Last week, Garrison Keillor published in the Chicago Tribune a column that is remarkable for a number of reasons. For one thing, I read all the way to the end. I have a microscopic attention span and Mr. Keillor’s writing requires the reader to demonstrate a patience I mostly do not possess. I try, I do. I’ve started this post five times since Thursday or Friday and have learned I sometimes lack the patience to even make a point worth making. I mean, I had to quit wearing shoes with laces. Here, read Mr. Keillor for yourself.

I’ll wait.

Feelings…nothing more than feelings…trying to forget my…

Oh, you’re back? Good. The context strikes me as significant. I have nothing against Mr. Keillor but I don’t understand the draw. I don’t usually read his columns, listen to the radio show and I haven’t seen the movie. Even so, Mr. Keillor is kind of ambient in mainstream culture, where he seems like a nice man who is gentle and patient with folks of all kinds. And yet, somehow, of all things and all people, Ralph Reed upsets Mr. Keillor so much that Mr. Keillor breaks character to talk politics. That’s interesting because Ralph Reed upsets me, too. I just break things.

The sexual trespass of a president is a story any mortal can understand, and the use of your father’s influence to sneak you into a military unit where you’re less likely to face combat is an act of cowardice all of us cowards can appreciate. But the chutzpah of Mr. Reed in wheedling money from Abramoff to snooker Christians against gambling is cold-hearted greed. And his work on behalf of the sweatshops and sex factories of the Marianas, arguing that the Chinese women imported there were being given the chance to hear the gospel of Jesus Christ, takes us to yet an entirely new level.

Mr. Reed is a Presbyterian, and the Westminster Confession says, “He that scandalizeth his brother, or the Church of Christ, ought to be willing, by a private or public confession and sorrow for his sin, to declare his repentance to those that are offended; who are thereupon to be reconciled to him, and in love to receive him.”

But Mr. Reed is running for office, and that’s no time for repentance. Time to hunker down and hope that the prosecutors are occupied with other matters. Smile and shake hands and keep changing the subject. If a reporter mentions Abramoff, smile and say, “I’ve said as much as I’m going to about that, and now I want to talk about my plan to strengthen families in Georgia.”

Gambling? “I’ve always been opposed to gambling.”

Deceit? Greed? “No charges have been filed. I have been exonerated of wrongdoing.”

Will it work? We shall soon see.

Shoot, if I could think of a way to indict Reed myself I’d do it. Are they taking reservations on The People’s Court? I may not be Reed’s brother but he scandalizeth me plenty. Where’s my public apology?

I hate shoes, and Mr. Reed’s whitewashed bad behavior, splashing all over mainstream culture and never rinsing clean. Thanks to Mr. Keillor for saying so.

Crossposted at Running Scared.

More and more lately, the difference between what I can and can’t do lies in what I let myself consider. I can’t run much farther than I have been for over a month. I’m not making a lot of progress on that front and it’s a little frustrating – but thinking ‘I should be able to connect this stretch I run with this other stretch I also run and I can’t. Harrumph!’ overlooks a few important facts. One is that arthritic stiffness in my hips has to be dealt with, which takes time, and I’m doing it. Another is I’m walking a lot faster than I was even a month ago. The third is a really steep hill on South Fifth Avenue.

At the bottom of the hill, there’s a crosswalk painted onto the asphalt. Adela and I walked all over the park where she usually runs and then she showed me South Fifth Avenue. We walked up the hill with some effort and at the top there’s a street sign: SLOW – where you, walking or running up the hill read it and say, “Yes! Yes, I am.” And we, walking up that hill, said, “That sign seems rather taunty.” Weeks ago, after I ran and walked in the park, I’d walk over to this hill and start to run up it, knowing I probably shouldn’t be able to run it at all but here I was, trying. I couldn’t get to the top. I’d come within two or three driveways of the top. Yesterday, after a rather disappointing walk and run in the park I went to the hill with modest expectations. I started at the crosswalk, kept my knees high and stayed on my toes. It took forever to reach the street I pass on the left but then suddenly I was at the top of the hill and two driveways from the sign. I thought, ‘That’s nothing! I can do that.’ Then I touched my hand to the sign and I had done it. I’d told Adela I’d never be able to run up that hill. A few months later, I have. It is a modest accomplishment but if I had not said, ‘Well, why not try?’ I would still think I’d never run another yard. This sense of possibility has not at all helped with the air conditioner situation.

Sharkey arrived at my house just after 1:30 this afternoon because of this email exchange:

Tata: CAN YOU READ?
Sharkey: Yes. Soemtmes. Y?
Tata: Come to my house and read the installation manual for my air conditioner!
Sharkey: Why? What’s the problem?
Tata: I CAN’T READ THE PICTURES!

