Bad Girls

 “They don’t put pretty people like me in jail,” said the imprisoned criminal. 

Elizabeth Holmes, who said she’s too pretty (which translates as white, blonde, monied and trim) for the slammer has finally entered the prison population. She’s at FPC Bryan in Texas—100 miles east of Austin and 100 north of Houston. It’s a minimum security federal prison. I only mention it but that part of the country gets obscenely, humidly hot in summer and, waddya know, it’s just about that time of year. For a chicky used to San Francisco weather 90º temps with 94% humidity, (and that's today—technically still spring), is gonna be a touch uncomfortable.

Good.

Betty (or Liz as she wants to be known or that scheming, narcissistic twat as I like to think of her) made sure to get hitched in 2019, the year following her indictment and, strategically, dropped two sprog.

People have kids for a lot of reasons but the timing of her pregnancies is suspish to say the very least. The first one came mere weeks before her trial began in 2021. She was heavily up the spout with the second during her sentencing hearing.

Look at me! I’m not just a filthy rich, pretty white woman, I’m a married lady and a MOM!

Maybe her young-blonde-white-rich-pregnant-MOM check would’ve been cashed if she hadn’t scammed dangerous investors like war criminal Henry Kissinger and hate-for-profit, democracy assassin Rupert Murdoch. They’re not exactly warm, fuzzy fools. Hells bells, she was trying to run a con on the boys who oversee the four horsemen of the apocalypse. They’re not exactly the forgiving type.

Holmes’ kids won’t be relegated to the vagaries of the child welfare system. Her husband comes from money and, with his MIT undergrad degree, won’t need to worry about securing gainful employment. I imagine he’ll hire a nanny and go back to building his career (he’s 30 to Holmes’ 39) while attempting to shake off the taint of his poor marriage decision. Maybe Billy will find a new, less criminal mummy for little William and Invicta.

In other failed white women news, there's

Skitter is unimpressed with these twats

Tara Reade’s latest grab for headlines and relevance.

You remember her perhaps? She’s the tinybrained bint who accused Mister Rogers (AKA Uncle Joe Biden) of sexual assault—something that never happened. 

She’s fucked off to Russia now, saying that she “just didn’t want to walk home and walk into a cage or be killed, which is basically my two choices.”

Ummm, Dear, your 15 minutes of fame left you in the dust back in 2020. You're no more than a forgotten fraudster.

Maria Butina, the Russian spy now a member of the State Duma (equivalent of the U.S. House of Representatives?), is helping Tara get settled in and obtain Russian citizenship.

You remember Maria, don’t you? She’s the broad who plotted to use political groups, including the NRA, to establish "back channel" communication with official figures with the ultimate aim of influencing US foreign policy in favour of Russia.  

Interestingly, Maria did time but her ex-boyfriend, who pled guilty to fraudulent investment schemes  (like our friend “Liz”) was pardoned by the Big Orange Asshole. 

If Maria had a dick or bleach blonde hair would Trump have pardoned her too?

43

43 years ago I graduated from college.

The year was 1980.

• Republicans crafted the complete stone fiction that Ronnie Raygun "rescued" the hostages held at the American Embassy in Iran. How? By giving Ayatollah Khomeini a sharp, flinty glare and talking Clint Eastwood tough. Sure, that was sooooo believable (if you were profoundly dimbulbed and got all your news from filthy swindlers like Olly North. FYI, most Americans were).
  
• John Lennon was murdered.
• Mount St. Helens erupted killing 57 people.
• Post-It Notes were invented.
• On the charts and and my 8 track tape player? Rolling Stones-Emotional Rescue, Queen-Another One Bites the Dust and Talking Heads-Once in a Lifetime

The Macintosh 128K, the first Apple Macintosh personal computer, wouldn’t hit the world for another four years.

Goddamn, I’m feeling old.

43 years before 1980 it was 1937. My father had one candle on his birthday cake that year. My mother had 10.  In that year:

• Amelia Earhart disappeared over the Pacific Ocean during a flight around the world
  
• The Hindenburg had a wee accident.
  
• The Memorial Day Massacre happened. This was when police in Chicago shot and killed ten unarmed demonstrators during a steel workers strike. No cops were held responsible—it was judged "justifiable homicide."
• The Hobbit was first published.
• Top tunes in 1937? Count Basie’s One O’Clock Jump, Benny Goodman’s Sing, Sing, Sing, Billie Holiday’s I’ve Got My Live to Keep Me Warm.

