MUSINGS AND WANDERINGS ...

Well, glory be, she's ba-a-a-a-a-ack! Suppress the groans, thank you.

My head is filled with Puccini after last nite's Met performance (taped) of Madame Butterfly. Thanks to my bestest buddy, I got to see it. Wow. Just ... wow. Now I need to go to NY and see the real thing. It's on my Bucket List.


I just watched "Tapeheads" with Tim Robbins and John Cusak. From 1988. It's like The Blues Brothers Meet The Monkees or something. If you haven't seen it, you have to. And the music is just wonderful, and there are lots of cameo appearances, and it rocks. And if you're 25 or under, forget it. You wouldn't understand it anyway.

Did any of you catch any news video of Edward Liddy, He Of AIG? Reading his hate e-mail to the Senate committee (like he and his family ought to be strangled with piano wire, so, the problem is?) and getting redder and redder by the second. I thought he'd blow up like an old MTV video, one of the early punk ones. A friend of mine has been grumbling ... heads on stakes, heads on stakes ... for weeks, and by damned if I don't agree with her. And did you see, they ARE out in the street just like I've been saying they ought to be. The media loves it. And so does the military, takes the heat off them while they go about the business of chasing ghosts and killing children ... sometimes as remotely as thousands of miles away from target. The. Button. The one we feared as children of the '50s, duck-'n-cover kids, more excited at first than frightened, but finally, frightened of everything. Except for the bullies. They rose to the top of whatever dung heap they were occupying at any given time. Running Wall Street with their male offspring waiting in the wings. A great deal of us finally said, yo, it's not happening, and even if it does, we can't control it, so don't bogart that weed, Slick, and don't the Doobies play wicked good and we became, in our great outing of truth, afraid of nothing. Fearless. Amazingly stupidly fearless. And lived to tell about it, at least until we are at the end of our tether, an IV hung tantalizing away from our reach, leading to a button that does nothing. THAT's The Button. The real Button. The only one that counts, after all. Phew. I hate when that happens.

That's what fucking Cusack and Robbins always do to me, even when they're funny (which they always are in some horrible black way).

This new quilt is consuming me. Every once in awhile I get inspiration that takes over my life for weeks. I've had just a terrible time getting the colors to come together, and went through lots of throw-away combinations. But I finally got it. I wish I'd get my goddamn camera (that I got cheap on eBay) so I can actually take pictures of it. It's still basic enough to do a story board of it for a proposed magazine article that I plan to submit. What they hell, they like old ladies. They think of us as ... "quaint".

And I'd kill for a Perc for my right arm and shoulder. Applique, applique, make me a cripple.

I'm starting a part-time job in a couple of weeks. Sit down. Yes. Now. I'm going to be a Cave Tour Guide at a local cave. I hadn't planned on going underground quite this soon, but the tips are apparently really good, and I can sling bullshit to tourists with the best of them. You know, when in doubt, lie. They never know. Hey, I learned that from our past President (and many of the current Congress). Anyway, it will keep me out of the house a couple of days a week, and I'm actually really anxious to start.

It will look great on my resume, doncha think? Topless Dancer. Truck Driver. Quilt Artist. Cave Guide. References on Request.

Blessed be. Especially all you priests in the topless bars. Yeah, you were so busted.

The Rumors of My Death ....

... are, as were Twain's, exaggerated. I'm just not very dependable in my dotage. If you don't know, look it up. I spent a lifetime of being the dependable one, the one that could always be counted on for everything, anything, the impossible only took a little longer ... and now I look back and I realize what a complete waste of energy all that was. No one ever said thank you for anything extra, and if you weren't careful, it showed up on your review as a new responsibility. For which you will get no extra credit, even if it was your idea. And now no one cares if I can type 95 wpm with a 98% accuracy, or that I know the difference between Requests for Production and Interrogatories. Or the different rules between different levels of court regarding the preparation of the documents. The Superior Court actually wants any staples used to be covered with a tape so as not to allow one of the great Jurists to prick a finger. We would hope they would not finger pricks, either, theirs or anyone elses. Hey, it just needs reminding. Do you not read the great rag "The Patriot"? They seem to take great and limitless pleasure in the sex crimes, especially when it concerns people of note. And trust me, Dauphin County in general has more than the average person of note, and over the years, more than one has displayed rather odd personal behaviors that inevitably involve kinky sex and at best, blackmail. At worst, public humiliation and resignations.

