The Eric Echo

"What Can We Do?"

2008-07-15T20:18:00.003-05:00

I've made no secret here of the fact that I supported Clinton, and that Obama has yet to gain my confidence; regardless, I believe that the best hope for our nation lies in Democratic control of the government, because we're in a hell of a mess. And yesterday, that was the theme of one diary in myDD.com to which I posted some comments; the diarist ended by posing the question "what can we do?".

My intent is to answer that question, and I started by proposing some of "my" answers in one comment. But first, I need to work through a bit of my own political - or perhaps social - belief system.

The diarist was suggesting that we're in such a financial mess that no one - Obama included - might be able to get us out of the mess without sacrificing some of the things progressives believe in, including what the diarist referred to as "entitlement programs".

I made three comments in that diary, two of them relevant to this one: the one mentioned above, which I'll get to, but in my first comment, I expressed some dismay at the idea that a self-described progressive seemed to have "bought in" on the Republican meme/talking point of "entitlement" programs. The diarist actually used the words "entitlement spending spiraling out of control", particularly with regard to things like Medicare.

I didn't disagree with the diarist that we're in a heck of a mess; we are. But I do believe that basic programs like Medicare, Medicaid, Social Security, and some forms of welfare program are, or should be viewed as a part of our social compact, rather than "entitlement". And that Universal Health Care is something that should never be put on the table and negotiated away by the progressive movement. To me, that means social programs need to be well-managed, that such services go to people who have either earned them or need a safety net; people who need that safety net also need to receive some sort of additional support - training, education, etc.

The diary from yesterday that I'm referring to struck a chord with me for an altogether different reason, too: yesterday morning, as I usually do, I was listening to NPR while putzing around getting ready for work and my day; one of the news articles was by NPR reporter David Greene, who was in New Orleans. His story was, theoretically, focused on politics and "courting the Latino vote". However, in the story, he noted that illegal immigrants, mostly from Mexico, had flooded into New Orleans to take jobs rebuilding the city, and that many blacks were feeling displaced, perceiving that jobs are being "stolen" from them.

The reason the aforementioned diary and the term "entitlement" struck a chord with me was because the term "entitled" was used in the story, by a contractor - a Latino, US citizen, who hired both illegal Latino workers and African American workers; the contractor bent over backwards trying to avoid coming across as racist, and expressed discomfort with what he was saying, but the point he felt he had to make was that his black employees didn't work as hard as the illegal immigrants and that he perceived them as feeling "entitled" to work over the illegal immigrants.

There's more depth to it that that, of course, and you can and should listen to the podcast here - it's only about 8 minutes long.

Uncomfortable? Yeah. Talking about race relations in this country is always uncomfortable. But all of this feeds into the debate over what Republicans have negatively labeled "entitlement programs" and my theories on our national social compact.

But, the point of my second comment was to pose my answers to the diarists question: "What can we do?"

I think there's a lot that a Democratic President and a Democratic Congress can do, but we have to recognize that they're politicians; no politician is perfect and all politicians need one of two things: to know that voters "have their backs" or to have their feet held to the fire. A Dem controlled government, even for eight years, will need both of those, to remedy the mess we're in. Will it mean looking at programs which support our social compact? Yes. But there's a hell of a lot more gone wrong, and is fixable than that. Years of Republican dismantling of our economy, our political and social structures. And Democrats, in control, can repair and rebuild those.

So here's my set of original list with an addition from another commenter:

--start original--
Not to have been totally negative in my first comment - I agree with Indie that there are things that can be done to address this - the real question is whether or not enough Democrats will bite the bullet.

1) return the tax codes to some semblance of sanity, including taxing the wealthy and the corporate world at their truly fair levels;

2) punish those corporations that have set up fake off-shore headquarters to avoid taxes;

3) pass legislation that sets reasonable limits on corporate profiteering/greed;

4) re-establish genuine but reasonable regulatory processes over the financial world and US stock and commodities markets;

5) re-think the most extremely generous cases of free-trade;

6) create a credible, logical and achievable energy policy which is not dictated by big oil, big auto, big sugar, big corn;

6) recognize the importance of our allies and return to an era of international political negotiation and collaboration;

7) deal with China and Russia in the above ways (negotiation, collaboration and fair, but firm trade policies;

8) recognize that we don't really need to be the world's police force and our military doesn't need to be spread all over the world; in conjunction with this, demand that our allies begin to fund more of their own national defense needs, and stop the US subsidization of their defense.

For starters.
--end original--

And, with a h/t to Susan from 29 for this great addition:

"Seriously, I would add a full scale review of the no-bid contracting system, with an eye towards prosecution for war profiteering that would include huge fines as well as jail time for the guilty."

My list is not exhaustive; feel free to make additions or critique it.

Cross-posted at myDD.com

A Peach Of A Puzzle

2008-07-07T18:22:00.002-05:00

One of the things I do is cook.

On Monday nights, I cook a family-style dinner for my housemates. For those who aren't in the know, Madison, WI is, for its size, out-sized expensive. Especially if you're living on the isthmus. And since it has a so-called "progressive" history, the progressivism and the expensiveness of housing have resulted in quite a few housing co-ops. I live in one of those, Hypatia.

(Bonus: if you can tell me about "Hypatia" without googling it, I'll make you the peach puzzle. But 1) you have to be honest and admit if you googled it, and 2) you have to pick up the peach puzzle. I don't deliver. ...) ;-)

Some people find it a challenge to cook a full dinner for anywhere from 12-20 people (depending on dinner guests), but having "grown up" cooking for my brother and sister-in-law in their restaurant, I find it to be pretty easy. So long as there's adequate variety in supplies, of course. There really hasn't been, lately. Variety in supplies, I mean. We have lots of staples (a variety of beans, rice, pastas, canned tomatoes, flours, potatoes, etc) and very little in the way of vegetables. Partly that can be blamed on the relative lack of variety right now at the Dane County Farmer's Market, but partly it's b/c the produce buyer seems to have lost interest in his job (a common danger in co-op living, I might point out); although, we certainly are well-stocked every week with his particular favorites. Having lived with him for 4 years now, I'm pretty knowledgeable on those. Lots of lettuce, tomatoes, cheese, some radishes, eggs and scallions. Not a lot one can do to vary that combination every week, eh? I've repeatedly asked him to buy with a thought towards the cooks (three cooks currently, with three dinners per week) being able to actually cook more than just pasta, breads, rice and beans, but to little avail.

And so, I'm on strike.

When I moved into Hypatia, I promised to cook dessert every week with my dinner; I also warned that when I became irked with my housemates, there would be no dessert. While my ire in this post notes only one housemate, I've a litany of irks, and almost all of the housemates catch a share of the flack.

So, what's for dinner tonight? Well, not Peach Puzzle, that's for sure.

Pasties. (That "a" is pronounced as in 'cat') Vegan pasties, to boot. Carb-filled vegan pasties, b/c that's what we've got to cook with. To be honest it's not a real pasty; I made a bread dough, rather than a more traditional crust, and the filling is onions, potatoes, carrots and that vile thing known as TVP (for the record, I actually like TVP in some things; my housemates, almost to a person, hate it. So, when I'm mad at them, not only do they not get dessert, they do get TVP. ) }:P

Speaking of the bread, it's the New York Time's No Knead Bread recipe. It's brilliantly easy, but everyone, including the food blogger I just linked to, makes it more difficult than it needs to be. To make an adequate amount, I use a 5 gallon pickle bucket, and multiply the recipe by 5. And, I make it with half whole wheat, half all-purpose flour. And add one cup of wheat gluten. And often, I bake it in a big, commercial four-loaf loaf pan, rather than a dutch oven. Note that the 5x recipe will fill a very large - larger than average dutch oven twice. You can double or triple the recipe, divide it accordingly and bake it in regular loaf pans too, but it won't be as crusty-yummie. And I don't use those silly towels to handle it.

To make the pasties, of course, I kneaded it with lots of extra flour (it's ok, even though the above blogger cautions against extra flour - remember, I'm making pasties, not bread, so a different texture is fine here) then rolled out handfuls into about 10 inch rounds and filled & sealed them. I've played around with that recipe a lot in the past - added all sorts of seeds and nuts, substituted part oat flour, etc.

I did talk the bulk food buyer into purchasing some pinto beans (the beans that all south-westerners are raised on, but are almost unheard of up here in Wisconsin, outside of the really, really bad Mexican restaurants, by which I mean all Mexican food restaurants) so there's a crock pot full of ranchero beans, too. It's usual for me to put five dishes on the table but tonight, there may only be the two dishes, unless I relent a bit and make a salad out of all that lettuce.

What else? What else? Oh, yeah. That picture at the top right, and the title. That's the dessert they won't get tonight. Peach Puzzle.

A couple weeks ago, housemate Marissa emailed me the recipe with a subject heading of "you simply have to make this recipe!!" I admit, it caught my fancy. I'm not a big fruit pie fan, but this seemed clever. So, I had a go at it.

Peaches and Syrup
7 medium peaches, peeled (see note)
3/4 cup packed light brown sugar
6 tablespoons water
2 tablespoons unsalted butter

1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/8 teaspoon salt
Dough
1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
2 tablespoons granulated sugar
1 tablespoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt

5 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into 1/4-inch pieces and chilled
6 tablespoons milk
1. For the peaches and syrup: Adjust an oven rack to the middle position and heat the oven to 400 degrees. Place a 6-ounce custard cup or ramekin upside down in the center of a 9-inch pie plate and arrange the peaches around the custard cup. Combine the brown sugar, water, butter, vanilla, and salt in a medium saucepan and stir over medium heat until the sugar dissolves and the butter melts, about 5 minutes. Pour the syrup over the peaches.
2. For the dough: Pulse the flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt in a food processor until blended. Add the butter and pulse until the flour mixture is pale yellow and resembles course cornmeal. Put the mixture into a medium bowl. (To make the dough by hand: Use the large holes on a box grater to grate frozen butter into the bowl with the flour mixture, then rub flour-coated pieces between your fingers until the flour mixture turns pale yellow and coarse.)
3. Using a rubber spatula, fold the milk into the flour mixture, pressing the mixture against the sides of the bowl to form the dough. Squeeze the dough together and flatten into a disk. On a lightly floured work surface, roll the dough into a 9-inch circle. Lay the dough directly over the peaches and press and fit the dough so that it fits snuggly around peaches. (The dough will stretch as you fit it around the peaches, but do not attach the dough to the pie plate.) Bake until the top is golden brown, 25 to 30 minutes. Transfer the pan to a rack and let cool for 30 minutes.
4. Place a large rimmed serving plate over the top of the pie plate and quickly invert the puzzle onto a plate. Cut into wedges around each peach and serve, pouring syrup over each portion. Serve with vanilla ice cream or sweetened whipped cream.
Assembling Peach Puzzle
1. Place a custard cup or ramekin upside down in the center of a 9-inch pie plate. Arrange the peeled peaches around the cup.

2. Fit the dough snugly around the peaches without attaching the dough to the pie plate. Bake as directed. Once cooled, quickly invert the puzzle onto a rimmed serving plate.

A couple of things to note:

1) Wait the 30 minutes, minimum, before inverting.

2) This is well worth the effort, but when inverting it, it makes a mess, unless you have a serving dish with a really deep rim - at least two inches, and barely larger in circumference than the pie plate. If not, stand facing an easily-cleanable counter and backsplash; invert it by flipping towards the backsplash. If you flip it towards yourself, you'll be covered in icky, sticky, yummie but HOT syrup. (I did not get it all over myself, but I did get it all over the floor.) Why? Because not all of the sauce finds its way to the custard cup.

3) It needs to be eaten fairly quickly, unless you like a very ooey-gooey texture of raw-biscuit-like crust the next day. Why? Because not all of the sauce finds its way to the custard cup.

4) You're not supposed to stone the peaches, but when eating it, the stones are a pain in the neck. And, depending on your oven, the crust may bake before the peaches are done. So, next time I make this, I plan to try something different - halve the peaches, stone them and then cup one half into the other. Or maybe add a couple of extra peaches and overlap the peach halves all the way 'round the circle. That would also give you the benefit of being able to portion it into more or fewer servings than the 7 required by the whole peaches. I also think a pile of fresh apricot halves might work. I'll have to think about that one....

Anyway, housemate Marissa found the recipe on NPR and I suppose I should share the story behind it:

NPR.org, March 19, 2007 · Recipe by Lois Schlademan
Stow, Ohio
This recipe (which won the grand prize in the Cook's Country lost recipe contest) has all the abracadabra of a magic trick as well as beautiful presentation and great taste. Lois says the name refers to the "puzzling" cooking method. Her recipe begins by placing a custard cup upside down in the center of a pie plate. Seven peaches (peeled but still whole) are arranged around the cup and then drizzled with a mixture of brown sugar, butter, and vanilla. A buttery biscuit dough is then domed over the peaches and the custard cup. As the peaches bake under the crust, a vacuum forms inside the custard cup and the juices in the pie plate are pulled up inside the cup. Once cooled, the pie plate is flipped over to reveal the peaches nestled into the flaky biscuit. So where's the butterscotch-like syrup? It's all in the cup!
As you might imagine, Lois's recipe is unique—in our research, we failed to come across a single recipe like it. Lois says that her mother made peach puzzle back in the 1940s or 1950s and that it has been a family favorite ever since.

Gig 'em Aggies

2008-07-03T12:05:00.016-05:00

I've occasionally mentioned the fact that I recently bought a Jeep; not a fancy one - just a plain old basic one, as you can see. A 2000, with what I think of as a bit too much mileage at 98,000, but that's actually pretty average. As you can also see, one of the first things I did was go out and buy a Texas Aggie cover for the spare tire. I had to!

In part it was an indulgence purchase; with gas at $4/gallon and only likely to go higher, its 20 mpg average pretty much sucks. But, I live downtown, I work downtown, I walk everywhere during the week, and only drive it a bit on the weekends; if I'm not leaving town, a tank of gas easily lasts me six or seven weeks.

One great thing about it - having calculated what it would cost for me to drive the Jeep home to Colorado for my summer vacation, I concluded that it would be cheaper (and great fun) to ride Amtrak instead, so I purchased my train tickets last week. I'm looking forward to it, although not having a car while in CO will be quite the different experience.

In all honesty, it was also probably a bit of a nostalgia purchase; my first 4x4, which I loved (but which was a money pit par excellence) was a classic 1969 Ford Bronco. The pic of it at left is the only one I have of the Bronco digitized, and it's a little dark. I'd love to own another one some day, but I sold it seven years ago, when I bought a 4x4 Ranger. One of the cute things about the Bronco was that, as a child, I had a toy Bronco, exactly the same color - back then, the turquoise blue was a standard Ford color for pickups and Broncos. Being a geek, I rigged up a mechanism to affix the toy Bronco atop the dashboard on the real Bronco - together, they were quite an attention-getter (and, I can't deny it, a real guy magnet. This was when I was still at Texas A&M, and the college guys were constantly wanting to look at it and ask about it.

At any rate, the Jeep is not such a standout - they're a dime-a-dozen around Madison and, I suppose, pretty much everywhere. But it's fun to drive.

No, here in Madison, it's Texas Aggies which are pretty rare - there are very few of us, despite the fact that the UW is, like A&M, a research-intensive land grant institution. And that's why it was kinda cool, a couple of weeks ago, when Other Half and I were hanging out at James Madison Park.

We'd gone shopping, picked up some "finger" food while we were at it, and stopped at the park to picnic; Other Half loves to hear the sound of the water, so we've tended to do that at least once a weekend this summer. After eating, we'd stretched out on the blanket to relax a bit, when I heard a horn honking a familiar pattern: beep-beep-beep-beep, beeep-beeep beeep-beeep. It doesn't translate well in writing, but it's the Aggie War Hymn. Our "fight song". "Hullah-ba-loo ca-neck, ca-neck". Which makes even less sense to you non-Aggies, eh? ;-)

Well, here it is in auditory and visual form:

I looked up and over to where my Jeep was parked curbside; a lone mini-van was passing; clearly, the driver had seen the Aggie tire cover and not knowing who it belonged to, honked the war hymn to let me know another Aggie was passing by.

We're pretty odd, we Aggies. But you can't say that we don't have a strong connection, wherever we are.

Sex in the City You Ain't

2008-07-02T21:30:00.000-05:00

Meh.

Over the last few years, I've enjoyed - tremendously - the Wisconsin Chamber Orchestra's Concerts on the Square. Every Wednesday evening for six weeks in the middle of the summer, the WCO uses Wisconsin's state capitol building (Wisconsinites insist it's the most beautiful state capitol building, and having seen quite a few of them, I'm not going to disagree, although I will point out that the gold leaf-covered dome of the Colorado state capitol is something special too) as a backdrop for a 90-minute concert.

People picnic, people relax and enjoy the company of friends, and then, when the music starts, people shut up and listen. Or do they?

Starting early on Wednesday mornings, a set-up crew begins preparing the Capitol lawns for the thousands in the audience; they begin by putting out hundreds - hundreds - of these lawn signs:

By 3 pm, people start staking out their space with blankets.

Today was no different. Housemate Marissa had the afternoon free, so offered to put out a blanket; housemate Matt and I willingly agreed to join her after we both got off work. I ran home, assembled a bit of food to picnic on, and joined Marissa about 5:45; Matt arrived perhaps 45 minutes later, and the concert started at 7 pm.

And I don't know what it is - perhaps I'm IMSing, although I certainly started the evening out in a good mood - but the noise from people around us was so loud that it nearly drowned out the music.

I took a closer look around. Now, people are probably going to accuse me of being sexist here, but I'm not, really. If anything, I suspect I'm being ageist. And elitist. Marissa had picked out the location - closer than I'd ever been to the actual orchestra (the crowd is less dense the further out on the lawns one goes, and friends and I have always tended to gather at a greater distance. There's a huge sound system, so being closer isn't necessarily better.

Looking around, I saw a view that I'd not experienced before in the previous four summers, and one that struck me: We were completely surrounded by blankets-full of younger, mostly single-appearing, somewhat "professional"-appearing females. Seriously. Within a ten- or eleven-blanket span around us, there were only two or three other males.

From where I was setting, I could reach out and touch one of those above signs, as could the blanket full of women to my left and the blanket full of women to my right. But as the music started, these women did not quiet down; they did not end their conversations nor even lower their voices. They raised their voices. Marissa and Matt noticed this too, of course.

After just a few minutes, as the orchestra quieted to an end of the first piece, the voice of the woman on my right who was talking at that time blared out in the quiet, and so I leaned over and asked, fairly civilly, "can you please keep it down? Thanks."

Not surprisingly, as the orchestra launched into their second piece, I caught her sarcastic comment to her blanket-mates "Oh, I guess we need to shut up now, so assholes around us can hear the music".

I am indeed, I suppose, an asshole, or, as I said, perhaps I'm IMSing, which mkes me an asshole for thinking that everyone goes to the concerts to hear the music, as opposed to hearing the vacuous, inane chatter of a group of Sex In The City wannabes. Because Sex In The City indeed was not only the tenor of their chatter but also the manner they seemed to affect. Whatever the case, they did quiet down, just a tad, for the next couple of pieces of music, and I turned my attention to the blanket to my left, when one woman laughed loudly; a quick "shhhh" caught their attention and they quieted down too - though not much.

Realistically, my chiding made little difference; for the remainder of the first half of the program, the noise surrounding us remained a mask over the music; I did notice a few people further out making grimaces and glaring at people, so I know I wasn't the only one irritated.

However, the last straw came as the conductor announced intermission. The previously sarcastic one to my right picked it right back up, saying, and clearly intending me to overhear "Oh, do you suppose it's ok for us to talk again during intermission, or is some asshole going to yell at us?"

I leaned over and told Matt and Marissa, who'd heard the comment too, that I couldn't take any more and was leaving; as I got up, I turned and said to them "If I want Sex In The City, I guess I should just go see the movie, because y'all sure ain't it."

After a couple seconds of silence and looking at each other, one of 'em looked back at me and said "Huh?"

I'd like to think that proved my point, but alas, I'm also faced with the very real possibility that such a searing little witticism is lost on any but a gay male.

Either that, or it was neither searing nor witty.

*sigh*

Spammed By Qweird Utah

2008-07-01T20:54:00.025-05:00

Ok, so this is *not* a post I would typically write (that's what Qweird Utah said too, but I don't believe her) . It's one of those "answer all these questions so people learn more about you" things. This one happens to be questions about significant others, lovers, husbands, wives, what-ever-you-call-thems. In my case "Other Half":

How long have you been married?
We're not. But that's not for lack of him trying. I keep saying "I'll be happy to move to Spain, once you graduate" but he doesn't want to move back to Europe.

Where did you meet?
We're totally 21st Century - we met online.

How long did you date?
We still are dating. I blame it on him, b/c he doesn't want to return to Europe, or move to Canada - all viable options, since he carries an EU passport.

How old is he?
You're trying to make me embarrass myself. He's 25.

Who eats more?
Him. Don't you hate that, when the skinniest one always eats the most? Life's unfair.

Who is taller?

He is by, oh, 8 or 9 inches (should I be transitioning to metric, I wonder? In any case, that's a lie - he's only 6 inches taller.) I blame my mother - seems as though I received all of her genes and none of my slim, tall father's genes.

Who is smarter?
If you go by education level, I am, for one more year, after which we'll be equal. Otherwise, he's smarter at the book stuff, I'm smarter at the practical stuff.

Whose temper is worse?
Good question. We both fly off the handle occasionally, but if it's at each other, it seldom lasts more than 10-15 minutes. I do recall us going to bed angry once, but that was sometime in the first couple of months. He definitely has road rage worse than I do.

Who does the laundry?
Ha! During our courtship he claimed to love doing the laundry, but he lies! He lies! ;-) He also promised to iron my shirts. He's done that exactly once. So, we generally launder together or tag-team it.

Who sleeps on the right side of the bed?
We've struggled with that one a bit, and have flip-flopped some. Currently, I'm sleeping on the right side of the bed, because the window closest to the bed is on the right side, and it has a fan on it, which makes it cooler. The real question here should be: "Who's the cold sleeper and who's the hot sleeper?" (That's cold as in "who prefers the bedroom to be cooler".) I'm the cold sleeper. Even at this time of year, you'll find him in full pajamas, huddled under all the covers, while I'm lying on top of all the covers. I do keep pointing out, to no avail, that it's not very romantic of him.

Who pays the bills?

We're not living together yet. He goes to grad school in a different city, after all. Dependent on his schedule, during the school year he's usually in Madison Thursday evening thru Monday morning. Right now he's doing an internship in Milwaukee, so he's only here Friday evening thru Sunday evening. But, we're both meticulous about paying our bills, and I do pay some of his - he paid off the last little bit on my 2005 Focus so he's driving it, but I'm still paying the insurance and other associated costs. Qweird Utah mentioned "FICA scores", so I will too. I dunno what his are, but when I went to my credit union to take out a loan for my Jeep, it was 837. I was a little distressed until the loan officer said "no, no, that's good - it only goes up to 850." Who knew that my FICA scores would end up being better than my GRE scores? (No, of course they weren't. Geez. That's a joke, people.)

Who cooks dinner?

Mostly me. I'm far and away the better cook. But occasionally he treats by cooking some of his "national" dishes for me, and he does a fine, if meticulous job of it. Knedliki, anyone? They're rather tasty when served with a marinara sauce. He's also got the schnitzel down. The veggies, however, tend to be lacking in Central European foods. Fortunately, I like saurkraut. But whatever you do, don't make the mistake of saying "Eastern Europe". You'll swiftly be corrected and treated to a little lesson in European history and geography.

Who drives when you are together?
We're pretty balanced on this; with these gas prices, if we're doing a lot of driving, we take the Focus and he drives. But in the gorgeous summer weather that is Madison, we usually put the top down on the Jeep and I drive.

Who is more stubborn?

Bwah-ha-ha! Can you say "tvrdohlavý jako mezek"? Sure you can! Repeat after me: Stubborn. As. A. Mule.

Who kissed whom first?

Wow. I really don't even remember. Despite all the stereotypes about gay males, we were very well-behaved for the first several weeks, even though we shared a bed from the start.

Who is the first to admit to being wrong?
I guess that one is fairly well balanced. We're both pretty good about saying "I'm sorry" if we fly off the handle over something. It's usually pretty minor stuff when that happens. Although - he always insists that he's right. But I know when he's wrong, so I just forgive him and move on. ;-)

Whose parents do you see the most?
Good grief. His parents live in Brno, after all. Have I mentioned that Brno has what I consider to be a very cool logo? Up in the top right corner. In reality, he hasn't met my parents yet, either. I blame him, b/c he works all the time to pay for grad school. But I also blame my parents; despite the fact that I get along with them well, they're not very comfortable with who I am. Then again, they felt that way about divorced people too, until my older brother married a divorcee and gave them grandchildren. Grandchildren do tend to overcome most biases, don't they? In fundamentally decent people, anyway.

Who proposed?

I did. Or, I do. I guess. Regularly. It goes like this, about once a week:

me "Hey, guess what?"

him "You're proposing to me? I accept!"

me "Oh, no, that's not what, but ok, I guess."

In reality, I don't feel much pressure in that regard, but he seems to.

What’s his best physical attribute?

I have my own opinions about that which I'll not address, but I'll note that I've been told by multiple people that they think he's got classic "Euro-model" looks. And he does. He's hawt.

Who has more friends?

Depends on what you mean by "friends". We both have a very small group of close friends - most of his are in Europe and mine are scattered across the States; I have a fairly large group of acquaintances in Madison whom I enjoy spending time with, but he definitely has little patience for random acquaintances. At present our social life does revolve more around my acquaintances here in Madison.

What are you most proud of him for?
He definitely is a hard worker, bright and a quick study. The company he's interning for offered to hire him full-time only a week into his internship. MY government, of course has something to say about that: a big fat NO. H1B visas are sorta hard to come by.

Who has more siblings?
I have four sibs - one adopted, three by birth. He's a singleton.

Who wears the pants in the family?

Him. I much prefer to wear shorts at every possible opportunity. Although I do constantly encourage him to wear shorts, too. Not that I have any ulterior motives or anything. By the way, have I mentioned how sexy his legs are?

Other Half's Ex

2008-06-23T20:50:00.001-05:00

Well, this was an unusual weekend, more for what didn't happen than what did. Saturday night was the first weekend night (except for two weekends over the Christmas/New Year's holidays) that Other Half and wasn't here with me for the full weekend. I wasn't quite sure what to do with myself, but house mates Abi and Marissa rode to the rescue. We watched "A Flea Market Documentary", which Marissa had just received from Netflix. And then, Sunday morning, Abi and I, finding ourselves up early, decided to hit the Northgate Flea Market. It's not much of a flea market, but then Madison doesn't seem to have much in the way of flea markets anyway.

"Sara With No 'H'" has more on the Northgate Flea Market. Although written in 2005, it is still accurate today. Except that the Northgate Antique Mall is now closed, which is a bummer, b/c over the last five years, I managed to purchase a number of Christmas gifts at that antique mall.

Neither Abi nor I found a treasure at the flea market, so we wandered down the street a bit further, to take in the North Side Farmer's Market.

But, the interesting part of the weekend story is why Other Half wasn't here. I suppose a brief history is in order, although he's never happy with me talking about him online.

Other Half is a grad student at a university in Wisconsin, and a Czech national. He's doing an internship in Milwaukee this summer, so comes over on Friday nights and back to Milw. on Sunday nights.

On Thursday last, he called me, in a bit of a tizzy. He'd just received a phone call from his ex (also a Czech national, who happens to still live in the Czech Republic.) But Ex had called to say "I'm in Atlanta, I'll be in Milwaukee in two hours; I have to talk to you about something important."

Of course, Other Half who'd not skyped with his mom in three or four days, immediately started worrying that something had happened to his mom or dad; Ex and Other Half's mom are still pretty close friends, y'see, and neither of them had quite believed Other Half when he'd said "it's over" and had followed through on that by packing up and moving to the States more than a year ago. His mom came to believe it, once he started skyping her on the weekends from my place, and Ex seemed to move out of the picture.

So, after thinking a bit, I called Other Half back (last Thursday afternoon) and said "why don't you call your mom?" He was on the phone with her already, and had been assured that everyone was fine, and she had no idea why Ex was in the States - although she did know that he was on vacation for the next month.

And so.... Other Half picked up Ex at the Milwaukee airport Thursday last, and learns that Ex had just decided to "surprise" him, by spending his month of vacation here, in the US. With MY boyfriend.

I suppose that, if I were a drama queen, I'd have gone into hysterics at that point, jumped in my Jeep and driven to Milwaukee. But, I'm not (and besides, at that point, the interstate was still closed b/c of flooding and I'd have had to drive an extra hour out of my way. I-94 reopened the following afternoon, however.)

Instead, I said "well, you can bring him to Madison for the weekend, if you want. I won't let him stay here, but he can stay at a hotel, and we can take him to the Farmer's Market, and tootle around in the Jeep - it's supposed to be a nice weekend".

"Or," I added, "you can tell him how rude and obnoxious it is for him to just assume he can show up and think he can stay with you for a month. Tell him you have work, you have me, and he can spend the extra hundred bucks to change his flight schedule, so he can return to Europe on Friday. But whatever you end up deciding is ok with me - you know I'm not the jealous type."

Of course, Other Half isn't as up-front in expressing himself as I can be, and to be honest, I think he feels a bit guilty still about the way he broke up with Ex. And, as Other Half said "he looks terrible. He's lost tons of weight, hasn't taken care of himself...." So, he caved. Ex is staying in MY boyfriend's apartment, in Milwaukee. Other Half drove over to Madison on Friday evening as usual, but returned to Milwaukee on Saturday afternoon. He did, finally, forcefully tell Ex that Ex could *not* stay for the whole month, but the agreement is that Ex scheduled a return flight to Prague for Monday, June 30th. And it seems likely that MY boyfriend will stay in Milwaukee next weekend, for the full weekend. He'd told me a couple weeks ago that he'd probably have to stay and work through Friday night, because the company he's interning for is moving into a new facility over next weekend, and they're having a 'packing party' on Friday and into the evening. But now he's suggesting that he'll stay in Milw. the entire weekend, b/c Ex will still be there.

I'm really not the jealous type; and there are funny parts to this story which keep me laughing. For one, if the scenario was reversed, and it was my Ex who showed up unannounced, Other Half admitted that he'd "be at your side the entire time he was here". Yes, Other half is a very jealous type. Hell, he's jealous whenever I hang out with some of my *straight* male friends. And it drives him a bit crazy that I refuse to be jealous. :-p For another, he's getting his just desserts, for not being forceful enough with Ex. It's making Other Half feel miserable, and my unwillingness to sympathize, but rather to say "sure, bring him over to Madison!" isn't making him feel any better. :-D And besides, this is priceless material, for the next time he gets mad at me....

Happy Juneteenth

2008-06-19T20:54:00.003-05:00

What, you ask, is Juneteenth? It's the date - June 19th, 1865, that the slaves of Texas finally learned that they'd been declared emancipated - more than two years earlier - by Abraham Lincoln as of January 1, 1863.

Time magazine has an adequate "brief history" of Juneteenth, worth checking out.

I've attended quite a few Juneteenth celebrations, both in Texas and in Colorado, but not, as yet, here in Madison. Milwaukee has a good-sized celebration and Madison has one too; however, I've been a bit surprised at exactly how many people I've run across in Madison who've never heard of Juneteenth. Maybe I ought not be quite so surprised....