It’s true: though I watched and helped Mr. DBK install the exact same model of air conditioner in my living room while he and I both muttered about how bad the instructions were, enough time had passed while waiting for parts to arrive that I couldn’t remember how the pictures were supposed to explain anything. The other day, a package arrived containing the last of the parts the factory failed to include the first time. I started piecing together what I could and I thought I could just install it myself. I’d seen it done, right? But no. There were two diagrams in the middle of the instructions I just couldn’t make head nor tail of, and thus I whined at Sharkey, and offered to take him to lunch if he’d read me this fairy tale.

Sharkey, like me, has little short-term memory. He, like me, looks at every situation and has to figure everything out from scratch. He has confidence in his ability to survey the facts, pick through for the important ones and arrive at a course of action.

Sharkey: What the hell is this?
Tata: See? It’s like the instructions need some!

Holding the manual, Sharkey walked from the pile of parts in my bedroom to the installed unit in the living room, then back, then back again. He put down the manual and looked at the window frame.

Sharkey: Does the screen just open or…?
Tata: Yes. Also: if you see a squirrel making eyes at you, he means it.
Sharkey: What are you talking about?
Tata: One of the previous tenants may have fed the squirrels so when you open that screen you may have a new best friend. Which will upset the cat. And the Health Department.

Fortunately, the squirrels are fickle or they don’t visit on Shabbos. Sharkey opens the window and nothing happens. He measures this thing against this other thing and marks the sill. It is at this point that we discover my electric screwdriver has not taken a charge and won’t be drilling into anything. I immediately choose a bold course of action.

Tata: Let’s go have lunch.
Sharkey: How long does it take to charge?
Tata: Shouldn’t be more than half an hour.
Sharkey: I’m feeling a little peckish…

We go to out for burgers because I had my braces massively adjusted yesterday and I can’t wait to chew a hunk of salted animal flesh. The waitress brings me the rarest burger they can make, which I eat with a fork and a grimace while Sharkey tells me about his dramatic romance. I pay the check and we race back to my place, where the screwdriver has not taken a charge at all. We stare at the small power tool and wonder why it does not love us.

Sharkey: I’ll go home and get mine.
Tata: I hate to ask you to go all the way to the other side of Piscataway and come back.
Sharkey: I could come back tomorrow? Whaddya think?
Tata: I think you’re being awfully nice about this. Should I check your skull for lumps?

In the wide world of almost unimaginable possibilities, I may have an air conditioner installed in my bedroom tomorrow. But I won’t blame you if you don’t believe it. I would’ve said the same thing yesterday. In fact, “I may have an air conditioner in my bedroom tomorrow” has been my mantra for the past few weeks. One of these days, these nonsense words will probably be true.

Week 1 Friday Morning Report

Goal 1
My weight hasn’t budged.

Goal 3
Yep. Took a basic yoga stretch class.

I am wearing a pair of pants I couldn’t button three weeks ago. This pair of pants doesn’t pinch or bind anywhere. Later this morning, when I crawl across the office floor to beg Lupe, “Please, please, hire me an assistant!” the pants won’t cut off circulation anyplace. This represents startling and unexpected progress.

“Times change. People change. Interest rates fluctuate…”
Top Secret

In recent months, righty writers, commentators and apologist have turned on one another like a hungry wolfpack. If a pundit said, “You know, that Emperor’s buck-nekkid” fifty others bit holes in his cheap suit. I don’t know about you, but I watched this spectacle with rapt attention. Something really significant is happening here, something historic and not at all what it seems. I am not certain what it is, but let’s count our fingers and try not to smell like raw meat.

Doug McIntyre is the latest media “conservative” to stand up and say our current administration is a failure. Doug is a personality on KABC radio in Los Angeles, hosting McIntyre In the Morning. I am nowhere near Los Angeles and in no position to judge whether or not Doug dabbed himself with steak sauce first but after he issued a public apology for voting Bush/Cheney, I bet he’s covered with bite marks. And not the good kind.

So, I’m saying today, I was wrong to have voted for George W. Bush. In historic terms, I believe George W. Bush is the worst two-term President in the history of the country. Worse than Grant. I also believe a case can be made that he’s the worst President, period.

That’s…astounding. Thanks for joining us in reality-based Reality. There’s more and it is breathtaking!

Most historians believe it takes 30-50 years before we get a reasonably accurate take on a President’s place in history. So, maybe 50 years from now Iraq will be a peaceful member of the brotherhood of nations and George W. Bush will be celebrated as a visionary genius.

But we don’t live fifty years in the future. We live now. We have to make public policy decisions now. We have to live with the consequences of the votes we cast and the leaders we chose now.

After five years of carefully watching George W. Bush I’ve reached the conclusion he’s either grossly incompetent, or a hand puppet for a gaggle of detached theorists with their own private view of how the world works. Or both.

