Young Blood Is the Loving Upriser

This is one of our stray cat friends. We call him/her “Woym,” like the kid from the Little Rascals. I can’t really explain that, but I can tell you that feral cats avoid contact with people. Some feral cats come to our All You Can Eat Kibble Bar and though we can see them they flee if Pete or I take a step toward them. Woym, on the other hand, seeks physical contact. Woym wants to chat about his/her busy day of being a cat, wants some scritches and a nosh, thank you very much. This means Woym is not a feral cat. Either he/she ran away or was abandoned. I’m working on finding Woym a home because I can’t standing thinking about what winter might be like for abandoned house pets.

This is something I can change. That is an important point to hold on to when much of the world feels deeply unjust, corrupt and profoundly dangerous. I can change some things. Sometimes it is a matter of finding a creative way to do it. We are looking down the barrel of an economy about to blow, which means we are hearing cries for help more often. We cannot ignore them, even as we accept that we have limited time, money and growing compassion fatigue. Arthur Silbers needs your help.

And I’m about to face (again) a choice between food and heart medication. I’ve eaten through almost all the food I had stored up; in the last week, I’ve been forced to eat the contents of a few cans of food that had been pushed to the backs of some kitchen shelves. They were very old; perhaps the recent intestinal unpleasantness was the result of something that shouldn’t have been eaten. But those particular problems have periodically gone on for a long time now, so possibly tainted food can’t be the entire explanation. Eating healthy foods, which would be a good idea given the heart problems, is pretty much beyond my means for good now. Last week, I spent most of a donation from a regular contributor on cat food. (Many thanks to K.R. and to the few others who make donations on a regular basis, as well as to all those who help keep me going.) First things first. It’s one thing for me to fade away, slowly or perhaps more quickly, but I can’t allow the same to happen to my two feline companions. If I were truly responsible, I would try to find them good new homes right now. That undoubtedly has been true for some time. But I admit that I can’t bear to think of life without them. The dilemma haunts me every day.

What can we do for him? If you’re in Los Angeles, can you help him find good homes for his cats? You can. Can you bring him a bag of groceries? You can. Can you help him find an air conditioner on Freecycle? You can. If you have a bar and a band, you can hold a benefit. If you’re outside Los Angeles, you could drop a little dosh into his Paypal account. Got ten bucks burning a hole in your pocket? Five? Three fifty? Please consider donating.

My friend Mary, deeply involved with the concerns of growing girls, forwards a link to Girl Effect. Their website is a little heavy on persuasion and light on statistics, but it reminds one of Kiva. I can’t vouch for Girl Effect, and hope you’ll do your own research, but it’s great to see momentum building worldwide for the improvement of education and economic opportunity.

Woym has sweet chartreuse eyes and soft fur. I have a feeling my co-worker, bruised by the sudden loss of a feline friend, will take Woym in. Serena told me her daughter had a dream about a tabby cat trying to get in. I said, “Far be it from me to separate you from your companion.” The path through despair is love.

Cool Winds That Blow Down

Photo: Bob Hosh.

Per Mr. Hosh: Perfect specimen of the “Destroying Angel” (Amanita bisporigera) the most toxic mushroom in North America. Found on a mountain trail last Saturday morning in Kings Gap State Park, PA.

First thing this morning, I dropped Pete’s socks and undershirts into the washing machine so he could hang them out on the clothesline. I don’t know why a poison mushroom made me think of that.

If Anything Was Broken I’m Sure

Via Pam’s House Blend, about which I am only a teeeeeensy bit obsessive, comes this suspicious tidbit:

No one is talking on the record, but here’s what happened:

“OLTL” was taping scenes in late-June concerning roommates Cristian, Layla and Fish. (They’ll air in September.) Cristian and Layla suspect that sweet cop Fish is gay, but aren’t sure how to approach him about it. So they buy a book about how to tell if you’re gay and plan to give it to him.

Cristian’s mom, Carlotta, was supposed to find the book and assume Cristian is gay. Her reaction was scripted to be very accepting and even amused, citing his love of art and fondness for going shirtless as signs she should have recognized.

But Mauceri, who has played diner purveyor Carlotta Vega for 14 years, refused to play the story as written, saying a Latina mother would not be so accepting. Rather, Mauceri rewrote the scenes to make Carlotta confused and troubled, and submitted them to “OLTL” execs.

“That’s not the story we’re telling,” responded an exec.

Mauceri then said she could not play the scenes as written, so the show called [Saundra] Santiago.

