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Sunday, August 31, 2014

Suffragette City


The Mills Girls sculpture by Mico Kaufman is a memorial to the women who toiled long hours (13-14 every day!), who organized, who fought for change in the Lowell textile mills of the 1800s. The big bosses capitalized on the the young, poor, not politically connected, single women of the day.

I’ve always wondered — what would I have done, who would I have been in 1800s America? Would I have been a Yankee Jane Eyre, minding and attempting to educate a passel of rich people’s bairn?
In 1850 there were an estimated 21,000 governesses in England. Despite the negatives, there were more applicants than there were positions because the only alternatives were marriage, domestic service, prostitution or the poor-house
~~snip~~
An advertisement from an 1845 edition of The Times shows that an offer of shelter was frequently the extent of compensation:
Wanted, a Governess, on Handsome Terms.
Governess -- a comfortable home, but without salary, is offered to any lady wishing for a situation as governess in a gentleman's family residing in the country, to instruct two little girls in music, drawing, and English; a thorough knowledge of the French language is required.
So the governess bit seems like it would’ve been a non-starter for me. I imagine, the mills is where I'd have been. Joy. Somehow I just can't see myself docilely putting up with 12-14 hour workdays in hot, crowded, rooms with dust clogged air and the deafening roar of the machines.

From the History Matters site:
A group of Boston capitalists built a major textile manufacturing center in Lowell, Massachusetts, in the second quarter of the 19th century. The first factories recruited women from rural New England as their labor force. These young women, far from home, lived in rows of boardinghouses adjacent to the growing number of mills. The industrial production of textiles was highly profitable,and the number of factories in Lowell and other mill towns increased. More mills led to overproduction, which led to a drop in prices and profits. Mill owners reduced wages and speeded up the pace of work. The young female operatives organized to protest these wage cuts in 1834 and 1836. Harriet Hanson Robinson was one of those factory operatives; she began work in Lowell at the age of ten, later becoming an author and advocate of women’s suffrage. In 1898 she published Loom and Spindle, a memoir of her Lowell experiences, where she recounted the strike of 1836.
You can actually read all of Loom and Spindle here.

In February of 1834 800 workers went on strike.
This first strike in Lowell is important not because it failed or succeeded, but simply because it took place. In an era in which women had to overcome opposition simply to work in the mills, it is remarkable that they would further overstep the accepted middle-class bounds of female propriety by participating in a public protest.
UNION! Women didn’t even have the right to vote yet but:
In 1834, when their bosses decided to cut their wages, the mill girls had enough: They organized and fought back. The mill girls "turned out"—in other words, went on strike—to protest.
The following year brought the Ten Hour Movement.
The women's Ten Hour Movement, like the earlier turn-outs, was based in part on the participants' sense of their own worth and dignity as daughters of freemen. At the same time, however, it also indicated the growth of a new consciousness. It reflected a mounting feeling of community among women operatives and a realization that their interests and those of their employers were not identical, that they had to rely on themselves and not on corporate benevolence to achieve a reduction in the hours of labor. One women, in an open letter to a state legislator, expressed this rejection of middle-class paternalism: "Bad as is the condition of so many women, it would be much worse if they had nothing but your boasted protection to rely upon; but they have at last learnt the lesson which a bitter experience teaches, that not to those who style themselves their "natural protectors" are they to look for the needful help, but to the strong and resolute of their own sex." Such an attitude, underlying the self-organizing of women in the 10-hour petition campaigns, was clearly the product of the industrial experience in Lowell.*

Does this sound familiar? The House of Representative’s committee which was tasked with reviewing the women’s concerns, the petition and doing something about it responded thusly:
A law restricting the workday, the committee wrote, would negatively affect the competitiveness of the mills. It would also affect “the question of wages,” which the committee held should be set by the market, as negotiated between labor and capital. In Lowell, the committee said, “labor is on an equality with capital, and indeed controls it…Labor is intelligent enough to make its own bargains, and look out for its own interests without any interference from us.
The committee concluded by expressing confidence that any abuses in the mills would remedy themselves, through “the progressive improvement in art and science, in a higher appreciation of man's destiny.”

'the fuck?

Were abuses corrected? The changes, the improvement were finally made but not until 29 years had passed (!) but first the women who’d campaigned and fought had been replaced by immigrant labor.
By the 1920s, the New England textile industry began to shift South and many of Lowell's textile mills began to move or close. Although the South did not have rivers capable of providing the waterpower needed to run the early mills, the advent of steam-powered factories allowed companies to take advantage of the cheaper labor and transportation costs available there. Labor strikes in the North became more frequent, and severe ones like the 1912 Bread and Roses Strike in neighboring Lawrence were driving up costs for investors.
And from the South the mills moved even farther south, to Mexico and elsewhere, in order to find cheaper, meeker, more desperate workers willing to put up with abuse in order to feed themselves and their families.

