Department Of Why Are Some People Still Doing This?
“Summer is synonymous with barbecues, parades and fireworks. The National Safety Council advises everyone to enjoy fireworks at public displays conducted by professionals, and not to use any fireworks at home. They may be legal but they are not safe.” (National Safety Council, “Leave Fireworks to the Experts” )
Please don’t purchase or use fireworks. Moiself doesn’t give a roman candle’s flaming buttcrack about how fondly you look back on those childhood July 4th fireworks parties  – such an activity should be considered anachronistic at best.
“*I* can celebrate with a safe and sane fireworks display, I know it!”
I was surprised by my own visceral reaction (barely suppressed rage; an urge to approach the owners and employees and shame them into leaving) when I saw a fireworks stand this year. *WTF are they doing here?* This was before the heat wave that pummeled the Pacific NW (and western Canada). But folks, we’ve known for years about why, even if Some People ® just can’t get it up for Uh-Mur-ica without viewing explosive pyrotechnic devices, fireworks displays should be left to a few professional or civic shows.
Fireworks suck. For fleeting moments of pyrotechnic entertainment, we also get
* extensive air pollution produced in a short amount of time, leaving metal particles, dangerous toxins, harmful chemicals and smoke in the air for hours (sometimes days) and which find their way into our soil and water systems; 
* fear, acute anxiety and distress, risk of hearing loss (especially for dogs) for our pets; 
* habitat destruction and degradation for wild animals, which is particularly “…energetically costly and physiologically stressful for wild birds, which leave their roost in explosive panic and can smash their skulls or break their necks as the result of flying into trees, fences, billboards, houses and other solid objects that they cannot see in the gloom and smoky chaos (and survivors of the original explosive panic flight remain in danger because these birds are forced to find a safe place to roost in the middle of the night).” 
* over 19,000 fires set – from home roof blazes to wildfire – and over 9,000 people (most often children and teens) sent to emergency rooms due to severe burns and other injuries caused while using consumer fireworks. 
The 2017 Eagle Creek wildfire consumed 50,000 acres of the picturesque Columbia Gorge. Embers of the fire were still smoldering eight months after major containment. Hiking trails and other areas of that scenic wilderness were heavily damaged; U.S. Forest Service and other officials estimate that some trails may remain closed for years. The devastating conflagration was, like so many other wildfires and brushfires, started by fireworks.
Life is all about change, about altering our behavior to accomodate altering circumstances. We didn’t always have firework stands and home fireworks shows; we can survive, thrive, and celebrate without them.
Does this boy represent an ignorant, self-centered, head-in-the-sand danger to the humanity and environment…or is he just another cute dork in a silly costume?
* * *
Department Of The Cinematic Story Strategy Which Annoys MH
That would be time travel. Moiself appreciates (and mostly shares) MH’s aggravation with the over-used, cheap-way-not-to-have-to-deal-with-reality plot device.
Moiself cannot recall the name of the podcast I heard recently, in which the podcast hosts and guests discussed a (non-scientific) survey conducted about time travel. Random bench sitters were asked questions along the lines of,
“If you could travel in time, (1) would you choose to do so? (2) if you said yes to (1), would you choose to travel to the past,
or to the future?”
The surveyors seems to have the idea that time travelers going to the past would do so with the motivation of having the opportunity to change something that they did, or neglected to do – an action which, the time travelers hoped, would right a wrong and/or increase happiness or success in their present lives. (Indeed, some people questioned gave answers supporting that idea.)
There was a bit o’ surprise among the surveyors re the number of people over age 50 who wanted to travel to the future, not the past. Some of the younger folk – even a few children – said there were things in the past they’d like to change (words spoken; actions they wish they could do over). But most of the 50+ folk surveyed expressed little desire to go back in time to change some pivotal event (whether it be in their own/personal lives, or re world history  ). The podcast guests and hosts bantered about why that was so, and the answers of a few of those who were surveyed gave them a clue: older people know, from decades of experience, that there are innumerable incidents large and small which make up a lifetime; thus, going back to change what might seem like a pivotal moment would probably not make much of a difference in one’s long-term outlook and prospects.
I don’t know how the episode ended; I stopped listening midway through, as I was consumed with the thought of what *my* time travel choice would be. Seeing as how traveling to one’s past is Not One Of Those Things That Will Happen At All, Or At Least In My Lifetime ®, I dismissed that option, for a clear-eyed – and ultimately more fulfilling, moiself thinks – embrace of reality: I hold that each of us are, already, “one way” time travelers.
“Please elucidate, in a non-sesquipedalian manner.”
We are time travelers to the future. True, it’s on a smaller scale as compared with sci fi cinematic conceits, but that doesn’t change the fact that today is the future we were envisioning twenty years, ten months, two weeks, one day ago. Right now is yesterday’s future. With every breath and step I take, I travel into the future.
Although…how cool would it be to join Ms. Frizzle and the gang and ride The Magic School Bus back to the time of the dinosaurs?
* * *
Department Of The Best Way To Begin A Podcast
…is with an opening line comparable to this, from a recent episode of Curiosity Daily :
“The butt – way more versatile than you may expect…” ( Curiosity Daily, “Mammals can breathe through their butts,” 6-25-21 )
And why, you may ask, is such a possibility worthy of notation, or research? Researchers are hopeful that this discovery may lead to treatments for humans suffering from severely diminished lung capacity.
Well, of course they are.
As for moiself, although I generally avoid reality TV, I could be persuaded to tune in to see a butt-breathing act on one of those “America’s Got Talent”-type shows.
* * *
Punz For The Day Time Travel Edition
I used to be addicted to time travel, but that’s all in the past now.
If you time travel to the future and get decapitated, you really are a head of your time
If I travel back from the future and carry a bratwurst with me, do I have a link to the past?
I’ve invented a device to harvest herbs from the future: it’s a thyme machine.
“Please, Doc, take us back to before there was this blog.”
* * *
May you enjoy fantasizing about your own Magic School Bus destination; May you help your pulmonary-compromised friends and relatives practice butt-breathing (discretely, please); May you liberate yourself from the desire to buy and/or use fireworks; …and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
 I have such memories. For many years now I’ve have realized that that’s just what they should be: memories, as in, in the past.
Department Of Food For Thought, And For The Planet Sub-Department Of It’s Just Too Damn Big A Problem For One Person…
…which is what keeps most of us, moiself included, from taking definitive actions regarding global warming/climate change. The problem is so big, so overwhelming, it’s easy to think we’ve gone too far already and nothing can save us so why drag out the inevitable – let’s all switch to coal-burning cars and get it over with….
However, “most of us,” as individuals, adds up to most of the planet, and if “most of us” made a concerted effort to change certain deleterious habits and adopt a more climate-friendly lifestyle, we could do the equivalent of sticking our fingers in the hole in the dike while our world leaders figure out a global energy strategy. 
The following excerpts are from the recent Curiosity Daily podcast: “The Climate Diet: 50 Simple Ways To Trim Your Carbon Footprint.”
The Climate Diet author Paul Greenberg: “A very simple one would be to switch from beef to chicken. A lot of your listeners are thinking, ‘Oh, no, we have to go vegan…’ but it turns out actually that if we could get the real solid meat eaters to not necessarily go for the bean burger but go to chicken they would cut their (contribution to carbon) emissions per pound by 75%….
That is pretty big and pretty significant, so if you’re going to start with anything, why not start with that?
CD Host: You also mentioned less cheese – what about that?
PG: “…when I was in college everybody loved this cookbook called The Moosewood Cookbook – it was the vegetarian cookbook that everybody embraced, but man, is there a lot of cheese in there! Is it turns out that cheese is actually worse from an emissions standpoint than chicken…. If you’re choosing your diet based on (carbon) emissions, eating vegetarian with a lot of cheese is really not the best choice – actually chicken or even fish is even better…. I don’t want to de-emphasize veganism – veganism is absolutely the best way to go if you want to be your very best, but if you can’t get there, then moving away from beef and cheese is a good start.
So let’s just put it in perspective: a vegan diet, it just blows doors off of everything: …a lentil, you’re talking about 0.9 kilos of carbon emissions per kilo of food; chicken is between 6 or 6, but beef is up at 27.”
* * *
Department Of There’s Always Something
“…Fetterman called for universal health care, marijuana legalization, and a much higher minimum wage well before it was popular. Now…Fetterman wants to convince his fellow Democrats that their party’s future depends less on fighting over fracking and more on embracing legal weed and embracing their populist roots. “This idea [of climate change] that every climate scientist in the world agrees [on] — we need to run on that,” he says. “We also can’t tell a bunch of workers, ‘Go work at Duolingo.’ That’s not fair. We still need to be a manufacturing powerhouse, too.”
…I actually don’t use marijuana. But I think you should be able to, or any adult should be able to, legally, safely, taxed, and not label them a criminal. We need to expunge all criminal convictions. If there is anybody serving jail time for a marijuana conviction, get them out immediately.
…You want to heal this country? Let’s start by acknowledging some universal truths. Health care is a basic human need and right. You can’t fucking live off $7.25 an hour.…Why are we imprisoning people in the failed war on drugs? These are things that transcend politics.
Run on the truth, and that’s what I’ll do. Run on the truth. And if you win, great. If you lose, great. But I will always run on the truth.”
( excerpts from “Big John Fetterman Can Save the Democratic Party —
if the Democrats Let Him,” Rolling Stone, 11-12-20 )
Recently on our family message group, son K alerted us (MH, his sister Belle, and moiself ) to the above article. John Fetterman is running for the Senate in what will be a key or battleground state; K thought we might want to send some support ($$) his way, as Fetterman seems to be ‘right on” on many issues we consider common sense. This led to a fun and thoughtful family IM-discussion, some of which is excerpted here.
I had heard of John Fetterman; the RS article was a better introduction than the vague, “I-think-he’s-this-guy” ideas I’d had, and I checked out his website as well. I liked most of what he said and was impressed with his background story.  I did send a donation…but there was something that gave me pause.
About the pause: Enter and-what-else-is-new? territory: No candidate is every going to be perfect, or check off on all your favorite issues.  I fully realize that, and strive not make the perfect the enemy of the good.
The RS reporter said that Fetterman has “…been out ahead on…issues that have since come into vogue: a higher minimum wage, marijuana legalization, same-sex marriage…” and Fetterman commented,
“I’ve never had to evolve on one of my positions on that because I’ve always said what I believe is true.”
