AAAAAAAAGH
This is reprinted without permission from the local rag's Letters to the Editor section. Let me repeat that, in a different way: the newspaper actually printed this, as their top letter to the editor, today. I'll take it down or hide it or whatever, later, but I thought it might be helpful, for those of you unfamiliar with my little area of the world, to understand some of my feelings towards it.
The letter is as follows:
King encouraged racial violence
The only thing good about celebrating Martin Luther King's birthday is that it's a holiday for schools and some businesses. He was not a gentle man. Everywhere he preached, a riot followed. He caused a lot of people to get physically hurt and a lot of property damage was done also.
No, there should not have been bondage or segregation. We are all God's children.
But I know what happened. I used to live in Kentucky. We could not even let our children outdoors while he was there. Cars would go through neighborhoods and people in them would throw rocks and bricks at houses and break windows. If any whites would be outside, they would hit them also.
So please, don't glorify this man. He was not a saint.
[Witholding Lady Fuck's Name]
[The bigger town just north of here]
AAAAAAAAAAGH.
Right. Of course. Because the foremost American activist for peaceful protest and passive resistance should be held personally accountable for violent acts committed by others.
Now, I'm making my own assumptions, here, but, given the demographics of the valley, the content of the letter, and the woman's name, she is 9 chances out of 10 a Caucasian Evangelical Protestant Christian, and I'm sure she'd love to hear about how, for an example, Jesus should be blamed for the many lynchings committed by his devout followers, in our modern era. And how the Prince of Peace wasn't "gentle," because, feeling they were following his example, some people have decided that "turn the other cheek" means "bomb someone."
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH.
...I want to go back to Long Beach. :(
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
How I spent my early evening (cross-posted.)
I am pissed.
In the, ah, UK sort of sense.
This is because I played a joint State of the Union address/NHL All-Stars Skills Competition Drinking Game. See, we heavily modified Adam Felber's 2007 State of the Union Drinking Game: Lame Duck Edition (which you should read). We modified it because we were playing with just the two of us, rather than a group, and rathered to drink heavily (listening to Bush requires some kind of numbing agent) than compete against one another, and we added in the caveats of: if any of the boys in the NHL fell on their face during the Skills Competition, or made the four targets they were trying to aim their pucks at in four shots, we'd have a shot (we listened to the speech on the radio and watched the competition on TV). Well, Ovechkin fell on his face, but the most of it was our Commander in Chief.
We drank if. . . :
...the President referred to something/someone as "evil"
...there was a package referenced that was $1 billion or more (unmet!)
...the suggested fix for a problem was a tax break or tax incentive (this was based on the "Fuck the Future!" section of the game)
...the President mentioned Iran in some kind of dangerous capacity (or referred to a use of force against Iran)
...the President mentioned one of those out-of-nowhere fixes that we were confident he'd never bring up again and had not brought up previously (the "Hyodrogen Car" section)
...he said "noo-kyah-luhr", instead of "noo-klee-uhr"
...he said anything about "bootstraps" (unmet!)
...he said "Nine-Eleven"
...he mentioned NCLB (FUCK YOU BUSH MAY YOU DIE AMIDST THE UNDEREDUCATED YOU ARE HARMING DAILY)
And, so, I'm done in. My Love was drinking first bourbon, then vodka (he sipped very lightly, each time), and I was drinking a mix of Rum, buttershotch liquer, and creme de cacao (in gulps). So you'll have an idea of the speech, if you didn't see it. I have a pretty high tolerance, and I can hardly see, now.
...It was, ah, pretty bad. But at least Sidney Crosby made a few pretty sexy goals...?
Ah, well. I am underfed, and shellfish await me.
In the, ah, UK sort of sense.