*Go to the link to read all of Thomas Dublin's WOMEN, WORK, AND PROTEST IN THE EARLY LOWELL MILLS: "THE OPPRESSING HAND OF AVARICE WOULD ENSLAVE US" piece  it's worth it.
Suffragette City—David Bowie

Saturday, August 30, 2014

Another Art Heaven

The Mill Girls by Mico Kaufman
Every time I visit one of these artsy small-ish New England towns I wonder, how come I didn’t move here after college and my carnival years? A small town with SO MUCH art happening seems like it woulda been perfect for me.

Apart from the fact that Lowell, New Bedford, Salem and Brattleboro, Vermont weren’t all art mecca-y in 1980 (not by a long shot — more they were depressed and struggling), I would’ve needed a batch ‘o’ pals (or one anyway) to do this with (I've never really been much of a loner type). All the folks I knew then, who were doing the commune in rural Vermont/Oregon/New York thing, weren’t my cuppa, Kevin’d gone off with the Navy and, oh yeah, I didn’t have a car. That bit seemed sorta critical.

In any case, yesterday I visited Lowell again, for a few hours. Such a great place!

There’s the Arts League of Lowell, the Brush Art Gallery and Studios, the Whistler House Museum, the New England Quilt Museum and a bunch more joints that I have just GOT to visit

Before starting my mini art tour, my friend Gene (who lives and works in Lowell) and I went to lunch at the best place EVER — Life Alive. Tag line found on their site Vegetarian food even a meat lover can crave.

 I had The Goddess (Our famous Ginger Nama Shoyu Sauce nurturing carrots, beet, broccoli, dark greens, & tofu gracing short-grain brown rice) wrap with the Island Alive Smoothie. Gene had The Adventurer (Our Sesame Ginger Nama Sauce combines with a colorful mix of corn, beets, broccoli, dark greens, shredded cheddar, tofu & tamari almonds over quinoa & short grain brown rice).

Art at Life Alive
AMAZING! And filling. I ate too much and could’ve done with a nice nap afterward. Instead, I set off for the Whistler Museum.

From WGBHArts:
The Whistler House Museum of Art, the birthplace of the artist James McNeill Whistler, was established in 1908 as the permanent home of the Lowell Art Association, Inc. The Lowell Art Association, Inc. (est. 1878) owns and operates the museum as an historic site and art museum. Built in 1823, the Whistler House represents the richness of both Lowell’s history and it's art. The museum maintains its permanent collection of late 19th and early 20th century artwork, and organizes contemporary and historical fine arts exhibitions in the adjacent Parker Gallery. The Lowell Art Association and the Whistler House Museum of Art values and encourages the development of creativity and use of art in everyday life as part of its mission.
John Singer Sargent sketch
Sadly, I missed the contemporary quilt show that’s going on now. I didn’t catch what the museum attendant lady was saying — she pointed at this brill pic, made an its-that-away gesture and then moved on to other folks. Yeah, I could’ve stopped her and said “Hey, I don’t understand. Where can I see this particular work” but I was feeling a little overwhelmed (and logey from the fab, big lunch) AND I figured I’d just stumble over it. No. Oh well. Show’s up through late September, I can go back.

The joint has art classes for kids as well as adults, an artist in residence program, lectures, musical performances, and more.

The pieces that stood out to me weren’t by Whistler. There was a gorgeous sketch by John Singer Sargent, the sculpture of Whistler by Mico Kaufman (above left) in the adjacent park and a collection of sketches and small paintings by Arshile Gorky.

Oh yeah and I was particularly taken with this copper lined tub. Of course. Which reminds me, the restroom at Life Alive? It was one big-for-a-restaurant-loo room with a bathtub filled with cactus and other succulents and artworks covering the jewel tone painted walls. I could’ve dallied in there for hours! Sadly, my camera was back at the table.

Friday, August 29, 2014

Ghost Cat: NOW with Happy Update!

Jen, that awesome Feline Finder, located our boy earlier today. He was in an out of reach, out of the way cubby, in the the basement,  behind a rack of my old paintings.

We all figured, best let him hide out until he's chilled out.

Then, when I came home from my museum trip a few minutes ago, he came to the top of the basement stairs for dinner!

Everything's gonna be OOOOK now.

Except for the fact that Coco's all in a frenzy again about, ya know, our new addition. Poor Princess is feeling threatened and needs to poop in ALL the litter boxes because, of course, ALL poop receptacles belong to HER.

