You Should’ve Left the Light On

Jeaneane Brennan
Clear Channel Communications
jeaneanebrennan@clearchannel.com

Dear Ms. Brennan,

Greetings to you from the glorious present day, where the sun always shines, people treat each other fairly and even goth kids are happy. It’s 2008! Hooray!

So why, in 2008, can I turn on Q104.3 and still hear crap like Under My Thumb? Why does Q104.3’s website, which is a shrine to testosterone-soaked hatred of women, have a whole section called Babes? I realize scores of young models make a living pretending to be simultaneously anorexic, well-endowed and thrilled about both, but here in the world where we live and work with men, this is a really stupid display of soft-core porn.

To quote George Carlin, “There are two knobs on the radio and television: one turns it off, the other changes the station.” Ordinarily, I’d chalk this crap up to the normal, day-in and day-out, anti-woman malarkey and dismiss it, but when I heard the intro to Under My Thumb I happened to be on my way to the drug store to buy a bottle of wine for Valentine’s Day and the backseat of my car was piled high with clothing for a women’s shelter that’s rebuilding after an arson fire. My patience with misogynist crap may be a little thin. So I shut off the radio and today I’m writing to you, because the program manager’s name isn’t on the contact page and because your email address is above the words –

It is the policy of Clear Channel Radio to provide equal employment opportunity to all qualified individuals without regard to their race, color, religion, national origin, sex, age, disability, sexual orientation or any other characteristic protected by law, in all personnel actions.

What an enlightened place to work Q104.3 must be. The faces on your gallery page are all white and mostly male, with the notable exception of a few women in some state of undress. There’s some mention of oysters. Way to be equal! Way to pander to that crucial blockhead demographic! And you helped.

Frankly, I’m surprised this shining tower – woohoo! – of dudely privilege hasn’t been sued into the ground in some hugely public and embarrassing employee action. Judging by the evidence at hand, I have little doubt at least karmic justice is on its way.

Yours,
Ta

Yes, that is me, upper right. Did you think I was just stuffy?

Caturday Night’s Alright, Alright, Alright

This morning, I awoke to the penetrating stare of Ceiling Cat. I considered renouncing Eeeeeeevil, but we all have our limits. I renounced Eeeeeeevil before witnesses at my nephew Sandro’s baptism and waited for lightning to strike; that didn’t go well. Today, I said, “Topaz, sweetheart, please come here and try not to smite anything on your way down.” It’s never unreasonable to fear locusts, frogs and murain. And speaking of plagues:

Today Show
today@msnbc.com

To Whom It Concerns:

This morning, the show was introduced including Ann Coulter. I immediately turned off my television. If her form of hate speech is good for your ratings, I pity the audience you’re not pandering to; in any case, Coulter’s free speech is not at issue. I simply will not subject myself to her rabble-rousing vitriol.

Her fans are vocal. I’m sure you receive piles of misspelled thank-you notes whenever you include her in what passes now for political discourse. Know that I will turn off my television wherever I see her. Maybe I’m alone and maybe I’m not. Maybe reasonable people find more factual news sources when you book this irrational entertainer.

Thank you for your time and attention to this matter.

Drusy waits for us at the window.

Feel free to crib it, change a few words and get a B+ on your term paper. Being small and covered with fur, I sometimes get flustered and can’t find the words to say what I need to about a complex issue. This even occasionally keeps me from writing to my Congressmen, who by now ought to have me in their Five. I call and stutter if I have to, but I’m not going to shut up. Anyhoo, this was simple: if I see Ann Coulter’s face or hear her voice, I’m either changing the channel or shutting off the TV. The people who thought I’d find her bullshit exciting should know they shouldn’t expect my tacit approval for broadcasting it.

Next time Coulter turns up, I’ll smite a few advertisers.

To Relieve This Bellyache

Sometimes good advice is good advice, no matter its source. Horoscopically speaking, I should consider what I want out of life this year because with luck and hard work, I might get it. Well, I can’t argue with that. Pretty much any year good luck and hard work might bring me what I want. So, there you go. What do I want? It’s not as simple a question as it sounds.

