cried when Herbie Hancock played.

All night, the tears were there because music--whatever the genre--just gets right into my heart.

Missing Memer

Someone tapped me for a meme on her blog, but I can't remember who. Was it you? Please identify yourself. It was my honest intention to post my answers to that meme for today's Blog365. Obviously(hah!), I can't since I've lost the memer. Sorry.

News from the Knittery

• Knit tonight at a pub in Sacramento.
• Drank wine, specifically a pinot of no particular vintage, while knitting at the pub in Sacramento.
• T'was a dimly lighted place, such as pubs, at least in Sacramento, usually are.
• Consequently, dropped a shit load of stitches on my knitting at the pub, etcetcetc.
  
• Will suffer the consequences of the consequently tomorrow when I have to fish around and pick up the dropped stitches.
  
• The garment I am making, to which I referred several days ago, is the Dropped Stitch Scarf.
• The stitches I dropped were not part of the pattern.
  

Life Goes On...

...but sometimes I feel like I'm just hanging on the edges, the periphery if you will, that tiny bit of real estate where when the wind blows--whoo! whoo!

Today for the first time in absolutely ages, I felt like cleaning. I took that as a good sign, that once again I wanted to fully inhabit my world. The floors are what needed attending to. The rug in the living room still sheds like a llama in heat, and there are pale green tumbleweeds hanging out all over. That calls for the Ironman of vacuums, so I dragged out the Electrolux, circa 1972, that the Soon2BX thoughtfully left behind. It took me all fucking day to vacuum my little piece of real estate, and I'm just talking about the living areas. Is this normal? You people who vacuum regularly, should it take that long? Should I have to keep changing instruments, and changing outlets, and changing the angle of the head thing so it is pointed down at the floor and not up at the ceiling? This can't be right.

I was so frustrated after humping that Electrolux that I desperately needed retail therapy. So I went to Long's and spent an hour or so wandering up and down the aisles, seeing what was new and what I absolutely had to have. I bought a new eyebrow pencil and a new eyeliner pencil. I'll probably use them each at least three times before I throw them in the back of the drawer where I throw all my makeup. I got them because I'm going to try to not go out to see the world without at least a dash of eyeliner and a splat of mascara. There are some people who get up, get showered, do makeup and hair, and don a nice outfit that matches before they start their day. I'm not one of them. When I get up, I throw on whatever I was wearing last, and sort of comb my hair (I always brush my teeth, however, and put sunscreen on, thank you very much). It's my I'm not going out today look, but lots of times, you know, I go out. Which does not make me performance art of the sort that anyone would care to see. Tough shit.

This evening I put some books on Half.com. I have got to get rid of this library I've been toting around forever. So I'm selling books. I'm sure there is some nifty widget that I can put on my blog that will take you to my Ebay site, but damned if I know what it is at this time of night. Maybe tomorrow.

And so, Good Night....

It's another one of those late night postings, so you know you're going to get dribbles and drabbles of not much. How is it that I always have so much to say during the day, but at night, eh! it all seems a little too much trouble. ZZzzzzzz zzzzzzzzzzzZ z z z z zzzzzzzzzzzz zZZZZZ

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Super Tuesday and Other Political Stories

Is the Republican ticket going to be McCain/Huckabee? Will Huckabee ease the minds of those Conservatives who hate McCain because he's too not-Conservative? And when with Mitt Romney cry uncle? Soon, I hope, because I'm with the Republican candidates: I don't like him.

But, oops, I forgot: I'm a Democrat. So what have we going on in the blue side of the board? Clinton and Obama, Obama and Clinton--wow! what a cliffhanger

I'm loving this--as long as I don't have to get into any political arguments. I made the mistake of sending my Obama post to BlogHer. Talk about snippy, snippy responses. Or maybe I'm just too sensitive, as my mother used to tell me ("You're too sensitive, Jane. You've got to get a shell." "Okay, mom, I'll see how unengaged I can be.") What I learned from those responses is that I don't want to discuss politics; I just want to have my say. And you can have your say, too, but do it nicely. My friend, L, is a great Obama fan and her response to my post was quite a detailed explication of why she loathes Clinton. It wasn't snippy. I could hear it and think about it without feeling like my nuts were in a wringer (well, that assumes that I have nuts, which I don't, but you get my meaning).

The older I get, the less contention I'm up for, which is somewhat shocking to those who knew me when I was a firebreather.

Why Barack Obama Does Not Get My Vote

No I’m not jumping on the bandwagon, for a number of reasons:

1. I’m not a bandwagon jumper. I have, in fact, something of an antipathy to bandwagons. But I’m aware of that and thus when a bandwagon approaches, I try to be very clear on where my reasoning is sound and where it is not.

2. I have a visceral feeling, call it an urge actually, that his campaign intentions will come to naught, and he will leave our country worse off than it is. The last time I felt this way was in 2000. I felt sure that George W Bush would spell disaster for the United States. It was just such a visceral feeling, a knowing in my bones, as I have now, and I feel helpless again to be able to do anything to prevent my fellow countrymen from slipping down that slope again. Oh, and the time before that that I had it: when Richard Nixon got the presidency.

