Sometimes it’s just easier to give them their own glass.
* * *
Department Of Profound Reflection After Being A Surgery Buddy 
The inventor(s) of the twist-‘n-seal vomit bags should win the Nobel Prizes for Peace, and Medicine. As well as any other awards the Swedes have lying around.
* * *
Department Of Speaking Of Things Related To Nausea Sub-Department Of Let’s Get This Out Of The Way
I have been trying to avoid writing about the TexASS’s draconian anti-abortion law, because what hose TexASS politicians have done leaves moiself almost speechless.
Can someone build a barf containment bag for the entire state of TexASS?
I know there are good people there; it’s a state which, once upon a time and despite its history of self-mythologizing and macho posturing, managed to produce a triumvirate of some of my favorite feminist raconteurs:
Meanwhile, in the here and now, TexASS political leaders seem determined to secede from the 21st century.
Speaking of which, there is a history of secession movements in TexASS which extends beyond the Civil War to the present day, producing headlines such as
“Texas Republicans endorse legislation to allow vote on secession from US” (The Guardian, 2-5-21)
…as well as a quote only a reality-oblivious politician could spew:
“You cannot prevent the people from having a voice.” (Allen West, Texas Republican party chairman, quoted in the above article)
“I’d like to buy a U”
The TexASS GOP chairman was speaking about the voice of TexASS citizens, as per their being allowed to vote for their state to secede from the USA and become an independent nation. Meanwhile, TexASS political leaders are hellbent on preventing people – female people – from having the final voice when it comes to managing their own bodies.
TexASS wants to secede? Oh, honey, stop being such a tease. Really; this is the stuff dreams are made of. Fine; let ’em leave.
“Texas is ranked first in the U.S. in the variety and frequency of natural disasters. Flooding, wildfires, tornadoes, hurricanes, hailstorms sinkholes, drought, all occur in the state. Sometimes, even utilization of the state’s natural reserves of oil gas, and water can lead to subsidence and earthquakes.” (“Natural And Man-Made Hazards In The State Of Texas,” NASA’s NISAR Mission report: Reliable Observations for Hazard Mitigation )
As for that “independent nation” nonsense, it would be delicious to watch TexASS politicians come crawling, 10-gallon caps in hand, the next time they need emergency funds for the natural disasters which strike TexASS with mind-numbing regularity, along with the totally Texan-made disasters ( the most recent being the 2021 power grid failure) their infrastructurally-ignorant leaders refuse to recognize or address.
I’m sorry (former) Gov. Abbot, but can you drop the faux genteel drawl and enunciate clearly?
You see, For a moment, the rest of us thought we heard you request Federal Emergency funds – you remember, funds that come the federal government of the USA, the one y’all flipped off just before the door hit you in the ass as you left?
I urge the rest of us to help any TexASS refugees that you can. Then, do your research as to businesses that are based in that state. From Exxon/Mobil to Southwest Airlines; from 7-11 to Dell trechnologies; from Frito-Lay to J.C. Penny to Gold’s Gym; from Pier I to Pizza Hut; from The Container Store to Zales Jewelers; from Nieman Marcus to Whole Foods (what ?!? Whole Foods? Aw, shit)  …. As much as possible, boycott all things from TexASS, from sports and arts and entertainment to goods and services.
* * *
We now return you to our regular programming.
* * *
Department Of the Price of Reminiscence
Dateline: Monday afternoon. MH decides to spend a portion of his Labor Day in doing a labor of love Periodic Household Task ® – going through stuff in the attic. He comes upon a Star Trek Concordance, and finds, tucked into its pages, a list of episodes Someone ® has made. This list contains the names of certain TOS episodes, sorted into three categories. The first category is faves; the second is stinkers.
“Do you know anything about this?” MH says, waving the list in my face. When I see the third category I realize that the list-making Someone ® must have been moiself…although I have no memory of compiling the list.
Category #3 is pesha. ‘Tis a word which, mercifully, will mean nothing to y’all, nor to anyone outside of a certain circle of moiself’s friends and college roommates. 
Peshais a dear friend’s family slang for, “wet fart.” 
* * *
Department Of Earlier That Same Day… Sub-Department Of Other Things I Thought Were Long Forgotten
MH and I are discussing son K’s recent surgery (alluded to in the earlier mention of moiself being a surgery buddy), and how it involved moiself doing quite a bit of blood-cleaning up afterwards (K’s post-surgical bleeding was not fully under control for a while). Suffice to say, K’s kitchen floor got a thorough cleaning.
We take a break from household tasks and decide to go out for lunch. As we are gathering critical lunch-out accoutrements (two copies of the days’ NYTimes crosswordpuzzle) MH starts singing, “Blood on the Saddle,”a song from Disneyland’s Country Bear Jamboree show. With a heh-heh-hehtone to his voice, he teases me about how that song had to be one of my favorites. He refers to the fact that, a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, I had a seasonal job at Disneyland’s Hungry Bear Restaurant  (which was adjacent to the Country Bear Jamboree theater). I worked there summers and vacation times, after high school and my first year in college; that song was one I thought (hoped?) I’d never have to hear again.
Minutes later, in the car: MH fiddles with his phone and connects it to his car’s audio system. For reasons only the gods I don’t believe in can understand, the Spotify music service has the Country Bear Jamboree soundtrack. And MH proceeds to torture entertain me by playing the original Blood on the Saddle, which contains the immortal lyrics,
♫ There was….
Blood on the saddle/and b-blood on the ground
And a great…big…p-p-puddle…
Of blood all around. ♫
This is followed by another ear-mangling cacophony favorite I had also, for a few blessed decades, completely forgotten about: Mama Don’t Whup Little Buford.
C’mon, everybody – y’all know the words.
* * *
Department Of Yet Another Pandemic Lessons Learned
Dateline: Saturday afternoon. After enjoying lunch at a Pastaria with MH – NOT the aforementioned lunch outing, where my auditory sensibilities were assaulted by country bear “music” – we headed for a nearby movie theatre, to take in the latest Marvel Superhero flick. 
My lunch of whole grain spaghetti aglio e olio (pasta with garlic and oil), plus a side of garlic lemon spinach, was a gustatory delight…which then haunted me during the movie. For 2 ½ hours in a darkened theater, I received continual feedback via my mask. Read: I was surrounded with – and sometimes felt as if moiself would be suffocated by – my own robust garlic breath.
Only my ten rings of minty breath fresheners can save civilization from the deadly Dweller-in-Darkness’s dragon breath.
* * *
Punz For The Day Italian Noodle Edition
The cook at our local Italian Restaurant has died. I guess you could say he pastaway.
Noodles are part of my daily rotini.
What type of pasta do they serve at haunted houses? Fettuccini afraido.
Why do Gen Xers take selfies when they’re eating spaghetti? They want to record it for pastarity.
My friend sometimes pretends to be a lasagna noodle – she’s such an impasta.
The shy pasta chef was in a contemplative mood, so I offered him a penne for his thoughts.
* * *
May you urge your congressional representatives to support the secession of TexASS; May you accept the consequences of that which leads to garlic breath; May you turn up the volume and sing along with, “Mama Don’t Whup Little Buford,” imagining that Buford represents Texas politicians; 
…and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
 You know what a surgery buddy is, even if you haven’t heard that term (and you may have been one, or needed one). You provide a ride to and from the hospital or day surgery center with someone who is undergoing a surgery/procedure and given medications that prohibit them from driving. Surgery buddy duties may also include pharmacy and drugstore runs, meal prep and other TLC, overnight stays, making sure the patient does not do any online shopping while under the influence….
 I shop at Whole Foods…but not anymore. I contacted them with an “I regret to inform you” letter notifying them that I will not shop there until there is demonstrable evidence that they have lobbied Texas political leaders to rescind the anti-abortion legislation (oh yeah, and fix your state’s racist voter suppression while you’re at it).
 Which, as many a hangry, tired, overheated and cranky customer (always male) pointed out to me, was not in fact a restaurant (haruumpf!) but was yet another one of Disneyland’s fast food eateries.
 ” Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings. ” Like most Marvel/Superhero movies, it is in serious need of editing for length, IMHO, and, of course, by now there aren’t many surprises. Some good characters; you just need to get in the mood for such summer movie froth and it is entertaining.
 I think this is this blog’s longest “May you…” ever. Gee. Thanks for the opportunity, TexASS.
Because…yeah. I don’t know about you, but moiself would have no qualms trusting the person who extends my eyelashes to tend to my nervous system.
* * *
Department Of Adages Revisited
Sub Department OF Why I Don’t have My Own Marital Counseling Practice
Never go to bed angry.
Translation: Never go to bed when you are angry with your partner, lest a bad feeling hardens into resentment. Resolve the argument before going to bed.
But, that’s not always possible. Sometimes you’re too tired and/or cranky to resolve things diplomatically – that’s why you’re about to “go to bed angry” in the first place. So: go to bed; get some sleep; wake up, have a nice breakfast together…. Maybe, come the morning, whatever caused the argument won’t seem so serious.
Moiself’ssuggested classic advice addendum:
Never go to bed angry.
Oh, okay – go to bed angry if you must, but with someone else.
Actually, I’d say this advice is even crappier:
* * *
Department Of Sometimes The Best Intentions…
I drove past someone’s house recently, and saw a new sign in their front yard. The sign was similar in size, design and “composition” as the Black Lives Matter signs, only with a different message.
The message refers to  stopping the rise in hate crimes against Asian-Americans. However, its phrasing prompted moiself to picture the following scenario: moiself driving past the sign, a well-meaning-but-clueless, elderly relative with me in the car – e.g., my late mother – who reads the sign, then sincerely wonders aloud,
“I don’t understand – what do Asians hate?”
“They all seem so nice….”
* * *
Department Of Cults? – Schmultz! They’re All Cults
“…I remembered Toni Morrison’s statement that ‘the function of freedom is to free someone else.’ Utah wasn’t the Deep South, and we Mormon dissidents were hardly the Underground Railroad. But I did believe that our culture had trapped us, that many Latter-Day Saints lived in mental and social prisons that perpetuated precisely the kind of insanity with which I’d grown up. It wasn’t slavery, but it was a powerful form of bondage: the belief that God had ordained a pattern of secrets and silence, that religious authority always trumped one’s individual sense of right and wrong, that the evidence of the senses must bow to the demands of orthodoxy, no matter how insane. It was a kind of institutionalized madness….” ( “Leaving the Saints: How I lost the Mormons and Found My Faith,” By Martha Beck )
Dateline: circa 5 years ago; Tacoma WA. Son K and a few of his college buddies are sharing stories about their various experiences with Mormons/the LDS religion. K’s friend and housemate SP is from Utah; SP and his family were minorities, as non-Mormons living in Salt Lake City. After listening to the other’s stories about the Mormon beliefs and behaviors that the friends found odd, SP chimes in:
“You all have *no* idea…. Out here, you have Mormon LITE.” 
K shared SP’s remarks over a recent Sunday dinner, with MH and I and friend LAH, after I’d spoken about having just finished Tara Westover’s book, Educated: A Memoir. The book is gripping, disturbing, at times downright horrifying, and ultimately/eventually a wee bit encouraging. I found Westover’s beautiful prose to be an often-jarring contrast to that which the prose presents: the account of her childhood, raised in a family headed by a fanatical, fundamentalist LD, survivalist, paranoid father (a man who was also likely afflicted with bipolar disorder  ). There were inspiring segments of the book which depicted the author’s inexplicably indomitable spirit (where did it come from, given her environment?); still, I had a headache at the end of each reading day – moiself realized I’d been clenching my jaw when reading through passages depicting the physical, emotional, and intellectual neglect and abuse she lived with, and the narrow confines of her world.
Westover yearned to be “educated,” in a world where women and girls were to aspire to nothing more than marriage and motherhood – in a world where she was told that to want an education was sinful and that women and girls must obey men and boys, even to the point of enduring sickening abuse from her psychotic brother. She did manage to extricate herself (physically, if not completely emotionally) from that world, but at great cost to her psyche. Her portrayal of the cost of childhood suffering, of the power that abusers (and those who abet them) wield, is chillingly insightful. Although I highly recommend the book, it also (and literally) gave me nightmares.
MH recommended the book to me a couple of years ago, and I’d listened to the Fresh Air interview with the author (which aired in 2019). I immediately thought of that interview when I read the first paragraph of the “Author’s Note” at the end of Educated:
“This story is not about Mormonism.
Neither is it about any other form of religious belief.
In it there are many types of people, some believers, some not; some kind, some not. The author disputes any correlation, positive or negative, between the two.”