This is because I played a joint State of the Union address/NHL All-Stars Skills Competition Drinking Game. See, we heavily modified Adam Felber's 2007 State of the Union Drinking Game: Lame Duck Edition (which you should read). We modified it because we were playing with just the two of us, rather than a group, and rathered to drink heavily (listening to Bush requires some kind of numbing agent) than compete against one another, and we added in the caveats of: if any of the boys in the NHL fell on their face during the Skills Competition, or made the four targets they were trying to aim their pucks at in four shots, we'd have a shot (we listened to the speech on the radio and watched the competition on TV). Well, Ovechkin fell on his face, but the most of it was our Commander in Chief.
We drank if. . . :
...the President referred to something/someone as "evil"
...there was a package referenced that was $1 billion or more (unmet!)
...the suggested fix for a problem was a tax break or tax incentive (this was based on the "Fuck the Future!" section of the game)
...the President mentioned Iran in some kind of dangerous capacity (or referred to a use of force against Iran)
...the President mentioned one of those out-of-nowhere fixes that we were confident he'd never bring up again and had not brought up previously (the "Hyodrogen Car" section)
...he said "noo-kyah-luhr", instead of "noo-klee-uhr"
...he said anything about "bootstraps" (unmet!)
...he said "Nine-Eleven"
...he mentioned NCLB (FUCK YOU BUSH MAY YOU DIE AMIDST THE UNDEREDUCATED YOU ARE HARMING DAILY)
And, so, I'm done in. My Love was drinking first bourbon, then vodka (he sipped very lightly, each time), and I was drinking a mix of Rum, buttershotch liquer, and creme de cacao (in gulps). So you'll have an idea of the speech, if you didn't see it. I have a pretty high tolerance, and I can hardly see, now.
...It was, ah, pretty bad. But at least Sidney Crosby made a few pretty sexy goals...?
Ah, well. I am underfed, and shellfish await me.
Sunday, January 7, 2007
"Chowchilla: A Unique Way of Life."
(So I'm late. I'm sorry!)
The drive back up from Los Angeles on New Year's Day was the least painful one we've had, at least as far as scary meth addicts, rude people in trucks, rubbernecking at the inevitable pile-ups, and "OHAAAHOHMYGODTHERE'SACURVE WHATDOWEDOOHNO" are concerned. But, perhaps because of the gentleness of the ride, I was noticing more of the charming roadsigns that start turning up north of Bakersfield.
The first set I noticed (at least, after the "I Am Thy Lord and God, Repent. --Jesus" signs) were buy-a-home signs. "Say goodbye to rent, say hello to a new home!" and "Break the rent cycle, buy a house!" which cleverly featured a man trapped inside of a front-loading washing machine, pressed desperately to the glass.
Yes! Yes, low-income, under-educated, likely-to-be-given-a-bad-loan with no information locals! Say goodbye to the days of scraping together your monthly rent check on minimum wage, and say hello to a mortgage! For more than what you're paying for that apartment, each month! Oh, and hello to homeowner's insurance! And the inevitable smear on your credit score that you'll never be able to get rid of, once the interest-only loan you've been sucked in by shifts into paying-down-the-principal mode, doubling your monthly payments and leaving you with no equity in the house when you have to default, move, or take out a new loan, and things go to hell! Hello, bankruptcy!
My next favorite sign was this: "Labels and seals on the outside don't change what's inside. Milk is Milk: why pay more?"
Hey, guys, do you know any elementary school teachers? Ever talk to them? You should! Go talk to a fourth grade teacher. Or, hell, try third! You know, people who teach eight and nine year old girls. Now go on, ask them about their students. You know, how interesting it is that the little girls are already on their periods, and have breasts bigger than the teachers do, when the average age for sexual maturation used to be 14--you know, an age slightly more likely to be associated with some actual maturity. And when sexual selection leans towards women who are tall and lanky--attributes far more likely to occur in women who matured later (that is, didn't start diverging from the more unisex path until later, and thus went further in the way of upward growth and the dissolution of baby fat than other girls).
