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Yes, Virginia , There is no Santa Claus

“Adults know that there is no Santa Claus. If they tell you otherwise, they are lying to you. That’s okay: some parents tell their children that Santa Claus is real as a sort of game, and there’s no evidence that this does any real harm. But if anyone keeps lying to you — about Santa Claus, or anything else — when you ask them a direct question and explicitly ask them to tell you the truth? That’s a problem. And if anyone tries to make you feel ashamed, or inferior, or like your life will be dreary and intolerable, simply because you don’t believe in this lie they’re telling you… you should be extremely suspicious. They are trying to manipulate you. It is not okay.”
(from “Yes, Virginia, There is No Santa Claus,” Greta Christina’s blog)

I think this essay should be required reason for the holiday season – anyone’s holiday season. You can read the entire essay, which is a satirical commentary on the original “Yes, Virginia, There Is A Santa Claus,” on the mahvelous Greta Christina’s blog.

badsanta

*   *   *

Thank You For Not Axing

Dateline: Wednesday, out for my a.m. walk, listening to a podcast of author Steven Pinker being interviewed about his latest book, The Sense of Style: A Thinking Person’s Guide to Writing in the 21st Century.  The interview touched on several interesting issues (well, interesting, if you’re a linguistics/usage groupie), including how dictionaries reflect (the always-evolving) common usage, the differences between elucidative prose and speech, and all that grammatical gobbledygook.

Which reminded me about my own usage peeve.

Calling persons of all genders, nationalities, ethnicities, political and artistic preferences – can we agree on this fact:

There is no “x” in the English language word, “ask.”

Therefore, don’t be surprised if and when you say, “I want to axe you something,” I run away screaming.

axe

*   *   *

Department of Somebody Please Tell Them (preferably, in their native language)

MH took me for a foot reflexology massage on my birthday….

Happy Feet

…followed by a sushi lunch. The sushi restaurant had a sign up on their electronic menu board reminding patrons to check out their 37 new menu items. One of the new items has a name which, I presume, was chosen in honor of someone, by someone else who is unfamiliar with American slang.  Golly gee, no, thank you, but I’d rather not try your Johnson Roll.

OHNOSUSHI

*   *   *

Department of Random Reflections

If I’m standing by a door that has one of those status sign indicators underneath the lock, it’s because I’m waiting to use the facilities.  Thus, it’s a good thing when the status changes from “Occupied.”  Still, a part of me feels I’m in danger of dropping 10 IQ points by entering a room that says “vacant.”

vacant

Department of If I Had the Power To Do So…

I’d like to change, or make an addition to, those door lock status indicators. Occupied; Vacant – there needs to be a third option.

occupied

There needs to be an option to alert people that it might be some time before the room is available, as the occupant is not merely taking a leak but is trying to collect her thoughts, and this room is the only place she may find some peace and quiet away from co-workers/family-friends:  PreOccupied.

Also, I’d like the following occupancy indicator sign implanted in my forehead.  For those special moments, where my cognitive activity may not be apparent to others:

INUSE

*   *   *

Random Scenes from the Past [1]

Dateline:  A long, long time ago [2] in a galaxy far, far, away. [3]  I was standing in a checkout line at a Safeway, holding my basket of ten-items-or-less[4] The line moved slowly, and after performing my customary assessment of the basket items of the people in line ahead of me, [5] I looked around for something else to scrutinize, and beheld a rack of cut flowers by the counter.  What held my attention was that I could actually smell the flowers from several feet away; they were not the usual, cheap/five-minutes-before-wilt-mode bouquets to tempt harried dinner guests/dates into a last minute guilt-grab.

An arrangement of humble but incredibly fragrant carnations attracted my attention, and after checking the price [6] I added it to my basket.

“What a pretty bouquet!” the cashier cooed, as she rang up my items.  “For someone special?

“Ah…” I chuckled.  “Well, yes.  They’re for me.”

“For you?  You’re treating yourself to flowers?”

“Why not?”

“Oh, what a nice idea!”  The Cashier leaned toward me and, with a gal-to-gal conspiratorial sigh, added, “But it’s just not the same, is it, when you have to buy them for yourself?”

By the time I got back to my apartment, the flowers were not as fragrant as they’d seemed in the store.  I gave the bouquet to my next door neighbor, who’d picked up my mail for me when I was on a business trip.

wiltedbouquetjpg

*   *   *

Pre-Christmas/post-birthday blues:  It’s that time of the year: here come the the lists.  You can’t spit without hitting someone’s inventory of the Best/Top 100/15/20 People/Neologisms/Inventions of the year.

And then, there’s that pissin’ John Lennon Christmas Song, [7] with its nagging opening line that really, really, really bothers me, for some reason:

♫  And so this is Christmas/and what have you done?  ♫

And what have I done?  Not enough, apparently – I’m not doing enough, okay, John?  Could you please chill out with the guilting, and shut up Yoko, while you’re at it?

Then, of course, I find myself thinking, I am sniping at my radio; I’m yelling at a dead man, through my car radio.  How pathetic is that?

She's suck a fookin' disappointment.

She’s such a fookin’ disappointment.

*   *   *

About those lists.  If you can’t beat ‘em…[8]

I’ve got one, that has nothing to do with 2014 or the year’s end, but that was prompted by hearing a song on the radio – in this case. R.E.M’s Losing My Religion. After which I said to moiself, That’s one of the best songs ever written about alienation...which led me to ponder  other best-songs-written-about categories.

