Future Perfect

There are two new books, fresh out for the newly graduated, nervous college/grad school types with too much cash and too little sense. They seem to be instructional, rather, that's apparently what they aspire to.

Mind, I should really read the books before dismissing them as the gee-duh-rilly? advice and whinging of the monied progeny/trust fund set but I think I'm on safe ground here.

Adulting: How to Become a Grown-up in 468 Easy(ish) Steps
and
Don’t Worry, It Gets Worse: One Twentysomething’s (Mostly Failed) Attempts at Adulthood

Is that second book for those unable to follow the 468 easy-ish steps in the first little manual?

And Adulting? No honestly -- you're going to make a verb out of that poor word? Here's a hint -- sometimes that title-suggesting marketeer or even baby's first editor, isn't the brightest, hippest, savviest hammer in your brandy new I'm-An-Adult-Now toolbox.

Think hard before you agree to have your name on something so spectacularly inane.

Alex Beam had a fine and funny, kvetchy, write up of these in yesterday’s Boston Globe where he shared the advice that he gave to his just graduated kiddles:

We pretty much ran a “Return with your shield, or on it” household. And it worked. One of our sons is now a lochagos commanding 144 hoplites in the Spartan army.

Adulting has tips on:

* What to check for when renting a new apartment-Not just the nearby bars, but the faucets and stove, among other things.
* How to tie a tie.
* How to avoid hooking up with anyone in your office -- Imagine your coworkers having plastic, featureless doll crotches. It helps.
* The secret to finding a mechanic you love-Or, more realistically, one that will not rob you blind.
From breaking up with frenemies to fixing your toilet, this way fun comprehensive handbook is the answer for aspiring grown-ups of all ages.

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
You know, if your parents, guardians. trusted retainers, older siblings, lawyers or, in my case, Aunt Mary Ann aren’t giving you any of these fascinating, handy dandy tidbits AND you’re devoid of common sense, em yeah, buy the book.

Or you could save some dough and just read the blog.

from Goodreads:

In Don’t Worry, It Gets Worse, Nugent shares what it takes to make the awkward leap from undergrad to "mature and responsible adult that definitely never eats peanut butter straight from the jar and considers it a meal.” From trying to find an apartment on the black hole otherwise known as Craigslist to the creative maneuvering needed to pay off student loans and still enjoy happy hour, Nugent documents the formative moments of being a twentysomething with a little bit of snark and a lot of heart.

'A little bit of snark and a lot of heart?' OUCH! Sounds like a great read but only if your heroes all hail from the vapid halls of Sex and the City or Entourage.

What do I suggest as important books for folks entering the big fat adult world? Eh, The Wisdom of Insecurity by Alan Watts, Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal by Christopher Moore, Custer Died for Your Sins by Vine Deloria, Survival in Auschwitz by Primo Levi, everything Kurt Vonnegut ever wrote and well, the list of important books to read to help with this whole ‘adulthood’ conundrum is near endless.

Read poetry -- Bukowski, Prevert, Sherman Alexie, Charles Baudelaire and Arthur Rimbaud and the scrawls on bathroom stall doors and subway walls too.

READ, READ, READ! Ask questions, have conversations, don’t be afraid to say ‘I don’t know.’ There will always be someone who’ll fill you in, who’ll want to share their hard won wisdom or lack thereof.

Now, go have a nice glass of Malbec or an Ipswich Ale and RELAX!

Breathing Room

Morning on the marsh

Yesterday I took The Amazing Bob to the doc. That nasty cold he and I shared is refusing to let him go. I totally understand -- TAB's all irresistible like that. We have new meds now, which hopefully, BETTER dammit, do the trick.

In the meantime. We breathe in, breath out, read poetry, paint. And hope.

Small quilts of white mist
Curling above the dark woods.
Pine trees are breathing.

Elevator doors
open into quiet. Breathe.
Consulate comforts.

Random Haikus

Beauty near TAB's doc's office

What art offers is space -- a certain breathing room for the spirit.
John Updike

Feelings come and go like clouds in a windy sky. Conscious breathing is my anchor.
― Thich Nhat Hanh, Stepping into Freedom: Rules of Monastic Practice for Novices

Owl Dancing with Fred Astaire
Sherman Alexie

During a traditional Native American owl dance, the woman asks the man to dance. He is not supposed to refuse. However, if he does refuse, he must pay the woman whatever she wants and then tell the entire crowd at the powwow exactly why he refused.