Well, that was…odd. Most such disclaimers are at the beginning of *novels,* or short fiction collections. (“This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.”). It made me somewhat disappointed in FA host Terry Gross’s otherwise excellent interview. Did Gross not read the Author’s Note? If she did, why didn’t she ask Westover about it – was that disclaimer something the publishing company’s lawyers insisted on?
Readers generally understand that, even in non-fiction, individuals and their actions are not meant to represent Everyone and Everything. The “Author’s Note” struck me as being so unnecessary – and also, so fearful, of possible litigation, perhaps…and the author’s personal safety.
As per the latter: The LDS church is not as prone to rabid-dog harassment techniques as Scientology (whose “fair game,” policy re critics stated that “An enemy of Scientology, referred to as a suppressive person (SP), may be deprived of property or injured by any means by any Scientologist…may be tricked, sued or lied to or destroyed.”  ). Still, the LDS church has been known to lawyer-up when they think they have been presented in a bad light (in particular, by those who have managed to leave the church). But their most effective defense has been the spiritual training – read: psychological torture – with which members have been inculcated.
When I read Martha Beck’s memoir Leaving the Saints, I remember a section of the book where Beck wrote about the rituals she and her husband  participated in during their temple wedding (aka, “sealing”  ). Beck was willing to detail charges of sexual abuse against a very powerful LDS icon – her father, Mormon apologist Hugh Nibley – yet stopped short of describing the vows of secrecy (re the temple rituals) she and her husband made “for time and all eternity.” I recall she used almost a joking tone in addressing any readers who might be Mormon enforcers, writing something along the lines of, “Hey guys, I promised not to reveal the exact content, and I didn’t, okay? So please don’t disembowel me.”
There was an implicit seriousnessy behind her joshing: fear. She’d written this supposed tell-all book, yet she still was afraid to tell all.
I’d known about the vows Mormons take in temple rituals (in which they acknowledge the penalties they might face for revealing such secrets), but “known about” as in, I only knew that such vows existed – their content remained a mystery. Even Ex-Mos who had openly renounced everything else LDS seemed uniformly silent on the matter. Then, along came Richard Packham, founder of The Exmormon Foundation.
During the 2012 Presidential election Packham was troubled by the fact that vast majority of American voters – the vast majority of *anyone* outside of Mormonism – had no knowledge of the secret oaths Romney had taken as a faithful Mormon. Packham wondered aloud (as, in an article he wrote for businessinsider.com ):
“The question for American voters is: Knowing that Romney has taken this secret oath,  and that he is a faithful Mormon, do you want him to answer the question, ‘Would you feel bound by your sacred oath to obey the law of consecration that you made in the endowment ceremony and use the power of the presidency to benefit the Mormon church?’ “
Packham noted that “In all the extensive media coverage of Mitt Romney, much of it discussing his religion, not a word have I seen about the secrets of Mormonism, the secrets of Romney’s life-long beliefs and practices.”
Growing up as a Mormon close in age to Mitt Romney, Packham was, like Romney, “initiated into those same secrets.” Unlike Romney, Packham left Mormonism and decided to talk and write about it, including describing LDS secrets such as the endowment ritual  and other rituals, wherein Mormons are instructed in the “signs” and “tokens” of the Mormon priesthood, are given special “names” (or “passwords”), and must make an oath to never reveal these, outside the temple.
“…when Romney and I first went through this ceremony, we were taught that each of the first three signs and tokens also had a ‘penalty’ associated with each one, and we had to mime various ways of taking life to represent the penalty to us if we were to reveal the secret signs and tokens: slitting one’s own throat, ripping open one’s chest, disemboweling oneself. Yes, folks, this was part of the most sacred ritual in Mormonism: pantomiming your own bloody death.
So Mitt Romney, and all other righteous Mormons, can be confident that they know the secret passwords and secret handshakes to get into heaven. Do you see why Romney and his church are reluctant for ‘unworthy’ people (the rest of us, including Mrs. Romney’s parents) to know about this?
As Deborah Laake  put it in her autobiographical book, “Secret Ceremonies”:
“The actions that were going to guarantee my entrance at the gates [of heaven] would have nothing to do with love or charity or the other teachings of Christ that I’d been raised to believe God valued. In fact, I hadn’t heard a single one of those words spoken today, the most primary day of religious instruction in my entire life. No, I was going to burst into heaven on the basis of mumbo-jumbo. … The mysteries of life were fraternity rituals. … Did all the white-suited glorifiers in the room unquestioningly accept a ritual of nutty gestures from the pseudo-occult as a sacrament? Those were the first moments when I viewed Mormonism with suspicion.”
Or, as summarized by a Mormon missionary: ‘If we told investigators [prospective converts to Mormonism] about that, they wouldn’t join, because it’s too weird!’ “
Lest you think I pick on the LDS too much  back to the dinner table discussion: when moiself described Westover’s book to K and LAH as the author’s story of growing up in a Mormon fundamentalist cult, MH offered his opinion, that “It was more of a cult of that father.” We all then spoke of the fundy cults/offshoots of Mormonism with which we were famililar, offshoots which, like all so-called cults, serve to make the mainstream or parent religion – in this case, Mormonism – look “better,” in a way, especially to non-believers.
Most religious believers deride (and even loathe and/or fear) people in “cults,” but don’t realize they are in one themselves. Mainstream Christians laugh at the gullibility of Mormons who can believe that a god gave a revelation to Joseph Smith through golden tablets (which Smith translated via a magic stone he placed in his hat), but believe their god gave one of their prophets a revelation through stone tablets. They sneer at snake-handling faith healers who babble nonsense (aka, speak in tongues) and believe in prophecy, even as they themselves pray for people to be healed and hurricanes to be halted, and talk about an apocalyptic End Times.
When does a cult become a religion?
* When it is granted a tax-free status by the Government. * When it progresses from killing its members to killing non-members.
All religions begin as cults. Christianity began as one of several competing messianic sects and became a religion when Paul and his followers began proselytizing outside Judea. Cults fade away when those who knew the founder die. Who remembers the Ranters, the Sandemanians or the Muggletonians now? (excerpts from “Notes and queries,” ethical conundrums, theguardian.com )
What is a religion, but a cult with more money and real estate, and better lawyers and PR? All religions began as cults – as offshoots of a mainstream religion. Once they achieve mainstream status, established religions benefit from the existence of cults, in that they can point religion skeptics toward the cult’s beliefs and practices and say, “At least we’re not like that.”
* * *
Department of Explanations
Dateline: Tuesday am, morning walk. Moiself is listening to the season 13 trailer for the Clear + Vivid podcast, in which host Alan Alda and the C+V producer preview the new season. One preview plays excerpts from Alda’s interview with theoretical physicist and author Michio Kaku, whose latest book is The God Equation: the quest for the theory of everything. Alda describes Kaku as “one of our culture’s leading communicators… about one of the most tantalizing and hard to understand questions ever raised: ‘Is there a theory of everything?’ – is there some formula that explains pretty much every phenomenon of the universe?” And what would the effects of such a theory mean to you and me?
“The immediate, practical implication of finding the theory of everything is…nothing. It’s not going to effect you or me, I’ll be very blunt with you. However, it will answer some of the deepest philosophical, religious questions of all time….” (excerpt of C+V interview with Michio Kaku) 
I gotta wonder: should I save Dr. Kaku and his peers some time and energy, by submitting to them *my* concept? In a mere four words, my Theory Of Everything ® :
“Yep; there it is.”
* * *
Punz For The Day Theoretical Physics Edition
Q: Why should you go out wining and dining with neutrons? A: Wherever they go, there’s no charge.
A husband walks in on his wife, who is a string theorist, in bed with another man. She shouts, “I can explain everything!”
May you come up with your own Theory of Everything; May you be grateful toward those who encouraged you to be educated; May you realize that nobody, under any circumstances, ever needs to have their eyelashes extended; …and may the hijinks ensue.
 A diagnosis he would have rejected in favor of some explanation involving evil spirits and/or devils.
 “6 insane ways the Church of Scientology has tried to silence its critics,” salon 3-15-15
 Who is now also ex-Mormon, as well as her ex-husband.
 Mormons have two kinds of weddings: Temple weddings, and non-temple. Not all Mormons “qualify” for a temple wedding, even if they desire one. “If you don’t know much about Mormon weddings, there’s a good reason for it. The Mormons don’t want you to find out. Temple marriages are top-secret affairs — absolutely no non-Mormons are allowed to see these hidden events. Even some practicing Mormons, who aren’t deemed worthy of a ‘temple recommend,’ will be asked to wait outside. This can be downright heartbreaking for LDS couples with friends and family outside the faith, who find themselves without their loved ones by their side on their big day. (excerpt from “Mormon weddings “)
My sister’s (non-religious) freshman college roommate was aggressively courted by a senior boy who was a Mormon. When they married, she asked my sister to be her maid of honor. My sister, after months of warily watching her roommate being wooed, did not approve of the relationship, but wanted to support her roommate, and agreed. My sister, after buying and then of course wearing the dress, had to stand outside the temple – along with the bride’s parents (who paid for the wedding and the reception)! – during the ceremony, because they were not Mormons.
 Several oaths, actually, but the one Packham refers, “The Law of Consecration,” involves, if Romney won the election, thanking God for blessing him with the presidency and, as per that oath, promising to use that blessing for the benefit of the Mormon church.
 “a ritual reenactment of the creation, Adam and Eve’s expulsion from the Garden of Eden, mortal experience, and the return to God’s presence. At each stage of this progression, participants make covenants in the name of Jesus Christ.” (So What Happens in an LDS Temple? The Salt Lake Tribune. )
 Deborah Laake was a journalist and editor, raised and married in the LDS church, and was excommunicated by the church “…for apostasy because of her criticisms and also for her ‘detailed revelation of top-secret Mormon temple ceremonies’ ” shortly after the publication of her book, Secret Ceremonies, “a candid and critical account of her experiences growing up and marrying as a member of the LDS church.” ( Wikipedia entry for Laake. )
 Due to the book I read, LDS it was the primary topic, but longtime readers of this blog know I am a skeptic and debunker of all religions.
Yesterday marked the second week after my second (Moderna) COVID vaccination. I feel…not quite invincible, but superb, nonetheless.
* * *
Dept Of Shame On The Shamers
I have a…how shall I describe it?…not, love-hate, but more, mostly like/sometimes WTF relationship with certain podcasts. The obsequiousness with which podcast hosts and their guests begin their show ranges from mildly annoying to barely tolerable. No matter the subject, from arts and entertainment to politics and science and comedy, it’s as if the podcast hosts and/or producers all received the same Podcast Handbook which decreed that each show must start with a mutual gushing session.
“I *love* your work!” “Oh, and *I* love *your* work!”
This week, on standup comic/actor Tig Notaro’s Don’t Ask Tig podcast (one of my regular, mostly like/sometimes WTF listens), her guest was “outspoken journalist/author/activist” Jane Velez-Mitchell. As soon as Velez-Mitchell described herself as a “fellow lesbian/sober/vegan,” moiselfgirded my aural loins for some particularly self-righteous gushing between Notaro and her guest.. After it subsided, I thought they would get on to the supposed raison d’etre for the show – reading listener’s letters.  It should have come as no surprise to moiselfthat their mutual dietary sanctimony took center stage, prompted by Notaro, who asked V-M when she became “plant-based.”
V-M told story of the “advice” she personally received from, Howard Lyman, the “Mad Cowboy” rancher-turned vegetarian-then-vegan. Background info: Lyman got his 15 minutes of fame in 1996 on The Oprah Winfrey show, when the former rancher’s comments on the practices of the American beef industry caused Oprah to declare on the air that she was done with hamburgers. (Oprah, and Lyman, later got more than their 15 minutes of famous lawsuits from the National Cattlemen’s Beef Association).
V-M said she’d met Lyman when she had her own news/opinion/interview show, and she interviewed him. After the interview…
V-M: Lyman and his publicist walked up to my cubicle and said, “We hear you’re a vegetarian.” At that time I was a vegetarian. And I said yes, and they said, “Do you eat dairy?” And I kind of hung my head and because he had just talked about ——– (various horrors of the dairy industry) and I had said ‘yes’ and then he stuck his finger right at my nose and said, ‘Liquid meat!’ and that was the moment I went vegan.”
So. Lyman was able to shame V-M into doing something she probably was headed toward doing anyway. But is that a tactic she would endorse across the board? Subtle hints brazen evidence surfaced in her comments when she and Notaro got to reading letters, the first from a self-described, “time-strapped single mom” who wanted to know how to prepare healthy meals for her nine-year-old son, who recently declared himself vegan “…oh and did I mention that I am also cooking for his ninety- and eighty-eight-year-old grandparents?”