Song title (Performer)

-Best song about paranoia: Get In Line (Bare Naked Ladies)

-Best song about heading-for-a-breakup defiance: You’re Breaking My Heart (Harry Nilsson)

-Best song about why you shouldn’t get drunk and look through your high school and/or college yearbooks: Need You Now (Lady Antebellum)

-Best song you’re embarrassed to admit you like, but dang if it don’t have a catchiest, earwormiest tune: M-m-m-Bop (Hansen)

-Best song with incredible Emmy Lou Harris harmonizing about a woman’s love for her incarcerated son: The Sweetest Gift (Linda Ronstadt)

-Best song that lives up to its title: Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner (Warren Zevon)

-Best song about Patti Smith falling in love: Frederick (Patti Smith)

-Best song about knowing the right thing to do but putting it off until later: “Come Tomorrow” (Patti Scialfa)

-Best Beach Boys tribute/parody song: Back in the USSR (The Beatles)

-Best song about Portland hipsters: Bohemian Like You (The Dandy Warhols)

-Best song by Portland hipsters who’ve unfortunately heard the term “literary” applied to their music by a few slavering critics and thus take themselves way too seriously: Down By the Water (The Decemberists)

-Best song to snap your fingers and sing along and pretend you’re a hipster: Danny’s All-Star Joint (Rickie Lee Jones)

hipster

 

-Best Bob Dylan song neither written nor sung by Bob Dylan: You’ve Got To Hide Your Love Away (The Beatles) [9]

-Best song to explain the visceral appeal of punk: I Wanna Be Sedated (The Ramones)

-Best song about what you wish you’d said to the drunken jerks who hit on you at the concert/club even after you’d made it clear you were not seeking male companionship but just wanted to have a good time with your girlfriends: U + Ur Hand (Pink)

-Best song that illustrates why radio censorship was a good thing, because composers had to write clever, read-between-the-lines lyrics and it was so much fun to “get it” when your parent’s didn’t: Lola (The Kinks)

-Best song to get the boys (drunk or sober) to sing the chorus: 8 Miles Wide (Storm Large)

-Best song about sexual infatuation from one woman’s POV:  Why Can’t I (Liz Phair)

-Best song about cows with guns: Cows With Guns (Dana Lyons)

-Best song about not regretting taking a stand: Not Ready to Make Nice (Dixie Chicks)

-Best song about honky hip hop ineptitude: Help, I’m White and I Can’t Get Down (The Geezinslaws)

-Best song that would be my anthem if I were a pre-operative trannie: Stand By Your Man (Lyle Lovett)

-Best not-your-parents’ Christmas song: Christmas in Hollis (Run DMC)

*   *   *

May all your favorite songs make someone’s best-of list, and may the ho-ho-ho hijinks ensue.

Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!

 

[1] Not as random as some, this recollection was prompted by my receiving a lovely birthday bouquet from friend LAH.

[2] In the 1980’s.

[3] The Bay Area.  Specifically/probably, Palo Alto or Menlo Park.

[4] Which should be “or fewer” not less, I know.

[5] Dude, with that beer gut, do you really need three bags of pork rinds?

[6] I was living hand to mouth or hand to foot or foot and mouth disease – or whatever in those days – and flowers or any kind of “luxury” item was not in the budget.

[7] Not the official name, which is Happy Xmas/War is Over.

[8] “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em? Nah. Take a page from Dick Cheney’s book, torture ‘em, and call it, “Enhanced Interrogation.”

[9] Okay, maybe a tie, with the mahvelous Roy Zimmerman’s  Christmas is Pain.

The DMV I’m Not Suing

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My apologies to those of you wretched, lonely hearts devoted readers who have told me you look forward to sitting down with your coffee on Friday morning and reading my blog.[1]  Technical difficulties delayed its usual early morning posting.  Let’s just say I oppose the death penalty, except for those who create and distribute computer viruses.

 *   *   *

Dateline: Wednesday. Birthday coming up in less than a week.  Driver’s license renewal.  Fastest time ever at the DMV – in and out.  Worst. Picture. Ever.

Not this bad.

Not this bad.

“I need an override,” the woman at the camera station called out to her supervisor.

“What, my face broke the camera, ” I mumbled half-heartedly. The supervisor smiled, clickety-clacked on the computer keyboard and replied, “Only cracked it.”  After she left I asked Camera Woman, “No, really – what did you need to override?”

“When there’s a discrepancy with your past picture, the computer calls for a compare.”  It seems the DVS’s picture processing software is sophisticated enough to opine, “There’s no way this can be the same person…and even if it is, holy facial recognition software, do people have no pride?  She could have at least brushed her hair; oh yeah, lady, but it’s raining outside yada yada yada, nice try with that excuse….”

Really.  A bad picture.

Almost this bad.

Almost this bad.

*   *   *

That was no way to start a Wednesday, or any day, but especially the second Wednesday in December, which was my annual Ladies’ Lefse Party.  But, the day was soon redeemed

Returning home from the DMV, still pissed about the picture incident [2] I decide to play a word game to calm myself down before getting down to work.  It’s the little things that matter, you know?  Like the oh-so-special feeling I get when playing Jumble Jong and I get an AWESOME! message plus bonus points for using the available tiles to spell the word, smuttily.

Also, there was the lefse party.

Lady Marmalade, just some of the Lucky Ladies invited to the Ladies Lefse Party.

Lady Marmalade, just some of the Lucky Ladies invited to the Ladies Lefse Party.