3. What is that slope? It’s the Feel Good Hill. We so want to feel good about ourselves that we throw our arms around the candidate that is most able to make us feel good. That’s what it was all about in ’00 when masses voted for George W. because he was just one of us, a regular guy that you’d want to knock back a couple of brews with. Never mind that he was not a regular guy, but a scion of the oligarchy whose candidacy, as was his bio, had been fashioned from the whole cloth. And in ’04, Dean was the Pied Piper, until he screamed. The ability to make us feel good is not a criteria that the concept of an informed electorate includes. Our democracy was created with the assumption that we, the people, would use our native intelligence and common education to make choices based on reason, not emotion.

4. Obama’s candidacy is almost as engineered as Bush’s was. The Presidential whispers started back at the last nominating convention when he gave that stirring speech. The whispers had little to do with his experience, because at that point (and still), he’d had little. No, the whispers had to do with the fact that he is an excellent orator. He could bring people together, urge them on, make them feel good. And God knows, the Democratic party needed that, so the powers that be, or the powers that wanna be, revved up their engines and here we are today with a candidate about whom the strongest thing people can say is that “he’ll bring us together.”

5. To do what, I want to know? True, he may increase the number of registered Democrats, but after election day, then what? How exactly will that translate to national and international policy? How will his “bringing us together” impact on his ability to make the hard decisions that are the fact of governing?

6. I’m appalled by the nostalgia that is fomenting Obama’s campaign. I want to say to all the people that think Camelot-Redux is just around the corner: How many of you were actually there then? How many of you are doing more than yearning after newsreel highlights and reconstituted memories? I was there then. The Bay of Pigs was no Hallmark moment, no matter how gloriously it’s portrayed today. It was a scary time and the fact that John F. Kennedy was a seasoned legislator who had actually been to war is probably what made all the difference. I would argue that for all Barack Obama is a good man of integrity and intelligence, he hasn’t the experience and therefore the ability to lead our country in the international arena where we are so very, very vulnerable.

Please, please, please, people: put your hearts aside and use your heads. Obama may make you feel good; Clinton will make you safe.

Portrait of a Damp Dog

The weather in Elk Grove has been awful. I know it's winter, people, but this is California: it's not supposed to be this cold and this wet. Poor, poor Molly, the poodle who hates the rain. The Bichon who has a poodle coat that kinks in wet weather. The Bichon Froodle who believes rain is a personal affront to her integrity. How miserable can one doggie look? Multiply that by a power of five to get a whiff of how she smells. Wet dog, now that's a treat in one's bed....

News Flash: A Knitting Project that I'm LLOOVVVIINNNG

Finally--At Last--Thank God it's happened. I haven't been this excited since...since...well, use your imagination. I started a knitting project tonight and I not only don't hate it, I LOVE IT!!! This is so rare that I can't tell you the last time it happened--probably way before the last time that happened.

You've seen the yarn when I wrote about my lust for sock yarn and my loathing for knitting socks But here, I'll show it to you again:

I've been searching for something knittable that wasn't (a) socks, and (b) knit on 1s or 2s. And I found it. In the Special Issue of Knitscene (I just loves me Interweave Knits and company--they publish the most fantastic craft magazines). It's the Phiaro Scarf by Katie Himmelberg



and it is so incredible perfect for me because it looks like lace but it's not knit as lace. It's a tube done in mindless stockingette on circulars and then at the end somehow you drop stitches and it looks like the picture. Yes, it will...except mine will be '70s tie dye, rather than '08 chic mauve.

I'm doing it on size 5 Addis lace needles with those lovely pointy points, and the yarn, which is Superwash Alpaca Sock Yarn is a dream to knit with. I cannot tell you how excited I am. I am joyful, joyful, joyful--and I just had to share the good news!

What I Did Today...

Put up this magnetic calendar dry-erase board. It's by The Board Dudes and I got it at Target. I am confident that now I shall be forever organized as somehow the good fairies will nightly update my magnetic calendar dry-erase board. It came with two cute little screws and molly whatevers, as well as instructions, quite specific and obviously NOT written and then translated from a third world language, for installing the board. I obeyed orders and drilled the appropriate holes and felt incredibly masterful after I had done so. I love that I have my own power tools and know how to use them. I am my father's daughter: thanks, Dad.

Kids: Love Them, But Sometimes Leave Them

There's a conversation going on over at Her Bad Mother that--how can I put this politely--bothers me. It bothers me so much that I can't keep out of it, and since I can't go on forever commenting on her site, I thought I'd bring it over here and see what you all think.

HBM begins the conversation like this:

Here's something that I feel strongly about: the right of parents to take their children pretty much anywhere in the public sphere that they see fit. I also feel strongly that this is a right that carries with it considerable responsibility - as do most rights - but there it is: I believe that if a parent needs or wants to take their children to the theater, to nice hotels, to restaurants that don't use vinyl tablecloths or distribute crayons with their menus, that's their right. Any perceived right by other members of the public to move about in public without exposure to children is just that: perceived. There can be no such right in a liberal human society, because children are members of such societies.

