If the Door Wasn’t Closed

Usually, original pictures on Poor Impulse Control are taken by Pete, though sometimes I take them. Those are often pictures I crop thumbs out of and adjust for dumb darkness. These pictures were taken by the intrepid Darla at Lake Erie, near her house. Dad’s third wife is Canadian, you know. You’d never guess but she looks just like a normal person. For example, if this were my neighbor’s house, I’d be using some exceedingly piquant verbiage. Darla called it a mishap. Crazy Canadians don’t know when to get excited. The house is about to fall into an inland ocean. Now might be the time to employ a modifier.

Haloscan’s magical transformation into another monthly bill proved curiously timed: I wasn’t writing well. Sorry about that. I often write blog posts while people are talking to me; when posts have nouns and verbs I feel like I got away with something. Anyway, I had to give some thought to whether or not blogging was my metier anymore and if I was going to put the time and effort into Poor Impulse Control to make it vibrant, quirky and full of interesting crazy. I thought about it long and hard. Finally, I decided if there was anything I was willing to add some elbow grease to it’s poor impulse control. My ennui can bite me. Haloscan’s gone. I’m still here, rededicated to thinking the funny thoughts.

In New Jersey, we call that a breezeway.

The thought occurs: what if rowing camp, on which I have focused what we laughingly refer to as my attention, requires that participants arrive with a clean bill of health in July? That would give me five months to exercise, stretch, get massage and plunk myself down in the bathtub. Shouting, “LOOK! SOMEONE FAMOUS!” and switching xrays isn’t going to cut it when the doctor for the U.S. Crew Team shares an office with my sports medicine doc, so I’m working a new plan. I’ve ordered new exercise videos and quit bothering to remove the ski pants in my office anymore, keeping the hip warm. We’ve changed our diets to reduce the amount meat on every plate relative to the amount of vegetable. In a few weeks, it’ll be warm enough for me to bicycle to work again. I am going to push as hard as I can; if I can go, I’ll go. If not, then not, but not for lack of trying. When I find myself limping, my best defense is to tighten up my abs and walk evenly. In related news: I walk like Charles Atlas in ski pants – only, you know, smaller, rounder and better-smelling.

Brown Rice, Black Beans To Be Free

I.
If there’s anything that can be gleaned from a thoughtful survey of the public discourse it’s that the word freedom cannot be defined one way for all people.

II.
A bit less than twenty years ago, the then-boyfriend and I and two friends went to an exhibit of fledgeling virtual reality technology, considered at the time so far out there that the exhibit station was gathering dust until we arrived. The artists had long since gotten bored and wandered away; there was no one to question about possible uses for VR. The guys I was with tried on the helmet and glasses and futzed around with different movements. I chose not to try walking and leaping because I could already walk and leap, but what I really liked were the ideas I had immediately for what could be done with VR tech. Right off the bat: wouldn’t it be fantastic if heterosexuals could switch bodies and learn what it was like to get sexy in – as opposed to against – the bodies of their lovers? Wouldn’t we learn everything worth knowing if we could learn to feel what other people feel?

What if men could feel for themselves what pregnancy and childbirth feel like? What if doctors could feel what patients feel? What if wealthy legislators could feel the anguish and helplessness of children who go to bed hungry? How different would we be if we could see life through other people’s eyes and could learn from their experiences?

As time passed and commercial technology developed, mostly it’s been used for video games in which white alpha males kill brown people. Indifference to suffering is desirable; nothing useful has been learned. Nothing has been contributed to the Common Good.

III.
It’s shitty timing to refer to a big blogger, seeing as how it’s Blogroll Amnesty Day, but Digby posted this video that set me off this morning.

One way to define freedom is to learn who you are and what you stand for. I want you to suspend for a moment your political cynicism and try out a new idea: what would happen if every Sunday talk show, every campaign stop and every speech included someone – maybe you – asking the question, “What does your proposal contribute to the Common Good?” What if you expected someone to ask this question, and what if you expected an answer? What if we all expected an answer? What if consideration the Common Good were what we expected from public discourse?