“You’ll always know where I stand. I haven’t had to evolve on the issues, because I ‘ve always said what I believe is true and I’ve been championing the same core principles for the last 20 years.”
As my bumper sticker so eloquently and succinctly puts it:
The sticker pokes fun at the creationists’ anti-evolution/science, but I’ll apply it to politics as well. My opinions have evolved over time, as they should have, and as they will continue to do. The reasons moiself holds the opinions I do is because I try to engage with the facts, and update my viewpoints as thewhat-we-know-about-this-issue changes. No issues, no opinions, are – or should be, IMHO – static; it is unlikely that Fetterman or any candidate has been or will be on the right side of history when it comes to *every* issue. Our country – our world – needs political servants who understand that, and who have the self-awareness and strength of character to change their minds when necessary.
You can also admire someone for “spine,” which can be evident in, as K pointed out, their willingness not to compromise on “insane [ political]  demands.”
K: “I’ll take uncompromising but passionate at this point since we have too many lackluster moderate democrats who don’t do shit.”
MH: “I hope he’s willing to evolve his position even if it is one I currently agree with.”
Belle: “I appreciate the intent behind the statement, but I agree that I’d want a representative who is willing to change their views and isn’t ashamed of it or tries to hide it.”
Actor/dancer/choreographer Cheryl Gates McFadden is best known for playing Dr. Beverly Crusher on Star Trek: TNG. Her podcast is “…a series of conversations featuring close friends and former co-stars reminiscing on careers, personal life and more.”
Yesterday I listened to “more” – part II of McFadden’s interview with actor, dancer and fellow Star Trek alum, Nana Visitor, who played Major Kira Nerys on Star Trek: Deep Space Nine.  At the end of the podcast, McFadden and Visitor were sharing stories about their family members. The theme of the sudden realization that children – as well as adults – can have, wherein a familiar sight or regular activity suddenly, inexplicably, seems confounding or amazing (e.g., re brushing your teeth: “What am I doing? I am putting a stick in my mouth and moving it up and down and around my jaw and teeth – why do people do this, and who invented it?“) was fertile ground for McFadden’s “shower story.”
“When my son was three…we have a very open, big bathroom…and we have an open shower. I’m in the kitchen, and he runs in and says, ‘Mommy mommy, c’mere, c’mere, c’mere – mommy, mommy, come come come!‘ And we’re running, and he runs me right up to the shower, where his father is taking a shower. And he points to his…(father’s penis)…and he says, HAVE YOU SEEN THAT ?!?!’
And I said, ‘Yes, I have.’ “
* * *
Punz For The Day Global Warming Edition
Where did scientists get the idea that the ice caps are melting? They just thawed it up.
Global warming will kill every single person on this planet. It’s a good thing I’m married.
Did you know global warming is reducing terrorism? The ISIS melting.
What is it called when vermiforms take over the world? Global Worming.
* * *
May your positions on “the issues” be always evolving; May you compose your own virtue-signaling yard sign; May you hear stories (or see yard signs) that remind you why life is worth living; …and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
 Yes, there is a buttload of optimism in that last part.
 And not just because of all the legumes you’ll be eating! Sorry, but I’ve been suppressing fart jokes, with all the talk about diet and emissions, for a couple of paragraphs now, and I just need to let ’em rip….
 Three cheers for anyone running for office who is *not* a lawyer!
 And if you find one that does, you’d better look again, because it’s likely either you – or the candidate – are missing something.
 Be forewarned: if you listen to part one of the interview – and I think you should – it contains the story of Visitor’s near death experience (she was kidnapped and raped by two men, who followed her when she drove home after a late night on the ST:DS9 set and discussed with each other what to do with her body [they’d planned on killing her] after the attack). She suffered from trauma-induced PTSD for years afterward; her recovery plus her ongoing work in and advocacy for mental health issues is an amazing story of courage and resilience.
Department Of When The Word Gets Out About His Instructions This Doctor Will Be Booked Years In Advance
Hmm…what to keep and what to shred?
MH decided to store his COVID vaccine card in his medical file, which was filled with papers that were decades old. He decided to downsize the file, and began skimming the various papers. Flipping through the multi-page instructions for his colonoscopy of many years ago, he noted that each page had a heading for the various instructions, which were divided into sections: e.g., “how to prepare the week before,” “what to do before your procedure, “what to do following your procedure.” Each heading got its own page. If all of the section’s instructions didn’t fit on one page, the instructions continued on the next page, with the heading.
This layout proved unfortunate – read: highly entertaining – for the last set of instructions, “what to do following your procedure,” as there was no room for the last “Do not,” heading, which then printed on a page of its own:
Yeah, after your procedure, drink *any* alcoholic beverage.
What the heck, DRINK ‘EM ALL.
* * *
Department Of Why I Share Stories Like These Sub Department Of Best Comeback Ever
I share stories like the above, whether they are my “own” or someone else’s, because I am selfish. I share them for my own personal enjoyment. The pleasure I take in it is not what you may be thinking – it’s not so much in the telling of the stories, it’s that moiself loves hearing *other* people’s stories. And I know and expect – due both experience and a wee knowledge of psychology – that by sharing a certain kind of story, at least at least one person hearing/reading it will be reminded, prompted, or “loosened up” enough  to share a related story of their own.
True to expectations, when I forwarded MH’s colonoscopy instructions story to select friends and family, I got some feedback. One story in particular had me
Which I think is the acronym for
Rolling on the floor laughing my ass off losing all bowel and bladder control foaming at the mouth and flinging saliva onto the ceiling.
Perhaps…not that dramatic. But when I was out to lunch with MH and checked my email, when moiself read the following anecdote my cousin DF shared with me I laughed so hard and suddenly that I spewed some of my Gardenburger dangerously close to MH’s French fries.
“A nurse (RN) named Annie always used to help with my colonoscopies (I had 5 of ’em ……colonoscopies, not nurses). Annie once told me that mixing the salty, night-before-prep with tequila would easily help me get through all the fluid intake …and better handle the subsequent fluid outtake.
Another time, Annie was about to give me a shot in the arm. She pushed up my sleeve, rubbed alcohol onto the injection site, then said ‘prick’ …to which I immediately replied ‘bitch.’
I was summarily jabbed big-time.”
* * *
Department Of Speaking of Sharing Stories… Does Any One Else’s Cat Do This?
One of our cats, Nova (pictured above, looking suspiciously innocent), from time to time performs an odd…ritual (?)…as part of her morning ablutions. After she uses the litter box for #2, she leaps out of the box and proceeds to run several laps around the house, sometimes accompanied by her come-play-with-me! vocalizing.
Moiself calls this behavior *Nova’s Happy Turd Trot.* My interpretation is that she’s running for joy (“I feel so much lighter now, I could fly!”) Because these incidents in the past  were occasionally accompanied by MH and/or I finding a…ahem…”turd on the loose” (or worse yet, skidmarks on the carpet), MH says that she does it because she feels that “something is chasing her” (read: one of her turd astronauts has not quite made its splashdown).
I think we’re both correct.
Well, neither are *we,* queenie, as we have no servants to return the wayward turd to its proper receptacle.
* * *
“Well, sometimes the magic works. Sometimes, it doesn’t.” (Old Lodge Skins, played by Chief Dan George, Little Big Man)
Dateline: Tuesday, circa 6 am; doing my morning 15 minutes of meditation, which is not going so smoothly. Moiself’s monkey mind is drifting even more than usual; I decide to forgo my typical techniques and concentrate on my breath while repeating a pay attention kind of mantra, or reminder, to moiself. I chose arguably the most deceptively simply yet profound mindfulness phrase, “Be here now,” which does the trick for about five breath cycles, until my baboon brain takes it for a spin…and I hear moiself thinking to moiself:
Be here now Bees here now Bear here now Bear hair here now Bear hears cow Care bears cow Beet hairs now Barley here now Beer here now My beer is barely here now Wait a minute – I don’t even drink beer…
* * *
Department Of Petty Pleasures Number 479 In A Series
This has happened more than once – moiself deriving childish amusement via witnessing the cuisine-related faux pas of someone else.  Dateline for the most recent incident: last Tuesday, 12:45 pm-ish. I was in a Thai restaurant,  in a seat by the counter, enjoying my panang curry and watching people coming in to pick up their phone-in/to-go orders.
The restaurant owner greeted each person who picked up an order by reading off the order’s contents (“Two Pad Thai shrimp; two red curry, veggie….”) . One customer, as she received her to-go bag of three curry dishes with rice, asked if there were chopsticks with her order. “Three napkins and utensils included,” said the restaurant owner, who pointed at a basket on the counter which was filled with forks and spoons wrapped in napkins. “You need more utensils?”
“I want chopsticks,” the customer said. The owner repeated that utensils were already in the bag; the customer repeated that she wanted chopsticks.
I eat all my food with chopsticks.
I wondered if that was that customer’s first time ordering Thai food. If she’d have looked around she might have noticed that the tables were set with napkins and forks. No chopsticks in sight.
Many Americans, not wanting to be seen as “Oriental food” newbies, mistakenly think chopsticks should accompany any food they identify as Asian (Does it come with rice? Check; it’s Asian.  ,  apparently not knowing (or caring?) about the nuances of eating Asian and south-Asian cuisines.
Thais eat Thai food with a spoon and fork, not chopsticks.
I have witnessed customers at Thai restaurants berating servers for not bringing them chopsticks. A Thai restaurant employee told me that so many non-Asian Americans want to appear as if they know what they are doing when it comes to Asian food and thus (mistakenly) insist on using chopsticks to eat their Thai food, that Thai restaurants keep a supply of chopsticks on hand for just that purpose. 
Rule #1: Put Down The Damn Chopsticks! The spoon (usually a table spoon) is used to bring food to your mouth. The fork is used to maneuver your food around your plate and onto the spoon. Generally, spoon in the right hand; fork in the left.
Individual table settings will not have a knife. Knives are used in the kitchen – not the dining table. Meat is served already cut-up into bite sizes. When you do need to cut something on your plate, Thais will use the spoon.