You can read the entire post plus all the comments, mine included, here. The gist of it is that HBM had several unpleasant and/or unhappy experiences when she was with her daughter recently. One was on an airplane when another traveler refused to respond to the toddler and shot her some nasty looks. The other was at breakfast in a fancy restaurant when the hostess evinced some panic, albeit unspoken, at the sight of the small child toddling in. These events, and the feelings they evoked in HBM, led to her post.

Okay? Okay. First of all--my disclaimers: I have spent much time in all sorts of restaurants with all sorts of small children of all ages. These kids were all related to me; I loved them and I loved the fact that they were with me in said restaurant.

However, I feel equally strongly to HBM that parents do NOT have the right to take their children anywhere in the public sphere that they wish. That does not mean I don't like children. It does not mean I don't agree that they profit, as does ultimately our society, by being included in a wide range of activities. What it means is that I don't think they are appropriately included in any and every activity.

Case in point: This past weekend, I was involved in an organization honoring a group of womenat a country club luncheon . One member of the organization wanted to bring her 3 year old. Her mother was coming and this member like the idea of three generations being present. We said no. "That's a terrific idea in a couple of years, when she's five and can sit through an hour of speeches. But right now, she's too young. It would not be fair to the several hundred women who paid quite a bit of money to attend an adult luncheon."

The idea that babies and small children have full and equal access to the public sphere because they are human is--I dunno--based on some social philosophy that doesn't resonate with me. The idea that full grown citizens have no right to enjoy child-free arenas is--I dunno--nuts. What have we come to when the desires of one group, the parents, supersedes that of all others. It's smacks of the Mommy Gestapo.

Okay, that's extremely harsh, but really, Moms: get a grip. The world at large does not begin and end with your child, even if yours does. We can all love children (or not) without wanting to have them around 24/7.

Perhaps this debate and others like it that roil the feminist movement occur when groups of women get polarized around their individual philosophies about children. It's a spectrum of beliefs we have, from the woman who is totally and completely invested in her maternity and her children to the woman who has made the decision not to have children. Getting stuck into one end of a debate, whichever it is, helps neither individuals nor society, and those in the middle get lost in the totalizing shrieks of each end. Not only is reason abandoned in the need to be right, quite frankly, it's not very sisterly.

Tomato, Tomahto, and Spotted Dick

Whit over at Honea Express is celebrating the joys of an English gastronomical adventure today; he's having some Spotted Dick that a friend sent him. Reading his post, seeing the kick he got out of what is to the Brits just your average tea time sweet took me back to the days when I had just returned to America from London. The dumbest turn of phrase then could bring down the house , and I used to be very proud of the fact that I spoke both American and English English. And that I knew the difference. Now? Not so much, I would think. Does one order a Milky Coffee at the Starbucks in England, or is it now just another Grande Drip with Room for Cream. And the cream--is it Top of the Milk or boring American style Half & Half? I guess not only the milk is homogenized these days, but the entire world as well. That makes me sad--sorta.

So it's 11:11 and I can tell I'm giddier than a rattlesnake with a toothache.

I spent the working hours of tonight coaching a group of parents trying to find the magic button that will turn their teens into proper, respectful, God-fearing American citizens. It ain't happening, people, is what I want to tell them. I am probably older than every one of them so why am I having to say over and over again: don't you remember what it was like? don't you remember how you felt? Some of them do remember and they're the ones whose kids will probably end up okay--after some period of drugs, alcohol and illicit sex (don't you remember what it was like?). The kids I fear for are those whose parents refuse to remember, who have come to me to Fix The Kid--or else. I have little patience for these parents, which is not such a good thing affecting as it does my empathy, which is, as we all know, the bottom line of any good shrink. But then, I'm still just a shrink-intern, so maybe my patience will gather moss as I gather hours.

See, you can tell by the utter what-the-fuck-is-she-talking-about of that last sentence that I'm giddy.

Memory

I forget the things I know. Does that ever happen to you? The things I really need to keep in front of me, the realizations that are hard-won and long-coming, and I have them and know them and then--poof!--gone. Except that somewhere, hiding out under the back porch is the slightest sense that I'm missing something important, something that will make such a difference in how I see things and feel about things. Something that is crucial to my moving onward. But I don't know what it is. Or where to look to find it.

Like this: Everything Does Not Have To Become Something. Does that make any sense? Let me give you some background, then. I come from a family of strivers and doers and use-your-talents to-the-utmosters. In my family, if you could carry a tune, you took voice lessons and plotted your course as a singer. If you could draw, then obviously you'd become an artist. Have an idea? Get it patented; put it into action; create success around it; do; achieve. Even now, I can hear my mother and my aunts and my cousins scheming: Janie dear, you're so good at X, Y, and Z. You must become an Xer, a Yer, and a Zer. One couldn't simply have an idea that was "good"; it had to be actualized. One couldn't simply be; one had to become. I learned those lessons better than well, and it's now an automatic response for me to, as soon as I get a cool idea or an urge or a notion, figure out how to maximize it. Which is not only exhausting, but just plain wrong. It puts the emphasis on the product at the expense of the process even as it sets me up for failure.

