Set your recording devices: our friend Minstrel Boy plays Jeopardy Wednesday night, which is tomorrow. I personally do not own a recording device, though I hear they’re the bee’s knees. Twenty three skidoo, you know! Anyhoo, MB – the fellow on the right – enjoys military history, making chocolates and lapsing into French. The fellow on the left, well, I don’t know. I think he was on The XFiles or something.

A few days ago, the woman who buys paper towels for our department bought a bale of ’em in a brand that wasn’t recycled. I growled. Then I growled some more.

Tata: Have we given up on buying recycled paper towels?
Joanne: They weren’t on sale.

Every so often I receive a gentle reminder that I am a space alien. Look! Here is one! Watch, as I do not switch to my native tongue:

Tata: W – what?
Joanne: We run out of paper towels at sometimes inconvenient moments and the brands we like are not on sale, so we go with a different brand. It’s just timing.
Tata: I’ll get coupons.

Yesterday, I left coupons for Marcal products on her desk. She’s a nice person but we share a cubicle wall and the sound of her voice makes me mildly homicidal. Every afternoon, she eats 10 baby carrots, which I know because everyone knows.

BITE. SNAP. CHEW. BITE. SNAP. CHEW. BITE. SNAP. CHEW. BITE –

By the fourth carrot, Lupe and I are emailing each other from ten feet apart.

Tata: Kill me.
Lupe: Got a carrot costume?

SNAP. CHEW. BITE. SNAP. CHEW. BITE. SNAP. CHEW. BITE. SNAP. CHEW.

Tata: Why haven’t you killed me yet?
Lupe: Oh no. We survive this together.

BITE. SNAP. CHEW. BITE. SNAP. CHEW. BITE. SNAP. CHEW.

In the silence that follows, we mourn the little carrots that fell victim to the day’s carnage. We know that if not for their sacrifice, untold suffering would visit our basement office. Or maybe she’d bring celery. In any case, yesterday, Joanne approached me, coupons in hand and a new plan in mind.

Joanne: Thanks for the coupons. Is this the only recycled brand?
Tata: No, there are quite a few now.
Joanne: Does Shop Rite carry them?
Tata: They should. If they don’t, you could make a fuss. I do.
Joanne: Does Wegman’s?
Tata: Wegman’s certainly does.
Joanne: What about the prices? Are they so expensive nobody buys them so the stores don’t carry them?
Tata: No, stores carry them. And if you buy them, the stores will carry more. It’s too late for us to say this doesn’t matter.
Joanne: Have you seen them in Shop Rite?
Tata: I don’t have a Shop Rite, but they must carry them.
Joanne: Thanks for the coupons. I’ll watch for the sales.
Tata: This for me is putting my money where my mouth is. If it’s a couple of dollars more, then fine. I’ll live with that. I’ll try to keep you supplied with coupons, okay?
Joanne: Okay.

This conversation boggled my tiny little mind until I realized: she’s a New Yorker, and not just any New Yorker. She’s from Queens. She knows where her grown children are at every moment. She knows which doctors practice which specialties. And nobody is going to beat her for a dollar. So not only will I keep her in coupons, I will find out which stores she shops in and scope their merchandise. She will appreciate my ability to eviscerate a grocery bill for the Common Good.

Before we bought the composter, I was uncomfortably aware of how much compostable material was going out in garbage. Yesterday, I tossed 12.5 oz. onto the pile. Yes, I weighed that. I’m easily amused. Though it’s winter, the temperature changes have been frequent and crazy; material inside the composter continues to degrade nicely. In addition to this, Pete set up a large square pen like this image except that it is small, round and I pinched it from answers.com. Our leaves are turning into mulch and they need lots of air to do so, giving us the opportunity to spend an hour playing with pitchforks. Our neighbors must enjoy this. I know that if I weren’t me but saw me flinging piles of decaying crap with a pitchfork two-thirds my size, I’d microwave some Orville Redenbacher and summon the kids. “Children,” I’d say, “some lessons must be learned through experience, but some – yes, a special few – can be learned by watching others make exciting mistakes. Please pass the popcorn.”