Presidential failures. James Buchanan, Franklin Pierce, Jimmy Carter, Warren Harding – the competition is fierce for the worst of the worst. Still, the damage this President has done is enormous. It will take decades to undo, and that’s assuming we do everything right from now on. His mistakes have global implications, while the other failed Presidents mostly authored domestic embarrassments.

And speaking of domestic embarrassments, let’s talk for a minute about President Bush’s domestic record. Yes, he cut taxes. But tax cuts combined with reckless spending and borrowing is criminal mismanagement of the public’s money. We’re drunk at the mall with our great grandchildren’s credit cards. Whatever happened to the party of fiscal responsibility?

We? Dahhhhhhhhhhlink, let’s be careful of those plural pronouns. They’ll only start a land war in Asia – or put you up against a Sicilian where Death is on the line.

Bush created a giant new entitlement, the prescription drug plan. He lied to his own party to get it passed. He lied to the country about its true cost. It was written by and for the pharmaceutical industry. It helps nobody except the multinationals that lobbied for it. So much for smaller government. In fact, virtually every tentacle of government has grown exponentially under Bush. Unless, of course, it was an agency to look after the public interest, or environmental protection, and/or workers’ rights.

I’ve talked so often about the border issue, I won’t bore you with a rehash. It’s enough to say this President has been a catastrophe for the wages of working people; he’s debased the work ethic itself. “Jobs Americans won’t do!” He doesn’t believe in the sovereign borders of the country he’s sworn to protect and defend. And his devotion to cheap labor for his corporate benefactors, along with his worship of multinational trade deals, makes an utter mockery of homeland security in a post 9-11 world. The President’s January 7th, 2004 speech on immigration, his first trial balloon on his guest worker scheme, was a deal breaker for me. I couldn’t and didn’t vote for him in 2004. And I’m glad I didn’t.

Katrina, Harriet Myers, The Dubai Port Deal, skyrocketing gas prices, shrinking wages for working people, staggering debt, astronomical foreign debt, outsourcing, open borders, contempt for the opinion of the American people, the war on science, media manipulation, faith based initives, a cavalier attitude toward fundamental freedoms – this President has run the most arrogant and out-of-touch administration in my lifetime, perhaps, in any American’s lifetime.

You can make a case that Abraham Lincoln did what he had to do, the public be damned. If you roll the dice on your gut and you’re right, history remembers you well. But, when your gut led you from one business failure to another, when your gut told you to trade Sammy Sosa to the White Sox, and you use the same gut to send our sons and daughters to fight and die in a distraction from the real war on terror, then history will and should be unapologetic in its condemnation.

While shocking, this litany of disappointments is – I’m sorry – silly. Trading Sammy Sosa is a klunker of a business decision without life and death consequences. No, really. Leaving the Gulf Coast to its own devices after the hurricanes is the work of a cabal of self-absorbed oligarchic gargoyles, with no insult intended to real gargoyles. Doug is having a little trouble differentiating between them.

And that’s not all. He’s sorry he voted for Bush in 2000 but washes his hands of the man in 2004. See, he’s making amends like any addict but like every neoconman, he’s skipped an important step in his recovery.

There’s nothing harder in public life than admitting you’re wrong. By the way, admitting you’re wrong can be even tougher in private life. If you don’t believe me, just ask Bill Clinton or Charlie Sheen.

And…

I was sick of all the Clinton shenanigans and the thought of President Gore was…unthinkable. So, GWB became my guy.

“Unthinkable.” Remember that word. And…

None of this, by the way, should be interpreted as an endorsement of the opposition party. The Democrats are equally bankrupt. This is the second crime of our age. Again, historically speaking, its times like these when America needs a vibrant opposition to check the power of a run-amuck majority party. It requires it. It doesn’t work without one. Like the high and low tides keep the oceans alive, a healthy, positive opposition offers a path back to the center where all healthy societies live.

Tragically, the Democrats have allowed crackpots, leftists and demagogic cowards to snipe from the sidelines while taking no responsibility for anything. In fairness, I don’t believe a Democrat president would have gone into Iraq. Unfortunately, I don’t know if President Gore would have gone into Afghanistan. And that’s one of the many problems with the Democrats.

Aside from the fact that he has no idea what a leftist is and he’s still arguing that he can control his ravenous powergrab habit, Doug’s biggest problem is that he has learned absolutely nothing from what he’s admitting. In his estimation, voting Bush/Cheney in 2000 was a mistake. The unspoken insult is “and I’d have to do it again because you guys may be right but you still suck.” He has not reconsidered the motivations of the people who have taken the actions he so laments. He has not examined the utter selfishness, the persistent lack of human empathy or the criminal inability to see consequences coming as they ride up the front lawn on a FEMA trailer hooked to a Hummer H3.