I realized that a while ago, and immediately knew it was a crucial piece of information for me. And then I forgot it.

Did I forget it because it was so crucial? The urge to inadequacy is quite strong, and the mind has a way of getting its way.

Last night, I remembered it. And thought: I can't forget this again; it's too important. If only I did needlepoint, I could stitch it on a pillow. Instead, I'm writing it here.

Will I remember that I've done that?

Facing West - late winter, 2007

This is what I saw looking out my back door last April and early May. They were all taken a few minutes before or a few minutes after six p.m.

Here She Comes...

When I was a kid, watching the Miss America contest was right up there with watching the Oscars. Yeah, it's been a joke all these years since, but I was willing to see if they could actually make it more relevant and contemporary and all those other things that they've been advertising. I watched the Miss America Reality Check where the judges were trying to get the women to lose the makeup and the hair spray--and they did for that show, pretty much. In the ads for the actual contest, you could see that we were supposed to think of Miss America as another American Idol or Dancing With The Stars. But someone forgot to tell the organizers of the state competitions, because by and large what they've put in front of us would be sneered off the stage by the likes of Cowell and Bruno. In the talent competition, there was only ONE contestant that was remotely 21st century. The others were ballet dancers (make that mediocre ballet dancers) opera singers, and a violinist, who wasn't bad but what do I know about violin playing?

I've been live Twittering the finals, so if you want to see my scoop, eyes right:

Interview With A Blogger: Me!

Herein forthwith follows the interview that Whoorl dreamt up for me as part of Citizen of the Month's Interview challenge. Whoorl's questions are in purple, the choice of color being mine, for no reason whatsoever.

If you were forced to blog about one (and only one) subject, what would it be?
ME! I know what Whoorl's trying to do, get me to focus on that one thing that stands between me and success: my inability to focus on one topic. But I can't. Don't you think I want to? Nor can I, it seems, professionalize this blog. That was my intention, and I did, in pursuing it, pay lots of money to go to BlogHer. But whatever they were selling doesn't seem to have taken with me. Maybe I'm just not cool enough or young enough or or--maybe I just don't care enough. I dunno. I see people to-ing and fro-ing with their blogs and pitching for blog awards and doing all this stuff that seems so incredibly "high school" to me. I simply can't sustain it.

What is your beverage of choice?
It depends upon the time I am choosing. In the morning, I’m a coffee-drinkin’ girl. I like it strong, full-bodied and rich, tasting like coffee, dammit. Come afternoon, I switch to Diet Coke, out of the can. Come evening, I prefer l'eau de potato, Russian preferably, over rocks with a twist. Stoly...Grey Goose. Or a Gin Martini (is there any other kind?) straight up with 3 olives. What I don't like are frou frou drinks: all those Tinis they've created to give people something sweet and sickly to get them gassed. Sissies.

Tell me why Northern California is a lovely place to live.
Who said it was? Not me. I've lived all over--here, there, and everywhere--and what I've learned is that every place and no place is lovely to live in. I'm here because my SoonTBX wanted to move here. Okay, okay, I wasn't exactly tied up and shipped to Sacramento, but if it hadn't been for his gentle urging, which manifested as constant whining and complaining and a pervasively permanent bad mood, I would still be living in LA. And probably right now my roof would be leaking because they're having terrible rains down there and that's what my roof did when it rained. Instead I am up here, sealed in tight, warm and dry in this wasteland called Elk Grove. And my SoonTBX is living elsewhere. And his roof is leaking. Ha! Karma!

Who is your favorite author?
Doing the coursework for a PhD in English Lit sort of ruined reading novels for me. Once you learn how to deconstruct a text, there's no going back to just reading for pleasure. When I did my MA, I did it in Southern Lit, and then Faulkner was my favorite. When I started my PhD, I thought I'd be an "Austen scholar" (la-de-dah), but my professor was insane and that sadly tinged my doctoral work with intense nutsiness. I haven't read Austen since I didn't have to, and I'm certainly not watching Austen month on PBS. Jane would be appalled.

What would your friends say is your most charming quality? Most annoying?
Oh, jeeze, I haven't a clue what they'd say is my most charming quality. Truth be told, I don't think of myself as one who could ever be labeled charming. I don't crook my little finger when I drink tea and although my manners are passable, I don't think the Vanderbilt's will be inviting me to join the cotillion. I will say that when I saw the film Steel Magnolias, I recognized a quality in the Shirley McLaine character that made me say, "that's what I'm going to be like when I grow up." And I believe I am, for good or ill.

That I speaketh the truth, even when I probably shouldn't is probably my most annoying quality. And that I speak it as if my truth is The Truth can and does create some moments of angst for those around me. I'm working on that, though, because I really don't believe in an Essential Truth, so to sound as if I do is antithetical to...to...my truth.