Although it's not a national holiday, 29 states and DC now recognize Juneteenth as either a state holiday or (more often the case) a "state holiday observance". What the heck that means, I don't know - probably that state employees don't get the day off. That list includes Texas, Florida, Oklahoma, Delaware, Alaska, Idaho, Iowa, California, Wyoming, Illinois, Missouri, Connecticut, Louisiana, New Jersey, New York, Colorado, Arkansas, Oregon, Kentucky, Michigan, New Mexico, Virginia, Washington State, Tennessee, Massachusetts, North Carolina, West Virginia, South Carolina, Vermont and the District of Columbia.

As one of little faith, I'm more than a little uncomfortable with the fact that the movement to establish Juneteenth as a national holiday is led by the National Juneteenth Christian Leadership Council, but I do recognize that leadership in the black communities often does come bound up with faith. Regardless, I'm all for Juneteenth being elevated to the level of a national holiday, so y'all spring for a stamp and add your voices to the National Juneteenth Holiday Campaign, ok?

And while you're at it, check out this splendid little website on "The Middle Passage".

More On Identity Politics

2008-06-19T17:50:00.001-05:00

I'll leave it to Pam and others to tell.

I've added Pam's House Blend to my Blog (Roll) Stuff, b/c I've been reading her for awhile and she is by far the coolest of the cool.

I Am Such A Sap

2008-06-18T10:41:00.009-05:00

Not that most people would believe that, given my primary Gold and secondary Green personality. But there are a few things that get to me, and this was one of them:

Del Martin and Phyllis Lyon, being married, yet again, by Gavin Newsom, and you can watch the 2-minute video of it here; the difference this time? Del Martin is in a wheelchair. This time, as last, they had the San Francisco City Hall as their wedding chapel and their ceremony was the first to be held; a distinction that everyone agrees they deserve and have earned, given their decades of activism on behalf of the LGBT communities.

They've been together 55 years, and yet many divorce-riddled Christianista homophobes are having fainting fits over the fact that five members of the California Supreme Court understands exactly what "civil rights" means, with relation to the California constitution, and struck down a DOMA statue passed by voters, 8 years ago as being incompatible with those civil rights.

The real test will come in November, b/c the haters have managed to put a proposed DOMA amendment on the ballot; will California voters have the good sense to not repeat their mistake of 8 years ago? It's looking fairly good.

Yeah, I'm a sap. I don't really care one way or the other if I ever get married (the other half has a rather different opinion about that, however) but after reading about Del and Phyllis yet again, I just had to listen to some sappy music, in honor of them.

The Identity Politics of South Carolina

2008-06-17T15:50:00.010-05:00

This is such a difficult post to write - I feel fairly certain that, for the first time in my life, I'm not going to vote in an election. Since I was first old enough to vote, I have voted. I've always had more than a passing interest in politics, and I've always believed in fulfilling my "civic duty". The first time I actually started putting my money where my beliefs are was with the Kerry campaign. I remember sitting in my office at Adams State, in front of my computer, making the decision to donate to the Kerry campaign, online, the day after he announced his candidacy. (No, silly. I waited until I got home that evening to actually use my own computer to make the donation.) And I kept donating, until the very end. But not, I think, this time - neither donation nor vote.

I've been mulling it over for weeks now - ever since it became clear that Hillary Clinton had no chance of winning the Democratic nomination.

One of the reasons I took a hiatus from my personal blog was because I joined a couple of the more "influential" (in their own minds, at any rate) political blogs a couple of years ago. Daily Kos and MyDD. They were (are) online gathering places for progressive political nuts, like me, and I loved them. Two years ago, there was no identified front runner (or, actually if there was, it was Hillary) and the two blogs reflected the biases of their owners. The owner of MyDD has always been a Clintonista; the owner of Daily Kos claimed to be neutral, but it now seems clear that he wasn't - at any rate, he's now an Obamaton. To be fair, both blogs grew out of the Howard Dean movement, and then took up Edwards' cause, until Kerry clinched the nomination in 2004. By and large, their membership remained with Edwards this year, until he dropped out.

And here's the odd part - when I joined those blogs, I classified myself as an "ABCer" - Anybody But Clinton. I saw her as manipulative, calculating and triangulating, just like her husband. In reality, as I engaged on the blogs, I was a passionate trooper in the "Gore will ride in to save us" cavalry; when it became clear that Gore wouldn't, I settled on my fellow Westerner, Bill Richardson. Then the odd stuff started happening; as Richardson slowly, inexorably proved his inadequacy (don't get me wrong, I still think he has the best resume, and his "experience ads were great; he just turned out to be totally inept...)

.... I started really paying attention to the way Clinton was being trashed, especially on DailyKos. While most other "kossack's" interests transferred from Edwards to Obama, my sympathies began to swing towards Clinton. I began to understand that she really isn't her husband; she's actually far more progressive than he is, and she would have undone or re-worked some of his worst policy mistakes. I recognized that she wasn't perfect, but that, of the two remaining viable candidates, she was clearly *as* progressive, and certainly more experienced than Obama, and that the reality is that while he gave a speech as a state senator saying he wouldn't have voted for AUMF (something the progressive wing of the Democratic Party brutalized Clinton over) Obama, in the US Senate, has actually had a voting record identical to Clinton's on all other terrorism & Iraq War legislation.

But, I began to see a vicious, unrelenting current of antipathy towards her on most of the progressive blogs. At that point, I wasn't anti-Obama so much as I was sympathetic to Clinton - I recognized that Obama wasn't responsible for actions, behaviors and comments of people who supported his candidacy. Regardless, I committed to her financially (I still am, with a monthly donation thru November.)

Then came South Carolina. Yes, South Carolina. South Effing Carolina.

Donnie McClurkin.

Donnie McClurkin, Hezekiah Walker and Mary Mary.

Mr. Obama, who claimed to offer a new way, openly, consciously and undeniably engaged in identity politics. Not so undeniably to many Obama supporters, to be sure. They certainly denied. And he stumbled and fumbled in his response to the reaction. And, when cornered, Obama defenders, and campaign surrogates resorted to a "she did it too" response, dredging up claims of race politics by Clinton. I don't necessarily buy that one, but that's not the point.

The point is, the person who stakes his candidacy on being a different sort of politician, who pretends to the Oval Office by saying he is the candidate who can and will heal the rifts and divides in the American body politic and the American body civic, cannot defend himself or be defended by his supporters of his campaign's (and by definition, his) decisions regarding South Carolina with a weak, bleating "she did it too".

And so, I will most likely not be voting this year. Possibly not at all. Likely not for President, anyway. Regardless of who the VP choice is (for the record, I think Clinton should do everything possible to avoid being offered the VP slot, if it begins to look like he might offer it to her after all.)

Realistically, it appears that this year will be a case where my vote may not matter all that much. There are no US Senators up for election - Kohl was just re-elected two years ago, Finegold has two more years to go. Congressperson? Tammy Baldwin is in about as safe a district as there is. State-wide? No one's up for (re)election. No significant referenda on the ballot. County- and city-wide? Nada. The only thing going on the ballot this year in Madison, Dane County, Wisconsin, USA is Obama, McCain, McKinney, possibly Nader, or no one. I'm thinking "no one".

People will howl "What about the Supreme Court appointments!?!?"

Yeah well.

Tornado Ally Lagnappe

2008-06-10T17:00:00.008-05:00

Speaking of Tornado Ally...

... I give these folks credit for what surely must be the world's best example of "making a silk purse out of a sow's ear".

If you follow the link, note that the site can be read in Japanese, too....

A Prisoner of Wal-Marts

2008-06-08T21:33:00.006-05:00

I've lived a good portion of my life in Tornado Ally:

No, really. Not all, for sure, but something like 21 years. And even when not living in Tornado Ally, I regularly visited my grandma, in Oklahoma, which is flat in the middle of Tornado Ally.

The odd thing is that Wisconsin doesn't appear on the above map, although Wisconsinites will tell you they do in fact live in Tornado Ally. And I believe them, because I've experience more tornado warning in the four summers I've lived in Madison than in all the 16 years I lived in SE Colorado and Texas.

And last Saturday (June 7th) was no exception.

Let's face it - I'm not a fan of Wal-Marts (as my grandma called it). When I left Alamosa I swore I'd never shop at Wal-Marts again, because in Madison, there were options: Target (Super Target!) ShopKo.... That swearing lasted for about 4 years (except for those times when I was home, visiting my family in CO, where Wal-Marts is *the* option.) We won't get into all of that here, but in the past year I've begun shopping at Wal-Marts again, b/c the other half is a Wal-Marts fan. Or was, until Saturday.

But, to get to the point, on Saturday afternoon, we went to Wal-Marts specifically to purchase a new window fan. Got the window fan home, opened it up, and there was no power cord (it was one of those new-fangled ones with a detachable cord.) So, while the other half started dinner, I hied myself back to Wal-Marts, to exchange it for a fan with a cord.

As climbed out of my Jeep, the tornado sirens went off, but I didn't think much of it. I'd checked Weather.com before leaving and I knew that Madison has a habit of sounding the tornado sirens, even when tornadoes are spotted 20 miles away. Walking up to the Service Desk, I explained my problem to the perky clerk, submitted my receipt, told her I wanted an exchange, and then headed off for the 30-second walk to grab a new box off the shelf.

Heading back to the Service Desk (having not been in the damn store for even two minutes) I was accosted by an "associate", who informed me that I had to immediately turn around and take refuge along the back wall of the building - that the doors were locked, the cash registers closed, and no one could leave the building.

I wondered at that but not being particularly irked at it, I complied, knowing that it might be 10 or 15 minutes before this little bit of excitement ended. And excitement it was - kids were going crazy - let's face it, lock-ins are exciting, when you're 12 or younger. Hugging my box, I settled down against the shelving on the back wall. To my right, a classically beautiful woman in a sari, shepherding four kids with calm assertiveness. Sitting to my left, a man - Central American, I suspect (yeah, I'm stereotyping) since he was very short and spoke a mix of Spanish and heavily-accented English with his two pretty pre-teen daughters. He was wearing a futbol jersey in Bolivian national colors, though (and looked like he played soccer regularly, too.) Ok, ok - it's just that all the Bolivians I've ever met are generally taller than the Central American's I've met. I *said* I was stereotyping, after all. You think that's bad, wait till I get to the 'Murr-uh-kins.

Everyone was on their cell phones, of course, calling people to check the weather alerts, to tell them that we'd been locked in and, in the case of the Central American, calling work to tell them that he might be late.

As the time rolled on to half an hour, the woman in the sari disappeared for a few minutes, then reappeared with coloring books and a big box of crayons; she looked at me, shrugged and said in lilting accent "a small price to pay, I suppose, to keep them from bothering others." The girls to my left had long since pulled rugs off the shelf (we were sitting up against the shelves holding the area rugs), spread them on the cold floor, and laid down, one on each side, using their father's lap for a pillow as they chatted.

As the time progressed it became pretty evident that by settling myself amongst the non-native American group (I'm speaking adults here - by their accents it was clear the kids were all born here or came here at a very young age), I'd done myself quite the favor. As it moved on upwards of 45 minutes, more and more of the "American-parented" kids started raising holy hell. Running, screaming, tripping over those of us sitting along the shelves, pilfering the toy aisle, fighting, and not a parent around, trying to keep them under control.

And then, of course, there were the two "adult" men who got into a fight - sort of. I didn't witness the incident, but I did hear it, since it went down just a couple aisle from where I was sitting. Apparently, one man, talking on his cell phone, accidentally bumped his shopping cart into another, but didn't apologize - just kept moving (yeah, the Wal-Marts management had long since given up trying to keep people still - the kids might have been running up and down aisles, but a good many adults were wandering them too). The "bumped into" fella wasn't about to take that - he followed the cart man around demanding an apology, and the cart man just kept ignoring him. In just a minute or two it escalated into pushing, shoving and yelling, and managers rushed from all points. I give the Wal-Marts managers credit - they physically put themselves between the two and after a good half hour managed to talk them down. Of course, a good-sized crowd gathered for the whole event.

A gang of younger Wal-Marts employees were roaming the back aisles, digital camera in hand, taking pictures of the crowded aisles. Right in front of me they ran down the harried-looking general manager and crowded around him, saying "Jim! Jim! We want our picture with you!" Sari woman graciously offered to snap the memorable photo, and in return, Jim stopped to admire the pictures being colored by her still-behaving kids.

One small group of American "adults" who managed to ignore the excitement of the near-fight (a bit to my surprise) collected in the aisle directly in my line-of-sight; the pillow aisle. Six adults, five of them well "over-sized", one of them with a baby.

As their conversation progressed, I might've thought I was in the midst of a "rednecks for Bush" convention. I'm not sure how they got onto the subject, but eventually they started in on "taxes", and one of the women announced that she'd worked in the state government and people just had "no idea how much money they waste. No idea!" She assured her listeners that they'd be appalled if they really knew.

At an hour in, people were getting even more restless - everyone had gotten weather reports over their cell phones - the tornado warning was supposed to expire at 4:15, and it was getting close. And then reports began circulating that the warning had been extended to 5:30 pm. Management announced that the doors would remain locked until it was safe to leave the building.

The rednecks for Bush convention moved on to bitching about the cost of food, the cost of gas and wondered why the gov'mint didn't do something about it. The two men talked about their guns and the mods they'd made to their big trucks. They talked about how crappy the roads in Madison were (um..hello...taxes!) And sweet Jesus, they talked about Jesus. (I am not making this stuff up - I took notes on my cell phone's notepad.)

The din of restlessness started rising; to their credit, the rednecks for Bush never once complained about being locked in - other than one of the men commented that his nephew was graduating that evening, and he hoped he'd be able to make it. They remained wrapped up in figuring out how to fix all the problems Wisconsin's liberals had caused over the years.

An hour and fifteen minutes (!) into my incarceration, employees were sent out to announce that, while the cashiers would still not be checking people out, customers who wanted to take responsibility for themselves were welcome to leave their carts where they were, and leave the building. The rednecks stayed, as did sari woman and her kids, and Central American man and his daughters - "why don't we leave, daddy?" "Because we need to buy what we came for," was all he said, and the girls settled back down to wait.

I took the announcement to mean that I had a choice - I could continue to wait, or I could walk away from my fan, my receipt (which was who knows where behind the Service Desk) and my money.

I waited. At an hour and a half, despite the extended tornado warning still being in effect, Wal-Marts management finally caved and sent their cashiers back to their registers. I made my way, with my new box fan, to the Service Desk, where the (same) perky clerk asked me "Do you want to return that?" "Umm, no. I've been trapped in here for an hour and a half, because I returned a different one and am taking this one. You have my receipt here somewhere." "You've been trapped here for an hour and a half?!? How did that happen? What are you taking about?" She giggled, thinking she was being cute. I responded with a Norma Lois Peterson look and a curt "Please find my receipt."

As I exited the store, I overheard another departing prisoner comment "Gosh, I wonder how much stuff was shoplifted?" to his companion.

The second boxed fan, incidentally, was also missing its power cord.

It's a Tire-some Business, Ain't It?

2007-03-31T13:45:00.000-05:00

I am so irked with myself right now.

Three weeks ago, in the dark of night, I hit one of Pothole Dave's potholes - a massive one, and ruined the front driverside rim on my car. And so there I was at midnight, stone sober, in suit-and-tie in below-freezing weather with minimal visibility (no near-by street light) on East Wash Ave, putting on the spare.

Before you accuse me of being careless on this one, this Monster Pothole claimed a good many victims.

The next day (a Sunday) I drove over to an open tire shop, had them special order a new rim, and I waited. For two weeks. The special order, you see, had been sent to their shop in West Bend, WI, on the following Wednesday, rather than to their shop here. Why it took an additional week-and-a-half to get the 70 miles or so from West Bend to Madison, when it only took three days to get from the factory to their West Bend shop is beyond me. But they were generous enough to knock off a whole $10 for my inconvenience - wasn't that nice of them? Total cost: $376.89. And I counted myself lucky - the tire was salvageable, so I didn't have to replace it.

So, why am I irked right now?

Because, this morning, of my own stupid carelessness, rather than because of dark and damanged roads, I hit a curb and ruined not only the passengerside front rim, but also the tire. The damn Pirelli tire is gonna cost an additonal 200 bucks on top of a new rim.

I swear I will never again eat a Taco Bell chile cheese burrito while driving.

Madtown's Moving Day Myths

2006-08-15T10:11:00.000-05:00

"Eviscerated sofas, cracked bookshelves, dirty mattresses and bags of trash lined the streets of Madison on Moving Day today as thousands of students deal with moving companies and being temporarily without a home."

So begins yesterday's above-the-fold story in the Cap Times.

Yesterday was the third "moving day" in Madison that I've witnessed; the third time that I, as a downtown resident and daily pedestrian, have navigated the downtown area during moving day and it's aftermath. And I have a few questions:

1) Why on earth do Madison taxpayers tolerate this totally unacceptable, totally disgusting practice? Why do they allow the students and downtown slum lords (look around downtown this morning - the phrase is not too strong) to totally trash the downtown area like this? Why do taxpayers not rebel at being forced to bear the cost for the massive clean-up that's required? Why do the taxpayers allow students to get away with the irresponsiblity of making this mess and walking away from it, and why do taxpayers allow downtown slumlords to create the "moving day atmosphere" wherein students, rushed, homeless for a night, feel like they have no choice but to dump their trashed furniture, their (sometimes months-worth of) piled trash and filth out on the street and walk away from it.

2) Why on earth do students tolerate this fabricated moving day concept? Fabricated, clearly, by downtown slum lords, for the benefit of downtown slum lords. What purpose does it serve, other than to help the slum lords keep their books tidy? None. None whatsoever. And we see, yearly, just how tidy it keeps downtown Madison.

I have lived in numerous college towns, and I have *never* heard of such a thing anywhere but Madison. Again, I ask, "why?". Student could break this, if only they would, and eliminate the stress, the hassle, and the ridiculous "homeless night". What a crock.

Every year at this time, as I walk to work, stepping around the bags of rotting food, hastily swept out of refrigerators into trash bags; as I make my way around exposed nails and broken glass and sharp edges, I think about how Madison prides itself on being such a beautiful city. And am confronted by yet another of Madison's endless myths about itself.

In the three years I've lived in Madison, it's become clear to me that developers and downtown slum lords have city officials cowed with threats; I suppose that's a large part of the answer, but it doesn't tell me why Madison's responsible individual taxpayers don't take a stand and demand that students and slum lords start changing the system and pay for the mess they create.

Answers, anyone?

A Gay Old Time In Mad-town Tonight

2006-08-14T19:34:00.000-05:00

I know someone out there will harass me for this, but I just have to ask:

Is it just me or is there anything more gay than a Drum and Bugle Corps?

After all, acres and acres of spandexed males (and yeah, females, but we expect that, don't we?) And row after row of plumed finery and strutting behinds.....

Not to mention enough make-up to film a new Incredible Hulk movie

And not to mention that some of 'em are just down-right cute in those uniforms, even if they do give the t-sip sign.

Only Her Hairdresser Knows...

2006-06-04T11:39:00.000-05:00

A Lexus RX
A Volkswagon Toaureg
A Hyundai Santa Fe

The above three automobiles have four things in common:

1) One of each model was parked in the Woodman's East parking lot this morning.

2) Each of them is marketed as an "SUV".

3) Each of the models parked in the Woodman's East parking lot this morning was silver.

4) Anyone with any thougt process ought to be able to tell the difference - the really expensive luxury SUV (Lexus RX), the more mid-line Toaureg (still expensive, however), and Hyundai's economy version, half the price of the Lexus. Well, the *owners* of these vehicles should be able to tell them apart, at least. No?

So, the parking lot is relatively empty earlier in the morning; I've just parked one (empty) space down from the Hyundai, and am getting ready to exit my car and go into the store when, into my line of sight walks a bottle-bleached, fake and baked, Britney clone (and dressed the part) 40-something (although, with the damage fake and bake does, who knows? She could have been a 30-something).

She holds up a keyless entry key pad, points it at the Hyundai and visibly clicks it, several times.

My assumption is that she's hitting the "where are you in the parking lot, I can't find you" button that many such key pads have (mine, I know, sets my horn to blaring and my parking lights to flashing.)

Nothing.

Putting her hand up over her brow to shade her already-sunglassed eyes, she steps into the driving lane, twists around into a three sixty and scans the lot, like a great white adventurer standing on a bluff surveying the African savanna.

Being the intrepid adventurer she is, she quickly spied another of the big silver beasts, walked across a couple of rows to it and repeated the process.

No luck. 'Twas the Toaureg. Having seen both of these attempts to corner her particular SUV easily within my line of vision, I decided to hunker down for the rest of the safari. She was in luck, however, as there remained but one large silver non-soccer-mommed-minivan-type vehicle in the lot.

I watched her walk three parking lanes over to the Lexus (which looks nothing - nothing - like the Toaureg and the Santa Fe), try her keypad, find success with blaring horn and flashing parking lights, click her keypad a second time to turn them off, then a third to unlock the door, before climbing in and driving off.

Not In Iraq

2006-06-03T15:15:00.000-05:00

So picture this; as I often am on a Saturday morning, I was working at the Action Wisconsin/Fair Wisconsin info table at the Farmer's Market today. One of the new info booths on our corner (Pinckney/Mifflin/N. Hamilton) this summer is "Vets Against The War (in Iraq)".

The vets staffing the table tend to be a bit of a motley bunch, and from the looks of them could have served anywhere frm as far back as the Korean War (sorry - POLICE ACTION!), certainly the war in Viet Nam, and a few of them most likely in the Bush I Gulf War. And who knows where in between - Granada? Panama? Kosovo?

At any rate, today, I spied a bright red "Badgers For Bush" t-shirt coming down the walk, and pointed it out to my fellow volunteer, since, just moments before, someone stopping by the table had mentioned the Badgers For Bush (aka the UW College Repugnancuns (CRs). Incidentally, check out what the U of Oklahoma CRs are doing these days.) We watched the up-and-coming CR look over and walk past our booth with a mild sneer as he zeroed in on the Vets Against The War booth.

Not surprisingly, a yelling match ensued. The boy walked away for awhile, stood with one one of his cronies (who was handing out literature telling people that the government would soon seize their homes for back taxes, if they didn't pass the proposed property tax payer's bill of rights amendment, then returned (twice) to the Vets Against the War booth, for two more shouting matches.

The fourth time the College Republican returned to the booth, I decided to take a bit of action myself - I had just decided to visit one of the bakery stands, so on my way past stopped by the Vets Against the War booth, interrupted the shouting match and advised the Vets:

"Stop arguing with him. Just ask him one question and demand he answer it - 'Why aren't you in Iraq?'"

Unfortunately, these Vets Against the War are, well, touchy. One of them instantly replied:

"He's not in Iraq because he has the freedom not to be, thanks to us!"

They need some coaching, these vets. Answering his question for him doesn't teach the impertinent little brat anything at all - it just let him off the hook. Again. Had it been me, every time the CR opened his mouth I'd have had one single response:

"Why aren't you in Iraq?"

"Why aren't you in Iraq?"

Why aren't you in Iraq?"

But, just as you can't teach a College Repubnacan a damn thing, neither can you teach a Vet, anti-war or not, a damn thing.

Ah, well.

Living In A "Democracy"

2006-06-02T13:53:00.000-05:00

Rolling Stone has just printed what is, in my humble opinion, the most significant investigative news article to be printed in the US since the Watergate break-in and cover-up exposè. Written by Robert F. Kennedy Jr., the article details the theft of the 2004 presidential election in Ohio.

It is clear that we live neither in a democracy nor even a republic, but a fascist state; if the results of the 2006 mid-term elections are not more fair and accurate, then we are lost.

"...because we are crushed by the daily awareness of our great good fortune..."

2006-05-26T11:32:00.000-05:00

What an amazing sentence. Taken out of context, it can mean many things, all of them associated with the concept of social justice - something that it seems so very few Americans have an interest in, or an awareness of.

The whole idea that most of us, in some way, come from a position of privilege is constantly brushed aside; men have privilege over women, whites have privilege over people of any other color, those with college degrees over those who didn't graduate high school, those born in "The West" over those born almost anywhere else, and on and on.

In this country, we object to the concept and trot out the whole "American Dream" and "Pull yourself up by your (warning! PDF link!) bootstraps" line, without ever stopping to think that sometimes we know dreams by another name: nightmare. Or that, if you're barefoot, you have no bootstraps.

Not sure why I'm on this rant; in part, I suppose because my job is a "social justice" job; in part because I've particpated in the recent immigrant rights rallies (and perhaps because I have, in a past life, loved "an immigrant" deeply). And in part, perhaps, because it's so very rare to seen a white, educated American male acknowledge his privilege, and record that acknowledgement.

At any rate, the entire quote in my headline is in context here.

My Daddy Was My Pacifier

2006-05-24T20:56:00.000-05:00

Sweet bjeeezus, there are just some things you don't wanna know, aren't there? Chalk this one up to one of those random conversations whereupon a "Starbucks Question" is posed; "why do men have nipples?"

When you're amongst a group of gay men, the answer is, of course, obvious. Not that all gay men have sensitive nipples, mind you, but when the question comes up, and you wonder what the answer is, where do you go? Google, of course! Whereupon one finds the answer, correct or not, to virtually every question under the sun (except for the question "What is a Starbucks Question?")

When wondering why men have nipples, of course, you find plenty of "no one really knows, but here's what most evolutionary biologists think" kinds of answers; some websites do a better job than others of covering the topic.

And then, there are others, which give you an answer you just might not, culturally, at least, be ready to hear....

"Bush Has Lost The World"

2006-05-23T15:35:00.000-05:00

Three years ago, I had a choice - to work at the UW-Madison, or to pursue a life-long dream of working in the US Foreign Service. That dream had started percolating in me as early as junior high, when I first became a voracious reader of US diplomatic and military history.

Three years ago, we were 2 years past 9/11 and in the throes of what I had identified to my unbeliving family members (most of whom had voted for Bush in 2000) as the catastophic destruction of 50 years of US foreign policy development. Numerous top career diplomats were deserting the Foreign Service, and I was, paradoxically, offered an opportunity to join "Colin's Team". At the time, I still admired Colin Powell, and thought he was our best hope for avoiding total distruction of a free-fall of US diplomatic initiatives. I was wrong about Powell, but I was right to trust my instinct that I could not possibly represent the policies of our so-called "president". And now, the proof is in the pudding (if not in the US mainstream press):

Bush Has Lost The World

If there's a god who looks favorably on the US, we're surely gonna need her now.

The Color of Brown

2006-05-19T13:19:00.000-05:00

Interesting...

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/nathan-gardels/return-of-the-native-ame_b_21294.html

... isn't it, how so very many "white" citizens of the US make sure to point out, when asked about their family heritage, that "there's some Indian in there too"? In my experience, few of us, espeically if our ancestors have been here for more than half a dozen decades, throw in that modifier, as though it confirms the validity of our being here. But when we come to the "brown" invasion from south of the border, there sure is a difference.

The Grass is Greene-er On NPR

2006-03-22T07:03:00.000-06:00

As usual, I woke up to NPR this morning; one segment caught my attention quickly -
NPR reporter David Greene is following Bush and Cheney on their travels this week as they try to shore up support for their admnistration - er... the war in Iraq. You know - the war on terror, not the civil war. If you missed it, the podcast here. In short, Bush was "taking on" Russ Feingold and his effort to force a censure of Bush regarding his violation of the FISA law.

What got my dander up? Greene, in Cincinnati, wandered around talking to people who listened to Bush speak yesterday. My first thought was "this isn't gonna be balanced - nobody who disagrees with Bush gets close to Bush (Helen Thomas, dean of the White House Press Corps, was, finally, an exception yesterday.) Sure enough, Greene spoke with "a Democrat, who voted for Bush" and a female Republican". The way Greene slid in the question about censure for violating FIAS was by attaching it to the war in Iraq and the 'war' on terror - no discussion about the fact that FISA provides ample leeway for the government to wiretap, so long as the government follows the law, that approval can be requeste after wiretapping occurs, etc. And no disucssion of the fact that Bush has admitted to violating the law, and that he intends to continue violating the law. Both of Greene's interviewees, were presented with the false choice that the Republicans are touting - criticize Bush for violating the law and you're giving aid and comfort to the "enemy". Keep your mouth shut, let Bush stand above the law, and while giving up your civil liberties you're a good patriot, helping to fight the "enemy".

Feingold's censure motion, of course, has nothing to do with trying to stop wiretapping - it has to do with the fact that we have laws and procedures, which are not the least bit restrictive, but must be followed, even by a sitting president.

Another "Green" - Glen Greenwald - has explained the "Mythmaking" the Republicans are engaging in far better than I can, however, so I leave it to him. And Chris Lehmann at the New York Observer has an excellent cover story on how the Democratic Leadership is too scared to do anything except run and hide

Mealy-Mouthed Mehlman

2006-03-21T16:22:00.000-06:00

Have you heard this lie on the radio, yet? Apparently it's airing on stations in Madison and Milwaukee

Voice Over:
September eleventh changed our country.
And it changed how America responds to terrorists.
President Bush is working to keep American families safe.
Passing the PATRIOT Act which has disrupted over one hundred and fifty terrorist threats and cells making sure the US is monitoring terrorist communications.
But some Democrats are working against these efforts to secure our country, opposing the PATRIOT Act and terrorist surveillance program.
Their leader is Russ Feingold.
Now Feingold and other Democrats want to censure the President. Publicly reprimanding President Bush for pursuing suspected members of al Qaeda.
Some Democrats are even calling for President Bush's impeachment.
Is this how Democrats plan to win the War on Terror?
Call Russ Feingold and ask him why he's more interested in censuring the President than protecting our freedom.
Paid for by the Republican National Committee not authorized by any candidate or candidate's committee www.gop.com.
The Republican National Committee is responsible for the content of this advertising.

That sniveling little homo (I can say that) chairman of the Republican National Committee, Ken Mehlman, will be in Madison on Thursday (March 23, 2006) for breakfast at The Madison Club, @ 5 East Wilson Street, downtown. The flyer in PDF form is here. Turn out and let him know what you think - the grassy area in front of The Madison Club is a free speech zone.

More on this at dailykos

Christian Compassion At Gunpoint

2006-03-20T09:57:00.000-06:00

This is just disgusting on so many levels. The news service milque toasts it and gives the guy a pass. No discussion about how he bought into the Bush lies about connections between Al Quaida, 9/11 and Iraq:

"I was pissed off at the terrorists for 9/11 and other atrocities."

No challenging of his self-professed Christianity and the hypocrisy of his actions:

... "there's some revenge involved. I'd be lying if I said there wasn't."

And then, this:

"I don't really have love for Muslim people," Johnson said. "I'm sure there are good Muslims. I try not to be racist." Although he hasn't read the Quran, or spoken with Muslims, he has "heard" the Islamic holy book "teaches to kill Jews and infidels. And it's hard to love people who hate you."

Only a "maybe he's kinda-sorta rehablitiated, and we really ought to feel sorry for him, even if he does hate Muslims":

"...unlikely Army corporal at 48, a father who came here for revenge, a Christian missionary on a crusade against Islam, and a man who, after six months at war, is ready to go home."

Yep, yep. They paint him sympathetically as a grief-stricken father, a Christian missionary gone awry.

I am reminded of just how many Christian missionaries throughout history have conducted their missions from behind the business end of a gun.

“dumbed-down and tarted-up.”

2006-03-19T20:59:00.000-06:00

That's Al Gore's take on the modern state of US media, and he couldn't be more accurate. The quote comes from an article in The American Prospect by Ezra Klein, one of the most lucid columnists out there.