V-M began her advice with,
“But see there’s the inherent carnus bias in the question – that somehow it’s going to take longer to make something that’s vegan, so we always come from that carnistic bias that it’s going to be more expensive, it’s going to take longer …”
Not one complete sentence into her advice and she’s already invented two words: “carnus” and “carnistic.” 
V-M did have some actual advice for the advice-seeker advice re recipes, and getting the child involved re the cooking process, but she had to go further:
“…So, get your child involved in the cooking process, and then you can feed that vegan food to your elderly grandparents so that they live longer, because the best way to ensure longevity is to go plant-based.
So it’s a win-win for everybody; you son is clearly smarter than everybody else in the family….”
The letter writer had said nothing about the grandparents wanting to live longer or that they were seeking a change in *their* dietary habits. Nor had she mentioned her son’s intelligence vis-à-vis that of the other family members. But, because he wants to eat vegan, a vegan evangelist just *knows* that he’s “smarter than everyone else.”
As is the way of vegan proselytizers, V-M took (or made) an opening and ran with it. Reacting to another letter, from a man who wanted to tell his friend that opening a bakery is a terrible idea (the friend is not the best cook and her baked goods are atrocious), here’s how V-M dove in:
“First of all, I hope that if she does create this business that’s it’s a vegan bakery, because you don’t need eggs to make cake, or milk…”
Fellow Vegan Notaro could not suppress herself: “Or milk! You do not need it! You do not need it!”
V-M: “But the bigger thing is, people are on their journey, and it’s very hard for us to steer people on their journey.”
Except of course when it comes to steering them toward vegan land, when it is not hard at all for her to offer unsolicited advice, bordering on shame.
I used the term evangelists and proselytizers, because for hardcore vegans, their philosophy is truly a religion. Notaro and V-M obviously and sincerely believe that their veganism is saving the planet.  There are people who believe – just as passionately as Notaro and V-M believe in the benefits of plant-based nutrition – that all people have an eternal soul, and that a certain god has a plan for that soul, and that nothingis more important than that. How receptive would V-M be toward a conservative Christian who “stuck his finger right at your nose” and told her that being lesbian (even a sober, vegan one) is damning her to hellfire, harming heself and the planet, ad nauseum?
And yes, it’s the fucking same thing.
* * *
Department Of Random Thoughts At The Stop Light
I love my Subaru, and am impressed with Subaru’s’ reputation for quality and reliability. But when it comes time to get a new car I know I will not be going with their latest (and largest) SUV, due to my gut reaction when I became aware of the model’s name.
Dateline: Wednesday afternoon; running errands. Moiself was in my Outback, at a stop light, behind a model of Subaru I’ve never heard of. I looked to the right of the six-star Subaru logo on the car’s trunk to see the model’s name: Ascent. My kneejerk reaction/comment, which moiself uttered aloud to moiself:
“I guess that name must have market-tested better than Buttsmell.”
* * *
Department Of The Downside Of Unmasking
Dateline: last week speaking with an acquaintance who works in the personal services industry.  We talked about nearing the end of social/physical distancing, and about getting – or having – to see people without masks again. Moiself listed a few of the advantages of mask wearing, including the fact that I’d gotten used to running errands without feeling guilty for not having washed my face that morning or having showered in three days (distancing + mask…who’s gonna notice?). Acquaintance laughed heartily, even more so when I added, “No, I’m serious.”
I started to mention the return of something else which *wasn’t* missed by millions of women…then thought better of it, and chided moiself for being so cynical. Turns out, others have been thinking along same lines:
So in less than an hour out of the new CDC mask guidance, I just went outside and pulled mine down. A nearby construction worker immediately told me to “Smile.” I will miss masks for some reasons that are not pandemic-related. (tweet from @ Sarah_boxer, quoted in the article mentioned below).
For M. ___, the pandemic marked the first time in decades she hadn’t felt any pressure to adopt an obsequious, apologetic smile when asking for help at the grocery or the hardware store or the car dealership. For women, “the smile sort of neutralizes you. It implies that you’re more pliable, you’re not going to give them trouble,” she says. With the smile suddenly out of the equation…“it made me go a step further. I decided to not be the type of person who asks for something. Instead I would tell them what I wanted. I would say, ‘I need this.’ ” She plans to keep doing so even when she quits wearing a mask. (“Masks are off — which means men will start telling women to ‘Smile!’ again.” Washington Post, 5-22-21 )
* * *
Department Of Next Time I’m Going To Shout It To The Cosmos
Dateline: a long time ago in a galaxy far far away. Moiself, taking a bus to a job interview….
Oh lawwwdy, those were the days. Out of college, interviewing, no car, dependent upon a sketchy public transportation system. I became convinced that there were signs posted on my forehead and back of my head. These signs, invisible to moiself and normal  bus riders, apparently flashed neon clarion calls to every loud and loony and delusional and horny street person: “Talk to this one – she’ll listen to anything and she lovesunsolicited advice.”
Yet again, I digress.
I was riding the bus, passing the time by reading a magazine article. The bus slowed as it approached my stop; I looked up from my magazine and saw a man seated across the aisle, who was staring at me. I stood up and moved to the front of the bus; Staring Man said, loud enough for the other passengers seated at the front of the bus to hear:
“You’d look prettier if you’d smile.”
I muttered as I exited the bus, “And you’d sound smarter if you’d never open your mouth.”
♫ Ridin’ in the bus down the boulevard And the place was pretty packed, Couldn’t find a seat so I had to stand With the perverts in the back It was smellin’ like a locker room There was junk all over the floor We’re already packed in like sardines But we’re stoppin’ to pick up more, look out
Another one rides the bus, another one rides the bus And another comes on and another comes on Another one rides the bus Hey, he’s gonna sit by YOU, another one rides the bus… ♫
I write and mail two letters every Friday, one to son K and one to daughter Belle. Just because. They don’t get much in the way of snail mail these days (who does?); I thought it would be a nice for them to get something other than advertising flyers, and a fun discipline for moiself, and that it would give them the opportunity to say holy crap, not another one” and reach for the recycling bin lovingly tuck away these personal missives and review them later with fond nostalgia.
Each letter begins with either a haiku or a limerick I have composed, themes varying from personal to political to the weather or a new month/the passage of time…whatever. Usually I personalize the compositions, but last week they both got the same:
A Haiku For Those Counties Who Want To Leave “Liberal” Oregon Begone, ingrates, and
take your tR**p-licking mindset
With you when you go.
You diss Portland, yet
have no qualms about taking
disbursed by the state,
from higher earning/urban
cities, to your schools.
Wave bye-bye, and don’t
let the door hit your Proud Boy
asses when you leave.
That purple prose was inspired by a recent event in Oregon politics: the majority of voters who cast ballots in advisory special elections in seven eastern/southern Oregon counties approved measures for their counties to leave Oregon and join Idaho.
I should turn in my Scout’s current events badge; I had *no idea* that this issue was A Thing ® . My Not Paying Attention ® may be an example of one of the reasons why the people voting to “secede” did so: they think they play second fiddle to urbanized Oregon (i.e., the Portland and Eugene metro areas ), and that urbanites, such as moiself, don’t know (or care) about their concerns. And, in a democracy, that’s kind of true – the “second fiddle” analogy, that is.
The seven counties that voted to leave, Jefferson, Union, Baker, Grant, Lake, Malheur and Sherman, constitute almost 75% of Oregon’s landmass.
BUT – and it’s a big but here –
And also here.
BUT…all that land is meagerly populated, as in, only ~ 114, 000 total residents. The state’s entire population is ~ 4,238,000…so those leaving constitute ~ 3% of the total population. Those seven counties poll and vote “red.” And there is, of course, a conservative advocacy group behind this: ” Citizens for Greater Idaho.”
In all the excitement to thumb their noses at those damn liberals, it is likely that the people who voted to leave have not fully considered several factors in joining “Greater Idaho.” Two prime factors are:
* A good percentage of the jobs in those counties are minimum wage. Translation: those counties who want to leave are essentially agreeing to a pay cut for hourly workers, as the minimum wage in Oregon ($11.25) is a whopping four dollars higher than in Idaho.
* Speaking of higher, weed is illegal in Idaho. Are those disgruntled voters trading Oregon buds for Idaho spuds? Those (wanna-be) seceding Oregon counties have made a lot of money from legal marijuana sales (and, in the opinion of some of us, are obviously heavy users of the stuff themselves, as an Oregonian who would vote to join Idaho must be stoned).
Another reason not to miss those who want to go involves something Oregon’s urbanites have grumbled about for years when they hear criticism from the smaller eastern/southern counties:
Oregon is a state that disproportionately gets tax money from its most economically productive citizens — and regions — and which disproportionately spends its resources in economically struggling communities. (Oregon’s Fiscal Flow)
When it comes to contributing to state coffers and these smaller counties have usually received more, percentage wise, than they give. The much-despised liberal urban areas pay more than their share for the educational and other social services consumed by the smaller/rural areas.
Here is what Citizen’s For Greater Idaho Envision:
Here is moiself’s equally probable pipe dream, of redoing the borders of our entire nation, ever since the re-election of GWB:
Moiself’s personal take on all of this: I’ve no problem with those counties leaving (assuming Idaho is willing to take them). I actually think it would be a good thing, for our country, to see how it turns out. If it is a success (however that would be measured), I hope that California would then consider a split, or four, of its own. 
From what I’m reading, the secession of these seven counties is unlikely to happen, as per the layers of bureaucracy that have to be dealt with. Despite what the citizens of those counties voted for, they are dependent upon the approval of other government bodies: both the Oregon and Idaho state legislatures would have to agree to redefine their respective boundaries and redistrict their legislatures. And then the US Congress has final approval. 
Gee, does this dilemma sound so familiar? The majority voted a certain way; now, the will of the people being thwarted…. Hey y’all in the by-bye Oregon movement, do you now understand why so your fellow Americans want to get rid of the Electoral College?
* * *
Punz For The Day COVID Pundemic Edition
Why do they call it the novel coronavirus? It’s a long story….
Ran out of toilet paper and started using lettuce leaves.
Today was just the tip of the iceberg, tomorrow romaines to be seen.
We had a run on toilet paper in the USA,
but in Germany there was panic-buying of sausage and cheese – the wurst-kase scenario.
The World Health Organization announced that dogs cannot contract COVID-19; thus, dogs previously held in quarantine can be released.
Yep: WHO let the dogs out.
* * *
May you enjoy the new-car smell, no matter what your new car model’s name; May you soon (if you haven’t already) celebrate your vaccine victory day; May you hold the door open for anyone you know who wants to secede to Idaho; …and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
 The podcast is an “advice column” in podcast form, although I wonder how many of the advice seekers are legit, or are just making up letters to get some airtime.
 I’m not sure re the spellings…but does it matter with a made-up terms?
 And as a 99% plant-based eater moiself, I’m in agreement with that idea…but not with how she’s promoting it. And yep, I manage to bake without (dairy) milk and eggs.
 And shame on you for immediately going to Euphemism Land. Think more along the lines of hair salon.
 “normal” as in polite, discreet, keeping their opinions and personal hygiene to themselves.
 It’s ridiculous that the 39+ MILLION Californians have less say in their lives than the 580 THOUSANDWyomingites as per Senate representation. Such incredible power-skewing is not what the framers of the US Constitution envisioned.
 The U.S. Constitution (Article IV, section 3) allows for states to be subdivided if the affected states’ legislatures consent and U.S. Congress approves,
Dateline: Monday, doing a 7:45 am warm-up on my elliptical thingy before my streaming yoga class begins. I tune in to the Curiosity Daily podcast, which begins (as always) with a brief preview of the day’s topics:
“Today we’ll learn about why introverts fared better than extroverts
during the pandemic; that time people were afraid that astronaut farts were a fire hazard…”
Wait – “that time?” What time was that? Please oh please oh please tell me that there was that time, because I really want to find a way to revisit it.
* * *
Department Of Everything Has Its Price
Dateline: last weekend. The man from the Home Maintenance Business  stood in our entryway, chatting with MH as I began to write out a check. This company provided us with a service which required several visits. I asked him to confirm that the price for the day’s visit was $158. He did, then said that if I would go online and give his company a five-star review, which he would very as coming from us, he’d knock it down to $150.
“I knew there was a reason I didn’t trust those reviews!”
Although my tone was humorous, I made no attempt to hide the are-you-fucking-kidding-me? indignation in my eyes, which met his above our respective face masks. He immediately (and defensively) added that, what with all the competition out there, reviews were essential to small businesses like his, and….
Yes, I imagine they are,I thought. And shouldn’t something essential be, essentially, honest?
I let him babble on as I continued to write the check for the original amount.