*   *   *

Department of Pretend There Was An Artful Segue

Friend fellow writer and self-described reluctant homeschooler [3] SCM has had trouble “finding her tribe” as she put it… as so sharply evidenced by a local homeschooling list serve posting she sent me (to which she has since unsubscribed), which she titled, From the “I can’t make up this shit” files…

(my emphases)

Messages: Classic Literature I don’t let my kids read.
Posted by: (redacted)[4]
I had a frank discussion with my kids literature teacher after one of my own picked up Grapes of Wrath, which I’ve never read, and read it during our reading time, not outloud. Apparently there are some rather gratuitous love scenes in there or at least one. Never having read it, I’m kicking myself for having trusted the many “classic literature” lists that I’ve printed and clung to while shopping for books to build our home library with.

 I emailed their teacher my list and she went through it and marked the ones that were safe, the ones that weren’t, and the ones she either couldn’t remember or hadn’t personally read. What an eye opener! For starters, here are the ones we removed from our shelves because of such love scenes.

 1984
Candide
Grapes of Wrath 

I’m sure there will be others, but this is just a startling starting point. I don’t mind an occasional bad word or even a string of bad words.

It’s the erotic love scenes that disgust me when I think of my teenage son picking up and reading from material I HAVE PROVIDED! It’s sad to think about the books they’ll be missing out on because of unnecessary inappropriate scenes.

If you know of other not-so-classy “classics”; I would steer away from that are usually found on classics lists, please let me know.

advisorypng

Holy fucking inappropriate love scenes.

I mean, objecting to “love scenes”? In “classic” literature, that you yourself admit you’ve NEVER READ?

And, “Grapes of Wrath,”  really?

REALLY

For the love of butt-fucking pornography, I’m trying to remember what might be determined “inappropriate” about The Grapes of Wrath, a book which  was one of many triggers responsible for the awakening of my political consciousness….. Ah, maybe that’s it. That and, you know, all the scenes featuring poor people striving for a better life amidst political forces determined to keep them in their place.

“It’s sad to think about the books they’ll be missing out on because of unnecessary inappropriate scenes.”

No, ladyass, it’s sad to think about the books your kids will be missing out on because their mother has a frigid, rigid, prude-drooling fear bucket where her brain should be.

I’m trying to imagine her and others of her ilk, going through her books [5] and marking which ones are “safe.”

NOVELS AREN”T SUPPOSED TO BE “SAFE” – THAT’S THE FUCKING POINT.

And that message of hers sparked replies – a back and forth from fellow home- obscurants schoolers who seemed to be almost bragging about the fact that they have lists of “Classic Literature I Don’t Let my Kids Read.”

I just feel like kicking something.

ignorance

*   *   *

Department of, awwwww…..

A week ago this afternoon, at the invitation of a staff member, I did a reading of The Mighty Quinn followed by a Q & A session [6] at the Hillsboro Boys and Girls Club.  The group of kids attending would be in the 4th – 8th grade age range…or so I was told.  The kids seemed younger; the coordinator explained that, just before she made the announcement to gather in a meeting room for the reading, someone else announced that a movie was going to be shown in another room, and most of the older kids went to the movie.

Well, yeah.

After the reading (and a Q & A session seriously in need of some mediating [7] ) the event coordinator took a picture of me and the kids, and then dismissed the kids to their other activities.  One girl, who had been one of the most enthusiastic Q & A participants, approached me with a shy gleam in her eye.

“Here,” she said, holding out a coin.  “This is for you.”

I must have had a confused look on my face.  “It’s a nickel,” she explained.

Actually, it was a quarter.

Of course I had to take it.  For two reasons

  1. You cannot refuse such an act of generosity from a child.
  2. Have you seen my last royalty statement? I think she may have.
  3. I said, for two reasons.

*   *   *

The Return of the Santa Hats

As a part of our household’s seasonal décor, anything that can be classified as art, that has a face, must wear a miniature Santa Hat. Don’t ask for an explanation because I don’t understand it myself (and I’m the one who insists on the practice). This has made for a whole lotta Santa hat-making as the years go by and we keep collecting specimens for our Wall of Faces:

This image represents less than 10% of the faces. Be afraid; be very afraid.

This image represents less than 10% of the faces. Be afraid; be very afraid.

 *   *   *

May your days be merry and bright, may you read the classic books and fight the good fights, may your Santa hats fit you just right, and may the holiday hijinks ensue.

 

Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!

 

 

[1] Yep, I’m talkin’ you, BOM.

[2] And then more pissed for being so petty as to care about a driver’s license picture.

[3] With a near genius child, no money for non-public school options, living where the public school choice is in the lowest 15% of everything (and sends out how-to-keep-your-grade-schooler gang-free info)

[4] Or should I say, retarded. Which I would, if I thought I could get away with the (now) non-PC epithet.

[5] Or, worse, yet, taking some other patsy prig’s  word for it, as she doesn’t seem to be familiar with the books she criticizes.

[6] “Meet a REAL author, who lives in Hillsboro…and you can ask her why the heck she hasn’t moved to Portland!”

[7] At least these kids didn’t ask me how much money I made, but they did ask why I wasn’t giving them free copies of the book.

The Accordion I’m Not Throwing

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As we dive into the holiday season, that time of year when some members of the human race strive to hold charitable thoughts for all members of the human race, I can’t help but reflect upon the fact that my nutmeg grater resembles a Star Trek shuttlecraft. [1]

 

shuttlecraftnutmegshuttlecraft

*   *   *

Chappy Chanukah [2]

Truly, the FSM has touched me with his noodly appendage. I felt his presence – what other possible, earthly explanation could there be for my good fortune? – while searching for Hanukah-themed bling décor for a friend’s upcoming party.  What unbridled joy, to stumble upon a holiday-themed kitchen gadget that incorporated one of my favorite words: [3]

Gentlemen and Ladies, start your latkes.