AFL-CIO NOW BLOG/Tula Connell, quoted in full:

For more proof that the Republican opposition to the auto bridge loan is ideologically based class war against workers and their unions, look no further than yesterday’s comments by Sen. Jim DeMint (R-S.C.), who wants to force the American auto industry—at the cost of 3 million to 5 million U.S. jobs—to its knees:

I’m not trying to get rid of the unions but I am saying that they appear to be an antiquated concept in today’s economy and if a company cannot be competitive with the union structure that they have then we need to recognize that.

…Most of this is being done to protect unions. It’s not to protect the workers. What I want to do is make sure we have jobs for these workers and we have first-class American auto companies and we’re not going to do that with the barnacles of unionism wrapped around their necks.

The media is abetting the corporate-instigated class war, by endlessly repeating the falsehood that UAW members make $70 an hour—when, in fact, their salaries are close to those of workers at foreign automakers—and by otherwise blaming workers and their unions. Media Matters has been relentless in tracking these lies and sums it up here:

Even though the crises facing the financial and automotive industries were born primarily of the actions (or inaction) of those in positions of power in private industry and in government, many conservative media figures have assigned blame to specific groups of less wealthy or less influential people—the poor, minorities, undocumented immigrants, and union members, among others—disregarding the facts that belie such assignments of blame.

The media also is abetting the reactionary spin that has renamed the Big Three the “Detroit Three.” By regionalizing the crisis, opponents of a unionized auto industry hope to divide and conquer workers from the primarily unionized North from the “right to work” for less South.

Fight back by urging your senators to vote for the auto bridge loan.

I was a Teamster in the eighties and I’m a member of the American Federation of Teachers. This bullshit about unions ruining the lives of working people is nothing more or less than your elected officials telling you to go fuck yourself. You don’t deserve a living wage, decent working conditions or retirement. These elected officials are in several cases from states where foreign automakers receive big tax breaks and workers have no ability to organize, so not only are you invited to go fuck yourself but you get to help fuck over lots of other people you’ll never meet. So what do you care? You have to care. Because these elected officials are about to send the country you live in into double-digit unemployment and a genuine depression in the name of union-busting and a failed ideology.

Fuck THEM. Write that letter, please.

Pete’s a bit of a chiachiarone, which is funny because most people wonder if he can talk at all. He doesn’t say much except after 8 p.m. It’s like a timer goes off somewhere, and when I’m watching TV he’s quiet during commercials, then talks through the shows. He’s talked through entire episodes of The Daily Show and into Colbert. Who was on? I don’t remember. Pete was talking. During the first part of this interview, I was losing hope – again – that Jon would open up with both barrels on someone he liked personally, but then Jon came through.

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Meanwhile, at my house, Pete was talking about widening a doorway in one of the apartments and I was shouting at the TV, “GET HIM, JON. GET HIM. FIVE THOUSAND YEARS IS A LIE AND HE KNOWS IT. NOT EVERYONE GETS MARRIED TO PROCREATE. GET HIM, JON!”

Let’s time travel a little bit. The easiest way is with wacky verb tenses. Watch!

On the Daily Show Monday night, Campbell Brown, bless her heart, said she wants to break free of the usual political bullshit, which is heartwarming. My icy heart almost warmed and everything! Then Ms. Brown repeats the modern political version of an old wives’ tale: for your news sources, you can choose Fox on the Right and MSNBC on the rabid left; Bill O’Reilly or Trotskiite Keith Olbermann. The thing is: that actually is bullshit. She might believe it, too, which makes it worse. Let’s talk about the political compass.

That’s me, there, waving to you from the southwest of freaking GANDHI. I am unapologetic in my belief in acting for the common good and leaving people alone to make the best or worst decisions about their own lives and medical care. I am unconcerned about where people were born, what language they speak, what religion they practice or with whom they knock boots; skin color and economics need not prevent us from attending the same tea party. I have a responsibility to care for people less fortunate than myself and to do good works in this lifetime without the kibbitzing of some bearded sky god. Adequate food, housing and medical care for all people are not too much to ask. Political prisoners of the war on drugs should go free. I try to think peaceful thoughts when I want to bash someone with a tire iron. My government does not own but retains stewardship of its public lands, and I want it to take that responsibility seriously while I figure out how to afford shiny-shiny solar panels. Damn it, I want all children to have shoes and safe places to sleep. And books. And uniformly good educations. That’s the lower lefthand spot from which I speak. You can find where your beliefs sit on the Political Compass Test.