I.
I met the Indian woman who asked Fred Astaire to dance.
He politely refused her offer.
“He was so charming,” she said, “even when he rejected me.
But I kept wishing it was an owl dance.”  


II.
An owl dance is simple: two steps with your left foot forward,
one step with your right foot back, all to the beat of a drum

 currently being pounded by six Indian men in baseball hats.
They sing falsetto. Many non-Indians wonder what they are singing

but that is too complicated to explain here. Let’s just say
they are singing an owl dance song. It is not necessarily romantic.

I mean, sisters owl dance with brothers
and sons owl dance with their mothers.

Yet, at every powwow, there are beautiful Indian women
who owl dance with beautiful Indian men, all hoping

for love/sex/a brief vacation from loneliness.
I must emphasize, however, that our love lives are not simple.

There are Indian men who have never been asked to owl dance.
Alone in the powwow crowd, those men tap their feet lightly

along with the drums. They sing softly under their breath.
Perhaps they secretly wish they were Fred Astaire

The rest of Owl Dancing with Fred Astaire is here. 
Jerry Lee Lewis -- Breathless

Pitchmen Without a Prayer

I’ve bitched and beefed before about the amount of spam comments I get here on Tell Me A Story. A lot -- both the amount of spam-age and my kvetching about it.

I still read them (versus auto delete) because, honestly, some of them are pretty damned hilarious in their failed grasp of purpose. That is, the spammer leaves the comment in hopes I’ll click on their link, visit their page and, hopefully, spend some cheddar. They’re crude marketeers and advertisers -- hucksters and pitchmen without a clue. For the most part.

of course like your web-site however you need to check the spelling on quite a few of your posts. A number of them are rife with spelling issues and I to find it very bothersome to tell the reality on the other hand I'll certainly come back again. My website - on I Want To Ride My Tricycle, Tricycle, Tricycle

Doubtless the odd typo occasionally persists BUT I’m forever rereading and editing what I’ve posted -- fixing misspellings and nasty sentence structure even after I've hit the 'publish' button. Nonetheless, I’ve gotten this grammatically glitchy ‘sales pitch’ a few times. Clearly there's a pitch book, a Chicago Manual of Style, and E.B. White penned Elements of Style for this brand of advertising.

I believe everything said was actually very reasonable. But, what about this? what if you wrote a catchier title? I mean, I don't want to tell you how to run your blog, however what if you added a headline to possibly get a person's attention? I mean "The Arborist Avengers!" is a little boring. You should glance at Yahoo's front page and watch how they create article headlines to grab viewers interested. You might add a video or a pic or two to get people interested about what you've got to say. In my opinion, it could make your website a little bit more interesting. Take a look at my weblog; on The Arborist Avengers!

The title’s boring? Really? Add a pic? Gee, honest and true? Did you even glance at my damned blog beyond the title, you pretentious, sub basement level, failed spam artist?

Greetings, There's no doubt that your blog might be having internet browser compatibility problems. When I look at your site in Safari, it looks fine but when opening in Internet Explorer, it has some overlapping issues. I simply wanted to give you a quick heads up! Besides that, great site! on Be Here Now Visit my webpage:

This one’s not so bad really and it has the added beni of being true -- there are occasional overlap issues from platform to platform because I upload SO MANY PICS!

Hello! I just would like to give you a huge thumbs up for the excellent information you've got right here on this post. I will be returning to your web site for more soon. on The Arborist Avengers! My website;

Yes, yes, yez -- flatter me and I’ll click on your linky. Indeed, I AM that shallow.

I get ‘commenters’ trying to get me to click on links for Louboutin shoes, diarrhea remedies, diaper rash fixes, diet ideas, online casinos, payday loans and , of course, porn, porn. PORN.

Rarely, probably never, is the spammer linking to anything even vaguely interesting. OK, except for those shoes -- the ones I could never afford or stay upright in. Of course.

I imagine the Spam Commenting Huckster gig isn’t exactly high paying. It seems like the 21st century equivalent of the door to door brush sales-weasel. Death of a Spammer -- somehow that lacks poetry.

I Don't Like Mondays

The Tuesday after a three day weekend is always hard -- it feels like a very rough Monday. Particularly this one -- this was the weekend which heralded the beginning of summer.