Thais use chopsticks when eating Chinese food. (Duh!) They also use chopsticks for their varieties of noodle soup…. But even then, the chopsticks are used to snatch goodies from your (noodle soup) bowl and place them onto a spoon. ( Thai table manners – put down the chopsticks! mythailandblog.com )
My favorite Thai cookbook. No eating utensils necessary.
* * *
Department Of That Which Comes from Social Media Prompts
I can’t remember the exact phrasing of the prompt, which I saw on Facebook. It was something along the lines of,
“Date yourself by naming one concert you have attended.”
The first one I thought of that fit the bill was a double bill, featuring bands which my offspring would likely have never heard of: Cheap Trick opened for The Runaways . I googled The Runaways to find their touring history, to get the date right (it was the Santa Monica Auditorium gig, in April 1977), and by doing so I came across a link to “Bad Reputation,” a 2018 documentary about The Runaways’ cofounder, Joan Jett. Guess what I streamed on TV that night?
I’ve long loved Joan Jett’s songs, and she’s fun to see in concert. Besides the afore-mentioned gig, I saw Jett a couple of times in her post-Runaways year, rocking up a sweat storm with her band, The Blackhearts. Somewhere in my attic is a cassette tape I cherish: a DJ friend of mine persuaded Ms. Jett to record a personalized birthday greetings for moiself. 
As much as I enjoyed most of the documentary, I found some of it painful to watch. In particular, that which pained me is at odds with the sentiments of Jett’s lyrics from the documentary’s titular song:
♫ I don’t give a damn ’bout my reputation You’re living in the past, it’s a new generation A girl can do what she wants to do And that’s what I’m gonna do…
And I don’t give a damn ’bout my reputation Never said I wanted to improve my station And I’m only doin’ good when I’m havin’ fun And I don’t have to please no one…
I don’t give a damn ’bout my reputation Never been afraid of any deviation And I don’t really care if you think I’m strange I ain’t gonna change… ♫ (“Bad Reputation,” first three verses, sans chorus)
Living in the past it’s a new generation…yeah, I wish. Seeing the Joan of the present compared with the past makes me want to listen to Lawrence Welk muzak, for some reason. Her punk fuck you musical persona aside, obviously, Joan cares about celebrity standards of appearance (for women). Although she sings otherwise she seems afraid of any deviation from the Hollywood norm, as per her present visage. Her countenance evinces the er facplastic surgery stretching associated with the most insecure, fading former debutante, instead of the bad ass rocker she *should* look like, at her age. You’re living in the past, it’s a new generation ? There’s nothing new, or punk or empowering, about Jett’s overly taut, plasticized face.
The documentary featured interviews with many actors, composers, producers, and musicians who expressed admiration for or had a connection to Jett, and the gender contrasts were striking. Why is it that male rockstars like Iggy Pop and Keith Richards are allowed to be comfortable with their accurately aging faces and bodies (which look like they’ve been in a raisin-drying contest since the 1600s), when Jett evidently feels that she has to try to recreate the forehead she had at age 15 – and the mouth that she *never* had  – when she is in her mid-60s?
I dunno…. Is it pettiness on behalf of moiself, that allows me to be distracted by the obvious cosmetic augmentations of the present as compared with Jett’s face of the past? I just wish that JJ felt the same, because she was so cool in so many ways.
When it comes to “cosmetic dermatologic procedures” it’s easy for me, not being in the public eye (anymore) and subject to the ruthless scrutiny of their appearance that “public” women get, to critique other women who fall for it go for it. Although, as per the scrutiny, I did recently get an email from a cosmetic dermatology practice telling me that I needed to avail moiself of their services. “How do they know?” I asked MH, after I read the email. “Have they placed cameras behind our mirrors?”
Once again, I digress.
On a marginally related note, I’ve never liked the classic Happy Birthday Song ®. If you’re going to serenade moiself on my birthday – and why *wouldn’t* you? – I’d prefer a verse or two of The Mary Tyler Moore Show theme. Guess who has done the best cover, IMHO? Take it away, Joan:
* * *
Punz For The Day Punk Rocker Edition
You can always give punk rock bands constructive criticism –
they appreciate feedback.
Q. What has eight arms and still can’t play bass worth shit? A: Squid Vicious.
Johnny was a punk rocker in the 80’s. Now he makes crockery at the pottery center
and jokes about it. He’s come full circle: he’s a pun crocker.
* * *
May the concerts you attend never date you; May you never ask for chopsticks at a Thai restaurant; May you follow your entertaining colonoscopy instructions to the letter; …and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
 As in, “Whoa boy, if she can tell/admit to that, then I can say ______ “
 Hardly ever anymore, now that she gets hairball supplements with her dinner. And just in case your brain was going there, she has regular vet care and has never had worms, or any other parasite that might account for…whatever it is she’s doing.
 The simple pleasure of being able to do that, again!
 A sweet, culinarily clueless relative said that to me, once, as per how he knows “what kind” of food he’s eating.
 Chinese; Japanese; Thai; Vietnamese; Cambodian – it’s all the same, right?
 The people I’ve spoken with said it’s easier to just give chopsticks to those who ask, rather than trying to explain Thai table manners. One server, himself Thai, said that a white customer berated him for not knowing that “Asian food required chopsticks” and implied that forks were for children and adults who could not handle chopsticks.
 Jett was doling PR at his station, recording a promo. Thanks, Erndawg – one of the best birthday presents, ever!
 What is it with the batwing-tipped, cupid’s bows on her upper lip? The contrast with her natural mouth, so evident with archival footage – DUH – is bizarre, to say the least.
Department Of Quarantine Reflections Sub-Department of The Neurobiology Of Love
“Neuroscientists have studied madly-in-love folks, putting them in the fMRI machine…. The parts of the brain that ‘light up’ while looking at the lover are the same brain areas activated by cocaine—the reward centers. These researchers concluded that love is like a drug.
… The chemicals of early love: testosterone (the hormone fueling the sex drive in both men and women), dopamine (focusing on ‘that special someone’), and oxytocin (the bonding hormone/neurotransmitter)….in early love, the critical part of the brain goes quiet…
Crazy in love is a temporary state; the brain can’t stand the intensity forever. At some point the critical parts of the brain come back online, and we see our partners, warts and all. The jazzed-up chemicals settle down, and our drug high gives way to a calmer brain state. Romantic love, researchers find, yields to a tamer version, called companionate love….
Many couples are deeply disappointed when their romance fades into a more sedate version. They crave the high of early love, dopamine and all. Some have affairs, or divorce and remarry, seeking another hit of the drug. But eventually the new relationship will become old….
‘I still love my wife, but I’ve fallen out of love with her,’ a man said to me recently. He’s missing the hit of the drug, and is thinking of looking elsewhere for that love high again. To my mind, ‘falling out of love’ sounds so passive—like falling into a pothole! I propose a more proactive view of long-term love, in which both partners work to create a great relationship. Once the initial glow wears off, the real work of loving begins. The stakes are high; while happy relationships are associated with health and longevity, the stress of an unhappy marriage can result in illness and earlier death.”
“Frankly my dear, after the dopamine dips, I won’t give a damn.”
“That warm, fuzzy feeling…called limerence…refers to the intense, involuntary attraction we feel during the first stages of a romantic relationship. Limerence is often characterized by intrusive thoughts (we can’t stop thinking about someone) and a need for reciprocation (we can’t stand the thought of being rejected by someone).
Limerence has a biological basis. When we are first attracted to someone, our brains release chemicals like norepinephrine and dopamine, which make our hearts flutter and make us feel happy.
The feeling of limerence can last for weeks or decades, although most people start to feel its decline within a year or two of starting a romantic relationship. As we form a lasting romantic bond, dopamine and norepinephrine stop flowing. They’re replaced by hormones associated with social bonding, like oxytocin.”
“It’s just limerence, darling. We’ll live through it.”
Although more and more people are becoming vaccinated, the health care, social, psychological, and economic effects of the COVID-19 pandemic will linger for some time. Perhaps it’s too early to be in “look back” mode, but since I have been fully vaccinated, moiself’s mind tends to go there. “There” includes bits of wisdom I attempted to impart to my offspring – when they were still in the nest, and then reminders  after they’d left – about the good which can come from hard times, including:
* realizing the value of resilience
* discovering, on more than a theoretical level, that you are (or can learn to be) more resilient and adaptable than you may have previously thought.
In the past year+ I have been reading about how people got on each other’s nerves during the pandemic. Fortunately, there were also stories about how some lucky folks found new things to admire in their partners and family members. A particularly pleasant side effect of the pandemic for moiself has been the reminder,
Oh yeah, I married the right guy. (Right for *me,* that is).
MH has simply been…easy to be with. I hope he found moiself as agreeable (or at least as tolerable) as I found him.
I don’t want to make light of what has been a trying time for all families, and very difficult for some. I also realize that, in this stage of our lives…well, things might have been way different if our offspring were not successfully fledged but were instead school age/living at home and we had to juggle both childcare and education responsibilities, and if our economic situation had been precarious and/or not amenable to working from home.
As fun (and also overwhelming) as the passion of the early times of a relationship can be, I have always and strongly believed that romantic love is overemphasized by our culture, and that relationships which prioritize that “romance” side of love above all else are doomed to fail, as the partners conflate the ebbing of romantic feelings with diminishment of the relationship. As per the research quoted in the above excerpts, romantic love by its very nature has a shelf life, determined in part by the sheer newness of getting to know someone as well as by the biological realities  which produce those over-hyped romantic emotions.
Although the following Life Advice ® of mine is unlikely to inspire cinematic tales of inspirational star-crossed lovers, it is, IMHO, essential:
Marry someone whose essential qualities and temperament make you think, “This is someone I could stand to be quarantined with.”
To put it in terms of my own ongoing realization:
“More important than ‘being in love’ with this person
is the fact that I *like* him.”
How could I not love a man who lets me take a picture of him with his hair in a “granny knot” (courtesy of daughter Belle’s styling skills)?
* * *
Department Of Back In The Saddle
Those who know me, and/or who have been reading this blog since before the pandemic, know that I am a fan of seeing movies in a movie theatre. While I am grateful for the many streaming services that kept us all entertained during the times of social/physical isolation, I am now Making Up For Lost Time. ® In the past five days moiself has seen three movies, in a movie theatre:
* A Quiet Place Part II
* Dream Horse
Abby the Emotional Support Avocado gives two thumbs up to each. 
