If I understand things I read online correctly – stop laughing! – CBGBs is either toast or about to be toast, and Hilly’s taking the place apart brick by brick to reassemble in Vegas. In theory, that is fantastic, and one day I’ll be able to revisit my personal Mecca. By the time I’m ready to be Polyester Edna on permanent Vegas vacation, the mosh pit would be filled with surviving junkies – too mean to die; will be found sunning themselves on rocks after our impending nuclear winter – and tank top-clad, leathery retirees. Don’t break a hip!

Let’s hope no one touches the bathrooms without hazmat suits and the thought of reassembling them in all their indescribably filthy glory occurs to no one outside the Centers for Disease Control. If Scrubbing Bubbles could clean that we’d see a glimmer of hope for the Lincoln Tunnel. Speaking of strange and improbable, this amendment covers more stinking turf than sod on McMansion-infested former farmland.

Amendment XIV
Section 1. All persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the state wherein they reside. No state shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any state deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.

I like the sound of that, baby! Whether or not the framers intended to, these words assert firmly we are all the same stuff, legally. Now it’s Miller Time! Oh, wait –

Section 2. Representatives shall be apportioned among the several states according to their respective numbers, counting the whole number of persons in each state, excluding Indians not taxed. But when the right to vote at any election for the choice of electors for President and Vice President of the United States, Representatives in Congress, the executive and judicial officers of a state, or the members of the legislature thereof, is denied to any of the male inhabitants of such state, being twenty-one years of age, and citizens of the United States, or in any way abridged, except for participation in rebellion, or other crime, the basis of representation therein shall be reduced in the proportion which the number of such male citizens shall bear to the whole number of male citizens twenty-one years of age in such state.

Crap, I hate it when we get into this fractions of whole people nonsense, let alone counting frat boys for House seats. Moving on, then –

Section 3. No person shall be a Senator or Representative in Congress, or elector of President and Vice President, or hold any office, civil or military, under the United States, or under any state, who, having previously taken an oath, as a member of Congress, or as an officer of the United States, or as a member of any state legislature, or as an executive or judicial officer of any state, to support the Constitution of the United States, shall have engaged in insurrection or rebellion against the same, or given aid or comfort to the enemies thereof. But Congress may by a vote of two-thirds of each House, remove such disability.

Can’t be elected Dogcatcher after joining an armed insurrection against Dogcatchers. Got it.

Section 4. The validity of the public debt of the United States, authorized by law, including debts incurred for payment of pensions and bounties for services in suppressing insurrection or rebellion, shall not be questioned. But neither the United States nor any state shall assume or pay any debt or obligation incurred in aid of insurrection or rebellion against the United States, or any claim for the loss or emancipation of any slave; but all such debts, obligations and claims shall be held illegal and void.

That explains why the Civil War Reconstruction went, um, so well and people speak of it glowingly. Damned Dogcatchers!

Section 5. The Congress shall have power to enforce, by appropriate legislation, the provisions of this article.

Well, yeah. Otherwise, Congress is like the Mom that says, “You kids! Sit down and eat. Sit down and eat your dinner. Sit down and eat your dinner or tomorrow you’re not having your play dates with you cousins Wednesday and Pugsley. Sit down and eat! I mean it, sit down and eat your dinner or I’m calling Uncle Gomez and you’re not blowing up any trains. I mean it this time! Aw, what the hell, I’ll clean up.”

But we’re lucky to live now, when that never happens.

Added: Mr. Wolcott, I love you.

Technorati tags: u.s. constitution, bill of rights,
bush, impeach bush, CBGBs, CDC, scrubbing bubbles.

Yesterday was Friday the 13th, which makes lots of people nervous. They don’t know why, but if you ask they will speculate. There were 13 people around the table at the Last Supper, some will tell you. Numerologically speaking, 1 + 3 = 4, a feminine number, weak, not lucky, others will say. I don’t know about yours, but my eyes glaze over when numbers and luck turn up in the same premise, which is why in casinos I’m a squawking mess – we’ll talk about that someday, when you’re older, no matter how old you are now. Are you near death? Then we’re close. A strong contender for the source of paraskavedekatriaphobia or fear of Friday the thirteenth is Friday, 13 October, 1307, the day Philip the Fair had Jacques de Molay and the Knights Templar in France arrested. Subsequently, the knights were tortured and burned at the stake, which to the modern American mind is so far out of the range of possibilities as to be laughable. Philip did what? And what happened? And nobody jumped out shouting, “Just kidding!” at the last moment and passed out hotdogs and marshmallows?

