LONDON, England (CNN) — A protester who wanted his message to stick managed to superglue himself to the British prime minister Tuesday evening.
Dan Glass was at 10 Downing Street to receive a charity’s award for his work on transportation issues when he staged the unusual protest. Just before Prime Minister Gordon Brown presented him with the award, Glass squirted superglue in the palm of his left hand. He shook Brown’s right hand and then grabbed the prime minister’s sleeve.
“I’ve just superglued myself to your arm,” Glass said he told Brown. “Don’t panic. This is a non-violent protest.”
Glass is affiliated with the group Plane Stupid, which campaigns against airport expansion and climate change. He said he acted to protest Brown’s “hypocrisy” on the issues.
“I just wanted a few more minutes of his time to get the message across, because he’s not listening to communities affected by airport expansion,” Glass told CNN on Wednesday.
The prime minister managed to free himself in about 30 seconds, Glass said.
“He can shake off my arm, but he cannot shake away climate change,” he added.
Surprisingly, Mr. Glass was not fed to the Queen’s Corgis. But we don’t live there. We live here.
Since we can’t shake off the hangover caused by two endless wars, the destruction of an American city, the destruction of our military, the emptying of our treasury, the evisceration of the Constitution, the absolutely avoidable corrosion of the middle class, the union busting, the jobs loss, the wholesale incarceration of the poor, the corruption of the Department of Justice, the environmental policies written by oil lobbyists, the installation of unqualified political hacks into significant positions, the xenophobic and homophobic invective and legislation, the unforgivable fleecing of the Department of the Interior, the cruel and stupid border wall bullshit, the poisoning of political discourse, the stacking of the Supreme Court, the outing of Valerie Plame, the loss of American credibility on human rights issues, the hollowing out of Roe vs. Wade, the dismantling of contraceptive and AIDS prevention programs worldwide and the unbelievably cruel abandonment of women in Iraq and Afghanistan, let’s watch Beeker sing Ode to Joy. Because why not?
For a few weeks, I’ve felt run down, sore and exhausted. I wish I had time to take a day off and lie still while charming young things bring me restorative chicken liver pate and tropical fruit. I don’t. No matter. My co-worker got hit by a dump truck that launched his car fifty feet into a telephone pole, totalling the car and cracking his rib. He’s sitting at his desk now, telling us about the Have A Heart trap that survived the various impacts that turned his car into crushed metal. It’s a fucking miracle! Well, shut my mouth.
I haven’t been able to bicycle to work. Yesterday was the sixth successive day topping 90 degrees, and almost every forecast contained some mention of lightning. It’s raining lightly now. That’s why today is the only day this summer I’ve worn suede shoes. Because, you know, because.
The Weavers at Carnegie Hall has been on my mind. Daria, Todd and I spent a lot of time alone together, singing these songs. In my lifetime, the way people listen to music has changed fundamentally. Let’s call this American History: our parents weren’t wild about television anyhow, so they’d put on records. A listener had a respectful, attentive duty to records: motion was limited to what did not disturb the needle for 24-26 minutes, and sometimes all a person did was hold still and really listen. Sometimes, we’d sing along and often dance. Sometimes we’d dance to the radio. Until we started buying our own records – no mean feat since we didn’t live anywhere near a record store – we had this intimate relationship with our parents’ music. Thus, somewhere in the back of my child mind, I know every note, every catcall, every thunderous cheer of The Weavers at Carnegie Hall.
Because I remember my father coughing on his restaurant breakfast and whispering, “That man over there – he was blacklisted by McCarthy” and because I’ve been in a foul mood since warmongers started flinging around the word traitor in 2002, and because there was never any reason to invade Iraq, I see this treachery for what it is. Somewhere, there is music and we should be dancing.
Once again, I’m working my tapered fingers to the bone at the family store. I wish I were at home, where Topaz reclines in an alcove of Dad’s cookbooks, manuals and dictionaries. Pete and I refer to this as Topaz’s Room. Like any girl with a jealous feline sister of approximately the same age, Topaz defends her turf. I’m sure she’s going to cut up Drusy’s Shawn Cassidy posters. Daria and I, sixteen months apart, were scrappers from the beginning but we knew sisters in high school who were so mean they gave each other shocking nocturnal haircuts. I’ve warned the cats about bobbing one another’s fur.