Yesterday, Monday -- Memorial Day, was the first sunny warm day in a week. All I want to do today is sit on the porch, in the sunshine, reading. For one more day. Just one!

I just began Martin Millar’s detective series Thraxas -- written under the pseudonym Martin Scott.

Thraxas is a private investigator in the city of Turai. He has some sorcerous powers but mainly he just drinks a lot of beer. Consequently he's always broke and has to live in the poor part of the city. Thraxas is overweight, bad tempered, and a keen gambler at the chariot races. He doesn't make for a pretty sight. His friend Makri is reckoned to be a good deal more attractive, but with her Orcish and Elvish blood, she does have a tendency to be violent.

LOVE Mister Millar’s sense of humor!

Here’s the thing though, the series is only available electronically.

I’ve never read a book on my iPad before. Yes, yes, YEZ, I know that all the cool kids are doing this now. eBooks are the hip, eco way to go. Got it. Still miss ink on paper and the feel of a book in my hands though.

This WILL however, make travel somewhat easier/lighter. I tote the iPad with me everywhere now (for the handy, dandy voice recog app and email) so, with eBooks, I don’t need to also pack novels and tomes.
My back and wee rucksack appreciate this. I CAN get used to these new fangled things!

By the way, if you've not read Lonely Werewolf Girl or The Good Fairies of New York yet...well, get to it. Those two books are WAY brill!

Meantime, for this Monday-ish Tuesday while I'm having a hell of a time getting ramped up for the day, here, have some pretty seaside pics.

You're welcome.

I Don't Like Mondays -- The Boomtown Rats

The silicon chip inside her head
Gets switched to overload
And nobody’s gonna go to school today
She’s gonna make them stay at home
And daddy doesn’t understand it
He always said she was good as gold
And he can see no reasons
'Cos there are no reasons
What reason do you need to be show-ow-ow-ow-own?

Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
I wanna shoo-oo-woo-woo-woo-oot the whole day down

Mind Gone on Walk About

Haunted appearing hotel in Bennington, Vermont

The harbor in Boothbay Harbar

In honor of the sun FINALLY coming out, after a mere week of grey skies and rain, my cold has decided to make a return appearance. Rotten bastid!

I’ll collect what little energy I can and zoom (as much as I can with this stupid headache)  off for a short-ish trike ride.

Meantime, my brain’s in travel mode.

Chrysler Building NYC

Arizona Cacti

I’m thinking of meeting cousin Della in Amsterdam for a long weekend. Or maybe Barcelona -- I’ve never been. That’s a longer flight though. There are no non stops from Boston so it’d be a 10.5 -11 hour flight. Not really a long weekend’s trip. Amsterdam’s only about seven and a half hours -- not as bad. Reykjavik was five hours which was fab for a four day weekend.

Then there’s my upcoming visit to pal Jenny in Arizona, a drive to Montreal or maybe a train ride to Manhattan with Helen, a visit to cousin Gary in Boothbay Harbor, Maine and then, THEN my long talked of trip to Cabarete in The Dominican Republic and surf camp!

And WHEN will I get to Istanbul, hmmmm? I really want to visit the Lycian temple tombs at Caunus, the Temple of Apollo at Didyma, the petrified waterfall and sacred spring at Pamukkale and more, more, more.

Why only four days? I start going through withdrawal if I’m away from The Amazing Bob any longer. It’s not pretty.

Clueless Social Pinhead

Today’s rant is about Felix — not his real name. Names have been changed to protect the guilty and the guileless — the Clueless Social Pinhead and the innocent.

Felix was a sharp tongued, prickly but caring (or so I thought), goofy-ish type. We both worked at the same large print/copy shop for eons. Usually in different departments. Apart from the final eight years, we worked across town from each other.

Turns out distance was what kept our very loose friendship functioning.

When we worked in the same building, he often took lunch at the same time and with the same folks as me. I was in Human Resources at the time, along with a truly warm, wonderful, wise and smart as all get out cookie named Laila.

Laila was carrying some extra weight but was well dressed, the consummate professional, kind and cute as a button too (for reals!). At the mid day break one afternoon, while we were joking around about god knows what, Felix, out of the blue, made some comment like:

‘Laila looks just like Mimi from the Drew Carey show!’

He was trying to be funny but this odd, delusional, nasty-ass comparison, made in front of everyone at the lunch table, was wounding to say the very least. And he didn’t understand why. He didn’t get why no one laughed, why no one thought this pricelessly amusing quip (in his mind only) wasn’t just flat out hilarious.