1. A government that works all night for the fresh, hot and freaky common good and makes scrambled eggs in the morning.

2. A body that is ready to go, rather than a physique that signals where the mind’s wandered.

Let’s be clear: I’m never going to have the body I had when I ate virtually nothing and lifted weights two hours a day, but that’s not the point. No matter what anyone else’s body says or does, mine wants to be strong and in motion, and when it isn’t, that’s all my doing and it means my brain’s somewhere else. This summer, my Guatemalan cousin Regina, who is my age and a couple years ago survived a very serious cancer scare, will swim around Manhattan Island. If she can get up off her death bed to run marathons I can get off my ass and do some pushups.

3. Clothes that actually fit. Damn it, no more feeling squeezed like bratwurst!

4. Projects out of my brain and seen to completion. Dad’s slides will be organized and restored. My art projects wil come to fruition. More things will move from where they are to where they are needed.

5. To save a little more money. I’d like to nosh on a better grade of cat food in my old age.

In short, I want a leaner, stronger, more capable me. A few years back, I wondered if I could learn anymore, such was the brain damage I was living with. Today, I’m going to help Pete paint a hallway for fun, which would have been a preposterous notion four years ago, when I would have been dead certain I didn’t know how, let alone couldn’t muster the strength to do it. Woe was me! Pfffft!

So that’s what I want. Seen that in a catalog?

My Voodoo Working

Johnny reports from the snack front:

I initially came out strongly against energy bars because every one I saw was some variety of chocolate. Chocolate this. Chocolate that. Chocolate the other thing. You broads with your chocolate give me a pain. If men ruled the world, there would be no chocolate. You’d be able to buy raw meat-flavored birthday cake, except birthdays would be outlawed, because you broads are the only ones who care about them. When was the last time you saw a man start to cry on his thirty-ninth birthday because he only had only one more year before he turned forty? You’ll see that the day you hear a man ask if these pants make him look fat. That said, carrot cake clif bars are pretty good, and they’re a godsend for busy important executives like myself, who can eat one for breakfast while sending out important executive emails like this one.

And speaking of what I eat, I decided not to eat octopus again after I saw this.

I’m almost certainly smarter than chocolate.

You Spinning You Have No Choice

Life is full of accidental discoveries. Horoscopically speaking, today you will wish to shower me with flowers and Porsches, but it’s Wednesday so I expect that. A few nights ago, I happened to look up at the TV when the phone rang. I can’t explain that. It was Siobhan on a rampage.

Tata: Cable phone service appears to give me caller ID now. It came up on my TV so you’re the star of One Life to Live. This is better than an hour ago, when I thought my sister Daria was on American Justice.
Siobhan: That shirt said, PRACTICE SAFE SEX. GO FUCK YOURSELF! Spencer Gifts sells them. I’m right about this and I need you to tell me I’m right.
Tata: Please. Go practice safe sex.

It’s been plain for some time that I would make a terrible witness because my brain rearranges things but this is ridiculous. I repeated the shirt’s message over and over to Siobhan while we were in Macy’s. In case you haven’t noticed, the word FUCK doesn’t offend me, so the t-shirt she describes wouldn’t have bothered me. No. I was offended by vomitrocious misogyny and disdain for his sex partner(s). Still, I can’t prove any of it beyond that I bought four bras. I have receipts!

Monday, Stop & Shop called me at work – well, a very nice lady with a musical voice and a gently jumbled Boston-Midwest accent called, stammering. I was immediately amused that someone took my letter so personally.

Tata: Domenica speaking.
Nice Lady: Is this Domenica LongItalianLastName?
Tata: Domenica speaking?
Nice Lady: Domenica, this is Mrs. SoAndSo from Stop & Shop Customer Service. I’ve read your letter – several times, actually, and I just couldn’t write a response to it.
Tata: I didn’t really expect a response but it’s funny to hear from you.
NL: I couldn’t write a response to it. Literally. I tried! But then I just had to call you and find out –
Tata: If I were a real human?
NL: Well, yes –
Tata: And if I carry a tune in a bucket?
NL: That, too.
Tata: I’m as real as imaginary friends get.