If you can believe it, the first cookbook my family ever gave me was English. I should have sensed their hostility and run away from home immediately. This being before Google the Great and Powerful or rides to a real library, I was left to puzzle out what rashers of bacon might mean to quiche, and why the pictures made food look slightly hysterical. I’d seen desserts before, but never an emotionally overwrought Pavlova stacked with nervous kiwi.
In the first picture of lovely Topaz with her delicious new feathery bell toy thingy, the English cookbook is backwards in the stack. I still use it sometimes to demonstrate my claim that I make a gateau that’ll make you cry, especially if you’re wearing an expensive outfit.
Topaz is far too sleepy and too refined for such silliness.
When the hair-twisting mommy says, “Like other vaccines, it’s about prevention” I get out my 3-D glasses and decoder ring. Why? Leaving aside the hipster silliness of about, all vaccines prevent disease and infection. And people don’t say things like “It’s about prevention” unless people are talking about it being formulated to do something else. In Australia, fundamentalists say Gardasil kills girls but the data is full of holes. People can say anything, but it doesn’t have to be true or useful. Could parents be confused by what something is and what someone says it does? Yep. Happens all the time. Words used and misused have great power, and words misused with ill intent are very, very dangerous.
Today on Shakesville, Mustang Bobby posted about amusing and awkward corporate double speak, and all was going swimmingly until a glib professional linguist turned up and commenters who ought to know better kissed her ass. If that’s in any way an opaque description, I’ll help. Ass-kissing can be defined as happens when a commentariat is cowed by cleverness or alleged credentials, rather than putting forth the suggestion that the clever, allegedly credentialled commenter is full of shit and probably disastrously bad at her job.
Frankly, the language should have turned a little Anglo-Saxon.
Look, I’m nobody. I didn’t graduate from college and I won’t stoop to listing off reasons you ought to kiss my ass – though I might lean over a little now and then. I’m still about to say something really important. No. Really. Ready?
Language is your first line of defense.
What people say, what words they use, how they use them – all these things are not neutral. You can learn a great deal about a speaker, broadcaster or conversationalist by weighing her words. For a simple example, my grandmother, who did the New York Times crossword in pen for fun, used to say, “Sweetheart, you made coffee,” which sounds delightful unless you know my grandmother never said the word “sweetheart” without clenched teeth, and I make terrible coffee. There. Meaning has harmlessly, totally shifted, but Gram was allowed to shift these meanings because, of course, we were all grateful I hadn’t made espresso and Gram, raised by Italian immigrants, spoke perfect English.
Here and now, words fly fast, furious and spurious. Honest people are genuinely perplexed by what they hear and dishonest people perplex par excellence. If you’re listening, you can hear words shift in the public discourse. I recall distinctly feeling the solid ground shake under the word feminist and wondering why anyone was stupid enough to shimmy along, but people have been doing that same dance, unquestioning, for years. Words, once again, have great power: to raise up, to destroy, to inspire, to rend, but we have to listen, and we have to know what words mean when we use them. If we don’t, we don’t know when they’re used to tear us apart from one another.
The NAACP has heard McCain’s words before.
A word we hear and use and misuse is racism.Racism is a systemic power imbalance based on the dominant culture’s perception of skin color, manifesting in but not limited to social, economic, educational and linguistic inequalities. It’s racism when the average household worth of non-Hispanic white people is above $80,000, but for black people it’s less than $6,000. It’s racism when police and fire departments routinely hire white applicants in numbers disproportionate to the population. It’s not at all racism when black people, speaking where white people can hear them, mention racism exists, and that it’s wildly unpleasant to live with. What, then, about black people who do terrible things to white people? That’s not racism. That can be prejudice, hatred, a violent dislike or a loss of composure, but in America, it doesn’t have the weight and omnipresence of the system and the state. When we use the word racism to describe the actions or words of a black person, we are not only misusing this word, we are teaching people not to trust our words. And we have to know this, because people who understand the meanings of words are listening.
The issues are complex and the language is rich and supple, however loaded it might be with the tools of oppression and damage. In America, English is an oppressor language, wielded by the dominant culture against immigrants and natives alike; never mistake it for a weapon that won’t be used against you. It is, every day, all the time, but it’s also your weapon if you take it up and learn how to use it. People who think spelling and grammar are not important might as well be asking con artists to steal their savings accounts.
Back to the glib linguist: she remarked that it was surprising feminists resisted changes in language and all the hair on my arms stood up. I was at work, so I went and did something else, possibly involving knives. To me, that statement said everything I needed to know or will ever need to know about that person. Further, I know that if I need to con someone out of her nest egg, I know precisely who’ll never see me coming.