World War II was two years off and the U.S. wouldn’t join in all the horror until 1941.
A lot can happen in 43 years. Where will we be 43 years from now, in 2066?

• Dunno ‘bout you but, by then, I’ll have been sleeping with the fishies for at least a couple of decades.
• Will Valhalla be under water? Will the West Coast be nothing but desert? Will Florida have vanished like Atlantis (a stupid Atlantis)? Probably.
  
• Might humans have colonized Mars? Not if MusKKK (AKA Space Karen) is at all involved.
• Will biotech have advanced to the point that organ donors are unnecessary? Need a heart or lung transplant? Ring up Draper or Sanofi and have one delivered by tea time.
• Will there finally be a cure for the summertime blues?
  

Frankly, I’ll be flat-out stunned if 2066 rolls around and humans still exist at all. Given that I’ll be all deady and shit, how will I know to be stunned or not?  Like this—I’ll be looking in from my alternate paradisal dimension. You know, it’s the afterlife locale ruled by cats, where snacks, naps and brill books (by Catherynne Valente, Louise Penny and Martin Millar to name just a few ambrosial authors) are the general plan for each and every day.

After Life

 Had a dream last night that I was dead and there was, in fact, a happening afterlife. It wasn’t a traditional heaven/hell sort of thing, no. Post-life was just a different dimension. From my new stiff-state I could check in on my former live-state but couldn’t interact in any way. Possibly this was due to all the planet's mediums being on their lunch break—no one was on duty to take my call?

Annoying but okay, fine. I started to explore Dead World and found that I was in a hospital. I had outpatient doc appointments and had to hurry up so’s I’d be on time.

Lemme just point out one little fucked up thing here—in the dream, I’m dead and STILL have zillions of big-ass med appointments. Even when I’m no longer sucking down oxygen, I’m at fucking Mass General Hospital! Could the universe, please, cut me some fucking slack?

The upside of this new dimension was that I didn’t need to walk. I got around like Casper—floating, flying and just zipping through the halls and walls. That was fun.

Possibly my weird-ass dream was precipitated by yesterday’s events? Hillel and I sat out on the porch in the abundant direct sunshine having mega deep convos about god, family, art and a bunch of other stuff. It’s the first time I’ve spent more than a minute outside in the scorching, almost-summer sunshine in a few years. Why the sol avoidance? Eh, I’ve been busy ducking COVID and having a bazillion neurosurgeries. Also, as The Amazing Bob put it, “we shelled out a lot of dough to buy this nice cottage, why would I sit outside of it?”

The point I’m getting at here is that, all that time sitting in the sun earned me a nasty sunburn. Hard to smoothly sleep with dreams of fluffy, sugar plum kittens when you’re a crispy critter.

Yes, my dead dream is totally connected to Hillel, sol’s blazing rays and me forgetting about the existence of and need for sunscreen. Really!

Things You Should Know

Today is the one year anniversary of Cake entering our lives. Our little panther has, I believe, settled in nicely. He has his routines:

• When Ten has a smoke on the front porch, Cake sits at the door waiting for him to come back in. Cake then flops out at his feet, waiting for pats and skriches.
  

• Cake waits by the front door for Jen to return from her hard day in the print mines. Our boy accompanies her upstairs for a visit with me. Afterwards he escorts her back downstairs so she won’t get lost during her travels back to Casa Skitter.

• While I’m being a slug from Planet Sloth, our angelic beast naps at my side. He always lets me know when I need to put down the book, get the fuck up and move around a bit. How does he do this? He jumps off the bed and stares at me fixedly. Cake walks toward the door, looks back at me—clearly saying “c’mon, let’s go.” He repeats this until I get off my ass and follow him.

Such a good communicator. I’m pretty sure he’s part sheepdog and understands that his job is to herd us.
~~~

* Brian Eno is John Cage’s little brother or cousin or something. HONEST!
* King Crimson were time travelers. They came to us from the distant future. We are grateful.
* Emerson, Lake and Palmer were aliens from another, clearly more advanced, planet.
* Frank Zappa was a genius with a great sense of humor. Captain Beefheart was his badly behaved punk buddy. I think...
* Long John Baldry, contrary to what you may *think* you know or have read in Wikipedia, was not a pale white young Englishman but an elderly Black blues man from Mississippi.
* Tina Turner didn’t die—she was transported back to her home dimension (whose atmosphere is rife with energy, hope, strength, music and joy). She’s their queen—they missed her. Of course.

Also, Terry Bozzio and Micky Hart—mmm mmm mmmmmm. Percussion, yeah Babies. Quite possibly, these two gents are gods.
~~~
Peanuts have a lot of protein so peanut butter must then have a lot of protein. Protein is essential for a balanced diet.