Years later, while I was talking on the phone to one of the company's managers, my hearing, all of a sudden, began fluctuating wildly. I hoped against hope that the problem was in the phone and not my brain. The roller coaster sound experience was, I knew, a herald of the all-to-soon arrival of full deafness.

I called Felix to look at my phone (telephone crap was his department) — I wanted to rule that out before calling my neuro team. I was trying to remain calm.

Know what I got from him? A lecture about being a hypochondriac, about selfishly focusing on my own imagined health issues instead of The Amazing Bob’s REAL issues.

‘the fuck? Seriously. What. The. Fuck?!

Yes, TAB has health issues. So do I. He’s got crushed disks in his spine, arthritis and a dicky heart. Me? I’ve got Neurofibromatosis Type 2. We’re a real pair but we take good care of each other. Neither of us is in any way a hypochondriac. If anything, we’re much too much the tough guys/the stoics.  You know, like the Black Knight of Monty Python and the Holy Grail fame. Lose an arm or a leg (have brain or quadruple bypass surgery) and it’s all ‘just a flesh wound!’

I was stone deaf within a year of Felix’s little chiding guilt trip attempt.

Why was Felix plagued by a near total dearth of compassion, empathy and reasonably sane social skills? Beats me all to hell and back but, sadly, his brand of brain dead ignorance, his tragic lack of self awareness is all too common in our species.

"That is my principal objection to life, I think: It's too easy, when alive, to make perfectly horrible mistakes."

"There's only one rule that I know of, babies—God damn it, you've got to be kind."
-- Kurt Vonnegut

Toppling Babel -- NOW WITH UPDATINESS!

I just never, ever expect that a customer helper will know American Sign Language. I just don’t. Why? Here in the good ol’ US of A there’s not much emphasis, much import given to learning another language. Sure, sure people do but it’s not way common.

Why do it? From the St. John’s University site:

* helps you to expand your view of the world

* encourages critical reflection on the relation between language and culture, language and thought
 
* expands your opportunities for meaningful leisure activities (such as travel, viewing foreign language films, watching foreign TV programs)

* develops your intellect (encouraging good learning habits, memorization, combining course content and skills in a meaningful way)

* improves knowledge of the native language (through comparison and contrast with the foreign language)

* exposes you to modes of thought and viewpoints that are available only in the foreign language and its culture

* helps to build practical skills that may be used in other disciplines

* fosters your understanding of the interrelation between language and human nature

* teaches and encourages respect for other ethnic groups

* contributes to the development of your personality

* contributes to the achievement of national goals, such as economic development or national security

* increases your sense of self worth. Speaking Italian or Spanish to your grandmother or ordering in French at a French restaurant will do wonders for your ego!

Emphases mine but all these are GREAT! Another reason to learn a language other than your native one? We can connect with more of our fellow humans. We increase our pool of friends and acquaintances. We grease the wheels of peace, love and understanding for dog’s sake! What's not to love?

Why does this come up now?

I was in the Apple store down at the South Shore Plaza in Braintree (a mega mall) yesterday. My wireless mouse had died a wretched and, assuredly, painful death. My back up wired mousy wasn’t speaking to me. I’d been working on some form layouts for a friend and needed a happy, functioning rodent immediately.

The customer service at the Apple store has always impressed the crap outta me. The last time I was there, to buy my iPad, the fellow who assisted me sparked up his iPad’s voice recognition app. I continued to attempt to read his lips BUT when I couldn’t all I had to do was glance down at the screen and, boy-howdy, the text of what he said was RIGHT there!

Yesterday the Apple folk went one better. The young, very nice, heavily tattooed greeter, upon hearing what I needed (functioning mouse!!!) and being told ‘speak slowly -- I‘m deaf but will try to read your lips,’ went and found me their fabulous employee who KNOWS ASL!!!

Mein Gott this was tremendous! Dude’s name is Joe Rich and, not only does he speak my language, he’s patient as all hell and way knowledgeable.

I just hope he works on Saturdays. This morning my keyboard entered the tertiary stages of Black Plague. Well that’s what it looks like to me and, I assume, the computer caught it from The Amazing Bob and I. My i, k, *, comma and tab keys aren’t working. Nether are a few of the numbers.

Sigh -- it’s always something ‘innt?