The reason we can afford to be horrified and not terrified is that our Constitution prohibits cruel and unusual punishment. We can equivocate until the cows come home about the words punishment, cruel, unusual and, um, cows, but the fact remains that in our time, it is hugely unlikely that American felons will be burned at the stake in the public square. You can say what you like about whatever threat we face from abroad, our founding fathers knew our worst enemy will always be ourselves.

Amendment XIII
Section 1. Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as a punishment for crime whereof the party shall have been duly convicted, shall exist within the United States, or any place subject to their jurisdiction.

A Section 1. implies a Section 2., but either I’m too harried to find it or someone flunked Outlines 101. Yesterday, Siobhan weighed in on the Constitution in general.

Siobhan: You know, Ben Franklin was only doing this to get laid.
Tata: I respect that. In fact, that may be my plan, too.
Siobhan: I couldn’t make out what the wording of Amendment XI meant but I am reminded that opium played a big part in the Constitutional process.
Tata: Oooh! If we legalize that, virtually everyone can be a Constitutional scholar!

Until a few years ago, I read history, which is essentially the struggle of human beings against their most barbaric impulses, and consoled myself with the thought that at least no one was burned during the Salem Witch Trials. Unfortunately, history is also often written by people who have the most to gain by controlling posterity’s image of past events, so what most Americans know about things like eighteenth and nineteenth century slave rebellions is exactly zip. So in reality that may take hundreds of years to establish, sometimes there is no consolation to be had.

New York Burning is a well-told tale of a once-notorious episode that took place in Manhattan in 1741. Though, as Jill Lepore writes, New York’s “slave past has long been buried,” for most of the 18th century one in five inhabitants of Manhattan were enslaved, making it second only to Charleston, South Carolina, “in a wretched calculus of urban unfreedom.” Over the course of a few weeks in 1741, ten fires burned across Manhattan, sparking hysteria and numerous conspiracy rumors. Initially, rival politicians blamed each other for the blazes, but they soon found a common enemy. Based solely on the testimony of one white woman, some 200 slaves were accused of conspiring to burn down the city, murder the resident whites, and take over the local government. Under duress, 80 slaves confessed to the crimes and were forced to implicate others. When the trial was over, 13 black men were burned at the stake, 17 more were hanged (along with four whites accused of working with them), and 70 others were shipped off to the Caribbean where slavery conditions were even worse.

By necessity, Jill Lepore bases much of her research on a journal written in 1744 by New York Supreme Court Justice Daniel Horsmanden, which she describes as “one of the most startling and vexing documents in early American history” and “a diary, a mystery, a history, and maybe one of English literature’s first detective stories.” Adding cultural and political context to the available evidence, Lepore questions whether there was a conspiracy at all, or if it was blind fear run amok that led to the guilty verdicts for so many slaves. As she points out, fear of slave revolt was a real and consistent theme throughout the early days of the colonies. Crisply written and meticulously researched (the book includes several detailed appendices), New York Burning is a gripping narrative of events that led to what one colonist referred to as the “bonfires of the Negroes.” -Shawn Carkonen

Book review aside, we have a terrifying truth to face: inside us all exist the fear and the germ that grew into this horror. We say it doesn’t and if it does, we will not cultivate its growth, but there is no other excuse for our submission to the Patriot Act, to wiretapping and warrantless searches. We are seeing now the growth of this same horror in slow motion, perhaps. The elements are the same: fear, brown-skinned people, a supposed threat to our way of life. If you slow down and think, you can see where the monster is growing and what it will destroy.

I don’t have to tell you. You already know.