She'll need a lot of extra love and, probably, a mess of tuna BUT she'll get through this. Not sure that TAB and I will but her and Rocco'll be fine. Eventually.
~~~~~~~~
61º Fahrenheit and rainy in Scotland today. Well, that’s in Edinburgh — weather.com won’t give me the forecast for Portree on the Isle of Skye or Stromness on the Orkney mainland. Bastids.

About the same for my pal Brenda in Dublin.

61º but sunny for Brian buddy in New South Wales.

Martin in London will have 71º and sun.

Della in Berlin gets 74º and rain.

Sunny and 88º for Giovanni’s drummer fratello, Raffaello in Galatina, down in the heel of Italy. Silvano, up north of Venice in Lancenigo will have 81º and sun.

And a brutal 95º with thunder showers for my Helen and fam who’re temporarily in Dallas.

Here in Valhalla it’ll be 71º sunny and, so far, no sign of Rocco. Our magnificent but mebbe a little crazy furry man zipped inside yesterday — I mentioned that. He seemed disinclined to go out. That is, there was no sitting at the door giving me the guilt look and no scratching at window screens. He ate, napped, happily accepted his skritches and pats and looked around.

Rocco on the windowsill
After going out to work and running errands, I took Coco upstairs for our usual little siesta. When we came downstairs, an hour later, he was gone.

Dove? Wohin? Où? And a rousing, WHERE THE FUCK DID HE GO?!

The Amazing Bob and I have explored our closets, behind and under furniture, we’ve scouted around our basement and the “secret” passageway between our cellar and Jen and Oni’s.

Nada.

We’ve called for him both inside our wee cottage and out.

No sign of the poor boy.

I’m afraid he’s gotten himself trapped somewhere but where? There just aren’t that many places to hide or get stuck in this joint. All our window screens are intact so it seems unlikely that he got out.

Did he evaporate? Become smoke? Was there a Kitty Rapture and, well, Coco and Gus are still here so I guess not all cats go to heaven? Has he become a specter who will haunt my dreams?

Yeah, I’m more than a little worried. I leave for work soon and then an afternoon of museuming and lunch with an old friend up in Lowell. I’m gonna stick with this plan because it’s not gonna do me any good at all to stay home fussing and searching all the same places I’ve already looked in 12 damn times.

Cats — they make me 68 kinds of flourescent, fruit bat-feces deranged. And I can’t get enough of them.

Thursday, August 28, 2014

Shhhhhhhhhhhhh

Princess Coco
Timid Warrior Boy
Rocco's inna house!

While groggily stumbling through the morning rituals:
  • turn on the outdoor light so that Rocco knows it's time for brekkie
  • pick up Coco and cuddle her bigly as I dish out her first Fancy Feast of the day
  • fix Rocco's plate while she's chowing down
  • step onto the porch to cosset and feed R and whoever else might be about
  • clean the litter box
  • put on a pot of caffeine, caffeine, caffeine
 and on and on and on —our scarred, timid, warrior boy slipped into the house all of his own volition.

Zzzzip and he was inside, freaked out and ready to head back out again but the screen door had already shut.

Coco was, and I expect still is, unhappy (she doesn't share well) but she's calmed down. Our man, after hiding in The Amazing Bob's study for a bit, came downstairs and took one of the window seats on the stairway landing. Coco took the other.

I've dispensed copious treats, pats and Good Boy/Girl encomiums.

Right now we've got ourselves some ducky detente. We'll see how long that lasts and/or Rocco stays en la casa.

Fingers crossed.

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Camp

A friend of mine, his wife and their elementary school kiddle take a week or two each summer and go to a family camp. You know — summer camp for you, spouse AND kids.  I was unaware this sort of thing existed.

When I was a wee spawn I despised being sent off to camp with a blue/white passion. In the summers all I wanted was to take walks (by myself) and sit in my room (alone) reading. Spending time with a shit-ton of ankle biters, hopped up on fresh air and “bug juice,” making key chains woven from leather-ish laces was just about the last thing on the planet that I wanted. Plus, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I had to change into my swim suit in front of everyone!

The horror, the horror!

**Understatement Alert**
I was not a bold, outgoing child.

We, my family, would go camping though. All six of us in one small-ish tent (to be fair, big enough wasn’t possible). It was what we did when we’d travel back east after moving to Western Pennsylvania and then Bloomington, Indiana. And it was awful.

We weren’t the most harmonious batch of rug rats. OK, that was mostly my brother and I. We weren’t each other’s biggest fan to say the very least.

In any case, my folks — Chuck and Lu — seemed to just LOVE this tenting about shit. My mother sewed us all sleeping bags. Yes, you read that right — mia madre created our sleep sacks! Daddy bought a Coleman stove and he and Mother would take turns cooking. I was a big fan of Pop’s efforts — Fried baloney sandwiches! Oleaginous frizzled eggs! Buttery pan warmed toast!