In 2006, you mentioned wanting to "be more present in you life". Do you feel you have accomplished this goal?
I am more present in my life, but it's an ongoing goal which I don't believe one ever accomplishes. I'm just starting out with little baby steps and lots of backsliding and falling down and smashing my nose flat. But one of the ways in which I have gotten better relates to the first question. I'm somewhere in the middle of working my way through the bullshit of being A Blogger. I am trying to quell all urges to write to please an audience. I am trying to at the least be true to me in this thing I do.

The Things She Left Behind

1. An almost empty jar of crunchy peanut butter with a spoon jammed in the bottom.

2. Two pieces from a 100-piece jigsaw puzzle that Santa brought her for Christmas. She'll be sorry if or when she tries to put it together.

3. Her cold.

Up & Coming: as in Coming Up

Here's what y'all have to look forward to in the very near future:

• One interview with Akaky Bashmachkin. Who? Don't ask me--yet. Why? Neilochka has an interview meme thing going. I signed up. Akaky signed up after me. Whoorl signed up before me. So Whoorl interviews me and I interview Akaky. She's already got her questions posted. I am still doing research (as in, where was that site again & what's it about?). I'm not really sure how this will work as the instructions are relatively vague. But when I find out, you'll find out.
• A book review. Hungry Hill, by Carole O'Malley Gaunt. Pretty damn good. But I'll have more to say about it tomorrow. Or the next day. I have been realllllllllly busy, and that pisses me off.
• More babbling, blathering and...and....what's another 'b' word--ah, bitching.

Rainy Day Blues, by Molly

Oh I'ma stuck out here in the mizzzerablest weather...
Help me, Lord...I say, help me!
'Cause I been a good doogggiiiee
But whoda knew it from the way them drops do rain down...
Oh, help me Lord...I say, help me...
Ain't my fault if I can't pee when the sun don't shine.
Ain't my fault if my poop won't plop 'cept on sunny days.
Oh, help me Lord...I say, help me, Lord....I say, help this poor sinner stay dry-eeeee!

--words and music by Anonymous

My Brain, On and Off Drugs

It is a very good thing I have this blog, because I don't have a fully operating brain. To wit: in yesterday's mail (okay, yesterday was Sunday, so it was Saturday, so sue me for the wrong day), I received the latest issue of Wired magazine. Dammit, I says to myself, didn't I cancel that sub? Did they send me the latest issue figuring I'd pay up without thinking? Cheeky bastards, those Conde Nast people.

But then I got to thinking. Did I cancel that sub? I remember thinking about cancelling it. I remember spending some if not much time considering cancelling it. But do I remember cancelling it????????????????????

Hmmmmmmmmm.

Then today, whilst perusing my list of blog posts looking for a likely draft that I could finish off and send for today's Blog365 entry, I came across this.

Karl Rove may have been Bush's brain, but ByJane is mine--or something like that.

Portrait of a Third Generation Couch Potato, Enjoying Sunday

This is Kaitlyn, aged 5, who is visiting me this weekend. We've had a long day already: up at 6:30 (I tried to tell her it was still nighttime), baking cookies at 10, and my plans for the rest of today were to go to the bookstore where Kaitlyn would--yeah!--get to select a book that we'd bring home. And after her bath, in the soaking tub, we'd read and then sleep. Noooooooooooooooooo. She knows exactly what she wants to do and not. And today, "watch cartoons" and sit on the sofa wrapped in a comforter was it. Oh, and there's a fire going.

Her grandfather came over, brought us lunch, visited with her for a while, and DID HIS LAUNDRY! Sheesh! Am I nuts that I think this is funny, not annoying????

When he left, I sent Molly with him. Kaitlyn is a tad over-exuberant when it comes to Molly. Watching the two of them last night, I kept thinking about how Dooce writes that Leta gets upset if Chuck looks at her. Well, Molly knows just how Leta feels. And Kaitlyn can't resist grabbing and groping and patting and forever "where's Molly?????" She's under the bed, kid, hiding from you. Okay, I put it much nicer than that. I worked a little empathy training in--you know how you feel when some big person you don't know comes over and grabs you to kiss you? But I finally decided that my dog, at least, deserved a decent night's sleep. I, on the other hand, expect another night of snoring and leg-jerking and sideways bed sleeping, just like her grandfather used to do, back in the day.

BS, pure and simple

That's all you're getting tonight, because that's all I have to give. This is, was, and I guess will always be my MO: ten past eleven, 12 is the deadline, and I have nothing of note or worth to say. Did I become a journalist because I work to deadline? Or do I work to deadline because I was a journalist?

These are a few of my favorite things....tra la

Just some of the projects I have on needles at the moment. Note how many of them are fingering yarn. Remember what I told you about fingering yarn...and the size 1 or 2 needles. What does it say about me that I love this stuff and these needles and I AM INCAPABLE OF SUSTAINING INTEREST IN ANYTHING THAT TAKES MORE THAN 3 days? Do you think I am setting myself up for failure? Or, am I just trying to challenge myself, to move beyond my comfort zone--as I'm doing with this Blog 365? Pro or con, answer as you will, making sure to support all of your points with specifics. And no comma splices, goddamit!