Let me put that another way: in a culture that values willowy women, suggesting that those with the genes tending towards later sexual maturation will have had a somewhat stronger chance at breeding than those who don't, there is still a backwards trend in maturation. The likelihood of a girl maturing between 9 and 11 now far outweighs the likelihood for a girl to mature later.
It couldn't be that the hormones in our food are affecting children, though. Oh, no. Those "no rGBH growth hormones" or "Cows raised with no rBST" labels are meaningless!
And all those stories? You know, the ones that Monsanto sued American media outlets and reporters to repress the dissemination of, about how cows being treated with hormones are overwhelmingly ill and puss-ridden? Please. Whatever. Or how that little rule the FDA has, about how a food animal has to be sick to be given antibiotics, has led some to believe that cows raised in mass feedlots on corn they can't digest--the ones producing almost all of the nation's milk and beef, who are all being given antibiotics so their livers don't completely rot away from the impossible, grassless diet--are literally sick? You know, the ones whose organs and waste are actually toxic, and whose manure, thanks to agricultural farming runoff, has poisoned water and food supplies (silly little E. coli epidemics!), remember them?
Fah. Who cares? Why should I want to know these critters haven't been on antibiotics? Or have been fed grass, and allowed exercise? What effect could that possibly have on me?
Those studies on how the increase of antibiotics in our systems, and being used in our day-to-day lives, are actually destroying our natural ability to fight off disease on our own are probably useless, too, come to think.
So, right. Of ways to economize, the food we eat should be number one. Not smaller cars or fewer cable channels or fewer cigarettes or cheaper booze, no. Let's save by drinking the milk squeezed out of puss-filled udders. Cow-puss has plenty of health benefits just waiting to be discovered, I bet.
"Chowchilla: a unique way of life" is a long-standing favorite, but in a different way. It just gets my imagination moving. Mostly because when I called my mother from there, one day, she said, "Like the Chowchilla Massacre?* Where the guy drove the schoolbus into a ditch and buried all the kids?" I thought, unique, indeed! This time, the sign that caught my eye was the one advertising all of the amazing, affordable antiques in Chowchilla. You know, all the neat things abandoned, in good shape, by dead people.
*But to be fair, there was no massacre. Everyone came out safe and sound. Just a little buried!
The drive back up from Los Angeles on New Year's Day was the least painful one we've had, at least as far as scary meth addicts, rude people in trucks, rubbernecking at the inevitable pile-ups, and "OHAAAHOHMYGODTHERE'SACURVE WHATDOWEDOOHNO" are concerned. But, perhaps because of the gentleness of the ride, I was noticing more of the charming roadsigns that start turning up north of Bakersfield.
The first set I noticed (at least, after the "I Am Thy Lord and God, Repent. --Jesus" signs) were buy-a-home signs. "Say goodbye to rent, say hello to a new home!" and "Break the rent cycle, buy a house!" which cleverly featured a man trapped inside of a front-loading washing machine, pressed desperately to the glass.
Yes! Yes, low-income, under-educated, likely-to-be-given-a-bad-loan with no information locals! Say goodbye to the days of scraping together your monthly rent check on minimum wage, and say hello to a mortgage! For more than what you're paying for that apartment, each month! Oh, and hello to homeowner's insurance! And the inevitable smear on your credit score that you'll never be able to get rid of, once the interest-only loan you've been sucked in by shifts into paying-down-the-principal mode, doubling your monthly payments and leaving you with no equity in the house when you have to default, move, or take out a new loan, and things go to hell! Hello, bankruptcy!
My next favorite sign was this: "Labels and seals on the outside don't change what's inside. Milk is Milk: why pay more?"
Hey, guys, do you know any elementary school teachers? Ever talk to them? You should! Go talk to a fourth grade teacher. Or, hell, try third! You know, people who teach eight and nine year old girls. Now go on, ask them about their students. You know, how interesting it is that the little girls are already on their periods, and have breasts bigger than the teachers do, when the average age for sexual maturation used to be 14--you know, an age slightly more likely to be associated with some actual maturity. And when sexual selection leans towards women who are tall and lanky--attributes far more likely to occur in women who matured later (that is, didn't start diverging from the more unisex path until later, and thus went further in the way of upward growth and the dissolution of baby fat than other girls).
