Here in New Jersey, it’s pouring and weather services promise pouring rain for another two days. Sunday night, Pete and I were watching Family Guy on Adult Swim, where a bumper series made us sit up straight. I’m paraphrasing.

Things that make us nervous.

1. Atlanta’s water supply has 80 days left.

One? That’s bullet point one? Pete and I said, “What? What What?” because what intelligent response can there be to the bland statement that another huge population center in the US was neck deep in the shit. It’s been almost four days since then. Were I a civil engineer looking at the current weather map, I might be having the teensiest of nervous breakdowns. I’m sorry I’m soggy. Obviously, I can’t complain about sopping up the river with my sneakers and the ends of my cargo pants because, um, I’d love to wring them out and help. This would be a lot funnier if, when situations beyond our control arise, we weren’t each of us small, and covered with fur.

Speaking of fur, Johnny reviews a ghastly werewolf film and I can’t contain my glee.

You don’t watch a movie like Dog Soldiers looking for common sense. And you won’t find it.

A Scottish Army unit is dropped up in the highlands on a routine training exercise. They soon find themselves being stalked by werewolves. So far, so good. But ninety minutes into this piece of shite, the characters are still arguing about whether werewolves exist. The animals attacking them are nine feet tall and walk on their hind fucking legs. But there are holdouts who insist these are just exceptionally robust and limber wolves. What little credibility a werewolf movie has goes right out the window. Also, two of the lads get savaged by the werewolves but are rescued by their comrades. Their wounds heal overnight and their eyes start to get all gleamy and green. No one seems to see what’s coming or think to put a slug behind their increasingly pointy ears before it’s too late. Also, no one suspects that the pretty girl who appears out of nowhere and rescues them, who lives in the midst of these rapacious killers armed with nothing but a tight t-shirt, might be more trouble than she looks like. I expected so little of this movie that I wasn’t disappointed when she said, as her eyes bugged and her teeth stuck out “You thought all women were bitches. Now you’re met the real thing,” although, with those teeth, it sounded more “the weew fing.” Out of pure mulish determination, I got through to the end. Just so you don’t ever have to see it, the hero and the cute dog survive. You’re welcome.

I’m impressed by the fact that a Scottish Army group had an argument Johnny understood. As your world-traveling pals will tell you: to the newcomer, listening to Scots speak English can be an awful lot like having the booze go straight to your ears, and I say this as a person living in a place where consonants disappear from ordinary words at approximately the same rate as trees fall and condos dot the landscape. I’m ready at the drop of a hat to suspend my disbelief!

I’d dance around in circles at the notion of fighting werewolves with a tight t-shirt but everyone knows a gal’s not fully loaded for bear without booty-choking disco shorts, preferably in baby pink for heroines and dried-blood burgundy for femmes most fatale. I mean, you’re a high school graduate. You know there’s no such thing as a car wash without aspiring Hooters girls, and that a glamorous hot mama like myself would never withhold the truth, my yummy gumdrops: ThermaCare Heat Wraps are made of awesomeness.

Hush, you. It’s Monday, and you’d rather be anywhere than where you are and you’re stressed out. You’ve had some news or your lost love loves someone else, and your heart aches. But listen to me, just listen to the sound of my voice. You are always stronger than you know – always. For this moment, rest. Watch this little thing, a sweet and silly present from another place, where we are curious and see with new eyes.

Don’t give up.

We can’t help it. We go along in life and observe the differences between ourselves and others. One place we notice these differences with special clarity is in the fashion trends that leave us perplexed, like Olivia Newton John’s headbands. I never understood them, I guess. I wore headbands to keep my gorgeous red hair out of my eyes like limpid pools while jumping up and down with Gilad every so-very-eighties morning, but no way was I working for the weekend, baby. It seemed that a small group of influential and overly attractive media and design types were listening only to each other and foisting this on us as a cultural done-deal. Which anyone can see sucked. It was an idea that didn’t make any sense in the long run, but fashionistas caught up in this trend didn’t notice until they took apart scrapbooks with pinking shears.

I vote mostly for Democratic candidates, but I am registered independent. No, I am never going to vote for a Republican candidate. Every plank in the platform is in direct conflict with what’s good for me. Let’s not even discuss what fiscal responsibility means to the party when the current administration has mortgaged our future to the Chinese.

