I Love In You And I Love In Me

Somewhere, a little girl is plotting revenge.

Friday, when I left the library, I stood in sunlight at the bike rack. About half a mile later, the sky opened and I ducked into an alcove near the art library and threw on my rain gear. I am a genius, with the rain gear! I’m so smart, I waited a minute or two for the lightning to seem further away, then I climbed on my bike and promptly vaulted into an inconveniently placed flower bed when my rear tire got hooked on something invisible. I landed on my right shin and felt the impact reverberate through my hip. I had two thoughts in rapid succession:

1. I might really be injured here; and
2. Could the light please change so witnesses could go somewhere else and laugh?

So now I’m a plastic-wrapped grandmother in a row of geraniums and a pelting rain, hoping witnesses don’t crash their cars and further delay my arrival at the farmers market. I got up in a series of dumb maneuvers that would embarrass every dance teacher I ever studied with and walked my bicycle to the corner and crossed the street. I waited for the light to change and crossed another street. Then I sailed down a long hill with draining water spitting in my face and knew I was actually okay.

Faster Than My Bullet

Sean’s been playing these two songs on Altrok Radio. I listen to Altrok all day at work and mostly pay attention to my work. Now and then, a song grows on me like a thing that – uh – grows a lot. I recognize this has happened when I stop what I’m doing to find out artists and titles. This week, I was surprised to like two songs like things I really – uh – like a lot.

The video does this dark, perky song no favors. The boys do nothing for me. The song, though, is fresh and interesting, yet recalls the underground New Wave stuff of about 1983. Also good: when I looked up the lyrics – because I have a short attention span – I knew instantly middle aged people would find themselves humming this in dentists’ office without the slightest hint of what it was about and that is ACES.

This song is more complex, for one thing: you have little more than your imagination to work with, but please do give it a try:

I looked up the lyrics because – right – no attention span. It’s about the breakup so bad you know you might die. In classical dream imagery, losing one’s teeth is dreaming one’s death; the writer knows that. Points for smarts! Where else does this song score? Points for reminding us of Joan Armatrading; points for those high, clear piano notes reminiscent of Bronski Beat’s Smalltown Boy; points for surviving long enough to record a decent pop song! The trying trying trying phrases sound like the tortured fever dream songs out of London in the early eighties, so once again: middle aged people will be humming in dentist offices without a clue. I love surprises.

A Villa Or A Small Chalet

My home computerizing device has again tried to go to Heaven, and by Heaven, I mean the Edgeboro Garbage Dump. Yes, I know garbage isn’t supposed to go into the dump anymore. No, I wasn’t going to give someone else the satisfaction of winging it like a broken frisbee into the smelly abyss: I wanted to fling it myself and derive all the cardio benefits one might from a tantrum. Last night, Pete reminded me that home computerizing device might have a reparable problem. I sat down and thought, Huh. Maybe I should repair that. I know! I was shocked too.

In any case: blogging may be interrupted briefly while I figure out how far patience gets me. In the meantime, Johnny’s got some questions for you.

Thugs And Smugglers Are Thoroughly Respected

Dum de dum de dum minding my own business your friends don’t dance and if they don’t dance well they’re no friends of minewhat’s this someone’s emailed me?

Do Older Workers Need a Nudge?

What an interesting headline! I feel – what is it – what am I –

Yes, that’s it! Flames on the side of my face! Why? Because the New York Times is helping motherfuckers fuck mothers. I don’t think I should have to explain this to you, but let’s get this out in the open: when you fall for the You vs. Me, Us vs. Them, Me vs. My Grandparents bullshit, you are doing the work of the Oligarchy and you do not tread the path of angels. In short and in the same way there was NEVER a reason to make war upon Iraq: your enemy is not the other poor or middle class person – it’s the rich asshole who profits when you lose your cool.

If you don’t take the bait, that asshole gets nothing.

I Don’t Pray That Way

It’s frustrating to listen to the Disciples of the Sacred Profit Margin discuss privatizing public services. They see dollar signs. I see crumbling infrastructure. Shortly after that bridge collapsed in Minneapolis, a Libertarian friend actually had the nerve to say that the bridge collapsed because government can’t provide public services. I said bridge building and maintenance cost money and must be funded at a consistent, appropriate level. He said, “Business has to be allowed to conduct business.” Well then. You can step through the looking glass, but I’m not going to join you.