Technorati tags: u.s. constitution, bill of rights,
bush, impeach bush, knights templar, Friday the 13th, slave rebellion, cruel and unusual.

I was standing in the store last night when in walked exactly what I needed: a tai chi teacher with a studio within walking distance of my apartment, and when I said, “It’s as if I summoned you,” he stuttered a lot. I understood. He was shocked by my great beauty, as so many are. For instance, my orthodontist loves me so much he says I need braces for another ten years. If he weren’t absolutely adorable, I might cut his brake lines.

This morning, I walked to work but it was different because today I walked to work – for SCIENCE! Our story so far: summer and early autumn temperatures have permitted me to toss everything into a beachbag then slung across my back, and I’ve been walking about a mile or a mile and a half to the library. The bonus: a return trip eight hours later means I get some exercise twice a day. Joy! On today’s episode: temperatures dropped overnight into the forties and what you may not know is I am a tremendous temperature coward. I hate the cold with a fiery passion; I fight the Frozen Menace with tenacious indoor coziness, preferably with marshmallows. So it was only with the greatest courage that I donned a scarf, mittens, my Sunday Go Ta Protest Anarak and furry vermillion ear muffs. I knew the terrors of Arctic exploration! I thought of Shackleton’s harrowing ordeal in the polar pack ice. Then I walked to work. I was surprisingly comfortable. I don’t know what all those dead sailors were complaining about.

Here, hold this –

Amendment XI
The judicial power of the United States shall not be construed to extend to any suit in law or equity, commenced or prosecuted against one of the United States by citizens of another state, or by citizens or subjects of any foreign state.

That one was digging into spleen. I might need a real backpack soon, if I find out – for SCIENCE! – that temperatures in the thirties and forties are no impediment to walking to work. This one –

Amendment XII
The electors shall meet in their respective states and vote by ballot for President and Vice-President, one of whom, at least, shall not be an inhabitant of the same state with themselves; they shall name in their ballots the person voted for as President, and in distinct ballots the person voted for as Vice-President, and they shall make distinct lists of all persons voted for as President, and of all persons voted for as Vice-President, and of the number of votes for each, which lists they shall sign and certify, and transmit sealed to the seat of the government of the United States, directed to the President of the Senate;–The President of the Senate shall, in the presence of the Senate and House of Representatives, open all the certificates and the votes shall then be counted;–the person having the greatest number of votes for President, shall be the President, if such number be a majority of the whole number of electors appointed; and if no person have such majority, then from the persons having the highest numbers not exceeding three on the list of those voted for as President, the House of Representatives shall choose immediately, by ballot, the President. But in choosing the President, the votes shall be taken by states, the representation from each state having one vote; a quorum for this purpose shall consist of a member or members from two-thirds of the states, and a majority of all the states shall be necessary to a choice. And if the House of Representatives shall not choose a President whenever the right of choice shall devolve upon them, before the fourth day of March next following, then the Vice-President shall act as President, as in the case of the death or other constitutional disability of the President. The person having the greatest number of votes as Vice-President, shall be the Vice-President, if such number be a majority of the whole number of electors appointed, and if no person have a majority, then from the two highest numbers on the list, the Senate shall choose the Vice-President; a quorum for the purpose shall consist of two-thirds of the whole number of Senators, and a majority of the whole number shall be necessary to a choice. But no person constitutionally ineligible to the office of President shall be eligible to that of Vice-President of the United States.

– might’ve been a bit much for my back. I should’ve left that one at home, maybe. Oh, who are we kidding? I love any Constitutional amendment using the word devolve. Which reminds me: it’s Eighties Friday on Altrok Radio, and sometimes a raving beauty like myself skips the rave and makes for the beautiful noise.

Technorati tags: u.s. constitution, bill of rights,
bush, impeach bush, jim carroll, for science, elections.

I. Two mornings ago, crossing the Albany Street Bridge: a brown slick two or three yards wide winding slightly off-center with the currents and eddies of the Raritan River. The river at that bridge is shallow. Fifteen or so years ago, a professor tried to commit suicide by leaping off the bridge, but the river was too shallow to drown in. I think he died of cartoon embarrassment. Or he lived, which might be worse. The river is filthy and contact with it should be avoided at all cost, especially if you are a fish. Or a person who eats fish. The greenish water is not a good kind of green but this time of year, falling leaves dance in the currents. That is kind of pretty. Two mornings ago, I was startled by a strong smell of gasoline.

