I’m feeling much better today than yesterday, by which I mean that when I sneeze I don’t leap around like Baryshnikov, moaning, “…ow ow ow ow fuck.” Larry, the little black cat bent on stealing your soul, expressed a desire to see me knock off the acrobatics and quit falling asleep when I could be scratching him. What the pussycat wants, the pussycat gets. There’s one downside to my renewed vigor: I smell everything again, my apartment needs a thorough scouring and Mr. Cat is – pardon me! – stinky.

Here, hold this for a second while I consider my problem –
Amendment VII
In suits at common law, where the value in controversy shall exceed twenty dollars, the right of trial by jury shall be preserved, and no fact tried by a jury, shall be otherwise reexamined in any court of the United States, than according to the rules of the common law.

– and my options.
Amendment VIII
Excessive bail shall not be required, nor excessive fines imposed, nor cruel and unusual punishments inflicted.

See, as Siobhan blurts at every drunken opportunity, “Cats aren’t clean. They’re covered with cat spit.” Our friends with feline leukemia develop oral infections that rot their teeth and prevent them from eating. Larry, the little black cat bent on stealing your soul, must be watched as addicts watch spinning roulette wheels. He must eat, and as to what he must eat, all bets are off. I put out anything and everything in little bowls all the time, and pray I find him rubbing his belly and making AlkaSeltzer commercials. The kitty in question is about a 13 lb. roaster when he’s eating well, which he is at the moment. Even so, if you think following, overstuffing and sniffing your cat feels like normal behavior even when you’ve been doing it for years, then you, sir or madam, are really, really mistaken.

In a way, all things boil down to compassion and empathy. Do we chose to experience the discomforts of others or do we not? Some situations cause us to reconsider our black and white worldviews, when our impulse is to clutch that unforgiving knot below our ribs. Providing such a stretch is AbortionClinicDays.

this past saturday included a nearly homeless 15 year old who had to be rescheduled so that we could seek funding for her to have sedation since she was too scared to have the procedure awake. one of her parents died when she was 7, the other a year later. four years after that, the relative who took her in died so this young woman has not had a lot of stability and parental protection in her life. the support person accompanying her was also 15. in another situation, we had been working with the police to collect the tissue for DNA testing since the pregnancy was a result of rape and the police were determined to prosecute even though the young woman did not want the stress of having to testify. two other young women, both under 21, each with three children, had tried to get their tubes tied but were refused because they were underage. so, rather than have a fourth child, each chose abortion.

outside on the sidewalk were nearly 150 protesters, mostly silent in prayer; still, in a crowd that large there are always the pushy, obnoxious, arrogant demonstators. luckily the police came to keep them in line. as you can imagine, we are too busy inside the clinic to pay any attention to the picketers.

Reading this, it is as if I awoke from a long, crazy dream where everyone was screaming and you, and you, and you were there. Every story is different and human and the reasons to honor each decision come to the reader only through a strenuous walk in another woman’s shoes.

a 41 year old woman with 5 kids said that she was done, no matter what, that she was tired, could not start over. she stated that when she was younger, she would never imagined herself feeling that way because she was strongly prolife. but, she said, when you are older, you come to realize that you do have limits, that you can’t punish the kids you already have. when there is not enough time, energy, money to go around, all of them suffer.

increasingly an emerging factor that leads to abortion is that the cost of birth control pills has jumped up so high, women who do not have either medical assistance from the government or else private insurance, are having difficulty paying for their birth control pills every month. some pills cost as much as $75 per month. not many women without insurance can afford that much so have stopped taking the pill. they revert to more affordable, but perhaps less effective methods.

while we allow room for the sadness some women and men feel with abortion, we also feel the sense of togetherness that many women develop while they are here. the media leads women who choose abortion to feel that they are a tiny minority, that they should feel terrible about their choice. but knowing that many many others also conclude that abortion is best for their families, for their futures, women can walk out of here with their heads held high. they are ready to deal with whatever emotional or spiritual issues that come up, but can move on with their lives knowing that their abortion was safe, that they did the right thing regardless of what anti abortion protesters might say or think. we value women; we trust them make the wisest decision for their own lives.