Had he merely asked me to review the company online, I probably would have done so. But he went further, in a way that flummoxed me, the more I thought about it. He offered me a laughably paltry discount contingent upon the kind of review I would write – AND, which he would “verify,” whatever that meant. Seeing as how he was prepared to take the check I wrote at that moment, how would he later enforce such a verification? If he went online, read my review, and discovered it wasn’t five stars, what was he going to do – return to our house, rifle through our petty cash drawer, and take eight bucks? 
The review I might have given would have been a positive review, but not five stars. As a matter of principle, I generally do not give five stars (or eighteen thumbs up, or whatever the highest rating is, depending on the system). Moiself be suspicious of anything reviewed – from movies and books to restaurants and services – which has all top-rated/glowing reviews. Such hyperbole makes me think that the maker of the product being reviewed guilted and/or blackmailed convinced family and friends to rave about it. And then, there is the “everyone gets a trophy for participating” phenomena. If every rating is five stars, then a five-star rating is nothing special.
Perhaps, for him, it was business as usual. Thus, it’s possible that he didn’t think of his request in the same way MH and I did. As in, Dude, do you realize that you tried buy our integrity for $8?
Now, if it had been $50….
* * *
Department Of Return To Normalcy (?)
Dateline: Tuesday, 1:20p, a Cinemark theater. I saw “Those Who Wish Me Dead.” My first movie in a movie theater in well over a year (since mid-March of 2020).
Daughter Belle, when I proudly texted her re my outing, pointed out that I could have watched the same movie via Netflix (as she did). Yep, and duh. But I didn’t want to, and was glad I didn’t. It was the kind of movie whose cinematic presentation demanded…well…a cinematic presentation. Montana; wilderness; wildfires – big screen stuff.
There were about fifteen of us intrepid cinephiles scattered about the theatre. We all made ISN’T THIS GREAT ?!?!?!?! eye contact with one another as we entered the theater and found our respective (reserved online; generous spacing) seats. One older gent seated near the entrance greeted everyone with a lifting of his popcorn bag in a toasting gesture; no words were necessary to convey his meaning.
Moiself is hoping to return to regular (as in, weekly) movie-in-a-theater viewing.  Now I just have to hope for suitable movies available to see. 
* * *
Department Of They Only Want What’s Best For America
Dateline: May 14 (last Friday). I posted the following on Facebook:
Department of irrefutable evidence: I thought I was doing fine after my second COVID vaccination yesterday – just a sore arm; no other reactions. But later that evening, I allowed Amazon to charge me $3.99 to watch “Gidget Goes Hawaiian.” Should I report this to the CDC?
Apparently, my inclusion of the words “vaccination,” “reaction,” and “CDC” triggered Facebook’s Vigilant Guardians of Factual Information Monitors. ® MH alerted me to the fact that, within minutes of posting my post, Facebook had added a comment/post to my post, which read:
COVID-19 vaccines go through many tests for safety and effectiveness and are then monitored closely.
Source: World Health Organization.
The comment included a blue-highlighted “Get vaccine Information” link.
This amused me to no end. I had to comment further:
Isn’t it funny, that, because my post mentions the COVID vaccine, it got flagged for a warning? In case all my moron friends think that a desire to watch dreadful movies is a side-effect and decide to remain unvaccinated. They couldn’t protect us from Russian hackers stealing our elections, but my golly, FB monitors are gonna protect y’all from Gidget!
Carefree American teenagers riding surfboards, or Russian anti-vaxxer spies atop giant radioactive tongue depressors?
* * *
Department Of The Reaction I’m Not Reporting To Social Media
Dateline Friday afternoon, lounging on the sofa, languishing with my post second vaccine 100.6° temperature.  Following the CDC guidelines for recovery from illness, I fall asleep while watching TV. I doze off to a 2019 surfing championship program and awake 45 minutes later to see the cheery visage of the host of a “raw vegan” cooking show.
Moiself watches with fever-influenced interest as the host/chef works her way through several recipes, some of which look delicious, and others…not so. The show ends with a picture of the final recipe, accompanied by a voice-over listing the recipe’s ingredients, and three lines of text listing why you should make this recipe yourself. As in, this recipe is
* Promotes Digestion
Wait a minute. Even with a fever, I recognize the gobbledy-gook nonsense of that line #3.
That last line is one of those claims which, at first glance, can seem desirous (digestion is good, right?) but which in fact conveys…well, nothing.
Be specific. Do you mean to say that the casserole you’ll concoct by following this recipe is guaranteed to give you astronaut-worthy flatulence? Do you mean to convey, “People who suffer from intestinal blockages will be thrilled to know that this recipe contains ten times the amount of fiber found in a Douglas Fir floor joist, which is enough to clean out the colon of a constipated bull elephant….”
The recipe *promotes digestion.* Well, sure, it does. That’s what allfoods do, when you ingest them. Even non-food items will do the same, when swallowed.
“Hey babe, let’s promote *me* as your raisin d’etre.”
Digestion is your digestive system’s raison d’etre – that’s what it does. You don’t need to “promote” it.
Anything that manages to wriggle down your esophagus and into your stomach – whether it’s a lima bean, a raw vegan energy bar, or a piece of cardboard  – activates that organ’s digestive processes. Holy baloney on rye. 
* * *
Punz For The Day Promoting Digestion Edition
A surgeon told me that he once dropped a tool into a patient’s stomach. It was a gut-wrenching story.
I had some Greek food that upset my stomach. Now I falafel.
My mother, a doctor, told me that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach.
I’m guessing that’s why she failed her cardiac surgery internship.
* * *
May you experience the bliss of promotion-free digestion; May you be wary of five-star reviews; May your social media post be sprinkled with trigger words; …and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
 The company’s name I will keep private, for obvious reasons.
 We don’t have a petty cash drawer. And although I have many petty pleasures in life, cash isn’t one of them.
 Last week’s blog had a bajillion footnotes. I’m behind pace; it’s time for another one.
 Previews are helpful in weeding out what I do not want to see: nothing featuring a scowling Bruce Willis or his macho-actor-saves-the-world equivalent, nor lots of explosions, nor grunting hordes of The Undead…and enough with the Superheroes, please.
 Which returned to normal less than 24 hours later.
 A kid who sat across from me in the second grade had this thing about eating paper. Sadly, that was his most memorable quality.
Department Of Actually, It *Was* You. Atone and Move On, But Don’t Deny, Minimize, Or Forget.
Re: the recent Fresh Air interview with singer/songwriter Brandi Carlile. I tuned in eagerly, as I’m a fan of both the show and Carlile’s music (and am currently reading her memoir). I’m sure I must have previously heard the BC song “That Wasn’t Me,” but I’d never paid attention to the lyrics until FA host Terry Gross and BC began discussing it.
Carlile had a tumultuous childhood, with a myriad of family challenges, including poverty, coming out as gay as an adolescent (and being publicly refused a baptism because of it), and her father’s alcoholism. Carlile spoke of being influenced by the mindset/jaron of Al-Anon and Alateen in terms of her composing That Wasn’t Me, which is sung from the POV of an addict or “misbehaver” of some kind.
The song is written in sympathy, or at least that’s moiself’s interpretation, as the addict/narrator is not called out for his self-deception which prevents him from full-on owning and/or apologizing for the pain he has caused.
♫ Tell me did I go on a tangent?
Did I lie through my teeth?
Did I cause you to stumble on your feet?
Did I bring shame on my family?
Did it show when I was weak?
Whatever you see, that wasn’t me
That wasn’t me, that wasn’t me ♫ (excerpt from “That Wasn’t Me,” Brandi Carlile)
“That wasn’t me?” I disagree. Ginormously.
A second listen to the lyrics and I was still clenching my jaw.
I assume the song is Carlile’s way of trying to show love/empathy/forgiveness for her father – all laudable emotions and goals. Still, I loathe the way she did it, as in, the lines she gave him. 
Whatever you see, that wasn’t me. Uh, actually, it *was.*
It was you, using drugs or whiskey or whatever, but it was still *you* on drugs or whiskey, not Mel Gibson or anyone else. Not all addicts do the particular, specific things you did; thus, the whatever-it-is-you-did-that-you-feel-the-need-to-mention, it *was* you. It may have been difficult, even-heart-breaking, for the little girl to see you, her daddy, do the things you did, but you did do those things and she saw you do them. It was you; it wasn’t someone or something (“the needle” or “the bottle”) else.
No matter how lyrically or artfully it is phrased, a statement which uses the format of a question for listing the consequences, for others, for your behavior (“did I go on a tangent/lie/cause you to stumble/bring shame on my family…?”) is not an *acknowledgment* of those consequences. Sans acceptance of responsibility, such an anemic non-apology is arguably even more damaging (to the one being addressed) than a denial. Especially, in moiself’sopinion, when such statements are aimed at a girl-childs.
From sexual harassment and abuse, to academic, political and workplace discrimination, to family dysfunction and every dynamic on the planet, girls and women are taught, socialized, and pressured to *not* believe their own eyes and ears, nor to trust their own experiences. “It’s *your* interpretation of what happened that is wrong,”females are told, it’s not that what happened to you is wrong.
* You’re six years old, and just before another holiday gathering you tell your mother about how the behavior of a certain extended family member creeps you out. But your mother pooh-poohs your request to stay far away from him. “Oh no, that’s just your Uncle Buck! He’s so friendly – Buck loves everybody, and he’s always been a big hugger. Now, don’t be shy or hurt his feelings when he’s around, you know how special he thinks you are….” Months or years later, Uncle Buck molests you/your sister/cousin/friend, and/or you find out he’s been arrested for child sexual abuse….
* Introverted, awkward, 7th grade you finally gets up the nerve to complain to your teacher and your parents about your classmate Billy. Billy constantly looks for opportunities to tease you in the school hallways; he has “bumped into” you several times, jamming his elbow in your ribs (so hard that it once left a bruise); he even tried to push you/trip you down the stairs the other day. Although you are annoyed by and even growing fearful of Billy, the adults tell you that you should “laugh it off,” and that Billy “…does this because he likes you…and you want boys to like you, right?”
* Your high school guidance counselor tries to discourage you (and another female A-student you know) from applying to a certain university because, he warns you, it is known for being “…a very competitive school, academically rigorous, with all the students vying for pre-professional majors.” Two male friends of yours, who want to apply to the same university, are told by that same counselor that the school would be an excellent choice for them, as it is “…a very competitive school, academically rigorous, with all the students vying for pre-professional majors.” This is despite the fact that both your and that other female student’s GPAs and SAT scores are higher than the same of those two boys.  When you bring this incongruity to the attention of a trusted teacher and/or your parents, you are told that there is no sexist bias, overt or subliminal. “That’s not like him, no way! The counselor was just encouraging students to follow their natural interests….”
* Your colleague keeps claiming credit for your ideas and work, and/or interrupting you during meetings and/or touching you and speaking provocatively/dismissively to you. He never shows such behavior with his male coworkers. When you bring this to your boss’s attention you are told, “That’s not what’s going on; that’s just Jake. He doesn’t mean anything personal; that’s his M.O. Why are you putting that interpretation on things, when no one else has a problem with him?”
* * *
Department Of My Brain Just Does This Number 949 In A Never-Ending Series
Speaking of Fresh Air, Terry Gross is one of the best interviewers ever. And she says something at least once during every FA interview which never fails to amuse me. After TG announces a pause for the obligatory station identification break, she continues with,
“For those of you just joining us, my guest is Brandi Carlile (or whomever.)”
Immediately, every damn time, my brain does a riff on taking that phrase literally, ala
“And for those of you *not* just joining us, my guest is _______” 
* * *
Department Of What Is The Sound Of Asparagus Screaming?
The Food Editor of the NY Times apparently knows, as per this recent headline:
I made one of the recipes (“Turmeric Black Pepper Chicken With Asparagus”), “trading”  crumbled tempeh for the chicken.
Moiselfheard no positive (or negative) screaming, nor vocalizing of any kind, from the asparagus stalks. The asparagus tips, however, were another matter.
* * *
Department Of The Perfect Shell
The perfect shell does not exist.
Even if it does exist, it is unlikely that I will find it.
There is no third thing.
That said, something about the symmetry and simplicity of the lines and coloring made me think that this shell is close to perfect.
* * *
Department Of Doing My Part For Public Health
What from I’m been seeing on social media, apparently, the efficacy of the COVID-19 vaccination approaches 110% if you post a picture of your proof of vaccine card. Not wanting to dis science or anything:
* * *
Department Of Nit-Picking Yet Another Podcast-Related Song
Don’t Ask Tig (“Comedian Tig Notaro doesn’t have all the answers, but that won’t stop her from giving advice on…”). The podcast is bookended with Edie Brickell songs – new songs, apparently written for (and owned by?) the podcast. The theme/opener seems to be “We Got a friend in Tig,” and the closing song, I’m calling, “That’s What Your Heart is For.” The closing song reminds me of the podcast itself, in that I like a lot of things about it but there are parts of it I want to change.