II. I see the big picture.
Tata: Remember that time twelve years ago I wanted you to leave your wife?
Him: Yes.
Tata: Remember that time you didn’t leave your wife and it broke my heart?
Him: And mine, and hers.
Tata: You were right.

III. The first time we saw him or her, Daria said, “A groundchuck!” Her son said, “Doggy!” Outside my bedroom window lives a groundhog or woodchuck of exceptional taste and intelligence. Monday afternoon, the sunshine was glorious, the air was warm and perfect. I walked home, staring at the heartrending blue sky between the green, gold and maroon leaves; if I’d thought about it I probably would have tripped over nothing and broken my jaw but I was elated. At home, I threw open every window. The groundchuck of exceptional intelligence happened to be standing in the courtyard about ten feet from my bedroom window, pretending not to see me. I spoke to him – let’s suppose the groundchuck’s a him – gently. I told him he had nothing to fear from me and I thought he was oh so handsome. Wasn’t he handsome? He was very handsome, and had excellent taste in fallen apples from the tree. And wouldn’t he like to just have a lovely chat with me?

The groundchuck followed the sound of my voice and came to the edge of the concrete steps below my window, and he walked to the spot closest to me, turned and walked around to the other side, where he put his paws up on a pipe about six feet below me, and stared into my eyes. I told him I could see he was special, and he should remember not to be afraid of me. I was certain if I pushed up the screen, doves would land on my fingertips. I used to be the fairest of them all but my magic mirror is a fickle bitch.

IV. This man is a New Yorker.
He: A plane or helicopter hit a building on E 72nd Street. We can see the smoke. Internet is way slow, just like on 9/11 – probably just an accident.

I saw this just before I left my office and, pressed for time, didn’t answer his email. A few hours later, I felt uneasy. Even before I knew the plane crash was an accident, I was afraid for him. He watched the towers burn and fall from another office window. He calls after dinner.

He: Are you okay?
Tata: Yes, of course I was frightened but not for myself. I was never in any danger – I’m forty miles away. I worried about you, about the responders, the poor people who must’ve been killed. Are you okay?
He: What do you mean?
Tata: You sound a quart low to me.
He: What? I guess I am.
Tata: Quit it with the soda. No starches. Are you eating fresh fruit?
He: I ate an apple today.
Tata: So did the groundchuck. That turned out well. What’re you watching tonight?
He: Episodes 3 and 4 of The Six Wives of Henry VIII.
Tata: Hey! You know how that turned out, too!

…And we’re back. That was a whole week of misery and funny disguises for me. Paulie Gonzalez moved PIC to a new host-whatsis, which is great news for everyone but the poor beleaguered photo editor. I have learned enough that my giant brain is threatening a Tokyo rampage. Run, beloved main characters, run! The giant brain is lumbering this way!

Thank you for your patience. After about – I guess – a day of restoring, fixing and relearning stuff, I bet we can resume our bad behavior in a bathtub full of bechemel sauce. That’s where we left off, right?

When I say to you, “Hey there, you, I’d really like the pain in my right hip to stop, say on a par with my wanting the crane digging by the Route 18 overpass to quit before it reaches that load-bearing concrete pillar I treasure more with each passing day I cross the Albany Street Bridge and am not smooshed” I really mean that I want pain in my right hip to stop, but I’m not going to the doctor. That’s a huge waste of time. I am so special medical science insists I don’t exist, and since I refuse to work with that existential nightmare, I went to Costco to stock up on chicken soup.

