Hill? What hill? I din't see no friggin' hill, man.

I just took a baby quilt off the frame, and finished the entire binding this evening. And I can hardly see the screen. I am getting to the point where I can no longer deny that my eye doc is right, I've got cataracts, and will probably have a year before I will require surgery. And that was six months ago. Well, time just flies when you're having fun, doesn't it?

And driving at night has become really dicey. Especially if it's raining. Or foggy. Now I know why all the gomers lean over their steering wheels. It's because they can't SEE! Isn't that comforting? And now I am one. I have met the enemy, and she is me. Sorry, Pogo, give my regards to Walt, the line just begged to be used.

Twenty-oh nine. Two thousand nine. Two Oh Oh Nine. Wasn't it just 1963?

1963. Two years out of high school. College dropout. Working for Nationwide Insurance as a file clerk. They hadn't put in central air, yet. I made $48 a week before taxes. Wowie. I had long before made application with the federal government for a Clerk-Typist GS-3 position at the then-Olmsted Air Force Base. Every girl who could type tried to get a job there. So I got called for an interview. And I was accepted for the job, pending a security clearance at Secret level. The clearance was expected to take no more than two or three weeks. Twelve weeks into the investigation, I was contacted by the Office of Special Investigation of the U.S. Air Force. They said they needed to talk to me, and that they would send a car for me. I refused the car. They insisted. I balked. I won. I drove myself to the "interview" which consisted of a Major and a Captain from OSI, as well as a court stenographer, and some suit who did not identify himself. (Note that I was not offered an attorney, nor was I accompanied by a parent or legal guardian, because even though I was 19, in Pennsylvania then, you had to be 21 to be an adult. Period.) I reported at 0800, and was held in a wooden barracks building with only a fan, seated in a straight back wooden chair seated at an ugly military-issue conference table across from the men, with the steno at my left. I was, what, 19 years old? Born in 1943. And they ask me questions such as,

"Do you have any knowledge of your grandfather, Spero Evanoff, having attended a rally of the Communist party at the Farm Show arena in 1935?"

"I wasn't born until 1943," I answered.

"Just answer the question!" the Major barked.

"I thought I did," I said mildly. "But no, I have no such knowledge."

And they continued in this vein, asking me all sorts of questions about all sorts of things, most of which I had no knowledge of in any manner. But. They tied my grandfather to me, in all manner of innocent things, and made their case. J. Edgar hated the pinkos, yes he did. And I guess someone told the Feds that my grandfather, Spero Evanoff, barber, kept issues of "The Daily Worker" in his barbershop. And for that reason he was investigated. I don't know the outcome of that investigation, but I know he was not deported, so ... they found someone else to pick on. But. When the opportunity arose, and although I was totally ignorant of any of this information about my grandfather (who was, unfortunately, deceased and could not come to my aid), they had absolutely no qualms about trying to hang some sort of anti-american issue on my blood relation to a known socialist who had left-wing literature in his shop, and who spent Sundays in Steelton with the Macedonians. Certainly no good could have come from that, eh? They did manage to deport a northern italian friend of his, Vincente, on unknown grounds.

So it appeared that the "interview" bore no evil fruit, for some weeks afterwards, I was notified that I was accepted for employment in another position, that did not require a Secret clearance. That my clearance had been "suspended." There is no bigger albatross to hang around your neck than a "suspended clearance." It just doesn't look good.

So to the folks who don't believe this country has been on the fringes of becoming a police state with shades of military autocracy, wake up. Wake up to all the cameras, and the technology that tells police where shots are being fired at the moment they are. Bill Gates is the Patron Saint of Po-leece. He has given them the ability to find, label, release, recapture, or just fuck around with just about anyone they want to. My next project is to take advantage of the existing law that gives me the right to know what is in my 4 inch thick dossier. What the HELL could they have found to write about someone who had only been on this earth for 19 years, and most of that, she was a little kid.

Sure you can trust the government. Just ask any indian or whale. Or the Katrina survivors. Or the Ivan survivors.

But you know what? It's going to change, it's already changing, and I am so glad I lived to see it, at least this much of it. For the first time in my life, I believe this country is headed up and in the right direction. The day of the Used Car Salesmen Boehner types is pretty much over, except for that 20% that keep hanging on to Dubbya. They've all attached themselves to Boehner, so now at least we can know who to watch. Sneaky bastards. All of them. And usually in the name of their god. Like their god approves of their behavior. Well. Glad he's THEIR god. No god of mine. Fer sure.

Blessed be.

Can We Please Stop With The Paranoia?