Even if you don't read the article, make sure to check out Gore's current project, Current TV. It's going to revolutionize the media in the way blogs have revolutionized the internet.

Now, back to the topic of "the media". Personally, I've almost completely stopped watching television news, both the cable channels and the networks.

On rare occasions I'll be doing cardio at the gym and will tune into something I see on one of the overhead tv screens, but I can't stay that I do so even once a week, and then it's usually something on the local news. Certainly, with the internet (and the arrival of Stephanie Miller - my future wife!) on Madison's local Air America station, I can find far more "fair and balanced" news than is offered via cable and the networks.

But really, this post wasn't even supposed to be about my tv news viewing habits - it was supposed to be about something we can all agree on: Gore 2008

Just Because It Looked Fun

2006-03-15T23:14:00.000-06:00

I found this first on his excellent blog.

Red indicates the places I've been. Not doing so bad with the States but...

create your own visited states map
or check out these Google Hacks.

...looks like I've got my work cut out for me elsewhere.

create your own visited countries map
or vertaling Duits Nederlands

You Gotta Earn It, Herb

2006-03-14T17:31:00.000-06:00

Draft Feingold
Russ For President

Someone, after all, needs to have a little backbone, and it seems Russ is the only one who does. Isn't this cool? I found it on the Chinese News Service Xinhua.

And promptly sent the following to Wisconsin Senator Herb Kohl (copied, of course to Wisconsin Senator Russ Feingold ;-):

Tue, 14 Mar 2006 15:06:48 -0800 (PST)
From: "Eric W. Trekell"
Subject: Censure of George W. Bush
To: campaign@herbkohl.com
CC: campaign@russfeingold.org
I have to tell you, Mr. Kohl, that I will not vote for you in November.
Regardless of all of the things you note on your campaign website
as having "done" for Wisconsin, the fact that you did not support
a simple censure of George W. Bush - who openly admits that
he's violating federal law and insists he will continue to do so -
is sufficient criteria for losing my vote.

I am deeply sorry that it has come to this, but this is not an
insignificant issue - it is not even a partisan issue - people who
break the law in this country should expect to be punished, and
"censure" isn't even a real punishment - it's only a finger-wagging
"Shame on you, you should know better."

Well, shame on *you*, Mr, Kohl. Shame on you and all the other
senators - Democratic and Republican alike - who will not even
go on record as opposing the violation of federal law.

Sincerely,

Eric W. Trekell
Madison

Hey - Great Shoes!

2006-03-09T11:28:00.000-06:00

Surely there is no more certain sign of aging than starting to fall apart. And it begins to seem as if this is the Winter Of My Falling Apart. Or, perhaps I've suffered from Seasonal Affective Disorder, hey? I have to say that I've perked up a bit since there's been a bit more sunshine the last couple of weeks.

(Dear God, I'm beginning to sound just like the women in my mother's family - hypochondriacs, all!)

But that's a sidebar -

Here's the deal: for the last couple of months, I've had this nasty, searing pain in my feet, so I went to the doctor and was told "you may be coming down with plantar fasciitis". Huh? Planter fascists? But I'm not a southerner!

Ok, bad pun. But really, why now? Why in the last couple of months? What's changed recently? I have been walking everywhere for the last 3 years. I have been doing the same sorts of cardio for the last...zillion years. What's changed? Ok, I bought one pair of new boots a few months ago, but haven't worn them often enough for that to have been the issue.

I *do* and always have had very wide feet. Heck, during swimming in gym class, people used to call me "Daffy". I'm kinda surprised that my parents didn't name me "Donald" when I was born, actually. Not that it made me a better swimmer, mind you.

At any rate, appropriate treatment for PF is imperrative, my doc said, as it can become chronic, and surgical treatment (snipping the tendon in the foot) results in its own significant drawbacks. So, I've embarked upon a course of treatment, consisting of focused foot streching, icing every evening, temporary inflammation management with ibuprofen, and throwing out all (ok, most) of my shoes to buy new. I needed to downsize anyway.

But wait! What's the problem there? My doctor is giving me permission to go out and buy, buy, buy! But I'm a homo - I'm not supposed to need permission to go out and buy, buy, buy!

The kicker is, she suggested I go Birkenstock.

Now, I've never claimed to be a fashion fag - indeed, we've discussed that in this bit of cybersphere before. But Birks?

Over lunch yesterday I moseyed on down to Heartland Birkenstock on State Street, committed to the idea of purchasing shoes for healthier feet. My plan? Two pair of Birks, initially - a basic brown and a basic black. I knew I'd be committing my bank account to a real hit, too, and decided that, if I was going to smack down $400, the clerk was going to work for it. Sadly, the cute boy wasn't working (I walk by the store every day, so I notice these things.)

I must have tried on 20 pairs - I warned her (the clerk) that, despite being pregnant, she was going to have to earn her money - different sizes and styles and such, and none of them - none of them - could be called anything like stylish.

I've just completed my first 24 hours of Life With Birk, and I suppose the issue is mostly in my own head, but I can just see it now - next time I go out to Club 5, who's gonna walk up and start a converstation with "Hey - great shoes!"?

Our People

2006-02-28T16:43:00.000-06:00

"What about the gay children in rural areas who don’t have anyone to look up to?" she asked. "We must not stop validating our people."
- Lupe Valdez, lesbian, Sheriff of Dallas County, TX

The quote in context is here.

I use the phrase "our people" and "our youth" often when talking about LGBT issues, and have wondered if it's presumptuous of me, so it's good to see someone else using it.

Lost Opportunities

2006-02-27T15:19:00.000-06:00

Although I am loathe to do so, I have come to the conclusion that I need to purchase a camera phone.

The fact is, every once in awhile I run across something that trips an idea for a post, but really requres a visual to make it work.

A case in point: shortly before Christmas I was shopping at the H&M in the the mall in Schaumberg, IL. I was specifically looking for a couple of "cute" outfits for my then-3 month old great niece. Now, if you've been to the H&M at that partcular mall, you know that the floor is sealed concrete - not carpted, not tiled, etc.

Browsing through the baby/infant section, I came across a pair of pink baby booties, which had been removed from their packaging and subsequently knocked off onto the concrete floor. They had landed just so - in something of a "v" shape - the left one on it's side, the right one upright.

The kicker? Right in front of the booties was this stain on the floor - kind of a dried-out rust red....

See, it just doesn't work without the visual.

I was reminded of that again today, during lunch. Occasionally, I get a visual of something which clicks in my brain and reminds me of my life in Japan. That's what happened today. I'd run down to Four Star to turn in a couple of DVDs, and on my way back, was standing at the curb waiting for the light to turn so I could cross East Gorham. Looking down, I saw, lying in the gutter, one of those little plastic bottles for Meiji Yogurt Drink. They're ubiquitous in Japan, and can be purchased in the US at some Asian food stores, but one seldom sees them.

Certainly, one never sees them in the US lying in the gutter, as a piece of litter, although they are a commonplace sight as Japanese litter. (Contrary to popular belief, there's plenty of litter in Japan.)

Again, it just doesn't work without the visual. I suppose I'll break down soon and buy a camera phone.

That Was Lightening, By Thunder!

2006-02-16T21:20:00.000-06:00

Listen up, people.

I know snow. I grew up in the Colorado Rockies.

I know thunder and lightening storms. I grew up in the Colorado Rockies.

We have snow there. In the winter. We have thunder and lightening storms there. In the spring and summer.

We do not have thunder, lightening and snow storms. Not all at once, for sure. That's just not natural.

What's this all about?

I was out this morning shoveling the walk and driveway, when I perceived a flash of what we, in Colorado, refer to as sheet lightening. I suppose y'all use that phrase here too, but I've never heard it. Of course, I thought to myself, "that wasn't lightening. It's snowing out." So I looked up, looked around; expected to see a snow plow, or perhaps the recycling truck, with it's flashing light, coming up the street. "Silly", I thought, instantly. "I don't hear a snow plow, so there can't be a snow plow. What on earth was that flash?"

Then I heard it. Unmistakably, a peal of thunder. A few minutes later, my roommate confirmed that from inside the house, he thought he'd heard thunder too, though he'd not percieved lightening.

Tell me I'm not crazy. It doesn't thunder, lightening and snow all at the same time.

Post Script: Thundersnow! Thundersnow?

At least I know I'm not crazy.

Pissin' In The Sink

2006-02-13T22:50:00.000-06:00

"Have you ever pissed in a sink?"

Let's face it - Bob is the only person I know who would just up and ask that. No reason. No provocation. No rational or reasonable lead-in to it.

We were in Bob's car - me, Bob, his boyfriend and Jeff. Headed up to Green Bay for the Frozen Tundra Classic. Lambeau Field, where the Badger hockey team was to play (and defeat) the Ohio State University. (Don't ask me why the San Jose, Calif. newspaper carried that article - I have no idea.) Badgers, 4-2. I love hockey. Always have. But hockey's not the story here today.

Bob admitted that he'd pissed in a sink before. Yeah, ok. I admitted it to. When I lived in Hypatia, I had a lavatory in my room; When I needed to go, either in the middle of the night, or first thing in the morning, my sink worked just fine as a urinal - better than having to throw on a robe and run to the bathroom. So, sue me. Think about it - a lavatory, like a urinal, is porcelain; it can be "flushed", so to speak, by turning on the water. And urine is, after all, sterile.

Ok, ok. Bob's boyfriend, and Jeff (Bob, Jeff, and I are all members of PHMC - buy tickets to our Cabaret performance, ok?) expressed their reservations about pissing in a sink. Either they're prissy (no debate there - they're *both* prissy) or they lied about never having pissed in a sink.

So, anyway. We get to Lambeau Field. The hockey rink is set up. We get some food, get some beer and find our seats. It's moderately nice out - in the low 30's; the sun is out. Not a bad day for outdoor hockey.

The first period ends, 1-0 (the UW scores, 28 seconds into the first period) and I need to go to the bathroom. I head down under the stands, and experience something I've never seen before. Listen; I've been in quite a few large sports stadiums. Never, ever, have I seen men crammed into the men's restroom the way I did at Lambeau. I am talking someting like 10+ men in every line, at every urnial. I need to go, pretty bad. A Starbucks grande coffee, a diet coke and two 20 oz beers are...pressing. I turn around, walk out, deciding to look for another, less crowded restroom.

As I exit, Bob comes in - "It's really crowded - if you need to go bad, you'd be better off looking for a less busy place."

Bob decides to stay; I move on, and find a *slighty* less crowded men's room near the main gate. Only slightly. I stand in line behind 5 other guys. Once I'm finished, I turn, walk down the line of waiting men, and see...a line of men, three deep, pissing in the sinks.

I return to the stands a couple minutes before the second period begins; Bob returns a couple minutes into the period.

"Dude," I say to Bob. "I can't believe it - I went to a restroom with a shorter line, but even so, guys were pissing in the sink!"

Bob looks at me and says - "Yeah. I was standing at the end of a line, right next to the sinks; a guy next to me said "Shit - I can't wait this long," turned around, unzipped and started pissing in the sink behind him. I figured 'well, why the hell not?' so I turned around, unzipped, and did the same. In seconds, lines formed at the sinks."

I'm not really certain how it happened, all at once, in multiple men's restrooms at Lambeau, but I do know that when I went again, between the second and third periods of the hockey game, there was no pretense; there were lines formed at the urinals, and behind them, there were lines formed at the sinks.

As I said, I've been in plenty of large sports stadiums, but I've never before seen the men's toilets so crowded that men had to start using the sinks as urinals; I chalk it up to the fact that the beer flows freely at Lambeau; that, and recent renovations had resulted in urnals being installed. Troughs, after all, can accommodate at least twice as many men as urinals spaced out along the wall. And they're so much more cosy....

The only thing I really haven't figured out is how Bob knew to ask, as we were headed to Green Bay, if any of us had ever pissed in a sink before....

Those Lyin' Aggies

2006-02-09T11:46:00.000-06:00

Well, well, well.

Down in Aggieland, we have a saying: "Once an Aggie, always an Aggie."

That doesn't mean, of course, that one has to actually graduate from Texas A&M to be an Aggie. One has only to take classes there.

To wit: our friend, George Deutsch, apparently.

Aggies In The News

2006-02-07T10:01:00.000-06:00

Yes. We're everywhere, and we're in the news.

Some of the progressive blogs have been having a hayday recently with George Deutsch. George and I were at A&M at the same time, but I don't think I know him. Or, if I do know him, I don't remember him; certainly I must have read some of his articles in the Batt; no doubt when reading them I relegated him to the "rightwing nutcase" file. Aggieland is full of 'em, so no surprises there.

Another Aggie in the news (ok, so I'm a bit behind the times, here, but cut me some slack - I don't watch TV) has been Clay Lee. This one I know. Or, more accurately, knew. Not in the "biblical sense", mind you, 'though I did see him nekkid often enough in the locker room at the Rec. I have to say I wasn't surprised to hear that he'd been selected as a contestant on "The Apprentice", (nor even that he'd entered the competition.) Nor, for that matter, that Trump's vice-president and advisor, George Ross, summed Clay up nicely.

Cell Phone Phoul

2005-06-16T20:13:00.000-05:00

It's been awhile since I blogged a Cell Phone Phoul; perhaps I'm merely becoming jaded to the misuses and abuses of cell phones, but today I witnessed a Cell Phone Phoul that was aggregious beyond words. Seriously.

The Memorial Union is stuffed to the gills with geneticists this week. As I've learned, some society of geneticists has their annual conference in Madison. Every year. This, if you ask me, is taking replication to an extreme.

As it happens, I was in need of a urinal, so I headed down the hall only to see a long line of geneticists, waiting for their lunch; since the line stretched well past the second floor men's room door, and since the vast majority of conference goers are male, I've learned that when a lot of them are out in the hall, I might as well head downstairs to the men's room on the first floor, across from the Rathskeller.

In the men's room, ponied up to the urinal, what do I witness?

Two urinals down, a man - in his 30s, perhaps - with a genetics conferece name tag hanging from a lanyard around his neck, answering his cell phone as he too, is unzipped and ponied up.

But that's not sufficent for a Cell Phone Phoul, surely.

Answering his phone:

"Hey honey, what's up?"
....silence....
"Right now? I'm peeing."
....silence....
"No, I'm literally peeing."

Now *that*, if you ask me, is a Cell Phone Phoul.

Bicep Bitches

2005-06-14T20:00:00.000-05:00

I am, I think, the last person at my gym to still own and use one of those antiquated, cassette-playing Sony Walkmans.

My pal David asked me, the other day, what I was listening to - so I handed him the headphones. His response?

"You workout to that?!?"

At the time I was listening to a cassette of my college choir; it was a recording of my very last performance at our spring concert before I graduated. The other cassette I listen to at the gym is a not-quite-as-old cassette left over from my days as an aerobics instructor at the Silverthorne Recreation Center; definitly more energetic, but I like both and listen to whichever one fits my mood.

They've outlasted two previous cassette players and that both cassettes are still in working order is a tribute to the fact that I listen to them *only* at the gym, I guess, although I've had periodic scares with both of them. They've jammed in breaking-down cassette players, they've gotten tangled and twisted, requiring patient re-rolling by hand. But they still work.

The Walkman, once state-of-the-art, is now a pain in the butt. Big and bulky, consuming batteries like crazy. The waistband clip broke off about a month ago, so I have to carry it around in the pocket of my gym shorts - an inconvenient solution, as it often gets in the way of my range of motion on certain exercises.

For some time I'd been thinking that perhaps I should take the plunge and buy an iPod; let's get this clear, though - I'm really not a music afficianado - other than when I'm at the gym, I'm perfectly happy turning on the radio and listening to whatever happens to be on WPR. Even in the truck I tend to listen to the radio, although I do keep a few CDs around.

So, for more than a year I kept telling myself that I really couldn't justify the expense - why pay two or three hundred dollars for an iPod that I would use a couple hours a day, three or four days a week, and only at the gym? And what on earth would I put on it? Who really *needs* 2000 songs on a little box, anyway?

When I heard about the $99 iPod Shuffle, I though perhaps it would be worth it - particularly since it only held about 120 songs and was so small, but I still put it off. I really like listening to my choir recording while working out, after all.

Until the belt clip on my Walkman broke, that is.

So, two weeks ago, I went down and bought an iPod shuffle. I splurged and, for an extra $25, picked up one of the armbands. At a quarter of the cost of the iPod, it was overpriced, I thought, but ultimately useful.

And the iPod sat on my desk, next to my computer, for a week and a half. Loading the software. Ugh. Shopping for music. Ugh. Downloading pirated music. Ugh. That last, you have to listen to everything to make sure you're not loading corrupted files. Tedious and time consuming. I just want music for my workouts, dammit!

So anyway, over the weekend, I finally loaded the software and started loading music on the iPod. Took it to the gym yesterday and today, and it seems to work pretty well, with one exception.

The damn over-priced and uncomfortable armband carrier is too small. I can't wear it while doing any exercise which flexes my arms.

Maybe it's just that my biceps are too big?

Violated Violas

2005-06-12T16:15:00.000-05:00

It's remarkable just how little it takes for one to feel violated.

I grew up in a gardening family; I often tell people that, as a child, I never ate store-bought canned or frozen vegetables, unless I was eating at someone else's house.

Regardless of where we lived (and we moved around a fair amount; my dad worked for the US Forest Service and was transferred, on average, every three years) we had a full-fledged garden - corn, beans, all kinds of squashes, cucumbers, tomatoes, peppers, onions, blackeyed peas, turnips, beets, chard and okra (my momma is a southerner, after all - stewed okra - yum!)

No doubt I'm forgetting some things too, but every year we had a garden. Sometimes, depending where we were, we had asparagus, rhubarb, and a variety of berries and fruit trees too. If not, you could count on the fact that we'd spend some time later in the summer and fall, at the nearest orchard picking apples, peaches and cherries, then taking them home to process.

Our Saturday mornings were devoted to the garden, and I used to hate weeding, then picking. And as the summer wore on, processing. My mother, with rotating help from the kids (while the rest were out weeding and what not) would can or parboil and freeze everything we didn't eat fresh, and our cellar (or basement, depending on the house,) was stocked full for the winter with shelf after shelf of veggies, fruits, pickles and jellies of all kinds.

So far back as I can remember, we always had two freezers, too - one in the house and one in the garage, both filled with frozen whole tomoatoes, corn, asparagus, okra - the things which were better frozen than canned. And trout. Many a Saturday afternoon, after watering and weeding was finished, Dad packed us all up into the stationwagon and took us fishing - growing up we all had our own poles and fishing licenses. Sometimes chicken and rabbit too, depending which of us kids happened to be in 4H at the time.

At any rate, you get the point - our trips to the grocery store were to buy meat and staples - flour, sugar, toilet paper, toothpaste - the necessities of daily living. We even, for my entire growing up, bought our milk fresh. Wherever we lived, my Dad would search out someone nearby with milch cows, who produced and sold in small quantities directly to friends and family. And yes, we used the cream to churn our own butter and whenever there was extra my mom would make homemade cottage cheese.

I wonder if one can buy fresh unpasturized milk anywhere anymore?

To this day, although I often buy fruit, tomatoes, pickling cukes and the like, and make my own jellies, jams, dill pickles, salsa, and canned fruits, the one thing I *never* do is buy canned veggies - I always buy fresh.

My parents, in their retirement, no longer raise a large garden and can their own veggies, although my Dad, every summer, carts home all sorts of fruits, which my mother cans or jellies.

But the point of this post, actually, wasn't to illustrate my idyllic (and remarkably healthy) childhood; it was to point out that, paradoxically I now have the gardening bug, but when it bites me each spring, I focus on flower beds. Someday, maybe a garden, if I have space and time....

We have a tiny 6'x12' bed in front of the porch; this summer I've packed it full of flowers of all varieties; some annuals, some perennials; among other things, I have nearly 100 gladiola bulbs coming up - those should look brilliant this fall.

In all, I've spent well over $200, a good sum for a small bed, which had a number of plantings in it already. Part of that money went to several "window boxes" hanging on the front porch railing, filled with a riot of pansies and red and white petunias, as well as a couple of hanging baskets and several pots, scattered around the steps and porch, also filled with flowers.

And so why, you've been long-wondering, did I start out talking about how little it takes to feel violated?

One of my hanging baskets, filled with yellow and purple violas, and one of my terracotta pots, filled with red and white petunias and sitting on the steps, disappeared; the pot Friday night, the basket last night. To take the basket, he/she/they had to walk up onto the porch and take it down from the hook.

Pots of fucking flowers. People feel the need to steal pots of flowers.

No doubt it was some college student, wandering home tipsy from the bars on State Street.

It really sucks, feeling almost like I'm under seige; wondering if I can leave anyting out on the porch.

I have a potted cabernet grape vine, which was quite costly and which I've owned for years; fortunately the thief or thieves went for "pretty" rather than valuable, but from now on it stays in the house, which is a pity, since it does so well on the porch.

Sundays, happily, are for shopping. I bought several lengths of dog chain and several padlocks. And a new hanging basket and some more violas. The window boxes are now all chained to the porch railing, the hanging baskets padlocked to the chains they hang from. I've not decided, for certain, what I should do with the remaing pots on the steps; the plants in them aren't very "pretty" and aren't flowering, but I have wondered if perhaps I need to empty them out, run dog chain through the drain holes, refill them and then chain them to the porch post. I haven't done so yet.

I had my house broken into once; that's what violation should feel like; the odd thing is I feel equally as violated today.

Pots of fucking flowers.

Disappearing Handtowels

2005-05-18T19:54:00.000-05:00

I think one of my roommates collects handtowels.

I don't normally post anything regarding my roommates; while we all have our little peccadillos, we like each other, we get along well, and we've never had a disagreement stronger than:

"I picked up some pork to grill tonight."
"Oh, well ok. But I was thinking chicken."

Rules, however, are made to be broken occasionally and this is one of those times.

Over the course of the last, say, six months, I've witnessed a noticable reduction in the number of handtowels we have - noticable in that I can now account for two. The situation is so severe that I've resorted to putting kitchen towels out in the downstairs restroom.

Each of us (three roommates) contributed a stock of towels to the house; I know myself I started out with six handtowels, specifically. Oddly enough, we all had the same color variations too - either hunter green and/or seafoam. Or whatever color that is.

It's not unusual for whoever decides a towel from the bathrooms or kitchen needs cleaning to toss it in with his laundry, so most of our towels (and placemats and cloth napkins, for that matter - hey! Yes, cloth napkins. We're civilized, after all) float around. Kitchen towels and dishcloths do tend to get dropped off in the kitchen, as it's conveniently on the path from the laundry to our bedrooms, but there's no such central drop-off point for handtowels.

I've convinced myself that I know who the culprit is, too. After all, I've witnessed his daily habit of carrying a kitchen towel around, using it, dropping it down on the nearest counter, or even the dining table, and never returning it to its appointed hook in the kitchen. So, it seems quite logical to point the finger at him.

I'm fairly well convinced that if I were to invade his closet (with a scoop shovel in tow, mind you) I'd find a stack of clean handtowels safely nestled on the closet floor, underneath a stack of clean clothes that he's stopped wearing.

Peculiar Pecadillos; or, Cycle of Life Deux

2005-02-27T21:09:00.000-06:00

Eh.

Got a call from me mum today.

Seems a cousin, Denise, died last night. Denise was about the age of my brother - the grandfather-to-be in my preceeding post. Perhaps a year younger; I don't rightly recall.

Denise was the daughter of one of my mother's first cousins, George. They (my mother and all her first cousins - all 11 of them) were unusually close growing up; my mother was a singleton and was tight enough with her cousins (back then, you know, extended families still grew up in the same town and such. Went to school together and all. Ah, the old days) that when I was small they all seemed more like siblings than cousins. At any rate, she died of cancer and, to hear tell of it, of botched surgery to remove the cancer. I don't put great stock in stories of botched surgeries but I suppose they do occur. My mother related the story incompletely between bouts of tears, so not knowing the details I can't weigh in with an opinion.

But about Denise and me.

Though we were never particularly close (she has a younger sister nearer my age and with whom I was closer growing up) it is Denise to whom I owe thanks for a peculiar pecadillo; a goofy habit of mine.

How old was I? Junior High maybe. Sixth grade, possibly. Denise was old enough to be driving. We were visiting; I distinctly recall that we were excited to be heading out to a local carnival; me, my sister and Patty (the cousin my age) in the back seat; my brother and Denise in the front. The two oldest, our brother and their sister, were too "mature" to go to the carnival and had stayed behind.

On the drive to the carnival, Denise went through an intersection on a yellow light; she reached up to the roof of the car and dragged her nails across the headliner in a scratching motion.

"What was that for?" my brother asked.

"Oh, I really don't know," Denise replided, "but one of my cousins on my mom's side always does it when he runs a yellow light; he says it's for good luck."

As I recall, we had a grand time at the carnival; either it was a good-sized one, or I was small enough for it to seem so. I remember having a blast on the bumper cars; screaming through the tunnel of horrors and giggling through the house of mirrors.

Somehow I started the habit with my very first car and to this day I mindlessly reach up my right hand to scratch the headliner when I find myself running a yellow light.

The Cycle of Life

2005-02-26T20:43:00.000-06:00

Two and a half months since I last posted.

I had such good intentions of blogging my holidays; and believe me, some of the events were worth blogging. Things on the parental front were quiet, though I was doubly pained to discover that my grandmother no longer recognizes me at all when I visit. Last August she tended to remember that she at least had three grandsons; this past December she didn't recognize my name as that of a grandson. The cycle of life, I guess.

Speaking of the cycle of life brings to mind the marathon "counseling session" with my brother, sister-in-law and nephew, when the nephew's girlfriend dropped the bombshell of being pregnant (talk about fucking a boy over, she did that but good - messed with his head.)

Why it is that I am always put in the role of firewall, negotiator and family counselor with these people is beyond me. Best if I ignore the deconstruction of it and blindly take it as an expression of their collective love for me.

Thing is, my sister-in-law had - and still has - doubts. Her suspicion is that the girl really is fucking over her son and, given her rationale and the circumstances, she may just be right. Time will tell.

The boy claims he and the girl had sex for the very first time a scant two weeks before the girl announced her pregnancy on New Year's Eve. Let's just say that both the girl and the girl's mother declared with great certainty that the girl was pregnant (despite the fact that the girl's mother had left Colorado the day after Christmas and was declaring this over the phone.) We're talking two weeks pregnancy here. If that. And the girl's mother "knew" the girl was pregnant, a week in - a week before the girl informed the boy.

The girl claimed an EPT test showed she was pregnant and that she didn't need to go to the doctor for confirmation of her pregnancy. Could it be that she feared the doctor's estimate of how far along she was? The boy's mother thinks so. Why?

Well, the boy and the girl both work at the same company as the boy's mother, and the boy's mother has suspicions that the girl had cheated on the boy by messing around with an older employee - the assistant manager - who had just been fired for having sex with one of the teenaged girls who works at the company - and said teenaged girl is roommates with the mother-to-be.

Yes, there could be reason to doubt.

But the boy and the mother are peas in a pod and have spent much of the boy's life fighting like cats and dogs; anything the mother thinks, the boy finds himself compeled to think the opposite. Anything she says, he distrusts.

If, in the cycle of life, a healthy full-term baby is borne anything much more than a month before my birthday, I'll advise my nephew to demand a DNA test.

fuckthesouth

2004-12-11T21:14:00.000-06:00

Eh, who'd have thought it. A website which so eloquently expresses my own feelings....

I lived in East Central Texas for 10 years, so no one can say I didn't give the place a chance, but I am in total agreement with the idea that we should just kick the old confederate states out of the union; for nearly two and a half centuries, the hissy fits, threats and rantings of the southern states have dictated a need for the rest of the country to be conciliatory, just to keep the union together. Only once, 1860-1864, did the rest of the country draw the line; since then, it has been a one-sided appeasment policy, to the point where you'd think the South had actually won, rather than lost the War of the Rebellion. They always have had, and continue to maintain a culture significantly different from that of the rest of the US states; this cultural difference is not actually reflected in the false red state/blue state dichotomy; a construct which was created and seized upon by the national media simply because it makes for a good sound bite. In this case, perception becomes a false but widely accepted reality.

For a brilliant evaluation of why the US south is indeed a culturally different nation than the rest of the US, I recommend The Cousin's Wars by Kevin Philips. While the surface analysis discusses how Anglo-America evlolved from the small English kingdom into the dominant world power, a closer, more thoughtful reading of the book helps to explain just exactly why the north and the south developed differently, and how the two cultures are destined to always be in conflict.

Well, I have a better idea, personally.

1) Kick out the old Confederate States of America, except:
a) keep that part of Texas from El Paso east along the entire Rio Grande Valley;
b) keep New Orleans;
c) keep far Northern Virginia.

Rationale:
a) South Texas is, culturally speaking, not Southern; it's closer to New Mexico and Mexico.
b) Militarily a difficult option, but valuable as a strategic military outpost, not unlike, for example, Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. Control of the mouth of the Mississippi would provide a significant economic incentive for the Southern states to be cooperative. Not that they've ever let their economic interests overrule their emotional tantrums, but still.
c) Kind of a no-brainer. Provides a buffer zone for Washington DC and maintains control of the Potomic River.

2) Annex the Northern Mexico states bordering the Rio Grande: Tamaulipas, Nuevo Leon, Coahuila de Zaragoza, Chihuahua, Sonora, and both Baja Californias.

Rationale:
Annexing the Northern Mexico States will give a newly organized US of A continued access to the Gulf of Mexico; will reduce immigration control issues, provide an opportunity to reduce pollution and poverty-wage scales in the factories which have sprung up on the Mexican side of the border since NAFTA. Additionally, annexation of the northern Mexican states would assist in replacing population and manufacturing lost to separation from the Confederate States. Besides, the ultimate goal is the unification of all of North America, sans the idiots in the Confederate States, into one nation.

3) Establish an Act of Union with Canada.

Rationale:
Culturally, the northern tier of the US and most of Canada (saving Quebec) are closer than the northern tier of states are to the central tier and Western states; however, those cultural diffrences are not so radically different and exclusionary as are the differences with the South. Union with Canada would reaffirm core values upon which the nation was established; replace a large portion of the population lost when ejecting the Confederate States and would bring in far more valuable natural resources than would be lost, as well as signficant manufacturing resources.

4) Annex Siberia

Rationale:
Simple. Natural resources. Nothing more, nothing less. An expanded North American Union, with access to the largely untouched natural resources of Canada, Alaska and Siberia, along with the labor force contributed by Mexico would result in a nation more able to economically and militarily face threats from newly emerging China and India.

There are, of course, many challenges to this scenario; it has to be recognized that the Rocky Mountain West states/Canadian Provinces and the Mexi-Southwest States and Quebec will not be culturally homogenous with the northern tier of states, eastern Canada and the Pacific Northwest states/provinces. However, recognizing that discrimination, raceism and issues of white privilige persist everywhere, those regions all generally have a better history at least trying to dealing with social issues and issues of cultural and racial diversity and integration. Even if some of them do tend to greater political conservatisim, such as the Rocky Mountain West states and provinces, there is every reason to believe such a nation, without the constant negative impact of the Confederate States, would not make for a stronger Union.

This Is Just Fucked

2004-12-08T15:28:00.000-06:00

So, as has been made abundantly clear, I volunteered with ACT on Black Tuesday; I drove over to Milwaukee on Monday night with Jason and Samir; Saad was already there. We spent the night at a downtown hotel, although none of us slept much. By the time I was up, the other three had left for ACT headquarters, located in a building on Water Street; they were all working the command center, while I had volunteered to be a poll monitor.