Well, THAT was a semantic roller-coaster ride, now wasn't it. Dang. I hate when I do that. Well. A little help from my herbal friends. I am sooooo into holistics and nature. No harm, no foul. And mind your own business.

So, it's been two weeks, and our President has been through one gauntlet after another, and seems to maintain his class and his cool and his over-all control. I couldn't do it, that's for certain. I'dve been waiving around an Uzi WAY before this. Hey, Nixon said it a long time ago: "Nothing the president does is against the law." Well, alrighty, then. If I were President, it would be really fun to watch. From a distance.

Because two weeks of the full-blown partisan bullshit of maneuvers, reconnaissance, paybacks and payoffs, I watched the Republicants (that's right, ...cants, courtesy of my friend Juliet, she's a brilliant wordsmith) drop back, regroup, and charge right to the front with all the same crap they've been slinging around for the last 8 years. My god. The country is dissolving around us, businesses are failing, people are homeless, jobs are G-O-N-E, even waitress jobs. Even my old standby, never-fail job ... truck stop waitress. Gone. And now they're non smoking restaurants. Ain't that just MY luck. All that air I breathed for all those years ... whatever. File it under SCW for Shoulda, Coulda, Woulda.

And so, what I (and what I believe my President) have had to realize these past two weeks is they took their rally cry from Rush Limbaugh, obviously, who wants him to fail. Wants him to fail. Isn't that some form of anti-Americanism or something? If he wants the President to fail, then he obviously doesn't care (or has hopes that it will) if the Country fails. He's got his $21 million dollar contract so he doesn't care. Uh. Rush. You're really fucking dumb, ya know? But you scare me, because there are so many hundreds of thousands of people out there who are just as fucking dumb as you are, and they are your fans. And they breed. Constantly. You're worried about illegal immegration. Hah. Take a ride South to any farm community and you'll see what I mean. It's the white trailer park boys with the Confederate Flag strung across the tailgates of their pickups. It's the blatant racism. It's mean and it's evil and it's really really dangerous to be part of. And these are people whose families go back to the early 1700's in most cases. In the South, some earlier. First settlement early. And these folk are Republicans. And Christians. And about as pig-headed and mean as a people can be. And they love their Rush.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch ....

Nothing is getting done. Nothing. Yeah, I know, the bill passed and is awaiting signature. Thus begins another saga of government not having a clue what to do, and a shit load of money to do it with. Every lobbyist in Washington is having a joint orgasm. Not to mention the money-folk. More money, and we can do whatever we want ...

You know, they could have taken that 890 Billion or whatever the hell it was, give every American citizen (note ... CITIZEN) a million dollars, tax free, cash. To do whatever the hell we want with it. And to every non-citizen, a promise of a million dollars upon completion of their application and acceptance for citizenship. For everyone that comes from now on. I guarantee you that the country's economy would go into rocket mode within 24 hours. Because the middle class, all us blue-collar, ring-around-the-collar folks, who have paid into this debacle for all of our working lives, could pay off all our debts, buy a house, two cars, and put in a pool, and we STILL would have money left. Who's running that show, anyway? Probably some Wall Street guy who is trying to figure out where the funnel is, and how to direct it into his pocket.

Meanwhile, it's trying to figure out whether to do my anti-depressant meds or my sleep meds, because suddenly and without warning (of course) they were both taken out of the Formulary for my Blue Cross insurance, even though the AMA just listed Lexapro and Lunesta as the two best drugs for depresson and insomnia in Seniors) and I now have to pay full price. Which I can't. The two of them would run me almost $200.00 a month. Thank you, Blue Cross. You have just made my life a considerably more of a burden.

And we wonder why, when we read in the paper of two Seniors, usually in their late 70s or early 80s, go out in the garage and sit in the car with the windows closed and the vacuum cleaner hose in the exhaust pipe, and they are found holding hands, with smiles on their faces. What do you think drove them to that, we ask among ourselves. Isn't it obvious? Life did. Society did. And probably, their health did, because they couldn't afford their meds. At least they had control over the last great decision of their lives together.

Blessed be.

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.