Cool heads can prevail, if we let them, but compassion doesn’t come cheap: we have to actually listen to the people affected by our actions – 1.3 million women every year since 1973. Our assumptions about who they are and why they choose this course of action help no one. We fail everyone when we refuse to humble ourselves before the difficult truths that lead women to the clinic. Most women my age have had some experience standing at that crossroads, but there’s always another, and another.

As for Larry, the little black cat bent on stealing your soul: he has an infection, and the vet prescribed the same antibiotic as last month. I will feed it to him or dose him, if he won’t eat it disguised in cat food. Someday, he will be too sick to save, and I accept that in love and humility I will have to decide when to give him an easier end. In the meantime, he is snoring, and dreaming of delicious drumsticks, I hope and believe.

Technorati tags: u.s. constitution, bill of rights,
bush, impeach bush, abortion rights, compassion, cooler heads prevail.

Saturday, my sinuses opened like a dam burst, flooding a tiny desert town with moist hankies and snot. Oh, the humidity! I thought allergies were my problem and acted accordingly: I sneezed a lot and apologized. Yesterday, when the sneezing stopped, the aches, the sore throat and fatigue began. About 4 this morning, I woke up and couldn’t swallow. I hardly know what to say about that, sports fans. Most of the time, I prefer natural cures to medicines, but when my throat was so sore I was trying not to use it to breathe, I nearly hacked the childproof cap off the NyQuil. Here, while I doze a bit, read this intriguing bedtime story.

Amendment VI
In all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial, by an impartial jury of the state and district wherein the crime shall have been committed, which district shall have been previously ascertained by law, and to be informed of the nature and cause of the accusation; to be confronted with the witnesses against him; to have compulsory process for obtaining witnesses in his favor, and to have the assistance of counsel for his defense.

zzzzzzzzzzzZZZZ snort! Cough cough! What? I should wake up and watch daytime TV. There some folk wisdom suggesting I have no hope of feeling better without fluids and hours of daytime television to combat this plague. My co-worker took pity on me and sent this.

Watch out for this scam! READ CAREFULLY!

I don’t how many of you shop at Sam’s Club or Costco, but this may be useful to know. I became a victim of a clever scam while out shopping, and I am sure it could happen to you! Here’s how the scam works:

Two seriously good-looking 23-year-old well-built guys come over to your car as you are packing your shopping in the trunk. They both are shirtless and start wiping your windshield with a rag and Windex, with their highly-defined chest muscles and rock-hard abs exposed. It’s impossible not to look. When you thank them and offer them a tip, they say ‘No’ and instead ask you for a ride to another Sam’s Club or Costco.

You agree and they get in the back seat. On the way, they start talking dirty about what they want to do to you. Then one of them climbs over into the front seat and begins kissing your neck and begs you to pull over so he can make love to you! While this is going on the other guy steals your purse!

I had my purse stolen last Tuesday, Wednesday, twice on Thursday, again on Saturday and also yesterday and most likely again tomorrow!

It’s got to be the NyQuil straight up in a festive martini glass, but my heart feels light for the first time in a long time. Either I have a fever or it must be love.

Technorati tags: u.s. constitution, bill of rights,
bush, impeach bush, sinus pain.

My decades-old stovetop is wide enough to place baking pans on either side of the burners. The lure is irresistable. I must place things I need to place somewhere in this space between the burners and the wall. I cannot help myself! So the block containing knives and a cannister filled with teas and instant cider packets sit next to two ceramic insulators an old friend found in a junkyard. In my apartment, one may discover several large, heavy rusty objects – especially if you break in and I hit you with them. But that’s not important right now! Sitting next to the stove, things get sticky, then furry, then you wish you could stick noses on them and call them “Mr. Potato Head.”

Recently, lots of ostensibly intelligent people have been shouting things that don’t make any sense to me, especially when they contradict one another. You may or may not remember this, but I used to be a Biblical Revisionary performance poet, and my theory was that you should never take anyone’s word – including mine – for what was in the Bible, and believer or not, you should read it yourself. On Friday, I read an article in which Senator Harry Reid called this week’s big-name bill “unconstitutional on its face” and a paragraph later, Senator John McCain said no, he thought it was constitutional. I thought, hell, I’ve been declared a genius on both sides of the Atlantic. I’m not using my prodigious IQ for anything special. Maybe I should clean the fuzz off my kitchen and read the Constitution while I’m making yogurt this week. I’ve got yogurt ingredients and cleaning fluid. And I can read.