Gentlemen and Ladies, start your latkes.

*   *   *

While We’re on the Holiday Theme:
Department of Not Passing the Holiday Breathalyzer Test

Fruitcake for the Holidays:  A Special Recipe  [4]

 

Ingredients:
– one cup each of water and white table sugar
– four large eggs
– two cups of dried fruit
– one teaspoon baking soda
– one teaspoon salt
– one cup brown sugar
– lemon juice
– nuts
– one bottle of whisky

Instructions:
Get out a large mixing bowl.   To ensure whiskey is the highest quality, pour one level cup and drink.   Repeat.

Turn on the electric mixer; beat one cup of butter in a large fluffy bowl.  Add one teaspoon of sugar and beat again.

Make sure the whisky is still okay.  Cry another tup.  Turn off the mixer. Break two leggs and add to the bowl and chuck in the cup of dried furit.  Mix on the turner. If the fried druit gets tuck in the beaterers pry it loose with a drewscriver.

Sample the whisky to check for tonsisticity.  Next, sift two cups of salt.  Or something. Who cares?  Check the whisky.  Now sift the lemon juice and strain the nuts.  Add one table.  Spoon.  Of sugar or something.  Whatever you can find.

Grease the oven.  Turn the cake tin to 350 degrees.  Don’t forget to beat off the turner.  Throw the bowl out of the window, check the whisky again and go to bed.

Yet another victim of Aunt Erva's Holiday Fruitcake.

Yet another victim of Aunt Erva’s Holiday Fruitcake.

*   *   *

By the end of this day, publicity-shy moiself will have survived enjoyed another public appearance re The Mighty Quinn, this one involving a reading and Q & A session with thirty-to-forty 4th – 8th graders at the Hillsboro Boys & Girls Club.  If only I had some fruitcake to see me through the ordeal.

myfruitcake

*   *   *

The Department of Not Holding My Breath…

In this case I’m not holding it for an apology [5] from anyone else in the paranoid conservative talk show radio foghorns  media, now that the House Intelligence Report on Benghazi has been released.

Brian Joyce, one member of the talk show radio host contingent, wrote a persuasive and seemingly heartfelt apology. I wonder what we’ll hear from the rest of his colleagues?

We told you the President was covering up what happened in Benghazi. We told you the President didn’t have a “shred of integrity” on Benghazi. We told you the President was providing “cover” for the terrorists who killed four Americans in Benghazi. We told you that the President could have helped the four Americans who were killed in Benghazi, but instead ordered the military to “stand down.” Heck, we even told you the President’s Secretary of State, Hillary Clinton, faked a concussion just to avoid testifying on Benghazi!

And after two years of trying our best to convince you that all these things were true, it turns out that we, the media, were the ones who were lying.

To those members of the media – specifically, the unmedicated, verbal crap-wiping legion of Fox News-parroting twitclowns – who created the nonexistent “cover-up” of the Benghazi attack, this Asshat of the Week award is for you.

AHat640

*   *   *

Dateline: Last week.  Scenario: offspring (Belle and K) are home for Thanksgiving break. Belle wanted me to run some errands with her after I was done exercising.  After completing my workout I showered and dressed, and as I exited my room, Belle eyed my shirt and gasped.

“Is that velvet?  Velvet and plaid?”

I nodded, and let her caress my sleeve.

“Oh, wow,” she said.  “It’s like the 90s all rolled into one.”

velvetplaid

*   *   *

Department of What If

What if the paper towel dispensers in public restrooms were not motion-activated, but rather emotion-activated?  It wouldn’t be enough to need to dry your hands – you’d have to really, really, demonstrably, want to dry your hands.

dispenser

*   *   *

As my birthday approaches, I’m going to step out of my comfort zone [6] and reveal something personal.  Not only have I never (successfully) played a musical instrument, [7] it has been said (by moiself) that you could inscribe my innate musical ability on the tip of my pinkie finger and still have room for the Declaration of Independence.

However….

Another little-known personal fact:  despite my lack of musical talent, I have demonstrated perfect pitch. I once threw an accordion in a dumpster, where it landed on a vuvuzela.

vuvu

*   *   *

 

May all your pitches strive for such perfection, and may the holiday hijinks ensue.

 

Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!

 

 

[1] If you fail to see the resemblance, a little more eggnog might do the trick.

[2] Y’all know the rules, about the ch- pronunciation, right?

[3] That would be spatula.

[4] Too many people, most of them fruitcake recipe testers (hic), I imagine, claim credit for this recipe, so I’ll leave attribution to the Collective Consciousness of Christmas Culture.

[5] Or even explanation for their fear-mongering slathering passing as “investigative concern.”

[6] I hate that phrase – “comfort zone.” Just typing it makes me feel like a slimy mattress salesman with an ill-fitting toupee.

[7] Being the leader of my high school’s AWMKB (All Women’s Marching Kazoo Band) doesn’t count.

The Nothing I’m Not Buying

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҉   Welcome to the post Thanksgiving-post, food-induced coma edition of my blog.   ҉
It’s lighter, less filling, gluten and dairy free
(unless you count the following cheesy jokes):

What happened after an explosion at a French cheese factory?
All that was left was de brie. 

What is the name of the country near Iraq that is made entirely of cheese?
Curd-istan 

What cheese surrounds a medieval castle?
Moatzeralla 

What do you call a hunk of cheddar that isn’t yours?
Nacho Cheese! 

stinkly cheese

*   *   *

Department of Name Your Poison

It’s the day after.  Is it Black Friday for you?  Or National Buy Nothing Day?  It’s your choice.  I sentimentally and intellectually dread the former [1] and support the latter, particularly the organizers’ [2]  suggestions for playful activities to challenge the “entrenched values of capitalism” and shine a spotlight on consumers’ addictions to immediate gratification.