Let me put that another way: in a culture that values willowy women, suggesting that those with the genes tending towards later sexual maturation will have had a somewhat stronger chance at breeding than those who don't, there is still a backwards trend in maturation. The likelihood of a girl maturing between 9 and 11 now far outweighs the likelihood for a girl to mature later.
It couldn't be that the hormones in our food are affecting children, though. Oh, no. Those "no rGBH growth hormones" or "Cows raised with no rBST" labels are meaningless!
And all those stories? You know, the ones that Monsanto sued American media outlets and reporters to repress the dissemination of, about how cows being treated with hormones are overwhelmingly ill and puss-ridden? Please. Whatever. Or how that little rule the FDA has, about how a food animal has to be sick to be given antibiotics, has led some to believe that cows raised in mass feedlots on corn they can't digest--the ones producing almost all of the nation's milk and beef, who are all being given antibiotics so their livers don't completely rot away from the impossible, grassless diet--are literally sick? You know, the ones whose organs and waste are actually toxic, and whose manure, thanks to agricultural farming runoff, has poisoned water and food supplies (silly little E. coli epidemics!), remember them?
Fah. Who cares? Why should I want to know these critters haven't been on antibiotics? Or have been fed grass, and allowed exercise? What effect could that possibly have on me?
Those studies on how the increase of antibiotics in our systems, and being used in our day-to-day lives, are actually destroying our natural ability to fight off disease on our own are probably useless, too, come to think.
So, right. Of ways to economize, the food we eat should be number one. Not smaller cars or fewer cable channels or fewer cigarettes or cheaper booze, no. Let's save by drinking the milk squeezed out of puss-filled udders. Cow-puss has plenty of health benefits just waiting to be discovered, I bet.
"Chowchilla: a unique way of life" is a long-standing favorite, but in a different way. It just gets my imagination moving. Mostly because when I called my mother from there, one day, she said, "Like the Chowchilla Massacre?* Where the guy drove the schoolbus into a ditch and buried all the kids?" I thought, unique, indeed! This time, the sign that caught my eye was the one advertising all of the amazing, affordable antiques in Chowchilla. You know, all the neat things abandoned, in good shape, by dead people.
*But to be fair, there was no massacre. Everyone came out safe and sound. Just a little buried!
Monday, January 1, 2007
Brief cross-post:
I am alive. I am back in Cali. I am, in fact, back at home base. I have spent so much hectic, broken-up time in Los Angeles and Holland, Ohio (next to Toledo). Celebrated so many holidays in various ways. Gotten so many hugs. Had a frickin' nasty cold. Which I got from (I think) Andy, in Long Beach, and passed on to Chris's dad in Ohio (and who knows how many others), but which is getting better. Met the gorgeous little angels that are apparently now my great-neices, and the people my age and several years older who are now basically my neices and nephews (Chris is much younger than his eldest brother, and his eldest brother's wife is older than him, and started early, to boot--some of her kids are Chris's age). I was pinned Tinsel Princess/Tinsel Fairy by the aforementioned angels (they were sticking tinsel in my hair), and I am absolutely in love, 'kay, thanks. I walked (well, ran) and washed dogs, I have comforted the cat, I have played more hands of cards than your mother, and probably more rounds of a domino game, too. I read, I sang, I danced, I flew more hours on more planes than is legal, and was identified nervously ("Byerly?") by one of the flight attendents, which may have to do with my likelihood-to-be-a-terrorist score, as the young man in front of me was also identified, and had been particularly harassed going through security (and attributed his own check-up-by-stewardess to the same). It's a possibility, anyway, fun fun.
I am partway through the catching up phase, but only partly. I'm considering putting on pants and going over to the movie store to rent Little Miss Sunshine, to make an attempt on liquifying my brain into some kind of calm.