You’ll notice the test doesn’t simply divide opinions into Left and Right. It also tests for libertarian or authoritarian impulses. I am shamelessly anti-authoritarian about individuals, which is the same reason I wish for rigorous corporate regulation the world over. It’s pretty simple: one person with a bad idea can do society some minor damage, but an multinational conglomerate with a bad idea can destroy the planet.

So, in practice, I am a happy lowercase-L leftist. Socialism sounds fine to me, but I’m not afraid of a few words, either. I’ve got a dictionary! Have at it! But here’s the thing: the closest things we’ve seen to capital-L Leftists in American public life in the last three decades have been Dennis Kucinich and Reverend Al Sharpton, but neither one of them is a Leftist. They aren’t. They are slightly to the left of center, which you might have noticed if American political rhetoric hadn’t shifted so far to the Right that housing advocates are reviled as rabid Communists. Olbermann is not of the Left or the left. Olbermann is a centrist.

I could explain to you how silly that is but it would require hand puppets and Spam.

But enough about me, what do you think of reporters who don’t know the difference between talking points and facts? What do you think of people who claim to offer balance when they specifically mean they do not? What do you think of public discourse when one candidate in an American presidential election is described by his opponent through racial code words and the press takes up the vocabulary without skipping a beat?

Is winning so important we must reduce half of America to ashes?

As for Campbell Brown, I keep wondering if she simply doesn’t understand what she’s saying or worse: maybe she does?

Recently, two people I like very much and who were not addressing me at the time, said they didn’t want to be lectured about dietary differences around the world or green matters, also around the world. They – you – read PIC. Buckle up, pets, because I am going to heap compost upon you, not to mention cha cha cha all over your arguments. This is going to leave a mark.

Nobody’s perfect. Almost no one leaves this planet without leaving a trash pile, though there are people who do not. Few people consume less than their fair share of this planet’s resources, but some do. You, however, and I and everyone reading this are making a big, slimy, toxic mess. No matter how much you don’t want to hear about that mess, you’re soaking in it. Your children are soaking in it. Nature is on you like white on rice, so sooner or later you’re going to have to stop howling and listen. It’s not even hard to do – listening and living a little greener – and nobody is demanding perfection. Besides, your argument seems to be If I don’t want to think about that then I don’t have to think about that. Which as circular logic goes is genius but as good ideas go: not so much.

Your children are watching you. The little devils learn from the way you respond to life’s little pressures and big squeezes. Your children, who will live with the mess we’re making now, will remember whether you shut off lights when you left the room or cranked the air conditioning. You already know this. So what’s your job, here? Do you teach them to think clearly and act, or do you teach them that denial’s a fine bet until what’s undeniable comes knocking on the door?

You can make small changes now that will add up, both for that mess we’re making and for the children who observe your quirky behavior. Don’t believe me? How about a simple example: your morning coffee. I drink enough coffee that somewhere on a Colombian mountainside there should be a plaque with my name on it, and if there is a plaque with my name on it, that’s not going to change anytime soon. But I never, never walk into a Starbuck’s and drop $10 on one cup of coffee containing double my daily calorie limit, and if I march through a Dunkin’ Donuts it’s because I’m on a road trip and the caffeine patch is wearing off. I have a travel mug.

We are a technologically advanced society in which devices now exist to make coffee in your very own home. It’s true! You can make your own coffee. Should you be one of those people in a 10′ by 10′ apartment without counter space, there are devices you could probably suspend from the ceiling that could double as soothing water features. For most of us, there’s no reason why we can obtain one of these devices and teach those impressionable children that thrift is good. Not only that, but once you step out of line at the coffee joint and find money in your pocket, you will wonder why you were ever there in the first place.

How, you may finally be asking yourself, does making my own coffee count as going greener when it creates garbage in the form of coffee filters and grounds? This is an excellent question, and the answer is: it doesn’t have to. Coffee grounds can be dumped directly onto lawns, gardens or empty lots. Got a tree in front of your apartment building? Toss down the grounds!