This is not to say I think much of the Democratic Party, which cannot sell out on its constituencies early or often enough. There are minor differences between the parties; it’s one party acting vigorously against my interests versus one party waiting for me to hold my nose and vote. I can see from the distant outside that this little battle has taken several turns toward the truly weird that remind me of those headbands. No, really.

For one thing, a small group of extreme right wing bloggers and hangers on has gone off the reservation, as it were. Vehemence does not lend strength to their arguments. Mark Steyn, as quoted by Michelle Malkin:

The Democrats chose to outsource their airtime to a Seventh Grader. If a political party is desperate enough to send a boy to do a man’s job, then the boy is fair game.

This family has received death threats. Let’s take a giant step back here. If you haven’t followed this story, you can read up. Steyn’s are the words of a person engaging in politics as bloodsport. He is not interested in the politics of what is good for Americans. His interests are in money and power, and he pursues them, as he says, no matter what the cost to anyone else. That’s an old story, but what is an exciting new thought – at least to me – is the notion of fair game, implying that we as Americans don’t give a good goddam and are complicit. If I asked a thousand people – “If you go on TV, say, and tell people a government program helped you, would it be fair for people of a different political stripe to demand to see your tax returns?” – do you think even a single person would say, “Sure. No court order or nuthin'”?

No. No one would.

At a certain point you should realize no one else is wearing headbands but you and your friends. And Olivia, who is adorable in her own kind of dated way, though I hate Grease with my whole black heart. There’s no room for compromise there, as there is no room for compromise with fellow Americans who see me and people like me and people different from me as less human, and less deserving of a dissenting opinion.

All Republicans do not lack compassion, just as all Democrats do not lack courage. What is happening fast and furious doesn’t make any sense in the long term. I wish everyone would slow down and ask him- or herself one question: Do the policies I support create or mitigate suffering in the world?

How do you feel about your answer?

Look! Paulie Gonzalez puts in a cameo appearance where you can go see him!

Sez Paulie: I am throwing a Halloween party on the 27th. The Paramount Theater at Convention Hall in Asbury just completed their renovation. I am hosting a double feature Halloween party for the first movies at the theater in decades!

Holy cow! You should go to this fantastic Halloween party in this famous theater in this most exciting of seaside Jersey towns, and you should meet Paulie Gonzalez, who is practically Batman. You should watch these great terrible movies and wear a wild costume and have an outrageous time you can then report back to the rest of the class.

I am almost jealous of you!

Let’s define our terms, but let’s try something novel and consult a basic online dictionary. Merriam-Webster:

fascism
Main Entry: fas·cism
Pronunciation: ‘fa-“shi-z&m also ‘fa-“si-
Function: noun
Etymology: Italian fascismo, from fascio bundle, fasces, group, from Latin fascis bundle & fasces fasces
1 often capitalized : a political philosophy, movement, or regime (as that of the Fascisti) that exalts nation and often race above the individual and that stands for a centralized autocratic government headed by a dictatorial leader, severe economic and social regimentation, and forcible suppression of opposition
2 : a tendency toward or actual exercise of strong autocratic or dictatorial control
– fas·cist /-shist also -sist/ noun or adjective, often capitalized
– fas·cis·tic /fa-‘shis-tik also -‘sis-/ adjective, often capitalized
– fas·cis·ti·cal·ly /-ti-k(&-)lE/ adverb, often capitalized

Nazi
Main Entry: Na·zi
Pronunciation: ‘nät-sE, ‘nat-
Function: noun
Etymology: German, by shortening & alteration from Nationalsozialist, from national national + Sozialist socialist
1 : a member of a German fascist party controlling Germany from 1933 to 1945 under Adolf Hitler
2 often not capitalized a : one who espouses the beliefs and policies of the German Nazis : FASCIST b : one who is likened to a German Nazi : a harshly domineering, dictatorial, or intolerant person
– nazi adjective, often capitalized
– na·zi·fi·ca·tion /”nät-si-f&-‘kA-sh&n, “nat-/ noun, often capitalized
– na·zi·fy /’nät-si-“fI, ‘nat-/ transitive verb, often capitalized

racist
Main Entry: rac·ism
Pronunciation: ‘rA-“si-z&m also -“shi-
Function: noun
1 : a belief that race is the primary determinant of human traits and capacities and that racial differences produce an inherent superiority of a particular race
2 : racial prejudice or discrimination
– rac·ist /-sist also -shist/ noun or adjective