At the start, there was mass confusion at ACT headquarters, as poll monitors showed up and coordinators were trying to get everyone a communications radio and send them to their polling stations. I'd been assigned a precinct on the Saturday before, only to show up at headquarters and be told that I had a new assignment. However, no one could find my new precinct assignment; no one could find my old precinct assignment, either. I was finally given yet another assignment, as the clock neared 7 am. I was also carless, and clueless about navigaing Milwaukee; when I volunteered I'd stipulated that I'd have to have a ride to and from the polling place. In the pandemonium, that took more precious minutes to sort out, and finally another couple just said "his precinct is kind of on the way to ours - we'll drop him off." What the hell - I had all day to worry about a ride back.

The Milwaukee effort was headed up by people from NARAL; the main field organizer was from Austin. She'd also been "in charge" of the volunteer poll watcher training I'd attended on Saturday before the election; the training had been totally disorganized and unstructured, so I already had some preconcieved notions about the woman. I have to admit that, in my frustration at all the confusion on election day morning, I let her know what I thought, in no uncertain terms and loudly enough that all the other confused poll monitors milling near-by could hear:

"This is just fucked."

I don't know, but in retrospect, perhaps it was a foreshadowing of the day's results.

Much to my pleasure, I did finally actually get the kind of assignment I'd asked for; on the drive to drop me off, my good samaritans informed me that the elementary school (which was not, incidentally, called an elementary school but rather the "Francis Starms Discovery Learning Center") where my polling place was located was in an almost entirely black neighborhood.

Indeed.

All of the poll workers were African American; happily, two of them, including the precinct supervisor, had been working the polling place for only Moses knows how many elections, and they knew their stuff.

Sure as anything, when I arrived, there were already two orange shirts (Republican operatives) on site; there were also a few members of the Kerry/DNC Election Protection Team. I bonded rather quickly with the Election Protection team members, which included an attorney from Chicago; we all immediately started trying to identify the Republican attorney we knew had been assigned to the precinct.

The most logical, but also illogical prospect seemed to be a frumpy, middle-aged, grey-bearded man wearing an ill-fitting blue polyester suit, shaggy hair and sporting an injured arm in a sling. He wouldn't interact with any of us, was constantly walking around sticking his nose into things, and just looked & behaved suspicious(ly). We eventually found out his name was "Jerry". He was the most logical prospect, to our way of thinking, simply because he was the only person there in a suit, and he wasn't interacting with the rest of us.

We made a complaint fairly quickly - one of the orange shirts - an African American woman, whom we all speculated about ("Why would she even be on the Republican election team?" "Does she even know? Maybe she's just getting paid by them to work.") settled herself at the optic vote scanner and "helped" people feed their ballots into the scanner. Clearly a lot of the people needed help - they didn't seem to know which direction to insert the ballots and a lot of them were being spit back out. A lot of them were also filled out incorrectly; they completed the arrow indicating that they wanted to vote "straight ticket" but then proceeded to vote on each candidate, which caused the scanner to reject the ballot. Most were mystified, and had to have it explained to them. But, as we pointed out to the precinct supervisor, one of his poll workers should be explaining why people needed to get a new ballot, not a Republican operative. He was short handed and a bit harassed, as the lines were long, but he agreed and fixed the problem. The orange shirt was ticked off as the rest of us; stalked back over where most of us were gathered, pointedly muttering that she had only been trying to "help" and kept her distance from us for the rest of the day.

Mid-morning, another, clearly Republican, lawyer showed up; early 40's going bald, wedding ring, trendy grey suit and generally an attractive guy named Curt. Unlike Jerry, he not only tended to pay less attention to what was going on, but he also was more approachable; I chatted with him at great length through the afternoon. We shared background info - where we grew up, education, what we each did now, etc. and had really a pleasant conversation.

The day ended up going in spurts - predictably there were long lines from 7 am until about 9 am; over the noon hour, and from about 2 pm to 6 pm. A lot of people had clearly never voted before - there were actually two precincts voting at the school, and we took to looking up people's addresses and telling them which line they had to go to to pick up their ballot; sometimes we even helped people fill out their registration forms, if they were not previously registered; the Republican operatives and the attorneys were all doing it too, so we maintained an uneasy parity there; because he was short-handed, the precinct supervisor appreciated the help.

One other thing I noted, with some sadness; as I interacted with many of the people walking in, I was dismayed by the regular, constant smell of alcohol in the breath of so many of the men coming in to vote. It wasn't a "later in the day" phenomenon, either - it was noticable from 7 am on.

There were also a lot of people showing up to vote, unaware that they were at the wrong polling place; I guess I have always taken it for granted that I know where I vote, I know to register, etc. So many people just thought they could walk in, fill out their registration card and vote, regardless of precinct lines. One reason we had quite a few of those, I think is be cause Francis Starms was only two blocks from another precinct; Starms was closer than the other precinct's polling place, so people walked to the closest one, assuming it would be their precinct. Most of them were dismayed, but vowed to go to the right polling place once we gave them the address, while a handful were irate and demanded the right to vote at Starms; nothing any of us could do helped in those cases. We even offered to provide rides to the right polling places, but most of the people who reacted like that simply stormed out swearing that they'd never try to vote again.

On the whole, however, things went quite smoothly at Francis Starms; the turnout was huge - according to the precinct supervisor, presidential election turnout in the two precincts was historically about 600, with about 1600 registered voters. As it turns out, more than 1600 people voted at those precincts in this election, which was exciting.

After the polls closed, it took about an hour and a half to verify and feed the absentee ballots into the scanner, and then have the scanner produce the official tally.

About the time the polls closed was also when we finally discovered that Jerry, far from being the Republican attorney, was a volunteer with the Wisconsin Trial Lawyer's Association, and was there monitoring to make sure the Republican lawyer didn't cause too much trouble. So much for our gossiping and scheming! We'd heard reports over the com radios all day long of problems at other precincts, so were amazed that Curt, the Republican lawyer, hadn't caused problems. My sense is that he really was a pretty nice guy who just had different politics than me, and didn't really have the stomach to be nasty aggressive as was happening in some of the Milwaukee precincts.

The tally from my two precincts was heartening and overwhelmingly pro-Democratic; out of more than 1600 ballots cast, only about 150 were cast for Bush.

By nearly 9 pm, I was waiting patiently outside, totally hyped; things had gone well, and working in a bubble I was confident that I'd be returning to Madison somewhat late, but in time to attend a great victory party. I didn't even mind waiting; people at ACT headquarters had promised to send someone to pick me up.

Eventually.

Much to my pleasant surprise, when someone showed up, it was Yves, my counterpart at the UW-Milwaukee LGBT Resource Center. We'd communciated before but had never met, so that was nice. He was on his way back from the precinct he'd worked, and we both had to check in and turn in our communication radios.

At the ACT headquarters, we walked into a room thick with despair.

And now you know "the rest of the story."

Yes. Yes I Am

2004-12-05T15:21:00.000-06:00

So, it's been roughly a month since Black Tuesday and Brian and Dennis have been toying with my "Comments" feature.

I have a Matt Groening "Life In Hell" cartoon posted on my desk, clipped from last week's Isthmus. It features Bongo, sitting in an empty room, back to the door, a determined grimace on his face. The door has an opening, somewhat like a "padded cell" might, through which someone may look or speak. Binky is looking at Bongo's back, through the opening in the door, and says "You're not going to stay in a bad mood for the next four years, are you?"

Yes. Yes I am.

It's also been roughly a month since I've listened to the news via National Public Radio; my typical morning routine is to turn NPR on as soon as I wake up; either listen to is as I piddle around the house or as I head over to the gym. Since I don't watch television, it's been easy to ignore the Bush Broadcasting Networks, but avoiding NPR has been rough.

I've not been living in a vacuum, of course, but I just get stomach cramps when listening to that faux hick pseudo Texas twang on the radio.

The month has been filled with things deserving of comment, and perhaps I'll get around to some of them; Halloween on State is something of a sad, faded memory, and Black Tuesday, spent working a precinct in an African-American neighborhood of Milwaukee is best recalled as a confident, excitment-filled bubble, burst immediately I returned to ACT headquarters downtown on Water Street, about 9 pm that night. We left for Madison about 10:30 pm that night; I slept on the way home, got out of the car, went upstairs to bed and stayed there for much of Wednesday too. Pity poor me.

HALLOWEEN On STATE
Fri. Oct. 30 -

Members of the Dean of Students staff worked in partnership with the Madison Police Department; we interviewed people who were arrested to determine if they were 1) UW-Mad students, 2) other UW-System school students, or 3) students at other Big 10 schools.

First, I "worked" the TPS dance for awhile, until it became clear that the TPS dance was going to be quiet. Very quiet. There had been some fear that revelers from small-town Wisconsin might hear of the TPS dance and make their way from State Street to the Memorial Union and try to cause problems at the dance, but those fears turned out to be unfounded. About 11:30, I made my way up State Street from campus, heading towards the Municipal building downtown, on MLK Boulevard. The garage of the Municipal building, you see, serves as the MPD "holding tank" and processing site for large-scale events.

It took awhile for me to get through the crowds to the Municipal building, but once I arrived, things seemed pretty quiet. While walking down State Street, that was also my impression - a big crowd, lots of partying, but it seemed like things were not at all out of hand.

Imagine my surprise when, arriving at the Municipal building, I learned that as of 11:30, the situation on State was rated a "level four" or some such thing. The jist of it was that the police felt like things were almost out of hand, and were considering using pepper spray to disperse the crowds.

I had just walked through that crowd, felt perfectly safe and sensed no emotional edge which might have justified the use of pepper spray at that time.

As the night wore on, police cruisers and vans periodically pulled into the garage to disgorge one, two, or a handful of arrested revelers; a few were obscenely drunk; some were underaged and drunk. Most were brought in on charges of disorderly conduct (two of them for having tried, they claimed, to simply pet the police horses on duty. It's worth noting that neither of those two appeared to have had too much to drink.) Two females were brought in on charges of having tried to incite a riot, when they obliged to chants of "show us your tits".

As I overheard a police officer telling them, "this is serious! Last year's riot started with females exposing themselves!" The two were quivering, sobbing messes, terrified that they'd not be able to graduate next May. And one of them was broke - unable to pay her fine "But I only have $24 in my bank account!" and destined to sit in jail overnight.

From my observations, it seemed fairly clear that the police were very much on edge, so it came as little surprise to me when it was reported that they had finally used pepper spray to try to disperse the remnents of the crowd. I wasn't on State Street at that time - roughly bar time - but if they were prepared to use pepper spray at 11:30 pm, then I have to question just exactly how bad it really was, and if pepper spray was really called for.

Of course, I don't suppose I should be saying that out loud....

Excess Sleep Sign Of Depression, Says Shrink

2004-11-03T21:32:00.000-06:00

I'm depressed. Don't expect a lot from me for awhile.

Yes, I'm keeping notes of what needs to be posted. I'll eventually post someting about Halloween on State and Working A Ward in Milwaukee On Election Day. Still, don't expect much for a few days. K?

Changing Identity

2004-10-27T22:45:00.000-05:00

I didn't vote with Donnie Darko today; even though I learned about the opportunity on Monday. You see, on Tuesday, it occurred to me that, to vote early I'd have to vote absentee, and to do that, I might need to produce a valid Wisconsin ID.

(The main reason I have been motivated to vote early is so that I could, at the last minute, take Tuesday off and volunteer to work as a "poll observer" or some such thing. Perhaps in Milwaukee. I have the phone number. I'll call them tomorrow.)

I confess. In all my years, I've never had other than a Colorado driver's license. And Colorado plates on my vehicles. In some cases (as in the last year) having Colorado documentation has been somewhat - make that totally - illegal. Here in Wisconsin anyway. While in Texas, I could sort of get away with it, because I was pretty much always taking classes, and could claim to be a "student, with permanent residency in Colorado.

A bit iffy, but claim-able.

No longer.

See, the UW was slow in making me an offer; my license plates were up for renewal before I knew for sure I had a job here, so I had to renew in CO or risk driving cross-country illegally. So I renewed in CO. And vehicle registration is hella more expensive in Colorado than in Wisconsin.

Anyway, today, I determined that I really *had* to make the change. I need to be able to vote and I hadn't arranged to vote absentee in Colorado this year.

I had no idea, really, how emotionally difficult it would be to give up my Colorado driver's license and my classic green-and-white license plates.

It's true I identify in large part as a Texas Aggie. But that has been, in retrospect, a relatively short part of my life - 10 years out of 44 - whereas my identity as a Coloradoan has been central to my life.

The Mountains. The Mountain. The Valley. The Valley Of The Cranes.

You just have no idea what kind of pull the Rockies have on you, unless you grew up in them. I have to admit a grudging respect for Texans, who are so fanatical about being Texans, if only because, in context to Colorado, I understand how they feel.

Anyway, today I went to the east side DMV; I turned in my Colorado Driver's license, and got my ugly Wisconsin license plates.

The experience was reasonably pleasant and efficient, given how busy the place seemed to be. When my number was called, I was assigned to "Counter Number 1". A nice, grey-haired grandmotherly type.

Getting both a driver's license and license plates is more time-consuming, but it helped that I had thought ahead. For the driver's license, I had not only proof of residency but also the note from my lasik eye surgeon, proving that I no longer needed "corrective lenses"; for my license plates, I had both my title, my registration form and my proof of insurance (which, to my amazement, she told me she didn't need!)

As I filled out forms and she typed into her computer, we chit-chatted amicably. However, I caught a hint of her political leanings from the multiple pins she was wearing; not blatantly "Bush/Cheney" but three very "I love my country" uber-patriotic pins; Republicans, you know, drape themselves in patriotism as a way to claim the label of being "patriotic."

To test her, I made a comment: "Wow. My vehicle registration/license plates are only $65? That's really cheap, compared to Colorado (which is totally true.)

Her response? "Well that's the *only* fee or tax in Wisconsin that is cheap. Everything else here is expensive. Property taxes have gone up and up and up."

I just couldn't resist. No, I couldn't. I had just read Robert Reich, so how could I not? I did. I said it.

"Well, you know, you really need to blame the Republicans for increased property taxes. At both the federal and state level, they've cut and cut income taxes; as a result, they have insufficent money at the state and federal level to fund all of their mandates; that leaves the local governments having to find money to pay for all those mandates, like "No Child Left Behind." And the only way local government can cover the costs is by raising property taxes."

Predictably, she became just a tad chilly. Fortunately, we were almost finished. She took my check, gave me my license plates, and sent me over to the corner where I could get my picture taken for my driver's license.

I doubt it made a dent in her good Republican convictions, but at least I took the opportunity offered me.

donnie (I'm In The Dark) darko

2004-10-27T22:02:00.000-05:00

Jake Gyllenhaal was on campus today. Outside the Union.

It seemed a bit odd; the event was not terribly well advertised. As I was walking to campus Monday morning, I noticed some chalking on Library Mall, announcing "Vote With Donnie Darko."

Now, I had no idea who Donnie Darko was. Call me a movie moron. You'd be right. But, I paid attention to it because I was most interested in actually voting early. I figured I might as well vote with Donnie Darko, whoever he was. So I paid attention. I made note of the fact that I could vote with Donnie Darko between noon and 2 pm on Tuesday, 26 Oct., TITU in the Memorial Union.

I arrived at the Union and promptly checked the TITU. No Donnie Darko. I looked on the Union South TITU. Still no Donnie Darko. So, on my way upstairs, I stopped by Central Reservations; after saying "Hi, Janet," I got no more out than "I saw that Donnie Darko...." when Janet said "Oh, that's a real mess. They don't have a room, and it's Wednesday, not tomorrow. They didn't even check with us, and we don't have any rooms available. They're just gonna be stuck outside, in front of the Union, and it's supposed to rain, too. They're going to have vans going back and forth to the Municipal Building, so students can vote early."

I just love Janet. She says it like it is.

At that very moment, a teeny-bopper female student (is that redundant? Doesn't "teeny-bopper" conjure up the image of a female student?) walked up and said "Is Jake Gyllenhaal going to be here tomorrow? I heard he was going to be here!" Janet said "Is that Donnie Darko? It's on Wednesday" to which the teeny-bopper said, with some condesension, "Well yes, of course he played Donnie Darko! Oh my God, I have to tell all my friends!" She squealed. I swear it. She squealed.

So then I knew. Donnie Darko was Jake Gyllenhaal, and he was going to be on campus, out front of the Memorial Union, surrounded, no doubt, by legions of squealing teeny-boppers.

I figured out then that I'd probably not vote early.

To be honest, I only knew of Jake Gyllenhaal from an article in the Advocate, which said that Jake Gyllenhaal and Heath Ledger were going to play opposite each other in Ang Lee's version of Brokeback Mountain. (There's no link because there's no 'official site' yet.) I first noticed Heath Ledger way back when I still watched TV - he showed up as a romantic interest opposite Neve Campbell on Party of Five. (Have I ever mentioned that I lusted after Scott Wolfe? I thought not.)

As it turns out, it was rather tame.

Yes, he was on campus. Yes, he collected vans full of students - mostly teeny-boppers - and took them down to the Municipal Building to cast early votes. Yes, he was kinda cute. As it turns out, I didn't Vote With Donnie Darko, because it occurred to me that I would need to pull out my Wisconsin ID to vote early. (That's another post.) But it's ok, because really, I just had the urge to ask one question, which might have not been well-received in a van full of teeny-boppers:

"So, what was it like making love scenes with Heath Ledger?"

Happy Birthday To Me

2004-10-26T20:52:00.000-05:00

Re: above.

Moore Michael; Please!

2004-10-17T16:18:00.000-05:00

So, I had a date last night. Although his name's not Michael. He's hella cuter than Michael Moore.

I think I had a date, anyway. Did I have a date? (Do you think we had a date? Whatever it was, I had a great time. Thank you.)

He was quite the trooper, I have to say. Not only does he admit to being something of a picky eater, he also classifies himself as rather non-political ("but I'm making progress!" he exclaimed.)

We went to Wasabi for dinner; having lived in Japan, I'm pretty picky about sashimi and sushi, and Wasabi is tolerable, although I had the bento, rather than sushi.

To start the evening out, I was a bit embarassed, because we were wandering around State Street, with me saying "no, I know it's on the second floor. I swear I've been here before. Honest." I'm saying this as we walk back down the stairs from Casa de Lara. We finally found it and had a nice time. After some discussion, he had the torikatsu - a good choice for those less adventuresome palates who find themselves in Japanese restaurants.

What to do afterwards? Well, Michael Moore was scheduled to be at the Terrace and I was able to talk him into going, even though it was a bit chilly, and crowded.

We got there a bit late, so didn't have the greatest vantage point, but Moore was, if nothing else, entertaining. For the first few minutes, he was a bit embarassing, as he responded to a relatively small group of College Republican hecklers in the crowd; indeed, his behavior was a bit sophomoric, as he traded childish insults with them.

Once he turned away from the CRs, and warmed up to what is, no doubt, his own "stump speech" so to speak, he did a much better job, and really motivated the crowd. I did note a particular member of the International Socialist Organization - a student I know - who was standing in the back attempting to heckle Moore, but he couldn't be heard over the roars of the crowd.

I also noted an older couple, standing next to us, with their son - clearly he was a student. He was totally getting into Moore's speech, but his parents, while obviously liberal and Kerry supporters, were rather put off by some of Moore's antics; before the end of his speech, they had departed, leaving their son alone on the Terrace.

He came down with a bit of a cold after that.

A Burger Joint Goes Bust

2004-10-14T21:01:00.000-05:00

If you know me, you know that I have a fondness for a really good burger. Medium rare, preferably with a nice thick slice of bleu cheese. Few things in life are better.

You know that I have enjoyed the Bleu Ribbon Burger at Red Robin, near the intersection of Broadway and Monona Drive in Monona. You know that I make an exception for the Feta Burger at Nick's on State Street, because it's a good size and they cook it to my specifications. And because feta runs a close second in my "favorite cheese" category.

Well, a new burger joint, appropriately named "The Burger Joint" opened up on Henry Street, in the same block as Four Star Video, between State and East Gorham. It is in the space formerly occupied by my favorite Japanese greasy spoon, Chinmi.

Looking at the menu posted on the window, I thought The Burger Joint might well be my next new favorite. So, I went in tonight and ordered. A bleu cheese burger and a side of fries. A bit pricy, it seemed, at $8.00 and change, but I had high hopes.

Dashed.

Right off the bat.

I asked "can I get that medium rare?"

"Sorry. Safety codes you know. We cook them to at least medium."

I figure "well, maybe it will be a bit less than medium. We'll see."

What a disappointment when it arrived. For my $8.00 and coin, I got little more than a MacDonald's quarter pounder, with a tiny sliver of bleu cheese thrown in. I got a *very* small serving of fries. And the burger. Nary a sign of pink, much less the medium rare I had ordered. And at this price, not even a drink was included.

Once again, I'll find myself, when downtown, settling for a feta burger at Nick's (which, I have to admit, isn't really "settling" - it's just a great burger with feta rather than bleu cheese) or, when I really have a craving, driving over to Red Robin in Monona. Both of which places, I might add, will serve me my burger medium rare.

Take into account that it's over-priced and offers smaller portions than its competitors, and The Burger Joint is, on the whole, A Burger Bust.

Mommies? Where Are You Mommies?

2004-10-13T19:19:00.000-05:00

Yowza.

Happy National Coming Out Week.

We had quite a few activites planned, but I spent much of Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday squiring around Lesléa Newman. October 11th is the official National Coming Out Day, and on the 11th, she was our "keynote speaker" so to speak, for the week.

Lesléa, while a prolific author, is most notorious for her book (now 14 years old) "Heather Has Two Mommies". Said book is on the list of the top 15 banned books in the US of A. Let Freedom Ring and all that.

So, anyway. Over the course of my career, I have squired around some pretty famous people. Perhaps the most famous being Rudolf Nureyev and Shirley McLean, bless her odd little heart. In that respect, Lesléa Newman is, admittedly, a lesser light.

Regardless, I found myself charmed, as I seldom have been by celebrities. She is lovely, not only in the physical sense, but also spirtually and emotionally.

One thing I discovered while spending time with Lesléa is that being an author, even a prolific one (she has more than 50 published works to her credit) is hard and not always richly rewarded work. While she was here, she was on the phone several times with her partner of 23 years, who was back in Northampton, MA, shopping around for a used Ford Focus.

We certainly got our money out of Lesléa; not only did she speak for us on Monday evening (Oct. 11; and, as an aside, what a poignant day for her - as she said in her opening remarks, Oct. 11th marked the 6th anniversary of the death of Matthew Shepard; it was personally important to her because she, of all people, was the National Coming Out Day (Oct. 11th) speaker at the University of Wyoming in Laramie six years ago, when Matthew died. Whenever she speaks on Oct. 11th, she pays tribute to him - whew - a very long "aside"), on Tuesday she spoke in a "modern Jewish literature" class; had lunch with members of Hillel, had an interview with "The Progressive" magazine, and gave a reading at A Room Of One's Own feminist bookstore.

A tiring day, but through it all she was charming, witty and personable. I thoroughly enjoyed myself, although I spent so much time with her that I got behind at work.

As The Bumper Sticker Says...

2004-10-05T21:49:00.000-05:00

... tonight, my Karma [nearly] Ran Over My Dogma.

Some of the juxtapositions in my life lately have been really freaky.

So, last night I commented on pedestrians and drivers, here on the isthmus. Well let me tell you....

As I was walking home tonight, I was very nearly hit by a driver. I have no doubt that it rather karmic, given my comments about drivers.

I was walking up East Gorham, on my way home. As I hit Pinckney, I noted a car coming down Pinckney. He (yes, I saw clearly that it was a "he") had a stop sign and it was evident that he was slowing down.

Noting that he was slowing down, I made the mistake of assuming that he would actually obey the traffic sign and stop, so I stepped out into the crosswalk.

Wrong.

I was several feet into the crosswalk. There was no oncoming traffic on East Gorham, which he must have noted because his "slowing down" changed into a "press the pedal to the metal" extravaganza, as his car (a dark blue, beat up Honda Civic) suddenly sped back up. I was in the cross walk and it became clear that he wasn't going to actually stop at the stop sign.

His passenger side mirror literally grazed my stomach. Literally.

I happend to have a heavy, metal coffee mug in my right hand. In a split second of instinctual response, I swung my right hand up and down, slamming my coffee mug, with all of my might, into the rear passenger window of his beat-up old Civic.

All those summer months at the gym must have paid off, because his window cracked. My mug was badly dented.

Clearly, he knew that he was in the wrong, because he gunned it some more and sped right on through the stop sign.

There's Backing Up and Then There's Backing Up

2004-10-04T21:20:00.000-05:00

I was walking home from the gym tonight; I happened to be walking a few paces behind a fellow pedestrian, who, it turned out, is also something of a comrade-in-arms.

You see, generally speaking, I love living on the isthmus; I walk virtually everywhere during the week and only drive on the weekends, for grocery and other shopping. The problem is that lots of people who drive on the isthmus, despite the fact that pedestrians have the legal right of way downtown, aren't very pedestrian-friendly (or bike friendly for that matter.)

Now, I don't mean to paint every downtown driver with the same brush, but here's the deal: on a daily basis, as I walk to an from work and the gym, drivers, either at the crosswalks, or in exiting their driveways/parking lots, illegally block pedestrian traffic. They use the sidewalks and crosswalks as parking spots. To be at least a bit fair to them, the problem is one of visibility. Building are set too close to the street, landscaping blocks visibility, and and on-street parking makes it even worse at many intersections. Thus, drivers at intersections often need to creep out into the crosswalk or onto the sidewalk to be able to see. On rare occasions, a driver will see me coming down the sidewalk, and if he/she can, will back his/her car up to allow me to cross the street or continue down the sidewalk unimpeded. But that's pretty unusual.

More often what happens is that I make a point of walking in front of them, preferably during a gap in the traffic, when they could be making their access to the street, to get my point across that I have the right-of-way and that they're in *my* pedestrian space.

Tonight was a particularly egregious happening. Both my fellow pedestrian and I were walking down the sidewalk oh E. Johnson, and had to walk around a car stopped in a crosswalk. I noted that he, like I, made a point of walking around the front of the car, rather than the rear, even though going 'round the back would have been shorter. But, a point needs to be made, no?

I was still a few paces behind him, when, in the next block, a college chickadee in an shiny Accura pulled out of her parking lot and stopped right across the sidewalk, when he was just a few steps from crossing the entrance to the drive, causing him to have to stop short.

It's not like she didn't see him. We were both approaching from her left, and she was looking at the oncoming traffic, to her left. He just stood there. In short order, I pulled up beside him, and I stopped and stood there too.

She looked at us. He motioned for her to roll down her window, which, with an annoyed look, she did.

"This isn't a parking place. This is a sidewalk. Please pull your car back so we can cross." he said.

"I'm just trying to get out," she said.

"This is a pedestrian right-of-way," I said. "If you don't pull back so we can cross, I'll report your license plate to the police."

"God-damn assholes" she said, as she put the car into reverse and backed up.

My camrade-in-arms and I proceeded down the sidewalk, chatting briefly about our travails as pedestrians on the isthmus, and as we parted ways at the next block, he turned back and said, simply:

"Thanks for backing me up."

Polls Don't Lie. They Just Don't Tell The Truth

2004-10-01T10:18:00.000-05:00

Ok, I've been silent on the political scene for far too long. Fact is, it has just been a series of highs and lows and while I've been keeping track of things, it has been too nerve-wracking to write about.

Even despite the wracked nerves I've been saying, since the middle of the summer, that the polls are wrong, and finally there's a brainic out there who not only agrees with my reasoning, but adds information and nuance to bolster the argument. Check the link out to read more, but here's my simplistic rationale:

See, all summer long I've been watching the New Voters Project register college students on campus and around Madison, and I've been hearing that this year marks the biggest voter registration drive ever, and that massive numbers of college-aged youth and minorities are being registered all across the country. Youth and minorities vote Democratic in substantially larger percentages than other demographic groups.

Thus, when the polls started showing a larger and larger bump in favor of Bush after the Republican convention, no one was taking into account the fact that the polls are inherently flawed. Pollsters, I told anyone who'd listen, work off of lists of already registered voters. To compound things, larger percentages of minorities don't have telephones and larger percentage of college-aged students don't have land-lines; they have cell phones, which are not generally accessible to pollsters.

The result? If you take into account the fact that newly registered voters aren't being included in the polls, and those the preponderance of those newly registered voters who will actually vote vote Democratic, the polls are skewed. The pollsters know this but they don't talk about it because it makes their polls irrelevant, and the media is too preoccupied with reporting soundbites to delve into the facts.

The conclusion? I'll be biting my fingernails up until the very end, but Kerry will win, and he'll likely win with a larger margin than anyone expects.

When A "Reception" Isn't

2004-09-30T13:32:00.000-05:00

This, let me tell you, was flatter than Cher's chest.

Not the show. Margaret Cho was, as usual, brilliant. I am one of those to whom it was not given to listen to a comedy routine or watch a movie and spout whole soliloquies to my friends thereafter, so don't ask me for details on the jokes. I recall something about a comment she made being splashed about by the conservative bloggers; her getting villainous emails as a result, and that her response was to muster her Al-Gayda to come to her defense. Seems conservatives are dumb enough to write nasty bitchhoslutchinkgobacktomongolia emails FROM THEIR WORK ACCOUNTS. And only realize how dumb they are when Margaret's Al-Gayda brigades get ahold of those email addresses....

And I recall a few other minor fragments too, but typically, I hear, I laugh, it leaves and I'm stranded with a simple "it was funny and I laughed my ass off.

Given that she and Ani DiFranco are on the "Vote Dammit" tour, it's no surprise that most of her work was highly political. However, as time passed and it seemed certain that she would be winding up soon, I did start to worry - she'd not talked about her mother. Personally, I think her vignettes about her mother are her funniest work, so I was relieved when, late in the show, she picked up that theme. It started by talking about her mother having a heart attack, shortly before Margaret was to perform on a gay cruise. Don't ask me for the rest - I disremember.

No. What was much flatter than Cher's chest was that which was billed as a "Reception with Margaret" after her set. For forty people willing to shell out extra bucks as a fundraiser for Action Wisconsin.

Now, it's a good cause; I volunteer quite a bit with AW, and figured this would be another way to help out. But a reception this was not. There were a few luminaries there, Mark Pocan and his boyfriend, for example, as well as a lot of people I didn't know.

After Margaret's set, we were all herded into a small studio down in the basement of the Overture Center, while Margaret was doing an interview. Nice, basic black, a rehearsal space. A table on one wall with an assortment of cheese and crackers (my advice - stay away from the gjetost - pronounced 'yeah-toast'. I've tried it three times now and it's still uckkie.) Wine, beer and soft drinks, served to us by two 'bartenders'. Chairs lining the room, a second table with two chairs set up on another wall near the door.

We mill about a bit; I chatted with Tom (we serve together on the Faculty Senate Committee on LGBT Issues) and then a staffer started distributing copies of Margaret's newest DVD "Revolution".

"You might want to unwrap your DVDs so that Margaret can autograph them when she gets here."

Lots of crinkling as people unwrapped DVDs.

A few minutes later, a guy walks in and introduces himself as Margaret's road manager.

"So, what I really need from you people is to start forming a line around here" as he gestured an arc around the room.