* * *
Department Of Things Unlikely To Happen In My Lifetime
As part of my coming-out-of-pandemic mindset, I still like to think of such things, even if they are unlikely to happen. “Things” as in, solving the world’s pressing problems. “Things” along the lines of, what would happen If I Ran The World ® ? And by ‘running the world’ I do not mean moiself would be doing so as a queen or any kind of monarchist, ’cause y’all know how I feel about that.
Rather, If I Ran The World ® things would be like this:
* All nations would agree upon a “Marshall Plan” (or series of plans), to stop the damage we are doing to our home planet and for cleaning up the messes we’ve already made. Those coming up with workable solutions would be compensated (and celebrated) to the highest financial and “celebrity” degree.  Instead of being hailed for designing an app for more convenient shopping or food delivery or online gaming, the creative young (and older) engineering, artistic and scientific minds would be encouraged to pool resources and take up the various challenges (“Ok, our group will solve ground water storage and pollution; yours will do topsoil rejuvenation…”).
Components of this plan include coming up with solutions for
– renewable/sustainable non-polluting energy sources
– cleaning/filtering pollutants from our land skies and seas
– halting and reversing global warming
For example, in this if-I-ran-the-worldscenario in no one would be using or manufacturing plastics anymore, but what about the bazillion tons of plastic refuse that already exist? Somewhere out there is an idealistic student, in the suburbs of Portland or the streets of New Delhi, who is eager to put her brilliant but unappreciated mind to work inventing or discovering a bacteria or other organism that eats plastics and excretes something useful – or at least non-toxic – in return (read: that doesn’t turn into the sci-fi movie bogeyman which is going to take revenge on us all).
Unless of course, the organism turns out to be the inspiration for a classic monster movie, ala “The Blob.” Then I say, bring it on!
* National boundaries as such would become an anachronism; nations and governments would be organized according to Bioregions. 
* Daylight savings or standard time – we’d pick one of those for our clocks to be set to, year-round, and we’d adjust our work and school schedules accordingly.  The choice would be in agreement with what medical science tell us is optimal for the human mind and body.
* High Schools would eliminate the teaching of trigonometry and/or Algebra 2, and a mandatory math class for all students would be statistics and data analysis (aka Data Science). 
Religious believers may still cling to their creation mythologies and other dogmas: practitioners of the three major Abrahamic religions ( Christians and Jews and Muslims ) will be free to believe that the earth as it currently exists was created in six days 6000 years ago by their god, which then fashioned a man from dust/clay and a woman from a man’s rib; Hindus may believe in their various origins mythos, including that Brahma created the cosmos from a lotus flower which grew from Lord Vishnu’s navel with Brahma sitting on it, or that life in the universe came from the cracking of an enormous egg; Wiccans can hold that “the Goddess” birthed a race of spirits that filled the world and became humans, animals, plants, and all living beings; Scientologists may assure one another that Tom Cruise is the heir to Xenu’s galactic confederacy ….
Religious believers will be free to practice their beliefs as long as their doing so does not negatively impact their neighbors. For example, in the privacy of their own homes and churches, Christians will still be able to appease their deities through reenacting their Jesus-as-the-ultimate-animal-sacrifice ritual via the symbolic cannibalism of communion. However, there will be no governmental respecting of any religion’s theology, nor integration of such in public policy. Religious believers will still be able to vote however they please but will not be able to influence other people’s healthcare options, nor demand that public education incorporate their folklore about the origins of the cosmos as if those myths held equal weight to the geologic, biologic, and astronomical evidence.
* * *
Punz For The Day Cinephile Edition
French movie fanatics want to open a floating cinema in Paris, with drive-in boats! I just think that’s in Seine.
Have you seen the latest Pirates of the Caribbean movie? It’s rated aRRRRRRRRRRRRR.
Why did Bruce Willis try to commit suicide with an overdose of Viagra? He wanted to Die Hard.
What is the internal temperature of a Tauntaun? Lukewarm.
* * *
May you appreciate those people you could stand to be quarantined with; May you make plans *right now* to go to the movie theater; May you start your own “If I Ran The World” list; …and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
 “Reminders” sounds better than unsolicited life advice.
 Those romance hormones, like opiates and other “highs,” lose their potency as we develop tolerances to them.
 Well…Abby was a bit generous with Cruella, which needed at least 30 minutes of edits.
 Although I’d like to think the minds capable of solving our problems would not care about fame, it only seems fair that they’d be celebrated – and rewarded for their contribution to humanity – more than, say, the actor with the most Academy Awards or the basketball player with the highest field goal percentage.
 A bioregion is an ecologically and geographically defined area. Bioregionalism, as a governing philosophy, advocates that political, cultural, and economic systems to be organized around bioregions (which are defined through environmental features such as watershed boundaries, soil and topographical characteristics), rather than via the arbitrary and often unjust national boundaries established over the centuries via wars, immigration and expansionist policies, and desire for land acquisition and resource exploitation.
 Once every month or so, in order to maximize our productive times with the times of the most daylight, we would adjust our schedules to start or end an hour earlier or later, and such changes would be implemented with a week’s warning time: “Remember, next week/in six days School/work class begins at 9 AM not 10 AM.” We don’t change our clocks; we change our schedules. 9 AM is still 9 AM.
 The reality is that few of us will go on to use trigonometry, but all of us need to know how to sort out the overwhelming amount of data to which we are subjected in our daily lives, and how to determine what are valid stats verses what is being used to manipulate us (i.e., make us afraid).
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.
“Recent polling shows that 39% of Americans believe that the election that just occurred was rigged… You may not agree with that assessment, but it is nonetheless a reality for nearly half the country.” (Senator Ted Cruz, 1-6-21)
“In other words, ‘We have no proof the election was stolen, and you may have verifiable evidence that it wasn’t, but that doesn’t matter. It only matters that we believe it.’
And that’s when you’re at religion: that you have to respect something just because people believe it. Does that include professional wrestling?” ( Comedian Bill Maher on Real Time With Bill Maher, re the remarks of Senator Cruz )
The fact that many evangelical/conservative Christians believe and promote QAnon conspiracy theories seems to confuse and embarrass Other Christians ® . Even some leaders of ultra conservative Christian churches and nationalist groups have wondered aloud about the fact that many of their followers are part of a “mass delusion.”
“Why is it our people are so vulnerable to this stuff?” (Lance Wallnau, self-proclaimed prophet, Christian Nationalist, and “7 Mountains Mandate” creator, The Washington Post, 1-14-21 )
The embarrassment of these Other Christians is itself an embarrassment – especially when I hear or read my mainstream/progressive Christian family and friends wondering:
“How can those QAnon Christians believe things that make no sense?”
Y’all ask this…seriously?
My religious friends, whose hearts and intentions I deeply respect, the answer is simple, and you’re not going to like it:
The reason those QAnon/Trump/Confederate Flag/Proud Boy Christians can believe things that make no sense is because they already believe things that make no sense. Your fellow Christians  believe such things in the first place *because* of their religious faith, not in spite of it. Religion has already primed them to accept outlandish claims sans objective proof (other than the “proof” they say they find “in their own hearts”).
The January 6 insurrection was a faith-based initiative, and Trumpism/White Supremacy are Christian nationalist movements.
Freethinkers/Humanists/Agnostics/Atheists/Skeptics have long known this, and while we sometimes tiptoe around this subject with our more mainstream and progressive Christian friends and family…c’mon folks. Why do you keep acting so shocked?
It’s not a giant leap from believing some major things that cannot be proven – aka, taking them on “faith” – to believing other things that cannot be proven.
During a recent New Rules segment of his show, comedian and magical-thinking eviscerator  Bill Maher used his incisive wit to point out the overlap between QAnon theorists and (white Christian) religionists. He pointed out that Christians who roll their eyes at or mock QAnon and its baby-eating lizard people/pedophile pizza parlors scenarios seem not to have read their own Book of Revelation. Right there, in the Christians’ “holy book,” are bizarre tales of “…stuff you see only after the guy in the park sells you bad mushrooms.” 
It was evangelical Christians like Senators Ted Cruz and Paul Gosar who spouted the unjustifiable claims that the 2020 election was “stolen” from #45. Who is seriously surprised by the fact that most of the senators who objected to certifying the electoral college votes for Biden – Cruz and Gosar and their frothing cronies, Senators Josh Hawley, Cindy Hyde-Smith, John Kennedy, Roger Marshall and Tommy Tuberville – were fundamentalist Christians? Not only did each of those senators identify and campaign as fundamentalist Christians, Alabama Sen. Tuberville even filmed a campaign ad equating Trump to Jesus .
The January 6 insurrection at the U.S. Capitol “…looked like a revival meeting,” Maher quipped. Watch the videos of the event, and you’ll see the signs that read, “Jesus is my god and Trump is my president,” and “Trump/Jesus 2020.”
“Magical religious thinking is a virus and QAnon is just its current mutation. That’s why megachurches play QAnon videos. We need to stop pretending there’s no way we’ll ever understand why the Trump mob believes in him. It’s because they’re religious…they’ve already made space in their heads for shit that doesn’t make sense.
There’s a lot of talk now about how Republicans should tell their base who still believe the election was rigged that they need to grow up and move on and stop asking the rest of us to respect their mass delusion. But the inconvenient truth here is that if you accord religious faith the kind of exalted respect we do here in America, you’ve already lost the argument that mass delusion is bad.
( Bill Maher, New Rules, 2-5-21, my emphases. You can see the entire segment here. )
* * *
Department Of One More Thing #379 In An Ongoing Series
In a recent blog post (3-12-21) , re my rant highly nuanced disagreement with the idea that Muslim women are “free” to “choose” whether or not to wear the hijab, moiself forgot to mention one relevant, veil-related anecdote.
The 9/11 attacks took place on a Tuesday morning, which was the meeting time for a book group I’d been attending for years. The book group met at the church MH and I had attended for years.  The pastor of the church (which belongs to ” among the most liberal of the mainline Protestant denominations,”) was the book group’s leader. She, like the rest of us “bookies” (book group members), was stunned by the news,  even more so because of personal reasons: she had a sister-in-law who was a flight attendant for American Airlines out of Boston,  and a brother-in-law who was from the Middle East, and she was concerned for his safety re the growing anti-Arab sentiment.