♫ Ooooh, my sweet child/There’s so much I want you to know
Ooooh, my sweet child/There’s so much I want you to see
I wish that I could give you the answers
I wish that I could make you believe
I wish that I could put you on your path and set you free…
That’s what your heart is for
That’s what your heart is for
That’s what your heart is for
Listen to your heart…. ♫
It’s a sweet tune; a lovely melody, a song about a mother (the sentiments, of course, could be the same for a father) expressing her love and hopes for the life journey her child will be taking. But, when it comes to the chorus I want Brickell to add another line
♫ …That’s what your heart is for
Listen to your heart…. Then check in with your brain. ♫
Listen to your heart is considered by many folks to be classic advice. But unless tempered by your head, listening to your heart can be horrible counsel. The latter because…
Step back and look at your own life and decisions, as well as those of your family and friends. “Follow your heart” is a strategy which *never* leads us astray, does it? We always, consistently, want and crave what is ultimately best for us, right?
It seems every week I run across a news story about how someone, from an average Joe to a Famous Person, needs to take out an order of protection (aka, restraining order) against some other person who is stalking them. this is because Stalker’s heart has told them that their primary mission in life is to be with average Joe/celebrity, even when the object of their obsession vehemently thinks otherwise.
In the case of the Famous Person, oft times the celebrity is being hounded by someone they have never even met. Yet that Someone is absolutely, 150% convinced, “in their heart,” that they and the famous Person are meant to be together.
Lovelorn fanatics aside, there’s also a small but significant number of people whose hearts (and heads) can never (or rarely) be trusted to give them reliable guidance or even feedback, due to mental illness and related disorders.
Perhaps I’m overthinking this. I like the song; still, if you’re gonna listen to your heart, please remember to run whatever your heart is saying past your brain.
* * *
(Visually Assisted) Pun For The Day
From a day last month, actually. I’m just seeing it for the first time.
Backstory: Infectious Disease Epidemiologist Julia Marcus tweeted a picture of a graph (a screenshot from a slide presentation on an FDA website) which showed how the efficacy of the Johnson & Johnson COVID-19 vaccine increased over time. The image, a faint black line amid gray shading, resembled something that the good-humored doctor thought was worth celebrating, as per her caption,
“J&J vaccine is rising to the occasion.”
* * *
May you rise to the occasion and get your COVID vaccination; May you uncover the beauty and mystery of screaming asparagus; May your heart always check in with your brain; …and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
 Or, perhaps those are the lines he gave himself?
 The following incidences I site as examples, each and every one of them unfortunately common to “the female experience” worldwide. These particular ones were all experienced by girls and women I know personally.
 Which you know because you asked them, after you found out that they were interested in applying to the same school and you asked about their conversation with the guidance counselor, mistakenly assuming that he (the counselor) also tried to discourage them, like he did with you and the other girl.
Victor Lazlo, or, _____? We who’ve listened from the beginning of the show get someone else.
 Their term, not mine, for substituting other protein sources for the chicken…which we plant-based folks are known to do.
 I’m having a hard time doing a search for the song titles.
“We’re so used to talking about who women are being
than about what they achieve.
And we’re so accustomed to putting attention on what men can achieve (or are perceived to achieve) versus who they are being.
We take this state of affairs so much for granted, that it’s almost invisible. Just think how much a woman running for office is scrutinized for how she speaks and dresses versus what she’s achieved in her decades-long career.
Meanwhile, a man can be a genuine predator, yet what he has done and what he’s perceived to be able to get done comes first and foremost
in how he’s evaluated.
We are obsessed with what men *do* and how women *are*.
Britney Spears is 10 years old, Ed McMahon is 69. She has just given a jaw-dropping performance in a TV singing competition. He approaches her. He comments on the 10-year old prodigy’s “pretty eyes,” rather than her powerful voice, and then asks: “Do you have a boyfriend?” “No, sir” she retorts politely. “Why not?” presses Ed. “Because they’re mean,” insists little Britney. He leans over her. “But what about me?”
* * *
Department Of Dressing Up At Home
Dateline: Last Sunday eve, watching the Golden Globe Awards. ‘Tis our family tradition (previously mentioned in this venue, including here and here) of having a movie awards watching party (not any old awards show – just the “biggies,” as in the Oscars, Emmys, Golden Globes, and Tonys…and two of those don’t involve movies, but you get the idea) whilst consuming “movie food,” which is defined as hot dogs,  popcorn, chips & guac, Skittles and Junior Mints and Red Vines licorice and/or your favorite movie theatre candies and snacks, washed down with liberal amounts of a sparkling beverage.
Due to the you-know-what-19 pandemic, this year the party was toned down, both on our viewing end and on the GG presenting end. Friend LAH has been part of our tradition for years, and she joined MH and I for our distanced and masked celebration, along with our son, K (who is full vaccinated – we are all jealous, but that’s what working in medical research gets you).
The GG’s toned-down format was regretful. Part of the fun of watching the GGs is that the nominees are seated at tables, drinking and eating and drinking and chatting and drinking, and did I mention drinking? Thus, the atmosphere – and the acceptance speeches – tend to be looser (read: funnier and drunker) than the staid-by-comparison Oscars.
One bonus of this year’s show was getting to see many of the nominees in their homes (in some case, with their kids,who were so excited about Mom or Dad winning an award, which was adorable). Their attire ranged from Jason Sudeikis’ excessively casual, I’ll-never-win-so-I’m-going-to-be-comfy sweatsuit hoodie, to others who dressed as if they were headed for the red carpet interview (when we know they are in fact home, alone, counting the minutes until they can cover their Zoom screen and dash to the kitchen to scarf a fistful of Doritos during the commercial breaks).
In the latter category was Rosamund Pike, winner for Best Actress in a Motion Picture Musical or Comedy for I Care A Lot. Pike unexpectedly supplied us with a great GG moment – not as great as the likely-never-to-be-equaled Best Acceptance Speech Ever ® (given by Sacha Baron Cohen, 2007 winner for Best Actor in a Motion Picture Musical or Comedy, which can be seen in its glorious entirety here), but we still appreciated it.
This picture doesn’t do justice to the delightfully bizarre, horizontally expansive dress worn by Pike. I’m wondering if she would have worn it had the GG’sbeen in their usual venue – she would have had to sit at a table by herself, as there would be no room on the sides for anyone else. MH and I were reminded of The Nutcracker Ballet’s Mother Ginger, the character who…well, for a moment we expected a bunch of polichinelles to come scurrying out from under Pike’s voluminous hoopskirts….
Although I enjoyed the comic relief supplied by Pike’s dress, moiself didn’t want it to distract from why she won the award. So MH and I watched “I Care A Lot.” And you should, too. A perfect performance by Pike in a perfectly peculiar and entertaining film.
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Department Of Dialog Which Causes Me To Spit Out What I Was Chewing And Guffaw Aloud, Alone, At The TV
Dateline: a weekend ago, having dinner by moiself, watching the streaming show, “Resident Alien.” As per the show’s website, RA is about an alien who
“…crash lands on Earth and must pass himself off as small-town human doctor Harry Vanderspeigle. Arriving with a secret mission to kill all humans, Harry starts off living a simple life…but things get a bit rocky when he’s roped into solving a local murder and realizes he needs to assimilate into his new world.”
Harry is played by the marvelous Alan Tudyk,  who gives Harry hard-to-describe verbal and physical mannerisms which are, IMHO, totally believable and consistent with what you might expect from a character who is the equivalent of the offspring of the proverbial fish-out-of-water and a precocious adolescent with Asperger’s syndrome…in other words, an ET who gets his ideas of human behavior – and a doctor’s “expertise” – from binge-watching episodes of Law and Order and consulting his cellphone for medical information.
The dialog to which I refer comes from episode two, during Harry’s first day at the town’s medical clinic. Standing outside the clinic’s exam room, reading the chart of a patient he is scheduled to see, Harry thinks, “I was a scientist on my planet so this is easy for me,” referring to his conception of human doctors spending years in medical school to learn a procedure as simple as burning off a wart. “All I need is the internet and I can graduate in five minutes.”
Harry enters the clinic’s exam room, staring at the chart in his hands. A woman is lying on the exam table, her feet in the stirrups. He doesn’t even look at he as he sits down at the exam stool at the end of the table, by her feet. “Okay, let’s take a look at that nasty thing,” he says, as he lifts the paper sheet covering her from the waist down. He drops the sheet, stands up, and blurts out, “You’re not a 12-year boy with a wart.”
The patient, a sardonic woman (who how you say, probably gets around), chuckles, “Well, I’m not a 12-year-old boy…”
The clinic’s nurse quickly apologizes, grabs the chart from Harry’s hand, and replaces it with the female patient’s chart, whom, the nurse tacitly explains to Harry, is in urgent need of a pelvic exam (“We had to move her up from tomorrow.”).
Harry had googled wart removal, not pelvic exam. “Pelvic exam…” Harry repeats, stalling for time. Both the nurse and the patient urge him to hurry things up; we see his head disappear beneath the sheet; he takes a look and triumphantly announces,
“Oh, okay, I see your problem – you sat on an earring!”
The patient flinches as Harry tugs at (what we assume is) her labial piercing. “No – ah, no!” she gasps, “That’s – that’s supposed to be there.”
You sat on an earring. I’m still dying, a week later. 
* * *
Pun For The Day, Alien Doctor Edition
I heard a joke about amnesia, but I forgot how it goes.
* * *
May you never have cause for a doctor, or anyone, to think you sat on an earring; May you disregard the unsolicited advice – about anything – from men wearing medieval cassocks and quoting Iron Age scriptures; May you fantasize delivering an acceptance speech to rival Sacha Baron Cohen’s; …and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
 Yes, that doesn’t qualify as “food,” and I have the plant-based version.
 Little children/clowns, depending on the production of the ballet.
Happy Lunar New Year to my Chinese friends and family, and all who celebrate it.
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Department Of At Least They Didn’t Start A Forest Fire
“A 26-year-old Michigan man died on Saturday after he was hit with shrapnel from ‘a small cannon type device’ that exploded when….”
This is how the news article began. What words, would you think, could possibly complete the article’s lead sentence?
“… it was fired in celebration at a baby shower….
Because celebrating babies and pregnancy and impending parenthood – one immediately thinks: Ah, yes: armaments!
“A cannon type device.” As in, a cannon? It was a friggin’ baby shower; it was not a Civil War reenactment, nor battle enactment of any kind…although – WARNING: BAD PREGNANCY PUN AHEAD – many a woman in her ninth month of gestation has felt like she is personally fighting the Battle of the Bulge.
The story continues:
“The man, Evan Thomas Silva, a guest at the party, was about 10 to 15 feet from the device when it blew up in the backyard of a home. Metal shrapnel hit Mr. Silva, three parked cars and the garage where the shower was being held, the police said….. The night Mr. Silva died, he was among the guests…attending a baby shower — not a gender reveal party….” ( “Celebratory Cannon Salute at Baby Shower Ends in Death,” NY Times 2-7-21
Interesting that the article took pains to mention that this was *not* a gender reveal party, as per the idiotic trend in which celebratory pyrotechnics employed by excited parents-to-be inadvertently yet efficiently caused *more than one* wildfire in the past year (a trend which yours truly had mocked in a previous post).
Attention, expectant parents: stop this. Right now. Stop throwing such events for yourselves and stop attending them in your “honor.” Your friends and family will thank you: no matter what they are saying to your face, under your nose and behind your back they are embarrassed and appalled that you apparently find the fact of *your* impending parenthood – an event so ordinary that it happens worldwide, 385,000 times PER DAY – to be so special that it is the cause for the type of celebration usually reserved for a nation’s liberation from a dictator or the opening of yet another Disney theme park.
Have a party if you want to, of course! Keep it simple – those kind of celebrations are remembered most fondly, and are less stressful to plan *and* attend. Do the potluck thing, play music and silly games.  But have some perspective, puuuuuhhhhllleeeaassee. NO cannons, no fireworks – nothing which intentionally or otherwise explodes… with the exception of your Uncle Beauford’s mouth (and other orifices) after his third helping of your elderly neighbor’s double-chili-bean-cabbage-beer-garlic casserole.
“We’re so excited about baby’s first artillery!