"When Margaret comes in, she'll sit here," indicating the table and two chairs near the door, "and if you have a camera, give it to me and I'll take your picture with her."

What was happening with the second chair at the table wasn't clear until Margaret walked in with her opener, Bruce Daniels. He wasn't all that funny, actually.

So, she sits at the table, people approach the table one by one, or in couples if they're a couple, he signs, she signs, she says "thanks for coming to the show" the road manager takes a picture if you have a camera (I didn't but someone who was there did, and emailed me my picture, and I at least was able to say "will you address it to the LGBT Campus Center? at which Bruce, who, during his performance came out, said "oh, cool!") and that was it. I was moved on back to the wine and cheese table, they went on to the next person and when they finished signing the last DVD were escorted out.

No chit chat, no talking to the group, no... no... no "reception with Margaret Cho."

We were all left standing there, glasses of wine/beer bottle/soft drink in hand wondering what to do next.

I paid big bucks for this? Me, who is not star-struck and has no interest in autographs.

I guess I have two ways of looking at this. Either I ...

... paid for a good laugh, a glass of wine, another taste of naaaasty gjetost cheese, a DVD I won't even keep, and gave the balance to a good cause - Action Wisconsin -

or I ...

... paid for a good commedian to whore out her signature.

Why do I feel like such a john?

I Saw You....

2004-09-30T10:47:00.000-05:00

OMG, this is just too funny to be true.

I know you're not going to believe me, but I just never look at the Isthmus personals section, and the "I Saw You" category. But, considering my Woodman's Incident, I scanned it in today's issue and what did I see?

"WOODMAN'S EAST: Sat 9/18, 6:00 p.m. Redhead a head (sic) of me (dark hair, stubble), in express line. You left before I said hi."

Too funny. Nice to know that I'm not the only Woodman's Loser, East or West.

A Centennial Celebration

2004-09-28T18:58:00.000-05:00

This is my 100th post.

Some people would note that, during the last month, I have been lax again in posting, and they would be right.

Some people would note that, with the knowledge of my 100th post coming up, I was no doubt specially saving that post for something amazing, and they would be wrong, but they'd be my new best friends.

So, in celebration of my 100th post, which I skillfully managed to put off until today, I am going to see Margaret Cho in concert(?) Margaret Cho live.

And afterwards, I'll be meeting with Margaret and 39 of her other best friends in Madison. I'm not, typically, a star-struck person, so I don't expect much out of it, but hopefully it'll be fun and I'll make sure tomorrow to dish on what she was wearing, how much she loved me and all the good stuff.

Ta.

Shopping For More Than Food

2004-09-20T15:35:00.000-05:00

Hmm.

Have you ever had one of those "look-into-each-others'-eyes-for-longer-than-normal" experiences?

Typically I do my grocery shopping every Sunday at the eastside Woodman's, but yesterday was different. I had cause to go to the westside, so decided to save some effort by visiting the Woodman's over there. And this may sound corny but it's so totally true....

I was looking over the red bell peppers. He - blonde, tanned, gorgeous in a bright green tanktop - was on the other side of the vegetable island, looking over the green bell peppers. We both looked up, and didn't look away for...what? A good six or seven seconds. We broke eye contact and continued shopping.

Ran into each other again, in the dairy section, and looked. Again.

Ran into each other in the canned goods section and looked. Again.

I forgot something in the bakery section, which, for those of you who aren't familiar with the westside Woodman's, is back by the veggies. So, apparently, had he.

Four times. And not once did either of us have the guts to so much as open our mouths and say something. Nothing. Nada. Nuttin'. Much less a breathless "will you have dinner with me?"

I wonder if he reads the Isthmus Personals' "I Saw You" section? Or maybe I should just start shopping at the westside Woodman's every Sunday, from 2:00-3:00 pm?

...and No New Shoes....

2004-08-24T21:55:00.000-05:00

I am, officially, a Clothes Whore.

Let's be clear here - that's "clothes whore", not "fashion whore".

Indeed, some of the students I work with would be emphatic on that point, if asked - no Diesel, no D&G, no Doc Martin's in my closet. One of them once said, in a freakin interview about me (his quote wasn't published, luckily) that I have "that whole Colorado thing going on." Meaning, more specifically, that he thinks I lack fashion sense.

Ok. Let's be even more specific. I am actually a "shirt whore".

How have I come to his conclusion?

Earlier today I decided I wanted to do a bit of shopping - I had to make a run to Homo Depot to buy stuff to repair a broken curtain rod in the living room (why are so many of the guys who work at Homo Depot *so* cute? Don't answer - that's rhetorical) and decided that since I would be out by the mall I should go shopping for a new pair of shoes.

Now, this, in and of itself, is an example of how non-fashion-worish I am. On average, I buy a new pair of shoes once every two years. And I wear my shoes until they are truly worn out. Sad, I know.

But anyway. I have had in mind recently that I would like a pair of Vans. Or something similar. Casual, yet ok to wear with shorts.

As I was exiting the Homo Depot parking lot, I spied the Old Navy across the road. "Hey," I said to myself,
"self, maybe Old Navy has Van-type shoes...."

Now, you know as well as I do that Old Navy doesn't carry anything much in the way of shoes. I say, I *knew* that, and yet I told myself they "just might." So I went. Of course, Old Navy doesn't carry shoes. A few flip flops and sandals, but that's it.

"Well, self, " I told myself, "while I'm here I might as well check out the shirts...."

At that point, I stopped in the middle of the store and said to myself,

"Self, you knew good and well you'd not find shoes here. You intended to look at shirts the whole time. And you know good and well you don't need any more shirts. Your closet is stuffed full and you don't even have room for more shirts."

Damn if it wasn't true. So, I looked at shirts. And promptly found two shirts I wanted to buy. One of them was on sale, even.

So I said to myself,

"Self, it's only two shirts. Then you can run over to the mall and shop for shoes."

But, I put them back and walked out the door.

I parked in the mall parking lot outside of the Boston Store. When I got inside, I behaved myself - in the Boston Store, anyway. I avoided the men's clothing department and after a quick search of the shoe department, determined that Boston Store didn't have any shoes I was interested in. (Ok, ok. So, the last three shirts I bought, in July, were purchased at the Boston Store....) So I decided to walk the mall and check out Sears, J C Penny's and the various shoe stores.

In Sears, I behaved myself - looked only at the shoes. That was easy, b/c the shoe department is close to the mall entrance. As I headed through the mall towards J C Penny's, I passed Eddie Bauer.

Now, Eddy Bauer is a special weakness. I love Eddie Bauer shirts, and my favorite blue jeans are Eddie Bauer. So damn if I didn't go through the whole debate in my head again:

"Dammit, you *know* this Eddie Bauer doesn't stock shoes. There's no need to go in there."

"Well, I havnt been in here in awhile (ok, ok - since July. That *is*, technically, "a while".) And they *do* carry shoes in their catalogue. Maybe the have some in here."

"You know damn good and well they don't."

So I went in. And found three shirts that I liked. Reluctantly - very reluctantly - I put the shirts back without trying them on. And made my way down to JC Penny's. Up the escalator to the men's section. The shoe department, of course, is down on the first floor. Why did I go up to the men's section? I made a beeline for the shirts. Thus far, I had been so good. In two stores I had put back five shirts.

Score! JC Penny's. Three shirts. All of them on sale!

"Put those back! YOU DON'T NEED ANY NEW SHIRTS!"

"But look! Look at this Pierre Cardin! It's so cool! The color's great, the pattern is great. And it's seventy-freakin'-five-percent-off. How can I pass that up?"

"YOU CAME TO BUY A PAIR OF SHOES. PUT THE SHIRTS BACK!"

I am a shirt whore. I am weak. I put one shirt back (but I kept the damn Pierre Cardin. It's an awesome shirt.)

I briefly checked the J C Penny shoe department. Nothing that I really liked. I stopped in at one of the shoe stores. They had a pair of Pumas I liked. Also on sale, as luck would have it. I asked to try them on in a size nine. The clerk disappeared, only to return a moment later to say that, as it was a sale item, they were out of size nine. I walked across the mall and checked out another shoe store. Nothing I liked.

When I got home I counted my shirts. Well, only my button down shirts. Thirty-nine, plus two new shirts. Not counting my polo shirts. And certainly not counting the 15 shirts I gave to St. Vinnie's when I moved out of the co-op and into the house last May. Don't even ask about the t-shirts. Two-thirds of them are stored in boxes down in the basement.

Forty-one button down shirts, and no new shoes.

I am such a shirt whore.

On Boycotting ERC

2004-08-17T20:50:00.000-05:00

Those few of you who have read through my entire blog have probably picked up on the idea that I have a pretty strong sense of "right and wrong" ( see my post of 6 March 2004) and equally strong opinions on poor customer service (see my post of 11 April 2004). Now, I don't know where or how I developed my sense of "right and wrong" but I most certainly know how I came about my opinions on customer service.

I paid for much of my college education - both undergrad and grad school - working in the "service industry". Restaurants, to be specific.

Ever since I moved to Madison, I have been a consistent customer at the Espresso Royale Cafe (ERC) on State. The one closest to campus. But no more.

Yesterday, as I was walking to work, at the intersection of Gorham and State, I ran into one of the students who will be working at the Center this coming year. Now, I like this student (which is good, I guess, considering that he'll be working at the Center.) He was on his way to his "other" job. I see him pretty often, in the late afternoon/early evening, as I'm walking home, because he spends much of his spare time at ERC. This morning, we were both planning to stop in and get a coffee on our way to our respective jobs.

We walk together from Gorham to ERC, chatting about the coming year. We go into ERC. Behind the counter is the female barrista I am used to seeing, but there's also a new guy there; it quickly became evident that she was training him. ERC is pretty much empty - there are two people at tables, and one other person in front of "the student" and I. (To protect the innocent, I'll call the other guy at the counter "joe cool, and the student I'm with "joe cool two".) As it turns out, joe cool and joe cool two know each other, and they both know the female barrista. I don't know the female barrista, really, although she serves me regularly and we've occasionally made small talk. joe cool two introduces me to joe cool and to the female barrista as "Eric - I'm going to be working for him this year". We all placed our orders; as the female barrista starts making our orders (joe cool and joe cool two ordered premium drinks, I just ordered a coffee to go, and female barrista commented "thank you, thank you." (for not ordering something complicated - she's training the new male barrista, after all, and I assume that too many specialty drinks make it harder, or something.)

So anyway, the male trainee goes to the cash register to start ringing up purchases.

Female barrista says:

"Oh wait a sec. joe cool is a buddy. Don't charge him. And joe cool two is a buddy too. so don't charge him. But Eric isn't a buddy, so you need to ring him up.

I am, in a word, speechless.

Now, having worked so many years in restaurants, I am familar (and comfortable, even) with the idea that when your buddies come in, you sometimes cut them some slack. Slip them a freebie. Sometimes, when it's reasonable to do it.

But this, I tell you, Pissed Me Off.

Three of us, ordering drinks. Me, ordering the cheapest drink of all, and here is the female barrista, training the new employee on how to do blatantly bad, not to mention incredibly rude customer service.

Now, had I been in her position, I would have done one of two things; to be honest, I would have done only one thing, but she really had two options. When I worked in restaurants, all of my "buddies" knew very clearly that I would only *occasionally* slip them a freebie, and that they shouldn't expect it every time. As we can see, that is not the case here. If she was going to give good customer service to me, who, it is now clear, is the only regularly paying customer among the three she's serving, then her options were either to charge her "buddies" or to say "Eric doesn't usually get his free, but today we'll give him a free coffee too."

She did neither. She chose to train the new employee to know that some few people get free drinks all the time and that it's ok to publicly and rudely discriminate.

At the time I didn't say anything, because I felt I was in a bit of a delicate position; joe cool two is going to be working for me this coming year; joe cool two spends a hell of a lot of his spare time at ERC, drinking what I now understand to be free drinks. But I walked out of ERC, steaming mad.

I wasn't mad over the fact that I didn't get a free two dollar cup of coffee. Fuck the two dollars. I spend that, and more, every day on coffee.

I was mad because I have highly developed senses of fairness and customer service, and she violated both of them in one five-second sentence.

All day long, I faced a dilimma; make a fuss, or, because joe cool two is working for me this year, keep my mouth shut and just refuse to patronize ERC ever again.

This morning, as I was walking to work, I still didn't know what I was going to do. Not up until I came upon ERC.

At that point, I turned right and walked in to ERC, deciding at the last second that I would tell her how offended I was.

As it turns out, for some reason she wasn't working this morning. Odd, b/c she seems to work every weekday morning. So, I asked the barrista behind the counter if the manager was there, and if so, could I speak to her (see-I'm a regular enough patron that I knew the manager was a female.)

The manager came out - a "new" manager, as luck would have it, but also a female. This manager, however, looked to be another college-aged chickadee who I had often seen working as a barrista behind the counter. I sat down with her, placed my cup of coffee (clearly purchased at another coffee shop) on the table, and explained to her, very precisely, that I would not be patronizing ERC any more, and why I would not be patronizing ERC. I included this comment:

"Now, I don't know what your shop's policy is on "buddies". Perhaps you, as a business, permit your employees to decide who their buddies are, and permit them to always give their buddies free drinks; if that's the case, then you need to train your employees that they should be much more circumspect in their largesse (true, I seriously doubt she understood the word 'largesse.') If this is indeed your store's policy then I find it totally offensive and objectionable; if this isn't store policy, then your employees are robbing you blind, and are are training new employees to do the same."

At the end of my schpeel, I slid across the table top two completely full free drink cards; partly as proof of my regular patronage, partly as statement that I would never use them as I would not be patronizing her shop again.

Her response?

"I'm sorry. I know who you're talking about and I'll talk to her."

That was the sum total of her response, and I had my answer.

As I got up, I simply said "Talking to her doesn't cut it."

Clearly, ERC - this ERC, at any rate - tolerates the designation of "buddies" and tolerates the training of new employees to give out free drinks to the select group who are "buddies." This new manager, as a former barrista, has obviously participated in the whole scheme, and won't do anything about it.

I, fortunately, have recourse. ERC is a corporation, and despite the fact that I may alienate joe cool two, I will make my complaint heard at corporate headquarters.

Bad customer service is offense enough to lose my custom.

Couple bad customer service with blatant rudenss and you've not only lost my custom, you've guaranteed that I'll activley and openly speak out, encouraging everyone I know to not patronize you.

Trippus Abbrevius

2004-08-15T17:46:00.000-05:00

So much for my silly attempt at faux-Latin.

There is *so* much more of my trip home that I should blog. I have pages of notes. I don't know if I'll ever get to it; things at work are going to be so hectic the next few weeks, what with school starting soon.

Ask me out for coffee and I'll tell you all about it.

Revenge. Sweet, Sweet Revenge

2004-08-09T20:20:00.000-05:00

August 6, 2004

I have yet to explain why, exactly, I took a vacation and returned to Colorado at exactly this time; my practice, when living away from Colorado, is typcally to return a couple of times a year - usually the Christmas/New Year's holidays and August. I generally come a bit later in August, but this is a "special" year - my 25th high school reunion.

Springfield, Baca County, is the county seat and, at about 1500 residents, the largest town (in terms of population) in the largest county (in terms of square miles) in Colorado. The extreme southeast corner of Colorado, butt-up against Kansas and Oklahoma. My father was transferred here the summer before I started 9th grade, and I'm not sure any of us have ever fully forgiven him for moving us away from the mountains and out onto the high plains. For my part, I found myself back at the bottom of the public school heap without ever having a chance to be on top. Ninth grade in Canon City, CO was part of junior high, while ninth grade in Springfield was the first year of high school - the school is so small that if 9th grade wasn't included, they often wouldn't be able to field full athletic teams. So, having worked my way up the ladder in Canon City, there I was back on the lowest rung.

So, anyway. I'm home for my 25th high school reunion. Now, I really didn't have a bad high school experience - certainly not as bad as some. When we arrived in Springfield, I was a fat little boy who'd found his niche in Canon City. True, I was a bit on the nerdy side - read voraciously, and given the option would stay in and read, rather then go outside to "play." Or whatever junior high school types did outside. Get in trouble, mostly. By the end of ninth grade at Springfield High School, I had 1) "gotten my growth" - ie, had grown two or three inches to my adult height (at 5'8" not really all that tall, but enough to make a physical difference); 2) started shaving; 3) lost 40 lbs 4) lettered in wrestling and 5) established my dominance as one of the "brains" in high school. Had all of this occurred in Canon City High School, I'd still have been one of the "nerds". But, with only 36 kids in my class in Springfield, every kid counted. True, we had our little cliques, but generally speaking, if we didn't all work together, we'd not accomplish anything. True also, wrestling was only second-tier as athletics go; football and basketball reigned supreme in Springfield during the second half of the 70's, but was prestigious enough to help me fit in.

Never-the-less, I was never a "star". I came into my own, really, in college, and in retrospect, don't think I'd have it any other way. By my sophomore year, my older brother (the one I actually got along with while growing up) and his wife owned one of the restaurants in Springfield and I worked 30 hours a week, weeknights and Saturday nights, for them as their dinner cook. Thus, while they made accomodations for my wrestling schedule, I was pretty much tied down; since I didn't drink in high school (no, not a drop) and worked most nights, I missed out on a lot of, (but not all!) the high jinks. I did have more money, of course, so had a nicer car than most of my classmates, and after getting off work on Friday and Saturday nights, usually hooked up with classmates as we "dragged main" - serving as the designated driver before the term had ever been coined.

I was, in short, still a nerd, but an acceptable nerd. Not the number one student - that designation went to my best male friend, Mark - but number two. We made National Honor Society as freshman - a rarity. Neither a class nor student council officer - those votes always went the way of the jocks and cheerleaders. Never dated a cheerleader (most of them had two or three abortions during our high school years so *shrug*.)

Not "Mr. SHS" our senior year. Just "Rick." The guy who, because Biology and Chemistry were such a cakewalk, cheated on every test. Not for myself - didn't need to. During every test in Biology and Chemisty, I gave the answers to my classmates - VL and Kurt - on the basketball team. If I hadn't, they'd have been suspended from the team and god knows we'd never go to state without VL and Kurt on the team!

Just "Rick". The guy who, every Friday in Social Studies with Mr. Rhodarmor (senior year), when we played "current events", was his own team. The rest of the class was always divided up into two teams, except when one of the jocks needed extra credit to raise his failing grade. Then, Mr. Rhodarmor put him on my team, because I always won. Always. (An object lesson in why it's good to read a major newspaper on a daily basis.)

I did have my fair share of escapades, in large part because my other best male friend was Randy. Randy's an alcoholic - has been for more than 20 years, and has always sold parts at his uncle's NAPA Auto Parts shop. Over the last 25 years has been without his driver's license more than he's been with it. In high school, I drove him around and put him safely to bed more times than I can remember. So, all in all, no. Not a particularly bad, and certainly not a traumatic high school experience.

Even so.

Revenge is never sweeter than at a high school reunion. I have attended all but one (the 15th) of my high school reunions. I started coming into my own in college, I guess, because even so early as our 10th reunion, you see, THE girls - all of them, including the popular ones, who before had merely accepted me as a classmate, "noticed". By the 20th, they all agreed, and annouced, that I was, by far, the best looking. That I had outstripped, outshone, and left behind even the star jocks. Literally every other male classmate, you see, has: gone totally grey, lost all of his hair, gotten himself a beer belly or has more wrinkles than you can count. The 25th was no exception:
"You look great!"
"I didn't even recognize you when you walked in!"
"I see muscles; you must really workout a lot!"
"You look fantastic!"
And on and on, for two days.

Sweet.

The Park

Why, you ask, does a high school reunion take place in early August? The answer lies in the above. Springfield, as the county seat, hosts the county fair, the first weekend in August. Springfield, as the largest high school district, covers the entire upper half of the county; between the farm kids and the kids from town, Springfield High School more than doubles the size of the other high schools in the county - Walsh may, in a good year, have half as many graduating seniors; Vilas, Campo and Pritchett, between them, might graduate 10 or 12. Thus, SHS has always organized the "five year" reunions around the county fair. This is cheesy, I know, but each year, the "five year" reunions have a float in the fair parade. The fifty-year reunion class takes pride of place, followed by the 25 year reunion class, then the 45, the 40 and so on down to the newest 5 year reunion. So, half the fair parade, it seems, is made up of farm trailers, minimally deocrated, with people riding on them, chatting amongst themselves and periodically waving at the spectators.

Yes. You heard me right.

Friday night, Aug, 6, we gathered at the town park where there were a few munchies, any attached kids could play, the adults could illegally drink a few beers/glasses of wine and "catch up". As I walked up to the pavillion, I recognized most of my classmates in attendance; not everyone changes much in 5 years. The one I did not recognize was Kurt, who had not been at the last reunion; his father was our local highway patrolman while we were in high school. Kurt was one of the two quarterbacks for the football team and one of the three stars of the basketball team. Kurt is, in short, one of those faded jocks who never translates high school success into real life. He flunked out of college and has been a drug abusing wastrel ever since; unable to keep a job, he now does odd jobs around town. Sadly, the drugs have done a number on him and he's a skeleton of what once was the best looking boy in our class. Everyone expected such a life-outcome for Bob, (who was also there, looking just as worn and aged as Kurt) the only real "druggie" while we were in high school, and Bob has lived up to those expectations. l But, as is always the case, people expected so much more from Kurt.

As the night wore on, the typical happened; we evolved into three groups, and only a couple of us (namely Brent and me) had the facility to migrate from group to group; most of "the guys" in one group, busy reminiscing about all their wild high jinks in school. The "girls", by contrast, weren't busy trying to relive their high school escapdes; they were talking about their kids, talking about the last vacation, talking about, in short, the lives they lead.

I confess, I much preferred the conversation with the women; recalling how Randy melted the aluminum engine in his Vega by drag racing in front of the high school, how Lillian and I fed the sophomores Exlax-laced chocolate chip cookies (baked in my brother's ovens at the cafe) our senior year (I told you I wasn't *entirely* innocent,) or about how many of the star athletes got laid by our senior English teacher (it was practically a rite of passage, ushering them out of junior high and into high school) just doens't turn my crank.

The third group milling 'round was smaller, and sadder; my old friend Randy, the alcoholic, the druggies Bob and Kurt. Hardly a dozen sentences passed between Randy and I, this go-round. Just about the only thing I have in common with the three of them any more is that they see my dad about as often as I do; once my dad retired from the Forest Service, he became the municipal judge for both Springfield and Walsh, and he has suspended all of their drivers' licenses multiple times. Randy's currently on a "red" license, meaning he can drive to work but nowhere else; Bob is just at the end of a 10-year suspension, and Kurt - he may get his back in time for our 30th reunion, if he doens't get caught driving illegally first.

The Parade
August 7, 2004

Saturday morning, Brent, one of the farmers in the group, brought one of his farm trailers to town; the "girls" decorated it with some bunting and signs, we put plastic lawn chairs on it, and we drove up main street chatting and waving at people we knew in the crowd. We've done this five times now, and will do it five more times, through our 50th high school reunion. And each time, we've used one of Brent's trailers. He's an interesting one. Wild, and often an instigator in high school, Brent was one of the first to settle down and have a "planned" family. He's also one of only five classmates who's still married to the same person. While we were never really good friends, we often hung out together, mainly because his chief partner in crime was one of my closer friends. Anyway, Brent's only child, a girl, graduated high school this year and is leaving for Colorado State in a couple of weeks; Brent and I have always had good "catch-up" conversations at the the reunions, in large part, I think, because neither of us tries to "relive" high school when we get together. A good, steady man, he let his emotions come through a bit this time around:

"I don't know what I'm gonna do when we drop her off up at Fort Collins; I bawled like a baby at graduation."

The Restaurant
August 7, 2004

Dinner, which we'd only done once before, turned out to be ok; at least the salad dressing wasn't too watery.

My graduating class suffered some real trauma the first four years out of high school; three of our classmates, VL (yes - Virgil Lewis, poor guy), Bo and Dean, died in car accidents, just about one per year. Bo's and VL's were the roughest - Bo was in college at West Texas A&M, and was killed while driving home on homecoming afternoon, our first year out of school. His sister was a homecoming queen candidate (and the eventual homecoming queen) so you can imagine how tough that was. A year later, VL and his long-time sweetheart and new wife were hit on the highway by a semi-truck. Everyone, and I do mean everyone, came home for both funerals. Dean died in an accident in California, two years later. The most notable thing about Dean's death is that he actually wasn't high or drunk. (Dean, you see, was my least favorite classmate by far, so rather than shed crocodile tears over the biggest jerk in my class, I prefer to think of him as being in a place now where he won't harass anyone smaller than him - and no, I was not smaller than him, and got in my fair share of punches. ;-)

So, anyway, Susan has always been the thoughtful one, and, since she still lives in Springfield, one of the planners for our reunions; she sent, as always, a single rose to the parents of each dead classmate. We had a really nice note from VL's parents, thanking "us" for always celebrating his life at our reunions.

Anyway, dinner was ok; keep in mind that this is Springfield, and not Madison; my parents have long been in the habit of going to dinner every Saturday night, and when I'm home visiting, my choice is to not go, or to eat in the types of restaurants I never voluntarily walk into anymore. You can add food snob to my list of faults. Surprisingly, the steak was suitably tender and even cooked the way I liked. I did pass on the side dish of "mexican corn" and the rolls. Probably the nicest part of dinner was that Michelle sat on my left; we found ourselves home from college for the summers and buddied around a lot the first two years, so it's always nice to catch up with her. She missed the gathering at the park and the parade because they were trying to get the haying done before more rain came in. Such is life in rural America. I did tell her that, of all the females in the class, she was the one I would least have expected to become a farm wife, and everyone around us laughed when she replied that she really didn't understand how it had happened, because she agreed with me. Regardless, the life of a farm wife suits her.

Only two of the females in my class are still married to their first husband; interestingly enough, one of those is my very best high school friend, Kandi. Kandi was also, to put it honestly, one of the high school sluts, and she wasn't reticent about the fact that she enjoyed sex and wanted a lot of it. Though we're not close any more, I do see her more often when I come home than I do any of the others who are still in Springfield. Kandi worked with me at my brother's restaurant, and if you've ever kissed me and think I'm a good kisser, you can thank her - she taught me how to french kiss.

She's married to a farmer too, and her youngest child, a boy, got married a few weeks ago. Jeez; it seemed like yesterday when he was just a baby.

Never-the-less, I still came out on top this trip.

Revenge, I tell you, is sweet.

Grandma's Cookie Jar

2004-08-06T21:09:00.000-05:00

August 5, 2004

I am, unabashedly, A Grandma's Boy. Always have been. Momma's Boy? Naw.

Before I started kindergarten, and during my early elementary school summers, I lived with my maternal grandparents more than my parents; in retrospect, it was probably my way, as the "middle" child, of getting some much needed individual attention. With two older brothers, one of whom harassed me incessantly, and a younger sister who was the long-awaited and much-desired baby girl, I have no doubt my preference for staying with my grandparents was simply my way of acting out some hidden psychosis.

Whatever the cause, I bonded with my Grandma much more than my mother. I would spend two weeks with my grandparents and on Sunday, after church, would be put, kicking and screaming, into my parents' car. Guaranteed, the following Sunday I would be climbing in Grandpa's big blue Mercury - no need for a suitcase or toy bag - I had my own toy box and dresser full of clothes waiting at Grandma's.

My fondest childhood memories, consequently, are of spending time with my Grandma; having breakfast with her after Grandpa left for work - she taught me to make biscuits without a recipe; running the vacuum for her; going shopping; sitting on her lap in the Mercury, believing I was actually steering the car as we ran errands (this, of course, was before child car seats, and even before seatbelts). My Grandpa coming home one day, loading us up in the car, telling Grandma "you have to see this. I want to buy it for him, but it's expensive." "This", as it turned out, was a battery-operated "Old MacDonald's Farm Truck". He had stopped at some store on the way home to buy something, had heard an "oinking" sound, and found the truck. But, as my Grandma told me in later years, as toys went, it was exorbitantly expensive and he felt the need to ask her if he could splurge enough to buy it.

And the cookie jar. Not her cookie jar, really. My cookie jar, which she kept. A big, old apple-shaped cookie jar, which had belonged to her father - my Greatpa. One of my earliest childhood memories was, driving back with her after visiting Greatpa and Greatma, asking her if I could have Greatpa's cookie jar. Her response, of course, was "Honey, you'll have to ask Greatpa." So I did. The next time we visited. And the jar went home with me. Home to Grandma's. And, once a week during my stays with her, we filled the cookie jar with my favorites: homemade oatmeal raisin cookies. One time, (another early memory) I arrived at Grandma's and as was my habit, asked when we were going to bake cookies. My Grandma replied "Go look in the cookie jar."

There were already cookies in the jar! Unbelieveable! (This was always one of my Grandma's favorite stories to tell on me, so even if I didn't remember it, I'd have known it from her constant re-telling.)

"Grandma! How could you possibly make cookies without me!"

She never did so again.

Three years ago, nearly to the day, we finally put Grandma in the Springfield nursing home. My parents had moved her to Springfield two years earlier, as she started to lose her eyesight, and had rented an apartment for her in the assited living complex; a home care nurse came by every day and made her lunch; my parents picked her up and took her to their house every evening for dinner; her apartment was only three blocks away from their house.

It was purely coincidence that I was home at that time she went into the nursing home, but in retrospect, it was good that I was. Or so I suppose. My mother is an only child, and did not have the personal strength to make the final decision on her own. So, she deferred to me.

Over the course of the previous six months, my Grandma had been in the hospital fully once a month, and in August, 2001, while I was home, she was in the hospital again; the doctors told us that she really needed full-time nursing care; that, fortuitously, there was an opening in the nursing home (remember, this is tiny Springfield - the nursing home and the hospital are all one building) and we needed to make a decision. She never even went back to her apartment.

At the time, when my mother deferred the decision to me, I thought nothing else could possibly hurt my heart so much as making that decision (even while I thought my mother cowardly for foisting it upon me.)

I was wrong.

It's amazing, shocking and heartbreaking to discover how much difference a few months can make. When I was home at Christmas, my Grandma still knew me. Today, I headed to the nursing home almost as soon as I arrived in Springfield, and my Grandma couldn't even remember that she had three grandsons, much less remember me - her baby.

My most precious posessions will always be my Old MacDonald's Farm Truck and my apple cookie jar.

La Comida Mas Mal; or, On The Road

2004-08-05T08:57:00.000-05:00

ON THE ROAD AGAIN
August 4, 2004

As is often the case, I woke up this morning before my alarm went off - 4:15. I'd gone to bed at my normal hour, but since I was planning on leaving for Colorado this morning, I figured "what the heck, might as well get an early start. I already had a motel reservation in Great Bend, KS, and leaving by 5 am would either give me time to stop along the route to explore some interesting thing, or put me in Great Bend in plenty of time to have a leisurely dinner. The Amana Colonies has always been an enticing prospect, but, as it turned out, I passed them by, yet again. I imagine they need a good full day for exploration.

There are few things I'm anal about, but packing for a trip is one of them. The suitcase was packed and the truck was fully loaded and gassed up before I went to bed, so I was, indeed, on the road by 5 am. Madison WI to Great Bend KS is some 750 miles, with another 250 miles or so to get to my parents' in Springfield, CO.

I made a bit of coffee before leaving, but was in need of more by the time I hit Dubuque; consequently the first thing I did was promptly get lost in downtown Dubuque, 7 am. Mission Not Accomplished. Where the hell are the coffee shops in Dubuque!?!

Dammit all.