You could camp out in front of the Apple Store with a bajillion greedy, self-centered selfish over-consuming zombies other gadget fans who would trample their own arthritis-stricken grandmother if it meant they could be one of the first to have the hottest techno toy eagerly await the release of the latest I-yi-yi gadget, but it might be more fun to annoy them by participating in a Buy Nothing Day Zombie Walk:

“The cheerful dead wander around malls, marveling at the blank, comatose expressions on the faces of shoppers. The zombies are happy to be among their own kind, but slightly contemptuous of those who have not yet begun to rot.”

adbusters_everything-is-fine-keep-shopping

*   *   *

Making Ursula Proud of Me

Last week Ursula K. LeGuin gave a kickass speech at the National Book Awards ceremony. She was there to receive an award for distinguished contribution to American letters, and in her acceptance speech the not-so-soft-spoken 85 year old LeGuin rebuked literary profiteers and the “corporate fatwa” [3] which IHHO threaten writers.

“Right now, I think we need writers who know the difference between the production of a market commodity and the practice of an art….Books, you know, they’re not just commodities. The profit motive often is in conflict with the aims of art.”

One look at my royalty statements for The Mighty Quinn (or any of my works) would affirm that my motivation must be art, not profit. [4]

Yeah – that’s the ticket.

*   *   *

Just Wondering

Speaking of pathetic royalty statements (an honest-to-goodness segue!), as I ponder my mid life crisis dwindling career options – specifically, should I jump the fiction writers’ ship and if so, is there a less soul-sucking way to remain a part of the Creative Arts ® ? – I find myself considering a foray into movie making.

Yep, like every other writer (established or wannabe) moiself is [5] writing a screenplay.  Do you think Hollywood (or Bollywood?) [6] is ready for the tale of a gigolo with a heart of gold, who services his lonely clients without asking for payment?

I’m thinking of calling it, Free Willy.

Just say the safe word, ma'am, and I'll put on the orca suit.

Just say the safe word, ma’am, and I’ll put on the orca suit.

*   *   *

May your Friday be every color of the rainbow, and may the hijinks ensue.

Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!

 

 

[1] Shopping, for me, is a chore, not a recreational pursuit. The idea of voluntarily shopping on one of the busiest shopping days of the year…. I just don’t get it, whomever you are, People Who Do Such Things.

[2] Adbusters

[3] (read: the Amazon- Hatchett dispute)

[4] Either that, or I’m just an incompetent business boob.

[5] I need at least one more footnote, or my footnote-counting friend SCM will complain.

[6] I’m not picky, and I think my idea lends itself well to a lavish musical treatment.

The Knockers I’m Not Upping

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They’re baaaaaaaaak….

Halloween was the harbinger. Now, the rest of the Holidays approach.  Or, as some jolly folks like to say, The Season’s Upon Us. Readers of this blog, you know what that means.

Don’t you feel better prepared now, for all the seasonal wretched inanity merriment that is to come?  I know I do.

*   *   *

Speaking of the holidays….

♫  Let Me Hang My Balls On Your Christmas Tree  ♫

Moo-oom!

“I am NOT making this up,” I would protest in vain, when Belle and K insisted I stop singing that Christmas ball song.  “Really, it was a holiday favorite from the Dr. Demento show…”

Still and of course, my offspring thought I was making it up.  Thanks to that nifty invention of Al Gore, I can prove it to them.  The song (actual title, “Christmas Balls” by Ben Light & his Surf Club Boys) made it to Dr. D’s Nifty Fifty for 1972 list, and I have Internet evidence.

Dead Puppies; Pencil Neck Geek, It’s a Gas, the Vatican Rag, Pico and Sepulveda, Shaving Cream.  If you are old/lucky enough, you may remember those songs from the Dr. Demento radio show, which my friends and I were fortunate enough to have discovered in high school.  Diligent scholars that we were, no trigonometry study party would be complete without the study break reward – listening to a tape of Dr. D’s latest show.

Dr. D

Dr. D’s show was not merely mindless entertainment.  His show helped us equal opportunity humor feminists to discover mentors like Rusty Warren, [1] the musician-comedian with a New England Conservatory of Music B.A. degree [2] who showed that the women could hold the stage with men when it came to the risqué humor and witty wordplay found in what were called “novelty songs.”

Warren’s Knockers Up was one of our favorites.  Another of Warren’s odes to empowerment began with a variation on a patriotic call to arms:

You know girls, it’s great to live in a democracy today, where freedom is everywhere. But girls, we often take this freedom for granted: freedom of speech, freedom of thought, and freedom of action…. So come on, fellow females of the 20th century! Be glad that you’re an American! Proclaim your freedom! Stand at attention! Pledge Allegiance! And…
Bounce your Boobies

*   *   *

*   *   *

Department of Also Somewhat Holiday Related

Every week since I gave MH the book for his birthday, MH and I have been doing a hike or two from Portland Hill Walks [3] . PHW is a guidebook that gives tours of Portland’s many parks, nature preserves and neighborhoods.  Each walk takes you through a variety of venues, from wooded canyons to its exclusive neighborhoods built atop ancient lava domes peaks, and the book provides historical, cultural and architectural background and idiosyncratic observations (guess who died in this old house?) for each route.

PHillwalks

On Tuesday we hiked a loop from the Leach Botanical Gardens to the Willamette National Cemetary. It was somewhat of a coincidence that we did that particular route on Veterans Day, and  I found myself reflecting upon – surprise! not favorably – the knee-jerk Soldier Worshiping currently infesting our public and political rhetoric.