Ta notes: racism also includes unequal power and economic dynamics. For instance, white people can be racist and black people can be prejudiced, but it doesn’t follow that black people can be racist. Yes, I know I said we were working with dictionary definitions. A more sophisticated dictionary would mention the dynamics but I don’t subscribe to the OED. And just because:

prejudice
Main Entry: 1prej·u·dice
Pronunciation: ‘pre-j&-d&s
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English, from Anglo-French, from Latin praejudicium previous judgment, damage, from prae- + judicium judgment — more at JUDICIAL
1 : injury or damage resulting from some judgment or action of another in disregard of one’s rights; especially : detriment to one’s legal rights or claims
2 a (1) : preconceived judgment or opinion (2) : an adverse opinion or leaning formed without just grounds or before sufficient knowledge b : an instance of such judgment or opinion c : an irrational attitude of hostility directed against an individual, a group, a race, or their supposed characteristics
synonym see PREDILECTION

Got that? Fascism = severe economic and social regimentation and forcible repression of opposition. Nazi = a harshly domineering, dictatorial, or intolerant person. Now read this, which starts here. It is particularly important to read these words by Bryan Suits carefully:

Does the fact that only Barak Obama is – well, the only presidential candidate that will appear on Oprah’s show, does that make her a Nazi racist? Is it mutually exclusive that a black woman can be a also a Nazi? I don’t think so. I frankly think she is a Nazi.

… I think she has a right to do what she is going to do, I think it makes her a racist though. And I’m not goin’ use any kind of coded language or whatever. Anyone can be a racist, we all understand that right? Anyone can be prejudiced and I think she’s prejudiced.

Listen, I’m not a genius, and I’m no fan of Oprah’s. I have huge and utterly insignificant differences of opinion with Oprah, but this is beyond ridiculous. The FCC has rules about candidates and equal time that Oprah will obey. Anyone cannot be a racist. Oprah cannot be a Nazi. Think the people primarily concerned with the purity of the Aryan race would let a black woman join them for a bier and a putsch?

Anyone can be prejudiced. Almost everyone is prejudiced, to some extent. Two incidents from Sunday, within fifteen minutes.

1. I was driving through the tiny town in which I live when I saw five police cars with flashing lights surrounding one car on the street. I drove by slowly because the police have a carved-in-stone reputation for harassing people Driving While Black. Or Brown. Or Beige. Everyone knows it. When I dated black men I had to drive the car so no one concluded I was being kidnapped. So I expected to see a whole lot of young black men in handcuffs and to call my sister in half an hour to find out what’d happened. Instead, there were four young black men leaning against the car, laughing, and the police were laughing, and everyone looked happy, and except for the flashing lights it all looked so normal I almost crashed my car.

2. In the grocery store, I heard the piercing voice of a four-year-old.
Girl: Mommy, who was that brown lady?
Mom: (mumbled)
Girl: Mommy, who was that brown lady?
Mom: That was Luz.
Girl: But who was she?
Mom: She sometimes watches the other children and (mumbled.)
Girl: Is she your friend?
Mom: (mumbled.)
Girl: Mommy, is the brown lady your friend?
I came around the corner. The woman was putting groceries onto the checkout conveyor and not looking at the little girl – or, for that matter, the cashier or the other customers, many of whom were a lot less caucasian than she was.

This business of turning the language inside out to suit one’s political purposes cheapens the public discourse and makes the ill-spoken person look stupid. Bryan Suits looks stupid and as if there’s some violent disconnect between his thinking process and his frothing mouth. Here’s the thing: if you’re a public figure, everything you say, everything you do is now recorded digitally and there’s no escaping what you’ve said and done anymore. Then: since Oprah is not a nazi or a Nazi and cannot be either, Bryan Suits is on record as a liar and a slanderer. What he said wasn’t brave or iconclastic or witty. Nope. It was brutal and stupid, and he’s tied to it for what may be the rest of his brief career in media.

I hope Suits gets a really quiet day job where a black person isn’t head of Human Resources and tries really hard not to eat where black people cook or live where black people might walk their frou-frou purse dogs across his Bostonians – not because black people are prejudiced against white people but because black people have every right to be pissed about what one racist white guy says.

Ask Don Imus.

Click on the image to embiggen and render readeracious.

h/t: Talullah, wherever she may roam.

Pete’s job is kicking my ass.