UPDATE::UPDATE:: UPDATE:: UPDATE:: UPDATE::

I just got back from the Apple store (that same one at the South Shore mega mall). I asked today's lovely greeter dude if Joe Rich was working and could I wait for him. I said all I needed was a keyboard BUT shopping's easier when your helper can sign your language.

Joe was tied up but signed that he'd be just a few minutes. After a couple, greeter guy comes back with the news that Joe was gonna be unavailable for a little while yet BUT they had a second employee who knows sign -- WOW!!!

The totally fab Vicky Villarreal helped me out. I got what I needed and wanted and, just like yesterday, my socks were solidly blown off.

If you're a deafie on the South Shore of Boston THIS is the Apple store to go to. Totally.

Navigating the Big Blue Marble

A funny thing has happened to me over the great long time I’ve lived on this big, blue marble of a planet.

I’ve always loved the water. Hell, that’s where we LIVE  -- on Hingham Bay. Back in college (and yes, there were Dodos, Passenger Pigeons and Great Auks back then), I used to swim laps. Every other day I’d jump into the Olympic size pool and do a mile of ‘em. On the off days, I was weightlifting. Yep, I was a glorious, hard body, beast back then.


When we first moved here to the Neck, Jen and I would swim along the seawall from Bell Street down to Manet Beach and back. Yeah, that may not SEEM like much but 12 total blocks of paddling, crawling and freestyling through waves is def more than chump change and small beer.


Somewhere over the years, probably after my last big MGH event, I became WAY more tippy. The, generally, wee waves that lap our shoreline would knock me off balance and off course easier and faster than Dogwood blossoms falling off the trees in a May rainstorm. When under the water, I just can't tell which way is up. It's wickedly disorienting and a teensy bit frightening.

Jen and Oni bought some of those big, blow up rings so that I could stay afloat. I managed to swim a bit but it wasn't the same and I was still pretty discombobulated in the waves -- particularly when motor boats passed by (I HATE motor boats!).

Enter the Healthy Workplace Challenge which my awesome pal Paula signed me up for. The YMCA has two (TWO!) pools, no motorboats and NO waves. Awesome!

The last hurdle I have in getting back in the water is that, without balance nerves, I’ve a hell of a time walking, let alone swimming, a straight line. Sharing a lane (which is de rigueur at the Y) is a total exercise in frustration for me and an utter annoyance for the unlucky souls in my same lane. I’m constantly ploughing into my path mates. Not good.

I spoke to one of the Y coaches about this and she gave me the best times, the least busy hours when I can score my own space.

OK, one more hurdle. My upper body strength isn’t what it used to be (duh, rilly Donna?). What I envision is this -- I make it one length of the pool and then crap out from absolute exhaustion. Subsequently, I lose heart, give up and never swim again.

Yeah, not bloody likely -- giving up isn’t really hard wired into my system. Having said that, I want to be smart (for once). I want, NEED, this to work so I’m going to ease in. I’ll start with water aerobic classes, beginning Monday morning at the nine AM session.

I'm a little fearful that my crapped out sound system will hold me back. I figure I can follow the instructor and other participant’s movements though. This should work.

Fingers are crossed!

Che Cosa è la Famiglia

Scene from Celeste's VERY sober wedding

View from Michal's kitchen

‘the hell is this thing we call ‘family?’

The definition varies from person to person. Really.

For me ‘family’ is a designation that I use for folks who nourish and nurture me, who give as good as they get. Sometimes we’re connected by blood or marriage but, often enough, not. Being kin, merely because we share a bit of biology, a smackeral of DNA, isn’t enough for me to name a person ‘family.’

Jen on Ice

Yes, yez, we ARE still technically famiglia but I don’t necessarily feel the connection or feel the duty/need/pull to save a life tonight (to wax all purply hyperbole).
Elton John -- Someone Saved My Life Tonight

What inspires this? There’s a lot of mother-love/gratitude/missing happening on Facebook lately. Including a funny from my pal Brian.

My fab talented cousin Della

My mother and I were never close. We were far too different and she lacked the ability to understand me in any meaningful way or accept me for who I was. That is, until The Amazing Bob and I married. All of a sudden she could love me, she could be open, more relaxed and supportive. Apparently I'd been a wholly alien being before.

