Sunday, June 13, 2010

All I'm allowed to say...

I don't have a lot of places to express myself. And clearly I've ignored this one way too long. I think I might change that, since it doesn't get a lot of attention, it's a little perfect as an outlet.

From the incandescent Daniel Merriweather, I highly recommend picking up his album:

i wasn't gonna drink tonight, then i went to a bar
i wasn't gonna start that fight but they pushed me way too far,
and oooh,ooh,ooh,oooooh, you would never know,
oooh,ooh,ooh,oooooh, you would never know

i wasn't gonna watch the game, now i'm shouting at the ball
i checked my phone and saw your name, so i must of missed your call
i wasn't gonna place that bet, but they said he'd take the fall
now my clothes smell like cigarettes, but i don't smoke at all,
oooooh, you would never know,
oooh,ooh,ooh,oooooh, you would never know

oooh, when i was out having fun, i was out of line
when i thought i was staying young i was staying out of my mind
life is like an old cassette, that you can't rewind
now my clothes smell like cigarettes and it happens all the time
oooh,ooh,ooh,oooooh, you would never know,
oooh,ooh,ooh,oooooh, you would never know

love and sex and tv sets, we never left my room
i used to speak of no regrets, maybe i spoke too soon
i thought that i did my best, now i know that isn't true
'cause my clothes smell like cigarettes, and they used to smell like you

uh, heyy etc etc
(used to smell like you)
heyy, used to smell like you heyy-yeah
(used to smell like you)
hey yyeah

what happened, what happened oh-ho-oh

i thought i did my best, now i know that isn't true
now my clothes smell like cigarettes, when they used to smell like you

Friday, September 11, 2009

Fire, Fire Everywhere, but Not Enough to Drink

I found out that last night some new york citizen stole one of the bells from our local firehouse that are meant to warn people on the street that the fire truck is just about to tear out of there. It apparently made too much noise for him. I'm awestruck at the arrogance of someone being inconvenienced by the noise created when a truck goes out full of people who are not only willing, but dedicated, to putting their lives on the line for others.

September 11 was rife with those people. When a fireman goes to a call, they don't use the elevators that people, in their evacuation, find so inconveniently not in service. They go up the five, the ten, the thirty seven flights of stairs - in full gear, with the heavy tools that they may need. They don't blink. They get out of breath, their calves burn, their hearts are pounding but they still press on.

The ones in the World Trade Center had a billion stairs to get up, in our civilian estimation. Some of them HAD to know it was futile, but most fireman live for one thing alone: if I get one person, JUST one person out, my life was worth it. That is what each fireman that I know thinks. I'm not capable of that. But they are. And, of course, they get paid for it. And they also PAY for it.

Firemen cry. And when they cry, it makes everything else seem insignificant. Because they're not only crying for their brothers and friends that have died not only for other people, but because of bureaucratic snafus, incompetent landlords, and people just generally fucking up. It's the pointless deaths that really hurt. The ones that should have been avoidable.

But what it really comes down to is that the basic job of a fireman is to risk their life to save someone. Yet, every time I turn around, those same nameless people are criticizing and undercutting the fire department. I only hope, like I hope the people who walk out of stores in front of you and stop dead in their tracks don't drive, that these same people are very, very conscious of their fire safety.

Wait, who'm I kidding. I hope they burn. In hell. Especially bell stealing guy. It's fucking city property. ILLEGAL. Jackass.

Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Time takes time, you know

I've apparently decided to be maudlin tonight about my aging. And the fact that I can't stop it. Time, that is. Can't stop it. No stopping it. Keeps rolling like a river... to the sea.

I was looking up an older actress I'm going to be working with soon. Doing the old internet image search. Found a picture of her with three smart looking young things. Now, mind you, she looked great, but she was stuck next to three haven't found a single wrinkle young 'uns. It's just so unfair. Because I'm pretty sure that the same age as them her would kick each of them so swiftly to the curb.

Which brings up the crux of this petty subject: why the hell is so much of my self esteem, ego, personality, indeed my very self, wrapped up in how good I look? This is not a post to elicit the "oh, doll, you look fantastic don't worry" replies. I know I look good. Now. But how long is that going to last? When am I going to no longer be among the most desirable girls in the room? It's probably happened already and I don't even know it. This all sounds completely egotistical, but when so much of who you are is wrapped up in and validated by how attractive other people perceive you to be, then I don't know.