No one stands up on Sunday mornings and asks the audience why it’s watching Bill Kristol talk about endless war instead of the Common Good, but someone should. The pundits have lost their minds about deficit reduction, which will do nothing for the Common Good, but no one says mentions it. But what if you could? Because you can. Picture yourself standing up at a speech, standing up to say, “You keep talking about cutting domestic spending, but that will detract from the Common Good. What do you have to say for yourself?” Or: “This Pentagon budget fattens the wallets of defense contractors but contributes nothing to the Common Good. You will have to rewrite it.” What a day that would be!

Picture reporters asking questions about the Common Good because it matters and when we forget that, bridges fall down, hospitals fall apart, garbage collection fails, children don’t learn to read, fire departments close, neighborhoods empty and fall to ruin, food banks and soup kitchens close, homeless people sleep in the streets. The politics of selfishness have brought us to the brink of ruin as a country; poverty is what happens when we fail to consider the Common Good. Give this some thought, then: what if you asked politicians, “What does this proposal contribute to the Common Good?”

What if you deserved an answer? Consider this: you do.

It Stands For Knife

Today, I went back to the physical therapy building for an appointment with the massage therapist. Massage on my right hip is like lemon-scented Hell on Earth, so I lay on the table, laughing to keep from screaming for just over half an hour. He was working on one blindingly painful spot, moved to the other side and asked how that side felt. I allowed as how it was uncomfortable but not like the other side, where I wanted to slap his ancestors. He laughed nervously, probably because he was twice my size and I have another appointment next week.

When A Flaming Stealth Banana Split the Sky

A few years ago, my friend Trout had a CSA share with the unnamed university’s agricultural extension’s wacky farmer training program. The whole idea was new to me when she called one Friday from a business trip to ask if I could go pick up her weekly share. I drove out to the farm, rumbled across the PVC cow catcher and crept along the farm road about a half mile past a house and a sign threatening visitors with dire consequences if one of the resident children or varmints had an accident to the outbuildings in the back. In a small, awkward parking lot, I beached my car when it became completely obvious that 130 sharers were planning their weekly rumble over a two-hour window for pickup and 12 parking spaces; good thing we’re all peaceful and organic!

Inside, agricultural students had brought in vegetables, herbs, gourds and decorative plants, counted each and divided by the number of shareholders to formulate a list of what each shareholder should collect. This part of the process was really mysterious at first as I shuffled between ancient supermarket refrigerator bins, trying to figure out what the hell I was looking at and whether or not I recognized it as food. One aspect of the CSA experience is education: the aggies learn how to grow a wide variety of plants and shareholders learn how to prepare tasty stuff they’ve never heard of. It works great. In fact, it works so well that a couple of years ago, my sister Daria shared a share with Trout and learned to like, then love, sorrel. Daria’s sorrel problem was so bad she found herself staring into her reusable treehugger grocery bag, shouting, “WHERE THE FUCK IS MY SORREL?”

(Note: though Daria would rather chew off her French manicure than touch dirt I’m planting sorrel for her in a planter sorrel will like and her homeowners’ association will surely disparage. I would bet my shoes the association has not seen anything like full-metal Daria on a sorrel-inspired rampage, and I will laugh and laugh. And have bail money.)

CSA shares aren’t cheap. We’re looking into them because supporting local farmers is crucial, supporting agricultural students learning organic growing techniques is an investment in a healthy future for us all and because, dang it, I have a lot to learn and can’t wait to give new things a try. A CSA share, if we were lucky enough to get one, would be on the outer, pointiest edge of what Pete and I could afford if we pinched a few pennies and watched black and white TV. That could be funny. Plus: we’re going to learn to grow sorrel in a hostile environment.