Pa Joad Left Last Night

Tied his mattress to the top of his vehicle and lit out for parts north, Yuba City to be exact, where he is now a proud homeowner.

You did know that he's been here all this time, didn't you? Through Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's...he's been my "tenant." Paying rent. Sleeping in the guest room. Taking the garbage cans out every Sunday, but doing the dishes far less than he used to (in the short time he was in Oregon, he developed a cute habit of just leaving his empty plate sitting on the table-- waiting for Mable to come clear the dishes, I guess). We generally ate dinner together, either of my making or his gathering, and breakfast was ALWAYS a Starbucks and scone (well, it still is, but now I have to go and get it myself, gosh darn it). We coordinated our lives and lived as--well, really as we always did. Which is telling, I'm sure.

Facing West:

Facing West: 1/5/08
Originally uploaded by ByJane

The western sky from my backyard is glorious, particularly in the late afternoon. I've taken photos of it before, because it really moves me. This year I'm going to do a series, standing in the same place, aiming at the same point, not daily, but regularly. I'm curious about what a series will show.

Redondo Beach Pier - Clams for sale

Here's the photo. I took it one day last winter when I was at the Pier with my nephew-in-law. I used my Treo, so no fancy lenses or f-stops. But that's maybe the charm of the picture.

Schmap

I've got a new widget on my blog: it's the latest Schmap Los Angeles. The 4th Edition, to be exact. Schmaps are these incredible on-line, interactive travel guides from major cities all over the world.
I've got the widget because Schmap Los Angeles has chosen a photo of mine to feature the Redondo Beach Pier. Go have a look. I'm real proud.

The Golden Globes

So I did my bit for Hollywood and NBC and watched Dateline. Maybe I'll check out the press conference; maybe not. I'm on strike, after all.

Speaking of globes, have you heard about the newest import from India? It's a car called a Tata. Did no one tell the Indians that tatas are boobs? Yes, yes, I know the car was named after the guy who created it, Mr. Tata--but still, if Henry Ford had been Henry Breast, whatever would he have called his car? Mr. Tata and the Tata.

I'm really looking forward to the advertising campaign on the Tata. Will they have, as usual, buxom beauties hanging over it at the car shows? Or will they just stick a big nipple on the hood?

Calling All Tattoo Artists!

I wanna get a tattoo--on my finger. Third finger, left hand: to cover the indentation left by twenty years of wearing a wedding ring. I hate anything cute...no flowers or bugs either. Get creative, get artsy, get weird and wild. Surprise me!

Knee-jerking Political Responses

I just read Joe Conason's piece in Salon on the press and Hillary-bashing (thanks Blurbomat for linking it)--and I immediately wanted to take up the cudgels for Clinton again. That I'm not going to is testimony to my not wanting to be the old Kettle calling out the Pot. Or, to put it plain, my jumping to Hillary's defense is as much as kneejerk as is those who rant against her based on ad hominem attacks and, thus, is equally dangerous (not to mention stupid, etc. etc. etc.).

I've spent the past couple of days posing the question to myself: What is it about the political scene that makes me foam at the mouth, screech at my friends and generally turn into a harpy?

Is it when people disagree with me? Am I that narcissistic that I cannot bear dissent among my ranks? I don't think so. I have friends, people I truly care about, across the political-age- gender-yadayadayada spectrum, and I have friends whose political-age-gender-yadayadayada I don't know. Certainly I would prefer that we all, as the immortal Rodney King put it, "just get along," but I recognize that we can do that while disagreeing, vehemently even, about issues.

No, what drives me nuts is sloppy thinking. Kneejerk responses, quoting the pundits as gospel, refusing to think a thing through because...why should I when it's all laid out for me in the news/press/community conversation. I despair particularly when such thinking comes from educated folk, who were taught the basics of critical thinking as part of their general undergraduate eduction.

Critical thinking--that is what's missing from the discourse. The willingness to examine a topic from all sides, to unpack the arguments, to decide for ones self with whom one agrees--that's what is lost with knee jerk responses. I quoted Aristotle a couple of days ago because he set the bar for critical thinking. I'm going to go scare up my old texts, see what he says, lay it out here for all and sundry to use. It's what I'll do this election, rather than pushing for a particular candidate.

Because--what hope is there for all of us when the best of us refuse to participate in a thoughtful way?

Flotsam and Jetsam...

Checking my Google In box, it's obvious that I have had a heavy Commenting day. Isn't today supposed to be Annual Comment Day, or some such thing? Be that as it may, I fear I have shot my wad (as They say) on other people's blogs and have nothing to say on my own.

Well, to be truthful, I may be at the start of a slippery slope. You know, the one that descends quite quickly into the Mean Greens or Blah Blues (I seem to be in an alliterative moment here). I'm feeling like the wheel is going 'round and 'round and I'm not quite hanging on. Or some such thing.