Excuse me; we technically don’t have Soldier worshiping because we don’t have soldiers, marines, sailors or even GIs anymore.  Like Muslims who cannot mention their religion’s prophet without the appendage His Name Be Praised, we have created this all-encompassing entity:

OBI MAWU.

OBI MAWU is not the moniker of a minor Jedi apprentice from one of the interminable Star Wars sequels prequels. Rather, it is my scrambled acronym for a term we are all too familiar with:

Our Brave Men And Women In Uniform.

Y’all know the drill:  whenever addressing an OBI MAWU personally or referring to them in any context, we must also then add, “Thank you for your sacrifice.”

If you don't give us a better Jedi nickname we're going back to the sandbox.

If you don’t give us a better Jedi nickname we’re going back to the sandbox.

I did (and do) think about my father, grandfather, uncles, cousins, neighbors, friends, co-workers and others I’ve known who’ve served in the Armed Forces. [4]  My beef is not with (most of) those who choose military life.  Here’s the thing that frosts my butt: this blind uniform worship is…so….cheap, not to mention a tad self-aggrandizing (Look at me; I’m like, so considerate!  I expressed appreciation your service!).

Thanking someone for their service or their “sacrifice” is expedient, jingoistic lip flapping; it is a feel-good-do-nothing substitute for actually addressing the real concerns – alarming PTSD, suicide and unemployment rates – facing veterans.  Also, it has the side effect of elevating military service to that-which-must-be-praised-and-not-questioned, and thus becomes one more factor contributing to our reluctance to have difficult, intricate conversations about the consequences of the USA being willing to act as the world’s night watchmen.

Such a conversation might include considering the question, should there be a return to a military draft and/or other compulsory national service? [5] Do you think the Afghan-Iraq follies of the past 10 + – yep, that’s  TEN PLUS – years would still be sputtering on if everyone’s Young Men and Women had the potential (and involuntary) chance of becoming the OBI MAWU fighting these wars?

Also, this OBI MAWU veneration feeds the dangerous notion that everyone in the military is theoretically prepared to give “the ultimate sacrifice.” And thus it is unpatriotic to question military service.  When we hesitate to truly and vigorously debate the wisdom and morality of the causes for which our armed forces fight, we make another, perhaps not ultimate but no less crucial sacrifice – that of our own individual and national integrity.

WAR

*   *   *

My Proudest Moment
# 1666 in a (hopefully) infinite series

The trigger credit for this particular digression goes to my son K, who sent me a link to an article about Internet reaction to Disney’s releasing the name of the upcoming Star Wars VII movie.

A long long time ago in a galaxy far far away, [6] I saw The Empire Strikes Back on the first day it was released. I used vacation time and was able to wrangle a day off from work (I think it was a Wednesday), and found a theatre where I could purchase a ticket in advance for one of the first showings of the day.  Most of my friends and co-workers were also Star Wars fans, also were eager to see the movie, but were unable to take time off. They planned to see TESB on the weekend,  congratulated me on being able to see the movie on its release day, and sternly warned me to NOT drop any spoilers on them.

The theatre was a five screen venue, four screens of which were devoted to back-to-back showings of TESB, beginning in the early afternoon. I stood in line with other eager and elated Star Trek nerds fans, and was able to get into the second showing of TESB.

TESB

After the movie was over, I exited the theatre with my fellow moviegoers. We were filled with an amalgam of elation, shock, and anticipation (That was amazing…now we have to wait for the 3rd movie to find out what happens?!), and apparently, from the reactions of the people waiting in line for the next showing, we all sported similar, WTF?! expressions.  One boy standing in line with his parents gestured to the people leaving the theatre, tugged at his mother’s sleeve and asked, “What do you think they saw in there?

The line for the next TESB showing stretched from the theatre entrance around the block to where I’d parked. On my way to my car I walked past a group of four to five college-age guys standing in the line. One of them fixed his troglodyte sights on me, and began to spew the inexcusable/unwarranted [7], “Hey baby hubba hubba oooga chaka” come-on.

Like any female biped I was familiar with that dynamic, which I typically handled by ignoring the cretins’ catcalls.  But that time, on that day?  Nah.  Couldn’t let it go.

The realities of the situation and my options for response zipped through my mind in a nanosecond:  Dude, really?  You are of an age where you had to make special arrangements to be here, at this time, and on this day, to see this movie. You are in line for the movie you have long anticipated – the movie I have just seen. I have the knowledge, the power, and you dare to taunt me?

I actually, almost, felt sorry for the guy.

I did an about face and strode back to the line. Smiling seductively, I grabbed Mr. Oo0gaChaka by the collar and pulled him away from his comrades. Standing on tip toe so that my hot hubba hubba baby breath was close to his ear, I whispered the five words I deeply and sincerely hoped would break his heart and shrivel his scrotum:

Darth Vadar is Luke’s father.

Another 180, and I triumphantly marched away, to the soundtrack of…nothing, save for the sweet silence of a justice-filled universe.

The Force is strong in this one.

The Force is strong in this one.

*   *   *

May the forces prevailing against oogachaka be strong in you, and may the hijinks ensue.

Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!

 

 

[1] Special kudos to those who remember her immortal line, “Ladies you’re not marching!”

[2] A degree Warren referred to as the “Bawdy Arts.”

[3] If you live in or near Portland, you need this book.

[4] Most (seemed to have) served with pride, honor and integrity.  Others…well, twenty years of peacetime desk job service for a lifetime PX discount and free health care  – hell yeah!