Instead I Pour the Milk

Never in my life have I personally been so frigging happy. Let’s deal with that, shall we? Maybe it’s the man, the food, the cats, the neighborhood, the job, the people – I can’t say because I’m writing for shit and it’s the middle of winter – but I am very happy, generally. Last week, I went to town meeting about sustainable living. One committee member said the schools aren’t going to do something just because it’s the right thing to do and I didn’t punch her in the face because I’ve fucking matured. I take things in stride now. My hip is kicking my ass, making it tough to put on socks. I bought scuffs on sale for more than 50% off, causing me to do a cautious Happy Dance. Drusy got a box just the right size for a 6 lb. cat. Halle-freaking-lujah.

A Candidate For Vietnam Or Watergate

Pete’s brand new antique English racer. We are willing spring to arrive.

My sisters Anya and Corinne pushed the whole town uphill through failed fire inspections, endless phone calls and dozens of rushed meetings to throw a benefit tonight for Haiti. They assembled a bake sale, a silent auction, an art show, musicians, speakers and the mayor of less than a week into an orderly if passionate response to the destruction and ongoing needs. The process was brilliant to watch. This afternoon, Anya and Corinne burst into the back hallway of the family store and blurted, “What’s for lunch?” I said, “Triscuits, caponata, fresh yogurt and popcorn.” They stared because they were kidding. “It’s just like you to throw a benefit to feed people and forget to eat all day.” Then I nearly had to beat up Corinne when grabbed the yogurt, caponata and a spoon and ran for the door.

In Bed With Only Highway

I drag around a buttload of stuff on my bike, but this is amazing.

On any given day in Northampton, Massachusetts, you might see something that would raise eyebrows elsewhere: Someone on a bike, pulling a giant trailer heaped with trash. You’ll see this in rain, snow, or heat and humidity; on residential streets and on Main Street; even going uphill in traffic.

Since late 2002, the Pedal People have picked up and hauled more than 341,000 cubic feet of trash, recyclables, and compost, replacing big loud fuel-burning garbage trucks with…bicycles (at prices competitive with the trucks). It’s not a viable model everywhere, and nobody’s getting rich doing this, but it’s the sort of carbon footprint-reducing business we should look at as a model for the places it would work.

You might think a bicycle hauling business wouldn’t be viable everywhere because of weather – that it would only work in extremely mild climates. But Northampton gets snow in the winter and has real summers, and the Pedal People rarely delay pickups due to weather.

If there’s a town small enough for this service, it’s the microdot on the map I live in! But wait – Northampton’s not the only steamy composting hotspot.

The Pedal to Petal process is a closed cycle, from food to compost to soil and back to food again, all without the use of fossil fuel dependent vehicles and machines.

Pedal to Petal members are involved in the creation and maintainance of organic edible landscapes throughout the city of Victoria. The compost created through this project will feed the soil and feed the city. An increase in locally produced food will mean a decrease in the amount of food imported from off-island. This further reduces the amount of fossil fuels being used in the course of providing ourselves with sustainance. Not only that, but small-scale organic agriculture has far less of an impact on the environment than farms that rely on the use of heavy machinery. We turn the compost piles by hand and use a method of cultivation that eliminates the need for roto-tilling. Once again, a vast reduction in fossil fuel use.

This is such an exciting, sensible idea. If I were an enterprising, underemployed bicycle owner with a big yard, I’d go into stinky business for myself. Some composting afficionadas go big and get a truck.

EARTHGIRL COMPOSTING will provide you with a five gallon bucket. We will pick up your full bucket weekly, biweekly or monthly, leave you an empty clean bucket and deliver your waste to Vermont Compost Company and/or Intervale Compost Products.

YOU DECIDE how often and we will do the rest.

When you compost with EARTHGIRL COMPOSTING you are making a difference.

All waste is delivered to Vermont Compost Company and/or Intervale Compost Products.

Vermont Compost Company was founded by organic crop growing professionals to meet the need for high quality composts and compost based living soil mixes for certified organic plant production. Vermont Compost Company recycles over 400 tons of food residuals annually and relies on bio-fuels, non-toxic lubricants, and plant-based oils for all of the equipment on the farm.