Okay. Let me ask the question that surely, surely someone else in the universe has asked her/him/itself ... has any other newly elected president of these United States ever had the day-to-day (and in some cases, hour-by-hour) scrutiny that this man has had? We hardly knew Dubbya was in town (and mostly, in truth, he wasn't, he was at the ranch, trying to do a crash course in Prez 101). Actually, we paid little attention to him until 9/11, and then we paid a LOT of attention, and we all saw different things. In fairness, he was exactly what Hollywood would have cast in the movie ... the quintessential John Wayne type, square jaw set, brow grim, who was surely going to save us. Uh. No. Hey, he's a cheerleader, but he ain't the sharpest tool in the war department box. In any event, to the original question, the answer is no. And since he simply assumed the second four, it was seamless anyway. And before him, who? Billy. Billy, who spent the first week schmoozing and getting everyone to love him, me included, Billy, who personifies the old Waylon Jennings lyric ... "ladies love outlaws like babies love stray dogs ..." And before that, George The Elder, who I could stand just barely more than his language challenged offspring ... so I, and half the country, ignored him, too, just keeping half and ear for Roe v. Wade conversations so we could be forewarned, because the Old Man was a drum beater, he was ...

So. Does no one else find it totally invasive and worst and prohibitive at best, to follow the man 24/7 and run a tote board in the news room of his To Do List, and then score his performance? We get less information that that about the two wars we are waging, and the two wars we would like to wage. You figure them out. Pick two. Any two. Hey, he's busy, let'm alone! He's only been there, what, 6 days???

I would like to make a cyber-plea to the intelligent, thinking, voting communities out there to take particular heed of what is going on here. Just who is checking on whom? And why has the media become the minute-by-minute machine that vomits all its detritis out there in living color and .... gawd .... HiDef, the technology that spares nothing, including pimples and nose hair.

L-E-T H-I-M B-R-E-A-T-H-E, for chrissakes. Give him room to stretch out and gain purchase before you all try and mow him down to size. Yes, that's what I said, because that's what about 20% of you think. The same 20% that still thinks Dubbya did a good job. The same 20% that are surely related to career (retired) military and colonials going back 300 years. Your people were slave owners, even if you don't know it. It's in your genes. You poor deluded souls, I hope you have guaranteed retirement, and are getting close. Otherwise, you're gonna be in the Down The Drain Club with the rest of us. Give him the credit he sorely deserves for even being able to function in this horrific economic environment, and he has made good decisions in good speed. And now we'll see just who have the biggest balls in Congress, won't we? And won't we be surprised? Maybe not. I'm still smiling about the reversal of the Executive Order against federal funding for birth control clinics, here AND in Europe, and making sure that the clinics that operate worldwide for the protection of women and their reproductive health, and thinking that I truly would walk into fire for this man. Glad that the young women of today (who no nothing of the horrors of my generation and before) will continue to have reproductive autonomy of their own bodies, and hard choices will at least be safe choices. Oh, that's another thing, but for another time. I'm too tired to take on the Fundies right now. Even anarchists have to sleep.

Blessed be.

And Here It Is, Ready Or Not ...

This inauguration day has turned my thoughts to back in the day, when integration was still a fairly touchy thing. I remember being in Dayton, Ohio when the local Sambo Diner was forced to take down their sign. It was obnoxious, but one of those things that having seen it a thousand times, you don't even notice it. Someone did, however. And I believe that was the day that I began to hope, that change could happen. I remember one hot night in the City (and believe me, there is no hotter place on earth than Dayton, Ohio at 4 am on any night in late July). My semi-live-in companion of four years happened to be spending the night. Now, dig it, it's 90 degrees in any room in the apartment, every window is open, we're lying a foot apart, each in our own puddle of sweat, and a taxi pulls up across the street and blows his horn. Once. Twice. With a sigh, my man pulled on his boxers and heads out the door. Almost immediately, the horn blows again, but comes to a shrieking halt to the sound of breaking glass, which was simultaneous with the taxi going from zero to 80 in 4 seconds. A minute later, my man was back in bed, even sweatier, but obviously pleased with himself. "You didn't," I said. "You don't need to know," he answered. And all I could think was there wasn't a white boy alive east of Texas who would have had the cojones to do the same thing. At least not sober. My roomie did not suffer fools gladly. He also did not have much patience for all the societal or politically correct way to things. He certainly did it his way.

And here is a man in the white house whom I believe could pull that off as well as my roomie. He would have, however, some sort of arbitration or settlement discussions or something. THEN he would throw the brick. I like that in a man. I like that a lot.

Mr. Obama ... should you have need of a brick-thrower, in any sense of the word, I'm sure I have the man for you.

Blessed be.

Inauguration Day. It's always had an important ring to it. It was a fifth grade spelling word. It was five syllables, for chrissakes.