Notes On Iowa

For years and years, people have been arguing about ethanol being added to gas. Iowa being Iowa, and full of corn, you know you're going to have ethanal-laced gas. Heck I remember nearly 20 years ago when a little ethanol operation opened up between Springfield and Walsh, CO. It failed, because Americans were too stubborn to accept ethanol then. And in most cases they still are.

One of the big arguments was that ethanol cost more to produce so would increase the cost of gas. Hmmm. With the dragging on of Bush II's little adventure we must have passed that threshold, because every gas station in Iowa was offering ethanol blended gas for at least 5 cents cheaper. And it's higher octane, so it actually *good* for your car! Ethanol. Add it to your trash can punch, add it to your gas tank. Was ever anything so useful?

As I drove across Iowa, it occured to me that virtually my entire trip was going to be through Country Music Country. Now, I've been a country fan for years and years, so no snickering! But, as I surfed the airwaves (why did we never pick up the term "surf" for that? The whole "waves" connection seems more logical than "surfing the 'net" where we don't talk about waves of any kind. A Starbucks Question, I suppose) I heard, repeatedly, uber-patriotic songs (don't correct me - I know "uber" isn't the correct word to use, but it sounds good here) recorded by country singers. Now, back during the First Bush War, when Lee Greenwood came out with "Proud To Be An American", it was ok. One song. Played to death, it's true, but one song. But, post 9/11 and in the thick of Bush II's Mission Not Accomplished, are the Dixie Chicks the only country act which hasn't recorded such a song? I may have to give up country music - just about the only time I listen to it now-a-days anyway is when I am driving cross-country. And it's been, gosh, at least 4 years since I've been two-steppin'.

Well. Give up everyone except the Dixie Chicks and Kenny Chesney. Gotta support the uber-hot gay boy, y'know.

Cell Phones In Iowa

The Wonders of Cell Phones will never cease to amaze me. Then again, Iowa will probably never cease to amaze me. You heard it here first folks. Unless, of course, you heard it on Iowa's airwaves first: Well-tuned automobiles get better gas mileage and reduce pollution emissions! If you see a vehicle giving off smoky exhaust, call 1-888-XXX-XXXX and report the license plate number! The Iowa Department of Natural Resources will mail a packet to the owner, with information on the importance of maintaining a well-tuned car, and will include information on local mechanics and discount coupons to encourage the polluter to get his/her vechicle tuned up! Well, well. Was I on the outskirts of Cedar Rapids when I heard this? Yes. Was I following an offending pickup when I heard this? Yes. Did I have my cell phone ready at hand when I heard this? Yes. Chalk one up for the environment and the Iowa DNR!

Missouri Is For Morons?

Crossing the state line, I headed into enemy territory - yesterday, Missouri voters had overwhelmingly passed (70% to 30%) an amendment to their constitution, limiting marriage to one man and one woman. I take comfort in the fact that, 20 years from now, a lot of these voters will either be 1) dead, because the strongest opposition to gay marriage is from those 60 and over, and people 60 and over vote in much larger proportions than other age groups, or 2) ashamed of themselves. Shame, shame, shame. And the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force conference this coming November will be in St. Louis. Hmmm.

As if I needed more reinforcement of my current opinion of Missourians, I noted, and duly pulled into, the "modern rest stop" just the other side of the Iowa-Missouri border. What, exactly, is a "modern" rest stop? And what the hell is an old-fashioned rest stop, for cryin' out loud? When I hit a plain old "rest stop" sign, just before KC, I declined to stop and find out. Fortunately, I only had to cut across the northwest corner of the state, and skiriting KC-Missouri, crossed the river and found myself in Bleeding Kansas. But not before I passed a semi-tractor with a trailer decorated like an Altoids tin. Hauling, one might logically assume, Altoids. Can you imagine an entire semi-trailor filled with Altoids?

Starbucks Country

Red State though it is, Kansas City, KS, at least, is Starbucks Country. I've always found that fascinating - we constantly hear talk now of the Red-Blue state dichotomy, but I heard, a couple years ago, that some grad students somewhere (U of Maryland? - I can't recall) had overlayed the Red-Blue state map with a Starbucks-Walmart map. Is there any surprise here? States (and geographic enclaves) with a strong Starbucks presence voted for Gore in 2000; those with a stronger Walmart presence had voted for Bush. So, on the outskirts of KC-KS, I stopped in at a Super Target and bought myself a Starbucks. Ahhhh. Coffee again.

Most of Kansas, of course, is best suited to interstate travel, and I headed west on I-70. One of these days, I'll take the time to stop at Lawrence and Manhattan, to check out KU and KSU. (Parenthetically, the last woman I ever dated moved to Lawrence to take a job at KU. Wonder if she's still there? Quite the fire cracker, and to be honest, I wouldn't be too surprised to find out that she is a lesbian.) As the interstate passes through Topeka, you can catch a good view of the Kansas state capital. Not worth mentioning, really, save that since I now see, on a daily basis, the Wisconsin capital, I do note the attractiveness of state capitals, when I see them. Wisconsin's is certainly beautiful; so is Colorado's, and to be honest even the Texas capital, in Austin, is quite attractive. Kansas', I regret to report, is ugly.

On through Salina, where I finally hit the eastern edge of the Great American Desert, and I cut south on US 156 toward Great Bend. An unremarkable drive, save for the fact that the single gas station, at the exit, takes advantage of it's location and charges 10 cents per gallon more than the gas stations 10 miles east, in Salina. Well, that and the dusty little place still sells cassette tapes. Clearly the fella makes his living offa his jacked-up gas prices, because the entire rack of cassettes looked as though they'd gone undisturbed for a good 10 years, and every single title had to be at least another 10 years older than that - artists and groups which hadn't released an album or been on the charts in at least that long. In a nod towards modernization, he'd added a shelf on top which held five or six CD's, at the reasonable price of $9.99. Jim Neighbors. The Andrews Sisters. Hank Williams Senior. Hmmm....

Around The Bend

Great Bend is, in fact, a rather charming little town, as little towns go. Large enough to have a Perkins and an Applebee's as well as two grocery stores, a Super Walmart, and the standard fast foodies - Taco Bell, Tico Taco, KFC, Burger King, Mac D's, and a Sonic. Four motels to choose from, three of them national chains with an internet presence. Yes, all in all, fairly prosperous for a Great Plains town. And situated on the "ourKansas" river, as one local made certain to tell me. Followed up by the comment "but Colorado never lets any water flow through, so it's hardly a river anymore." Ah. At Great Bend, I am well and truly back in the West, where water politics is the most important politics. And, of course, only in Kansas do they call it the our-Kansas river; with headwaters up above Salida, CO, the Arkansas (arkansaw) flows through Colorado, southwest Kansas, much of Oklahoma and bisects Arkansas to the Mississippi. Only the Kansans pronounce it "are-Kansas".

As you enter Great Bend, you note two things - the row of trees that line the river, perhaps half a mile away, and...a high rise. Little town out on the plains, with a massive, 12 story high rise, plop in the middle of town. There's not another building in town with more than two stories, and I'd be willing to bet that, save for some possible high rise in Wichita, it's the tallest building in Kansas, west of the state capital in Topeka. Turns out the building is the "Great Bend Housing Authority" building. A massive apartment building. Yes, I drove past it, just to find out.

Like most small towns on the plains, Great Bend provides affordable housing for it's low-income and aging residents. Hell, even Springfield, with a population of about 1000, has a housing authority - my grandmother lived in one of their assisted living apartments before she went into the nursing home. But a 12-story high-rise? What were they thinking?

I found my motel easily enough and as I checked in, I asked the desk clerk - a latina - if there's a good Mexican food restaurant in town. I'm in Kansas, getting close to Colorado/New Mexico, so I should be getting back into decent Mexican food country. She told me that the best place in town is Playa Azul - the blue river - just a few blocks further down the highway. After settling in my room, I got back in the truck and headed in the direction she'd indicated.

Pulling into the parking lot, my warning sensors started sounding - just looking at the place, I started having reservations. Looked like an old, converted Denny's or something. Stepping inside, the warnings only got worse as I took in massively gaudy decorations. The place looked like a mineature version of Casa Bonita in Denver (and if you actually went to the Casa Bonita website where you read that Casa Bonita is "the tastiest place to eat" in Denver, I have to post a disclaimer here. They lie. Casa Bonita's food sucks. It's so bad it might as well be in Wisconsin.) All decorations, all hype and terrible food (ok, ok, so I said that already, but believe me, it bears repeating.) However, I noted that all of the employees at Playa Azul were clearly native Spanish speakers. Perhaps it would be ok after all.

But no.

First sign: my waiter referred to me, repeatedly, as "amigo."

Second sign: No margaritas, no wine. Only soft drinks, cheap domestic beer and the crappy imported beers - Tecate, Dos Eqqis and Corona. I settled on water. I am in the desert, after all.

Third sign: according to the menu, some of the enchilada plates were served not with an enchilada sauce, but a cheese sauce. A cheese sauce?!?

Fourth sign: no refritos included on any of the plates.

By this time I should have gotten up and left. I didn't. Damn me.

Fifth sign: I settled on two cheese enchiladas (with a meat-enchilada sauce) and a chile rellano. My dinner arrived (I am not kidding) piping hot, less than five minutes after I ordered it.
Microwaved. Had to be. It was crap. The sauce was watery, the rellano batter a soggy mess. Clearly, they put it all on the plate and microwaved it; covered it with the sauce out of a pot on the stove, added the lettuce and sour cream and sent it out.

La Comida Mas Mal!

DAY TWO - WE'RE STILL IN KANSAS, TOTO
August 5, 2004

Once again, I woke up well before my alarm went off, but that's ok. With only about 250 miles to go, I'm gonna take it leisurely; the fabled cowtown of Dodge City lies between me and the Colorado border, and I haven't been to Dodge City since I was a little kid. I'm gonna stop and see what's cookin'.

The motel clerk who checked me out (I'm one of those travelers who likes closure, I guess - I *never* just leave the key in the room - I always carry it down to the front desk, turn it in and ask for a final recipt to make sure the charges are correct) this morning is a spry little thing - wrinkled, washed out dishwater blonde hair, possibly no older than me, but looking a good 15 years my senior. Life on the high, dry plains can do that to a person skin, but I caught her outside having a morning smoke, which can also do that to a person's skin. Regardless, she was most noteworthy not only because she was so chipper at 7am, but also for the fact that she sported a goatee, the likes of which my 20 year-old nephew can't possibly grow. As I was walking out, she urged coffee and bagels on me, even telling me to "take all the bagels" if I want.

"The type of folks what usually stay here don't never eat them there bagels - they just always go to waste and I dunno why the boss keeps buyin' 'em," she confided.

Interesting. I'll never know what caused her to decide that I wasn't one of those "type of folks", and why I might be more open to bagels, but I suppose she does have a point - the bagel-eating types most likely don't deviate from Interstate 70 and probably speed like hell through western Kansas and eastern Colorado.

(For your information, this is where I discovered the mysterious WiFi on Main Street Great Bend, so I'll continue the conversation here.)

Willow Creek Coffee Shop clearly shows its "small town-ness" in the conversations that flowed around me. The barrista (if you can really call him that) is on par with the average beauty parlour (we don't call them "salons" in small town Ahmurrika, y'know) operator when it comes to the gossip scene. A chubby little fellow, married, if the ring is any indication, probably in his 40s, makes his living working for the fellow who owns the place. Willow Creek is part coffeeshop, part deli and part typical cheesy small-town "gift shop". I was the first customer, and had to wait for the coffee to brew. The owner was there, briefly, but took off for "a meeting". When I asked the barrista if they had wifi, he said "Well, I hear that Rural-net offers that service in town, yes." Hmm.... Missing the point, here. I just said "I'm gonna hang out here for awhile and work on my computer, if you don't mind."

Sure thing, the wireless connection is emanating one store down, because I can't pick it up in the coffee shop.

The next customer to come in was a regular - brassy big-haired woman, attractive enough, and old enough to have a teenager. A "problem" teenager, is appears. And a marriage which may or may not be on the rocks. She was on her way to work, but spent about 15 minutes filling the barrista in on the latest struggles with the daughter and most recent crimes of the good-for-nothing husband. As she departed, another regular - looked quite like a semi-retired farmer who probably passed the farm on to a son or grandson already, but still goes out most every day to meddle in his heir's management of the place, wandered in catching the last two or three sentences of the conversation - which was about the most recent useless husband infraction.

Promply she's out the door, the retired farmer-type asked "what's happened now?", indicating his familiarity with the local soap opera, and our good and faithful barrista recounted the entire litany of charges against aforementioned daughter and husband. Life has indeed improved in small town America, when one can catch up on the town gossip over a pseudo-gourmet coffee rather than a haircut and perm.

Score!

Dodge City, it turns out, is right in the middle of "Dodge City Days." I wandered the fabricated, tourist trap referred to as "old town" built on Boot Hill for a bit, watched a cheesy re-enactment of a bank robbery, and ate some lunch at the historic Dodge House Restaurant and Saloon - one of those places which includes a full page of "history" (with some fabricated legend thrown in for good measure, no doubt) in the menu. Although the place looked fully modern and recently built to me, the menu assures me that the original building remains incorporated in the structure, and runs down a litany of famous and infamous folk who graced the saloon and boarding house (now an attached Best Western Inn.) Ah. Western tourism towns. Gotta love 'em.

Deciding I'd dallied long enough, I gassed up and headed west, intent on hitting Springfield by mid-afternoon.

Willow Creek Part Deaux

2004-08-05T08:33:00.000-05:00

Nope. The wireless connection is not coming from the coffee shop.

I couldn't pick it up in the shop; not only did the connection link not pop up, but if I needed more confirmation, the barrista was clueless. And it really wasn't a true coffee shop; what I can say is that while they offer espresso, their brewed coffee is for crap! Ucky stuff. But, I digress. I need to be posting yesterday's fun stuff.

Wired In Central Kansas

2004-08-05T08:03:00.000-05:00

Whoa. Blow my mind.

7:15 am. I'm setting on Main Street in Downtown Great Bend, KS, waiting for the "Willow Creek Coffee Shop" - which might possibly be the one and only coffee shop in all of middle Kansas, to open at the eye-rubbing hour of 8 am, see. So I decide that I'll work off of my notes from yesterday's drive. Pull out the 'puter, turn it on and....""Wireless Connection Found. Click To Connect."

WTF? Intriguing. I have no idea who's wireless I'm picking up, but damn. Quick, check the email! Post to the blog!

I suppose there's some possibility that the coffee shop owner is hip enough to have wireless, but I don't see a sign advertising it. Then again, perhaps I'm doing Great Bend a disservice; there's an Herbalist shop next door to the coffee shop and I've seen not one, but *two* "adult novelty shops along the highway (Main Street Great Bend runs perpendicular to US Highway 156, so there are two "business districts", as is often the case in small towns where Walmart has plopped itself down.

Hmmm...8:03 and the coffee shop is *not* open.....

There you have it.

A Pilsbury Dough Boy In Lycra

2004-07-26T21:03:00.000-05:00

Ok ok. So.

I promised more on my Hooters experience and I'm slow in coming through.

What to say?

So, I had this perception about what Hooters would be. Having never been to a Hooters, I was under the impression that it was more or less a "gentleman's club" - I expected waitresses in super tight clothes, but had visions of brass, green felt, oak paneling, etc. Of course, having read my previous post, you know that notion was disabused as soon as I stepped inside the place.

Never, in my wildest dreams did I expect Hooters to be a redneck hang out - my gosh, I could have practically been in The Chicken!

Sure as anything, the wait staff were all females, and all of them stuffed into lycra, from bust to toe. I had to hoot (no pun intended) at the design of the place. The way the girls turn in orders is pretty clever - cables radiate out from the "kitchen" area to four wait stations. Orders are hooked to caribeaners, which the waitresses send flying on a cable to the cooks, but they have to step up on footstools to do so - clearly designed to put their asses and legs on display.

Probably the most interesting thing, to me, (and, in many ways, the most hypocritical) was the dichotimy between the staff; the girls, all of them looking to be in their early 20s, most of them over-stuffing their lycra and over-painted; all of them blonde. The managers - three of them. The manager on duty was a female; a brunette who, if you put her in white lycra, would look like the Pillsbury Dough Boy. Likewise both male managers - bellies flopped out over their waistbands. The cooks, by contrast were all males in their teens and 20s and were rail-thin and, to a boy, pimply. Every one of them. The only attractive one in the bunch was the busboy - cute!

Just a fascinating study, and I don't do it justice - I should have blogged my thoughts as soon as I got home.

But one thing's for sure - it's certainly good to know that Hooters doesn't discriminate in it's hiring practices - other than for the waitresses, anyway.

When A Wing Is Not A Wing

2004-07-24T21:52:00.000-05:00

Dear God In Heaven, I have been to red-neck Hell and It is Hooters.

Yes. I did. We did. (Other than me, the guilty shall remain anonymous.) Went to Hooters for dinner.

Why, you ask, Why in the Name Of The Goddess would any semi-urban fag hipster go to Hooters?

Simple.

I am a Hot Wing Afficianado.

I have heard, for years, that Hooters has The Best Wings In The World. So. Being a Hot Wing Afficianado, I knew that I'd eventually have to verify that claim. But, having never lived in a town with a Hooters, and not really wanting to actually step inside a Hooters, I put it off. I put it off in Houston. I put it off in DC. I put it off in Denver and Colorado Springs. I put it off until tonight. And, I can say with great certainty that Hooters does not have The Best Wings In The World.

In fact, they were disgusting. Greasy. Lacking in crispness. Inadequately sauced. My God, they were even breaded! (I know, I know, you can order them "naked" as in Not Breaded, but breaded is the standard fare, so that's what I ordered and judged and found lacking. There wasn't a single thing about them that even approached third-rate.

It is official - the Best Wings In The World are still to be had at Gassy Thompson's in The Mountain House, Keystone Resort. Hands down. Very close runner up is a very small chain in Texas, Wings 'N More. The key is in the sauce. And the lack of breading, which only soaks up excess grease and leaves said grease, as it cools, in a gelatinous mass on my plate - like at Hooters earlier tonight. Unlike the chain restaurants (Buffalo Wild Wings, for example, which is tolerable but not The Best) the sauce at Gassy's is not made in some factory somewhere to corporate specs, then packaged up and shipped off to each store.

No. At Gassy's the chefs make the sauce by hand, daily. No additives, no fillers, no preservatives. No sugar, no exotic flavorings (Thai, or Ginger, or Garlic, for example.) And NO Fucking Bar-B-Que. Bar-B-Que wings are NOT Hot Wings. They're BBQ chicken. Jesus. The only exception to the flavoring rule which I find permissible (and I am, after all, a Hot Wing Afficianado) is a clever little trick pulled off by Wings 'N More - they serve a squirt bottle of white vinegar with their wings. Not bad. Not bad at all.

And I've not even started talking about the actual Hooters experience itself, fer crying out loud. I'll save that for tomorrow night, unless something noteworthy catches my attention tomorrow.

I Did Not Know This....

2004-07-19T20:32:00.000-05:00

That is just so typical of my parents.

The 17th is my mother's birthday, the 18th their anniversary (51 years, this year - we threw them a big-ass party last summer). Now, birthdays aren't a big thing in our family; not once did any of us have a birthday party where other kids were invited. They were all celebrated at the normal family dinner hour; my mom would make our favorite dinner and bake our favorite cake and we'd get a present or two. By the time we hit junior high, it was the cake, dinner and a few books, at most.

So, I didn't think anything of calling not on her birthday, but on their anniversary - last night.

"Happy birthday and happy anniversary, Mom!"

"Oh, thanks honey," she replied, almost absentmindedly, as she was chewing on something; I'd caught them eating dinner, which was unusual - they typically eat about 5:30, then head to the nursing home to sit with my grandmother for an hour or two. I never catch them eating this late.

"Well, did you do anything exciting?" I asked.

"Well, you know we always go out to dinner on Saturday night."

(I have to insert an editorial aside here; I absolutely hate it when my momma says that. "Well, you KNOW...." I hate it so much that I've excised the phrase from my own vocabulary. If there's one thing about her that drives me nuts, it's that. I grew up with the following types of exchanges on a near-daily basis: My Dad: Where do you want to eat dinner? My mom: Oh, I don't care. Just where ever. So my Dad drives someplace. As we pull into the parking lot, my momma: Why did we come here? You KNOW I don't like (insert name of restaurant here.) Or my Dad: Which mall do you want to go to? or Which grocery store do you want to go to? Or, what kind of meat do you want me to cook on the grill tonight. My momma: Oh, I don't care. {time elapse...: Why did you.... You KNOW ....)

"Ok. Didn't do anyhing for your anniversary today?"

"Oh, I just worked in the house."

"Worked in the house?" Skepticism here; my mother hates housework; she'll happily mow the lawn if it gets her out of vacuuming. And doing housework on a Sunday is *very* atypical. She only does it on Saturdays because it's the family tradition - everyone (who's at home) pitches in and cleans on Saturday.

"What kind of work?"

"Well, I had to get all the laundry done, so we could pack."

"Pack?"

"Yes, honey. We're leaving tomorrow for Tennesee. We're going to go visit your brother."

I did not know this.

My parents.

I swear, if I didn't call them, they'd go six months before it occurred to them that they hadn't talked to me recently.

And this is not an unusual situation; for me to not know that they've gone off somewhere, I mean. Once, I called every night for a week; never got an answer and never got a return call. So I called my grandmother, thinking she'd know something. No answer. No return call. I finally called my sister to see if she knew what was up; turns out they'd picked up my grandmother and gone to Alabama to attend church camp.

Y'know, most people complain about their kids being irresponsible and never calling.

Cell Phone Phoul

2004-07-18T19:49:00.000-05:00

So, Madison Pride (yesterday and today) was my first-ever "pride" event.

I don't know why I've never attended a Pride before; the one in Houston is big, and there was usually an A&M contingent in the parade. I guess in part it's because I've never been much a one to march. And, I skipped out on the Milwaukee Pride at the last minute this year, because my roomie and I just never got plans for it finalized, even though we both kept saying "yeah, let's go over for awhile."

At any rate, I didn't know exactly what to expect, but I figured that it wouldn't be so bad if I were there in some sort of "official" capacity. So, I registered the Center for a booth. I didn't expect that we'd have a lot of interest, but visibility is visibility, and several of the students agreed to help.

It was really quite tame. Which is, probably the underlying reason of why I'd never attended a pride event before - I've been told that they can often end up being big drunk fests, with lots of hooking up, etc. Probably an unfair stereotype. I met a few people, I enjoyed myself, and I did run into what I considered not only living up to the stereotype but also a cell phone foul:

Sunday morning, I was setting up the booth; It was still very quiet as most people were downtown to participate in or watch the parade. Near-by a shirtless guy - looked to be late 30's, was talking (overly loud so that everyone for at least 100 feet could hear) to someone - affirming some of my less positive thoughts about Pride. He was listing off the names and characteristics of the four (yes, he said "four") men who's phone numbers he'd collected at Pride on Saturday:

"And I met this one guy who's really good looking and I got his phone number, but you know, he's HIV+ and you know, I just don't know if I can really deal with that. I mean it could be so emotional. And oh, I got a number for this other guy - he's not as hot, but he's a professor at the University, so he makes a decent living, and he seems really sweet, so I think I'll for sure call him...."

If Pride events are about getting phone numbers and triaging prospects, then all I can say is "ugh."

And Who Needs Jesus When You Have A Doctor?

2004-07-16T20:32:00.000-05:00

I'm not even sure how best to describe it.

I bribed one of my students to be my driver, by telling him he could keep my truck for the day and use it to go anywhere in Madison he wanted (typical gay boy, he dropped me off and went directly to West Town Mall.) But first he had to actually go in with me and verify that he'd be the one driving me home.

First, they gave me a pill to "keep [me] calm", although I wasn't nervous. When the nurse checked my blood pressure it was normal for me - 117/68. Then she put anesthetic drops in my eye and I rested in the "recovery room" while the doctor performed the procedure on someone else.

When I went into the laser room it was really just kinda anti-climactic. I laid down on a standard examination bed, but it had an adjustable head brace, to keep me still; they gave me a football to hold (I complained: "But all my friends who've had lasik got teddy bears!" Everyone laughed and the doctor said "Well, we can give you a teddy if you really want one," to which I replied "No, no. I'll keep the football; gotta be all butch for this!"

The doc washed out my eyes, taped back my eyelashes ("You've got good long eyelashes - that makes it easier!") and then placed a clip in my right eye, to hold my eyelids open. Then he talked me through the whole procedure:

"Ok, I'm going to mark your cornea, so I know where to slice it."

A little instrument, looking quite like a long-legged spider, decended towards my eye. How it "marked" my cornea I have no idea.

"Now I'm going to place the cornea cutter on your eye and cut the flap"

A little tiny ring (have you ever seen one of those forms that McDonald's uses to shape the fried eggs they serve on their Egg McMuffins? Looked kinda like that, but a lot smaller) settled onto my eye.

"We're going to provide suction now."

Apparently the little ring isn't at all like the Egg McMuffin form; I heard a suctioning sound and, even through the anesthetic, felt a slight sensation of my cornea being sucked up into the form; then, so quickly I could barely see it, a tiny blade darted out, and a layer of my cornea was sliced off. Well, not totally off. Sliced into a flap.

"Ok, we're going to release the pressure and then I'm going to fold the corneal flap back."

He did. It was bizarre. The vision in my right eye, which had been fine up to that point, suddenly went totally blurry.

"Now I'm going to position you under the laser. When I tell you, look directly at the red light. This eye is the worse one, so it's going to take 44 seconds. Don't look away from the red light."

The laser started to hum and the doctor kept chanting "Look at the red light. Look at the red light. You're doing great. Look at the red light."

I was able to talk and respond the whole time, and as the laser did it's thing, I suddenly said:

"Yuck! That smell! It smells like burning hair! I can smell my eye being burned away!"

The doctor laughed and said "Well, not burning. Vaporizing."

And then my right eye was finished. He folded the corneal flap back over and repositioned me to repeat the procedure with my left eye. I was actually in the lazer room for about ten minutes.

Back in the "recovery room", which was just a darkend room with some nice leather covered recliners in it, the nurse taped plastic "bug-eye" eye protectors over my eyes and encouraged me to keep them closed while I waited for my driver to pick me up.

I couldn't help but peek out a little bit, and son of a gun. I could already see. No glasses, no contacts. I could read a poster on the other side of the room.

In due time, my driver picked me up and dropped me off at home; the medication I'd been given earler did it's job; I crawled into bed and slept for three hours. When I woke up, my vision was even clearer, and over the course of the last 24 hours has gotten better and better.

I got up and went to work yesterday, feeling great. I have to wear the "bug eyes" to bed for five nights, to keep me from rubbing my eyes in my sleep, and put antibiotic and anti-inflammatory drops in my eyes for the same amount of time, but other than that, I feel quite normal.

This is one part of medicine which is truly a modern miracle.

The Running Of The Ducks

2004-07-12T21:19:00.000-05:00

Every year I read with morbid fascination about the "Running Of the Bulls" in Pamplona, Spain.

These people are daft, I tell you. Just plain daft.

I mean, people get gored. Daily. People sometimes die. All to run through narrow cobblestone streets with hyper-excited bulls. Macho, smacho.

Daft.

So, I was out sailing today. I know, I know. Big surprise. But the wind was off and on - for a time I was becalmed, but then the wind popped up right nice.

I was sailing east at a brisk pace, towards James Madison, with the idea of hitting the Tenney Locks before turning around, when I noticed a couple of ducks paddling around in front of me.

Yup. Yup. The idea popped right into my head. Point the bow at the duck and see what happens. I'm tellin' you, it was like flushing a pheasant; as I bore down on it, it eyed me and paddled harder; took a turn to the left, so I adjusted my rudder. Got closer. It eyed me paddling faster. About 15 feet and it finally took to the air.

I spent the next hour Running the Ducks.

When The World Is Out Of Balance

2004-07-10T20:28:00.000-05:00

-Friend-
Yesterday my father had a massive stroke and died. I am in Boulder
with my family. My mom is holding up pretty well. I am doing ok. It was
unexpected and a shock. There will be memorial services July 17, 2004.
When my brother called one of my dad's good friends, the friend said
"The world will be out of balance"

-Eric-
I received this email from a friend today. Not just any friend. I think of myself as remarkably fortunate; I count six people as my close, life-long friends. There are a small handful of others, of course, who are dear to me, but with whom I've not shared so much life experience.

It is good, sometimes, to take an accounting of your friends, and never better than when we suffer loss. Five are age-mates - we're all within 18 months of each other, while the sixth is in her late fifties. All have stood the test of time - four, including the one above, are college mates, so I've known them for twenty years now. Two are from my time in Japan and the second Texas stint, which tots up to twelve years now. Three are in Colorado, two in Texas and I am blessed with the fact that the sixth beat me to Wisconsin.

This isn't the first father lost in our group; excepting the 50-something, one of my age mates lost his father two years ago. Most of us have also experienced "near-loss" - there've been two fathers (including mine) suffer heart attacks. In addition, three fathers (again, including mine) and one mother have survived cancer in the last three years. I guess there's not much point to this post, and it's rambling, so I'll end it by copying what I sent in reply. I copied it to all of the Colorado and Wisconsin "crew", as well:

Friend -

I am so sorry.

In college it seemed years away but now we're reaching an age when it's going to start hitting all of us. Indeed, each of us, in our families, has faced the fear of this loss already and most of us have been fortunate to escape it awhile longer.

I know I seldom adequately express my feelings for my friends - no, truthfully, I'm inept at it. But despite the time that has passed, the distance that often separates and the various directions our lives have taken us, I have always continued to hold you not just in my heart, but also in my daily conversations with others, as one of the handful of people I will always call "friend".

As other people have moved through my life, you, (friend), (friend) and (friend) have always remained constants much like my family, and in that I am blessed.

You already know that, as with many other issues in our lives, my views on spirituality have diverged from yours, but just know that in my own way I pray for you and your family.

Love -

I was wrong. There is, of course, a point to this post.

My friends help to keep my world in balance.

Disco, Disco Man. I Wanna Be A Disco Man....

2004-07-01T20:04:00.000-05:00

Whoa.

Two weeks from today I will be able to wake up, roll over, and see the numbers on my alarm clock.

I don't remember a time in my life when I've been able to wake up and see anything, without putting on my glasses or putting in my contacts first. I don't know how old I was when I first started wearing glasses - guess I should ask my mom - but it must have been in the summer because I do remember being in the doctor's office, and the nice lady slipping the glasses on me. I looked out the window and suddenly the tree outside had leaves, and I could see them. Individual, separate leaves, not just a green blur. I very clearly remember how astonished I was at that, and how excited I was - I pointed it out to my parents, both of whom were in the room.

So I know something like a dozen - maybe more - friends, acquaintances and co-workers who've had Lasik surgery. Ruth was the first; I was her "driver" on the day she had it, something like four? five? years ago. Can't remember exactly, but she conned me into it by promising that, instead of using my truck, I could drive her in her Bimmer. Then she let me have for a whole week once, later on. But that's a different story.

Anyway everyone I know who's had Lasik surgery has been happy with it, so I finally decided to take the plunge too. At some point in the not too distant future I'll have to start wearing reading glasses but I'm up for that trade-off. Hmm..reading glasses vs. all-the-time glasses? No contest. Besides, I have this pair of really cool antique glasses that belonged to my great grandfather - I've always wanted to wear them, so having reading lenses put in them at some point seems the perfect solution.