Amendment I
Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.

I’m an Eat Dessert First kind of gal, so let’s start with the amendments, and hey, that one’s not so tough. I can spell each and every one of those words. This came in handy when I brought whole milk and light cream to a milk boil. Since I was standing there at the stove, I took apart the block of knives and removed teas and ciders from the cannister. I washed the knives, the block, the insulators and the cannister with CitraSolv, an orange oil cleaner. My kitchen smelled great. It is important to remember that I am allergic to only two things: oxygen and nitrogen. Cleaning is a joyous adventure. My sinuses opened up as they hadn’t since I was a blotchy, sneezing, crushingly attractive teen.

Amendment II
A well regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed.

Those words pack a punch, much like the pots and pans I got two Christmases ago. When Paulie Gonzalez and I broke up, the pots and pans were his, so I did what any independent, self-sufficient middle-aged woman would under the circumstances: I called Daddy and said, “Please buy me pots!” The grid behind the stove Dad put up when I said, “Daddy, help me move!” It’s a miracle he takes my calls. On the topical other hand, today he sent me four pictures of himself with his Winchester, his whisk and a bandolero full of bullets. As you can see from the photograph above, the yogurt maker he gave me gets weekly usage. Let’s not underestimate Mom while we’re at it: that’s a lefthanded spoon-whatsis, made by an artisan Mom found in her travels through New England.

Amendment III
No soldier shall, in time of peace be quartered in any house, without the consent of the owner, nor in time of war, but in a manner to be prescribed by law.

Speaking of whisks, my rubberized plastic whisk is the tool in my kitchen that makes me happiest, though it’s the one I may use less than thirty seconds weekly. I can combine my base yogurt sample with the boiled and cooled milk and cream without damaging my non-stick stock pot.

Amendment IV
The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.

The fourth is one of my favorites. It’s got a great beat and you can really dance to it. Check out this Electric Slide.

Tata: You’ve got to be kidding. I’m not getting up in church and renouncing evil in front of witnesses! Can’t one of your friends be this kid’s godmother?
Daria: We don’t believe in it.
Tata: What? What does that mean? Can I tell a jackknifed tractor trailor I don’t believe in car crashes?

But as much as I mocked my sister, I swear this was my mouth doing the talking when I went to interview for a part-time job at a discount department store.

Interviewer: We require a drug test.
Tata: I don’t believe in it.
Interviewer: Okay.
Tata: Did I say something stupid? And you said “okay”?
Interviewer: Do you want to start Tuesday?
Tata: I believe in starting Tuesday.

I scrubbed the wall next to the stove, too, and the decorative tile you can’t see in the pictures. It takes quite a while after the milk boil for the milk-cream mixture to cool to between 115-120 degrees, so while I was there stirring intermittently I wiped down other surfaces in the kitchen. This is great for me because I can’t stand sticky.

Amendment V
No person shall be held to answer for a capital, or otherwise infamous crime, unless on a presentment or indictment of a grand jury, except in cases arising in the land or naval forces, or in the militia, when in actual service in time of war or public danger; nor shall any person be subject for the same offense to be twice put in jeopardy of life or limb; nor shall be compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself, nor be deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor shall private property be taken for public use, without just compensation.

Yep, I can spell each of those words but I’m not sure I understand them as a piquant melange. I set up the yogurt in cups, put away dry dishes and washed up the stock pot. My stove’s clean. Sticky furry things are now unsticky and unfurry. I read a few paragraphs of the Constitution and I don’t even have a headache. Yes, those are my nails. I grew them myself, possibly as a side effect of the high calcium-low expectation lifestyle. And Poor Impulsives like yourself have taken up a new hobby. Don’t worry, though: you can already sing our theme song. Remember?

Update: YouTube removed Schoolhouse Rock’s preamble to the Constitution. Promise you’ll sing it in the shower, because that will terrify your teens and cause your spouse to giggle. Yes, it will.

Technorati tags: u.s. constitution, bill of rights,
bush, impeach bush, yogurt, lefthanded, house cleaning.