Dark chocolate is good for us human types. It’s chockful of antioxidants (tied to lowered risk of heart disease) AND it has groovy vitamins and minerals too.

It follows then that peanut butter/dark chocolate chunk cookies are bountifully good for me and I should have some for breakfast.

Obviously!
~~~
One more reason to be pissed off that I’m deaf—Tina Turner doing Zeppelin’s Whole Lotta Love. I can’t hear this and that’s making me more than a little annoyed and sullen this morning.

I only mention it but I'd be a whole lot less pissy and unpleasant if I had another peanut butter/choco chunk cookie. World peace would be great too but I'll settle for a cookie.

Status Check

What if this, my current mobility and balance, is as good as it gets?

This past winter was hard in that I didn’t gain any ground. I was going gangbusters in November—able to walk farther, with less tippiness and pedal on the elliptical longer. Each week, seemingly, I hit a new high. I figured I was only a few months (tops!) away from ditching the rollator and just using a cane.

December came and knocked me way the fuck down. I had to work extra intensely hard to keep from losing every last one of those hard-won November victories. In January and February, I snatched back some, not all, of November’s progress. March and April were better still. May has felt like another colossal, disappointing struggle just to stay on this meager plateau.

I just checked the How’m I Doin’ step app on my phone and got a wicked surprise. Yes, this past December was not stellar and my assessment of January and February is accurate. In March though, I actually hit November’s heights again (YEA!) and May? Despite how it’s felt, I’m actually walking/pumping more than I did during November and March’s peaks.

So, apparently I’m back, Babies! I can start dreaming of getting around with a cane versus walker again. YIPPEE! While my strength and endurance is improving, I need to do more about my wonk-ass balance. Perhaps, Doc Plotkin can prescribe another round of outpatient physical therapy with equilibrium improvent as the main focus.

Two years ago, I was in a wheelchair—couldn’t walk at all or climb stairs. Even rolling over in bed was a challenge. My bean surgeon told me that my brain wasn’t communicating with my left leg anymore. I needed to get them talking again. Seemed impossible and yet…here I am.

Here’s more good news—I got weighed at my last check in. I’ve now lost more than 30 of the motherfucking pounds I put on while I was in hospital/rehab hell. I want to shed another 15. As long as I don’t give in to my tempura, lasagna, CAKE, ice cream and fried food (fish and chips,mmmmmmm) cravings, I’ll get there.

But, but, but I WANT cake and I feel like I deserve some. Don’t you?

Lastly, to answer my what if  question—NO this is not the best I'll ever be. It's devastatingly unlikely I'll ever climb Kilimanjaro or run a 10k but, seriously now, was there ever even a wisp of a chance that I'd do either. I mean, honestly, why sweat and struggle to hike up a mountain when I can look at a bunch of lovely pics without tripping over rocks and creating stinky perspiration? And running? For Bast's sake, the lime wedge will fall out of my martini glass if I do that!

Tits and Pics

Watching a show last night—one of the main characters is in hospital, near death from a mysterious illness.  Her hair and makeup are perfect and, though she’s lying flat on her back, her boobs are conical, stand-in g straight up, pointing at the ceiling. She’s defying gravity—rocking the whole Blonde Ambition look.

Hell's bells, my very own unenhanced airbags wouldn’t do that at 20 or 40 let alone now. Was the actor wearing a steel reinforced bra under her johnny or do silicone implants just not move—always pointing skyward? Seriously, it looked like she was smuggling baby pyramids.