I don’t know about you, but when I read a story I am aware of things moving in the background. Sometimes I can see what they might be; sometimes not. Here, it’s possible Mauceri is an artist with some integrity, in which case working on the soaps may not be her best bet for avoiding cognitive dissonance. Listen: One Life To Life has underground cities, stolen babies, secret twins, visitations by the series’ creator, burn victims without scars, bullies with bags of lightly chilled blood we’re supposed to believe just came from a donor, folks rising from the dead so often crypts should have ejector seats, time travel, cowboy industrialists with lawyers named “Beaver,” multiple personality disorder described through hair and makeup choices, newspaper magnates lingering in modest kitchens over coffee, people cough a few times after stuff blows up, serial killers get their own European kingdoms, nobody ever goes to jail unless their contract’s up and not even I would plan a double wedding with my ex-husband. We’re not going to get much in the way of real life here. Or dignity. Even so, it must be said that recently OLTL has been a little weird in its treatment of Latin peoples, with a moment that made me cringe and turn off the TV. This one:

A character that supposedly lived for years in Puerto Rico and Europe is throwing a party and mistakes her guests for “the help” because they speak with a heavy accent. I threw myself at my remote and found something else to do for a while. So I could understand if someone had absolutely had it with this show on this topic and decided to give the script writers a little tough love. Unfortunately for Mauceri, writers are big users of strong words. Let’s go back to the article and weigh the words:

No one is talking on the record, but here’s what happened:

Omigod, I can’t tell you what happened but this is what happened.

“OLTL” was taping scenes in late-June concerning roommates Cristian, Layla and Fish. (They’ll air in September.) Cristian and Layla suspect that sweet cop Fish is gay, but aren’t sure how to approach him about it. So they buy a book about how to tell if you’re gay and plan to give it to him.

There are no gay people in Pennsylvania so you can get manuals that tell you how to be gay and only straight people know where to buy them.

Cristian’s mom, Carlotta, was supposed to find the book and assume Cristian is gay. Her reaction was scripted to be very accepting and even amused, citing his love of art and fondness for going shirtless as signs she should have recognized.

What could my son’s love of Post-Its and fondness for going to grocery stores mean? Perhaps I should have recognized his penchant for being Latvian.

But Mauceri, who has played diner purveyor Carlotta Vega for 14 years, refused to play the story as written, saying a Latina mother would not be so accepting. Rather, Mauceri rewrote the scenes to make Carlotta confused and troubled, and submitted them to “OLTL” execs.

If I can’t write caricatures based on my prejudices I don’t know what the world is coming to!

“That’s not the story we’re telling,” responded an exec.

Don’t think: it weakens the team.

Mauceri then said she could not play the scenes as written, so the show called Santiago.

I’ll overlook the fact that some people are still mad about Carmen Miranda’s Chiquita banana thing because Latin people are just so darned temperamental. You can’t work with ’em.

Frankly, I might be smashing heads in the office photocopier, if that were me. It also can’t be overstated that treating your gay roommate like his homosexuality is an exotic disease makes you a big jerk.

Of course, it’s possible Mauceri is just a bigot, but it’s also possible we only caught a glimpse of what happened and this is a smear. Mauceri’s out of a job. Everything else is rumor and speculation.

Your Watch, Your Rings And All

Yesterday, friends and family of Isabella’s husband gathered at the unnamed university’s gardens, where Isabella’s family had spent many afternoons over the years. He knew the Latin names of plants and thought nothing of it. He was gentle and erudite, and so funny. In the hospital, he spoke to us only in Spanish, though he never said why. So there we were in the gardens on a brilliantly sunny Sunday morning, The deacon talked, the cousins remembered their childhood together in a reasonably Irish suburb of Boston, Isabella said she’d had no idea how many people loved them. Neil’s beautiful daughters gave up any pretense at composure and wiped their eyes on his sleeves. They’re all flying back to Seattle today, leaving behind a quiet that surprised me. It’s also the first rest day on the Tour de France, and to my chagrin, time passes.

There Will Have Moved Here

Topaz here. Tonight on Poor Impulse Control Theater: Drusy tries to make her boney body even flatter to combat the heat while Sweetpea snoozes the day away. I’ve befriended a French-speaking dust whirl and tomorrow, plan to overthrow the municipal Supervisor of Public Works, who smells like cheese, which I like. Don’t get me wrong. He may be very nice but he reminds me of a rabid badger. That’s tonight on Poor Impulse Control Theater. I’m Topaz. Goodnight!