Yup, the old man didn’t get a lot of opportunity to break out his corrupting meal creations.

So then, camping wasn’t all bad.

As a young adult I did the tent-in-the-woods thing with friends. I figured “I’ll enjoy this now because I’m with my chums.” Ah...nope.

I slept on a futon for eons and that’s as close to cold, hard ground as I want to get. Ever. Bathroom, with flush toilets and hot showers, is across the grounds? No, that just won’t do. Pee/poop in the woods? Don’t make me laugh/cry/scream. Please!

The closest I’ll come to camping now is a B&B with the loo down the hall.

Having said that, I can see how, if you’ve a copacetic, gregarious clan, the family camp thing could be a lot of fun.

Not sure where my pals in Northern California go but I found a couple interesting places on line:

Berkeley Tuolumne Camp
The staff provides social, nature, and athletic programs for all ages, including hiking, nature studies, and multi-cultural crafts.
The Artist-in-Residence program features a different professional artist each week teaching classes such as ceramics, drawing or performing arts.
  • Supervised recreational programs all day.
  • Recreation activities include volleyball, basketball, badminton, horseshoes, ping pong, archery, and day/evening hiking.
  • A “Kiddie Camp” for children ages 2-6 is held 3 times daily.
  • Special children’s activities for ages 5-12 occur daily.
  • Explore beautiful forests and streams.
  • Private, cozy tent-cabins for your comfort.
  • Swimming and fishing in the Tuolumne River.
  • Warm days and cool nights.
The rates include three family-style meals daily in our beautiful Dining Hall.
Nearby attractions include Yosemite National Park, great day hiking trails in Stanislaus National Forest, gold rush towns of Sonora and Columbia, horseback riding, water-skiing, and Mono Lake.
I saw yoga noted somewhere on their site too!
Dunno if the place still exists though.
On August 25th, 2013, the massive Rim Fire ripped through the South Fork Tuolumne watershed and destroyed our beloved Berkeley Tuolumne Camp.
I hope they're able to rebuild. I really do.

Then there’s the Emandal Farm — a working farm but a chilled out, vaca place for families too.
Besides swimming, hiking, ping pong and such, campers can help out around the joint.
In 1908, Em and Al Byrnes opened up their home to friends who wished to get away from the hustle and bustle of city life. All the fruits and vegetables served were grown on the farm, as were the meat and eggs. Em baked all the bread. Since 1946, the Adams family has continued the tradition of country vacations with farm grown and home cooked meals. Today Tamara Adams, following in the footsteps of her in-laws, Clive and Jessie Adams, and her late husband, Clive Adams, Jr., operates Emandal’s Family Camp in the summer, Environmental Education for school groups in the spring, and hosts groups, workshops and other special events throughout the year.
 I can see the allure of this sort of thing. No really! Just not for me.

Tuesday, August 26, 2014

Where the Scary Things Are

“I don't paint dreams or nightmares, I paint my own reality.”
Frida Kahlo 
“Nightmares exist outside of logic, and there's little fun to be had in explanations; they're antithetical to the poetry of fear.”
Stephen King
In my last dream of the night, I was at MGH. It was MRI day — which, in reality, is coming up soon.

I’ve mentioned my rather muscular claustrophobia and MRI aversion before, have I not? Yeah, at least a few times. That and my intense struggles to get back in and stay in the damn tube after God died.

Now, I’ve def not been conscious of any anticipatory shivers, shakes and angst ridden willies but apparently they’re present and accounted for. They stood tall in Dreamland last night. The fuckers.

In this nasty little phantasm, I was in a gaggle, a swarm even, of 20 or 30 young women — all of us kitted out in that most divine of fashion statements — the Johnny.

Why’s it called a Johnny? No one’s absolutely certain BUT apparently it’s a regionalism, possibly originating at MGH even!
"I was told this was due to doctors training in Mass. General where the term was first used." The origin story she'd heard was that the open-back gown allowed easy use of the toilet, or "john," an explanation so simple it's almost guaranteed to be false.
In any case, us wimmins were all up for Nf2 procedures that morning. Some were having  surgery, some radiation and then there was me. I was the only one scheduled for an MRI.

The baby doc in charge of shepherding us to our various surgical and non-cuttery ports of call was sternly dour. This was a bothersome task for him — he’d much prefer doing rounds or conferring with the staff versus this patient herding shit.

Once he had us all suited up and in one room, he loudly and smarmily cleared his throat, getting our attention. He would show us to our various ORs, radiation room and test closets. Wheee.

We were taking the steps down from our third floor corral, descending farther and farther below ground. By the second sub-basement, the stairwells and floors looked nothing like a hospital. It was all huge, industrial overhead grey painted pipes, boilers and chain link storage cages. As we descended, our ranks became smaller as each woman reached her salle de montage.