This was in the, generally, fun show Eureka. It’s a comedy/drama about science geeks, their accidentally life threatening hijinks and the town’s new sheriff—not a science guy but definitely savvy. I like the show, firstly, because Joe Morton is one of the leads—Morton is an awesome actor (I’ve had a crush on him since Brother From Another Planet). Also, with the exception of this ridiculous breasticle move, the women actors aren’t relegated to secretary, wife, mother, girlfriend roles. They’re scientists, doctors, high level managers, villains and saviors just like their vaginally deficient fellow thespians. It’s refreshing…except for the stalagmite tit action.

Alright, I’ve got nothing else to say today. Have some pics. Yur welcome.

Muses

In Greek and Roman mythology the Muses were the daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne. They were in charge of inspiring the arts and sciences. Also, they were goddesses who danced a lot.

Calliope was the muse of eloquence and epic, heroic poetry. Somehow, this is also the name for the steam-whistle organ. Its shrill voice can be heard for miles and is played at circuses and county fairs to pull in the marks. Make it make sense, please.

Clio was the muse of history and creativity. She was also the goddess of memory. History, memory and creativity. I’m guessing this would be Obama’s muse. He knows history, has an excellent memory and a deeply creative mind.

Erato, muse of lyric poetry, particularly erotic poetry. Given that this sort of work is/was often intended to be sung (as in song lyrics, duh), I’ve just got to figure that Erato was whispering in Trent Reznor’s ear when he wrote Closer.

Euterpe was the muse of music and lyric poetry. I guess Euterpe specialized more in non sexy songs. Possibly John Lennon’s muse? Robert Plant’s? Paul Simon’s?

Melpomene was the muse of tragedy. Sounds like a total bummer BUT, c’mon, have you seen Warhol’s Death and Disaster series? What about Francis Bacon’s Screaming Pope  or, frankly, any of Bacon’s grizzly work. Tragedy can be deep, transformational and inspiring.

Polyhymnia—muse of sacred poetry and hymns. She’s also considered to be the muse of geometry, meditation and agriculture.

Geometry AND hymns? Ya know, I can see meditation and agriculture going together but math and some of the crappiest songs ever written? Sure, there’s Handel's Messiah,  the Hallelujah Chorus and all that but, seriously now, most church music blows major chunks. The Old Rugged Cross? How Great Thou Art? Please, mes amis, please—that’s some seriously dull, uninspiring bullshit. Amazing Grace? If Aretha’s singing it, oh baby, yes. If not? meh.

I feel bad for Polyhymnia. It’s like she was the last muse in line when Zeus was handing out responsibilities. She got stuck with all the disparate bits.

Terpsichore was the one who oversaw dance. She was also considered the mother of mermaids. But…but…mermaids can’t dance. Oh wait, as long as they’re in water, of course they can.

Thalia was the muse of comedy. Robin Williams, Richard Pryor and Mel Brooks undoubtedly had/have deep personal relationships with her.

Urania was the muse of mathematics and of all the exact sciences. You know, physics, chemistry, astronomy—that sort of thing. How's come there are three muses for poetry but only one for science and just two for math?

Note bene, there is NO muse for painting or sculpture and yet there are, again, THREE babes in charge of poetry. What the fucking hell Zeus? Mnemosyne, you got anything to say on this?

Fighting Back

Does it make me a bad person that I’m smiling when I read all the stories about orcas attacking yachts?

No, it does not.

Scientists think a traumatized orca initiated the assault on boats after a "critical moment of agony" and that the behavior is spreading among the population through social learning.
~~~
Orcas have attacked and sunk a third boat off the Iberian coast of Europe, and experts now believe the behavior is being copied by the rest of the population.