I'm curious as to when the shift to this hotness based ego happened. I mean, in high school I was definitely not considered attractive and I knew that. So at what point did my id make the transition to valuing this above all else. I get horrified at growing older, at sagging, wrinkling, chunking out. It's really patently unfair. And somewhat pathetic. I should have more going on than that.

I think perhaps it's time to develop some other personality traits.

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Tuesday, September 16, 2008


(photo unfortunately borrowed from

Seriously. Total. Photoshop. Boobs. I mean, they're identical. Seriously, I had a string bikini, albeit several years ago. And. That. Is. Not. How. Your. Boobs. Look. In . A. String. Bikini. . . Period. Even when they're young and perky. Or even fake, I mean seriously, her boob isn't even anywhere near the "hemline". NO ONE is that perky. GQ needs to hire a better photoshop team. I mean seriously, it's their COVER!!!!

Monday, June 09, 2008

Ain't it awful, the heat, ain't it awful?

(a lovely line from the Kurt Weil opera, Street Scene, and a very appropriate one for today)

If there's one topic that people can talk about freely, across generations, sexual orientations, gender gaps and political bents it's the weather. You can complain, commiserate, marvel or curse it. You can reminisce about past weather, fantasize about future weather (oh, Wednesday, will you ever get here) or just bask in a shared opinion about the current weather. Discussing the weather never led to a bar fight that I know of, and has likely been the opening line in quite a few nascent relationships. Weather - it's what's for dinner!

The best part is, for most of us, the subject is completely unpredictable. Sure, sure, there are meteorologists and the local weather pinup guys and gals (I swear, complete dental coverage MUST come with that job). But, really, how often are any of them correct. Or even close to correct. Which makes it a great topic! I mean, there is no right answer. Think about the arguments that surround any broaching of topics in politics, religion, sports. That's because everyone has an opinion, and by God, their's is the right one and if only you would get your head out of your ass to see it.

No one argues about the weather. So in spite of the relentless agonizing heat that has trapped me in my air-conditioned room like some prisoner (it's small enough, as rooms go, to really give you that ole jailbird magic), I like the weather. And the good news is that it won't stay this way forever.

Oh, wait. Right. Global warming.

Le sigh.

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Saturday, April 26, 2008

Why, Oh, Why!?!?

Why do we not have a license to have a child?

We have a license to drive.
We have a license to get married.
But, as of yet, just ole anyone can have a kid.

I can't tell you how many news stories I've been subjected to of children who've been beaten, tortured, maimed, abused, and then, mercifully (if you believe in God) killed.




Of all the things that should have a test, a modicum of consideration. Even when you apply for a marriage license (at least in NYC) you have to wait 24 hours. I'm all for reproductive rights. A woman should have the final say in how her body is used. But if she's not making a proactive choice (different from a procreative choice), I mean, god damn it, I'd make a better mother than most people, but I wouldn't make the mother that I WANT to be, and so that's why I don't (aside from not having health insurance since 2000). Doesn't anyone get that having babies means bringing totally innocent, unscathed people into this hell that we deal with every day? I cringe at the thought of the world that children now inhabit.

There should be a license. It's not fair. To society.

To them.

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

Catching up with...

I haven't posted in ages. Good news, I'm working my ass off. Bad news, I'm working my ass off.

It recently occurred to me that I don't believe in God. The non-belief has been on for years, but the ramifications of it only occurred to me about a month or two ago.

This means that when I die, that's it. I cease to exist. Period. No consciousness aware of it, no heaven, no hell, no nothing. Complete erasure.

I find this absofuckinglutely intolerable. Why the fuck are we trying to fix races or the economy or the price of grain in Uzbekistan? Why aren't we, as a human race, trying to find a way to fix life?

More to come on this topic, as I freak out about it more and more. And don't try to sell me religion - been there, done that, and believe me... I WISH I could believe.

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Wednesday, February 06, 2008


Is it me, or - having read the latest news reports- isn't it unusual to have tornadoes in February?

Thursday, December 06, 2007

I think the guys in marketing may be onto something... or maybe just on something

Look at this ad I recently saw on Facebook:

WTF??? Just who is their target audience? Pedophiles? Over Achieving Toddlers? Mommies?

Disturbed, I am. Dis. Turbed.

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Thursday, November 22, 2007

Capsaicin: Or How I Learned To Fear The Bomb

So I've made the mistake of not posting here for far too long. Unfortunately, that is not the only mistake I've made. Recently.

I've made the mistake, only discovered now, of making chili. That may not seem a mistake to you, nor is it, in and of itself, a mistake to me. However, precautions should have been taken.

And they weren't.