* * *
Department Of What To Serve At Your Baby Shower Sup-Department Of Maybe Reconsider The Chicken Wings
Selective breeding by agricultural scientists for larger overall size and enormous breasts – the white meat consumers prefer – has produced “exploding chickens” that put on weight at a monstrous clip….The journal Poultry Science once calculated that if humans grew at the same rate as these chickens, a 2-month-old baby would weigh 660 pounds…. The chickens’ legs, unable to support the weight of their out-of-proportion bodies, often splay or collapse, making some chickens topple onto their backs (and then they cannot right themselves) and others collapse onto their bellies, where they lie in mounds of feces and suffer bloody rashes called ammonia burns – the poultry version of bed sores.
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* * *
Department Of Memory Sparking
The film class moiself had in college: I hadn’t thought of it, nor of the class’s professor, in years. Now, twice in the past two months both have come to mind (and thus, to this blog).
The first time was two months ago, during the brouhaha manufactured by a Wall Street Journal columnist who chided Jill Biden, who holds a Ph.D. in education, for using her professional credentials. I’d remembered how I’d gotten a kick out of how Robert Miller, my film class’s professor,  made his point as to how he wished to be addressed. Miller, who had a Ph.D. in literature, introduced himself as “Professor Miller.” When a student speaking in class prefaced their remarks with, “Dr. Miller…” Miller would interrupt with, “Yes, nurse?”
The second time was last week, when I was listening to a recent Fresh Airinterview with former writer  and current professional observationist Fran Leibovitz. Leibovitz was promoting a new Netflix docuseries, “Pretend It’s a City,” in which the series’ director (Leibovitz’s longtime friend, Martin Scorsese) talks with Leibovitz about…well, about Leibovitz, and whatever Leibovitz thinks about any and every thing she thinks about. 
In the Fresh Air interview Leibovitz talked about her “career” background. Before enjoying her fifteen minutes of fame as a writer in the 1970s  Leibovitz held a series of menial/odd jobs. She claims she took housecleaning jobs and drove a taxi because, “I don’t have any skills. I didn’t know how to do anything else.”
“I also didn’t want to do the job that most of my friends did, which was wait tables, because I didn’t want to have to be nice to men to get tips or to sleep with the manager of my shift, which was a common requirement then for being a waitress in New York.”
My film professor, who was a writer as well as a teacher, didn’t (to my knowledge) require any of his students to sleep with him – that’s not why this memory was sparked. He *did* do something which I thought was an abuse of power, although at that time I hadn’t the emotional or intellectual context to frame it as such, given its complexity.
One afternoon in class the topic was screenplay adaptation. As an example of how you would turn a literary story into a cinematic one, Professor Miller announced that our next assignment, due the following week, would be to write up a proposal for adapting a piece of short fiction he would give to us. We’ll spend the rest of the class time discussing the assignment, Professor Miller said. He began passing out photocopies of – I stifled a gasp when I read the byline – a short story *he* had written.
I remember thinking, “Uh, this a good idea? HELL NO.”
Would any student dare say, “This story is not adaptable,” or, “There’s no way I would want to adapt this even if I thought I could because I just don’t like it.…” or express any other critique, from mild to scathing, knowing that it is the professor’s own work?
I tried to stifle my instinctive, lip-curling expression as I read the story, which was a Mailer-Hemingwayesque male fantasy, about a backpacking trip taken by an Older Man ® (an artist-teacher of some kind) and the Much Younger Woman ® he is mentoring and – surprise! – fucking dating. Meanwhile, Professor Miller read aloud from the story’s campfire scene, a scene which, he told the class, would be particularly visually appealing for a screenwriter (the following is my summation of the scene):
OM and MYW are sitting around their campfire, their conversation terse and tense. There is a sense of growing strain between them for a variety of reasons, including the status of their relationship, and signs of bear activity in the vicinity. When MYW excuses herself (presumably to go behind the tent to take a pee break), OM ruminates about how their relationship will likely be coming to an end, as he is older, more educated and world-wise, and she is…well…she is what she is (young and beautiful).
MYW returns, tossing an item into the campfire as she sits down; OM sees a tampon briefly blaze before the flames incinerate it. He begins to panic….
Already feeling nauseated by the retch-worthy cliché of the older male teacher/younger female student predatory romantic relationship scenario, I had another thought that made me want to puke in class: he’s not going to incorporate the macho woodsymyth about bears being attracted to menstruating women in his story, is he?
OM starts asking MYW about why she didn’t tell him she was having her menstrual period – they’re in bear country, FFS! That explains his feeling that a bear has been stalking them. Now, they are in danger….
Several students (all male) took turns praising the scene and shared their ideas as to how they would script it. I remember Professor Miller looking at me several times, as if he expected my feedback – me, who remained silent, despite usually speaking up in class discussions; me, the one student (or so the professor told me a week earlier, when he’d returned an assignment of mine  ) whom he allowed to turn any assignment into a prose-writing opportunity. 
I remember looking around at the class, paying particular attention to the expressions on the other female student’s faces, and having a click-worthy moment of realization:
Oh, so *this* is how women learn to fake orgasms.
Up until that moment, the class as a whole had had little problem tearing into films we had been told were “classics” but which one or more of us found poorly made, reductive, or just plain boring. But for this assignment, what choice did we have, other than to act as if we liked the story? He was our professor; it was his story. We had to pretend to like or at least approve of it in order for us to succeed in that situation.
Somewhere near the end of class time moiself raised my hand and asked if we had other options for the assignment – for example, adapting works of…other authors. I remember phrasing my question as delicately as I could, and squeezing in some (faux) compliments of his story, compliments which were bland enough that I didn’t hate myself for wimping out on what I wanted to do, which was to object to the inherent hubris of him assigning his own story. Fortunately for me, several of the professor’s suck-ups acolytes weighed in on the subject, and my tacit criticism of his self-indulgent ego trip of an assignment didn’t seem to register (or at least not for long, as I got an A in the class).
* * *
Department Of Sometimes I Miss The Good Old Days Of Censorship
“When I’m good, I’m very good, but when I’m bad, I’m better. ”
“I’ll try anything once, twice if I like it, three times to make sure.”
― Mae West
The Good Old Days ® of any kind were usually not-that-good, just old. I am not condoning censorship; continuing with this post’s cinematic theme, I am remember the day in my film class where we learned about the Hays Code, aka the Motion Picture Production Code. The Hays Code was used, for almost four decades, by film studios to require that their pictures be “wholesome” and “moral” and free from a list of no-nos (e.g. nudity, overt violence, sexually suggestive dances, discussions of sexual perversity, characters which engendered sympathy for criminals, unnecessary use of liquor, making fun of religion, interracial relationships, “lustful kissing,” ridicule of law and order….)
A lively class discussion about the Hays Code ensued. Several students, and the professor, gave reasons for favoring some kind of code or guidelines (although not outright censorship), due to the artistic ingenuity such guidelines inevitably inspired.
This idea that “guidelines up the game” is one which crosses artistic genres. I recall experiencing a joy I don’t think can be replicated today, when I realized that 13-year-old moiself “got” The Kinks’ song, Lola, and my parents  and the radio censors didn’t. Presently, pop vocalists can call for the execution of people they don’t like, can call each other obscene and racist epithets, can brag about the…uh, humidity level of their intimate parts…. There are few if any lines to subversively read between.
A fun factoid about “Lola” is that the word “Coca-Cola” in the original recording had to be changed ( ♫ “I met her in a bar down in old Soho where you drink champagne and it takes just like Coca-Cola…” ♫ ). Singer Ray Davies dubbed in “cherry cola” for the song’s release, due to the BBC Radio’s policy against product placement.
Son K and I had an interesting IM session about the subject of censorship when, apropos of what-I-cannot-now recall, K came across some info about the Parents Music Resource Center, asked me some questions, and began searching for and then watching videos of the PMRC’s congressional hearing.
[ The PMRC, as some of y’all may recall, was an American governmental “advisory committee” formed in the 1980s which sought to increase parental control over children’s access to music with violent, sexual, and drug-related themes. The PMRC lobbied the RIAA (Recording Industry Association of America) to develop a music labeling system, ala the MPAA’s film rating system. Because the PMRC was founded by four women whose husbands had political connections (including Tipper Gore, married to Senator and later Vice President Al Gore) the group was sometimes derisively and dismissively referred to as “The Washington Wives.” ]
K: man so reading about the PMRC. what was tipper gore’s problem
Moiself: What made you read about the PMRC? Some say Tipper Gore was looking for a “cause,; others, including herself and her husband, say she was a concerned parent who became shocked when she listened to the lyrics of one of her daughter’s favorite songs…and then started acquainting herself with other lyrics to popular music. I think it’s probably a combination of both motivations. The PMRC was actually a milder version of other parental groups at the time which were calling for censorship – the PMRC wanted parental warning labels as to content….
I gave K a brief history lesson: at that time, many kids didn’t buy their own records – their parents or grandparents did. As a parent and “consumer,” I wouldn’t want to spend my money on songs that used racial epithets or promoted homophobic or misogynistic viewpoints to my kids. And in the ’80s lyrics were getting really explicit, which made me actually wish for the days of radio content restrictions…because then singers and songwriters had to be clever. It was so much fun when, ala my “Lola” reference, you knew something was slipped by the sensors – you caught a reference that even the supposedly hip radio programming directors, as well as your own parents, didn’t “get.”
K: just looking through it, (the PMRC hearings) all comes across to me as one of those bullshit moral crusades. a need to either feel self superior, or a need to control anything that doesn’t appeal to X person’s personal tastes, or both. it just reminded me of a milder version of McCarthyist witch hunting. demonizing something for political gain
Moiself: Yes, but the latter is a proven technique.
Later on, in an in-person dialogue, I shared with K my opinion that any form of guideline or structure-free art risks…well, think of the criticism of free verse poetry as playing tennis with the net down. I’m not lauding censorship per se, but, to reiterate, IMHO guidelines can actually make people more creative – or sneaky, which has a strong element of creativity to it. Because when you can’t just come out and say Certain Things ® you have to be subtle and sly, employing cheeky imagery and evocative dialogue. You have to be more poetic, in a way.
A movie critic once asked the late great writer/screenwriter/director Nora Ephron if Ephron agreed with the critic’s observation that there seemed to have been stronger roles for women actors, and better plots and dialog, in the earlier days of cinema. Ephron agreed, and lamented contemporary movies’ lack of witty dialogue and snappy repartee – and distinctive, self-assured female characters – which were found in the movies of the 30s and 40s and even 50s. Beginning in the late 60s, along came the “New Cinema” movement, which emphasized so-called gritty realism. You no longer had to employ clever camera angles and witty, double-entendre laden repartee – now you can just show (instead of imply) a graphic murder, have the protagonists jump into bed together (which had the effect of valuing, defining – and casting – female actors as per their sexual appeal)…and then what?
In an atmosphere where nothing is considered to be off-limits, you will never have the delightful shock value of experiencing, say, the judicious use of “strong” language. I fondly recall my mother telling me about her most memorable movie experience, when as a child she saw Gone With The Wind. She said she’d never forget how she was both scandalized and thrilled – and how “the entire theater gasped” – when Rhett Butler delivered his infamous parting line:
* * *
Pun(z) For The Day
Moiself: Did you hear about that actress, Reese, who just stabbed a guy to death? Innocent bystander: Witherspoon? Moiself: No, she used her knife.
Q. How does award-winning actor Reese eat her Cheerios?
I suppose I have to be a good sport about this.
* * *
May you shun any event mixing pyrotechnics and babies; May you neither actively nor passively contribute to “exploding chickens;” May you challenge yourself to both follow and subvert the guidelines; …and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
 Of course, have these events safely, distanced/outdoors, and masked until this damn COVID-19 thing peters out …do I really need to say this? Apparently.
 Leibovitz has famously suffered from writer’s block for years, and now seems to get by with having people pay to listen to her talk about the things she used to write about. Not a criticism – she has a keen, sardonic eye, and is quite witty. I have enjoyed the series, so far (haven’t as of this writing finished listening to all episodes).
 I’m not sure if “observationist” is a thing, but Leibovitz seems to be making a living from it.
 Which centers around her technophobic life in New York city; specifically, Manhattan.
 Using her satirical, NYC-centered wit, she opined on American life in two best-selling collections of essays, Metropolitan Life and Social Studies.
 After class I found a couple of Wildlife Fisheries Biology majors who confirmed that was a myth. Even so, it was a myth that got a lot of traction, and it wasn’t until in the 1980s and ’90s that biologists did studies proving that bears – or sharks – are no more attracted to menstruating women than to any other kind of human.
 storyboarding a dada-esque, vignette-style commercial for the soft drink, 7-Up, which he graded A+.