Three orcas (Orcinus orca), also known as killer whales, struck the yacht on the night of May 4 in the Strait of Gibraltar, off the coast of Spain, and pierced the rudder. "There were two smaller and one larger orca," skipper Werner Schaufelberger told the German publication Yacht. "The little ones shook the rudder at the back while the big one repeatedly backed up and rammed the ship with full force from the side."

Schaufelberger said he saw the smaller orcas imitate the larger one. "The two little orcas observed the bigger one's technique and, with a slight run-up, they too slammed into the boat." Spanish coast guards rescued the crew and towed the boat to Barbate, but it sank at the port entrance. (source)

So this is a thing now. The orcas are sick of human’s callous, self-obsessed, assholian ways and they’re not gonna take it anymore. We’ve pissed off the wrong fish (errrr, marine mammal).

Hey, I betcha orcas heard about the castle doctrine and stand your ground shit in the US. They’re simply doing the same thing.

In other Orcas versus Stupid Human news

Orcas chased a yacht during bad weather off the coast of Morocco, sparking fears among British tourists on board that they would have to abandon the boat.
~~~
There have been more than 100 incidents involving orcas and boats in the Strait since 2020. (source)

Abandoning ship in bad weather while being attacked by killer whales? Gee, sounds like a great way to fucking die. I wonder if the Brits on board realized that orcas, in the ocean, have the home field advantage. Also, did these folks not get the memo about yachts and the orca not being besties? I’d have thought the 100 ‘incidents’ would make the rich people boating news. Wouldn’t you think that sensible, smart people would, if nothing else, understand that taking their fancy schmancy barge out for a pleasure cruise in pissed off whaley waters was, ya know, not so bright?

It’s taken a very long time but maybe, just maybe, this is the beginning. Nature’s mad as hell and not gonna take it anymore.  Keiko’s descendants, (AKA Willy of Free Willy) are pissed and all you yachting motherfuckers are going down!

Sick Days

Can I still take sick days when my only boss is me and, apart from seemingly endless rehab exercising, I no longer punch a time clock?

Yesterday, I took a 'sick day' despite not feeling particularly ill or being in exceptional pain. It was a mental health day. Mental health days are good and necessary. This is true, despite the fact that I’m doing little (compared to a healthy person’s daily activity) and it feels, on most days, that my progress is infinitesimal.

What’d I do with my day? I got up (eventually), had a shower (which should still count as exercise, dammit!), got dressed, went next door for a bit to visit/annoy Jen and Oni. Mostly, I laid in bed reading, petting my boy Cake and bothering Ten with my warped sense of humor. It was awesome.

Why do I find myself in a fog of guilt about this though?

• I normally do my rehab exercising five to six days out of seven. In taking yesterday off, I only worked out four of the past seven days. How can I realistically expect to, eventually, walk sans rollator if I slack like this?!

• I was raised Catholic. Though I dumped the church billions of years ago (when I was a teen—back when disco was hot and pterodactyls still graced the sky), the guilt reflex remains strong.

I need to chill the fuck out. One extra day off every now and then is NOT going to kill my momentum (such as it is) or cancel out the modest gains I’ve made. Really (she says in an attempt to talk herself into rationality).

Balance and some dark chocolate—that's what I need.

My Buddy Beelzebub

Here’s one big thing that I miss now that I don’t live in the city:

SatanCon

No, this isn’t ComiCon for devil worshipers. It’s a gathering of members of The Satanic Temple.

Members say they don't actually believe in a literal Lucifer or Hell. Instead, they say Satan is a metaphor for questioning authority, and grounding your beliefs in science. The sense of community around these shared values makes it a religion, they say. (source)

So, not the same as the conventions thrown by the obscenely hypocritical, wealthy, evangelical, big box, predatory, christian-in-name-only asswipes. I expect SatanCon had fewer narcissistic, greedheaded, grifting pedophiles.

I’m just pissed that I missed out on the chance to get one of this year's t-shirts.

Speaking of Satan, I was watching one of the last episodes of Lucifer last night. In the final scene, he and his daughter sing/play (piano and guitar) an impromptu duet of the song Bridge Over Troubled Water.

For the first time it really hit me. I’ve always appreciated the lyrics but they describe something that was foreign to me until well into adulthood. As a kid, I didn’t have a bridge.

When you're down and out
When you're on the street
When evening falls so hard
I will comfort you
I'll take your part
Oh, when darkness comes
And pain is all around

Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down

Back when the album came out, I much preferred The Boxer. In my angry, violent and neglectful home, the lyrics spoke to me more clearly.

In the clearing stands a boxer
And a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders
Of every glove that laid him down
Or cut him till he cried out
In his anger and his shame
"I am leaving, I am leaving"
But the fighter still remains

I was a fighter (in a nonviolent way). I survived and I left. So many decades later, the fighter still remains.

In last night's show,  I couldn’t hear Lucifer and his daughter, obviously (for new readers—late deafened adult here), but when they duetted, in the context of the storyline—man, I totally landed in Resonance City.

Ya know who my bridges have been as an adult? The Amazing Bob, Jen, Oni and my beloved Ten. The best thing about childhood? It ends and, if you're smart, you unlearn the shit lessons that were pounded into you. You move on to grow and evolve, to become yourself.

Possessions

I’ve always lived in small spaces. Compact apartments to this tiny cottage. While I would never be considered a minimalist re: home decor and furnishings, I’ve generally managed to avoid the hoarder aesthetic.