With a belated tip of the cap to Ralph Nader, the system is broken, so broken, it’s almost inevitable it pukes up the Al Gores and George W. Bushes. Where are the Trumans and the Eisenhowers? Where are the men and women of vision and accomplishment? Why do we have to settle for recycled hacks and malleable ciphers? Greatness is always rare, but is basic competence and simple honesty too much to ask?

It may be decades before we have the full picture of how paranoid and contemptuous this administration has been. And I am open to the possibility that I’m all wet about everything I’ve just said. But I’m putting it out there, because I have to call it as I see it, and this is how I see it today. I don’t say any of this lightly. I’ve thought about this for months and months. But eventually, the weight of evidence takes on a gravitational force of its own.

I believe that George W. Bush has taken us down a terrible road. I don’t believe the Democrats are offering an alternative. That means we’re on our own to save this magnificent country. The United States of America is a gift to the world, but it has been badly abused and its rightful owners, We the People, had better step up to the plate and reclaim it before the damage becomes irreparable.

So, accept my apology for allowing partisanship to blind me to an obvious truth; our President is incapable of the tasks he is charged with. I almost feel sorry for him. He is clearly in over his head. Yet, he doesn’t generate the sympathy Warren Harding earned. Harding, a spectacular mediocrity, had the self-knowledge to tell any and all he shouldn’t be President. George W. Bush continues to act the part, but at this point who’s buying the act?

Does this make me a waffler? A flip-flopper? Maybe, although I prefer to call it realism. And, for those of you who never supported Bush, its also fair to accuse me of kicking Bush while he’s down. After all, you were kicking him while he was up.

You were right, I was wrong.

I fixed his wacky apostrophe placement because it met my OCD needs. I’m sure that admission was hard for him to spit out, so he wouldn’t take this well: Hey, Doug McIntyre! Shove your apology up your ass!

You know what, Mr. A Day Late And A Few Trillion Short? It’s douchebags like you that put him in power with your refusal to consider that Al Gore, an intelligent, well-educated, successful, experienced human being might – just might – be a better candidate to lead the fucking free world than a witless fake cowboy, and once you put him in power, you guaranteed he stayed in power with your McCarthyesque tactics of impugning the integrity and patriotism of anyone who said, “I’m sorry but that Emperor’s buck nekkid.” I’m glad you came to your senses but you’ve got miles to go before you approach reason and reasonableness.

Your apology is worthless. You know how I know? Because you’d sell your grandmother to be able to say “I told you so.”

Let’s hope the wolfpack makes short work of you.

The past few days have been something of an ordeal – if in the times of war, torture and swimsuit season one can describe several days of intense effort and suspense as an ordeal. Even so, I spend half my time laughing at my own idiocy. To continue from yesterday’s idiocy:

Dad: I like the board and the card is funny. But they were addressed to John Heatwole’s house. He’s a famous Civil War writer, sculptor, painter and cetera.
Tata: My stars, a girl could start a revolution, sending Father’s Day gifts to the wrong man. In fact next year, I think I’ll send Candygrams to the Republican National Committee.
Dad: They would tout it as a return to traditional family values. And take credit for it. And say that everybody who doesn’t think it’s a good idea is part of the terrorist organization called “Down-With-Fathers” who want to bomb maternity shops. The bastids. By the way, I’m at 4290 [Dad’s street.]
Tata: Did I transpose digits? Make up my own address? I copied off the funny screen-thing but I’m good for seeing things that are – IS THAT A SHINY OBJECT?
Dad: SHINY OBJECT…? Darla says I don’t have ADD, I have Attention Surplus Disorder. SHINY? Too many things occupy 100% of my capacity to concentrate… IT *IS* A SHINY THING… but I think… AND LOOK – OVER THERE. ANOTHER ONE…! 52 [Dad’s street], the package said. Yeah, transposed. In the Bantu numbering system.

There it is. He’s invoked a seldom-used plot device: Steve Biko. And Peter Gabriel’s singing in my head. So we talk about food, because other than our mutual fondness for Hugh Laurie, what is there in life but calling each other up and shouting recipes? In this case, email was a lot quieter and didn’t tip off my co-workers, which is good because contemplating moisture at work is at least…unsanitary…

Dad: Beer bread recipe:

3 cups self-rising flour
3 tablespoons sugar
1 teaspoon salt
1 can beer (12 ounces)

To make your own self-rising flour,

For 1-cup substitution
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt

Tata: I’m big on whole wheat flour, which I probably mentioned. How can I make self-rising whole wheat flour? The moisture levels differ, I know.

I probably should have seen this coming. But I didn’t. My cover was blown when my co-workers demanded to know why I’d turned blue. Wind up and…

Dad: According to Linda McCartney, one of the culinary wizards of our time and a vegan (inherent hyper-oxymoron, although not as good as the three-pronged “constructive government program” wherein everything contradicts everything), the recipe is…
1 cup whole wheat flour
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 to 1/2 teaspoon salt
She goes on to say, in that crisp British way… oh, wait she was from Schenectady or someplace like that… “When measuring flour, lift and stir it lightly with a fork or spoon to aerate it before measuring.” And, no, I don’t think she said “aereate.” Apparently the word “sift” was too rarefied.