Cindy's wedding

She would’ve been able to go farther still had I been able to have children/give birth but she understood that, due to the Nf2, I could not. She spent most of her life feeling sorry for me -- thinking, because I wasn’t married, that I was unloved and had no friends. Truth be told, I wanted her to accept me/love me on my terms NOT just because I was connected to a man. This being a significant part of why it took 17 years of living in sin (I just love that phrase!) before I agreed to wed The MOST
Amazing Bob.

Jenny's puppies -- Odie and Bonnie

Me, Daddy and Helen

Oni, Jen, TAB, The Green Miles and me

She felt horrifically guilty for passing Neurofibromatosis Type 2 down to me, in large part because this meant I couldn’t risk pregnancy and childbirth (this being no big deal for me. The only children I ever wanted were The Green Miles and my fabulous Helen. Someone’d already gone through that nasty prego shite for me! Yea me -- I won!)

In any case, in her last few years on the planet, I let go of my need for her to understand me. (took me bloody long enough, eh?) and focused on providing her with news and chatter about the things that mattered to her -- children, her relatives, TAB and my friends (who she could see, now that I was wearing a wedding band).

We got on well in those last few years.

I have a lot of fabulous sisters and a few awesome brothers now. Genetic connections not required, nor does it automatically put you outside the velvet rope of my heart.

Wednesday Wisdom

* The View's Broken. 
That quip just NEVER gets old -- for me that is. Yesterday was a molto misty, foggy day. This was the view at Wollaston Beach yesterday afternoon.

* An old adage -- treat a cold it lasts 10 days, don't treat a cold it lasts 10 days

I’m on Day 12, The Amazing Bob’s on Day 14. ENOUGH already!

* If it can fit in my not-so-large purse, it can be lost in my not-so-large purse.

Rilly. I could fit AND lose the Empire
State Building, China and three alligators in this thing -- small as it is. It’s called a mini courier bag  and is 9" deep x 10.5" long x 3.5" wide. NOT exactly capacious. Yes, just like the Tardis, my wee satchel was transcendentally engineered. 

* Once a feral, always a feral.

Rocco, though he’s been taking his meals at our porch cat cafeteria (Chez Valhalla) for ten years now, still, STILL backs off when I bring him his meals. I must be one scary, if frowzy, cat doormat.

* If you’re talkin’ it, you’re, likely as not, NOT walkin’ it.

What am I speaking of? Why, it’s that whole god/Jesus thing. Again. I have a few close chums who are Christian (yes, with that capital ‘C’).  My pals are kind, giving and helpful to all. They’re not judgmental AND you’ll never hear one of them going all preachy, preachy. They’re the walk-the-path sort. Their actions/how they live their lives serve as their ‘witness.’

Alternatively, I’ve a Facebook ‘friend’ who, whenever I indulge in some rant (inevitably about menopause) -- and I start with the hyperbole laden, drama-mama phrase ‘IF there was a god...’ -- he never fails to chime in with ‘Yes Donna, there is a God.’  He’s also posted one of those Facebook crap picture with text posts about how women need to dress more modestly so as not to attract rapists and abuse.

No. Really.

To this, my reply is ‘what Ramy at Mokh Libnene said'

Go read. I couldn’t have put it better.

And, oh yeah, Ramy’s a dude. And a feminist. Awesome!

"When the white missionaries came to Africa, they had the Bible and we had the land. They said 'Let us pray.' We closed our eyes. When we opened them, we had the Bible and they had the land." 

~ Desmond Tutu

By the way -- my exhortation to BE HERE NOW!, is my wish that we all stop living for some pie in the sky heaven, the 1,000 virgins (Christian, Muslim or Zoroastrian -- every dogma has its own version of the BIG reward) and no calorie cheesecake (you have your version of heaven and I've got mine). Walk your faith's path here, on this planet, in our present world. Stop talkin' and start walkin'!

"There's only one rule that I know of, babies—God damn it, you've got to be kind."  
 -- Kurt Vonnegut

Hard Start

Busy day ahead of me and it’s not started great.

The last dream this morning was triple plus odd. In my unconscious conjuring, it was Marathon Day (AKA Patriot’s Day -- the running of the Marathon) and I was staying at the ultra posh Fairmont Copley Plaza Hotel  In the crowded, busy Oak Bar, with it’s holiday party atmosphere -- all the folks giddy about the next day’s event -- I get hit on by a truly handsome, well dressed and charming man.

And he’s 24. TWENTY FOUR! ‘the hell? Why am I having this nightmare?