1. I'm not getting up in the morning when I should.
2. I'm not marching forward on my List of Intentions.
3. I still haven't finished the Great American Novel.
4. Come to think of it, I haven't started it either.
5. I am eating too much of quite the wrong food.
6. I am not drinking enough alcohol.
7. My exercise routine is not being exercised, and my Pilates Reformer is gathering dust.

On the positive side, I have finished one of the two balls of yarn that I'm making into a purse. That means I'm half finished with it.

On the probably shouldn't side, I went to Knitique and bought another skein of fingering yarn. This makes the umpteenth such skein I have purchased in the past year, all of which call for at most a size 2 needle. I love this kind of yarn. I will probably be buried with it. Because I will die before I finish a project on a size 2 needle. If you knit, you know what I mean. If you don't, ooops, I'm bbbboooooorrrriiinnnggg you again.

Score of the Day

Mah New Boots
Originally uploaded by ByJane

Guess what I found at the back of some crummy old store, just one pair and in my size. Rain--c'mon back...I'm ready for you now.

Heeellooo, Anybody Home?????

Aristotle said that there are two kinds of reasoning: the appeal to intellect and the appeal to emotions. Clearly the following two comments, both from friends of mine, both women who I respect, speak to the effects of the second appeal. Their responses to Hillary are visceral: "cannot abide" "makes my hair stand on end" I can feel the intensity of their antipathy. What I have no sense of is any rational, supported reasoning behind them.

I cannot abide Hillary. She trumpets her experience - doing WHAT? Being a wife does not mean she has political experience. One term as a senator. Big deal. Her husband wasn't so great, either - he gave us NAFTA and the WTO. I honestly believe she would do or say ANYTHING to get elected."
I think John Edwards rocks, and I love Obama because he makes me feel like John F. Kennedy is speaking.

Hillary makes my hair stand on end. I don't think she's
authentic. But then who is in Washington. I feel handled by her. I know what
you're saying about Obama but I just like feeling the country behind
someone the way they were sort of with Kennedy. 

For the first woman, Hillary engenders antipathy because she is outspoken in saying she has experience in government. Which she does. But then this writer reduces that experience in to the ultimate putdown--she was just a wife. Didn't we hear this the first time Bill ran, when the baking cookies isssue came up? And it is, at heart, purely an appeal to emotion: all she did was marry well. That's bad enough when some Rovian conservative says it, but when a woman who espouses feminist principles says it? Ugly.

The second woman doesn't like Clinton because she has been successful at playing the political game. As has been every other politician who gets in office. I suggest anyone who thinks there is an unsullied candidate waiting in the wings go rent the film The Candidate. And read Machiavelli.

Both these women like Obama because he resonates with echoes of JFK. And George Bush is president because so many people thought he'd be a great guy to have a beer with. Neither of these sentiments are the responses of an informed electorate applying reason to the candidates' records. They're functions of nostalgia, which is, after all, an emotion, one that in both cases has been deliberately engendered by Bush's and Obama's handlers.

Blog 365: Day 7

I'm really liking this blog a day business. Somehow it takes the pressure off. You know, the pressure to make each post a Veritable Written Masterpiece, or at least vaguely interesting. Since I'm writing every day, you can bet I'll be babbling some days. Like this day...

But tomorrow I think I'll be getting all serious. I've got stuff to say about politics and elections and people and presidents and candidates and citizens. I think I'm working up to a rant of sorts. Prepare!

Election 2008: Off the Top of My Head....

...which means my gut response, okay? This is what I wrote to a friend of mine today in response to an email in which she asked what I think....

I watched the debates last night too. Of the Republicans, I like McCain the best. Of the Dems--well, I'm still not sure ( me and you and the rest of the country, it seems). I do like Hillary because I think she has what it takes to (a) outplay the Republicans (like Rove), and (b) deal with the messes abroad. I sorta like Edwards, but I don't think he can go head to head on foreign affairs. I DO NOT LIKE OBAMA. Did I say that loudly enough? I haven't liked him from the gitgo. He's eloquent and passionate and, if you like the type, attractive enough, but I don't think there's any there there behind his fancy words. It's so easy to promise the world; but that doesn't last much past the Inauguration (as we've seen with the last Congressional elections). I liveblogged the debates on Twitter and my last post was "The Republicans will eat Obama for breakfast." So that leaves me with Hillary--or McCain, if I switch parties(!).

I'm Purging...

...and cleaning and organizing and getting my shit sorted out. Herewith I offer for your edification several photos of my alleged Studio/Craft/Junk Room.






This place seriously needs help. I began tonight by organizing my circular knitting needles. Such growth....

Stormy Weather, tra la....

This is--or was--the gazebo in the backyard. It was a nice little gazebo. It gave good shade in the summer. RIP, little gazebo.

The Weather Report

The weather is grim in these here parts. Meteorologists are predicting gale force winds. Can Oz be far away???

It's raining. Storming. Pouring buckets. I know this because I was out in it this afternoon with no coat. I got wet. What the hell. I went to have lunch with my friend, S., which ended up being a quickie of sorts since she, poor thing, is one of those unfortunates who only gets a measly hour for lunch. After lunch, when S went back to her job where she actually gets paid (!), I went shoe shopping. My collection has been dwindling, and I need to restock.