With my brilliantly well developed claustrophobia, being in the third level below ground was already beginning to trigger my inevitable panic attack. And then we came to my MRI room. The grim intern opened the door and there, standing ready to shove me into the tube, was a monster. Picture something between Alien and the creature from Where the Wild Things Are. Yeah, adorably, pants wetingly scary.

My reaction, there in dreamland was “christ almighty and what the fuck — I’m outta here!”  And then I woke up.

So then, what do I gather from this little nighttime horror show?
A) I need to start my chill out meditation exercises early (my MRI is on September 11th) this year.
B) Must get my ‘script for lorazapam  refilled
C) I guess, while I’m still angsty about this MRI crap, I’m doing OK. My reaction to the monster was more annoyance than fear.
Yea me.
“You learned to run from what you feel, and that's why you have nightmares. To deny is to invite madness. To accept is to control.”
Megan Chance, The Spiritualist 
“I really like it when a bad dream doesn't scare you...it inspires you instead'.”
Fwah Storm

Monday, August 25, 2014

Honeysuckle Rose

Seen on Saturday’s trike ride — that’s a Cy Twombly-ish sky. N'est-ce pas? 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In Word Land this morning I once again reaped the bennie of my throwing-junk-at-the-wall-and-maybe-some-will-stick method of play. Sometimes it does. Stick that is.

I had the letters and position on my Words with Friends board to play Thebes, one of the famed cities of antiquity, the capital of the ancient Egyptian empire at its heyday.

Awesome! Oh wait...proper nouns aren’t accepted. Merde! I didn’t want to lose the triple word score or the triple letter boon under the H (bringing me nine not just three points) so I figured I'd just try thebe, mebbe that’s a word. And HUZZAH it was and the Crazy Cat Lady picks up 48 points!

What’s a thebe you ask?
Thebe may refer to:
  • Any of several female characters in Greek mythology - see List of mythological figures named Thebe
  • Thebe (moon), a moon of Jupiter
  • Thebe, a unit of currency in Botswana - see Botswana pula
  • Copidosoma thebe, a wasp parasitic on caterpillars - see Copidosoma#Species
Clyde, our first
A river birch for mia madre
OK, no way I’d have known the money thing or the //shudder// wasp bit. I feel like I cheated now. *sigh*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Trees, you know I’m a tree hugging freak, right? I strongly, wicked firmly even, believe that just about everyone can stand to add, at bare min, a couple more trees. The planet, WE, need more of those air cleaning, energy conserving, oxygen providing, home providing babes.

Why do I bring this all up this morning? Well, boyhowdy, Jen and Oni gave me yet another god-yur-old-now prezzie — a river birch! YEA! I’ve been wanting to plant a birch in Mother’s honor (it was her fav tree) ever since she took that early AM, Paradiso bound train.

Boom. Done.

Our new, fabulous bairn joins the Chinese red maple, planted for Oni’s mother a few years back, the two dwarf pines we put in for Mary Ann and Clyde — the formerly wee blue spruce, our first Christmas tree here in Valhalla. He’s getting to be a big boy now.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
before
after
I’m also a big fan of honeysuckle. Day-um that shit smells dreamy AND it’s beautiful. Our neighbor, to the back of us, had the MOST amazing bushes. They ran the length of her driveway and enveloped the nasty-ass chain link fence that runs between our yards. Over the last two summers the shrubs have grown mega huge — they became the hedge equivalent of the Fantastic Four's Thing. Tremendous! Sure, it now overshadowed our thin flower garden but, hells bells mon ami, this was one mind bendingly stunning Super Honeysuckle. Just astronomically gorgeous.

And then, then, for some unfathomable reason, our neighbor cut it all down. I don’t understand. It’s her yard, her right but...but...damn I’m sad that it’s gone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Honey Suckle Rose performed by Emmy Lou Harris and Willie Nelson

Sunday, August 24, 2014

Mood Indigo

Or vermilion maybe...

What's your favorite color — a popular question when I was a kid. Still is I guess. Hells it comes up in so many of those damned BuzzFeed quizzes. Ya know, the ones I'm addicted to? I suppose it’s a reasonable, if lame conversation starter. Certainly better than what’s your sign or Batman or Superman — who’s better.

When I was a kid, I laid claim to yellow — a big summer morning bright sun yellow. Was that really my heart of hearts? Sure. On some days anyway. Other days it was red — the red of fire engines, strawberries and Red Emperor tulips.

But at 5 I was expected to have just one cherished hue and be all faithful and loyal to it. Why? Doesn’t it stand to reason that, just as the weather changes from day to day, so would my allegiance to something so mystically, buoyantly Delphic?