This is very, very simple: pretend you’re in charge of an agency’s budget. Your government agency provides a service, let’s say it’s lining up lawn gnomes in a perfect grid on a city’s public square. Your agency employs four people to keep the all-important gnomes clean, perfectly painted, facing in the correct direction and level. You decide you’re feeling trendy and want to privatize your gnome service. The first thing, after you’ve chosen your private gnome service, will be those four employees, who probably live in your city, will lose their jobs. The gnome service will hire three exploitable people, pay them less and your gnomes will lose their gleaming colors, grid-like pattern and correct orientation when the smaller workforce cannot maintain the same standards as a larger, dedicated staff. At first, your trendy move makes you look like a genius. A few years down the road, when your agency’s funding dries up because those gnomes have become a dangerous embarrassment, you look like an idiot. And you are an idiot.

Now of course, a gnome service is silliness itself, but many if not most government services are provided by the government because our society as a whole struggles with societal problems and our lives depend on that struggle. We must have roads and bridges that do not collapse. We must have hospitals, communications, national defense, emergency services, commerce and support for those among us who need help. This is not optional and mostly not negotiable. You cannot argue that your agency charged with feeding poor children the only regular meals they receive could maybe get by feeding fewer children less nutritious food – because, and I shouldn’t have to say this, that is BARBARIC. Deferring maintenance on bridges and roads doesn’t make you a genius. It makes you shun-worthy. You should be shunned, you agency head, you. So let’s look at our graph above. I’ve never made a graph before and I was surprised I didn’t give up and go for the Crayolas. It’s very simple: privatizing government services is stupid and the road to societal ruin.

You have a budget. You can organize your department, compensate your people appropriately, provide considerate services and set a high standard for those services. Provide those services and you are a hero. When you privatize, part of your budget peels right off the top for someone else’s profit, your workers lose their standard of living and your service deteriorates.

It’s simple. Get it? This person is starting to:

We’ve all been so brainwashed by 30 years of “government is the problem” bullshit that we’ve forgotten that the sole and entire purpose of privatizing government responsibilities is to enrich corporations at the expense of middle-class taxpayers.

It is always cheaper and more effective to pay public employees to do it, and do it right.

No, we didn’t all get brainwashed. We didn’t all forget who was making money and who was losing out. I’m sure you’re surprised at how much damage thirty years of cult behavior has caused, but thank you for joining us in a more real world now.

Time To Play B Sides

I started the day with back pain I didn’t have time to deal with, so I stayed in bed for a few hours. That felt pretty good, but when I’m at home, something happens and next thing I know, I’ve been whirling like a dervish for an hour and a half. This morning’s something was the gear-stripping arrival of the lumber delivery truck, which I saw and heard through an open bedroom window. It was stupid and impulsive of me, but I leapt out of bed, scattering two indignant little black cats, and ran to the bathroom to splash water on my face before running outside to cheer on the lumber guy. I leaned on the porch rail and applauded as a smiling man pulled three 2 x 10s from the truck and lay them on the sidewalk running the length of the gravel driveway.

After an ice storm last winter, I sailed off the top of the back stairs and went bump bump bump to the concrete and later the treads developed portentious soft spots. Thus, I was goddamned overjoyed to see a different future in the old Magic 8 Ball. Stairs! Traction! Going about my business uninjured! Then I had to lie down.

Moving Is This Message

Tata: Remember that time we were watching Trading Spaces and Hildi brought in cardboard furniture? I said, “Fire hazard” and you said, “I hope that’s industrial cardboard.”
Siobhan: Hildi is evil and I’m still afraid she might touch me. Remember that room with hay on the walls?
Tata: Even memory loss won’t protect me from that. So what’s this about high end cat furniture?
Siobhan: Buckle up, baby!

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Cardboard cat holder: $320.

Cardboard cat holder: $49.

Cardboard cat holder: $54.

Frills What Frocks What Furs What

This evening, I went back to volunteering at the food pantry after months away, nursing the arthritic hip. I climbed on my bicycle, pedaled three blocks, locked up my bike and limped to the pantry room. My neighbors in the tiny town laughed and seemed happy to see me. We sorted donated canned goods, pastas, baking ingredients, breads and baby foods, placed them on labeled shelves, cleaned up sticky messes and stacked bins in a closet. After an hour, I pedaled three blocks, locked up my bike and limped into our house, where I gleefully cha-cha-cha’d and collapsed in a happy heap on the couch. Yay! ZZZZZZZZZZZ ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ snort zzzzzzzz.

Sweetpea, fuzzball extraordinaire, lounges beside me on the couch. You can still plainly see spots where the vet shaved rings into her fur at her neck and above her front paws, giving her a poodly appearance. She likes to snuggle up next to me and drift off to Dreamland, paws twitching. More than once, Sweetpea’s snoring caused us to stop what we were doing to track down an odd, buzzy hiss. We haven’t heard Sweetpea snore since she came home from the hospital. She’s lost a few pounds and sleeps lightly. We understand. She’s still traumatized, but she wants to hold hands. I will take that.