Miz Shoes has kindly named me the recipient of an Arte y Pico award. I confess my Spanish is limited to phrases Minstrel Boy pens for me so I can order dinner without creating an international incident, so while I’m not completely clear on the whole Arte y Pico zeitgeist I’m still thankful Miz Shoes thinks that much of me. Thank you, dahhhhlink. You’re much too kind!
Unfortunately, that’s where murky understanding turns to mud. Rules for passing this honor on are: * Pick 5 blogs to which you would like to award this honor. * Each award has to have the name of the author and also a link to his or her blog to be visited by everyone. * Each award winner has to show the award and put the name and link to the blog that has given her or him the award itself. * Award-winner and the one who has given the prize have to show the link.
I love you, Blogosphere, but if you think I’m sharing my tiara you’ve never seen a beauty pageant. I’m in it for the fame, the glory and the double-sided tape stuck under my armpits, keeping this strapless number from becoming a belt. Name five blogs? And have them steal my hard-fought victory, not to mention my mascara? I can’t do it, not while I’m still competing at the peak of my ridiculous form. So instead of dumping ground glass into your pumps, I’ll entertain you with a medley.
Recently, Greasy Tony flipped his last burger. Yes, Tony’s gone to the Great Grill In the Sky, via Tuscon and Tempe, Arizona. This may come as a surprise to anyone who lived in New Brunswick during the sixties, seventies and eighties, because the hand that rocked the cheesesteak seemed ageless and ancient. Perhaps you visited town but you hadn’t really lived here until you’d stumbled into Greasy Tony’s after bar closing time and ate whatever Tony thought your slurred request meant.
My brother Todd and his friends should have had a plaque on the wall, so often did they patronize this fine eatery. I personally will miss watching Tony slap roaches on the counter with the same knife he used to chop “vegetables,” but these memories will someday be lost on the winds of time. What is not lost is the true Jersey spirit in which Tony said, “No charge for extra grease.”
A few weeks ago, the phone rang. My sister Daria hissed at me urgently from an outlet store ten miles away.
Daria: WHAT SIZE ARE YOUR FEET? Tata: Depends on the shoes’ width. My feet form amusing triangles – Daria: FLIP FLOPS! WHAT SIZE ARE YOUR FEET IN FLIP FLOPS? Tata: Six and a half? Seven? Daria: SEVEN IT IS! What color do you want? They have purple, blue and silver. Tata: Both. All of them. What are we talking about? Daria: Vera Wang flip flops are 50% off and I have a coupon! Tata: You’d better get all three. What if my feet aren’t feeling all matchy-matchy?
This is an almost criminally inadequate rendering of the purple version of the flip flops I am currently wearing, and this tries the patience of my co-workers because when sunlight catches the little silver plastic bauble – it’s true – angels sing. Yes, when I’m wearing casual summer footwear I have a celestial soundtrack. We all do; it’s just that I can hear this theme music. It’s a talent, I guess; helps me avoid sharks. A few weeks ago, a woman I barely know asked what my blog’s about. I don’t know. It’s possible you might know before I do.
NEWARK, N.J. (AP) – Women’s rights groups and the state Attorney General’s Office are preparing to challenge a judge’s ruling that determined it’s too easy to get a restraining order in New Jersey.
It’s on my To-Do list: get a manicure, have the dog waxed, file for a restraining order. You want to do lunch? I could rearrange a few things.
Although the numbers have declined over the past five years, about 40,000 domestic violence complaints are filed annually in New Jersey. From those, roughly 30,000 temporary restraining orders are issued, with most of the rest withdrawn by the accuser. Nearly 80 percent of the complaints are filed by women.
The recent ruling by a Hudson County judge, however, threatens to make it more difficult for victims to prove they have been beaten or threatened and could scuttle the state’s Prevention of Domestic Violence Act.
State Superior Court Judge Francis B. Schultz found that some elements of the 17-year-old law are unconstitutional. Among them: a low threshold of evidence _ just a “preponderance” _ to get a restraining order violates due process protections. Instead, judges need “clear and convincing” evidence to issue a restraining order, Schultz said.
[Sic] and very sick. In fact, with all that spinning, vertigo is almost inevitable.
In New Jersey, about 9,000 people bring criminal charges each year that a restraining order has been violated, sometimes with tragic results.
For example, prosecutors in Essex County have charged Kenneth Duckett with murdering his estranged wife, Monica Paul, by shooting her to death in front of one of their children at the Montclair YMCA on June 26. The couple had separated in August, and Paul obtained a temporary restraining order in October. It was made final later that month, according to prosecutors.