Intervale Compost Products supports our community and sustainable agriculture by turning waste into compost and selling that compost to organic farmers, gardeners, and landscapers.

Startling use of capital letters aside, that’s a wild idea come to efficient fruition. Check this out:

We provide participants in the compost program with their own post-consumer, recycled compost bucket, free of charge. Each bucket comes lined with a completely compostable cornstarch bag.

On the appropriate collection night, participants place their buckets on their front porch. We empty the contents of each bucket into our collection truck, replace the bag, and put the bucket back on the participant’s porch, ready to receive another week’s compost.

The collected compost is then taken to a city composting site, managed by the Department of Parks and Horticulture, where it is processed for re-integration into the ecosystem. The following spring, we deliver finished compost from the site to participants in the program, free-of-charge.

Montreal returns compost to participants, which is either great or a great threat. Weren’t expecting buckets of nutrient-rich compost on your doorstep? Surprise! Goo for you! Were you to, say, Google compost services, you would find such services listed all over the place.

I’m not saying you should consider this an investment opportunity, but I am saying that in 2010, there is money to be made in dirt that can clean up your karma.

If Dreams Were Thunder

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha

Alleging a plot to tamper with phones in Democratic Sen. Mary Landrieu’s office in the Hale Boggs Federal Building in downtown New Orleans, the FBI arrested four people Monday, including James O’Keefe, 25, a conservative filmmaker whose undercover videos at ACORN field offices severely damaged the advocacy group’s credibility.

Also arrested were Joseph Basel, Stan Dai and Robert Flanagan, all 24. Flanagan is the son of William Flanagan, who is the acting U.S. attorney for the Western District of Louisiana. All four men were charged with entering federal property under false pretenses with the intent of committing a felony.

An official close to the investigation said one of the four was arrested with a listening device in a car blocks from the senator’s offices.

– via C & L where – omigod, I can’t breathe!

Dave N.: Hmmm. Wonder how Andrew Breitbart and Glenn Beck – who have relied heavily on O’Keefe’s work to smear ACORN – will respond. One can only imagine the cries of persecution that will be erupting shortly.

One can’t help but be impressed by O’Keefe’s investigative-journalism technique. If only the rest of us poor schlubs had realized something O’Keefe obviously learned the first time around: You can get away with breaking the law if you can get it up on Fox News first.

I’m sure O’Keefe was banking on that this time around, too. Ooopsie.

Unfortunately, Jon Stewart fell for this shit. It’s time for him to retract The Audacity of Hos.

Put the Tape On Erase

I learned everything I know about glam close up shots from Bruce Lee movies.

Recently, video of that radio comedy troupe I was in turned up on YouTube. The videos are of shows we did while working up new material for the radio show or because we were too bleary to refuse a request. Sometimes they’re funny. Sometimes they’re true dogs. This is all from a time just before I lost my memory, so I don’t remember a whole lot about it except that when the wild ride ended suddenly, I felt lost without the constant companionship.

Even so, the past is the past. I kind of wish it had stayed there, but history is fluid. Sometimes history shows up whether you like it or not. You know who should feel my pain? Jim DeMint – he won’t even notice, and that should be funnier.

The Path Before Me Lies

Lovely Topaz, her arms around my hand, falls asleep.

The vet diagnosed Topaz’s smelly breath and seeming fever as a painful gum condition that causes inflammation and makes veterinarians weepy. I listened to him talk about treatments, feeling like I’d been punched in the gut. I took the prescription to the drug store near my house, where times have changed. For years, I tricked the departed Larry, the little black cat bent on stealing your soul, into taking stinky medicine because the fish flavorings were ungodly expensive. Now, flavoring is $3 and the medicine is not even all that expensive. For about a week, we’ve mostly tricked Topaz into taking medicine mixed with tuna water – but it has to be fresh. Yesterday’s chilled tuna water will not do. Because Topaz is getting tuna water, Sweetpea must have it, so now it’s a treat and Topaz wants more.

In other news: tuna salad on crackers, tuna sandwiches, tomatoey tuna surprise.