Besides, red was my older sister’s choice and I couldn’t have the same one. She’d appropriated it already.

Do I have a fav now?  Sure and at the risk of sounding Palin-esque — it's all of them. Just like when I was a snot nosed kiddle, the color I like best depends on the day.

The deep purple shadows of the clouds on a dawn struggling to rise. The dusty lavender of Easter grass. The wondrous, cimmerian shade of eggplants. My Saint Mary’s Academy T shirt!

Yellow again — roses, tulips and my big sunflowers! The bottomless, vast red of rubies and garnets. The absolute black of my sweet Coco!

Orange — from that brill fruit color to the color of French Burnt Peanuts MMMMMMMMMMMMMM!

Green. Green of deep mysterious primordial forests and that sunny new young, grass color. Ocean green!

And blue! Blue skies! Sea blue! Blueberries! Blue jays!

Yeah, I could go on and on and on and then some.
Colors Passing Through Us  (the rest of this awesome poem can be found at the link)
~ Marge Piercy
Purple as tulips in May, mauve
into lush velvet, purple
as the stain blackberries leave
on the lips, on the hands,
the purple of ripe grapes
sunlit and warm as flesh.

Every day I will give you a color,
like a new flower in a bud vase
on your desk. Every day
I will paint you, as women
color each other with henna
on hands and on feet.
Mood Indigo — Duke Ellington

Saturday, August 23, 2014

Gun

Not unlike Tbogg, Kevin was raised in a home where hunting was a thing.

He even used one once to scare off a burglar. Teenaged Kevin was alone and asleep in bed (his mother was out) when he woke to the sound of an intruder. He managed to find his old hunting rifle, burst into the hallway with all the boom and bluster he could stir up (in an attempt to seem larger and not alone) and roared at the fellow to “get the fuck out before I shoot."

It was unloaded but Mister B&E artist didn’t know that.

What’s key here is that Kevin had the presence of mind to bark and bellow, to appear lethal and menacing but not BE lethal, unlike Theodore Wafer, George Zimmerman, Michael Dunn or any of the other murderous asswipes with big warrior hero complexes.

I too was home alone when a couple of robberies/home invasions happened. I slept through one and successfully hid during the second.

In any case, in one of those just found old letters, Kevin rants about guns. He was a Hebrew/Arabic Linguist — why should he have to carry one, dammit!? Being in the military though, they were kinda inevitable.
Back to guns—do you realize that I have to carry one sometimes?! All the people I work with are thrilled about guns (ick). They were not amused when I “accidentally” dropped mine in the new cement sidewalk. My luck though, they issued me a new one.

You should have seen me at “gun class”. Actually, we’re supposed to call these weapons. You know the line — they tell you to grab your crotch with one hand and hold your bang-bang in the other and repeat “this is my gun, this is my weapon, etc.” I, of course, being ever decorous, refused to fondle myself in public (or pubic). Hence, I still don’t remember what you call the little nasties (guns — not cocks!). The women in the class were not thrilled with that bit either.
Geez, just give me a gun and I’ll ward off the hordes of godless commies. Actually, the world is safe from me. I caused so much trouble in “gun class” that I was kicked out on the last day. I can still shoot better than any of them — old competitive habits die hard — but since I was kicked out, I’m not allowed to have bullets.

Aw, I’m heartbroken! *sob* hack!

I still have to carry it sometimes — just for show. Anybody tries anything funny and I’m supposed to pretend it’s loaded and fake them out (he’s got good experience with this ruse). All well and good as long as they don’t notice the bubble gum I got caught in the cylinder (it jumped out of my mouth — honest! Actually, if I’d ever oiled the thing like I’m supposed to, the gum wouldn’t have welded itself to the metal. Oh well.)

I’m still trying to get them to take it away from me altogether. Yesterday I tied a string to it and drug it around the office as my “pet.” I figure that, by tomorrow, they’ll have decided to take it away. Yea! Then they’ll probably send me to “knife class.”
From the Mother Jones article 10 Pro-Gun Myths, Shot Down:
Myth #2: Guns don't kill people—people kill people.
Fact-check: People with more guns tend to kill more people—with guns. The states with the highest gun ownership rates have a gun murder rate 114% higher than those with the lowest gun ownership rates. Also, gun death rates tend to be higher in states with higher rates of gun ownership. Gun death rates are generally lower in states with restrictions such as assault-weapons bans or safe-storage requirements. Update: A recent study looking at 30 years of homicide data in all 50 states found that for every one percent increase in a state's gun ownership rate, there is a nearly one percent increase in its firearm homicide rate.
Go read all ten. Really. 

Friday, August 22, 2014

Melancholy Baby

Kevin kindly illustrated one of his neurology appointments for me