Larry, the little black cat bent on stealing your soul, has presided for months over my knitting efforts. One day, before I mailed off a bunch of them, I amused myself by laying the blankets for shelter cats out on the floor. As you can see, green-eyed Don Gato here went all You are getting very sleepy…you will fix me boiled shrimp…you will feed them to me a tasty bite in the culinary march toward global domination at a time… Then it was September and I smelled like lemon and a cover up.

This morning, I woke up and the clock said 7:14, which I didn’t believe. It was dark. I was cozy, and that clock couldn’t be right. Every work day, my alarm rings at 6:05, at which time the cat addresses me by name, “Brrrrrrr?” every morning. There immediately follows a tremendous feline celebration that includes purring and scratching and leaping and stepping all over me and I expect confetti in my eyes. By the time I stumble to the bathroom, preferably without accidently kicking the enthusiastic pussycat, I am usually the subject of memos and reminders.

Larry: You there! Let’s get a move on! Chop chop!
Tata: Um…must scrape teeth…minty fresh…
Larry: Hey! Hey! We’ve got a timetable here.
Tata: …here I come…

I stumble around three corners in my spacious rabbit warren, where from a distance, we both see our destination: the cat bowl. A choir sings!

Choir: Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

The cat, meanwhile, loses his cool and riverdances around my feet in an effort to scoot me along faster. I refill his water dish. Larry, the little black cat bent on stealing your soul, has feline leukemia so his water consumption is an important indicator of when things are right or wrong. I don’t exactly know how it works or what it means but the vet always asks. On the other hand, the cat and I like to have some secrets between us. You know how it is.

Then he faces the dish and eyes me over a shoulder. He is waiting patiently but as a great actor he knows patience is dull. It’s a tense moment. I shake the Rubbermaid cannister. I refill the ten or fifteen pellets of missing kitten chow. I shake the cannister again and put it away. Then I pat his haunches, which he takes as an invitation to breakfast. Then I stumble into the living room to exercise every morning. Today, my clock read 7:14 but we lie to one another. You know how it is. It was really 6:44. When I stumbled to the living room because the cable modem would never deceive me it said 6:44. Then I ran around my apartment laughing because I’d slept from midnight to 6:44 without waking up and it was impossible to hold a grudge against me. Still, we had a quick talk.

Tata: You mad charmer, did you shut off the alarm without telling me?
Tata: I can’t take credit for that!
Tata: You can’t? Oh, come now. You did, didn’t you?
Tata: No, really. I simply couldn’t!
Tata: We’re all talking about it! Tell us!
Tata: Okay! I did! We were sleeping and I was utterly inspired!

And then we came to work gleeful.

Wondrous:

Authorities in the capital Reykjavik will turn off street lights on Thursday evening and people are also being encouraged to sit in their houses in the dark, writer Andri Snaer Magnason said on Wednesday.

While the lights are out, an astronomer will describe the night sky over national radio.

“We have a very beautiful sky as soon as we turn off the lights,” Magnason, who came up with the idea, told Reuters.

Every so often, one hears an idea of heartbreaking beauty. Today, we hear this timeless, lovely notion.

Crossposted at Blanton’s & Ashton’s.

Johnny’s on a mission. Perhaps you can help.

Hey, I’m hitting a wall here, and maybe you and your coterie of cultists of the fabulous might have some ideas. Remember in Diva where what’s his name, Gorodish, I think, lives in the huge loft with his teenage Viet Minh girlfriend roller skating around the wooden floors? He has one of those big 70s wave machines, where the tank gently sways from side to side and bluey green gelatinous goop inside makes an endlessly rocking slow motion wave. I want one of those for my desk. It doesn’t have to be the size of a car like the one in the movie. A little one would be good. But everywhere I search, I come up blank. You must understand that I need without fail to have this thing. Then my life will be complete and I’ll never ask for anything ever again. I know I said that about the greyhound cufflinks. But this time I really mean it.

Yeah yeah, I looked up wave machines, lava lamps and combed the Sharper Image for something approximating this object – no dice. Fan and review sites for the movie offered no pictures. Even YouTube somehow didn’t have video of the buttered-baguette scene with the wave machine in the background that is so crazy-hot I’m sweating just thinking about it, but I just walked to work again. Man, am I fit!

Siobhan found this one.
I’m not sure it has the hypnotic kitsch or retro cool factors for which our Armani-clad zoot suiter searches, but it’s certainly miles closer than I got. Another source offers this mysterious item.