Tried It All But He Never Would

There’s an old Jewish expression: When you have two Jews, you have three opinions. One reason converting to Judaism was so easy for me was that my being of two minds about a topic was actually a dinnertable-argument asset. It’s no surprise then that this week’s developments in the fight for sensible health care just about sent me round the fuckin’ twist.

Via the Sideshow, a call to action I’ve been waiting for:

Yesterday rumors were flying and some folks are saying they’ve been confirmed. The Senate Finance Committee (SFC), in an effort to make health care into a bi-partisan effort, is considering a restriction on abortion funding with the passage of health care reform. This could mean not allowing a public health insurance plan to cover the cost of abortions for women. It is still unclear under what circumstances this provision would apply, but we want to make sure that you all are aware of what’s going on in the SFC!

The reason I was waiting for this was that I’ve been paying attention for the last thirty years, and I knew there was no way the forced birthers were going to let real women’s health care get into that plan, and that the Democrats would immediately cave, because vaginas have cooties. Also via the Sideshow, a more or less incoherent piece at Buzzflash so filled with Newt Gingrich’s specially conditioned assumption language that the title tells the reader everything she needs to know: Should We Sell Choice To Get Change? As a cantankerous little old lady, I feel obligated to deconstruct that question with a rolling pin. Whack! Individually, some Congresscritters may desire “change” – which is to say a national healthcare plan – but most have accepted bribes – which is to say campaign money and buckets of it – from insurance, pharmaceutical and for-profit hospital corporations. Our interests as citizens and the interests of our congressional representatives diverge, a big problem for us, because that brings us to the second assumption packed into the headline: that reproductive rights may not go down the tubes with this plan. They’re going. I’ll be blunt: this is going to sting. A comment from the Buzzflash piece by Jeremyg:

We should all be able to agree that we need to respect the rights of people who believe abortion is murder, and not force them to pay for it with their tax dollars. Isn’t that what a tolerant society is all about? Respecting the rights of those we disagree with. Tolerance is better than any fundamentalism, even pro-choice fundamentalism. Let’s respect everyone’s choices.

That is hay-filled, corn-fed bullshit, right there. I actually don’t give a good goddamn anymore about the opinions of people who think abortion is murder because – once again – I’ve been paying attention for the last thirty years and I know they don’t respect my opinion that another person’s medical procedures are none of their fucking business. Moreover, we as taxpayers do not get to decide how the money is spent. Our one decision: do we or do we not in good conscience pay our taxes as they have been assessed? If the answer is yes, write the check and shut the fuck up about how my tax dollars are spent. You know what, person of faith? I argued vehemently against the war, against privatizing government services, against the death penalty, against the war on drugs, welfare, unemployment, the aged, the disabled, the homeless and hungry, ridiculous and xenophobic border patrols, the national parks, the environment, endangered species, public transportation and fucking common decency, but does that really matter? No. Because while I believe we shouldn’t spend a red cent on the Pentagon, my tender feelings don’t figure into the budget priorities of the United States of America, and neither should yours. Sending kids to die for an imperialist adventure was murder each time we’ve done it, so plainly this money-murder relationship is not the dealbreaker you make it out to be. But that’s not the worst of it. No, the worst is when middle-aged women of faith sell our daughters down the river, as Blue Gal does:

A fellow blogger had a fit last night via email, because that blogger heard a rumor that possibly abortions would not be covered under the Public Option. I. Just. Winced. All. The. Way. To. Bed. We don’t HAVE a public option yet. It’s not a sure thing. We have to wait for the insurance companies to fail before single payer is maybe possibly back on the table, but let’s pour a heaping cup of the most divisive issue of the past fifty years into the pot right now, because it’s so very critical.

It is critical, because abortion is often an economic decision. In real life, sometimes women choose not to bring a pregnancy to term because they can’t afford it. If you think abortion is murder, that probably boggles your mind, which boggling has gummed up government for a handful of decades, especially since our government quit paying for abortions in the seventies. Insurance companies, as Blue Gal reminds us, sometimes pay for abortions. But what happens if we develop a national healthcare plan that doesn’t cover them? Bet your shoes that insurance companies will stop covering anything the national plan doesn’t. Once abortions are off the table, contraception is next, and mental health coverage, and dental, until there’s nothing left in that plan.

The place to draw the line then is at abortion. It must stay in the plan or we return to the time pre-Roe, with even less than we have now. Back-alley abortions and deaths are only the beginning of what awaits us.