Moving right along…. One by one the group members staggered into our meeting room as our pastor put on a fresh pot of coffee to brew (she’d already downed one entire pot herself). Glassy-eyed with “WTF just happened?” confusion, we babbled with one another about the attacks (although I’m not sure my opening remarks – “We’re all FUCKED – this is how wars start!” – count as a babble). The pastor was, eventually, able to steer us into a half-hearted discussion of the book we were reading.
The next week the pastor told us bookies about the latest news from the ecumenical group of ministers she belonged to. The group, which was mostly comprised of ministers from liberal Christian denominations but also with Jewish, Muslim and Bahá’í clergy,  had been brainstorming re how to be of support to local Muslims. The news was filled with accounts of how, across the nation, Muslims (as well as people who were not Muslim but who were “suspected” of being Muslim) were being threatened and even physically attacked. Because of the hijab, Muslim women’s religious affiliations were more visible than that of Muslim men, and many Muslim women and girls reported being harassed while riding public transportation or at the grocery store – or just out in public.
Another (female) pastor from the ecumenical group announced that, to express solidarity with Muslim women, she had started wearing a veil in public, and she was “inviting” other non-Muslim women to do so as well. Moiself expressed the same, immediate, visceral reaction that our pastor said she’d had when she heard Well-Meaning Veil Pastor’s suggestion. It was a reaction my pastor and I vowed to share with everyone we knew who might was supportive of the veil-solidarity gesture:
Solidarity; right on!
Yes indeedy, we’ll be happy to don a veil in support of Muslim women – providing Muslim men and boys first do the same, to show support for *their* mothers/sisters/wives/daughters/cousins/co-workers/neighbors….
Guess what? No takers.
* * *
Department Of More Good Clean Fun Brought To You By That All-American Combo, Misogyny And Religion 
Last week a 21-year old man attacked three spas in Atlanta, shooting nine people and killing eight of them, seven of them women (who were his targets; the men were in the wrong place at the wrong time). The alleged suspect told the police that he killed them because he needed to “eliminate the temptations” they presented to him, and that by doing so he would help other men by removing those same “temptations.”
I don’t get it. What could anyone possibly have against The Temptations?
Ahem. “Temptations,” as in, women. You know – female human beings.
If you’ve been paying attention, it’s not the first time you’ve heart this kind of story. In California, Oregon; Toronto…you can Google more, about male killers who target one woman or all women, but it’s too damn depressing. Two years ago, in a refreshing change, a 27-year-old Denver man was arrested on a terrorism charge *before* he was able to carry out his intended rampage. This enabled the press to write “Here is why he said he was going to commit a mass murder” stories, instead of after-the-fact, “The killer said he killed all those women because…” stories:
A 27-year-old Colorado man…arrested on a terrorism charge…cited his virginity as the reason he said he was planning to carry out a mass shooting: “…its is why I’m planning on shooting up a public place soon and being the next mass shooter cause I’m ready to die and all the girls the (sic) turned me down is (sic) going to make it right by killing as many girls as I see.” (sick sick sick). (“A man cited his virginity as reason he planned to kill ‘as many girls’ as he could, police say,” Washington Post, 1-22-19)
As shocking as most of us find these rampages, moiself posits that they are also predictable and even inevitable outcomes in our society, due to the mixture of two poisonous cultural ingredients:
*online sexism and incel forums wherein young men commiserate and encourage one another to blame women for their sexual desires and frustrations;
* religious teachings (in particular, “Purity Culture”) which set the stage and fuel the fire for those frustrations by shaming and pathologizing sexual activity – including masturbation, and even the mere *desiring* of sex – outside of heterosexual marriage, and which hold females responsible for male thoughts and behavior. 
“Her ankles have caused me to fall!”
“It should come as no shock that purity culture is steeped in contradictions: 1) Women hold the sexual reigns and are wholly responsible for any sexual encounter that escalates to something sinful because men lack the ability and should not be expected to control themselves…but
2) somehow, women also hate sex and use it as a punishment/reward system for their husbands…yet
3) women are weak and need the protection
of these feeble-minded, animal-like men.” (“Freedom From Purity Culture“)
“When Brad Onishi heard that the man accused of a rampage at three Atlanta-area spas told detectives that he had carried out the attacks as a way to eliminate his own temptations, the claim sounded painfully familiar. Dr. Onishi…grew up in a strict evangelical community…that emphasized sexual purity…. The evangelical culture he was raised in, he said, “teaches women to hate their bodies, as the source of temptation, and it teaches men to hate their minds, which lead them into lust and sexual immorality.” (“Atlanta Suspect’s Fixation on Sex Is Familiar Thorn for Evangelicals,” NY Times 3-20-21)
A former roommate of the alleged Atlanta shooter told police that the shooter
* didn’t own a smartphone because he feared he’d use it to look at online pornography; * was ashamed of masturbating; * expressed suicidal thoughts as per his fear that he was “falling out of God’s grace” and “living in sin” because he had masturbated and visited sex workers.
“…the idea that men’s sexual issues are women’s responsibility isn’t new, nor is it a fringe ideology confined to the internet — it’s a mainstream belief held by many Americans…
This kind of purity culture has a reach far beyond religion. Abstinence-only education classes taught in over half the states across the country tell young people that the onus is on girls not to tease or tempt boys, whose sexual compulsions, they say, are near uncontrollable.
But rather than curb sexual activity, these programs seem to normalize misogynist impulses. A 2017 study in the Journal of Adolescent Health, for example, found abstinence-only programs often ‘reinforce gender stereotypes about female passivity and male aggressiveness.’
(“How Many Women Have to Die to End ‘Temptation’? The Atlanta murders follow a terrible pattern of misogynist violence,” NY Times 3-22-21)
I really wish I was both making up this chart, and the organization it comes from. But…no.
And let’s not forget another key ingredient in this toxic stew: the romanticized reporting of violence against women, which often frames murderers as reflexive sad sacks “at the end of their rope” or “having a bad day.” Various media headlines, and even comments from law enforcement officials, reinforce the sexist idea that the men and boys who hurt women are themselves victims – casualties of their unrequited desires.
Horrific, brutal killings of women by men have been described as being committed by “a lovesick teen,” and the murderers as suffering from “unrequited love.” The lab tech who strangled a pharmacology grad student and stuffed her body behind a wall was referred to in the press as “lovelorn.” And now, in Atlanta, the County Sheriff investigating the killings said the suspect may have been “lashing out,” and another member of the Sheriff’s office said that the subject had had “a really bad day” and “this is what he did.”
No, (real) love doesn’t kill. But when a notorious punk rocker stabbed a 20-year-old woman to death, some media presented it as a Romeo and Juliet story.
* * *
* * *
Department Of Apropos Of Nothing… And I Know We Have Some Serious Issues Facing Our Country, And The Entire Planet, But This Is Something Which Might Unite Us – Yes, Even Across Seemingly Insurmountable Borders Of Religious, Political, And Cultural Identity
Can we all agree to get rid of the first *r* in February?
Now if only I could find a colorful toucan to join me next time.
In a less-honorable tribute to the arrival of Spring, once again, hearing the term *Vernal Equinox* made moiselfthink of a Tennessee mother yelling across the fields for her son.
“Vernal! Vernal Equinox, you git yer butt back home this instant!”
* * *
Pun For The Day
I changed my smart phone’s name to Titanic. It’s syncing now.
* * *
May you try to say February ten times, as fast as you can, pronouncing both rs
(and then agree with moiself about getting rid of the first one); May you not be deluded as to why *other* people believe crazy shit; May you celebrate the arrival of Spring, no matter how you feel about a term like “Vernal Equinox;” …and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
 And yes, they are Christians, whether or not you approve of them. You don’t own the term; they claim it too, and spout the theology.
 If Maher can have “New Rules” then I can have new words.
 Maher’s delightful recounting of one of Revelation’s major stories: “The book of Revelations will tell you exactly where the world ends – Megiddo, Israel. That’s where all of the armies of the world will gather and Jesus will come down to earth on a flying horse shooting swords out of his mouth (Jesus, not the horse), and have a 1000 year cosmic boss battle with Satan, The Beast, and The Anti-Christ. It’s like ten Avenger movies plus ten Hobbit movies plus a night out with Johnny Depp.”
 It was also the church I was on the cusp of leaving – not that church in particular, but any church, as in religion in general. I had known I was a non- believer for decades yet stayed “closeted” for complicated reasons.
 Our gathering time was 7 am, Pacific time, so we all knew at least something about the attacks on the East Coast.
 One of the four hijacked airplanes, the one which crashed into the North Tower of the World Trade Center, was an American Airlines flight originating in Boston; the pastor’s SIL was not working that flight.
 And very likely, racism. Although as of this writing the (alleged) perpetrator has denied a racial motive (he blamed his “sex addiction”), six of the women were Asian. Others are addressing that issue, including here, here, and here, far better than I could.
I was going to title this segment, Department Of No Comment…except that – surprise! – moiself be commenting.
Gender Reveal Device Explodes, Killing Man in Upstate New York A man who was expecting his first child was killed on Sunday and his brother was injured when a device they were preparing for a gender-reveal party exploded in a garage in the Catskills in New York, the authorities said….(another) brother, called what happened “the freakiest of freak accidents…” What set off the explosion remained under investigation…. The device consisted of some kind of pipe that was intended to be used at a gender-reveal party, but the nature of its explosive material was not yet known…. ( Gender-Reveal Device Explodes, Killing Man in Upstate New York, NY Times 2-22-21 )
Apparently, my sarcastic rebuke wise warning words re the foolhardiness of the gender reveal party phenomenon was not significant to the expectant father/now existent cremation candidate. He, of course, like 99.9999999% of the population, doesn’t (uh, didn’t) know or care that I exist, nor what I write about. Common sense, along with any sense of proportion and propriety wasn’t enough, either. Nor was Learning From The Mistakes Of Others. ® 
As for the description of the incident as, “the freakiest a freak accidents…”
Public Service Announcement: it’s not a freak accident when an explosive device explodes. That’s what explosive devices are designed and constructed to do.
Ask fire fighters or EMTs or hospital ER personnel: their collective “Can you believe this?!?” arsenal of stories is replete with tending to people injured by explosive devices which unintentionally exploded – people from munitions “experts,” to the schmuck who volunteered to shoot his high school’s pep rally confetti cannon.