Bruce Eden, civil rights director for the state chapter of Dads Against Discrimination, contended that such cases are rare, and that a majority of domestic violence complaints involve no physical contact. Complaints can be filed for making threats.
He applauded Schultz’ decision. “This will make it more difficult for false allegations,” Eden said.
I wonder if I could projectile-vomit all the way to Bruce Eden’s house. It would have to be a record of some kind. Who’s with me? Eat something chunky!
Michael Argen, president of the New Jersey Council for Children’s Rights, said that a parent will not get custody of children once a restraining order is issued.
“If this ruling continues, it would help truly battered people more, because it would limit the resources that are being used on truly frivolous cases,” Argen said.
I’m thinking gravity’s a little weak at Argen’s house. Either that or he’s confused by pesky words like homicide and manslaughter when they apply to women.
Schultz also found the law violated the New Jersey Constitution’s separation of powers mandate because the Legislature usurped the state Supreme Court’s role by dictating court procedures, including what to consider in setting bail.
“If it’s allowed to stand, it certainly would be a significant problem for victims of domestic violence,” said Sandy Clark, associate director of the New Jersey Coalition for Battered Women.
“They are typically the only witnesses to the abuse. So to have to show by clear and convincing standard would certainly be challenging,” Clark said.
She considers New Jersey’s law among the best in the country, since it provides restraining orders of indefinite length, along with mandatory training for police and judges. Other states have tougher standards to obtain restraining orders, she said.
Prosecutors are also alarmed at what would happen if the ruling stands.
“You’re going to have a chilling effect. That’s the bottom line,” said Deputy Chief Assistant Essex County Prosecutor Debra Cannella, who led the office’s domestic violence unit for 11 years.
“We’re very concerned about this because elevating the standard of proof will make it more difficult for victims of domestic violence who desperately need relief,” Cannella said. “The next time that victim is assaulted, they may not come back to court because there were rebuffed.”
The victim might not come back to court next time because she’s inconveniently dead, but that’s less important than a legislative pissing match.
Hey, girl: once again, your rights take a beating. Do us all a favor and take it like a man.
This is a dated image of Nastia Liukin, who placed second at the Olympic Trials. Her performances are always beautiful to watch and since the Olympics are mere weeks away, I thought I’d tell you something about this image you might not know: handstands are the zen position of the gymnastics world. By itself, this image looks like a person resting on her palms, but she is actually pressing her whole taut body away from her palms. Her abdominal muscles measure balance against the position of her shoulders, her hamstrings, her heels, the tops of her feet. It looks like a moment of stillness and yet every bit of the gymnast’s body is stretched, is loose, is in motion, is motionless – all at once, in delicate harmony. Liukin looks frail but her weight to strength ratio would impress Marines.
There’s another thing: a handstand is also a position of rest. To get there, a gymnast has just exerted some effort, especially on the uneven bars. It seems counterintuitive to say this active position is restful, but it is, and it is most restful when it is most stretched and dynamic. Below, Liukin on the first night of the Olympic Trials. On the second night, she had several problems any other mortal might have. This routine, though, flows beautifully to the funny landing and there’s a noticeable rhythm break about two-thirds of the way through. Even so, the score of 16.7 under the new scoring system is fantastic. Watch, and you will see how she pushes up to move down and presses down to circle back up. She is doing so many things even slow motion won’t help you see it all.
The American leader, who has been condemned throughout his presidency for failing to tackle climate change, ended a private meeting with the words: “Goodbye from the world’s biggest polluter.”
He then punched the air while grinning widely, as the rest of those present including Gordon Brown and Nicolas Sarkozy looked on in shock.
If you’ve seen a movie in the last fifty years, you know that the gentle voice on the hotel’s overhead speaker sounds a bit…testy:
Paging President Bush! Paging President Bush! There’s a Mr. Gozilla here to see you at your earliest convenience. He’s waiting where the lobby used to be. Paging Housekeeping! Paging Housekeeping! Please summon Mothra for backup…
I sit 35 miles from the crater in the Manhattan bedrock that used to be the World Trade Center and even now, no day passes that is not in some way influenced by the disaster. And today I saw this commercial. Need to lose a few pounds? For full drink-spewing disgust, just let the ad at the top right run. You’ll hurl all right! Note the choice of words that make it sound like you can buy this shitty product to celebrate something, and what is that, exactly?
Poor Impulse Control 