I have laughed a lot. And had a very good time.
And I love my moose. Chris's folks gave us this little fellow they picked up at a grocery/farm-equipment/candy/kitsch/etc. store near them, and he has not left my side since. And I have been on an unholy streak of game-winning terror since (attempts have been made on the well-being of my moose, in fact!)
I love him, and loved him just as vibrantly before I whispered to him, "I need the blue nine, moosey" and drew the blue nine immediately after, and won three rounds in a row before anyone else had a chance to lay down a card. I loved him on sight, with his big soft nose and soulful black plastic eyes, and then loved him even more trying to find a name for him (loopy at 2 am). And it is as thus: His name is BonBon. Also, Super BonBon. But his proper name is Baba, BonBon being a nickname therefrom. Baba au Moose, or Baba au Moosey, the Moose, the Inimitable, Indomitable, Inabominominabable Snow Moose, the Moose [Stuffed]. (The end bit is read "Moose, Brackets, Stuffed, Close Brackets.") He is also sometimes called Moosey. And I sing him, "Teenage Mooseland! It's only teenage MOOSEland. . ." and "Super Bon Bon." I love this moose.
And as I have been long looking for some way to swear and express surprise without bringing someone's religion into it (OH MY GOD, Jesus CHRIST) or a neutering-to-avoid-blasphemy of the same (Oh my gosh! Jeeze! Jeezopeets!), I am officially taking to OH. MY. MOOSE.
There'll be something (in the blogspot journal) about "Chowchilla: A Unique Way of Life" and other infuriating/absurd roadsigns tomorrow, I think, once I've finished catching up on the wonderful smut what awaits me in the slash communities I adore. And then maybe I'll get around to finishing some smut (well, fic) myself.
Bleeding. And drinking very buttery mint-and-tarragon tea. And must find pants, for to go retrieve a movie.
LOVE.
I am partway through the catching up phase, but only partly. I'm considering putting on pants and going over to the movie store to rent Little Miss Sunshine, to make an attempt on liquifying my brain into some kind of calm.
I have laughed a lot. And had a very good time.
And I love my moose. Chris's folks gave us this little fellow they picked up at a grocery/farm-equipment/candy/kitsch/etc. store near them, and he has not left my side since. And I have been on an unholy streak of game-winning terror since (attempts have been made on the well-being of my moose, in fact!)
I love him, and loved him just as vibrantly before I whispered to him, "I need the blue nine, moosey" and drew the blue nine immediately after, and won three rounds in a row before anyone else had a chance to lay down a card. I loved him on sight, with his big soft nose and soulful black plastic eyes, and then loved him even more trying to find a name for him (loopy at 2 am). And it is as thus: His name is BonBon. Also, Super BonBon. But his proper name is Baba, BonBon being a nickname therefrom. Baba au Moose, or Baba au Moosey, the Moose, the Inimitable, Indomitable, Inabominominabable Snow Moose, the Moose [Stuffed]. (The end bit is read "Moose, Brackets, Stuffed, Close Brackets.") He is also sometimes called Moosey. And I sing him, "Teenage Mooseland! It's only teenage MOOSEland. . ." and "Super Bon Bon." I love this moose.
And as I have been long looking for some way to swear and express surprise without bringing someone's religion into it (OH MY GOD, Jesus CHRIST) or a neutering-to-avoid-blasphemy of the same (Oh my gosh! Jeeze! Jeezopeets!), I am officially taking to OH. MY. MOOSE.
There'll be something (in the blogspot journal) about "Chowchilla: A Unique Way of Life" and other infuriating/absurd roadsigns tomorrow, I think, once I've finished catching up on the wonderful smut what awaits me in the slash communities I adore. And then maybe I'll get around to finishing some smut (well, fic) myself.
Bleeding. And drinking very buttery mint-and-tarragon tea. And must find pants, for to go retrieve a movie.
LOVE.
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