Well THIS was bound to happen. While sorting out those thousand and three boxes of my old photos and papers I found some letters from Kevin. You know — Kevin Alexander Scott , my first, bestest, jesus-I-can’t-believe-he-puts-up-with-me friend? Yeah him, the dude who exited the planet 23 years ago, leaving me with a nasty-ass,chronic case of Mega Sorrow. (There's no cure for this, it seems. I wanna know where, WHERE are the damned telethons!)

Bastard.

I thought I had all his letters buried deep, in one fat 9x12 envelope down in the studio somewhere. Apparently though they're littered throughout the house.

In one missive, written while he was stationed in Greece, he spoke of when the tune Time Warp from Rocky Horror Picture Show began playing on the office radio. Now, back in college we’d go see that on far too many Saturday nights to count. When we bothered to dress up (beyond the obligatory raincoats) he’d be Riff-Raff and I’d be Magenta (Jesus Clairoled Christ, I loved her hair).

It was a thing, even in our small, conservative Western Pennsylvanian college town. The theater was always full or close to it.

Meanwhile, back at Kevin's letter from Greece:
Time Warp from RHPS came on the radio. I’m singing along and everyone in the office is looking at me like I’m the definitive herpes carrier, when we notice this Navy captain also singing along. I asked him if he’d seen it. His reply? “Once or twice or 63 times...so far.”

What a shock — this guy is 50, at least, and has kids my age and he’s seen it 63 times? What a pervert! (Kevin meant that as a compliment)

My god — what will we feel like at 50? Will we age gracefully (so far NO) or become odd crackpots that don’t fit in? The latter does sound like more fun, doesn’t it? 1983 (oh no!!) the year we mark (drum roll, voice of god booming) A QUARTER OF A CENTURY OLD — antiques!!! Oh no!! I’m having an age crisis at 24 — I’ll never make it.
And he didn’t. Verdammt nochmal. At least.

Aging gracefully — I suppose back then we thought that meant being like Grace Kelly and Jimmy Stewart. Effortlessly calm, composed, uncontroversial, mature and...ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. Here I am, 23 years after Kevin had the supreme audacity to croak on me and, have to say, I believe I’ve continued on in our “Lucy and Viv on LSD” (as Kevin dubbed us) fashion — sans the acid that is.

A coupla little known Rocky Horror facts (more at the link):
Steve Martin auditioned to play Brad, but was passed over for Barry Bostwick, who had received a Tony nomination in 1972 for creating the role of Danny Zuko in Grease.

Rolling Stones frontman Mick Jagger asked to play Frank-N-Furter in the film. The creative team turned him down in favor of the musical’s original star, Tim Curry.

Thursday, August 21, 2014

The Book Report

a good friend tells of his great summer read
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A few days ago, and with only a week until classes start, I thought: I should read a novel, the only other thing I read all summer having been McCullough’s Truman — a great whale of a thing that educated, but didn’t much entertain. Truman himself being, well, simply too amiable a subject; and, too, where once I read novels by the wheelbarrow-full, for the past decade or so I’ve immersed myself in non-fiction, making up for a misspent education. #$@&%*!-ing poetry. Seventeenth-century DEVOTIONAL poetry and all the attendant criticism, the oblique talmudic mutterings of scholars quick and dead. Now, that's no way to spend your youth and squander your manly vigor in the springtime of your life.

Uh, in any case, I reached, with barely any hesitation, for Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall and a fourth go-around. It’s that good. On so many levels. But most of all, the sheer literary; every phrase a gem, paragraph after paragraph leaves me gasping, with no small envy: “how TF does she DO that?” And a raft of characters who are, if not by any stretch amiable, magnificently human in their aspirations and their forever falling short of the same.

I am reminded of why—aside from the enchantment of the amazingly well-wrought words—I read novels, or should be reading more of them. I’ve suggested to Celeste, in describing our relationship, that she’s psychological, I’m sociological; she cares deeply, very, about individuals, has a genuine sympathy for them as persons. Whereas, as I’ve got older, I’m afraid I see them as demographic units. Or collections of opinions. Not very flattering, I suppose. No, I’m not all THAT callous; but the novel IS a cure for that sort of thing. You know the old dictum: “don’t tell, show”; at the hands of a master—e.g., Mantel, little is told, everything is shown, and in remarkably nuanced fashion. And while that demands much of a reader, all that focus on and exhausting interpretation of detail—kinda like law school exam hypotheticals, come to think of it—the habit carries over, off the page and into our own daily semi-fictional universes.

In other words, novels teach us to read people.