Especially I need Uggs, since I threw out my pale green ones in a fit of cleaning this summer. Who knew that I would not be able to replace them this winter. I tried to get a new pair when I was in LA, but, eh!, I wanted red and they didn't have them in my size. And Elk Grove is not a shoe person's city--or maybe it is, but only if your taste runs to Target and Kohl's and Mervyn's (I cannot shop at Mervyn's for a number of reasons, not the least of which is the name. It's a nebbishey name. It doesn't speak of quality or taste or even proper fit). I went to Target. I went to Kohl's. They have the same shoes, mass-produced in the Hunan Province, with lead gromets for decor. And no boots. None. Evidently, it is no longer boot season in Northern California. This despite the fact one is never more than an hour or so away from snow up here.

So I am Uggless this winter. Bootless in a world of cruel wind and rain. Pity me. Feel my pain.

Actually I love this kind of weather, the stormier the better. I adored the various Blizzards of the Century that I lived through in Pennsylvania. I would sit in my office, which was the finished attic of our 100 year old house and look out the window at the snow piling up and think all those Robert Frostian thoughts about drifts and fences and roads taken or not. Perhaps this was because I was reading a lot of American lit for my PhD exams, but I like to think it was just the sheer poetry of the world outside. The windows would get frosted over, and then the condensation would freeze on the inside, because this was, after all, the attic of a 100 year old house and insulation was not a big deal when it was built. But I was wrapped in a down comforter. I had books to read and grand thoughts to think and much of life was then still in front of me. What wasn't to like....?

Blog365 - Day 2

Are we supposed to be promo-ing this Bloggie thing in our headlines? Or just do one's normal pale and wan titles? I mean, if one is participating in a whatever-this-thing-is, then doesn't one want/need to commemorate it in some way, title-wise? On the other hand, won't a solid year of Blog365-Day X, in which only the numeral changes, be just a tad, a trifle boooorrriiiinnngggg? On the one hand, one the other hand--where's that third hand when you need it.....?

This is what happens when I post at 9:15 p.m. after a full day in which I had to THINK and FEEL and BE. I have so little left to share.

Today, for example, I washed my sheets. Which seems to be a Wednesday event lately. Not for any reason that they feel sorta crummy on Tuesday night And like the Princess, I cannot abide a sorta crummy sheet.

I'd also like to share with you that today I learned, thanks to an article in the Sacramento Bee, that the majority of people only brush their teeth once a day. The majority of people are nighttime brushers, it seems, and they fling themselves out of bed in the AM and into the world without applying paste to teeth. Well, yuck. Have you smelled your breath in the morning before you brush your teeth? Talk about gag a maggot. I don't speak before I brush my teeth.

And finally, finally...finally.........................................................................................................huh?!

January 1, 2008

I would like to be clever, if not altogether witty, but I think I'm suffering from a smidgeon of not really a hangover, but you know that oh-so-tired feeling you get when you've been drinking all day and then you stop? In lieu of actual words, though, I've got some actual photos. Enjoy...

This was my view for much of the morning at Knitique, my LYS. I was slithered down in my chair at the table in the back, sipping my champers and pomegranate juice (is this an actual drink, maybe a primosa? or did I come up with the pomegranate juice because it is so very good for my brain cells?). Can you tell that Knitique is a vision of lime and hot pink? These are Danielle's favorite colors and we like them too. Which is a good thing.
This is Danielle, who owns Knitique. You can't tell, but she's wearing hot pink Uggs. I'm not sure what she's doing with her hand...
This is the view of the table where I'm sitting. That's my Treo...and my Denise needles...and my pink polkadotted cup of Primosa. The yarn is one of two skeins I got ON SALE (because that is what happens at Knitique on New Year's Day). I was swatching it here, and I decided to make a purse. Which you'll see when I'm done...some day.

These are the flying fingers of Kim (see the blur) at lunch. There was a whole long table of us. Some of us (who? me?) ordered dessert first. Some of us (who? me?) had a margarita. Most of us were knitting. The waitress was, fortunately, quite patient--and we tipped her well.

This is the lovely Teresa, who, having gotten to the store at 6 a.m. was, at this point, on her fourth or fifth wind.


And these are the things I bought. The object at one o'clock is a case for my doublepoint needles which, currently, are thrown in a mass mess into a drawer. There's a pattern for a Panda Silk Easy (so they say) Scarf and below it are two skeins of, hey, Panda Silk. Then my Crystal Palace Deco Ribbon that I got on sale and the beginning of the purse. I bought the Learn to Spin kit because--well, just because it seems like I should learn to spin. Even though I've never had the least desire to. And finally, two books and two magazines. If I was a better blogger, I'd link to them on Amazon but I'm not so I won't. You can read the titles and google them yourself.

I only spent one half of what I spent last year, but two or three times more than I intended to spend this year. Oh well--if you're a knitter, you understand; if you're not, you probably stopped reading this post ages ago.