Now that Ten has begun emptying the kitchen cabinets in order to begin the demolition part of the renovation, I’m seeing that, pottery-wise, I’ve got WAY TOO MUCH STUFF. Mind you, it’s all lovely stuff with sentimental value BUT… We live in a wee cottage and I’m feeling crowded.

It’s well past time to review and sort my belongings. I’ll start making piles to:

• Give away
• Donate to shelters
• Deliver to Goodwill

and

• SMASH—pieces to be broken up and used in future mosaics

When I was 22, done with college and the carnival, I moved to Boston with a duffel bag and a backpack. That’s it. I had a camping cookware kit, clothes, a book or two, sleeping bag and a spare pair of shoes. It was enough to hold me over until I quit couch surfing and got a place.

The first furniture I bought? A cot, lamp and a cheap aluminum easel. Cardboard boxes served as tables. Trash/sidewalk picked boards and cinder blocks were my bookshelves. Since then I've accumulated an awful lot of crap—some worth keeping and a lot NOT.

With my myriad moves, I’ve had regular opportunities to review and purge. That’s in the past though. I’ve lived here in Valhalla for almost 20 years and am long overdue for another thorough purge-a-thon. Not just the kitchen either.

What to toss/donate/give away? How do I decide?

There’s the ‘does this spark joy’ approach. The ‘have I used or even seen this in the past year’ method. The ‘am I deeply attached to this’ process. Some decisions are easy—they fall into the ‘why do I even have this’ realm.

I’ve bought and made a shit-ton of tiles in my adult life. They all still spark joy (really!). One way to declutter is to use all those little ceramic art pieces in a kitchen backsplash mosaic. Sure, the glass tile look is gorgeous+ but why not use what I’ve already got?

I’ve come to a place where, instead of owning a bunch of belongings, my possessions now own me. That’s fucked up. Letting go of non-essentials (and I decide what is or is not essential) is important. It frees me up, gives me more breathing room. This is the way…and shit.

Your home is living space, not storage space.
~ Francine Jay

Living smaller is a relief.
~ Margareta Magnusson, The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning

Some people believe holding on and hanging in there are signs of great strength. However, there are times when it takes much more strength to know when to let go and then do it.
~ Ann Landers

This applies to both people and things.

Heaven

 For the sake of discussion, let’s say there really is a heaven. You know, the conventionally imagined kind with pearly gates and an angel receptionist in a spotless white cotton tunic checking folks in (or directing them to the other, hell-bound, line. Some folks, like Kenneth Copeland, Franklin Graham and Joel Osteen, will be in for a big fucking surprise.)
There will inevitably be a line of confused people wondering ‘where the fuck am I?’

I gotta ask, is it really heaven if I’ve got to wait in line?

The queue, however, is significantly shorter than you’ll ever see at Disney’s Jungle Cruise, LAX or JFK, at polling places on voting day in nonwhite Georgia or the grocery store on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. Why? Easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for Richie Rich to get past Paradise’s bouncers…and shit. Elon MusKKK won’t make the cut but Warren Buffet will.

That’s good. Also not getting past the velvet ropes? Republicans (goes without saying, doesn’t it), narcissists, pedos, on-the-take and purposely cruel motherfuckers, the NRA, etc. I’m just describing Republicans here, I guess.

What’s it looks like once I get through the door? Well, first there’s orientation where Archangel Sandalphon (who took over the position from the Morningstar when he moved south) assigns me my musical instrument—simply everyone plays in the orchestra or sings in the choir. I want to play trumpet, not flute, this time around—like Bix Beiderbecke or Miles. Angel Zophiel hands out the art supplies.

Someone’s in charge of wardrobe. Contrary to popular belief, in heaven you get to wear whatever you’re most comfortable in. I’ll take yoga pants and baggy t-shirts, thanks. Also, NO bras. In the inferno, on the other hand (tit?), everyone's got to wear an underwire push up bra at all times. Men too.

There’s a menu review. What sort of food can I expect? Well, it’s fucking Heaven isn’t it? I can get anything I want and, best of all, there’ll be NO weight gain. That means I can have ALL the saag paneer, veggie tempura, quiche, veggie burritos, goat cheese, hummus, lasagna, CAKE and pecan pie that I can stuff down my gob. What? That’s the sin of gluttony and a big no-no in heaven? Fuck.

I’ll have hearing in heaven. First things I’m gonna listen to?

• Fanfare for the Common Man
• The 1812 Overture
• Handel's Messiah
• Franz Liszt’s Totentanz (as transcribed for piano)
• Paul Simon’s Rhythm of the Saints
• Led Zeppelin IV
• NIN’s The Downward Spiral
• Talking Head’s Stop Making Sense

This list is, pretty much, endless but you knew that.

There will be books in heaven. With all the time I’ll have, maybe I’ll finally get through Pynchon’s V, Finnegans Wake and Infinite Jest? Hey, it’s heaven—it could happen! Right?

Also cats. It wouldn’t be a proper celestial paradise without our feline benefactors but you knew that already.

Vultures, etc.

 White Scavenger Vulture

Vultures—not particularly attractive birdies. They were, however, gods once.

• There’s Nekhbet, the Egyptian goddess, protector of Upper Egypt and its rulers. 
• Nasr was was the god of vultures who ruled over the deep desert in pre-islamic Arabia.
• Urubutsin was the Brazilian Vulture King and Hoarder of Light
• There are Harpies, also known as the Hounds of Zeus, with the body of a vulture and the head of a woman. They were the personification of storm winds.

I wonder if Cake would like a pet vulture. I’m not exactly scintillating company for him.
~~~
Two days have passed since since the last U.S. mass murder by gun. Beau Wilson, in Farmington, New Mexico, killed three people— Gwendolyn Schofield, Melody Ivie and Shirley Voita. Six people were wounded and the killer was ultimately nailed by police. Beau bought his penis substitute, an AR-15, this past November—one month after turning 18.