The King is dead; long live the King!

I've been watching the big Washington party on HBO, can't beat them for no commercials and great camera work.

I think there is no mistaking who is in charge. And the followers area powerful and mostly super-rich bunch. I love the total aura of power now IN power. The talent pool was exceptional, once in a lifetime kind of stuff and SOMEone had the good sense not to call Michael Jackson. Let the Republicans have him. They've had more experience with people who have "alternative lifestyles" ... but not the cojones to allow them to marry ... hm ... but once again, I digress.

It was powerful, proud, generously black, and very, very dangerous for him, I fear. The extremists and the secessionists and the aryan folk are going to hear something else. They are going to hear a voice of those they are trying to eradicate. And since they model themselves after Hitler and his Brown Shirts, they have a whole scenario to play out. With better communications and weapons, we must remember. I can't think of a worse job than being a secret service assigned to protecting the Obamas. All of them. 24/7. And try to stay one step ahead of the crazies. And if you don't think they're out there, do a little research on the Web. Google aryan nation and see what you get. The shock of your life, probably. Angry, I would hope.

I'm sure there's going to be a lot of flak on the programming. But folks, before you pull the reverse-race card, remember. If ANY group of people in this country deserve to celebrate, it is the African Americans among us for whom this is an almost fairy-tale occasion. And we, as a country of immigrants (yeah, well, I excuse the Native Americans from this, they've had the shit kicked out of them, too) we need to understand that by the nature of human beings, and by the smaller the world has gotten, we're all a bunch of Heinz-57s. Mutts. Curs. Pound pups. But I know that those cross-bred misbegottens make the best pets you'll ever have the good fortune to be allowed to own. They're smart, they're honest, and by god, they're loyal. Except for the honest part, they'd make good lawyers. No, no, don't send me hate mail. Some of my best friends are lawyers. Really. But they're the honest ones.

At any rate, two more days, and the fix is in. Blessed be.

Some of What's Leaking Out My Brain ...

Okay, I'm watching David Letterman, who books the most outrageous bands (I will NOT call them musicians, for the most part). Tonight it is "Glass Vegas", consisting of very strange geeky young men playing the same three chords accompanied by a lot of jumping up and down and doing a lot of pseudo-Who stuff, but with the addition of the now-obligatory fat goth chick on drums. What IS it with these fat goth chicks? I think I know, but my god, to what depths will these young women go to be "with the band."

In the '50s, when the original rock'n'roll shows came to the old Hershey Sports Arena (the Alan Freed shows, for one), we didn't want to be "with the band". We just wanted to meet them, make our little shrieks of joy, get autographs, and on one occasion, were actually invited to Fabian's dressing room for birthday cake - his 16th. And the Crests sang "Sixteen Candles". But then we went home to our safe little homes and our warm little beds and dreamed dreams of stardust and fantasy.

Hm. Maybe the Goth Girls know something we didn't. Hell, every female under 30 knows something we didn't. And we thought WE were so smart, all unhibited and all. Hey, it was the 70s, what can I say.

And where is this going, you wonder?

I don't really know. Other than I seem to be doing a lot of this lately, these ruminations on memories of events a long, long time ago, but that have always been the highlights of my life. That and shutting down the dancefloor at the Winners Circle when Mike Dugan and I ran into each other and danced together for the first time in 30 years or more ... set the place on its ear. The band played to us, we danced for them, and a good time was had by all. My particular fifteen minutes of fame.

And I wonder what constitutes 15 minutes of fame these days. Allowing the paparazzi to photograph what used to be against the law ... and not once, but TWICE! Oh, come ON, girls, if you toss it all out there, what are you going to bargain with? Stupid, stupid, stupid. Besides which, any man who becomes the least interested will have to deal with the idea that it's his girlfriend's hoo-hah that was out there on the internet for the whole friggin' universe. Okay, girls, you got the power, you got the options, what did you trade, your inherent common sense??

I guess this is a rant on being old, and getting older, and losing credibility at the speed of sound. But dammit, things are wrong, not wrong like my parents thought was wrong with us, but REALLY wrong, and I'm not sure if I'm really sure what specifically is wrong, but it surely seems like everything. And I'm old. And I'm tired. Who's going to fight for us? Not the young, certainly. They have BMW payments to make.

I Thought He Was Gone Already ...

So today, Dubbya held the last press conference of his Presidency. It was held at a rather strange hour, mid-morning, and had the depressed air of a not-quite-thought-through exit. I was amazed at his continued denial of all that has gone wrong, other than (and this is interesting) the MISSION ACCOMPLISHED banner on the aircraft carrier. Not his hot-dogging non-flight in, but the banner. And he believes history will be kind to him. He also made a reference to his (so-called) previous drinking problem. If it's not a problem, why is he talking about it, especially now?