Funny, all I can think of is fragrant, golden toast…and car hops. I can’t explain that. But now I’ve pictured myself standing in the middle of a TV disco dream sequence in which French-speaking nymphets on skates emerge from dry ice clouds to offer me snacks and home appliances. And I’m singing Dancing Queen.

This morning, I walked to work simply because I wanted to walk to work. It took about half an hour to travel more than a mile in the cool morning air and harsh, angular light. To my surprise, I did not feel threatened by traffic, not even at the dangerous intersections near the Albany Street Bridge. I’ve been trying to figure out a way to add exercise into my afternoons as the days shorten, the temperature cools and my natural desire is to hibernate in my cozy lair. If I can be sure the weather won’t turn during the day, I might be walk to and from the library a couple times a week. This morning, the cosmos rewarded me for trying out what had only been a farfetched idea before today: as I turned the corner onto Raritan Avenue, I heard a commotion about thirty yards off, up the hill. A tall man passed me, arching his eyebrows in a quizzical way. Behind him, a young woman sat at the bus stop, singing The Star Spangled Banner at the tops of her lungs.

Since I had no reason to expect a concert al fresco, I really enjoyed that as I turned and walked toward the river.

A thousand years ago, Siobhan and I met up with Jill of Brilliant@Breakfast, from whom I learn something every day and you should too. I’m a big fan. Jill was acquainted with Siobhan but didn’t know me. So we walked around bra shopping and had a marvelous time and I was chatting quite naturally until I suddenly knew why Jill was watching my hands and speaking slowly. For all she knew, I was some nutcase stalker in chic suede boots and not an accomplished person in my own right. I stood where I was and laughed so hard I unnerved nearby corsetiers.

It had never occurred to me to list credentials. Moreover, doing so wouldn’t render my life experience transparently obvious to the listener. To her credit, Jill realized that I am a funny enough person and that I get her jokes is credential enough – though that is not the case for everyone. Days ago, I was talking over recipes with another blogger and mentioned I’d been on a college radio comedy show. He said something like, “I did that once. We thought we were very funny.” I didn’t bother mentioning we were on over 100 radio stations in three countries. He just assumed I’d never done anything, which took my breath away.

You know, as mysterious assumptions go that’s one dumb, hurtful assumption – as one ought to assume.

Over the weekend, a commenter on a blog I read obsessively responded to a question I asked by inferring that I was either dumb or playing dumb. I have no need to trouble him further; it matters not a whit that he was probably falling-over drunk. In vino veritas, baby, it’s no mystery what he thinks of me, much as this joke circulating among my brother’s Star Trek-loving friends demystifies a certain chickenhawk mentality:

The Iranian Ambassador whispered to President Bush, “My son watches this show ‘Star Trek’ and in it there is Chekhov who is Russian, Scotty who is Scottish, Uhura who is Black and Sulu who is Chinese, but no Arabs. My son is very upset and doesn’t understand why there aren’t any Iranians, Syrians or Iraqis on StarTrek.” President Bush laughed, leaned toward the Iranian Ambassador, and whispered back, “It’s because it takes place in the future.”

If you listen, you hear the hilarious assertion that in the genocidal future, we Russian Scottish Black Chinese people blow Arabs off the face of the planet. Star Trek would never have inferred this, as its creator was a wise and peaceful man, far ahead of his time; plus, Iranians are not Arab but Persian. Technically, they’re Aryans, which means you should try not to snicker when armed bigots talk about blowing up armed brown people. And if you listen to experts estimate what attacking Iran would do to our military in our future, you’ll repeat after me: I’m sorry, Captain, but we haven’t got the power.

It’s just not that mysterious. Some things just aren’t. I don’t need a list of initials after my name and a Rosetta Stone to back up my opinion that inciting racial and ethnic riots won’t make anyone safer or happier – not that many people are listening. Since May, just about every day, I’ve had conversations with family members, friends, lovers and co-workers where I might as well have poured out my heart to my cat for all the human contact I made.

Some conversations were just peculiar.
Tata: It’s really important that we do a-b-c to solve our problems.
Not Listening: Right. We’ll do d-e-f.
Tata: Doing d-e-f will prevent us from solving our problems.
Not Listening: Right! So that’s what we’ll do.
Tata: From now on, I talk to you in only hand signals.