Fortunately, I’m listening to Jim Croce on my iPod, so I’m impervious to veganism. SHINY OBJECTS for the ears. How I keep grounded or centered or whatever they’re saying nowadays – Croce. And Willie Nelson. Nine-inch Nails as interpreted/improved by Johnny Cash. Nana Mouskouri.

Soy milk has a profound effect on my digestive tract that doesn’t feel altogether spiritual. And I do so worry about how they kill the adorable little soys.

What an exciting week it must be for young legislators. Imagine the drama, the pomp, the being called to work on the Fourth of July when you could be out prowling barbecues for deep pockets and hot dogs. John Adams wanted the Fourth to be a solemn occasion, celebrated with songs and ceremonies. In a way, Americans have not disappointed. He wanted the President to be addressed in the most florid language, which would be funny now if we hadn’t elected a Connecticut good old boy to the newly created position of Imperial Potentate.

Also, I simply enjoy saying “potentate.” Some words are more fun than others.

Yesterday, my phone rang. Siobhan and I were sitting in my living room, fanning ourselves in the sweltering afternoon like extras in To Kill A Mockingbird because it didn’t occur to me until after Siobhan showed up that the air conditioner’s ON button works during the day, too.

Voice: Laur! Hello!
Tata: Hello, this is Tata.
Voice: Tata? I…hello!
Tata: Hello, Auntie InExcelsisDeo.
Auntie I.: Hi! Happy Fourth of July to you!
Tata: And to you, as well!
Auntie I.: I called your number by accident so I have a phone call to make now.
Tata: Do me a favor and have Sandy call me?
Auntie I.: Love you, sweetheart!
Tata: Love you, too. I’m hanging up now.

Most members of my family hear things I’ve said when they come out of other people’s mouths. For instance, last week I called asked Sandy to call me back at her earliest convenience, which after a few days was impressively late. It’s okay, though, because we are family and holding grudges is bloodsport. Christmas is always coming. In any case, a few hours later, Sandy called back.

Sandy: Whaddya want?
Tata: You wanted the URL where you could read about yourself. I wanted your email address. We all got wants.
Sandy: Am I going to read all about nuzzling up to your bosom?
Tata: I’d totally forgotten that! Also: I don’t have that picture. Wasn’t it on one of the table cameras?
Sandy: I think Tony has it.
Tata: Wow, it is somehow endearing and disgusting to think your brother has that picture of us. Well, a wedding’s full of surprising moments, isn’t it? Monday’s wedding story is substantially less full of swearing than Miss Sasha’s.
Sandy: Can I read that too?
Tata: You bet. It’s all linked up.
Sandy: I have tomorrow off. I’ll spend my day reading.
Tata: Good. Then you can spend your night stalking me with something sharp.

Now that she mentions it, Sandy’s right. The trip to Maryland was full of little moments I totally forgot last week when I was writing it up for horrified Posterity. A fine example:

Dad: What color is your hair?
Tata: Ya want me to read you the box?
Dad: No, I mean naturally. What color is your hair?
Tata: Oh geez, I don’t know. I don’t believe in repudiating the work of a lifetime.
Dad: How about you? What color is your hair?
Daria: Daddy! My hair is exactly as you see it and if my children weren’t here I’d call you some very naughty words.

Perhaps you had to be there. Dad was. He was laughing so hard I thought he was having an asthma attack. The morning after the wedding, Paulie and I walked out of the hotel at 7:30, stared at a nearly flat tire on the truck and found a Sears before 8 on a Saturday morning that was just opening. Believe it or not, there was a wait. Paulie lay on the ground, removing his specialized hub cap with his a paper clip and tenacity; I stood nearby, heckling and knitting. Yes, if Catskills comedians could use round needles, what sticky afghans our grandparents would have brought back from Grossinger’s. Wish I had a picture of that.

In other news, the Father’s Day gift I mailed to Dad went someplace else.

Dad: I like the board and the card is funny. But they were addressed to John Heatwole’s house. He’s a famous Civil War writer, sculptor, painter and cetera.
Tata: My stars, a girl could start a revolution, sending Father’s Day gifts to the wrong man. In fact next year, I think I’ll send Candygrams to the Republican National Committee.

Imagine that pomp and drama – all the way to divorce court. And I’m just the relentless, bitchy do-gooder to fight corruption with tissue and love letters.

Week 1 Tuesday Report

I fixed a spot where my giant rusty ice tongs whacked my bedroom wall and chipped the paint. Don’t. Ask.