And now I live in fear of scratching my eyes. Because, fair reader, I have scratched the oh so tender membranes around my nose. And they live in fear.

Fear, my friend, of capsaicin.

And I washed myself in mayonnaise (my hands I mean and several times). And yet, hours later, I scratch my lips and there's still a burn. My God.

Seriously, I decided to test the peppers before putting them in the brew. Just get a taste so I would be able to judge how much to put in?

I ended up icing my lips. Icing. My lips. Cubes of ice. What the F is up with that? And after twice "cleaning" with mayonnaise. I seriously thought I might be in for some blister action (thankfully not). But seriously.

I don't think I can safely go to sleep without a shower. I've washed my hands again and again, but nothing cleans your hands like washing your hair (something girls around would agree about heartily).

I wish I had something more serious to write about, but I have no doubt that will happen very, very soon. Have no fear.

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Saturday, October 20, 2007

Think of the Children

This in from regarding the recent arrest of an alleged Canadian pedophile that has been all over the news:

Earlier in the week, there had been searches across the country, with Thai police scouring bars and hostels Neil is known to have visited in the past. In the seedy Thai coastal resort town of Pattaya, police questioned owners of bars where underage boys, they said, could be procured for sex. At least one bar owner told them he recognized Neil's face. He had been a regular, the owner said, according to police.

Okay, I'm ALL behind getting the predator. But, seriously, the police knew where to look, aka they know that underage boys (or girls) are being sold (molested) and they know where.

Shouldn't the larger question be why these places aren't being prosecuted/put of of business/burned to the ground? I know there will always be a black market for such things, and the desirers and procurers of such activities should be a target, but what of the facilitators? These children are not hosting their own parties, so to speak; there are perpetrators using them. Why are these crimninals not the ones that are sought after, to face punishment? What the fuck?

Don't just treat the symptom, treat the damn cause!

Monday, April 02, 2007

The Cutest Thing You Will Ever See

Please, do yourself a favor and find your box of kleenex BEFORE pressing play.

It is the awesome. I'll go back to being unerringly cynical next post.

Friday, March 09, 2007

Oh, those wacky waxers!

Just look at this recent headline from Yahoo! and then think about it. Think about it...

The article goes on to mention that most of the protesters were female. Mwah-hah-hah. It's just a gift that keeps on giving. Will someone think of the children???

Wednesday, January 31, 2007

And there is always something there to remind me...

There are so many little things you realize as you get older, so many seemingly insignificant sacrifices that were made just for you.

I remember our annual family trips from McKeesport to Cedarville (a small Baptist town outside of Springfield, itself a small town outside of Cincinnati). The participants of this trip would be myself, my little brother, my mom, and my Grandpap and Grandma. I remember sitting in the back seat, Grandma in the middle, my brother and I on either side. I remember commenting that Grandma's arms were like pillows (by that age, and by that weight, her skin was so soft and pliable - I'm not sure she took it as a compliment, but as a small child, it was definitely meant as such). And I was thinking tonight that she sat in the middle.

Wait. No one wants to sit in the middle. I don't want to sit in the middle. It's too uncomfortable.

And yet, there she was, in her sixties, 200 and something odd pounds of her, sitting in the middle, the *pah-dump pah-dump* of the seams in the concrete surely traveling a very short distance to her tailbone. Sure there was a price to pay for not putting two young siblings next to one another for six hours, but I have to tell you, right now, I would tie the children up and sit on the side.

This is what I'm thinking about. The sacrifices. She didn't sit in the middle to control us, or to be the martyr. She sat in the middle to take care of us.

I miss my Grandma. I miss her pillow arms. I miss her smile.

Another time, when I was little, Grandma was making her traditional morning breakfast of 4 saltine crackers, with a slice of American cheese split between them, and a cup of tea, with honey and milk. As she sat down at the kitchen table, she asked me why I was smiling. I, being a kid, actually didn't know why I was smiling, and told her so. Which made her smile. And we kept sort of smiling back and forth. Me making her smile, her smiling making me smile more. I think we actually started laughing at some point. I don't know why, but now it makes me bawl my eyes out, thinking of it.

I remember, the days before she died, Grandpap took us all (me, my brother, and my two cousins) to the train show at the Expo at the Mall. It was all these booths with miniature train set ups and miniature everything. And Grandpap took us all out there (I could barely watch one kid these days without being a paranoid freak, I don't know how he did it). And when we got back home, Grandma was on the phone with Aunt Barb (my cousins' mom) and I overheard enough to realize that she'd had a heart attack while we were gone and that Aunt Barb was trying to talk her into going to the hospital (Grandpap had dropped us off so he could do a few errands without one relatively behaved girl and three boys will be boys to deal with, I guess). Having long ago established my role as the spoil sport (did I mention one girl, three boys?), I went into the living room and told my brother and cousins to cool it because I thought Grandma had had a heart attack. They did. She had.