Some were worse than talking to myself, including words my closest friends hope against hope not to hear.
Tata: I’m a little depressed.
He Who Should Fucking Know Better: You’re never depressed!
Tata: Does your insurance cover hearing aids?

…Or my personal favorite.
Tata: Hi, my name is Tata.
Idiot: Tata? What’s that short for?
Tata: Domenica. Please call me “Tata.”
Idiot: Okay, Domenica.
Tata: …And you won’t even notice me calling you “Douchebag.”

I’m just not going to print my resume to persuade anyone I’m worth my weight in fortune cookies. Miss Manners would not approve! What gives me the authority to say what I say, the way I say it? The truth is you don’t really care – not while you’re laughing.

After the moment of my birth during a blizzard, I was treated as if my arrival was heralded by the trumpets of angels and flashing lights the length of the New Jersey Turnpike. I was special. I was unique in all history. The way my every word was cause for celebration you’d think I was the reincarnation of Thomas Jefferson, several saints and half the martyred French Resistance. I can’t explain that. Anyway, it’s utterly crucial to remember that when I was born both my parents were younger than my daughter Miss Sasha is now, and I was their futuristic prototype; under no circumstances should this conjure up images of blondes in swimsuits exclaiming, “Genuine naugahyde seats!” And I’m not exaggerating my presumed importance in the universe. From Dad’s book from before you were born, with all copyrights in place and stealing is bad for your karma:

Today

Today
I’m contemplating jealousy
and what it really means
mostly to me.

I asked my daughter
what jealousy means.
Offhandedly she informed me
that people are jealous
when they don’t get enough.

She then asked for an apple
and went outside to play
having exhausted the topic.

Even at three, I was a foul-mouthed temptress with no use for jealousy. What the hell, the parents had me when a dictionary and a Magic 8 Ball would’ve been easier to potty train. I don’t recollect hearing babytalk except when spoken to other children. Then, though I’ve always tested well, my sixth grade teacher destroyed my reasonably snotty worldview with one simple sentence.

Pre-Teen Tata: What are you talking about? My parents don’t talk to me any differently than they do to anyone else. You don’t talk to us differently than to other people…
Mrs. Smart Lady: I don’t talk to you or your classmates the same way I talk to adults.

I’ve been in a snit about this for 32 years.

Last night, Dom called and insisted I go out with him, Theresa, Natalie and Sharkey to see Little Miss Sunshine. I hemmed. I hawed.

Dom: Call Sharkey. He’ll pick you up on the way to Loew’s.
Tata: I’ll call him.

I was still hedging.

Tata: Should I go?
Sharkey: Sometimes going out is the right thing when you feel that way.
Tata: I should go.
Sharkey: Are you going?
Tata: Pick me up in an hour?
Sharkey: One hour!

So we went. I started laughing before the credits, and throughout most of the movie, the only people laughing were my friends and me. We are, however, used to it and don’t care. So today, despite the rain and the politics, I’m in a good mood. My papers are all over the floor. Before I go to work at the family shiny objects emporium, I’ll organize and file them. This will make me as happy as I get without shedding foundation garments.

In the spirit of international cooperation then, I’ll disclose two details about Poor Impulse Control.

1. The search criteria that bring people here more than all others combined are various forms of ANARCHY. This thrills me, and refers to a posting from December, 2005, in which I declared in passing that if and when I have grandchildren they won’t be wearing fucking pastels. No, they’ll have little black onesies with red Anarchy logos on them. This post still makes me howl, and if you haven’t, you should read it and shower me with tribute. I will accept money, power and offers of cheap, tawdry sex in which you play the East German spy and I play General DeGaulle, marching orders optional.

2. The other search is pieces of lyrics (run away turn away run away) to one particular song: Bronski Beat’s Small Town Boy. Apparently other people are also haunted by Jimmy Somerville‘s singular voice and the mournful lyrics. The post itself is about finding oneself suddenly responsible and alienated; thus, not tied closely to the song, which I love with my whole black heart and always have. I understand having to leave a familiar place right now, in desperation.

YouTube is evidently my new best friend, and in the spirit of, you know, international cooperation, I hope you get the phone call you need from out of the vast and loving blue.

Updated 7.30.09: Edited to pull the rug out from under a motherfucker stealing bandwith by incorrectly linking to this post.