Now, I am not saying these bulk shopping warehouses wear the tights and cape in the fight against budgetary Eeeeeeeeeeeeeevil, but I’m me and you’re you, and you’re probably just as amused as I am when you turn a corner and see bales of toilet paper. I don’t buy them since I switched to bales of recycled toilet paper and Costco doesn’t carry recycled brands, yet I am amused! In the Improbable Cures aisle, I found Joint Juice. Months ago, Georg urged me to start taking a Glucosamine/Chondroitin complex and I tried. I bought tablets. I stare at the bottle. I don’t take them. I looked at this case of 24 cans intended for once-daily consumption. I stood there. I thought about whining online about exercise and pain. I thought about whether or not I’d have the nerve to mention this lenghty interval on the blog. Then I thought about whether or not I planned to spend the rest of my life deliberating so I put the thing in my cart and decided I’d own up: if I feel better in 24 days, I’ll buy it again and try another 24, and we’ll see if this is the method that works for me. In the meantime, if I locate the case strategically in my apartment I can use it as a drying rack for my socks.

The other find was flannel sheets. Recently, I scoped KMart for flannel sheets and discovered I’d rather slit my wrists than install those drab, lifeless colors in my bedroom, because if I didn’t, I surely would afterward. I shopped online and was gravely disappointed in even sale prices and patterns that made me wish someone would dig up the Dadas and take notes. And I really almost walked away when I saw sets of queen size flannel sheets with repeating pine trees like a table runner with an inflated sense of tasteful importance. I stuck to the hunting and found simple, cream-colored flannel sheets, which I would never have picked for any other room I’ve ever slept in but for my current bedroom, cream-color isn’t the worst idea if lovely, verdant greens aren’t possible, and before you even think it, you can just forget about those damn pine trees. I looked at the price. I thought about what I’d seen in other places, at other prices. I hesitated, then put the sheets into the cart.

I shop to solve problems. Today, I bought light bulbs for the nightlight in the bathroom that before it burned out kept me from accidentally kicking my little black cat in the dark. Yep. That episode was so unpleasant the cat now runs from me after sunset since I am a dumb monkey, though I hope we can put that behind us now. Interesting to note that by 11:30 Sunday morning, I had spent the Gross National Product of Uraguay for chicken soup – don’t forget winter is coming and you’ll need broth once the vaccine hawkers lose their minds again, as they do every November – and juice, and at a reunion picnic of my erstwhile drinking buddies in Johnson Park that afternoon where people who’ve known each other for twenty inebriate years and never seen each other’s beloved faces in daylight, most of what I said was, “I love you but I bought flannel sheets and I can’t wait to walk home, washer/dryer ’em, and put yummy flannel sheets on my bed! I believe this will help my invigorating arthritis pain.”

For once, I was right.

Crossposted at Running Scared.

Poor Impulse Control is still a doorstop but Paulie Gonzalez has offered to help. We might have to switch host servers, which sounds to me like our Maitre d’ has developed a Continental attitude, but I’m no Tech Princess. No, I’m Princess Please Explain That Again It’s Only 2006.

Broken blog aside, I’ve got other problems. Yesterday in the morning, Mr. DBK and I met on the street in front of the train station, which used to be the kind of thing people said in quotes. “Yes,” you’d say to your wife, “I met her in front of the train station. Please don’t divorce me” is how it went, ” – for an affair I had in the parking deck stairwell.” But no, Mr. DBK was waiting for me next to the ticket machine he knows frustrates me, and he knows this because I spent the week prior whining about my frustration with the ticket machine. To spare himself early morning ear trauma, Mr. DBK bought our tickets before I arrived. Even so, I glared at the machine, for all the trouble it would give me another day. I am wary!

Our train arrived ten or so minutes later and we walked to the front of a car where we could sit next to or facing each other because comedy is much harder without facial expressions. I realized I’d left my charming umbrella on the platform and couldn’t figure out how I could’ve done it. I outsmarted me! Price: One umbrella. Mr. DBK and I amuse each other very much, and I suspect my cackling annoyed people all along the Northeast Corridor, at least in part because Mr. DBK bought tickets to Newark Penn Station, and we were waiting for the conductor to describe the joys of hitchhiking outside the Holland Tunnel, which is punishable by a wardrobe made entirely of secondhand Spandex. When this did not happen, we took a cab to the Carnegie Deli, during which Mr. DBK held on to the door handle for dear life and I squealed, “Wheeeeeeeeeeee!” I gave the driver a few extra dollars for letting us live.