Let me explain – though when I say that all I hear in my head is Mandy Patankin saying, all Inigo Montoya-y, “No, zer ees no time!” and Mr. blogenfreude complaining that Mandy Patankin should be strung up by his ragged Capezios – let me explain: my alarm shatters the pre-dawn stillness, possibly a few times depending on who reaches the clock first, mere moments after six on school days. Yes, those are moments I treasure. Most days, I get up and lumber off to fight crime. Or close purchase orders. I forget which. Most days, Pete sleeps in a bit because while he takes care of a house five blocks away, his actual job starts at 2, a twenty-five minute drive away. Thus, on school nights, he calls from that other house at 10:33, promising to bicycle over before 11:15.

I often see part of the Daily Show. Then I see my cats running around the apartment, furiously declaring their love for Pete’s sneakers. Where until recently I had horrible insomnia, now I have a companion for 45 minutes before I absolutely have to try sleeping like I more or less mean it, and I have to tell you, you can spend that much time looking for keys to the handcuffs.

The man needs a new job so I can get some sleep.

It sounds so reasonable until I say it out loud.

Jesus Christ, I have a story to tell you.

When I can lift my arms again later tonight, I’ll type like the wind! In the meantime, I must snore like it.

You will be pleased to hear Siobhan is healing at a prodigious rate. In fact, the process began almost as soon as she came out of anesthesia.

Siobhan: Will you PLEASE get that fucking IV out of my hand?
Technician: Ma’am! There’s no need to swear!
Siobhan: No time like the goddam present!

It’s one of the hot philosophical debates of our time: if a patient swears in the recovery room, does anyone hear? That’s a trick question, because nurses know emotional distress is normal and ignore it. Develop a fixation on that IV needle, though, and you can leave ’em rolling in the aisles. And speaking of rolling, yesterday, Siobhan reported watching The Aristocrats. Mr. DBK loves this movie and mentions it all the time, but Siobhan saved it for a rainy day. Yesterday, it poured outside, so Siobhan poured herself a cup of tea and reclined glamorously to watch.

Tata: Are you out of your mind? Didn’t you have surgery twice last week and isn’t it true you cannot yet bend yourself to form a right angle?
Siobhan: I can’t bend over, yes.
Tata: And aren’t you on piles of painkillers?
Siobhan: Piles, yes.
Tata: And you’re struggling to ingest calories because the treatments make it difficult to slurp?
Siobhan: ….bored now…
Tata: Why on earth did you watch an utterly foul-mouthed comedy that made you laugh so hard you’re still moaning, “Ow ow fucking ow…”?
Siobhan: Professional courtesy?

We’re lucky. We live in a time when advanced humor delivery systems can kill and cure, which reminds me: Daria and I are going back to Virginia this weekend. Batten down the hatches! We’re having a garage sale of Dad’s stuff. Expect only the finest in grief-stricken hilarity, and a road trip starting Friday.

Who wants to catsit?

He’s patient, but yesterday, he smoked what he says was his last cigarette. He smoked this last cigarette after he bought a pack of gum he planned to chew with extreme prejudice. I tell him, “Dahhhhhhlink, it will be your last cigarette if it is, but if it isn’t you’ll quit when you’re ready.” He’s sure. He’s ready. He won’t hear of it any other way!

Well, okay. While I enjoy the company of a minty-fresh man as much as the next perfumed dame, I’m not applying pressure. He’ll quit when cigarettes taste nasty, feel like an obligation and become a stupid expense – or he’ll buy another pack. In my opinion, he’s not addicted to cigarettes in the first place. Nope. He might smoke three or four a day, and not on any schedule. It’s not a habit. This event’s more like the day an office-holding moron breaks out the dictionary and discovers the pronunciation key. “You mean it’s noo klee r? I hope nobody heard me,” sez our prize-winning twit. For a little while after this satori, the speaker will stumble over the practiced noo ku ler until noo klee r feels natural. And so it can be with quitting for people who are not really addicted. One day, as I did, the not-actually-addicted smoker might simply not light another one. Siobhan, for instance, only smokes when she’s wearing her blue suede shoes to taunt Elvis impersonators. A girl’s got to have her standards.

For actual nicotine addicts, I have no advice. Even I know that a two-pack-a-day habit represents a personal boogie man, boogie man, and I should zip it.

He’s patient with my tantrums, exhaustion, my dumb soap operas and echolalia. He’s pleasant first thing in the morning and pleasant last thing at night. In between, this week, I might try this Be Nice thing people talk so much about.