I decided to go for it only to die a thousand deaths, during the elevator ascent to his room, wondering if he’ll just flat out hurl when he gets a gander at this '58 Special in the nude.

Luckily, Coco came to my rescue -- landing on me with all four feet and, best I can tell, toting a 50 pound weight.
Now I’m up, our herd of cat’s been slopped and I’ve begun my usual morning computer seisiún -- you know, checking my email, trolling the web for interesting art on which to sleepily, smilingly gaze and ponder, checking out whose saying what on Facebook and, of course, reading my comics and political blogs.

Oh yeah and playing Words with Friends. In two of my games I had NO vowels. Zippo! That’s just cruel. Yeah sure, I could just pass on my turn, swap out some tiles but NO! Warum? Well hell, the no vowel state of being is a challenge! It necessitates creativity and strategy. I CAN do this!

Next up today is a visit to the YMCA here in Quincy. My Healthy Workplace/Weight Loss Team had their first meeting and weigh in last week. Where was I? Home in bed -- sick as a dog, coughing my brains AND lungs clean out. Not pretty. In any case, in addition to the pain and horror of the weigh in, I’ll also get a tour of the Y AND a trainer.

Wow, just wow! A personal trainer? I’ll feel all Hollywood-ish, all rich folk-like.

Mind you, this is just for six weeks (five now, since I lost the first week to my wee case of black plague) but still... AWESOME!

After this, I head into Boston for a doc appointment and errands.

Considering that The Amazing Bob and I spent the last ten days ravaged by pestilence that would’ve made the ten plagues of Egypt look like a few days of rainy, dingy weather, this is big. Particularly that weigh in shit. Christ I hate getting weighed -- it so rarely leaves me feeling blithe and buoyant.

I took my first post-scourge trike ride yesterday. It was a short ride, all straight aways -- no hills, but I HAD to break the ice. Ice broken now thanks -- time to ZOOM!

OK OK, I’ll attempt to ease in at a nice, reasonable pace. Sheesh. Entspannen Sie bitte. Chill. K?

Be Here Now

I left out one talented artist and his paintings from my write up of The Artists Hand Gallery.

Why?

I can’t separate what he does for a living from his art -- not enough to enjoy or applaud it.

He’s the pastor of one of those rural, Evangelical, big box churches. You know, the sort whose teachings have far more in common with Rush Limbaugh and his ilk’s vile spewings than they do with anything Jesus purportedly taught.

From Religion Dispatches

Writing about “disciplining” children who disobey multiple times in a day, Tomczak winkingly describes beatings as “posterior protoplasmic stimulation,” assuring parents that any resulting marks or redness are “nothing to get upset about.” He also recounts giving his 18-month-old son “a series of repeated spankings (with explanation and abundant display of affection between each one)” in a motel parking lot, until the boy “realized that Daddy always wins and wins decisively!” [emphasis his] Tomczak denies physically abusing anyone, but his defense that the current lawsuit’s allegations concern a “disciplinary parental issue” over a “troubled family member” only raises more concerns.

The larger context for corporal punishment is the belief that Christians must cultivate a lifelong attitude of submission to God-given authority. Parents are one such authority; male leadership over women in the family, church, and society is another.
Both women and children are taught that submission is part of a divine plan that should be embraced joyfully, and that even submitting to abusive men is noble and Christ-like. CLC pastor Joshua Harris quotes 1 Peter on this score, praising slaves who obeyed the masters who beat them as following Jesus’ example. Harris interprets this to mean that all Christians are called to submit, even when “suffering” under “unjust” leadership. Therefore wives are called to resist the “sinful” impulse to “fight back” against or even criticize husbands who misuse their “authority.”

WHAT a bunch of crazily insecure, minisculely limp dicked, bully boy asswipes (not to diss asswipes, mind you)! What outrageous and dangerous, utter snot twaddle!

I actually know a few people who go to this breeding ground for utter fucked upedness. Not only are women and children considered to be no more valuable than livestock you can  beat up and/or fuck, apparently, according to these poor, sad, insane people, ‘blacks were better off under slavery.’

No. Seriously. They believe that.

And this too -- if a business wants to discriminate against you, if they want to lobby their congress critter (*cough PAY OFF *cough) for you to have less rights in our society, within our Democracy because you happen to be gay -- well, boyhowdy, Sovereign Grace Church is TOTALLY down with that! AND they don't pay taxes to boot.