We were expected at 10. We were early. The waiters regarded us with snarling suspicion when we said, “We’re here for a party.” Smiling sweetly didn’t help. The waiters opened a door I hadn’t seen until one grabbed it by the handle and the other pointed through, as if to say, “This way, monkeys.” Every square inch of wall space was covered by autographed celebrity headshots. I cringed, but followed Mr. DBK into an unnervingly narrow hall that opened to a dining room without another apparent fire exit. Feeling very flammable, I looked back to our waiter who wanted to sit us at a table for two. It was at this significant juncture that Mr. DBK forgot he was not with his wife, the single most capable woman in the world. Interrupting the waiter, Mr. DBK said, “I’m going to the men’s room,” and disappeared. And I said, “Oh, no. Our party is at least six.” The waiter moved to a four top.

Tata: At least six.
Waiter: This one?
Tata: That is still six. Listen, it’s not my party. I’m a guest. There will be more people, all of whom will be twice my size.

The waiter gave up and walked to the back of the room. He put menus on a table with eight chairs packed very close together. I sat down alone and pretended I could read the menu without my glasses. Then Mr. DBK returned from the Little DBKs’ Room, a strange man in a Skippy the Bush Kangaroo t-shirt walked right through the middle of the room and pulled up a chair. A few minutes later, Blogenfreude of AgitProp plunked down next to me. We were joined by three other charming people I could barely see and definitely couldn’t hear. The only thing missing was Tami, the One True. LaGuardia Airport called and asked us to keep it down. I felt like a genius!

Moral of the story: take opportunities to meet your fellow bloggers. Bring them presents. Admire their pets. This also reminds me I should go visit Casa JazzGeorg soon soon soon!

A few hours later at the family store, I opened a box and stabbed myself in the finger with a pair of dull scissors and I was so mortified I pretended I wasn’t bleeding on the December seasonal merchandise. So: all is back to horrifying normal.

Crossposted Running Scared; on PIC Monday, 16 October.

This is really a test post to find out if PIC is still hosed. I am standing in the fine-smelling family store, where seductive Lyle Lovett’s on the CD player and the weather ouside the glass wall is so fantastic I can barely breathe.

This morning, Mr. DBK and I took the train to New York. This afternoon, we took the train back to New Brunswick. In between, we ate breakfast.

I am still overjoyed!

Dad’s wife Darla offers exciting news.

Against all expectations, we have adopted another cat. I had been resisting the idea because I couldn’t bear to feel as though I were trying to replace Squidge. But this was a special circumstance.

Someone posted to our local freecycle list about a cat that was going to be put down if it wasn’t adopted. I held off for two days, then emailed, just to ask whether the cat had found a home. I was hoping he had, of course, but as luck would have it, he hadn’t, and the poster was desperate to find a good home for him.

I have a big red S on my forehead, which all cats can instantly identify, and which stands for Sucker When It Comes To Cats. I talked to Dominic and Dara and once they said they didn’t mind, the deal was done.

I picked him up from a small town about 80 miles away last Friday. His name (he was already named) is Atticus, and he’s about 10 years old. He’s a golden-yellow longhair (see pictures) and possibly the most friendly and mellow cat I’ve ever met. Bobcat was incredibly friendly, but this cat not only approaches any person with a rub and a purr, he doesn’t fuss when stuffed into a cat carrier, and he sits and looks bored when other cats hiss at him.

Which our other cats have, of course. We kept Atticus in the spare room for the first few days (I slept in there with him for company), then started letting him wander around the house. He’s explored everywhere and encountered each of the other three cats, all of whom have hissed, growled and called Atticus dirty names. He just looked at them as though he didn’t speak their dialect. Nobody tried to hit anybody else, so I’m hopeful that peace will eventually reign.

Atticus isn’t Squidge, but he doesn’t have to be. I still miss her every day, but he’s a darling cat and I feel good that we could save him.

The loss of Squidge was traumatic for Darla, so this is a felicitous turn of events, made even more interesting by the timing of Georg’s comment on the previous entry.