* * *
Different as in, something which restored my optimism about humanity.
Department Of: This.
Dateline: Tuesday morning; circa 7:30 am. I am on my morning walk, headed toward a light rail station. As I turn onto the bike/walk path which parallels soccer and baseball fields I see a young woman walking on the path ahead of me. She hears my footsteps as I close the gap between us, or so I assume because she does (and then I do) The Right Thing® : she scooches all the way to the right and I to the left, and we both raise our masks.
I call out a good morning to her; she greets me in return, and although my pace is quicker than hers for a moment we are side-by-side (if 10 feet apart). She says something else which I can’t understand due to both her mask and her heavily accented English. I politely ask her to repeat herself; she asks how I am doing…but not in that casual way where people say, How are You? in lieu of Helloor Good Morning. She means it.
I hope she sees the smile beneath my mask which makes it up to my eyes, when I reply that I am doing very well, thanks, and that I hope the day will be good for her. “Yes, yes it will be,”she says, as we both reach the point where the path ends. She begins to head right, toward the light rail station, and I am headed left.
I stop, turn to face her, and call out, “By the way, thank you for asking.” She gives me a cheerful wave and we go our separate ways.
And I was…content. I had the proverbial warm and fuzzies, which lasted all day. Two strangers made a connection, brief yet significant, heartfelt if ephemeral, with the subtext of, in these stressful pandemic times, intentionally acknowledging a passerby beyond the usual, “G’morning.”
It takes no time at all and only a few kind words to acknowledge a fellow human being. “Hi there – I’m here; so are you. I wish good things for us both.”
“If she starts singing ‘Kumbaya’ I’m gonna stop reading her insipid blog and turn on a WWF match.”
* * *
Department Of Something New To Do When You’re Bored
Take out your canned food, your cereal boxes, your condiments and beverage cartons from the frig, your vitamins/nutritional supplements, and line them up on the kitchen counter. One by one, read the items’ ingredients list, out loud, and wherever it lists “extract” substitute the word, “urine.”
* * *
Department Of Just Wondering
Moiself is imagining something of a sticky wicket situation for women in science. Specifically, in the branch of biology known as zoology.
Say you’re a female British ornithologist curating your university’s natural history museum. A visiting American professor of ornithology wishes to review your collection of native European bird species. You invite him to the museum to do so.
Now, are you technically responsible for his reaction, when he sees your display case of Parusmajor specimens and exclaims,
Department Of Yet Another Reason To Never Fine-Tune
My Cellphone’s Voice Typing Feature
Dateline: Sunday; MH and I both away from home, separately running errands. As I’m entering a grocery store I receive a text from him, alerting me to the fact that we are out of hairball chews  and asking if moiself’s errands are taking me anywhere near a pet supplies store which might have them?
I reply in the affirmative. Except, dictating through my mask (and, as always, sending it before proof-reading), my text comes out thusly:
I will go to PetSmart to get the hairball truth.
When I read what I’d sent, moiself is transported into existential-mode. First, I follow up that text with
Chews! I will get the chews! That’s the truth.
But I can’t stop thinking about it. What *is* the hairball truth? Is it something that can be gotten, or comprehended – or merely contemplated – by mere bipeds?
YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE HAIRBALL TRUTH !
* * *
Department Of Did You Know About This?
Woman in Motion is now available for streaming. And you are going to watch it, right?
I knew that actor Nichelle Nichols, best known as the iconic Lt. Nyota Uhura from Star Trek’s original series, is quite beloved by the sci-fi aficionados for her knowledge of the genre and passion for space travel, the latter of which included working to recruit astronauts for NASA. I did not know of the extent of her involvement.
“Woman in Motion: Nichelle Nichols, Star Trek and the Remaking of NASA,” tells the story of how Nichols, in the late 1970s, led recruitment efforts at NASA to bring in more women and people of color. According to the film’s synopsis, “In 1977, with just four months left, NASA struggles to recruit scientists, engineers and astronauts for their new Space Shuttle Program. That is when Nichelle Nichols, Star Trek’s Lt. Uhura, challenges them by asking the question: Where are my people? She embarks on a national blitz, recruiting 8,000 of the nation’s best and brightest, including the trailblazing astronauts who became the first African American, Asian and Latino men and women to fly in space.” (Daily Star Trek news 2-8-21 )
“I am so much more than ‘Hailing frequency open, Captain,” and don’t y’all forget it.”
* * *
Department Of What I Aspire To (Metaphorically. If Not Literally)
You’ve seen your pet  do it: find that sunny spot on the rug or floor or windowsill or bed (or, if it’s your cat, your computer keyboard), plop down atop it, and bask in the simple pleasure of basking. They’re not trying to figure out where the coveted sunny spot came from, what causes it, or where it’s going. they’re just…there.
Moiself aspires towards, at least occasionally, achieving an equanimity akin to the cat-on-the-sunny-spot-on-the-carpet moment. And when the spot “moves” I’ll move with it, or realize that what I had was enough, and get up and go on with whatever.
Sometimes, just the paws are enough.
* * *
Department Of Huh?
Dateline: Sunday 2-21. I am posting a for sale notice on a classified ads internet site. MH suggests I also post on the FB marketplace, so I check it out. I find several local/neighborhood groups, and request to post on four of them. Two of these groups have questions you must answer before you can be “‘approved” to join (and thus post on) them.
The first group has only one question: Are you advertising for a business? The second group, for my city, has two questions: What is your zip code? (I assume to make sure you really live in Hillsboro, and/or weed out scammers), and:
“What is your favorite thing about Hillsboro?”
That question strikes me as odd. It’s not relevant to my intent, nor the intent of others posting on the group who, I assume are, like moiself– listing items we wish to sell to anyone who might wish to purchase them, regardless of what they like (or don’t like) about the city.
My musician friends formed a quartet called “Duvet.” They’re a cover band.
“A-one and a-two and a-nobody laugh.”
* * *
May all of your food item’s extracts be bona fide extracts; May you exchange greetings with amiable strangers at every opportunity; May you find your sunny spot on the rug; …and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
 “Celebratory Cannon Salute at Baby Shower Ends in Death,” (NY Times 2-7-21); “…An Iowa woman was killed when her family inadvertently built a pipe bomb as part of their gender-reveal party” (The Atlantic 11-11-19); A fire sparked by a “pyrotechnic device” during a celebration meant to debut the sex of the hosts’ baby-on-the-way has scorched more than 10,000 acres of Southern California (The Washington Post 9-10-20)
 The great tit is the actual name of a species of bird in the songbird/perching bird family known as the tit family (Paridae), which includes chickadees, tits, and titmice. I think it is safe to assume that some British dude is responsible for the name.
Happy Lunar New Year to my Chinese friends and family, and all who celebrate it.
* * *
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.
* * *
* * *
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.
Normal as in, consisting of political, religious, educational and/or cultural sniping critiques.
No worries – the usual mélange of podcast reviews, feminist fun, cultural tidbits, sarcasm, insightful commentary, bad puns (and occasional fart jokes) returns next week.
While going through our attic and other storage spaces I found a military pin belonging to my father, Chet Parnell. I added it to a box of (mostly) WWII memorabilia I keep in a closet, and thought I should write a description/explanation of the items in the box for the inheritors of it, my offspring, K and Belle. While doing so I began thinking of thousands of families who likely have similar stories – and boxes – and may or may not know some of the stories behind them. You might not give two snakes’ elbows for a story about my extended family; in that case, kick back and rewatch “Young Frankenstein” and remind yourself of what a great actor we had in Cloris Leachman. But in hopes of sparking at least one other person to ask a family member about their past…or open a forgotten storage box in their own closet….
What follows is an edited version of the document I wrote for K and Belle.
* * *
The Combat Infantryman Badge is a U.S. Army military decoration awarded to infantrymen who fought in active ground combat while assigned as members of either an Infantry or Special Forces unit.
Your grandpa Chet was awarded this badge while in Alaska, serving with the 542nd paratroop infantry regiment, in the Aleutian Islands Campaign.
The Aleutian Islands campaign was…conducted by the USA and Japan in the Aleutian Islands, part of the Territory of Alaska, in the American theater and the Pacific theater of World War II. In the only two invasions of the United States during the war, a small Japanese force occupied the islands of Attu and Kiska. The islands’ strategic value was their ability to control Pacific transportation routes. Japan reasoned that control of the Aleutians would prevent a possible U.S. attack across the Northern Pacific. Similarly, the U.S. feared that the islands would be used as bases from which to carry out a full-scale aerial attack on U.S. West Coast cities. A battle to reclaim Attu was launched on May 11, 1943, and completed following a final Japanese banzai charge on May 29. On August 15 an invasion force landed on Kiska in the wake of a sustained three-week barrage, only to discover that the Japanese had withdrawn from the island on July 29.
The campaign is known as the “Forgotten Battle,” due to its being overshadowed by other events in the war. Military historians believe the Japanese invasion of the Aleutians was a diversionary or feint attack during the Battle of Midway, meant to draw out the U.S. Pacific Fleet from Midway Atoll, as it was launched simultaneously under the same commander, Isoroku Yamamoto. Some historians have argued against this interpretation, believing that the Japanese invaded the Aleutians to protect their northern flank, and did not intend it as a diversion. (AIC excerpts from Wikipedia)
Although Chet’s unit was never directly involved the combat, he served in a combat zone. The paratroopers stationed in Alaska had a dual mission: protecting the Alaskan territory from further Japanese invasion, and preparing for the invasion of Japan…which was stopped when the U.S. dropped the atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
Having served in a combat zone, Chet was eligible for “full military honors” at his funeral. He was proud of his service as a paratrooper, but told my mother that, when the time came, he wanted her to decline the offer of full honors, as he felt it belonged to soldiers who had actually faced enemy fire. Thus, at his funeral (as you two may remember) he had what is known as “Military Honors,” which consists of two or more uniformed military persons doing a military funeral honors ceremony, including the folding of and presenting to the survivors a United States burial flag, and the playing of Taps.
* * *
This is the enlisted soldier’s Signal Corps Badge. Chet had that badge as well…and now I can’t remember where it is.