The air conditioner on my bedroom floor came without little hardware pieces. I went to Home Depot for wood screws but since I could only guess what size fourteen of the damn things were supposed to be the odds weren’t my favor. I picked wrong. I have to go back and get No.6 wood screws. Damn it.

So. Minimal progress on the physical plant. I hope to do better this week.

On no morning since the hysterectomy did I wake up thinking, ‘Man…I really miss my uterus.’

In the universe, we are small and know so little. Even our largest problems can be seen from all sides, and from distances where they vanish into microscopic oblivion. In his book Local Knowledge, anthropologist Clifford Geertz cited an account by an earlier specialist of a man’s funeral and the journeys of his three wives to the funeral pyre. The early author’s opinion of what he had seen lacked ambivalence: three women had made themselves beautiful, walked to the ends of diving boards, leaped and burned to death. Geertz was not so sure: in their culture, this critical turning point in their eternities would make the journey into the afterlife easier and Geertz couldn’t say this belief was any more or less valid than any other.

As a modern American woman raised by hippies, hairdressers and opera singers, all of which fear flammable conditions, I can throw up my hands and say I don’t know what really happened there. Maybe those women died agonizing deaths for no reason. Maybe that was their ticket to a Heaven in which their hairstyles never budged. I don’t know but since I am mostly on the earthly side of Here And Now/Fluffy Cloud Afterlife line, I am inclined to say that anything increasing the amount of pain in which the living find themselves is utterly out of the question. The point is: my opinion on the matter doesn’t matter a whit, not one, because an objective reality is unavailable to me. Some people believe that after death, we understand everything. That’s just more speculation. Geertz was wise to say he didn’t know even if he were pretty creeped out by the horror of suttee. We, in our mortal forms, can only guess at what is really what. People who espouse certainty are simply not seeing how uncertain they should be.

Last week, money made an end-run around certainty.

Buffett told Fortune that he decided to start giving his money away now because he has been impressed with Bill and Melinda Gates and the work they’ve done through their foundation. And he decided it would be easier to give to a large foundation instead of trying to expand his own foundation.

“What can be more logical, in whatever you want done, than finding someone better equipped than you are to do it?” Buffett told the magazine. “Who wouldn’t select Tiger Woods to take his place in a high-stakes golf game? That’s how I feel about this decision about my money.”

That’s amazing. One of the richest men in the world said, “I don’t know, but I trust you. Here’s the biggest wad of cash in the history of charitable giving. Like, ever.” No, really:

The 75-year-old Berkshire chairman and CEO had been expected to leave his vast holdings of Berkshire stock largely to the Susan Thompson Buffett Foundation, begun by Buffett and his late wife. That foundation has given millions of dollars to hospitals, universities and teachers, as well as to Planned Parenthood and other abortion rights groups.

Buffett said he plans to give away 12,050,000 Class B shares of Berkshire Hathaway stock to the foundations, but he will have to convert some of his 474,998 Class A shares to complete the gifts. One Class A share, which sold for $92,100 on Friday, can be converted into 30 Class B shares, which sold for $3,071 Friday.

The gifts would be worth nearly $37 billion based on Friday’s closing share price.

Hot damn, I love it when rich people give it away, give it away, give it away now – not the evening-gowned charity event horseshit. I coudn’t find that more repulsive. I like when people consider themselves part of the fabric of problems and solutions and act without fanfare. Ironically, this gift would have been much more exciting if I’d never heard of it, but I have and the villagers rejoice – wheeeeeeeeeeee! – right? Not universally, no.

Gates and wife have been at the forefront of murdering children in females’ wombs. Now the Buffet donation will enhance all the more the abortuaries. In other words, more humans without self-defense will be discarded, their souls making their ways into the loving arms of Jesus.

And:

The Gates Foundation has given the Planned Parenthood Federation of America almost $12.5 million since 1998, including funds to persuade teens to support abortion and to lobby the United Nations to advance pro-abortion proposals, reported LifeNews.com

The foundation also has given nearly $21 million to International Planned Parenthood over the last seven years, where funds have been used to promote abortions in third-world nations and to set up pro-abortion family planning centers in South America, Africa and Eastern Europe.

Buffet[sic], whose wealth is second only to Gates’, has announced he will leave about 80 percent of his estate to the Gates Foundation.

Marjorie Dannenfelser, president of the pro-life women’s network Susan B. Anthony List lamented Buffett’s decision.

“It’s tragic that much of Warren Buffett’s billion-dollar attempt to improve the lives of people around the world is actually going to fund organizations that take the lives of unborn children and encourage others to do the same,” said Dannenfelser.

This particular online “news” source is about as reputable as a whorehouse blackmailer, but people read and believe it. So we have to regard it and see clearly what it’s saying.

“The tragedy of Bill Gates’ support of abortion and population control is that technology leads to development,” said Steven Mosher, president of the Population Research Institute, according to LifeNews.com

“Unfortunately, the developing world will grow old before it develops because of population control. Gates, in supporting population control, is out of step with other great minds who have viewed people as humanity’s greatest resource,” Mosher said.

