A Roller Coaster And I Am Not

This here is Ground Zero for my particular kind of crazy.

Pete and his father renovated the kitchen about fifteen years ago. As designs for shared kitchens go, it’s perplexing: six-foot persons should share it with seven-foot persons and all of them should be skinny like cornstalks. I would put things I used often where I could reach them and Pete put them back up where I could not. I told him to quit it; he told me to use the fuzzy, rickety folding stool. I explained how we were gonna get divorced with the help of a wood chipper if he didn’t quit hiding the crystallized ginger behind the kosher salt; he laughed and I rearranged his salt collection. The third time the bottle of olive oil fell on my head I swore in three languages and bought this spice rack. We scrubbed out the cabinet, brought bottles and jars down from the top two shelves and Pete and I did not get divorced.

Be There For Bungling At Which

Topaz curled up in my lap an hour ago and my legs fell asleep. The tiny tiny cat is insistent that no task at hand could be more important that petting her. I can barely reach the keyboard, but what’re you gonna do? Topaz is a cat; ergo: her logic is impeccable.

Tomorrow is the last appointment for this round of physical therapy, which I described to my doctor as “my new lifestyle.” The future in which I plan my own daily exercise regimen is nearly upon us. The weather has changed from frozen to muddy, but the temperature is rising a bit every day. By next week, I’m hoping to climb back on the bicycle and crisscross the river on sunny work days. Last Saturday, I met a Hatha Yoga teacher and though the idea of sitting cross-legged on a cool floor meditating fills me with several kinds of dread, a weekly class four blocks from my house makes a whole lot of sense.

Well, what the hell. While other people are omming, I can warble Why Do Fools Fall In Love.

A block from the yoga teacher’s new digs a tai chi school has set up shop with an eye-catching program for arthritics. Classes are ungodly expensive and the schedule is a little confusing. I’m thinking this seems like a practical way to burn some vacation days if I suddenly win the lottery. Today, I had a hard time sashaying from the library to my car. Maybe I should ease on down to the drug store and buy a lottery ticket.

A Man Afraid Has No Shame

I had to work up the nerve to watch this video. Of course, I live in Jersey and stuff blowing up is kind of – well – normal, but even so, I was not sure I was prepared for what I might see. Turns out the explosion itself is rather banal now that we’ve all watched the Mythbusters blow up non-dairy creamer just for kicks.

CNN’s Larry Kudlow may have the money quote for this terrible -even horrible – disaster:

“The human toll here,” he declared, “looks to be much worse than the economic toll and we can be grateful for that.”

Larry – I will be calling him Larry because I’m too freaking lazy to type That Vomitrocious Ghoul over and over – has long forgotten the Heroes of Chernobyl, who saved Europe. That story wasn’t widely reported in the West and not at all until much later. Granted, it’s hard to remember history when this is the morning’s news.

About 2,000 bodies found on coast of Japan’s Miyagi-Kyodo

March 14 (Reuters) – About 2,000 bodies were found on Monday on two shores of Miyagi prefecture in northeast Japan following last week’s massive earthquake and tsunami, Kyodo news agency reported.

That’s the entire news report. This human toll is not Larry’s problem. In fact, even as explosions continue to rock the imploding reactors, you can expect Larry to segue neatly into what investors are doing in three, two, one…

You Come To Me

I love this song. It’s catchy and full of all-purpose angst. The lyrics are unintelligible. It has really good dramatic development. And then there’s this video, which provides proof that your friends shouldn’t edit your videos.

While watching that I remembered a rule about choreography: dance to the music, not the words. As an artist, I have absolutely danced to words. But this…no. This video does not succeed. I would like to see a lot more like this:

Proof that your band exists in real space and that you can play your instruments seems like the least an audience might ask.

While My Coffee Grows Cold

Non-violence is the greatest force at the disposal of mankind. It is mightier than the mightiest weapon of destruction devised by the ingenuity of man.
Mohandas Gandhi

Non-violence leads to the highest ethics, which is the goal of all evolution. Until we stop harming all other living beings, we are still savages.
Thomas A. Edison

Abortion Law: Mother Denied Abortion, Then Had To Watch Baby Die

Nebraska’s new abortion law forced Danielle Deaver to live through ten excruciating days, waiting to give birth to a baby that she and her doctors knew would die minutes later, fighting for breath that would not come.

And that’s what happened. The one-pound, ten-ounce girl, Elizabeth, was born December 8th. Deaver and husband Robb watched, held and comforted the baby as it gasped for air, hoping she was not suffering. She died 15 minutes later.

The sponsor of the controversial Nebraska statute, Sen. Mike Flood of Norfolk, told the Des Moines Register that the law worked as it was intended in the Deavers’ case.

Remember when I quit drinking? I’m thinking of quitting quitting drinking because all I can clearly think of is how Mike Flood deserves to have his windpipe squeezed for fifteen minutes every day for the rest of his miserable life. If I were depressed, I might crawl into bed and stay there, but as a matter of fact, I’m in a pretty good mood. Hey Mike! I wish you every happiness you’ve left to the Deavers! Bon appetit, motherfucker!

Obviously, I’m getting more enlightened by the fucking minute.

Sing To the Morning Light

Lovely Topaz, a bit under the weather.

The bad news is coming too fast for me.

James Goddamn O’Keefe.
Newt Fucking Gingrich, literally.

In other news, David Broder has gone to his reward. He was a dull villain. Though I don’t believe in Heaven with angels pling-plinging on harps or Hell other than a Monday morning at Motor Vehicle Services, I do hope poor Mr. Broder is buried in a tie-dyed t-shirt and a Nehru jacket.

Further, Chuck Schumer quit being a corporate whore for a whole day.

This morning, I should’ve gone back to bed. I mean, if you didn’t accidentally brush your teeth with Aspercreme, you’re miles ahead of me, brother. Hint: don’t do that, it is icky and you look for Allen Funt all day.

Ooh, if you see Mr. Funt, tell him to say hi to that dirty hippie David Broder.

You Ask Yourself How Much Do

I joke, I kid, but I’m allergic to Planet Earth. Every few years, the planet springs a new combination of allergens on me and my respiratory system goes haywire. I don’t worry about it much unless poison ivy is involved because on me one little blister turns me into one giant blister, which is not a great look for me. So I worry about that, usually in August and September.

At the moment, the calendar says March, I’m inexplicably covered with fetching hives and gulping Benadryl geltabs. This causes me to take sudden naps. So while it is impossible to match a lipstick to an itchy rash when it’s over I’ll be well-rested.