Federal law sets a dangerously low minimum age for buying firearms. While the law requires a person to be 21 to purchase a handgun from a licensed firearm dealer, it only requires a person to be 18 to buy a long gun, including an assault weapon, from a dealer. The law is even weaker for purchases from unlicensed sellers, with an 18-year old minimum age for handguns and no minimum age for long guns.  (source)

So, he was too young to buy his own handguns and borrowed his old man’s, which were apparently readily accessible. Wasn’t that thoughtful of dear old dad to leave his guns and ammo where his kid could get them? Give that brainless clod a father of the year trophy!

~~~

The US Secret Service is investigating a break-in at the home of National Security Advisor Jake Sullivan.

Officials are looking into how an apparently intoxicated man was able to break into Mr Sullivan's home, evading security agents stationed outside, according to BBC's US partner CBS News. (source)

So, the Secret Service is investigating their own agents failure to do their fucking job. Again. Are these particular agents part of the Orange Asshole’s faithful brigade?

Maybe the drunk dude who broke into Sullivan’s house was just booze befuddled and not actually a violent dirtbag, dimbulbed MAGAt (an oxymoron, I know). Who knows?
~~~
In book news, I’m now reading Catherynne M. Valente’s Refrigerator Monologues.

The lives of six female superheroes and the girlfriends of superheroes. A ferocious riff on women in superhero comics.

A series of linked stories from the points of view of the wives and girlfriends of superheroes, female heroes, and anyone who’s ever been “refrigerated”: comic book women who are killed, raped, brainwashed, driven mad, disabled, or had their powers taken so that a male superhero’s storyline will progress. (source)

So far, so awesome!

Assorted

In the short story The Dead Interview Margaret Atwood interviews her hero, author George Orwell, through a spiritual medium. This piece alone is worth the cover price of Old Babes in the Wood. I’ll say nothing more, give nothing away beyond this—I think Atwood must be somehow related to Orwell. She’s his wittier grandniece or something. Old Babes in the Wood also has a series of stories about a long together, very much in love couple, Tig and Nell, including how she copes after Tig dies. Yep, I can SO relate.