[5] Something I would like to see, for the reason/question that follows.

[6] Okay, May 1980.

[7] Although not inexplicable, as it is seemingly related to the dynamic of a group of males spotting a lone female.

The Riposte I’m Not Stifling

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Department of I Just Didn’t Want To Go There

Dateline: Tuesday, on my morning walk.  Three blocks from home, I turned a corner and detected the stench of tobacco.  Fifty feet ahead of me, holding a lit cigarette in his hand, a boy who looked to be about 14 years old was checking a curbside mailbox.  As I crossed to the other side of the street to avoid walking through his smoke, the boy turned around to look at me. He gestured at my Nordic Trekking poles and called out:

“Why are you ski-walking?” 

“Because it’s more fun than regular walking,” I replied.

I’d stifled the riposte that sprang to my petty little mind – Why are you smoking? – but as I continued toward home, I found myself wondering, what if I hadn’t?  What would have been his reply?

“Because it’s more fun than regular breathing.”

smoke

*   *   *

Diamonds Are Forever [1]
But Porcelain Crowns Last Twenty Years, If You’re Lucky

 Aka, Department of Causing Your Dental Hygienist to Declare
“In All My Years, I’ve Never Heard That Answer Before.”

For some reason, Sean Connery had entered the rinse-and-spit conversation [2] between the dental hygienist and moiself.  A brief discussion of James Bond movies ensued as we waited for the dentist to finish up with a patient in the adjoining room.  The hygienist said she liked the Connery-era films but was not a fan of Roger Moore in the role. I told her I’d never been a much of a Bond movie fan, until the easy-on-the-eyes Daniel Craig was cast in the role.

When the dentist entered the room we exchanged our usual jest-filled chit-chat before he lowered the exam chair and began his inspection of my cheap whiskey and fine Cuban cigar-stained chompers pearly whites. [3]

“So, how are things going?” he asked. “Any complaints about your teeth?”

I raised myself up on one elbow, grinned at the hygienist and said, “Only that Daniel Craig hasn’t licked them.”

"About those fluoride applications...."

“About those fluoride applications….”

*   *   *

Department of, If You Have to Ask…

Prologue:
So, what do you do?

I’ve never liked that question, when used as part of an introduction or conversation starter, and try not to ask it myself when speaking with a new acquaintance.  One of the many things I’ve noticed and enjoyed in my [4] travels abroad is that Other Peoples of the World ®  (i.e., not Americans) don’t care so much what you “do” – they’d rather hear about who you are in terms of where you choose to live, where you’ve been and where you’d like to be (travel-wise), and what you think about _____ (insert favorite political or cultural interest).

Also, there’s the published author thing.  If I answer the what-you-do question truthfully, I often receive some chunk of cringe-worthy (and totally unjustified) adulation –   “OMG, you’re an AUTHOR!” [5] – accompanied by obsequious expressions of admiration…or, worse, the “Really!? That’s fantastic; you know, I’ve always wanted to be a writer. Maybe you’d like to look at some of my story ideas?”

Friend/fellow writer SCM has suggested I answer the WDYD question with, “I’m an editor.”  Which would be a deflection but not technically a lie (I do edit my own work).

And now, the anecdote:

Last Saturday MH and I participated in an educational and tree-planting volunteer event at Jackson Bottom Wetlands.  Volunteers were divided into six units and given name tags stamped with a picture of our unit’s “mascot” – one of the many animals that can be found at the JB wetlands.  MH and I were sorted to unit #2, the Canada Goose group, which I accepted after some mild grumbling about the irony of having the mascot of the #2 group be the planet’s most prolific producer of…well… #2.

"You got a problem with that?"

“You got a problem with that?”

As we trudged over the muddy wetland trails on our way to the tree-planting area, a woman in our group made small talk with MH and I. She volunteered the fact that she is an OR nurse at a local hospital, then asked, “So, what do you do?”

Using my oft-times-literalist interpretation, I replied, “When?”

She looked at me blankly.

“Well, at this moment I’m volunteering at the….”

“No, I mean, as in work.  For money.”

I momentarily considered using my friend’s suggestion, but our fellow volunteer seemed nice and level-headed, and I bailed. “I’m a writer.”

Her eyes lit up like a venti-chugging lemur.

Kind of like this.

Kind of like this.

“A writer!? she gasped.  “What kind of writer?”

“Mostly fiction.”

“Are you famous?”

(Ay yi yi). “Are you?” I replied.

Her blank look resurfaced.

“You know – when you walk into the OR, do the other people there say, ‘I know her!’ “

"If that woman is famous, the terrorists have won."

“If that woman is famous, then truly, the terrorists have won.”

*   *   *

Department of Bright Ideas

The Brights are an international internet constituency composed of individuals who have a naturalistic worldview.  This is the organization’s logo:

brights_icon_100x100

Their motto: “Illuminating and elevating the naturalistic worldview.”

I was stuck for pumpkin-carving inspiration this Halloween, until I got a Bright Idea.  I emailed a picture of my creation to the directors of The Brights, along with my best wishes for a “Happy Halloween from a Bright (if not so talented) jack-o-lantern carver.”

"Illuminating the natural world...and the porch, for trick-or-treaters."

“Illuminating the natural world…and the porch, for trick-or-treaters.”

*   *   *

My Work Here is Done

On Wednesday I received the following email from daughter Belle:

“Happy post-election day!
Don’t forget to set your clocks back 40 years in honor of the new senate!”

While we’re on the subject, the following is suitable for a few laughs, even if not quite SFW:

*   *   *

 

May your teeth be white and your celebrations Bright, and may the hijinks ensue.