The whole conference was an embarrassment. Which is maybe why it was held in the hour after late breakfast, almost guaranteeing no audience. I was surprised he actually held the conference, since he has been steadily distancing himself from the Presidency for quite some time. Bob Woodward has mentioned on Bill Mahr's show that Dubbya hasn't gotten daily briefings in months. He has handed all that down to the next in charge, some undersecretary or something. Not only has this man headed the most destructive, pillaging, criminal administration in history, he seems proud of it. He has bankrupted our national ecomony, his hands are covered in the blood of thousands of our bravest and best, and hundreds of thousands of Iraquis, along with the poor transient tribes that got caught in the middle, have been beaten back into the stone age, which Cheyney certainly supports. His obsessive paranoia and melagomaniacal ideal that he is, in some way, the Messiah. Or was that the Decider?

And yet, when I see his drawn face, and the confused look in his eyes, if I were a better person, I would feel some sympathy. But I'm not, and I make no excuses. As far as I'm concerned, there ought to be a Congressional investigation post-inauguration that would include Cheyney and the rest of the gang, Rummy, Baker, Rice, all of them. That would be, however, after the center square drawing and quartering of Bernie Madoff.

But I digress. Which is my style. Work with me here.

And so on tonight's news I hear what I've been waiting for: the announcement that government plans will most certainly be cut, and "hard looks" will be taken at Social Security and Medicaid. Well, of course. Get the gomers, most of them won't (or can't) fight back. And the insurance companies will certainly join in. Pay attention, my friends. The times they are a-changin'.

Ah, the New Year. Twelve Brand New Months to Screw Up.

Which, when your future months are numbered (oh, c'mon, 65 is a lifetime, for chrissakes), it becomes a question of how much original screwing up can be done? I mean, at this point, haven't I begun to repeat my self, stories, old habits, to the point where there is nothing new under the sun. So since screwing up no longer is an issue, having been there and done that, as some wag sold on a million t-shirts a hundred years ago, I've decided that it is my turn to just simply turn myself inside out, sort of a pre-housecleaning before the medical examiner has his way with me.

I suppose I'm the last air-breathing mammal to have a blog. In all truth, I've resisted it, mainly because it is so ... brazen, somehow. And beyond egoism. But then, could I possibly imagine that it will be read by more people than I can browbeat amongst my inner circle? At least I won't offend them, they know me that well, at least I would hope.

So hello, and welcome to the world of me. Wear loose clothing and soft shoes. Leave your watch at home. Sit. Be comfortable. Light up. You know what. If you so desire. Or grab a glass of wine. I'm so comforted that box wine is finally acceptable. Shit. One more trailer trash habit becomes chic. What's next, tube tops? But I digress .... put on your favorite vinyl. Or CD. Right now I'm listening to the late Chris Whitely.

A little more about me, if I dare. I'm obsessed with fabric. I live in jeans and t-shirts, but I my world is fabrics, mostly cottons, and I would love to call myself a fabric artist, but I don't have the nerve to do it. I always think the fabric artist police (much like quilt police) are going to jump out and arrest me. I let my friends call me an artist. That way I can both feel good, and be able to be humble.

I used to be totally conservative (in my quilting), but I have stretched a bit over the years, and have begun exploring true art quilting. I'm making some headway, but I just have difficulty stretching out of that cozy heirloom group, where everything adds up, and buddy, you better have quarter-inch seams without fail, or watch that puppy turn into a paint dropcloth. For the most part, NO, it will NOT quilt out. More about quilting later, if you are interested.

Cats. Yep. Cats. Three boys, Andy (the alpha, an 18-lb tiger), Mooch (a buff boy, sweetest face in the world) and ... Bucky. The Meezer. Buckmeister. Buckzilla. Also, on many occasions, GODDAMITBUCKY! He answers to nothing, and recognizes them all. I suspect he's way smarter than I am, which just annoys the shit out of me. He's always just a beat ahead. If he had thumbs, we'd be in real trouble.

So now what? Religion? Eclectic Wiccan. Politics? Well, I love Barack Obama. I now have the first president in my lifetime that I would go to war for. Which may be dangerous. We'll see.

So this is me, and I haven't a clue as to what to do next. If you read me and like me, let me know. Otherwise, my Cancerian tendencies to scuttle sideways into a hole may come into play.

I love this world. I wish I could find a way to save it. Yo, screw the people. I'm talking about the world. And its plants and animals and oceans and mountains. All of it. Like that will happen.

Onward into the fog, as a friend of mine likes to say. And yes, onward into the fog. Always onward, fog or not. Onward.