At Microsoft’s 2003 annual shareholders meeting, Mosher’s group failed to win approval for a motion to stop Microsoft from directly contributing to charities, citing its support for Planned Parenthood.

I don’t like to think of myself as naive, but that takes my breath away. Steven Mosher sought to block Microsoft from donating to charities because he and his group don’t like what Planned Parenthood does. He is unable to see good works through his repressive ideology. Ladies and gentleman, I hope he doesn’t own a dog – and I hope he gets a better idea of what is worth doing in this life because unchecked his actions will cause nothing but suffering, principally to women.

So far, I have seen no response to these protests from the Gateses or Buffett. The blogosphere buzzed with snark and indignation. In general I think it’s well beyond time we started seeing short, sweet press releases like this.

Attention: Anti-Abortion Activists:
For decades, you have bullied, blasted and murdered decent medical professionals and frightened women with whom you have a difference of opinion, no matter what else you’d like to call it. I’m supporting reproductive freedom, and you can feel free to boycott me however you wish or protest my actions within the limits of the law. I don’t care. It’s my money, and I will spend it as I wish. If you’re offended that’s your problem. Go home and feed those homeless people you’re afraid ruin your property values.

In closing, I’d like to say it’s downright peachy that Buffett rhymes with Stuff it!

I could write these all day – and someone should because this past week, after decades as a politically active person, I became truly frightened by the escalation of rancor in our political lives. There is no excuse – no excuse whatever – for the Rovian decimation tactics pundits are applying to one another. There is no excuse for such barbarism as printing the personal information of activists because you dislike their politics. There is no reason whatsoever to shout “FIRE!” when the theater isn’t burning, and I’m truly sick of unbridled cruelty and whimpering cowardice passing for political discourse.

Because it isn’t.

Politics has never been a mannerly business, no matter what anyone who wants you to sit down and shut up says. To antagonize opponents, the Right is fond of the words “the angry Left.” After a lifetime of being patted on the head by old white men who still insist I can’t make my own decisions about my “female’s womb” you’re goddam right I’m angry, and if I weren’t angry, I’d be unconscious. In some cases, anger is a healthy response. In this case it means I’m not internalizing that paternalistic bullshit. And good for me!

Even so, anger will not advance conversation. In fact, I’ve come to the conclusion that shouting back is a big waste of time. Nobody’s listening. Nobody cares. Nobody cares about anything other than winning debates, even if it means losing one’s soul. As much as I would like to break every bone in Bill O’Reilly’s face because I knew Jeremy Glick when he lived in New Brunswick, that anger and that impulse helps no one. I propose the Good Granny Method of Diplomacy.

Has anyone tried sitting knee to knee with Ann Coulter when she’s screeching that hateful invective, looking her dead in the eye, holding her hand and saying very firmly, slowly and with compassion, “Sweetheart: no”?

Blabbity blab blabbity neener neener neener what about my money –

“Ann, no. You are hurting people. No.”

This method is not for the weak because it means actually touching terrible and nearly psychopathic people and sometimes that is quite icky. Listen, Grannies everywhere touch sticky children. It can be done! Someone somewhere has the magical power to look in Sean Hannity’s eyes and see a little boy who needs a time-out in the worst way. And about John Bolton – well, that’s a non-violent foxtrot for Gandhi-level dancers.

Maybe this is not for you. Maybe you aren’t ready to see past your own feelings to the Greater Good. I am uncertain I could do it. I am ready to try – maybe not near Bill O’Reilly. But maybe someday, when I see a more objective reality.

There’s more to it than my idle fantasies about how to treat bullies and relentless attention seekers. Anti-choice activists and neocons have forgotten something very significant about the United States of America – in fact, the thing that makes it unique in all the world. Our Founding Fathers – the very ones people who skipped history class refer to as Christians – knew the early settlers fled religious persecution in Europe then turned around and persecuted each other. A few generations later, before and during the Revolutionary War, colonists with differences of opinion did shit to each other that made the Manson Family rampages look like a PTA bake sale. The writers of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution were very much aware of a human desire for authoritarian control over each other. Our Founding Fathers intended to protect minority opinions, religions and lifestyles from the tyranny of the majority. What anti-choice activists choose not to observe is that most Americans want to be left alone to make these decisions for themselves – in fact, most people want to make decisions about their own lives without interference. The bullies outside clinics are a distinct minority. As much as I must tolerate their opinions and lifestyles they must tolerate mine, which in this case is Uterus-Free And Loving It! Mutual toleration is not just decent and mannerly. It’s the American Way.

Crossposted at Running Scared.