 

 Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!

 

 

[1] The last of the original James Bond films to star Sean Connery.

[2] As in, is he still alive, or what?

[3] Which, while neither whiskey nor cigar-stained, are not even close to being pearly white. In case you were wondering.

[4] Comparatively or relatively few (at least, compared to some people I know).

[5] Sometimes accompanied by squeals of excitement. Really. The squealing…it’s just…embarrassing.

The Flight Perk I’m Not Flaunting

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 “The thing under my bed waiting to grab my ankle isn’t real. I know that, and I also know that if I’m careful to keep my foot under the covers, it will never be able to grab my ankle.”
- Stephen King

HELP

There’s something about today I’m forgetting.  Some kind of holiday….

HWEEN

*   *   *

The Department of Domestic Travel Post

Winning the TSA lottery (and irritating your spouse)

As part of my ongoing commitment to Public Service and fostering happy marital travel relationships, I must share the following:  I do not advise performing any variation of the Happy Feet Dance ® when you and Your Beloved ® have printed out your boarding passes, and you detect the magical phrase TSA Precheck above your name.

precheck

Random selection, scmandom selection – this designation means that, yes, I am more trustworthy than you (and a Highly Respected Government Agency [1] knows it).

How pitifully easy we have become used to being treated like so many sheep/potential terrorists; how pathetically easy it is for us to rejoice in being the recipient of such petty “luxuries” (“I can keep my shoes on!” “I don’t have to remove my quart-sized, clear, plastic, zip-top bag of  3.4 ounces (100ml) or less per container liquid Liquids, gels, aerosols, creams and pastes!).

TSA

*   *   *

Department of What Must Be Done After Any Trip to Southern California

All rise for the reciting of the Pledge of Allegiance obligatory complaining about the air pollution and traffic jams.

LASMOG

Well, yeah. There’s that.

*   *   *

Department of She Meant Well…Whatever She Meant

The trip to SoCal last weekend was to attend my nephew’s wedding. K and Belle flew down from Tacoma, laden with textbooks but excited to see their cousins and extended family, if only for a whirlwind weekend.  That whirlwind included an hour and 40 minute drive from the wedding/hotel area (Simi Valley) to Santa Ana, on the morning of the wedding, then the same drive back up to get ready for the 3 pm wedding…which left us a little less than an hour to visit with my mother. [2]

Mom’s poor health prevented her from attending the wedding, and at her age and with her many health concerns, you never know when will be the “last time” – if you know what I mean and I think you do – and so we’d arranged with her in-home caretaker for a time to visit.  MH and I had alerted K and Belle as to what their grandma might or might not be able to do or say or remember.  Her energy ebbs quickly and she might not be able to follow your conversation; even so, she’d appreciate you telling stories of college, etc.  Just speak slowly and smile frequently.

It was a nice visit.  Mom seemed to be in good (if sometimes oblivious) condition, but grinned nonstop.  When it came time to leave and we were saying our goodbyes, MH bent down to give his MIL a hug and a kiss, and she grasped his arm and said, in all befuddled sincerity,

“Thank you for bringing your dark hair into this family.”

The dark hair MH brought into the family (although it's typically not in a granny knot)

The dark hair MH brought into the family (although it’s typically not styled in a granny knot)

*   *   *

Department of Something I Was Not Supposed to See…

…and probably not photograph, but hey, being chosen as the TSA Precheck Golden Girl gives you a certain confidence.  I’m just glad the flight attendants didn’t have cause to whip this one out.

tarmacJPG

*   *   *

Department of Nuptials

Moiself and weddings – meh.  Wedding receptions, now you’re talking.

My adorable nephew and his equally adorable bride put on quite a party, complete with a custom crepe bar for dinner (yummers!).  They also had a hosted bar, and music for hours of dancing…the latter no doubt facilitated by the former.

Bottoms up, y'all – Aunt Robyn wants us to do a Soul Train during the next song.

Bottoms up, y’all – Aunt Robyn wants us to do a Soul Train during the next song.

My nephew’s wedding ceremony, from my perspective – and that’s what this is blog all about, isn’t it? – wasn’t as tedious as many I have attended, and, if a Freethinker/Humanist/Skeptic/Atheist may say so, had the blessing of being mercifully, relatively brief.  Sitting through the religious rite rhetoric, which can range from the presumptuous [3] to the mildly absurd to the downright abhorrent, can be a tooth-grinding, butt-frosting experience.

However, as we Happy Heathens and Awesome Apostates have discovered, religious ceremonies, particularly those which include Let us all bow our heads in prayer episodes, provide some primo people-watching opportunities.  Those of us who do not bow our heads for anyone or anything pass the time by scanning the other attendees.  It is interesting to speculate, via posture/body language and noting fellow open-eyed crowd scanners, as to who are our fellow dissenters. [4]

Atheism

*   *   *

Department of Now, There’s a Scary Costume

“For Halloween you should go as the person you claim to be on Facebook.”
-Anonymous

*   *   *

Oh yeah, and boo to you – as in, Happy Halloween, y’all, and may the hijinks ensue.

batcat

 

 

Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!

 

 

[1] There should be a link to a recording of uproarious, hyena-like laughter. Feel free to provide your own sound effects.

[2] Which is the only reason, sane or otherwise, to drive to Santa Ana.

[3] “Let us all beseech Jesus/father god to bless Bethany’s & Ichabod’s marriage…”  Unless the invitations were Christian-only, y’all got other religions & non-believers in the crowd, Mr. Preacherman.

[4] Some of whom are “out,” and some…not quite yet.

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