Anyway, the exam was interesting.

It started out as a standard exam, much like I'm used to, then they added on three different tests to do several things - measure the thickness of my corneas and map the surface of my eyes, etc.

Now, your average eye exam is pretty hum drum, but the other three tests were pretty cool, if I do say so. There was this one machine, you put your chin in, and pressed your forehead up to the strap (pretty standard) and then had to look at the red beam for five seconds. It was almost like putting on a Mardi Gras mask - covered the whole upper half of my face. But during that five seconds, the inside of the mask went all psychedelic.

Like wildly flashing and whirling lights at a club. Or, think of the adverts for "The Spy Who Shagged Me" but up close and right in your face. I joked with the nurse, telling her that it reminded me of a disco I visited in Dubrovnik. She laughed and said "you're not old enough to have been to discos!" So I laughed and told her that I didn't think I was gonna trust her as my nurse as she clearly hadn't read my chart!

That one mapped the surface of my cornea

One of the others was an ultrasound, to see how thick my corneas are. Talk about cool. The nurse put an antisthetic in my eyes, then took this little pen attached to a machine (kinda like one of those pens you use to electronically sign a credit card purchase at Target and some other stores) and very gently tapped the surface of my eyes. Five times per eye. Didn't feel a thing, but the visual sensation was wild. The surface of my eye "rippled" like water does when you drop a stone in it. Total visual stimulation.

The most entertaining eye exam I've ever had, that's for sure. Now I just need to round up a driver for Wed. 14 July.

Farenheit 9/11

2004-06-30T21:14:00.000-05:00

-Brian-
Watching Michael Moore's Fahrenheit 9/11 this weekend reminded me of a great idea I've had for a story. There just seems to be a lot of good story potential in exploring the long term impact on the Florida elementary school children who were being read to by Bush when he received official word of the attacks.

I'm sure it's already been done in another form, or that someone is already working on it. But still . . . .

-Eric-
I'm all supportive an' such, but I really don't think I'm gonna go see it. No, really.

-Brian-
Aw c'mon, not even to be able to pick it apart?

-Eric-
No. Probably not. You may have noticed that lately I've stopped writing about politics in my blog. It's not because I'm giving up on politics. In large part it's because I'm both shocked at myself and ashamed of myself - I never imagined that I could have such a strong, unrelenting and visceral hatred of any human being - much less one that I don't even know - as I have for the man who claims that "God" led him to be our president.

What I don't understand (and I know why I don't understand it - because I don't believe in "faith") is how a fanatic of one religion can be see himself as morally superior to a fanatic of another religion. bin Ladin and Bush - you can interchange them in that sentence.

Watching Farenheit 9/11 will just rile me up more than is good for me.

Basta! Basta!

(You know I'm gonna post this exchange as my blog today.)

Kharma Reclaimed

2004-06-29T21:03:00.000-05:00

Uff da. Not *another* post about sailing!

Well, what can I say? It seems my life right now is preoccupied with only a handful of things - go to work; eat; go to the gym; go sailing.

So I promise this one will be brief and will be the last post I make on sailing, until next time.

But, I figured y'all would want to know the good news. Yep. Yep.

Unwilling to give in to kharma, I went sailing today, and I am pleased to report that there is no problem with kharma, and I think sailing and I will be a couple for the rest of the summer.

I was on the water for three and a half hours this evening, and it was flawless. I sailed over to Picnic Point; from there I cut across to James Madison Park and tacked my way back up to the Union Terrace, then headed back out to the middle of the lake and just sailed and sailed. An instructor passsing with her class yelled out a compliment so I guess I was doing well.

Yay!

Rub A Dub Dub, Sailing A Tub

2004-06-28T21:12:00.000-05:00

Well, for cryin' out loud.

I am near to being convinced that sailing and I aren't meant to be a couple. Or my kharma is bad or something - I wonder what I might have done in a past life to suffer such a thing? Can a living thing I might have hurt centuries ago be reincarnated as the spirit of sailing and be able to exact punishment and suffering on me?

First, my second lesson was rained out; second, my make-up lesson was ok while I was out on the lake, but I couldn't, for the life of me, dock. Third lesson, we were becalmed. And now this.

Here's the haps:

So I decide to go sailing after work today. I check out my sail, then, like all good Sailing Hoofers, check the dock first to see if someone who's just come in would want to "trade sails" - it keeps them from having to de-rig and haul the boat out, and keeps the person just going out from having to put the boat in and rig it. Win-win all the way 'round.

Or so I thought.

A group of "Hoofers Youth" had just docked with their instructor; these kids were between 10 and 12; I asked the instructor if she wanted them to de-rig or if I could trade sails. She was cool with that, so these two girls got out of their boat; the instructor said "it's got a little water in it because they capsized; is that ok?" I said "sure" because I figured it wasn't that much. And it wasn't.

So I back up from the dock (how do those things go in reverse? It always amazes me) and head out. The first thing I notice is that the boat is really sluggish. I chalk it up to the water in the boat, and keep heading out. So I'm sailing for like an hour and a half and it's not going too badly, but the boat is really, really sluggish and the bow seems oddly low in the water, and, when a big motorboat roars by (damn motorboats) I'm low enough in the water that I take some of the motorboat's wake over the thwarts.

Well, fer cryin' out loud - there's just not *that* much water inside the boat. Not enough to make it that sluggish and low in the water.

So I start checking things out. Crap. Just crap. The outside plug is missing.

The Techs are double hulled; in the stern there's a hole in both hulls; when you rig your boat, you have to put plugs in both holes; one on the outside, one on the inside. I'm sure these girls did so, but they must not have gotten it in very well so it came out at some point, and the space between the hulls was filling up with water.

Now, there was no real danger of the boat actually sinking; the design is pretty clever - once you take on a certain amount of water, the water traps the remaining air up in the gunwales, so there's always some flotation. But it is surely possible for the boat to swamp, and pretty much be dead in the water. I wasn't swamped so all I had to do was avoid the wakes of any more big motorboats, and slowly, slowly sail my tub back (from the middle of Mendota - I'd made it pretty far out) to the dock. I sat on the stern to try to keep the bow a bit higher, and after what seemed like ages, was able to dock.

Funny thing, though; an adult class was just coming back in; they'd also traded sails with the same youth class I had, and one of the other boats was sinking too; that instructor had to take a motorboat out and tow his student in; she'd taken on a lot more water than I had - that is, she was nearly swamped as well, and sure enough, when I told them what my problem had been, they checked and her boat was missing a plug too.

Someone needs to tell that youth instructor to check the plugs before she lets her students put in.

With A Huff And A Puff....

2004-06-27T21:29:00.000-05:00

Ugh.

Can I just say that sailng today sucked?

I know, I know; I've been all about how awesome sailing is. And it is. But today was supposed to be my last lesson and what happens?

THERE'S NO FREAKIN' WIND.

Sailing in calm is hard work, let me tell you. On the positive side, I had a cute instructor - Brian B.; I may have to sign up for an extra lesson with him just because.

One good thing; he made us capsize today; I'd not capsized before so it was good practice; they keep telling us how easy the Techs are to right, but it's hard to really believe them, until you actually try it.

Even though the wind was light to non-existent, I managed to do a decent job tacking and jibing, so, on a positive note, Brian actually did give me my light rating today; that means I don't have to take another lesson and I can sail whenever I want to, so long as the winds are moderate (up to 18 mi/hr.) I still have to work on my heavy rating; then I'll be able to sail in higher winds and take passengers with me.

Yay!

If It's 11 pm It Must Be Toothpicks

2004-06-26T20:39:00.000-05:00

So. I'm driving home last night.

It's 11:11 pm on the clock in my truck. I'm driving down West Johnson, black Toyota Camry in the next lane. Two people, a man and a woman, in it. Two rather large people.

I look over and both of them, as they're driving down the street, are working over their respective mouths with toothpics. Synchronized toothpicking, it was. Practically an olympic sport it was.

Now what, I ask you, would two rather large people have been doing at 11 pm at night, so that they needed to be toothpicking at 11:11 pm, while driving down West Johnson?

Intriguing.

Dear Advice Princess

2004-06-26T07:49:00.000-05:00

Here at the EricEcho we've long been jealous of The Onion and their advice columnist, Dan Savage, and cognizant of the need to add our own advice columnist. After an extensive national search we are proud to introduce our readership to our newest feature: Dear Advice Princess. And so without further ado, let's move on to the Advice Princess's inaugural column:

Dear Advice Princess,

Last night at the gym, I was actually working out, rather than gossiping and posing with my gurrrlz like I usually do (they were out of town for Chicago Pride, but I had to work today so could't go. It's so unfair!) when this new hottie started making eye contact with me. Well, suddenly things seemed to be looking up, because honestly, if my gurrrlz had been there, I know that one of them (Jake, that slut) probably would have moved right in on new hottie, but here I had him all to myself. The only problem is, I have to admit I'm a pack-gurrrl; without my gurrrlfriends their to support me, I turn all shy and nervous. So, you can imaegine what happened; I was doing bicep curlz, and just as I was picking up the curl bar, he walked over to the station next to me (the pec deck and boy it sure does look like he uses it alot!) and gave me a big smile. Well, I just turned to jelly and, sure as anything, as I grabbed the bar, I chipped one of my freshly manicured nails! Well, I was so upset that I couldn't even *think* straight (hehehe - I said "straight"!) So, in this circumstance, what was I to do?

Barbell Princess

Dear BP,

What a mess, you poor thing! However, the answer to your problem is simple and was right there in your hands (and no, I don't mean what was in your hands later on when you were in the sauna with that new hottie - at least I *hope* you were!) I'm talking about that big, nasty piece of metal barbell thingy you were using. Why, every gymgurrrl knows that those things have all those rough sections on them - they're supposed to improve your grip, but in my opinion, all they really do is tear up your delicate skin and give you calluses! But look closer, BP; those rough spots are suitable enough to be used for a very hasty and temporary nail file! All you needed to do, as you smiled back at your new hottie, was just nonchalantly file your broken nail over the surface of the barbell thingy and ta-da! An emergency fix until you can get to the nearest salon; plus, an opportunity to chat up the new hottie, and he might even think you were butch and all!

But one more thing I feel compelled to mention, BP - I *do* hope you're wearing gloves while you exercise; I'm sure that when you meet up later in the sauna, new hottie would *not* appreicate rough hands!

Dear Advice Princess,

Recently I was at the gym when this total stud muffin - a guy I'd been eyeing for months - actually finally approached me. We chatted for, well, *quite* some time and it was very pleasant. Finally, stud muffin told me that he need to hit the steam room, and he invited me to join him! Now, Advice Princess, I have two problems. I've heard stories about what happens in steam rooms, and I've even seen it on Queer As Folk! Is it true? But it's beside the point, because I didn't have a swim suit (a swim suit - like I would ever wear one! they're all tight and uncomfy around your privates, you know! I *always* go 'European-style' myself;) you see, my club is so cheap and stingy that they only have one steam room, so it's co-ed! Can you imagine? Really, I think maybe I should change clubs, but this one has so many good looking male members (hehehe! I said "male member"!)that maybe I won't after all. But, I couldn't join stud muffin just wrapped in a towel, because it's against the club rules and there's this hawk-eyed lesbian who enforces them. Believe me, *no one* breaks even the teensy-tinyest rule here for fear she'll catch them! And besides, I'd never be able to get "it" up, for fear a nasty breeder woman might walk into the steam room! Or that dragon lesbian! If stud muffin invites me to join him in the steam room again, what should I do? I

Swimsuit-less Princess

Dear S-lP,

First off, just what is this? Princess Week at the gym? I've received dozens of gym-dilimma letters this week! Just dozens! I can't possibly answer them all.

First things first: Of *course* it's true! Surely you don't think it would be on Queer As Folk if it weren't, do you! Simply *everyone* knows that Queer As Folk is practially based on real life! And second, don't sweat the breeder women! *Everyone* knows that breeder women don't use steam rooms. So even if the steam room is supposedly "co-ed" you don't have to worry about that. And you needn't worry about that dragon lezzie either; you think she doesn't watch Queer As Folk too? She knows what goes on in steam rooms, and beleive me, no self-respecting lesbian is gonna risk seeing not just one, but two (or more!) ding-a-lings flopping around in a steam room! No, S-lP, you can take my advice: grab your towel and follow your stud muffin into the steam room! Why, if you ask me, your club should be grateful! Two fagz should produce enough steamy heat to keep the steam room nice and steamy for the rest of the day! Just think of all the money your club could save on utility bills!

(Have a Princess Problem? Or merely a Problem Princess? Oh yes you do! Write Dear Advice Princess now!

Cell Phone Phoul

2004-06-23T20:56:00.000-05:00

Wouldn't you know.

I decide to start a "cell phone sightings" thread in my blog, to report all the wacky cell phone misuse I witness, and I've not since seen anything to report.

Sort of.

Just bear with me here: Recently, I read a report talking about current college-aged youth and how their relationships with their parents are significantly different than parent/post adolescent relationships have been for all the more recent generations.

College kids today, you see, report that they actually *like* their parents; many of them answer "my parents" when asked a variety of survey questions: Who are your best friends? Who do you trust the most? Who would you go to with a personal problem? "My parents."

Now, I don't know about you, but that sure as hell doesn't seem to me to describe, say, the flower power counter-culture of the 60s and 70s, the Yuppie-ish Me Generation of the 80s, or the MTV-zoned Gen Xers.

But college kids today report that they communicate with one or both of their parents once a day on average.

Once a day.

What brought about this sea-change? Technology. Cell phones and email, apparently.

And you know, if the students I work with are any indication, it's pretty true. I just never thought about it until I read that report. I hear students in the Center talking to their parents regularly.

And so now, to my Cell Phone Sighting.

I've decide that not all Cell Phone Sighings need be critical of people misusing their cell phones so...

This morning, as I was walking to work, I saw a typical sight on State Street - a heavily pierced, Goth-ishly dressed young woman; hair dyed jet black and spiked, spiked collar, black clothes, chains, the works. She was talking on her cell phone as I passed and I caught what was apparently the last scrap of a conversation:

"Ok mommie, I will. I love you."

Having known too many LGBT youth who didn't have the unconditional love of their parents, I have to say that upon hearing that, my heart just melted.

With A Grunt And A Groan

2004-06-22T21:07:00.000-05:00

So, I've been watching this guy at the gym for awhile now....

I'm not at all sure what to make of him; he's gotta be in his mid-50s, but I give him props for his body - he's there every day when I arrive, and he's still there when I leave. And it shows: great chest, shoulders, arms, back, legs - the whole package.

He's not, in my estimation, attractive, but I gotta wonder about him, given the amount of time he spends at the gym. Wonder what kind of life he has. From scraps of overheard conversation, I'm pretty sure he's single. No idea if he's gay.

Even more, I gotta wonder at his lifiting techniques, because that's really the reason I've been watching him. I've spent years in gyms, watching the technique of well-built men, and learning tips from them. His technique mystifies me.

I'll see him lifting "normally"; then at the end of a set of reps he gets what could almost be described as "Tourettes Syndrome", for his entire body. Let's say he's doing curls; he does a normal set, then starts flailing wildly with the weights, literally throwing them up and down, up and down. Or, if he's doing flys, in and out, in and out, just as wildy. With, I might add, the requisite "wild-eyed" look on his face.

But that's hardly all; I have seen him, when using a weight machine (reclining squats, for example) finish a set, then literally (I know, I'm using the word a lot, but how else to get the idea across?) throw his I legs up as high as he can, swing them down to the side, and shoot himself up in the air, off the bench to land feet first on the floor. The entire performance finished off with a loud grunt and stomping sound as he hits the floor.

But that's hardly all; I've seen this guy go to the streching mats, stand, legs spread, bent at the knees, arms clasp behind his back, jump up in the air as high as he can, pull his knees up, the on the descent, throw them back down to land on his feet, looking all the world like he's trying to jam his feet as deep into the ground as he possibly can. Grunting with each landing. And then, from the same position, again, from a standing position with arms clasp behind his back, jump up and throw himself, face down, smacking the floor as hard as he can with his chest and stomach. He completes the move by somehow rocking back up to land on his feet with a grunt. Again, seeming to jam them into the floor. And repeat. And repeat.

No, not like Tourette's Syndrome after all. More like a person with severe Downe's Syndrome, who repeatedly bashes his head/body against the wall or floor.

It is the oddest thing I've ever seen in a gym, and I cannot for the life of me figure out what, exactly, all of this has to do with good lifting technique or physical training. All I can possibly figure is that he either must have this need to inflict pain upon himself, or he's merely trying to prove, to himself or others, exactly how tough he is, despite his age.

It's just plain odd.

I'll Take A Little Of This And A Little Of That, Please

2004-06-22T11:52:00.000-05:00

One of the things I constantly find amusing (or, perhaps, sad, as a reflection of the current state of U.S. society,) at the gym are the guys who, every day, step up on the scales to weigh themselves. Once every week or two, maybe. Every day? There's no point.

I've never been a "scale watcher", myself, and hadn't gotten up on a scale since before I moved to Madison. So, I knew I'd gained a bit of weight over the winter, but you can imagine my astonishment when, three months ago, I actually stepped up on the scales at Cap Fitness.

Ohmygosh. I knew my pants had been getting a bit tighter, but I'd gained 30 pounds since leaving Colorado.

Whenever I mentioned it, people would say "No way. You don't look like you've gained that much." Well thank you very much. I didn't feel like it either, but numbers don't lie. People who use nubmers lie.

Between walking to work, riding my bike and the gym, my activity level here isn't all that much different than it was in Colorado, so I knew exactly what had happened. In Colorado, I had been practicing "food combining" - the idea of eating certain kinds of foods in combination, because different foods - starches/carbohydrates, fats, proteins, vegetables and fruits - digest at different rates and by using different digestive chemicals. Thus, combining foods leads to more efficient digestion.

Although my doctor had actually recommended that I take up food combining as a non-prescriptive way to work on controlling my cholesterol, food combining can be controversial; some people advocate extreme forms of it, such as "eating only fruit" for 10 days. A more balanced approach, as suggested by my doctor seemed to work well for me. My cholesterol went down, I experienced fewer indigestion problems (a side benefit reported by many people who practice food combining) and, to top it off, I lost the weight I'd gained since returning to the States from having lived in Japan.

Food combining sounds complex at the start, but is relatively simple once you get the hang of it. There are a few simple combinations, and a few "exclusions" and exceptions:

- Eat starches only with vegetables (i.e., no oil or butter on your veggies when eaten with starches.)
- Eat proteins and "fats" only with vegetables (i.e., no croutons on your salad.)
- Eat fruit separately.
- All grains and pastas should be whole grains only.
- Eliminate sugar
- Eliminate caffeine
- Eliminate any use of foods with "hydrogenated" oil, including margarine and shortenings.
- Avoid the following vegetables because they contain large amounts of sugar: green peas, corn, carrots, winter squashes.
- Avoid nuts (including peanut butter.)
- Avoid whole or reduced fat milks; skim milk can be used with other starches/carbohydrates.
- No beer or hard liquors. A glass of wine occasionally is ok.

So what happened? When I moved into Hypatia, I expected things to be ok, food-wise; the house is officially "vegetarian." What I discovered, however is that their version of "vegetarian" meant "high on starches, low on vegetables" most of the time. Starchy foods, you see, are a heck of a lot cheaper than proteins and vegetables. Since every member of the house contributes to a monthly food budget and there are 16 mouths to feed plus a lot of guests, the food has to go far. Thus, meals were not very well-balanced and I hated that I didn't have control over what was available for me to eat through the house purchases. Towards the end, I became so concerned that I bought a small fridge, kept it in my room and started cooking my own veggies.

When I moved into my new place three weeks ago, the first thing I did was start back up on a food combining program. Sure enough, despite the fact that I've not been super strict with it, I've lost 7 pounds in those three weeks. It's good to be in control of the food again.

Ack! In the last three weeks, have I become a "scale watcher"?

Naw. Just a once-a-weeker for awhile.

Saaaail Away, To Where I've Alwa....uh. Sorry

2004-06-14T16:41:00.000-05:00

Yay!

Finally, on the water in my own boat, under my own sail power (no, that's not me in the pic.)

So, I joined Hoofers Sailing Club. But y'all know that already. I had ground school a month ago and it's taken me this long to get on the water. First, I put it off because my pal Amy told me she was thinking about learning too, so I was waiting for her. Then, she backed out.

Then, it rained for most of the last three weeks, and waffled between being hot and cold; now I don't mind being wet, but being wet and cold is something I draw the line at, so I waited.... And waited....

I had my first lesson, on land, last Tuesday and was scheduled for my second lesson, on the water, Thursday. And, what happened? It turned stormy and rainy, so the lesson was cancelled. A make-up lesson on Sunday afternoon. Woo! Let me tell you, people. It was amazing.

See, you read the sailing manual, you take the land lesson and practice tacking and jibing in the simulator and you think to yourself - "self, I am never gonna be able to do this. And through it all, the instructor keeps saying "it's hard to comprehend on land, but once you get on the water, you'll figure it out."

Yeah. Right.

Well, son-of-a-gun if she wasn't right.

You get out there, start playing with it; if you're lucky you don't capsize (I didn't, but I came close a couple of times) and you start getting the feel for the wind.

I successfully backed away from the dock (another thing I thought I'd not be able to do, but dang if it doesn't work! I may not understand physics, but even so, I'll sure appreciate it a lot more) and Shira (my awesome instructor) yelled for me to head out to the orange buoy and wait around for her and other students in the class to join me; great. The wind's in the right direction so sure, I can get out to the buoy, but how the heck am I supposed to "hang out" around the buoy? I'm not sure, but I kinda did; watched one of my fellow students capsize and decided that, since I was clueless, I'd best to just sit it out in the irons until Shira got out on the lake.

She got out there and, oddly enough, told me to do what I tell people to do when I'm teaching them to alpine ski: "Just follow me! When I turn, come up to the place I turned, and you turn too." So there we were, like a line of ducklings following the momma hen; Shira started sailing in circles, and before I knew it, I was too; that whole "tack and jibe" thing really works. It didn't take long for me to start to get the feel of the wind on the sail, and to figure out how the rudder works. And it does! The other three students in the class had been on the lake for a lesson, so all things considered, I did quite well - better than any of them, in fact.

Daaaang.

After getting off the water, Shira asked us to talk about what was good, what was bad, etc. For my first time I had a bit of trouble docking, but other than that, my only comment was "before you get actually get on the water, you just get this idea that sailing is so technical; once you get on the water, you realize it's totally 'by feel'".

And that's really the cool thing about it; skiing is very little different; let your fears go, start "feeling" it, and you sail right on down the slope. When teaching skiing, I used to tell my students to find a rhythm; to "dance" with the slope, and really, you do the same thing with the wind and water.

Very, very cool.

Ray-Gun Ronnie

2004-06-13T09:32:00.000-05:00

I sat out the entire Reagan extravaganza last week, giving a great deal of thought to what I felt and how I might react to it.

You see, I have a confession to make. As a brand-new-first-time-ever voter in 1980, I actually voted for Ronald Reagan. I don't know why I did, really. My parents have been life-long Democrats, although my father has been prone to switch his vote back and forth over the years.

I guess I was of an age - having grown up in rural America and having seen thousands of family farms go under in the economic downturn of the 70's - that I bought into Ray-Gun Ronnie's schpiel about "making America great again." I mean, beating the Soviets in Olympic Hockey and all of that was a huge thrill, and then Ray-Gun came along telling us that we could beat them again and Save The World at the same time.

So, yes. I was clueless, naive, and distressingly conservative in those years. One thing's for sure, though - I didn't vote for him a second time. And, as the years have passed, I've come to a greater understanding of the callousness the Ray-Gun administration showed towards minorities; towards gays and the AIDS epidemic; towards the middle classes, and towards the peoples of Central America in particular. I suppose my first warning sign was the unholy pact he made with the religious right, convincing them that the pulpit was an appropriate place for politics. That single thing, in and of itself, has done more damage to our country than any other thing he might have done. Bringing religion into politics. Bad stuff, that.

Ray-Gun wasn't even religious (although last week they sure tried to make you think otherwise) but everything was sacrificed to 1) politics and the religious/social conservative alliance, or 2) battling the great "evil" that was communism. Fortunately, people are finding their voice and last week's attempt at revisionist history is being refuted. I've got a few great links for you to check out. For example, here are articles by Matt Foreman, Executive Director of the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force and author, educator & critic Michael Bronski:

Other articles written by well-respected individuals that explore both an ethnic/racial minority perspective and a wider perspective on the fall of communism (which, despite what was claimed last week, Ray-Gun didn't accomplish single-handedly - can there just be a better attempt at making the hero in white on a white horse ride out of the West?) can be found at Blackcommentator.com and The American Prospect

I'd love to be here 100 years from now, to read the history books. They won't be kind to Ray-Gun; this Republican/Big Media week of Ronnie-worship just passed won't stand up to scrutiny. Bush's attempts to wallow in the "glory" of Ray-Gun won't pan out either. If you didn't see the Bush campaign website last week, you missed a real eyecatcher - slathered with pictures and paeans to Ray-Gun. This link is what they had on their portal - they've since 'moved' it to a separate link, and listed it as a "memorial" to Ray-Gun. But only after a hue and cry from nearly everyone about their politicizing the death of an ex-president.

Cell Phone Sightings

2004-06-08T20:10:00.000-05:00

On the spur of the moment, I've decided I need to start a new thread running through my blog: Cell Phone Sightings. Notes on when I see clear abuse of cell phone use. Clear examples of excess cell phone connectedness.

Any other time I might have started out with "Ok, I've seen everything now. No, really. Everything." But, embarking upon this new bit of social commentary, I *know* what I saw tonight is only the tip of the iceberg in cell phone socio-stupidity. So, what did I see?

Sitting on the porch eating dinner (this could become a habit - it's cooler than the house) I watched a guy riding his mountain bike down East Gorham (or, actually, up, since I live at the midpoint of the hill approaching James Madison Park) *screaming* at the top of his lungs on his cell phone.

Now, I have a response function on this blog, so let's make a game of it: y'all send in your Cell Phone Sightings too!

To Amend or Not To Amend. That Is The Question.

2004-06-07T21:16:00.000-05:00

Well, if this isn't the life of Riley, I don't know what is. Back from the gym, dinner on the porch and now, sitting on the porch catching up on emails and posting to my blog while the sun sets, the cute guys jog by shirtless, and the mosquitos eat me alive.

[Note to self - light the citronella candles while the sun is still up, so they'll be doing their job *before* dusk hits and the skeeters move in. And maybe buy a couple more of those great big ones in the little pails to really smudge the porch with citronella. And while I'm at it, may I just point out that we do *not* have a skeeter infestation like this in Colorado? And, in Alamosa, when el Rio Grande is in flood stage and we do actually have a few mosquitos, the fogger prowls the streets and alleys of town every night. No West Nile allowed in our town, dammit! See, there are advantages to growing up in what is, essentially, a desert (with a big muddy stream running through it.)]

Dear god. That "note to self" thing is so turn of the century. Please forgive me the faux paux.

But anyway.

What a great day! I attended a two-hour meeting (closer to 2.5, actually) facilitated by Tammy Baldwin. It was a meeting of organizers around the state - leaders of community centers, pastors of supportive congregations, P-FLAGers, and activist groups. The goal? To firm up A Plan to deal with the proposed anti gay marriage/civil union/domestic partnership admendement to the Wisconsin constitution. Since I'm not a mover and shaker, I'm pretty sure I was invited only because I sponsored the room in the Union. ;-)

Tammy started by giving a rundown on what's happening in Congress related to the U.S. constitutional amendment movement. It's more heartening than anyone could have hoped; it's looking like the House will certainly not vote on that Wicked Witch of the West, Marilyn Musgrave's proposed amendment (if only the mosquito foggers in Colorado would take her out too....) It is, however looking likely that a purely "ceremonial" vote will be forced in the Senate - the evil ones don't have the votes to pass it but they want to play politics with it - they want to force Senate Dem leader Tom Daschle, who's in a tough re-election race in South Dakota, and of course, John Kerry, to have to go on record with a vote; if those two vote against it, the Republicans can use the vote to beat both of them over the head in the November elections; if they duck the vote, they can do the same, accusing them of hiding. Do I smell the stinky hand of Karl Rove in all of this? Yep. I sure do.

Then, Mark Pocan gave an update on various possible senarios which might happen in the Wisconsin legislature; what districts they think can be turned, which "moderate" Republicans can be swayed with sufficient constituiency pressure, etc. Chances at forestalling a second vote before mid-Feburary and thus avoid a referendum next April are slim, but, in his view (and the view of Dem leadership) there certainly is *some* possibility. However, relying on success in the legislature next winter is not sufficient; plans must be made assuming that there will indeed be a referendum in April. The bad news there is that stats show that mostly older voters vote in Wisconsin's April elections, and we all know older voters are more anti-gay than younger voters. So, coalition building, voter registration drives of supportive folk, large-scale public education must be done and well over one million dollars will be needed to carry all of it out. In addition to thousands of hours of volunteer work.

And so, today's meeting was designed to kick off that effort; more coalition building will occur, activites carried out by groups already will be coordinated at the state level, successful things in one part of the state will be implemented in other parts, extensive polling and focus groups will be conducted to guide tactics and to fine-tune the message, which will be got out by radio and tv ads, and by volunteers pounding the pavement.

Here on the UW campus, we'll participate by raising volunteers, doing voter education and conducting voter drives. Everyone agrees that if we're going to face this amendment in a referendum next spring, we'll never defeat it without getting students to the voting booths.

Scary, but exciting!

When a Coyote is to Die For

2004-06-02T21:11:00.000-05:00

-Chris-
Jesus, Update Already! BOOOOORING!

Ok, so I deserved that. I can hardly believe it's been a month since I last posted. I'm sure something interesting happened over the past month, but I'm not sure what it might have been. Oh, I did buy a new bike. Well, not a new bike. I didn't bring a bike with me from Colorado, so for several months I'd been saying I needed to get a bike. However, it was winter; I walk to work all the time; there was no pressure to hurry up and buy one.

Finally, one afternoon, about three weeks ago, during my lunch hour I walked over to Budget Bicycles on Regent Street (the used bike shop, not the new bike shop); I chatted some with the sales rep. What can I say? He was cute. We talked about some of the bikes we'd owned in the past and I mentioned that my all-time favorite was a Research Dynamics Coyote; they're pretty rare, so I was impressed to find out that he actually knew of RD and said he'd never seen a used one come through their shop since he'd been working there; sadly, the company (based in Sun Valley), like a lot of small handcrafters, went out of business; I purchased a Coyote in '95, and did I mention that I loved that bike like no other I'd owned? Like a fool, I let it get away from me.

So anyway, this cute salesman talked me into test riding a Diamondback Response Sport; even though I was at the used bike store, it was a brand new one; he told me they had an overstock at their "new" shop, so had some of the new bikes on display at the "used" location. Riding it, it was ok, but nothing thrilling. I did like the disc brakes on it, but overall it didn't seem very agile. Never the less, I figured I might buy it. So, I asked the salesman if he'd throw in a Kryptionite lock; if so, I'd buy it.

"I don't know; I'll have to ask my boss."
"Ok, ask him; if he will, I'll take the bike."
"Hey, (boss' name)! Can we throw in a Kryptonite lock with this Response Sport?
"Fuck no! It's already $40 off list price!"