 We’d had and would continue to have various projects over the quarter, from “making” a short films or advertisements or animation. I’d no interest in filming anything or doing animation, and always chose to interpret “making” as doing the screenplay, storyboarding and/or writing portion of the project.
 When my friend’s très conservative mother was singing along to “Lola” on the radio while was driving us to the beach, I somehow resisted the urge to ask if she knew she was enjoying an ode to a naïve young man’s romance with a transvestite.
Dateline: Thursday, returning from my morning walk. A black van slowly drives by my house, then pulls up in my driveway just as moiself punches in the code to open the garage door. The car is unmarked; I figure it for a delivery vehicle, and indeed, the driver leaves the motor running as he exits the vehicle and approaches me, carrying a white, pizza-delivery-shaped box and three other items in his arms. He likely cannot discern my confused expression that slowly crosses my face (I am masked) when I see that the “packages” he’s toting all bear the Krispy Kreme logo.
“Excuse me,” I say, “I think you have the wrong address.” His eyes and forehead denote that he is smiling beneath his mask, but I’m not sure he understands me. “Do you have the correct house number?” I ask again. “We didn’t order….uh, we don’t eat…” I gesture toward his armful. “…any of that.”
He says MH’s name, in heavily accented (Russian?) English, and points to the top of the box, where MH’s first name and last initial are written in black ink. Seeing that I have my hands full (hat and gloves in one hand and walking poles in the other) he leaves the items on the front porch and waves to me as he scampers back to his van.
I enter the house via the garage and tell MH, who is in the kitchen, about the delivery. He fetches the items from the porch, and tells me that yesterday afternoon someone from work messaged him with the news that there would be a “sweet treat” delivered to him tomorrow, in honor of his 30 years with the company.
“I was hoping,” MH shakes his head, “for chocolates.”
Here is what MH got: a donut assortment and a bucket of coffee and eight cups and enough creamer to drown a possum (*eight* coffee cups? Whom do they think he’ll be having over during these COVID social isolation times?).
MH does not drink coffee (thirty years, and they don’t know this?), and doesn’t eat donuts.
Yeah, team! Way to know and value your employees!
Even as I type this MH is receiving “very nice” calls and messages from people he works with, regarding his 30 years with the company, and I can tell he is touched by their individual expressions of congratulations. “The company” as such does have an interesting history of less-than-stellar acknowledgements of significant anniversaries, as moiself noted in this space, five years ago. What the heck; it all makes for a better story than a gold watch.
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Department Of What Have I Ever Done To Deserve This?
Thursday was quite the day. I awoke Thursday morning at 3:30 AM – a good five hours before the surprise KK delivery – and, as always when I awaken in mid-eve/early am, an earworm was infecting my brain.
This time, the song was a particularly odious one. I’m not talking Osmond Family odious, but almost.
“Oh, did you say something insulting? We’re too busy urging agents of the Mormon church to buy controlling percentages of Proctor & Gamble stock – the makers of the Crest Whitening Strips ® we heartily endorse! – to pay attention to your gentile gibes. ” 
Department Of The Stranger’s Post I’m Responding To. Sub Department Of Why. Do. I. Do. This.
A friend posted the following on Facebook (passing it on, I’m guessing, from someone else’s’ post). Underneath a faded photo of a baby girl and her adorable sisters (all of whom appeared to be under age three), was this entreaty (I removed the names; other than that, the post is as originally written and punctuated.):
PLEASE HELP!! 51 years ago our mother _ _ ___ (nee ____). Walked out of these 3 little girls lives ___ & ___ & ___ (last name) Castle . For what reason were really not sure, we have had several failed attempts to find her this is now our last chance of any hope of finding her. she could have moved abroad Australia or Canada. She will be 74 now born 9th December 1942. Social media seems to help with good things, life can never be complete when you don’t know who or where your mother is. We need this to go WORLD WIDE….. PLEASE HELP ….
I kept second guessing moiself as I typed my comment. I don’t know these people; they aren’t asking for my advice….except that they *are,* in that internet way. By asking for their post to go WORLD WIDE they are seeking a worldwide reaction.
As a citizen of this world, I still feel a keen loyalty to a part of the world with which I have a significant history: working in women’s reproductive health care clinics. Some of the women and girls I served were mired in the myriad of situations which might cause a woman to “walk out” of her children’s lives and resist any attempts to be found. Also, I cringed to read the post’s – unintentional, I assume, yet inherently presumptuous – dis of the lives of adoptees and orphans, and others who may not know their biological mothers but who nonetheless live lives filled with love, fulfillment, and purpose.
So yeah, moiself had to dive in:
“For what reason were really not sure, we have had several failed attempts to find her….” Do you really think it is wise to pursue this? There are probably reasons your “failed attempts to find her” have in fact failed….can you accept that there are likely reasons she may have, that have to do with her not wanting to be found, reasons that might be painful for you to know and impossible (in her mind, at least) for you to truly understand? I worked in women’s reproductive health care for years, and the stories I heard and was witness to….would take years to describe. Are you prepared for where this might lead? I’m sorry for your pain; even as I can’t let a statement like “life can never be complete when you don’t know who or where your mother is…” stand uncontradicted, as it is patently false, given the fact that people all over the world have lived fulfilling lives, having to deal with far more in terms of pain and uncertainty. I wish you and your sisters – and your biological mother, be she alive or dead – all the best, including peace in this matter.
* * *
Department Of Calling All Math Nerds
Help me out on this one. Dateline: Tuesday, circa 7 am, listening to a podcast while doing The Morning Walk Thing ® . The podcast (the name of which escapes me now)  featured an interview with a guest who was a mathematician. Mr. Math Man was talking about the “perfect number,” a mathematics concept wherein the divisors of said number add up to the number itself. For example, 6 is a perfect number because 3 + 2 + 1 = 6.
But wait one darn minute. Just prior to revealing this Perfect Number equation, Math Man said that the divisors of 6 are the numbers 3 and 2 (3 x 2 = 6), *AND* 6 and 1 (6 x 1 =6). If you add all of those together you get 12, not 6. Why was he leaving out 6 when he’d just said it was a divisor – as is 1, and he included the 1 in the “perfect number” equation?
No doubt there is some, because-we-define-it-this-way-that’s-why explanation that makes the less-than-perfect (IMO) definition of the perfect number more perfect – an explanation that would have to involve the divisors of the number but not the number itself being included in the “perfect” addition equation.
But wait, there’s more!
Since every whole number is divisible by itself and one, that leaves the number one as a partnerless divisor in those perfect number equations…and you could never have a perfect number, using the definition of perfect number which the guest presented, unless the number itself was excluded from its divisors addition – again, which leaves the number one missing its divisor partner. Which seems kinda lonely, to me. Can any number even be considered a divisor without the action of another number?
Yeah, I could google this. I’d just rather throw out to the universe this silly rumination of arcane concepts question of burning importance to the very nature of our existence.
Make that, the divisor stands alone.
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Department Of Momentarily Missing The Point
Moiself has been using a new meditation app. One recent morning in a guided meditation, the narrator instructed me to “…make a mental note in my mind…”
Well…yeah…that iswhere I would make a *mental* note.
The note I was advised to make had to do about breathing, but instead and immediately moiself started making mental notes about the delightful redundancy of the suggestion.
Yes, my mind is where I make my mental notes,
as opposed to my elbow or my spleen…
Wow! Am I so ahead of the practice, or what?!?!?
That went on for…way longer than it should have.
Although my investigation of the phenomenon assures me that it is common to all humanity, I’ve always thought that the dictionary definition of monkey mind should include a picture of moiself.
* * *
Department Of Silver Linings
The Presidential Inauguration.
As much as I was thrilled for the new Prez and Veep to be sworn in, moiself girded my loins for the inevitable yet no-less-offensive-just-because-they-all-do-itinvocation. Of all the things that should *not* be heard in a secular democracy’s inauguration ceremony, religious rhetoric of any kind tops my list. It turned my stomach for a variety of reasons.
I don’t care about Biden’s personal religion – that’s the point, it should be *his* personal business. A nation based on a deliberately crafted, god-free constitution does not need to hear anything resembling advice or entreaties from a minister when we are installing our head of state – in particular, we don’t need the nonsense from a priest who quotes the head of state of the worldwide cabal of celibate (ha!) sexists and altar boy buggerers. 
I was saved from my disgust when I realized what was to follow the putrid proselytizing invocation. The Inauguration announcer, who used his Solemn And Important ® voice to announce the Supreme Court Justices, and Harris and Biden, and then the invocation speaker, was also going to use that same voice to introduce she-who-was-to-sing-our-national-anthem.
Mere words cannot describe the petty thrill that tickled moiself from eyebrows to tootsie-toes when I heard those stentorian tones used for the words I never expected would be part of an inaugural ceremony:
“Please welcome Lady Gaga.”
If only Her Ladyship could have worn her meat dress….
* * *
Department Of If I Had My Life To Live Over Again…
…I just might choose a multidisciplinary field of study which would have qualified me to be an “expert” on the recent Freakonomics podcast I found so entertaining. “The Downside of Disgust” (Ep. 448, 1-20-21) dealt with the human biological response and reflex known as disgust.
I imagine teaching an undergraduate course in the science and sociology of disgust. I would call moiself, Professor Eeeeeewwwwwwwwww. 
* * *
Department Of Blast From The Past
Typing the previous section about disgust led me to trip down the Memory Lane staircase, where I landed spread-eagle on the floor of a recollection I posted about, way back on 10-19-12 (yikes – moiself has been blogging for that many years?):
October 19, 1945, is the birthdate of Harris Glenn Milstead. Better known as his stage name, “Divine,” the flamboyant transvestite starred in ten John Waters films,  and would have been 67 today had he not died 25 years ago from an enlarged heart.
Divine holds a special place in my normal-sized heart ever since we shared an elevator ride in our nation’s capital. I was in town on a business trip, installing a computer system at WWDC.  The groundbreaking radio station  was located in a high-rise office building in downtown D.C. One morning after returning from our daily get-away-from-these-crazy-radio-people fresh air break, my installation partner R and I boarded an empty elevator in the building’s lobby. The elevator stopped at the next floor, and Divine and his PR agent (or so I guessed, from what I heard of their conversation) got on.
Although he lacked his customary stage attire and fright wig, the bald, 300 lb, self-proclaimed “Drag Queen of the Century” was (for me, at least) immediately recognizable. He was in full, eyebrow-elevating makeup, and looked petty much like the picture (below), despite his oddly conservative attire of a Hawaiian shirt, khaki pants and brown loafers.
R and I observed proper Elevator Etiquette and rode in silence, me using the elevator doors as a focal point as I tried to suppress my shit-eating grin. R stole several furtive/suspicious, OMG glances at Divine, who chatted with his agent about an upcoming promo appearance.
The men exited the elevator two floors before our stop. As soon as the elevator doors closed I turned to R and gushed, “That was Divine!
R’s cheeks nearly exploded with the force of her sputtered retort: “That was disgusting!”
Turns out R had no idea who Divine was.
I explained. It didn’t help.
* * *
Pun For The Day
With great flourish, the Spanish magician exclaimed,
“On the count of three, I shall make myself disappear! Uno! Dos!” …and then he vanished, without a tres.
* * *
May you discover the cheap thrill of using your lowest, most somber voice to say, over and over again, “Lady Gaga;” May you honor longtime colleagues with appropriate gifts – better yet, just tell them something you like about them; May your favorite memories be Divine (or at least never disgusting); …and may the hijinks ensue.
 Gasp – ’tis a podcast host’s worst nightmare, to have the name of their show less memorable than a listener’s random memory of it!
 Yes, that would be The Pope. A fucking pope, the most anti-democratic kind of “leader” there is…
 And on the first day of class, I’d ask Lady Gaga if I could borrow her meat dress….
 Most notably in “Pink Flamingoes,” as Babs Johnson, the film’s “Filthiest Person Alive,” dog-excrement eating heroine (just imagine what the film’s villains had to do).
 A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, I worked for a company that designed computerized “traffic” systems for radio and television stations.
 “DC-101” was the first American radio station to play a Beatles song: “I Want to Hold Your Hand,” in December 1963. DC-101 was where DJ Howard Stern was paired with news anchor Robin Quivers and honed his “shock jock” persona.
“As of 2019, the total fertility rate was 1.7 — that’s 1.7 babies born per woman of child-bearing age over her lifetime.”
I immediately thought of my two children, K and Belle, both young adults and successfully fledged. They keep up with politics, demographics and current affairs. I pondered how moiself, as a Loving and Responsible Parent ®, can honestly respond to them should they run across this statistic, then pose the inevitable question.