Some coffeemakers use filters. You’re used to seeing those white ones but you can pick up unbleached filters instead. They’re right there on the shelf, they don’t affect the flavor of the coffee and less toxic goo was used in their creation. A small but important step, eh? You can take another one by buying these filters here made of hemp, if you can find them without incurring a misdemeanor. Or pick up a gold coffee filter and eliminate the paper filters entirely. Plus, you’d have the ruby slippers of coffeemaking devices.

A lot of people say they’re trying to save the planet. That is a crucial misstatement of what is at stake here and now. The planet itself is not in any danger. The planet doesn’t care, and will go on spinning. We, however, cannot say the planet’s natural resources will stretch to meet our needs. It’s not a matter of economics. Even if you can afford to cushion yourself against lectures, waste and the vagaries of the markets, you can’t protect yourself from air, water and toxins. You know it, your lungs know it, your family’s medical history shows it and your children take all this in.

So, what’s it going to be: do you teach your children to think clearly and cleverly adapt or teach them that you wouldn’t?

Oh George. I miss you already.

I love this gorgeous image. I love the expression on his face. I love the determination in her jaw. I love the unity of purpose. I love the vivid purple of her dress. I love that they’re approximately the same height. I love the simplicity of We. I love the confidence. I love their belief in one another. I love their handsomeness. I love the firmness of trust. I love this image. I love this image of boundless love.

My co-worker whom we Poor Impulsives call Chuan was born in Singapore and emigrated to New Jersey as a small child. A few weeks ago, Chuan and his two sisters spent two weeks visiting China, where one sister works. It was, judging by the pictures, a grand adventure. Here, Chuan kicks up his heels at the Hall of Supreme Harmony, which was under construction. It’s quite possible I might be a little jealous, but of what? Maybe the once-familiar escape from the iron grip of gravity.

Today, my dear friend Lala forwarded a reminder that history is nothing if not a bitch.

The women were innocent and defenseless. And by the end of the night, they were barely alive. Forty prison guards wielding clubs and their warden’s blessing went on a rampage against the 33 women wrongly convicted of “obstructing sidewalk traffic.”

They beat Lucy Burn, chained her hands to the cell bars above her head and left her hanging for the night, bleeding and gasping for air. They hurled Dora Lewis into a dark cell, smashed her head against an iron bed and knocked her out cold. Her cellmate, Alice Cosu, thought Lewis was dead and suffered a heart attack. Additional affidavits describe the guards grabbing, dragging, beating, choking, slamming, pinching, twisting and kicking the women.

Thus unfolded the “Night of Terror” on Nov. 15, 1917, when the warden at the Occoquan Workhouse in Virginia ordered his guards to teach a lesson to the suffragists imprisoned there because they dared to picket Woodrow Wilson’s White House for the right to vote.

For weeks, the women’s only water came from an open pail. Their food – all of it colorless slop – was infested with worms. When one of the leaders, Alice Paul, embarked on a hunger strike, they tied her to a chair, forced a tube down her throat and poured liquid into her until she vomited. She was tortured like this for weeks until word was smuggled out to the press.

I don’t know who wrote that, but it rang a distant bell for me. I’m ashamed to say it but I’d forgotten who Alice Paul was, so I looked her up. Imagine my chagrin:

The Equal Rights Amendment (ERA) was introduced in every session of Congress from 1923 until it passed in 1972. During the 1940s, both the Republicans and Democrats added the ERA to their party platforms. In 1943, the ERA was rewritten and dubbed the “Alice Paul Amendment.” The new amendment read, “Equality of rights under the law shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any state on account of sex.”

Fuck! I forgot Alice! Did you remember Alice? This is a blog post about Alice. Back to the letter of unknown origin about HBO’s Iron Jawed Angels:

It is jarring to watch Woodrow Wilson and his cronies try to persuade a psychiatrist to declare Alice Paul insane so that she could be permanently institutionalized. And it is inspiring to watch the doctor refuse. Alice Paul was strong, he said, and brave. That didn’t make her crazy.

The doctor admonished the men: “Courage in women is often mistaken for insanity.”

This would be an excellent, life-preserving moment to remember the unbelievable courage that brought us – all of us – to where we stand – or fly – now, because our politics have gone crazy.