Each paratrooper had training as a rifleman/infantryman, and also in one or more specialties (besides learning how to jump from a plane and not die). Chet was trained in Signal Corps duties (which he once described to me as, “Scrambling up the nearest tree” to set up long range cables). After landing in enemy territory, his job would be to work with his unit’s radio operator(s) to set up radio communications.
* * *
This is a WWII U.S. Army Paratrooper badge (aka “jump wings” pin). I also have this pin… somewhere. Chet gave me both pins – the signal corps and jump wings – years before his death. I used to wear them, along with other pins, on a denim jacket (he got a kick out of that), then when the jacket was falling apart I took all the pins off and put them away for safekeeping…and now I have no idea where they are. ;-(
* * *
The jacket in this box is a WWII paratrooper’s dress jacket. It belonged to my favorite uncle, Bill O’Malley, my aunt Erva’s husband.  Bill O’Malley (“Billy” to his fellow soldiers) saw heavy combat in WWII – briefly in N. Africa, then in the European Theater of Operation (ETO).
I find what Bill experienced in WWII to be amazing, and I’m going to tell you what I know of it. Bill and Erva had no children to pass this on to, and their generation has all but died out – all gone, actually, on my side of the family. It seems to me that someone (of a younger generation, ahem) should know his story, you know? My information is incomplete, and I won’t bore you with dates (most of which I don’t have, although I could look them up). My purpose here is to convey some of what he went through. The words and phrases in quotes are, to the best of my memory, verbatim from what Bill (and in some cases, Chet or Erva or my grandmother) told me.
This information is pieced together from notes I made decades ago, plus many conversations Chet and I had about WWII and Bill O’Malley. The last and longest of these conversations a phone call the night before Chet died, during which I shared what Bill had told me when I’d visited Bill and Erva the summer after my fourth-grade year (I’d made a road trip to Spokane with my Aunt Gwen (Erva’s sister), Uncle Joe, and their son, Joey. We all stayed at Erva’s & Bill’s Spokane house for two weeks). I knew Uncle Bill had been a paratrooper, and one afternoon when the others were playing a lawn game in the backyard, I got Bill to sit down with me in his kitchen and talk about it. Chet was flummoxed by some of the information I’d elicited; Bill did *not* like to talk about the war and typically refused all entreaties – by adults – to do so (he did have a few war-related conversations over the years with Chet, whom he respected as a fellow paratrooper). My theory is that, being a 10-year-old kid, I somehow disarmed Bill. My questions were sincere; I had no illusions about war “heroism” – I was just genuinely curious. Bill didn’t have to impress or reassure me, the way he might have felt pressured to do by other adults.
* * *
When Bill enlisted in the paratroopers he was ~ five years older than the others in his unit (they were teens – early twenties; he was in his mid-twenties). His age and skills soon enabled him to hold the rank of sergeant (and he aspired to no higher rank). After completing his paratrooper training Bill was assigned to the 82nd airborne division. 
In N. Africa, during one of Bill’s first combat drops, the pilot of Bill’s plane made a navigational error and dropped its paratroopers over the wrong site – a fact which was not discussed nor even acknowledged by the army, as Bill later discovered when he made the obligatory report of the incident to his superiors. One of its planes going in the opposite direction it was supposed to go – yikes. It was quite an embarrassment to the Army higher-ups. Bad for soldier morale!
As in that jump and all others afterward, Bill jumped with his favorite weapon, his “tommy gun.”  Bill was the jump master, and after realizing they’d been dropped over the wrong site, he and his squad disagreed as to what to do next. There was nothing but sand in all directions; Bill spotted an outcropping and insisted they follow it. His squad rebelled and went in the opposite direction without him, even after he (convinced that he was right, and that they were headed to their deaths) pulled his “tommy” on them and ordered them to follow him. The twelve paratroopers were never seen from again; they presumably died in the desert from exposure.
Bill, following the outcropping, wandered for days in the desert until he was rescued by a Brit in a jeep who was patrolling the perimeter of a nearby British military encampment. By that time quite dehydrated, Bill thought he was hallucinating seeing the jeep, until it drove up to within a few feet of him. The British officer exited his jeep and said to Bill, in the most stereotypical, slightly perturbed, upper-class British accent,
“I say old boy, what are you doing out here all alone?”
“You son of a bitch!” is how Bill began his reply….
Bill was reassigned to the ETO, to a unit serving in Italy. In an incident which resulted in the largest “friendly fire” casualties of WWII, U.S. guns at Sicily fired at planes overhead, which were actually U.S. planes carrying U.S. paratroopers. The 504th Parachute Infantry was shot to pieces – two dozen of our own planes, shot down by “us.” More than 300 U.S. soldiers died. Bill survived that tragedy, did another jump in Italy (Salerno), and was reassigned again.  His next unit became part of the massive Allied paratroop drop into Normandy at D-Day. After that he went on to fight in the Battle of Bulge.
Not surprisingly, Bill was hospitalized in France after the war had ended, for what was then called “shell shock” or “combat fatigue,” but which we now know as PTSD.
Although the army hospital doctors pronounced him “cured” after a few weeks of rest, Bill’s shell shock was not totally under control when he returned to the States. His first date with Erva was “a humiliating disaster.” Being out in public made him nervous; he couldn’t shake the feeling of being constantly “on patrol.” Erva drove on their first date, as Bill had no car. After picking Bill up, she was driving down the main street of their town when the car in front of hers backfired, the sound of which caused Bill to dive to the passenger’s seat floorboards (“Scared me half to death!” Erva said). Bill was deeply embarrassed, and even more so when, ten minutes later, he had to ask Erva to take him back to his apartment so he could change clothes. He had sweated through his clothing – completely soaked the three-piece suit he had worn, the suit he’d “bought special,” to impress Erva.
Gradually, Bill readjusted to civilian life. When I asked him how he did this he replied, “I never had to pay for a cup of coffee.” I assume the confused expression on my ten-year-old face is what sparked him to elaborate: After the war ended, soldiers were treated with kindness by everyone. Although civilians did not want to hear anything about the war that “didn’t involve heroes,” they showered the returning GIs with respect, gratitude, and gifts (including job offers). Bill also didn’t want to engage in war stories talk. He found the eagerness of the nation to “get on with it” and look to the future to be helpful to him as he strove to forget/push aside his memories of what he’d seen and done in The War.
One “memory” he brought home with him was a German Shepard. He’d found the dog during one of his last maneuvers before he was hospitalized – somewhere in France, when he and his unit were patrolling a battle site. The dog, dehydrated and starving but still vigilant, was guarding the corpse of its (presumed) handler, a German soldier.
A scenario akin to this, only the Nazi was dead.
Bill spoke some German to the dog, shared his water and rations with it, and the dog transferred its loyalty to Bill. The doctors at the hospital where Bill was treated agreed to let him keep it, and he was able to get it shipped back to the States with him.
Bill loved that dog (I can’t remember what he named it; something ala, “Scout”). However, everyone he met back in the States was wary of it, and for good reason. The dog was huge, and would “greet” anyone who came to see Bill by silently approaching them (it supposedly never barked or growled), rearing up on its hind legs, resting its front paws on the visitor’s shoulders, and baring its teeth and looking them straight in the eyes, as if it were pondering, “Hmmm, should I rip your throat out, or go for the eyes first?” Bill would speak to the dog in German, then he’d (attempt to) reassure his visitor:
“He won’t hurt you, but don’t make any sudden moves.”
Erva was terrified of the dog, as were Bill’s neighbors, who complained to his landlord about having to live next to a dangerous animal.  After they’d been dating several weeks, Erva told Bill, “It’s me or the dog,” and Bill found it another home. 
* * *
After completing their paratrooper training and before shipping out to Europe, Bill and his paratrooper unit (company? regiment? whatever the terminology, it consisted of 105 men) shared their respective family contact info and made a pact to have a reunion after the war – the original 105 of them, no matter what outfits/companies/regiments they ended up being transferred to. One of the men made good on that promised and organized the reunion a year after the war ended…but there were only five of the original 105 left alive. The rest had died, in combat or in paratroop jump “accidents.” Of the five, Bill was the only one who had not been seriously injured (he’d twisted his ankle diving into a foxhole during a mortar attack at the Battle of the Bulge, but had never been shot or stabbed during combat, as the other survivors had been).
Those figures blow my mind, as an illustration of how much “action” Bill and his original company saw: a casualty rate of over 99% and a death rate of 95%.
Bill O’Malley’s paratrooper dress jacket.
Chet regretted that he didn’t keep his paratrooper dress jacket.  When Erva was dying,  she told my parents that she wanted Chet to have Bill’s jacket. Bill and Chet had bonded over their paratrooper service, and Erva told me that Chet was Bill’s favorite of his “Hole Sisters” brothers-in-law. 
* * *
May you have fun going through your attic; May you remember that you don’t need 90% of what you put in your attic years ago, certain that you might “need it some day;” May you share your family stories while you still can; …and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
 Erva O’Malley, nee Hole, was your grandma Marion’s eldest sister.
 The 82nd Airborne Division, first formed during WWI as an infantry division, earned the nickname “All-American” because, unlike the other army divisions at the time, its soldiers hailed from all 48 states. The 82nd’s uniforms had a double “A” design shoulder patch insignia.
 Chet said Bill kept getting reassigned to regiments and infantries and squads – still within the 82nd division. After battles with heavy casualties if the army needed you elsewhere, they sent you elsewhere, sometimes without the “proper” documentation, and soldiers went where they were told to go. Chet was not sure of the numbers/names of the various infantries, companies, etc., Bill served with, and since Bill seldom talked about the war, the few times Bill was willing to offer information Chet just listened and didn’t press for such bureaucratic details.
 When Chet was discharged after the war he was given a train ticket home, and had limited luggage capacity – he was unable to fit the paratrooper jacket into his suitcase (and was already wearing his uniform and two other jackets on top of that) and gave it to a GI buddy at the train station.
 From lung cancer, in 1998. Bill died from a burst aortic aneurysm in 1969. He was 51.
 The Hole family sisters, now deceased: Erva, Gwen, Ruth, and your grandma Marion.