Big whoop. $40 off list price. So I told the cute sales boy that I'd think about it. He offered to hold it for me for 24 hours and I declined. I walked back to work a tad bit insensed, and so the first thing I did was do an internet search. You got it. I found the exact same Diamondback online for another $50 cheaper than Budget Bicycles was willing to sell theirs for; pay $40 for the shipping, save the sales tax and I'd be getting the bike for $50 less than Budget's price.

Then, on a *total* whim, I skipped over to E-bay. What can I say; I had Research Dynamics on the brain. I've owned several different makes of mountain bikes: Trek (a workhorse, but overrated) Jamis, Nishiki, and the RD. The RD was *by far* the star, although the Jamis was not far behind. Why I ever let the RD get away from me is something I never figured out. So, bravely, I typed "Research Dynamics" into the E-bay search.

Sonofabitch. There was an RD listed! No reserve, two days left on the auction, current bid at a measly $25. SONofabitch! A 2001 model, the last year they were manufactured. Did I mention that I'd loved my RD Coyote like no other bike I'd owned? SONofaBITCH!! It was the right size - a 19-inch frame! SONOFABITCH. You know it. I immediately placed a bid of $250, knowing that, with a $50 shipping/handling charge, I'd go even higher, because it was by far the best bike I'd ever owned and I was constantly kicking myself for having let go of the first one.

Two days of suspense ensued; I was actually up visiting Chris and Joe when the auction ended; I'd been outbid and, in between baking Chris' birthday cake and making his birthday dinner, I upped my max to $300; some guy in Utah thought he was gonna outbid me. Like hell; not only was I bidding on a great bike, I was bidding for the sake of nostalga; he wasn't, apparently, so I won it at $280, plus the S&H. SCORE!

Ok, so I got my bike, but a few other things actually occurred during the last month; just last weekend I moved out of the co-op and into a house off of James Madison park; of course, it rained the entire weekend I was moving (it's rained on me every single time I've moved in the last 15 years) and the *new* battery in my truck, just purchased the first of Feburary, proved to be flawed, but I had the dang thing at the mechanics' thinking it might be the alternator. May I recommend Dean's Automotive? Located behind the Menards on Broadway in Monona. A good, honest mechanic. Charged me $30 to run a complete diagnostic and then gave me a printout of the results I could wave it in the face of the guys at Checker Auto; the ones who sold me a bad battery.

New battery installed this evening and all's right with the world.

No Panhandling Allowed

2004-05-03T22:45:00.000-05:00

I'm feeling a little morose right now. No. Guilty, actually.

I'm not naïve to the fact that there are many homeless people in this country; I've seen them on the streets of all of the large cities I've visited, both here and abroad. I go to DC regularly, and they're *everywhere* there. However, until I moved to Madison, I'd never lived with homeless people as a constant presence in my life. Sort of. I did volunteer at La Puente, the homeless shelter in Alamosa, periodically. But people weren't living on the street there, nor were they panhandling. I guess small towns must either do a better job of caring for their homeless, or perhaps homeless people migrate to the larger towns and cities.

College Station was unique, as well – because it wasn't a real city with a downtown, panhandling was virtually impossible, so I almost never saw homeless people there, either. Houston and Austin were only an hour and a half away – far larger and more attractive cities for the homeless, I suppose.

Anyway, since moving to Madison, I've become used to the panhandlers on State Street – a small handfull of them stick it out through the winter, and so they've been a regular presence in my life, as I walk to and from campus. One in particular stood out all winter long – he “owned” the corner of State and Lake, right in front of the Walgreens, across from Library Mall.

Truth is, he used to irritate me, just a little bit, with his constant presence. Most of the others were more sporadic in their appearance, but he was *always* there. Always.

I never gave him, nor any of the others money – having volunteered at La Puente, I had it drilled into my head that giving panhandlers money was *not* the best way to help them; donating to the local shelters and food kitchens was, and so that's what I always do.

So, one day last week, as I walked to work, he wasn't there. Nor was he there the rest of the week - I don't recall exactly which day he was first absent. He wasn't there again this morning, and truthfully, I felt at least a slight sense of relief; as I walked past him every morning, I always felt just a twinge of guilt, even greater if I had just popped into Espresso Royale to pick up a morning latte.

Walking home tonight I noticed a little pile of flowers at the base of "his" streetlamp - the one where he always stood. Then a flyer and his picture, taped to the pole right beneath the "No Panhandling on State Street Allowed" sign - the statute that's never enforced - caught my eye. He'd died. Doesn't say how or when, only that his was a "needless death" and that he'd be missed.

It's true, I suppose. I think he had several students who'd stop and chat with him; some of them may well have "befriended" him. Not only that, but he'd been interviewed who knows how many times by students writing papers for their journalism or sociology classes. I saw several standing with him over the months, tape recorders in one hand, a list of questions in the other. Each of them, no doubt, thinking that they'd come up with the most brilliant and unique idea for their paper and he indulging their naivete, one college kid at a time.

And so, tonight, reading the notice, looking at the spontaneous shrine, I really did feel guilty; not because I'd never given him my change, but because I'd never stopped long enough to give him a kind word, and because I'd felt relief at his absence the last few days.

There may be a corny symbolism to it and it won't assuage my feeling of guilt, but I think that tomorrow I'll pick a flower from the garden and add it to the shrine.

Ahoy There, Matey!

2004-04-29T21:41:00.000-05:00

My world is so rocked!

I just returned from "ground school" - the first in a series of sailing lessons I'm going to be taking with Hoofers this spring/summer/fall. In a month (or less, if I get my butt in gear) I'll be taking a Tech out on my own. Speed freak that I am, I want to eventually work my way up to a scow - because of their shallow draft and relatively large sail, they are supposed to just fly. Woo hoo!

Growing up in land-locked Colorado, where there are lots of motorboats and hardly any sailboats, I always wanted to learn how to sail, but never had the chance.

I don't know why people in Colorado don't sail very much; of the Colorado reservoirs I've spent time around - Dillon, John Martin, Blue Mesa, Two Butes - I've only seen a few sailboats on Dillon. I'm sure they exist on some of the fancy front range lakes, but I've never noticed.

Why, I wonder, have I had this fascination with learning to sail? I've always liked flying, but never considered taking flying lessons. Truth is, back when I might have considered it, I never even fantasized about, say, piloting an F-14 Tomcat, or some other romanticized version of flying. I do love being a passenger in the little "puddle jumpers" - the small 18-passenger commuter planes which fly between Denver and all the towns up in the mountains. Lots of people get airsick on those flights, because the planes will hit an airpocket and drop 20-30 feet in an instant, but to me the ride is better than a rollercoaster.

While I think you can equate sailing and flying, I suspect it's the "mechanized" aspect of airplanes that causes that disconnect and lack of interest for me. I like the ride, but the mechanics of the airplane would stand between me and the activity - almost a barrier of sorts.

So, the best I can do is think that sailing, to me, will be similar to the thrill I get from skiing. It's you, your equipment, the elements and the snow. When things are "in flow" you're flying downhill, but you can feel the snow under you - every bump, every slight change in snow conditions, as you move from sun to shade, powder to pack. There are no instruments, no gadgets to get in the way - just you and "primitive" technology. I think sailing will be like that, too - at least on the small boats I'll be learning to sail. I suppose windsurfing would be a closer parallel, but I don't think I'll try it this season - I've been wanting to learn how to sail for too long.

I suspect that humans are attracted to all of them - flying, sailing and skiiing - for the sense of freedom and thrill that they can offer, each in their own unique way.

Now, let's just hope that I don't find myself "on the rocks" one of these afternoons....

Confessions Of A News Junkie

2004-04-27T19:55:00.000-05:00

"Hi. My name is Eric, and I'm a news junkie. But not just any news...."

So, I despise the commercial news programs; I can sorta tolerate 60 Minutes, but since I don't have cable or tv of any sort, it doesn't much matter. Occasionally, at the gym, I catch Fox News (makes me ill, Rupert Murdoch does) and CNN (like Ted Turner's much better....) Makes one wonder, it does, about the gym's clietele, when every gym you visit has CNN and Fox News on.

The commercial news show aren't news shows any more. I was very young at the time, but even so, I understood that Walter Cronkite, on the CBS Evening News, was really "news." Serious, honest, grandfatherly. Now-a-days, Peter Jennings, Baba Wawa, and their ilk are nothing more than showmen - emcees for entertainment shows. It isn't about the news, it's about the sound bites; about just exactly how much shock and awe can be crammed into a 30-second story.

So what, you might ask, brought on this tirade? I heard today that Bob Edwards is, effectively, retiring from National Public Radio. Bob Edwards. Mr. Morning Edition. The insitution. The first and only host of Morning Edition, since it's inception in 1979. The man who, when he took a month-long vacation a four years ago, caused listeners to panic. People called in, saying "I haven't heard Bob Edwards on Morning Edition in three weeks! Is he ok? Is he ill? Is something wrong?" So many people called in that the subsitute anchor actually had to announce, on air, that Bob Edwards was alive and healthy; that he'd just taken an extended vacation, and would be back on air in another week.

They say Bob Edwards isn't really retiring; he's becoming a "senior correspondent." Not retiring, my ass. I know what "senior correspondent" means. He's retiring.

I mark Bob Edwards' stepping down from host of Morning Edition as one of the three great news devolutions in my lifetime. To date, anyway. The first was when Walter Cronkite stepped down from anchoring CBS Evening News, years and years ago. That was the last time I took commercial news seriously. The second was the retirement of Robert McNeil from what was then the "McNeil-Lehrer News Hour" on PBS. It's now "The News Hour with Jim Lerher". What made it doubly hard was that Robert McNeil has a gay son, and has been active in his support of gay rights.

And now. And now Bob Edwards retires. What next? One of these days soon, either Walter Cronkite or Daniel Schorr, or both, will die; they're both well into their eighties, for cryin' out loud. When that happens, the United States will have lost their only remaining truly great, objective broadcast news personalities.

There will be no one at all trustworthy in the news industry anymore.

The devolution will be complete.

Movie Review: Red Dirt

2004-04-24T21:19:00.000-05:00

Griffith is just kinda wasting his life away on the family farm in Pineapple, Mississippi; he has no real direction life, and spends his days bickering with his eccentric Aunt Summer. He also spends a lot of time with his first counsin, Emily; not surprisingly, Emily is in love with Griffith. One day, stranger Lee Todd arrives and becomes the friend Griffith desperately needs; the two embark upon reparing the small guest house that Lee rents. .

Lee, of mysterious background and a propensity to wander from town to town, quickly presents an alternative way of life to Griffith. Instead of spending his remaining days tending the farm and worrying about the breakdown of his aunt, he could travel the country and discover new people and places. When Griffith's relationship with Lee grows stronger, Emily wonders about a possible homosexual element to their friendship. Although the final outcome is predictable, writer/director Tag Purvis keeps us in the dark for a long time and only provides glimpses of this possibility. Thus, while it serves to add to the mystery, it also lessens the impact. Instead, the story spends too much time with Aunt Summer and her trials, pushing the growing romance of Griffith and Lee into the background for a while. The eventual revelation of their feelings is sweet, but it falls short because we don't understand their characters well enough to see the growth of feeling between them.

Although Red Dirt tries to present in-depth characters within a small town, the outcome is not very effective. Karen Black (Aunt Summer) spends a majority of her time overacting and her role loses the emotional steam necessary to make her plight convincing. I found myself groaning whenever she became involved in long, dreary discussions with Griffith and Emily. The blame for this film's troubles should not fall squarely on Black, however. The overall plot just lacks the edge necessary to make these relationships compelling. Everything moves at a slow, difficult pace.

Red Dirt is the first major feature film from writer/director Tag Purvis, and this inexperience reveals itself in the script more than the camera work. His direction actually is very solid and contains several memorable scenes. The entire story contains a dark, eerie feeling that stems considerably from the dreary colors and creative filming. There are a few moments of amazing scenic beauty.

The Belwood Affair

2004-04-23T16:19:00.000-05:00

Jesus. Proof once again that there are people in this world who lack a sense of reality, and that chat can become Payton Place. Posting this here, of course, will cause some to decide that I'm a snob, blow my credibility with others, and even give a few queens cause to gossip about me, but such is life.

Scene: in public chat, Belwood comments that I haven't been civil and didn't say 'hello' to him. I respond that, given recent chat we'd had, I was being very civil - I'd not put him on "ignore", as I'd been doing for the last several days.

Why was I put in this position? Because I approach chat with a healthy dose of reality - I'm not opposed to socializing with guys I meet in chat, but I also don't meet everyone who asks to meet. Those who extend a polite invitation to coffee or dinner will almost always receive a "no, but thank you; but keep chatting with me and please ask me again sometime." If they ask again, casually, sometime, they're likely to get a "yes, I'd be happy to." Then there are those who have no sense of.... Of.... I don't know what to call it. Perspective? Guys who constantly badger me to meet them. Those guys will never receive a "yes, sure," and they really test my limits on being polite. To wit:

Scene: chatting in yahoo with a friend; Belwood pvts me from gay.com. I share Belwood's pvts with the friend, b/c I figure someone needs to hear this:

me to friend: cripes. Belwood is pressing the issue
++++
Belwood: now that you've seen my play, are you intrigued by me?
aggieric: well,that's an interesting question
Belwood: really. how do you answer that?
aggieric:.....
++++
friend: Am a I horrible person since I have no idea who you are talking about?"
me: belwood
friend: yeah-who is that?
me: gay.com
me: a guy who's pestered me online for months
++++
aggieric: if backed into a corner, which I don't like having done to me....
aggieric: I would have to answer with a 'no'
++++
friend: TOOOOOOOOO FUNNY! He sent me an IM the other night
friend: you saw his play?
me: corpus christi
freind: gotcha. and he is...?
me: think Emmett in QAF to a factor of at least two.
friend: really?
friend: he doesnt look bad
me: you haven't seen him in nothing but a loincloth
friend: good body?
me: um....
friend: be nice
me: you asked. and besides, that's really not the issue. for *months* he's badgered me to meet him. For *months* I've politely declined.
++++
Belwood: oh. I just figured we "echoed" off on so many things, you would share my feelings. I am very sorry
++++
friend: after reading his profile just now, I would sum him up as a little young for his age
friend: and trying too hard to be intellectual
me: eh
++++
aggieric: no need to apologize
++++
friend: his profile is riddled with inconsistent and misused words
++++
Belwood: well no clearly I did offend
++++
me: I won't bore you with the continuation of our conversation
friend: no- I wasnt bored- keep going
++++
aggieric: you didn't offend. I just have never had an interest beyond chat. I've always been clear on that.
aggieric: that's almost always the case. I keep gay.com chat separate from social life, to a large degree. Only rarely do I mix the two.
Belwood: oh please, you're just not interested.
aggieric: you may interpret it how you wish. for my part, being backed into a corner like that is instantly off-putting
++++
friend: ouch! you bitch
me: he forced the issue. I am merely honest. Weeks ago he pestered me about whether or not I was going to go see the play. I told him finally that, yes I was. He was all excited and said he couldn't wait to see me
me: I said to him "I'll be in the audience; you won't see me." He answered that he'd "know" I was there and would recognize me. Of course, he didn't.
friend: are you truly not interested in him?
me: as anything other than a person in gay.com? of course not. he is the one who pvts me whenever he sees me online; I have always been polite and chatted with him, but he always presses, asking when I'll meet him. constantly making innuendo.
friend: so why did you see his play?
me: I didn't go to the show to see him. A friend invited me to go. and besides...
friend: gotcha
me: hello! it *was* corpus christi
me: that show has been shut down by religious fag-haters in almost every venue it's been shown in
me: they've been protesting here too, hateful people that they are. think of my going as political action.
friend: Im a bad fag when it comes to plays and such- I have virtually no interest
me: silence from him now
friend: well its hard to hear honest rejection
me: if it's hard to hear honest rejection then one ought pay attention to the gentle rejection being repeated month after month.
me: this is one of the things about chat that I do truly hate.
me: I have several times been forced into a corner where I've had to be what some would call "brutal", because a guy wouldn't listen to what I was saying.
friend: I know that I am a product of that situation. When I was younger. one's thought process is "I'm gay, and he's gay, so"..... but we forget that there is more to it
me: what do you mean?
friend: product of hearing hints, but disregarding them and hoping.... he may be 27, but you dont know his interpersonal dealings up to this point
friend: and we all progress at different stages
me: I have gently declined him for months.
friend: remember that you can be intimidating
me: why is it people think that? I try to always be polite.
friend: I hear what you are saying to me and I respect it. I just have to add looking thru the other side. possibly low self esteem on his part and desperately searching for a "mentor"
++++
Belwood: I thought now that you saw I was worthy of quality stage work you'd be more open to social functions
aggieric: I have always been polite to you in chat; that doesn't imply anything. I've also politely declined to meet.
Belwood: well everybody is just polite rather then sincere
aggieric: I was raised to be polite and sincere. they're not mutually exclusive. But it's also not my fault if someone doesn't hear what I say.
Belwood: you mean you really think I was good in the play?
aggieric: yes. but who I choose to socialize with has nothing to do with whether they're a ditchdigger or an suit and tie executive.
aggieric: or a good actor or a bad actor, for that matter.
++++
unfortunately, I got fed up and didn't log the rest of it; I should have, because it became more melodramatic and ended with me encouraging him to see a therapist.

But wait! This just in, as a result of our conversation in the public room:
======
Belwood: very amusing
aggieric: what's that?
Belwood: you're little threat of blasooning our chat up on your little website, all you have to do is tell people what happened, either way, I could care less what they read about me. I am sure they all have been pathetic too.
aggieric: you know Erik, you need to figure out that chat is just chat.
Belwood: oh but Eric, there is so much beyond it too, and even though we may see eye to eye on that, some people don't
aggieric: Erik, you need to see a therapist. I told you that days ago. Your sense of reality is skewed.
Belwood: besides, activity is activity, for somebody as good looking as you, you are on here quite alot. And therapy doesn't work, you are living proof. Now go cook something, I am sure you commune is hungry.
aggieric: I'm not sure where that came from - I've never been to a therapist. you've made the fact that I have been pleasant to you in chat, and the fact that i went to see Corpus Christi into some sort of rationale that I am gonna fall in love with you.
Belwood: oh please if I wanted to get you to fall in love with me, I wouldn't have to use a play to do it
Belwood: besides, I have a couple more things up my sleeve. in time
Belwood: before I leave Madison that is
aggieric: things up your sleeve?
Belwood: yes
aggieric: that's mysterious
Belwood: you're not the only one with an intellect you know
aggieric: *raised eyebrow*
++++
Ok, I'll stop here and admit that I started behaving badly - I baited him.
++++
Belwood: don't you have some chores go do now?
aggieric: should I hire a body guard?
Belwood: oh I don't get into violence
Belwood: or any kind of physical harm
aggieric: hmm
Belwood: that's just,cowardly
aggieric: you're going to hire a witch to cast a love spell on me?
Belwood: no way, now that you are so, vapid, why would I waste my time.
aggieric: "vapid's" not quite the word you're looking for, I expect
Belwood: probably not, but it is a facet of you I am sure
aggieric: no doubt. I turned you down, so I must be vapid and shallow

*Belwood logs off*

Why on earth would any soap opera producer hire a real scriptwriter these days? All they need do is record the conversations in homo-chat.

A Wing And A Prayer

2004-04-20T13:04:00.000-05:00

I'm beginning to think I have no clue what I'm doing in this job. Well, that's not an absolute; I understand the programming, the working with students, how to put out the little brush fires that pop up. But, as I was walking to work this morning I started thinking about how, much of the time, I'm really just flying by the seat of my pants.

What got me thinking along those lines?

First thing this morning I had an appointment to meet with the Financial Aid office staff; they wanted to know how to better serve the needs of LGBT students, so I was mulling it over as I walked. On Friday, I'm on a panel for the Wisconsin College Personnel Association; the topic is "Best Practices In Working With Gay [read: male] College Students." Next week, I'm on a panel to talk about working with LGBT Students of Color.

What the hell do I know about any of these things? How can Financial Aid people better serve the needs of LGBT students? "I dunno. Give 'em more grant money"? Best practices for working with gay college students? "Hmmm...good question. Shove condoms at 'em and pray they use 'em"?

I have no idea. I'm no expert; sometimes I think we barely manage to deal with each crisis as it pops up, much less have time to actually plan out the "What Ifs". So, last week, I posted these questions to my peers on the Director's listserv, in the hopes I'd get a few ideas. Nada. Zip. Nuttin'. Well, that's not entirely true. I got one email in response:

-Shaun-
Best practice.... Hmmmm... What exactly are you looking for.... ;>)

-Eric-
Best practices in SEAL services, of course! };-)

Shaun and I worked together at Texas A&M; he now works at a university in an undisclosed location, but we'll just say that it's near a lot of Navy and Marines bases. ;-)

I've no idea how to address these issues on these panels; my colleagues have no suggestions; I find nothing online which offers suggestions. I guess I'll do it on a wing and a prayer.

Waaah F***ing Waaaah ReDoux

2004-04-19T16:12:00.000-05:00

So, like, the Cap Times ran an article today explaining how the people who had put up the "bring our troops home" website had come to a "heartbreaking" decision to stop their campaign, because, like, Donald Rumsfeld had signed the orders extending troop deployments in Iraq.

And, like, they cancelled a rally too, because, see, those evil, unpatriotic anti-war types were trying to take advantage of the spring of their disconent (so to speak.) As the Cap Reported about Linda Aber, who was heading up the effort,

'"...she and other family members also were put off when anti-war activists tried to piggyback on the Web site's call for a rally in Madison this weekend to attract public support for reversing the extension.

'We decided to cancel the rally instead. What the anti-war people were all about just wasn't what we were working for," said Aber, whose 22-year-old daughter Kelli has been in Iraq since March 2003.

'This campaign was not about us being anti-war. It's just that the extension was a big blow to all of us here, not to mention to all the folks in Iraq. ... Now we just want to be as positive as we can and support the people we love who are still over there.'"

So, tell me Linda. Who'd ya vote for? Hmmm?

I Just Knew I Needed To Go On A Diet....

2004-04-17T21:37:00.000-05:00

Have you heard of the NO-CARB Diet for 2004?

NO C-heney
NO A-shcroft
NO R-umsfeld
NO B-ush

and absolutely NO Rice

For best results, your doctor recommends that you stick with this diet from now until November 8, 2004.

Extended Mililtary Tours in Iraq?

2004-04-16T13:46:00.000-05:00

Well, Waaaah F***ing Waaaah. Or so my good friend and ski buddy Bradd used to say, back in college, whenever I complained about something. I don't recall him having said it in the last several years (maybe since he got married? Now I'll have to start paying closer attention when I visit - I wonder if Kelli's cracked down on his cursing?)

So. Today. The Capital Times *and* the New York Times have big articles on extended tours for different military units currently stationed in Iraq. The Cap Times article focuses on national guard units from Wisconsin, while the NYT talks about regular military units, and features pictures of distressed mothers and wives; everyone, it seems, is angry, upset, and crying about how unfair it is that their husbands aren't coming back (the NYT didn't interview any males who's military wives are in Iraq.)

The Cap Times, of course, is focusing on the female from Wisconsin who was killed, Michelle Witmer; Witmer has two other siblings - sisters - who are on active duty, and the family is requesting that they be pulled from dangerous assignments. This isn't unheard of; the military allows the request. This same article talks about how the Wisconsin families are starting a website petition to get the military to reverse the extension and rotate state-side troops to Iraq, too. Check it out. Seems to me theres a little "take my loved one out of danger and put someone else's loved one in danger" going on here. Whatever happened to the idea dying for your country? If you believe in W's little war, why are you complaining about the sacrifices you're being called upon to make? Hmm?

I don't. Believe in W's little war, I mean.

See, I'm sitting here thinking to myself "Did you vote for George W.? Did you vote for those members of Congress who were rabidly supporting George W.'s insane rush to defend his daddy's honor by illegally invading Iraq under manufacured and false pretenses? If you voted for George W. and your Republican Congressman and Senators; if you are turning a blind eye to the way W and his handlers are using the concept of 'patiriotism' as a club to beat down opposition (see: Max Cleland); if you cheered George W. and his "bring it on" braggadacio, you deserve to get what you voted for and I've got just three words for you:

Waaaah fucking waaaah.

Or, if I'm feeling particularly loquacious, four words:

Suck it up crybaby.

"Ouch! I Hurt My Thumb!" Said the Panda

2004-04-15T20:51:00.000-05:00

I have discovered Stephen Jay Gould, and am enriched for it. I keep a stack of books on my bedside table; at any given time, I'm working on two or three of them and have two or three more, waiting.

I just finished Gould's "The Panda's Thumb; More Reflections in Natural History". (For an interesting discussion on natural history and evolution, check out this blog, also titled "The Panda's Thumb." First printed in 1980, "The Panda's Thumb" was Gould's effort at proving Darwin right, and is titled after the fact that the Panda has an opposable "thumb" which is, in fact, a toe that has evolved to the point of being opposable. The Panda eats only bamboo leaves, and so the toe evolved as the Panda's solution to the need to strip leaves from bamboo stalks.

The other fascinating thing I learned from Gould is that all mammalian species have the same metabolic rate. What that means is that all mammals, including humans, have a shared metabolic ratio: four heartbeats to one breath.

Have you ever wondered why it is that some mammals have very short lives - a day, a week, a year, while others live to 80, 90, or 100 years? The answer, Gould says, is that matabolism makes the difference. Small mammals have higher matabolisms (a mouse, say) while larger mammals have slower ones (an elephant). The metabolic ratio, then, 4:1, is consistent; both the mouse and the elephant, in their lifetimes, basically take the same number of breaths and their hearts beat basically the same number of times (within an approximate range). The mouse has a much shorter lifespan (a year, perhaps two) than the elephant (70 or 80 years) because the mouse breaths faster and its heart beats faster - so its metabolism burns out its body faster.

The other interesting thing about this, then, is that because of this metabolic ratio, we can predict the average life span of all mammals, based on their size. The bigger the mammal (the elephant, the whales) the longer they live, and this size-to-lifespan ratio, like the metabolic ratio, is consistent among all mammalian species. Except homo sapiens. Because of our phyisical size - similar to the gorilla, for example - our lifespan should be only 30-40 years. But it isn't, even though our metabolic ratio is 4:1, just like all other mammals. Scientists are trying to figure out why we're the only mammalian species that fits the metabolic ratio but doesn't fit the physical size-to-lifespan ratio.

"Above All I Had Hoped That Together We Might Lie...."

2004-04-12T06:50:00.000-05:00

Chris sent me a book awhile back. "Why I have Not Written Any of My Books" by French modernist Marcel Bénabou.

My first exposure to French modernism occurred during the first semester of my freshman year in college; being an adventurous sort, I wandered into the theatre department, asked a few questions and, on a whim, signed up for a theatre practicum.

Senior theatre majors had to present a "senior thesis": select, stage, cast and produce a complete show. A senior named Maureen (wonder why I remember her name? I haven't thought of her in years....) had selected Eugene Ionesco's "The Chairs", had cast it, and was in rehearsal when the lead pulled out. So, three weeks before opening night, she asked me to take over.

Now, "The Chairs" is one wierd play. And Ionesco (who was born in Romania to a French mother, but actually lived most of his life in France so is claimed by both countries) was one weird fella, if "The Chairs" is any indication. The entire cast consists of two people - an old man, caretaker of a rundown estate on the coast of France which is never visited by its owner - and his wife. And the wife only has a dozen or so lines and is seldom on stage, so "The Chairs" is basically a one-man show.

The old man gets it into his head that a huge group of people are coming to visit, and he must assemble all the chairs in the house in one room, so everyone has a place to sit. He is, basically, wacked, and let me tell you, the fact that I managed to memorize a whole play where I was carrying on a crazy mumbling monologe with myself for virtually the entire time was a minor miracle. Or maybe I was just wacked, too.

In the end, the old man is devastated by the discovery that he's wacked and that no one shows up, so he commits suicide by jumping out a window, falling to the cliffs and sea below. I still remember part of the final monologe, a bit of an homage to his wife before he offs himself:

"Above all I had hoped that together we might lie, with all our bones together, within the self-same sephelchre, that the same worms might share our old flesh. That we might rot together."

And you wonder why Ionesco is called the father of the "Theatre of the Absurd"?

So, anyway. For some reason, Chris ran across this Bénabou book, figured I might like it, and sent it to me. Just two pages in, I started thinking of Ionesco; I didn't understand him, I don't understand Bénabou. Knowing that Chris is one of those people who constantly analyzes things (I call it "over-analyzing", myself) I asked him why he'd sent it to me, expecting a long, complicated, convoluted answer. Chris' answer?

-Chris-
What an interesting question......absolutely no reason other than I picked it up at the local bookstore down from the cafe. It looked mildly amusing on the shelf. I skimmed through it quickly and thought, huh...this is sort of the humor I see in Eric. I'll send it him (I was packing up your box that day).

Why? Did I miss something by skimming that was offensive or such to you?

-Eric-
Chris, apparently, sees the absurdity in me. ;-)

The Eric Echo

"What Can We Do?"

A Peach Of A Puzzle

Gig 'em Aggies

Sex in the City You Ain't

Spammed By Qweird Utah

Other Half's Ex

Happy Juneteenth

More On Identity Politics

I Am Such A Sap

The Identity Politics of South Carolina

Tornado Ally Lagnappe

A Prisoner of Wal-Marts

It's a Tire-some Business, Ain't It?

Madtown's Moving Day Myths

A Gay Old Time In Mad-town Tonight

Only Her Hairdresser Knows...

Not In Iraq

Living In A "Democracy"

"...because we are crushed by the daily awareness of our great good fortune..."

My Daddy Was My Pacifier

"Bush Has Lost The World"

The Color of Brown

The Grass is Greene-er On NPR

Mealy-Mouthed Mehlman

Christian Compassion At Gunpoint

“dumbed-down and tarted-up.”

Just Because It Looked Fun

You Gotta Earn It, Herb

Hey - Great Shoes!

Our People

Lost Opportunities

That Was Lightening, By Thunder!

Pissin' In The Sink

Those Lyin' Aggies

Aggies In The News

Cell Phone Phoul

Bicep Bitches

Violated Violas

Disappearing Handtowels

Peculiar Pecadillos; or, Cycle of Life Deux

The Cycle of Life

fuckthesouth

This Is Just Fucked

Yes. Yes I Am

Excess Sleep Sign Of Depression, Says Shrink

Changing Identity

donnie (I'm In The Dark) darko

Happy Birthday To Me

Moore Michael; Please!

A Burger Joint Goes Bust

Mommies? Where Are You Mommies?

As The Bumper Sticker Says...

There's Backing Up and Then There's Backing Up

Polls Don't Lie. They Just Don't Tell The Truth

When A "Reception" Isn't

I Saw You....

A Centennial Celebration

Shopping For More Than Food

...and No New Shoes....

On Boycotting ERC

Trippus Abbrevius

Revenge. Sweet, Sweet Revenge

Grandma's Cookie Jar

La Comida Mas Mal; or, On The Road

Willow Creek Part Deaux

Wired In Central Kansas

A Pilsbury Dough Boy In Lycra

When A Wing Is Not A Wing

I Did *Not* Know This....

Cell Phone Phoul

And Who Needs Jesus When You Have A Doctor?

The Running Of The Ducks

When The World Is Out Of Balance

Disco, Disco Man. I Wanna Be A Disco Man....

Farenheit 9/11

Kharma Reclaimed

Rub A Dub Dub, Sailing A Tub

With A Huff And A Puff....

If It's 11 pm It Must Be Toothpicks

I Did Not Know This....