The second thing driving me out of my mind is that the administration doesn’t seem to know how to haggle. There are two ways to strike a bargain:

1. You start bargaining from a position beyond your wildest dreams. For instance, if you’re going clean Ted’s gutters and you want $100 for the job and Ted is going to bargain with you, you start by telling Ted you’ll do it for $200. If Ted says, “No, dude, here’s ten bucks and a used bowling ball,” you know that Ted is not serious about wanting his gutters cleaned. Note that Republicans offer Democrats used bowling balls all the time. They are not serious about bargaining. If however you ask $200 and Ted says $45, you may get some back and forth that results in a price close to what you want.

Where healthcare is concerned, Congress fucked this up badly by starting with a stupidly modest plan that will make only the healthcare industry happy, because it will do nothing for the common good. Our representatives should have started with plans well beyond single-payer, knowing how legislation is enacted. That they didn’t tells us that we cannot hope for anything.

2. The Chicago way, as described by Sean Connery in The Untouchables:

Malone: You said you wanted to get Capone. Do you really wanna get him? You see what I’m saying is, what are you prepared to do?
Ness: Anything within the law.
Malone: And *then* what are you prepared to do? If you open the can on these worms you must be prepared to go all the way. Because they’re not gonna give up the fight, until one of you is dead.
Ness: I want to get Capone! I don’t know how to do it.
Malone: You wanna know how to get Capone? They pull a knife, you pull a gun. He sends one of yours to the hospital, you send one of his to the morgue. *That’s* the *Chicago* way! And that’s how you get Capone. Now do you want to do that? Are you ready to do that? I’m offering you a deal. Do you want this deal?
Ness: I have sworn to capture this man with all legal powers at my disposal and I will do so.
Malone: Well, the Lord hates a coward.
[jabs Ness with his hand, and Ness shakes it]
Malone: Do you know what a blood oath is, Mr. Ness?
Ness: Yes.
Malone: Good, ’cause you just took one.

Scrap the plan as it exists. Start from a position beyond your wildest dreams and make it politically expensive for opponents of a good plan for the common good.

We won’t see either a decent plan or the survival of reproductive rights as we know them for ordinary American women if the administration doesn’t send a few Republicans to the political career morgue very soon.

Sorry about the fucking bruises.

I Felt So Symbolic Yesterday

This morning, Neil called to tell me his father died last night, just before midnight. Neil’s timing was perfect: I was getting ready to walk across the river to the hospital. Plans are in the works for a wake in an Irish bar and restaurant in our old hometown, and for a memorial on the grounds of the unnamed university’s gardens. Isabella is going to scatter her husband’s ashes in a public place where someone might attempt to discourage her. I volunteered to create the kind of diversion that might get me arrested while she does what she has to do. You know: because.

Good Is Going To Happen

Tonight, I didn’t get home from the hospital until 9:45 and I hated leaving. I wanted to be at home, on my couch, cooing at my lovely cats and holding a glass of wine but without leaving Isabella, Neil and Matt. Trout had gone home before I arrived. The new room is wonderfully good: when I arrived, Isabella was taking a shower in the private bathroom without the terror of leaving her husband. When I called earlier, Isabella asked me, “Do you need a drinking partner?” I shifted gears.

Tata: Do you need anything? Are you out of illicit booze?
Isabella: No, come here and be funny.
Tata: As! You! Wish!*

So I showed up in my pajamas, with my laptop full of pictures of adorable Panky and one special thing. When Pete was on his way to pick me up, Isabella finally sat down next to me. Neil said, “Tata brought you something.” I pulled a moist ziptop bag from my belongings. I held each leaf under her nose and let her inhale.

Isabella: What? What is it?
Tata: Ah! Here. I brought you some summer. Smell this!
Isabella: It’s…it’s…tomato?
Tata: It is! It’s a tomato leaf from my garden. This –
Isabella: I don’t recognize that.
Tata: It’s an unusual lettuce. This –
Isabella: Ooh. What’s that?
Tata: This is arugula. This –
Isabella: That’s very pretty.
Tata: This is a different lettuce. My garden is full of it. You’ll recognize this. It’s –
Isabella: Ah, mint!
Tata: This is more lettuce, like before, and this –
Isabella: That’s familiar. What is it?
Tata: Basil!
Isabella: I’d know that better if I –

Isabella tore off a leaf, took a deep whiff and popped the leaf into her mouth. Then she laughed.

Isabella: Basil!
Tata: I grow all kinds of crap in my miniscule backyard.

I put the leaves into a paper cup, added water from the bathroom sink and placed the little bouquet on the only surface I could find where cords, bags, medical debris and bedding would not knock over the bouquet. The doctors had just left. Isabella gave them permission to up the morphine dose.

I’m going to need more than basil.

*The Princess Bride quoted with immunity to iocaine powder and without a giant.