How will I decide which one of them is the .7 child? Should I flip a coin? Make my judgment based on which one is more likely to visit me in the nursing home (or less likely to put me in one)?
* * *
Department Of Sometimes It’s Better To Let Your Imagination Run Wild With The Question And Not Even Care About The Answer
To what degree have car seats functioned as contraception?
* * *
“I thought Girl Scouts was supposed to be about making the world a better place. But this isn’t at all making the world better.” ( 14-year-old Girl Scout Olivia Chaffin, quoted in “Child Labor Linked to Palm Oil in Girl Scout Cookies, Snack Brands”)
Dateline: Sunday afternoon. Moiself was backing my car out of the driveway, just as The Cutest Girl Scout In The World ® left a flyer on my porch. She continued on, walking with her father (my guess) and another Scout to my neighbor’s house. I stopped my car, got out and waved, and from a maskless-but-safe-distance her father said the Girl Scouts were doing a different form of cookie sales this year – orders online – and that the information was in the flyer.
After returning from my errand, I googled to see if the reasons moiself had boycotted Girl Scout cookies the past few years were still valid. Sadly, yes. The Scouts are still using palm oil in their cookies…AND…a report has just been released linking the production of that palm oil to child labor violations.
I have long wished  that GS fundraisers would involve a community service drive several times a year, akin to the Boy Scouts’ Xmas tree recycling service. I mean, community service – yay! Besides, look at us Americans – no one should be eating those (or any organization’s fundraising) cookies.
When K & Belle were in the Oregon Zoo Teens program they learned about the problems with palm oil production, and began educating us – their parents, family and friends – on why we should choose products that did not contain palm oil and boycott those that did. Such education should be right up the Girl Scout’s alley, so to speak, with the organization’s declared belief in “…the power of every G.I.R.L. (Go-getter, Innovator, Risk-taker, Leader) to change the world,” and their manifesto, to build “girls of courage, confidence, and character who make the world a better place.”
But, according to the EcoWatch article, “Child Labor Linked to Palm Oil in Girl Scout Cookies, Snack Brands,” that ain’t happening. Excerpts from the article (my emphases):
Environmental concerns first motivated then-11-year old Chaffin to investigate the source of the palm oil in the Girl Scout cookies she sold. Chaffin…saw that the palm oil listed on the cookie boxes was supposed to come from sustainable sources. However, she looked closer and saw the word “mixed”, which meant that sustainable and non-sustainable sources had been combined in the cookie recipe.
She swore off cookie-selling and launched a petition one year ago urging Girl Scouts to abandon palm oil….
Chaffin told The Associated Press that learning about the child labor issues  made her more motivated to fight for the oil’s removal….
The Girl Scouts did not respond to The Associated Press before the study was published, but did address the article on social media.
“Child labor has no place in Girl Scout Cookie production. Our investment in the development of our world’s youth must not be facilitated by the under-development of some,” the organization tweeted.
They said that their bakers and the Roundtable on Sustainable Palm Oil (RSPO) should take action if standards were being violated.
In other words, business as usual. They are shocked – shocked! – to learn about child labor violations (and don’t forget habitat destruction), but not enough to put any political or economic muscle behind their rhetoric.
The Girls Scouts claim to “…offer the best leadership development experience for girls in the world.” Their girls are inadvertently learning a lesson in politico-speak (express concern, but don’t make any actually changes which may threaten your income stream), which is sadly common to leaders worldwide.
* * *
Department Of Quote Of The Year, 2021:
“But fuck you for being there.”
Moiself realizes the year is young, but already there is a comment which so succinctly nails What Happened on January 6 ® that I am hard pressed to imagine what might beat it for Quote of the Year.
It comes from NPR’s January 15 article, “Meet Three D.C. Police Officers Who Fought For The U.S. Capitol.” Excerpted here, the article contains interviews with police officers who were attacked by the pro-#45 mobs who stormed the US Capitol.
Beaten, tased, lying dazed on the steps leading out of the west side of the U.S. Capitol on the afternoon of Jan. 6, Officer Mike Fanone remembered thinking,
“…about the movie Black Hawk Down when the pilot gets stripped from the cockpit because guys were grabbing gear off my vest, they ripped my badge off of me, and people were trying to get my gun, and they grabbed my ammunition magazines. I remember trying to retain my gun, I remember guys chanting, ‘Kill him with his own gun.’ “
Fanone was tased at least a half-dozen times. He says he considered using his gun to defend himself, but knew rioters would likely turn the gun on him. So he pleaded for his life.
“At one point, I decided I could appeal to someone’s humanity in this crowd. And I said I have kids,” he recalls. “Fortunately, I think it worked. Some people did start to protect me, they encircled me and tried to prevent people from assaulting me.”
Fanone, a 19-year veteran of the Metropolitan Police Department, was found and eventually pulled to safety by his patrol partner. He was hospitalized, and was told he had had a heart attack.
Fanone says he doesn’t want to get into what may have motivated Trump’s supporters, many of whom have long claimed they back police. He’s thankful he got out alive, but he’s angry that that was ever in question.
“The ones in the crowd that somehow appealed to their better angels and offered me some assistance, thank you,” he says. “But f*** you for being there.”
* * *
Department Of Yes, This. Reflections After The Inauguration
Although I love watching the Olympics and missed having the opportunity to do so in 2020, moiself did not miss having to listening to the devoted, often over-the-top-and-arrogant, fans of Team USA. Hearing their strident, hyperbolic chants of, “USA! USA! USA! We’re Number One!” makes me want to do a number two, as I think of how those chants represent many of my fellow citizens’ understanding of our place in the world, both historically and in the present.
When it comes to being a “great” country, we *are*number one…in self-delusion and mythology. Maybe, just maybe, we could be #1 in potential of across-the-board quality of life, if the majority of us could be honest with ourselves.
Those ideals in our founding documents,  national anthem and patriotic songs are just that. They are ideals to which we may aspire, but they are not reflections of either historical or present reality; they are a journey, not a destination. We are not “there yet” – how could we be, when the codification and implementation of the lofty democratic ideals of our so-called fore-fathers involved the complete exclusion of our foremothers? The omission of political power for over half the country’s population lasted for 144 – yes, that’s one hundred and forty-four – years after our country’s “birth”!
We are not there yet. And how can we ever be, when there is only grudging (if any) acknowledgement from too many of us about the reality of  the treatment of the original occupants of our land – the native/indigenous peoples, as well as those who did not come here willingly, but who instead were the “…tired, poor, huddled masses yearning to breathe free/The wretched refuse of your teeming shore…” because our ancestors had enslaved them?
Make America great again? To anyone who chants that insipid call to political arms slogan: what can you possibly mean by, *again*?
You can’t make American something it never was. Make America Live up to its great ideals – or tear them down and start over.
So sez moiself. Thus, it was refreshing to hear Baratunde Thurston give his take on the subject, on a TED talk. Thurston, a writer, comedian, political commentator, activist, philosopher, and “futurist,” is also the producer/host of the marvelously titled, “How to Citizen, a podcast which “… reimagines the word ‘citizen’ as a verb and reminds us how to wield our collective power.”
“I really appreciate the honesty of saying, ‘We haven’t succeeded yet.’ I think we are so good at myth-making, about our greatness and our uniqueness and our specialness, that we forgot we’re not there yet. We have a big number of us who can say, like, ‘We used to be so great!’
How could you say that when half the population couldn’t even vote? *When are you starting the clock?* So, there’s a lot to do. There’s value to the honesty that we haven’t really done it yet, and there’s motivation to the idea that we might get there. And I think we have to be motivated by the pursuit, not just the arrival. That we’ve gotten a little bit better; that we’ve reckoned with some of the more painful things, knowing there’s a laundry list of stuff we still haven’t dared to face honestly. And if we get closer, that’s still good.”
( Excerpts from TED radio hour podcast, “How to Citizen,”
with Baratunde Thurston speaking with TED host Manoush Zomorodi )
* * *
Department Of Gut Check – Yep, I’m Still Numb
And just now daring to relax. The inauguration happened; no one was shot.
When I finally let myself watch part of the proceedings moiself was both mesmerized and comforted by Amanda Gorman’s recitation of her stunning poem, “The Hill We Climb.”
* * *
Department Of One More Thing
And – hello, New York Times headline on the 20th – I never, ever again want to read about #45 and his entire, vile, despotic, rapacious, racist, sexist, nepotistic, cadre of liars and thieves, unless the story has to do with their impending criminal charges, plea bargains, and convictions. 
* * *
Pun For The Day
Finally it’s, 2021, and now I can truthfully say that hindsight is 2020.
* * *
May your children all be 1.0 and never .7; May we work toward making our country great (not “again”); May we aspire to deserve the voices of poets like Amanda Gorman; …and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
 A former girl Scout, and lover of their Thin Mints cookies.
 And have done more than wishing; i.e., expressing to Scout leaders and writing to the national organization (with no response).
 “Child labor is another major problem for the (palm oil) industry, according to The Associated Press. The UN’s International Labor Organization estimates that 1.5 million children aged 10 to 17 work in Indonesia’s agricultural industry, of which palm oil is the dominant crop. In Malaysia, a 2018 study found that more than 33,000 children work in the industry, and that almost half of them are between the ages of five and 11.”
 On the off-chance you were off-planet, the 2020 Olympics were cancelled due to the pandemic.
 e.g. The Constitution, the Declaration of Independence.
 And never mind the possibility of reparations for….
 Who gives a flying fuck if Tiffany tR**p is engaged? Shame on you for making me scroll past that in order to access my daily mini-crossword.
 And hopefully those stories will have at least eight footnotes.
Noteworthy science podcast anecdotes; musings on how we understand, use (and misuse) the term “educated;” wondering how and why some people can believe in the efficacy of intercessory prayer; a bad pun or two; the last Partridge of the Week, etc. I don’t know if the subjects I had planned to address in today’s post were more profound, but they were certainly more fun, than…this.
“It is my considered judgment that my oath to support and defend the Constitution constrains me from claiming unilateral authority to determine which electoral votes should be counted and which should not.” (Vice President Mike Pence, 1-6-21, in a letter to members of Congress. From “Pence defies Trump, says he can’t reject electoral votes,” apnews.com )
“Mike Pence didn’t have the courage to do what should have been done….” ( #45‘s tweet, after Vice President Mike Pence acknowledged he does not have the power to throw out electoral votes )
* * *
Someone needs to be shot for insurrection.
If #45 had the cojones he accused Pence of lacking, he‘d call a press conference, resign, then blow hisbrains out  on live television. He‘d get the “biggliest ratings, ever!” which is and always has been hisultimate concern.
* * *
“Prevoskhodno! This is all going according to plan.”
* * *
How many times did I read or hear, during the last four years,
“Yeah, I know he (#45) is a dick a horrible person as a person, but I’m voting for him because of ______ (conservative policy).”
As friend MM so succinctly put it,
“Everyone who voted for Trump for tax cuts and judges, you own this.”
* * *
What was it that the anti-Vietnam war protestors chanted as they were beaten by Chicago police in 1968?
“The whole world is watching.”
And they were. And we are.
* * *
Department Of Get HimOut, Now. How Can You Not?
Congress: Impeach. Invoke the 25th amendment – #45is clearly “unable to discharge the powers and duties of his office.”  Get the SCOTUS to lead a squad of Capitol Police to arrest him. Whatever it takes.
Please, no cries of, “But we only have to hang on another two weeks, for the good of the country…”
For the good of the country, he needs to go. Would *anyone else* who had fomented a riot – committed sedition – *not* be held accountable?
For the good of the country, his legacy, as MH put it, “needs to be appropriate.”
For the good of the country, we cannot let strongman hooliganism subvert or even delay our democratic processes.
For the good of the country, we need to show the world – we need to show ourselves – that we have not become another anarchic banana republic our laws and ideals have actual meaning.
And, if heis allowed to just…leave, do you really want any portion of your tax dollars to go to hispresidential pension? $219,000 a year, for the rest of hisdeplorable life, living among whatever other deplorables can stand to abide with him? 
“A Russian dacha or a North Korean apartment – your choice, Comrade.”
* * *
May we get the kind of honest, decent, compassionate leadership we need; May you-know-who finally get what hedeserves; May circumstances allow moiself to return to “regular programming” next week; …and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
 Not to worry; it’d be a small splatter, considering the target.
 Section 4, 25th Amendment to the US Constitution.
 There need to be more footnotes, but the only appropriate footnote regarding this deranged disaster of democracy is an unending torrent of FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK !!!
Active, reliable, sarcastic, affectionate, bipedal, cynical optimist, writer, freethinker, parent, spouse and friend, I am generous with my handy supply of ADA-approved spearmint gum and sometimes refrain from humming in public.