I have the almost unimaginably good fortune to live alone in a nice apartment in a sunny, tree-lined complex atop a cliff overlooking a slow-moving river. This afternoon, gentle breezes rustle the leaves, birds sing, traffic hums on the distant highways. Much of the Northeast is cleaning up after a lengthy series of paralyzing storms and floods but I am fine. My neighborhood is quiet. I can hear church bells ringing. The temperature in my living room with windows thrown open and curtains tied back feels perfectly lovely to my skin. It is the kind of afternoon one idly imagines when winter winds bite. I’ll be blunt: weeks ago, through the accident of meeting someone who mysteriously didn’t seem like a stranger, it dawned on me that while I was as happy in the here-and-now as I’d ever been all that happiness obscured the fact that I was damn lonely.

It was a shock. I mean, who knew that being so self-absorbed left time to think about anyone else? Obviously, I’d discovered a chink in my armor of selfishness. I’ve thought it over and I’ve decided to patch that hole with more Me. Yes: Me, Me and more Me. That’ll fix my wagon. So I’m proposing a new venture that’s much like my every other venture, only this time with your eyes on my progress and a finish line. I’m going to devote my July to solving a few problems, and you’re going to heckle Project Me. Don’t throw fruit because I won’t be replacing your monitors. Got it? Now then: today is 1 July. In four weeks, I’d like to see what I can accomplish through focused effort and accountability. I won’t lie about what I’m doing or fudge my results. And if I’m full of shit, you’ll let me know.

Goal 1
Through reasonably healthy eating practices and daily exercise, I would like to lose 1-2 pounds per week. I weighed myself yesterday. I will weigh myself every Friday morning – and only Friday mornings – and report back what I have gained or lost in Week 1, Week 2, etc. – because if you think I’m going to tell you what I weigh while I feel fat you are seriously smoking the good stuff. In any case, I will report the truth because lying about weight loss is like faking orgasms: what on earth could be the fucking point?
*****

Goal 2
I’ve been in this apartment since 19 August and boxes still sit in my bedroom, curtain rods lie on the floor and I’d like to finish the unfinished project of moving in. My bedroom air conditioner is on the floor as I await Sears’ ongoing efforts to mail me parts they can’t identify. I’ve received two packages of parts so far. The last one contained a piece I can’t identify and it plays no role in the installation of my air conditioner. I’m waiting for an envelope containing 24 screws. By the end of July, I want that air conditioner be up off the floor and installed, and I can do it. I’d like to put up the curtain rods and get curtains. I’d like to unpack the boxes. Sometimes we catch ourselves acting on our real motives, and I’ve caught myself redhanded: symbolically, if I unpack and live here, if I stay and make this place my own, I’m afraid it means I’ve decided I’ll be alone for the rest of my life.

Well, Sparky, that’s crap reasoning, and I want my subconscious to quit hedging bets. I’d like to live here because I live here, and fear be damned! I’m talking tough with Me! And I’m pretty sure in two out of three falls I can take Me.
*****

Goal 3
Related to Goal 1, I’d like to take at least one yoga class a week. I have to be just this specific with it because otherwise I will do what I’ve been doing: excercising without stretching properly. I know better. I’ve been an athlete and a dancer since 1968. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me but I’m not stretching and an overweight middle-aged broad with arthritis has to do better. Taking a class means committing time, money and attention to the body and peace of mind. If I procrastinate, razz me with extreme prejudice. You know you want to…
*****

There are other things I’d like try but they can be incorporated into life as I go along. For instance: tomorrow morning, I’m going to bake banana bread. It’s a modest endeavor but I feel strongly that where I can I should make my own basic foods. I make yogurt every week. I make refreshing pickled cucumbers for those times when my brain is playing the I Don’t Feel Like Eating Healthy game. Anyway, I’m very excited about a Sunday morning that includes walking and running, and baking banana bread. I have cream cheese. Don’t call me, I’m busy!

I’m proposing Friday reports for Goals 1 & 3 and Tuesday reports for Goal 2. Those would be logical times in the cycle of my work and exercise schedules. And before we get all bitchy with each other, I’m only asking you to help me keep Me honest. You don’t have to do anything – unless you want to. Are you of a mind to make a change, for a month, and give yourself some progress toward something you want?

What do you want?

Once more, with feelin’: Monday’s and Barry’s wedding.

When RSVP doesn’t cut it.
Meet Daria – but never share dessert.
The tulle-draped horror of a family bridal shower. And pastry.
Miss Sasha’s First Anniversity and a link to the terrifying wedding epic.
Bad wedding, no biscuit!
The family migrates, the family is left behind.
Paulie signs on to a dangerous mission.
Miss Sasha Regrets…
Miracles Never Cease Ceasing
Some do “I do.”
Say “Secret Cheese!”
The longest week of my life was one five-hour evening.
Both post-y and script-y.

Remember: I’m not writing history. Don’t bother correcting facts or manners and don’t make me stab you with my shrimp fork!