There followed a sort of apology from Mrs. SoAndSo for my unsatisfying shopping experience, which wasn’t at all what I was after when I wrote. I think. As we see above, my crappy memory may be worse than previously imagined, so who knows what I was thinking?

Tata: While I have you on the phone, I would be remiss if I didn’t discuss the recycled paper products situation. It’s intolerable.
NL: We have people in house working on that situation and –
Tata: In your stores, if there is one brand of recycled paper products it is Seventh Generation, which is a good brand. But why is there only one brand? Marcal products are manufactured in New Jersey and you don’t carry them. Considering the amount of fossil fuels used to drag these things around the nation’s highways, it seems like a natural for you to want to sell Marcal here at least. But why is there only one brand in your stores, and presented as an afterthought at that?
NL: That sounds very reasonable.
Tata: Obviously, a situation is way out of control when I sound reasonable. That store in my town is every bit as bad as I said it was. And please, when you send someone to go check don’t use my name. It’s a small town and my neighbors will come visit me.
NL: Don’t use your name?
Tata: God no. I’m not using my Stop & Shop card anytime soon. Just so you know.
NL: Please accept my apologies for the rotten grapes. We’re going to get a regional manager in there. We hope to improve everything you mentioned. Is there anything else I can help you with today?
Tata: That reminds me: I better go buy a shovel.
NL: Is it snowing?
Tata: Not that kind. But thank you!

Those Hidden Signs

Here we are, for the – very temporary – moment in October, 2007. I have been following with a sinking heart the fight to restore habeas corpus and declare that my country will obey the Geneva Conventions again. Something bubbled up out of my memory from a time when I used to dress up and be Joan of Arc on stage. Leading to that, I read everything about her I could find, including transcripts of her trial. Now it’s your turn, and the date is 9 May 1431, and every comma and misprint comes straight from the source.

Wednesday, May 9th. She is threatened with torture

On Wednesday, May 9th of the same year, Jeanne was brought into the great tower of the castle of Rouen before us the said judges and in the presence of the reverend father,, lord abbot of St. Carmel de Compiègne, of masters Jean de Châtillon and Guillaume Erart, doctors of sacred theology, of André Marguerie and Nicolas de Venderès, archdeacons of the church of Rouen, of William Haiton, bachelor of theology, Aubert Morel, licentiate in canon law; Nicolas Loiseleur, canon of the cathedral of Rouen, and master Jean Massieu.

And Jeanne was required and admonished to speak the truth on many different points contained in her trial which she had denied or to which she had given false replies, whereas we possessed certain information, proofs, and vehement presumptions upon them. Many of the points were read and explained to her, and she was told that if she did not confess them truthfully she would be put to the torture, the instruments of which were shown to her all ready in the tower. There were also present by our instruction men ready to put her to the torture in order to restore her to the way and knowledge of truth, and by this means to procure the salvation of her body and soul which by her lying inventions she exposed to such grave perils.

To which the said Jeanne answered in this manner: “Truly if you were to tear me limb from limb and separate my soul from my body, I would not tell you anything more: and if I did say anything, I should afterwards declare that you had compelled me to say it by force.” Then she said that on Holy Cross Day last she received comfort from St. Gabriel: she firmly believes it was St. Gabriel, she knew by her voices it was he. She said she asked counsel of her voices whether she should submit to the Church since the clergy were pressing her hard to submit: her voices told her that if she desired Our Lord to aid her she must wait upon Him in all her doings. She said that Our Lord has always been the master of her doings, and the Enemy never had power over them. She asked her voices if she would be burned and they answered that she must wait upon God, and He would aid her.

When asked about the crown she said she had given to the archbishop of Reims, and whether she would refer herself to him, she answered: “Send him here [and let me hear him speak]: and then I will answer you. He dare not deny what I have told you.”