No accident that Wolf Hall should have me thinking along these pragmatic lines; Mantel’s hero, the generally maligned Thomas NOT OLIVER Cromwell, is, more than anything else, a pragmatic man—a first rate drafter of contracts, no less, which made my lawyerly heart go all a-flutter this time around, and a reader of people (and truly sympathetic ur-capitalist, by the way). Robert Caro cites a line of LBJ’s in his bio which runs something along the lines of, “give me half a minute alone with a man, and I’ll tell you what he wants—or is it fears?—the most.” That’s Mantel’s Cromwell. And that, a cynic might say, is why times spent reading novels is time well-spent.

A New Surprise Benefit of Cutting Lead Pollution

a guest post by the awesome Green Miles 
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 Studies have shown a strong connection between the phase-out of lead in gasoline starting in the mid-1970s and a plunge in violent crime in the following decades. As Kevin Drum reports at Mother Jones, a new study is connecting lower levels of childhood lead exposure to a later drop in the teen pregnancy rate:

For years conservatives bemoaned the problem of risky and violent behavior among children and teens of the post-60s era, mostly blaming it on the breakdown of the family and a general decline in discipline. Liberals tended to take this less seriously, and in any case mostly blamed it on societal problems. In the end, though, it turned out that conservatives were right. It wasn't just a bunch of oldsters complaining about the kids these days. Crime was up, drug use was up, and teen pregnancy was up. It was a genuine phenomenon and a genuine problem.

But liberals were right that it wasn't related to the disintegration of the family or lower rates of churchgoing or any of that. After all, families didn't suddenly start getting back together in the 90s and churchgoing didn't suddenly rise. But teenage crime, drug use, and pregnancy rates all went down. And down. And down.

Most likely, there was a real problem, but it was a problem no one had a clue about. We were poisoning our children with a well-known neurotoxin, and this toxin lowered their IQs, made them into fidgety kids, wrecked their educations, and then turned them into juvenile delinquents, teen mothers, and violent criminals. When we got rid of the toxin, all of these problems magically started to decline.
Today, we're debating whether to cut the toxic heavy metal and carbon pollution from coal by shutting down the oldest, dirtiest coal-fired power plants. But the benefits aren't hidden - we know coal kills thousands of people every year and causes thousands more asthma attacks in children.

Electricity rates and jobs are obviously important, but why do reporters talk almost exclusively about those, and hardly at all about these very real impacts on our lives? When did human health become a sidebar story?
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crossposted at The Green Miles 

Wednesday, August 20, 2014

Expeditions

Team Grant on our maiden voyage to invade the young Green Miles' domain
I found, during my excavate and review efforts, pics from one of the trips we all took to see the young Green Miles.

Miles went to to Syracuse which seemed a zillion miles away particularly since we didn’t have a car back then. What we’d do is this — rent a van so that:
A) The Amazing (and very tall) Bob could stretch out to the max
and
B) Jen, Oni, Dave and Joe could come too.
Miles has a big extended, oddball family. We travel in herds.

Wickedly cool sculptures outside the Everson Museum in Syracuse
Since Miles was a dorm dweller, we all stayed at a hotel. It was kind of funny (what are we? Team Miles? Is this a home or away game?) and fun. After visiting with the poor boy (“who is this band of disheveled, foul mouthed mutants crowding around our RA?,” I imagined his charges and friends thinking) we’d trundle en masse back to our temp digs. After stopping for snacks and trashy mags we’d file into our rooms.

Joe and Dave, after mebbe the first expedition, elected not to bunk with TAB and I again. Apparently we’d get MUCH too silly for them. Ya know that was bound to happen — TAB and I’d take a little toke, turn on the cable (CABLE — such a treat!) comedy movies and start our own riff fest. Yeah, we’re annoying as all hell but FUN!

Jen and Oni were our roomies after that. Yup, Joe and Dave weren't entranced by our clear and obvious charms. This worked out just dandy apart from the fact that TAB always devoured all the Nantucket chocolate chip cookies before Jen could snatch more than a couple (I had to buy these in bulk for the High Metabolism Twins).

Other cavalcades were to Plattsburgh, New York where the Green Miles was news director and talent wrangler at WPTZ. From there he moved, briefly, to Providence, Rhode Island and then down to D.C. Unfortunately, life had the temerity to interfere and Team Miles never made it to either of these digs.

Now though, he’s the Senior Communications Manager for the National Wildlife Federation and he’s back here in Massachusetts. We get to see him, his lovely wife Bethanie and their wee bairn Olivia without having to rent a van, book a bunch ‘o’ hotel rooms, hire cat sitters OR annoy the crap out of each other.

Awesome!