She wouldn't go to the hospital. She was afraid they would cut her open (they probably would have) and she was in denial of how bad it was (the calm before the storm - the period where a dying person starts feeling just a bit better). I convinced my mom and Grandpap to move her bed downstairs to the dining room (I was all about moving the furniture in those days - I had done it myself on occasion, much to the consternation of all the adults involved - including a piano, mind you), where she stayed until the next morning, until they convinced themselves that they had to take her to the hospital, despite her denials. It would be the last time I would see her alive.

There was a chance for us (my brother and I) to see her in the hospital later that evening, but I declined it. I guess it was partially denial, but I felt that it was more important for my mom, grandpap and/or uncle to be there (they only let 2 people in at a time in the ICU). And by the next morning she was dead. She had had congestive heart failure. 80% of her heart had been destroyed in the heart attack. She couldn't have survived it, no matter what anyone did. Yet, as much as I know now, I still regret the decision to not see her before she died. Would it have made a difference? No. Not in the outcome. But, somehow, I still wish I had.

But I stray off the topic of sacrifices. It's late, and I guess I'm morose.

Grandma and Grandpap brought up three children, my mom, her twin sister - my aunt, and my uncle. By the time those children were old enough to flee the nest and care for themselves, Grandma and Grandpap were taking care of their parents. By the time their parents had died, they were taking care of me and my brother (my dad left us, and my mom had to move us "in shame" back home with her parents - this was the 70's, mind you, *good people* did not get divorced). So really, my grandparents never got a chance to relax, to not be taking care of somebody.

When we got up in the morning for school, Grandpap would ask us what we wanted to eat. And he would make anything - scrambled eggs, cream of wheat, turkey ham sandwich, cereal, whatever it would be to get us to eat something. He would drive us to school. He would pick us up. After school, after band practice, after volleyball practice. And there would be cooked food waiting at home. And THAT wasn't even dinner. When we were sick, he would constantly put blankets over us, encouraging our bodies to *sweat it out*. He would take the baby aspirins and smash them between two spoons, pour Hi-C in and slip it into our mouths. When it was summertime, he would hit pop-flies to us to catch in our baseball mitts. He would peel apples and pears and quarter them for us to eat. He would go to garage sales and buy us cheap toys that nobody wanted anymore: the baby doll with hair you could make short or long by pulling a tag in the back, the set of putters and golf balls to hit around our cracked sidewalk.

He would cut our corn off the cob when we were losing teeth, and Grandma would roast meat so long it would melt in our mouths. I attribute my good attitude towards greens to Grandma's creamed spinach - I think I was the only kid in town who looked forward to spinach in a meal. And Grandpap's cooking - he would worry a meal for hours, slow cooking, basting every 20 minutes, taking pans out of the oven with his bare hands that had lost the ability to be burned by his long years working in a brewery. The memory of his meatloaf still drives me to fantasy, and even his spaghetti, cooked in gargantuan amounts due to his service as a WWII army cook, was even better the next day, after a brief respite in the fridge, slapped on some Cellone's rolls with butter (yes, you can make a spaghetti sandwich).

I miss my Grandpap. I miss his stories. I miss his full head of white hair that he had even unto the end.

I wonder sometimes if they can see me. I wonder and fear that they can. I wonder what they think, if they can. I wonder if they would be disappointed. I wonder if they would be amazed. I wish that they would be proud.

I wish that they were still here. I wish that I could talk to them, now that I'm finally an adult. I wish that they could tell me their stories, and that I could tell them mine.

They say youth is wasted on the young. I can't help but think, in this way, that it's true.

Wednesday, January 17, 2007

3 Seconds of Fame: Or How I Learned To Love The Balm

My Sissy is on the TV!!!!

For those of you who don't know her, clicking is probably not going to be so entertaining or worthwhile for you. But for those who do, whoo-hoo!!!! And for everyone, yes, you are correct, I only *really* have a brother, but let it be proclaimed far and wide that Jules is my sister by another mister...erm...erg...what I mean is...awww, forget it.

And a personal shout-out to Frank, Kyle and Torre from Sissy/Auntie Brenda!!! Word to your mother!!! By which I mean, say hi to Jules.