“As the coronavirus pandemic has kept more residents at home, it has created such a high demand for adopting dogs that there’s a dwindling supply.” ( “So many pets have been adopted during the pandemic that shelters are running out,” Washington Post, 1-6-21 )
Since it is likely the physical isolation will continue for some time – i.e., until the post-holiday spikes settle down and vaccination distribution reaches the masses – I’ve been thinking of jumping on the COVID companion bandwagon and adding a new pet to our family. Moiself is having trouble deciding; I’m torn between two equally compelling options. What do y’all, think:
* * *
Department Of Reasons I Hate The Business Side Of What I Do Part 1,294 In A Seemingly Endless Series….
Dateline: earlier this week, reading the fine print of the publishing contract of an international fiction journal – a journal whose aims/ambitions and unique form of distribution I respected…until moiself read this part of their contract, in the section, Grants of Rights (my emphases):
(d) The publication Rights granted in The Furrowed Kneecap Review  may be exercised in any media now in existence or hereafter developed, including without limit, print media, electronic media, and electronic data bases….
Your work belongs to us – now, and in whatever future there can be, bwah haa haw!
Yeah, that frosts my butt (and furrows my kneecaps). But the thing is, in the Wild Wild West of the publishing world, what with digital and other rights being coined and re-invented within minutes of the appearance of new/online technologies which purport to “broaden a writer’s exposure” (read: steal use your work without compensation), more and more publishing contracts, whether for book-length material or journal articles, have some form of this language. And no matter what the stipulations, a contract it can turn out to be – like many a domestic violence victim has discovered re restraining orders – “just a piece of paper.” As one writer friend of mine learned, within two months after his book was published, your work may be scanned and posted on some website – where it can be downloaded and read (as in, stolen) by people all over the world with no financial remuneration for you.
* * *
Department Of We Be Needing Schooling On A Complicated/Simple Word
“An educated person before the scientific revolution could very well believe that there were unicorns and werewolves, and that comets and eclipses are portents of the future – beliefs we now think of as primitive, superstitious, magical, but they were the conventional understanding of the day.” ( Steven Pinker, psychologist and author, focusing on language, the mind, and human nature and behavior)
Educated. What do we mean when we say that someone is, “educated,” or that a person “needs to be educated?”
It should be a positive thing, to be to be educated or to be thought of as such. However, it seems to moiself that, more and more, I am hearing and reading educatedused as a sort of passive-aggressive pejorative. As in,
“He just needs to be educated, then he wouldn’t be such a ______ ( racist; sexist; nativist; libtard; homophobe; fan of ‘The Bachelor’….)”
Sometimes, that may indeed be the case: the person whom you think needs to be educated is demonstrably ignorant on certain facts, and/or has led a sheltered life sans exposure to different people and ideas, and/or lacks wider world experience and the perspective it brings. But, here’s the trick: a person can be educated about an issue, just as educated as you are – BTW how are you-who-are-using-the-term-“educated” defining it? – and can disagree with you.
A person can know the facts, and agree with you as to what the facts are (“We both accept the Homeland Security Department’s statistic that 254,595 of the ‘Aliens Apprehended’ in the fiscal year 2019 were from Mexico and 1,368 were from Bangladesh”), but can vehemently and sincerely disagree with you about what the facts *mean.*
Let’s all be careful out there, and not take the ad hominem, patronizing, gettin’-all-educated-on-your-uninformed-assmanner when someone disagrees with us:
“They need to get educated on ____ [your pet issue]; then they’d see….”
That person to whom you are so quick to ascribe ignorance may know much more than you realize; beware the unspoken assumption, “If only he were educated in the matter, he would agree with *me*.”
* * *
Department Of Surprisingly, This Was *Not* A Story About Farting
Although when I tuned into a favorite podcast of mine and heard this introduction, I at first thought they were putting a sciencey-spin on a story about SBDs. 
“In 1931 a chemist named Arthur Fox accidentally released a cloud of phenylthiocarbamide in his lab. A colleague nearby complained about the noxious odor…but Fox didn’t know what he was talking about…” 
* * *
I’m not a fan of body building/weight lifting or MMA fighting, and I absolutely loath boxing, but I was intrigued by the The Game Changers. This documentary was produced by and/or featured interviews with major players in the afore-mentioned sports, and also film, including James Cameron, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Jackie Chan, Lewis Hamilton, Novak Djokovic and Chris Paul.
The Game Changers focuses largely on males, and myths about meat, protein, and strength, and on how such myths got started and are promoted (to us all, but especially to men and athletes and others in “macho” professions, e.g., firefighters). It features interviews with top athletes in their field who have increased their performances (and the longevity of their careers and their overall cardiovascular health) by opting out of the standard American diet (appropriate acronym: SAD) with its emphasis on meat and dairy products, and switching to plant-based eating.
The documentary also makes the bigger picture, linking personal consumption choices to global consequences :
And with more than 70 billion animals consumed globally every year, growing animal feed requires vast amounts of land. Which is why the single biggest source of habitat destruction is said to be the livestock sector….in South America, some 70% of former forests in the Amazon are now used to graze cattle, with much of the remainder used to grow feed crops for the cattle. Anti-poaching rangers on the “frontlines” of protecting endangered species see these effects firsthand.
“The actual biggest threat we have is the meat industry and the land that they are continually taking away from what we have left of these natural wilderness areas. Inch by inch, yard by yard, mile by mile.”
( Damien Mander, founder of The International Anti-Poaching Foundation )
Also, the film is just dang funny in parts…and about parts. The scene where a medical doctor “who wrote the book on the penis” (literally) gets three football players to participate in an experiment showing how their nocturnal erections are greater in both quality and quantity  after eating a plant-based meal – it gets ten stars on the giggle-meter.
One of the things that interested me in the documentary was thinking that it might give me a chance to make fun of AHHHnold Schadenfreude Schwarzenegger. Turns out I need to bitch-slap moiselfback to the 1990’s for holding that petty thought, as Herr Schw-etcetera actually comports himself quite well.
Oh, and lest you think certain opinions of moiself’s have changed, although I’m pleased to see him realizing and embracing the personal and planetary benefits of plant-based eating, I still wish Maria Shriver would have gone all paleo on Ahhhnold’s cheating ass.
* * *
The Podcast I’m Not…Casting?
Think of all the great, meandering conversations you’ve had with a friend, and how you enjoyed the sometimes linear/sometimes non sequitur give-and-take, because you were a part of it. Now think how many of those conversations would be interesting for other people to listen to – people who don’t know you and your friend and were not even present during the conversation – for thirty minutes or more.
“Who cares if neither of us is talking sense – this is fun.”
Regular readers know I am a regular podcast listener. The current list of podcasts I follow/subscribe to includes 20+ feeds, from Clear + Vivid to the TED Radio Hour. Five times as long as this list is the catalog of podcasts I have tried for a few episodes – even a few weeks – then deleted from my feed. Most of the latter are podcasts hosted by Famous People, whose sole subject seemed to be talking with Other Famous People. 
There seem to be a plethora of Famous Folks ® who are either clever or articulate, and who have been convinced by others (read: their agents and fellow suckups celebrity friends) that they are *both*clever and articulate. Thus, these Celebri-pods believe their amiable personae means that merely chatting on mic with their celebri-friends about…stuff…is interesting to others who aren’t directly involved in the conversation. Wrong. In my experience, it’s too often….
The fact that anyone can blog used to be touted as an example of the great democratization of our media. Now we’ve devolved from Anyone can blog! to Everyone has a podcast! So: here’s my idea. With a nod to Abbie Hoffman, I will title my entry into podcast-dom, Turn This Off.
Mine will be yet another foray into the advice podcast genre. A growing number of podcasts (e.g. Don’t Ask Tig, which I listen to) aim to give columnist-style guidance (think Dear Abby, et al), whether facetious or serious.
By virtue of its title, I figure my podcast will be the one advice podcast where people will actually follow the advice.
Of course, now that I’ve put this idea out there someone’s going to steal it….so this will be the podcast I’m not actually producing. 
In the podcast I’m not doing, here’s one thing I can guarantee you won’t hear: the host (that would be moiself ) staying silent when her guest makes a WTF?! declaration.
Example: a few minutes into a recent celebrity-advice podcast I was listening to, the host’s celeb guest said that “fear should never make you navigate your decisions.”
The following digression is yet another reason why the podcast I’m not doing would fail (for reasons other than me telling people to turn it off) : no celebrities would want to come on my podcast because I wouldn’t let them get away with a statement like that.
Celebrity Guest ® was likely referring to her career decisions; still, she made a blanket statement, and a face-palming one at that. There’ve been books written about why ignoring your fears is foolish. If you don’t recognize the *value* of fear (one of humanity’s most important survival senses) in making decisions you’ll inevitably make some really poor ones.
Evolutionary biologists tell us that the “rationally fearful” are the ones who survive. I’m not talking about nonsensical fears, like fearing that if you don’t touch the doorknob five times before you leave for work your house will catch on fire, or other phobias or irrational compulsions. Pay attention to fear (sometimes referred/always related to intuition). Learn how to analyze a realistic fear (that you may tumble off the cliff if you lean way over trying to get the ultimate selfie) from a momentarily uncomfortable but ultimately inconsequential worry (that you’re anxious you’ll flub your toast to the bride and groom).
In other words, pay attention when your Spidey senses start tingling.
People who don’t pay attention to their fear can end up injured or worse, whether it’s tumbling off of a cliff or being drugged by that “really cool guy” your friend set you up with but whose vibes gave you the willies….
“Intuition is always right in at least two important ways;
It is always in response to something.
It always has your best interest at heart.”
( Security Consultant Gavin De Becker, author of The Gift of Fear: And Other Survival Signals That Protect Us from Violence )
* * *
Department Of Partridge Of The Week
Which was actually last week’s, until a mob of racist rightwing Republican-abetted terrorists…current events, shall we say, stole the blog show. This Partridge in our pear tree will be the last one, until the next solstice/winter/Christmas holiday season:
* * *
Pun For The Day
I taught my kids how to fart. You could say they were under my tutelage.
* * *
May you pay attention to your fear; May you follow your dreams (except for that one where you are naked at work); May you look in the mirror before you deem that someone else needs to be educated; …and may the hijinks ensue.
 (consumption of animal products cause inflammation; less inflammation from plant-based proteins = more blood flow to vital, ahem, “areas” of the body.
 I discovered these podcasts when I did a search for “comedy” or entertainment podcasts, wanting more laughable-listens in these COVID times, as opposed to shows devoted to news/current events (I have enough of those in my feed).
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.