But seeing the hardness of her heart and her manner of answering, we the said judges, fearing that the torments of torture would be of little profit to her, decided to postpone their application until we had received more complete advice on the question.

Emphasis mine. There’s more, where the emphasis is still mine.

Saturday, May 12th. Jeanne is not to be tortured

On Saturday following, May 12th, in our episcopal dwelling at Rouen, before us the said judges and in the presence of the venerable masters Raoul Roussel, treasurer, Nicolas de Venderès and André Marguerie, archdeacons and canons of Rouen; Guillaume Erart, master of theology; Robert Le Barbier, Denis Gastinel, Jean Le Doulx, and Aubert Morel, licentiates in canon law; Thomas de Courcelles, Nicolas Couppequesne. bachelors of sacred theology; Nicolas Loiseleur and brother Ysambard de La Pierre.

We the said bishop recalled what had taken place on the previous Wednesday, and we asked the counsel of the assessors on what remained to be done, in particular if it was expedient to put Jeanne to the torture.

[And first the said Raoul Roussel stated that he thought it was not expedient, lest a trial so well conducted should be exposed to calumny.

Master Nicolas de Venderès said he thought it was not yet expedient to put her to the torture.

Master André Marguerie said it was not yet expedient.

Master Guillaume Erart said it was needless to put her to the torture, sufficient matter was possessed without it.

Master Robert Le Barbier gave a similar opinion; but thought she should again be charitably admonished, once and for all, to submit to the Church. If she would not, then in God’s name the proceedings should continue.

Master Denis Gastinel said it was not expedient.

Master Aubert Morel said he thought it expedient to put her to the torture in order to discover the truth of her lies.

Master Thomas de Courcelles said he thought it wise to torture her. She ought also to be examined whether she would submit to the judgment of the Church.

Master Nicolas Couppequesne said it is not expedient to put her to the torture, but she should, once more, be charitably admonished of the necessity of submitting to the decision of the Church.

Master Jean Le Doulx, similarly.

Brother Ysambard de La Pierre, similarly; but for the last time she should be admonished to submit to the Church Militant.

Master Nicolas Loiseleur said he thought it good for the health of her soul to put her to the torture: nevertheless he deferred to the earlier opinions.

Master William Haiton, who came later, was of the opinion that there was no need for torture.

Master Jean Le Maistre, Vice-Inquisitor, said she should once more be examined on whether she believed she should submit to the Church Militant.]

When these opinions had been heard and the answers which Jeanne had made on the previous Wednesday considered, in view of her disposition and will and of the circumstances, we concluded that it was neither necessary nor expedient to submit her to the torture, and that we should proceed further in the matter.

It comes as no surprise in 2007 that some sadistic fucks have always couched torture in terms of benefit to the tortured. Presidential candidate Rudy Giuliani went so far last week as to say what mattered about waterboarding was who did it and why.

No. No, it doesn’t. Five hundred seventy-six years ago, a teenager blurted out the truth about torture and avoided being tortured. Before and since, people being tortured have blurted out anything to make the suffering stop. Joan was led to the stake and recanted, for fear of the fire, if you need an example. It’s true that later, her courage returned to her but not before she’d denied everything she believed about herself, the voices of her angels and God.

That we ever burned our outcasts at the stake is almost unbelievable now; in that context, that we entertain discussion of waterboarding now is mind-boggling in its throwback sadism. No. There is no scenario where torture is our best option for justice.

There never was.

However Do You Need Me

From then and there to here and now.

Sometimes, I will be with you. Sometimes, you will turn around and not find me. I cannot help this. I can’t anticipate what anyone else will do. I don’t have the strength to fight everywhere at once, and you, too.

If you do not tell me what you need I cannot give it to you. Punishing me later serves no purpose but to alienate one who has made common cause with you.

To Gather Stones Together

Sometimes, one locks the door and the truth smashes a window to break in. Minstrel Boy:

I’m dragging myself through the morning today. Muttering to myself. Slouching and bitching through the chores. In three short hours I will be playing yet another funeral for a fine young man who has fallen due to the misguided policy and schemes of George W. Bush and also because of the craven cowardice or callous cynicism of the Congress that refuses to do their duty and stop this shit.