Have you heard of freecycle?

Last week, I read something connected to something connected to something else, then I had a customer in the family store and forgot everything less pressing than “in with the good air, out with the bad…” So wait, wait! This good news comes with more good news. Freecycle! There are rules for my local group:

The Six Big’uns:
1. EVERYTHING must be completely free. Remember to keep it relevant to the group – use http://newjersey.craigslist.org or a similar service if you’re not providing a good or other object free of charge to the first taker. PLEASE DO NOT REQUEST SERVICES!! Use Craigslist!! We do, however, allow the request of material objects. One of the purposes of Freecycle is to reduce excessive consumerism – please keep it that way.

2. No living animals, guns, booze, p0rn0graphy, tobacco, pharmaceuticals, anything involving U.S. currency, etc, etc. People have tried to do cat exchanges, but this is NOT allowed. Please use the SPCA for that.

3. Yes furniture bikes plants tools weights lawnchairs grills etc etc.

4. No spam. Do I really have to say it? This means that you cannot be sending links to free coupons or home refinancing or some such – you will be biggity-banned!

5. Multiple requests – Please consolidate your multiple emails into one so that your fellow Freecylers’ Inboxes aren’t flooded. Sometimes people send multiple requests in one day or for the same item, or request really absurd things like items that cost hundreds of dollars new that almost nobody would give away (i.e. an Xbox, flat-panel LCDs that work, camera phones). Don’t be offended if your message gets deleted because it falls in this category…just wait until somebody posts a free Xbox.

6. New users generally have a 2-week grace period on posting ability. This means a moderator has to clear your messages from the day you join until 14 days later. That being said, if you post a desirable item then you may get inundated with emails before your “Taken” post is made public. FYI.

I joined, so I’ve already had plenty of time to forget any passwords. That’s always thrilling. Anyway, the rules may differ from place to place or Darla’s in trouble. No living animals, it says. Oooooooooooooooooh!

Anwyay, though I have few real material needs, I shall never run out of reading material. Well, except for booze-soaked, gun-related p0rn0graphy. I still have to shop around for that.

Crossposted at Running Scared.

I still hab a cod ib bi dose ad lugs.

At work, everytime I blew my nose, I felt my co-workers cringe. They’re awfully nice about my sneezing and coughing. Tomorrow, I expect them to launch eucalyptus drops over the cubicle wall from desktop trebuchets, their battle cry: “Riiiiiiiiiiicola!” echoing over the ramparts. Someone will drop a cow, signalling the end of the sketch. CBGBs closes this month. I think I should feel that in my bones like the coming of winter, and a junkie bass player.

Amendment IX
The enumeration in the Constitution, of certain rights, shall not be construed to deny or disparage others retained by the people.

I’m no scholar, but that sounds to me like the defense privacy rights ought to get but doesn’t. You know, the amicus brief version of: Nanny nanny boo boo, it says we have the rights we say we have! I call no backsies!

Amendment X
The powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the states, are reserved to the states respectively, or to the people.

Hey look! We read the Bill of Rights and never broke a sweat. Things are looking up – not me, of course, my neck’s still a little stiff. But look at you go! Let’s all rest up and since it’s October, I’ll keep trying to make a the sukkos is in town! joke, but never mind that, we’re reading the Constitution. This is a very optimistic endeavor in which we are engaged. Like origami and breadbaking. I’ve decided this winter I’d like to learn how to bake good, crusty, rustic bread. Between now and when I succeed I will bake lots of terrible, inedible, insulation-like loaves.

Hungry?

It is my great fortune to have turned a corner in life where I can pursue learning things I’ve always wanted to learn. I am curious about everything! The mysteries of origami. The basics and beauty of breadbaking. American Sign Language. Tai Chi (Scout insists I will love Qi Gong). Why I can’t find bedroom curtains that don’t make me gag.

I think there are also other places where people have stuff they don’t need and people who need that stuff. Do you have wild ideas? I am an open book, a blank page, one thousand cranes.

Technorati tags: u.s. constitution, bill of rights,
bush, impeach bush, colds, origami.