More on the pastor painter’s church from Religion Dispatches:

Perhaps the biggest thorn in SGM’s side has been the spate of former members’ blogs that have cropped up since 2007, starting with SGM Survivors—a site where ex-members have shared numerous accounts of SGM’s cult-like atmosphere, including cover-ups of spousal abuse and sexual abuse of children as young as two. 


It’s no accident that so many allegations of serious abuse have arisen across SGM’s churches. The combination of patriarchal gender roles, purity culture, and authoritarian clergy that characterizes Sovereign Grace’s teachings on parenting, marriage, and sexuality creates an environment where women and children—especially girls—are uniquely vulnerable to abuse.

Critics of evangelical sexual mores have noted the connections between demands for female modesty and chastity and a culture where these same bodies are constantly exposed to sexual violence and abuse.

So much for Luke, Matthew, The Sermon on The Mount and all that yummy Beatitude-y stuff, huh?

You’re just all shocked and shit, aren’t cha? Go read the Religion Dispatches column at that link. It’s worth it.

These people give Christianity a bad name and a black eye. So yeah, I just couldn’t post the pastor’s paintings and I won’t post his name either. He MAY be fine. He MIGHT be nothing like the rest of those weak brained, looking-for-someone-to-be-the-boss-of, rabidly insecure American Taliban types. That could well be.

I’m not inclined to get to know him though. Understatement City!

Am I Christian? Eh, not so much...necessarily. I’m, if anything, a solid state agnostic. My beliefs are best summed up in this Linus Pauling quote:

I have something that I call my Golden Rule. It goes something like this: "Do unto others twenty-five percent better than you expect them to do unto you." … The twenty-five percent is for error.
-- Pauling's reply to an audience question about his ethical system, following his lecture circa 1961 at Monterey Peninsula College, in Monterey, California.

Mind you, Jesus had quite a few good teachings as did Ghandi, Alan Watts, Martin Luther King Jr., Bodhidharma, Albert Einstein, and Kurt Vonnegut.

Who can unequivocally, unmistakably, unquestionably know who is god or even IF god is?

"There's only one rule that I know of, babies—God damn it, you've got to be kind." -- -- Kurt Vonnegut

LET’S JUST ALL BE HERE NOW!


K? Tx.

Narcotic Dreams

I’ve had the tiniest whisper of Codeine the last few nights, to help me sleep. That’s all I needed and, thank dog, it worked. I was having brain frying coughing fits every half hour ON the half hour (I’m a damned clock, I tell you!) throughout the nights. There was no Z catching pre-Codeine.

Sleep on Codeine though is different. It’s heavily reminiscent of my nocturnal siesta experiences during hospital stays. That is -- intermittent and way more surreal than usual.

Last night, I dreamed I was at my old job but had already given notice. I was working up a training program involving basic math to be used in my next big professional gig. Part way through, I decided to go for a jog (running -- something I often think about doing but the most I accomplish are brief, spastic lopes on the beach).

It was a dark, snowy winter evening and we were in a particularly homely, stark, industrial section of Brighton (a section of Boston). The slog through the ice and snow covered streets was annoying and difficult but I kept going. Why? There was a coffee shop three blocks up -- OF COURSE I’m gonna push on.
I found that I wasn’t making much progress. Wondering What Up and thinking maybe my form and posture were off, I looked down at myself. Only to find that I was attempting to freestyle my way up the sidewalk. Yeah, this was not one of my more shining moments.

After fast, furtive snoops about (to make sure no one had spied my efforts to swim up Cambridge Street. of course), I got vertical again. Trotting 'round the coffee shop corner, I kept going. There was a side street that I wanted to explore. This little street, as it turns out, was exceptionally narrow and steep. So steep and narrow that a helmet, Belaying ropes, and the odd carabiner or three would’ve been way useful.
I climbed down this crazy ass, narrow ravine -- down past old, crumbling, moss covered Victorian houses wedged fast into the rock face. And then I attempted to climb out.
Oof! Luckily Coco decided that at that very moment, I should wake up and give her chin scritches and, possibly, some brekkie. Good kitten!

The other Codeine dream is just a transient, ephemeral image. I was standing in a hospital corridor, possibly, waiting for a nurse. My only thought was ‘the fuck! I’m back in the hospital?’

Yeah, I’m a foul mouthed broad in my dreams too.