This collection is a total must read.
~~~
What does neurodivergent mean? According to the Cleveland Clinic:

Neurodivergent is a nonmedical term that describes people whose brains develop or work differently for some reason. This means the person has different strengths and struggles from people whose brains develop or work more typically. While some people who are neurodivergent have medical conditions, it also happens to people where a medical condition or diagnosis hasn’t been identified.

This, pretty much, tells me next to nada. Who makes the call? Am I neurodivergent? I mean, it’s clear (to me at any rate) that I don’t follow the mainstream social paths—never have. If people were sheep, I’m the one outside the herd playing jacks with rando, passing vultures and trash talking with the local fox population.

Is neurodivergent just another, less obviously bullshit way for a group of people to say oh, don’t invite her, she’s not like us? Is it a way for folks, like me, who’ve been pointedly excluded from book clubs, parties and the like, to easily explain rejection? i.e., I’ve got the skills and abilities but can’t get a foot in the door because I’m neurodivergent. What’s the opposite of neurodivergent? Normal—whatever the fuck that means? Normal is a concept which depends entirely on context. Fer instance, in Utah it would be normal to be Mormon. Here in Massachusetts, while not unheard of, being Mormon is very much out of the norm. So then, here at home, members of the Magic Underwear faith would be considered neurodivergent. That’s, of course, if I’m understanding the Cleveland Clinic’s definition correctly—always a crapshoot.
~~~

Where does the slang phrase 23 skidoo come from and what does it mean? It seems there are more than a few possibilities. From The Phrase Finder:

I happened to meet a man who tries to 'keep up' on slang and I asked the meaning of 'Twenty-three!'. He said it was a signal to clear out, run, get away. In his opinion it came from the English race tracks, twenty-three being the limit on the number of horses allowed to start in one race.
     ~~~
'Skiddoo' is another slang term, also originating around the same time and place, meaning much the same as 'skedaddle', that is, 'leave', 'depart', 'get out of here'.
     ~~~
The phrase originated in the Panimint Mountains in Death Valley in the early 1900s. The mining town of Skidoo had 23 saloons and if you were going to go get drunk you would try to get a drink at each of the saloons. This started the phrase of going 23 skidoo if you were going to have a good time. (source)

I always thought it was a way of saying, let’s kick up our heels and go have some fun. So, more in line the mining town’s usage. Maybe I could time travel back to the 1920s and ask someone.

Trigger

No, not the horse.

Do you ever have days or weeks where you’re filled with the tensions, fears and angst that you thought you’d long ago worked through and gotten past? I recently fell into a deep canyon of fear and anxiety, one that I’d spent years climbing out of. What in fuck’s name was I doing back in that scary morass?

A passing wind brought me news of damage being done (and still being done) to people I care about by a clot of assholian vipers (not to diss actual venomous snakes, mind you). Eons ago, I had the distinct misfortune of knowing and being victimized by these same violent, fecal brained blights on humanity. Unsurprisingly, on hearing about the current situation, my bean went all you in danger girl, Danger, Will Robinson, Danger and ESCAPE mode. Trigger alert and shit. I frantically searched my brain for ways that I could protect myself while still offering assistance to the ones currently suffering at said assholian vipers’ hands.

I've, more or less, found a way. Yea me.

Since then, I've calmed the fuck down…mostly. I’m fine—not in any immediate danger. If any shitstorms come my way, I’ll be able to handle them. I’m not 18, without resources and support anymore. AND I didn’t get to be a happy old broad by being helpless, heedless and slow on the uptake. As it turns out, surviving the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to is a bit of a talent and a learnable skill.

By the by, my anxiety riddled, panicked state of mind was the likely root of me inadvertently drowning the house last week. King Crimson’s song Indiscipline just came to mind. Instead of the lyric “I repeat myself when under stress,” I’m hearing "I make boneheaded errors when under stress." Go listen to the tune (if you’ve got functioning ears that is), it’s awesome+.

Okay, now I’ve got Captain Beefheart’s song If You Got Ears playing on the old internal turntable. Not bad—I love both songs.

If I’ve learned nothing else in this life, I’ve come to understand that every-bloody-one of us is or has been, at core, afraid of something and/or someone. Being scared is human and fully understandable. What matters, what gets us to safe harbor is how we deal with our anxiety and tension typhoons.

This is where meditation, aerobic activity, creative pursuits, cats and, if all else fails, one—just one—Sahara dry Sapphire martini comes in. Also importante, brutally honest self awareness and rock solid pragmatic problem solving. Spock was my childhood hero for good reason.

The object of life is not to be on the side of the majority, but to escape finding oneself in the ranks of the insane.
~ Marcus Aurelius

Let's pray that the human race never escapes from Earth to spread its iniquity elsewhere.
~ C.S. Lewis

No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality.
~ Shirley Jackson