I’m doing this because it fucking hurts. That’s right. I’ll say it again, I’m doing this BECAUSE it hurts.

It hurts to see that another young person has been brutally killed. It hurts to see the faces of the surviving family. It hurts to stand with honor guard and play sad songs on the harp and pipes. It hurts even more when it is the child of a neighbor, it hurts even more when it was a kid that I knew.

Want to know something else? It hurts even more when I’m going to or leaving something like that and realize that most of this country doesn’t even know, or much care, how bad it hurts.

Damn it. Just – damn it.

Here’s my challenge to you. Find a way to make this personal. Do like Jersey Cynic and Liz did over at BlondeSense did. They got out in the street to protest. They even got Jim Yeager of Mockingbird’s Medley to join them. You know Jim. He used to blog as Mimus Pauly, now he’s just doing it under his name.

Make it personal. Find a way to make this shit mean something deep inside you. Make it hurt. Then Do. It. Some. More. Feel the pain, feel the sadness when a 20 year old kid gets rolled over in a truck wreck. Then go to the next one. And the one after that. And the one after that.

Keep. It. Personal. Do that and you might find a way to ensure that this madness stops. Drag people along with you so that they know how much it hurts.

My cousin and his partner are coming to the funeral with me today.

That’s two more people.

Maybe we won’t stop this war. It has the distinct potential of stopping itself. The military can simply break down and cease to function like it did with Alexander. Of course, it just might get worse. Still.

I’m keeping it personal. I’m going to walk through the hurt, the grief, the pain and do what I can to make something, some fucking where a little better.

That’s what I’m doing.

How about you?

Frankly, I don’t know if I have the strength to do as MB asks, but he is right and I have to try.

How about you?

Crossposted at Brilliant@Breakfast.

I’ve Loved All I’ve Needed Love

This morning, Pete said, “I’ve been having weird dreams.”

No kidding. I keep waking from dreams in which Morgan, beautifully dressed, smiles at me in my mother’s house, descends a flight of stairs, walks out the door and meets his future. It does not occur to me to try to stop him. I wonder again if I will survive knowing he’s marrying someone else. When I wake up, I don’t think about Morgan because my own life is so full now, but when I dream, he leaves again. And again.

Tata: I keep dreaming about people who didn’t love me. Or love me enough. My subconscious is holding a going away party.
Pete: (Thunderstuck) Exactly!
Tata: A Go In Peace – But Please Keep Going Fete. Hey, did these people treat you badly?
Pete: Now that you mention it: they could have been nicer.
Tata: Huh. There should be a clue around here someplace…

We drank coffee and ate fresh bagels on his front porch. Perhaps you recall that I sometimes forget to inhale, which my co-workers find hilarious after I draw that first panic-stricken breath and cough like a giant walrus. I have them trained – I think.

Tata: BARK BARK BARK!
Co-worker: Forget to breathe?
Tata: (wheeze wheeze wheeze) …yes…
Co-worker: AH! I knew it! Forgot to breathe again. Mathilde, you owe me five bucks.
Mathilde: Merde! Couldn’t you have tuberculosis instead?

Anyway, this morning, I remembered to breathe in the middle of a good swig of coffee, which meant the barking had a certain spray quality. I clamped a hand over my mouth and ran for the edge of the porch, where I sprewed recycled coffee into the shrubbery. You went to college. You know exactly what I’m talking about. Pete, who is somewhat used to me now, said, “Breathing again?”

Tata: At last!

Later, I stood on Pete’s back porch as he worked on his car. A song has been playing in my head for days, and I hadn’t detected the message from me to me. As I stood there in the sunlight drinking coffee Pete made for me, I let the song in my head play, and suddenly, I heard the message:

“I’m happy. Hope you’re happy, too.”

I burst into tears because I was. Pete turned the garage corner as I was still wiping my eyes.

Pete: Didja choke again?
Tata: No. Not this time.