Actually, she's not that triumphantly alive--though she does count herself lucky to be crawling out of the abyss that is the flu that has kept her, her Mr. Man, and their new roommate, Miz D, out of commission for the last week. Slowly but surely, the copious quantities of garlic, ginger, emergen-C, aspirin, hot water, and all manners of spicy, have chipped away at the fevers, the aches, the exhaustions...though they've not yet managed to touch the nighttime can't-stop-coughings. Boo. The devil virus didn't manage to send any of us to the hospital, but this crazy dancing guy sent me an email blaming Rouge for our prolonged illness (and his, too) anyway, and I did happen to spend an unplanned evening on her couch during a recent trip to NYC, just before I got sick. Coincidence?
That's right--we got a new roommate. Those of you who know us may be surprised--both of us being so recently scarred by nightmare-ishly cuh-razy roommate situations. But rest assured, D is an old friend of Mr. Man's and freakishly nice and sane (compared to the old, bad roomies. compared to us, she's totally normal) and has good movies and plays Tom Waits songs on her accordion. So. So far, so good.
And yes, that's right, Mr. Man and I went to NYC for a few days the week before last. It was ridiculously good to be back there and to see our NY friends...it was even good to be back in my old office on Lexington Avenue--though that's not a surprise, since I'm no longer working for my old devil boss and in fact, good seems to have triumphed over evil (though there is a certain cuh-razy consultant I'd like to have whacked). Highlights included hiring a singing telegram in the form of a chicken, dinner with one of the smartest and most charming food bloggers I know, and the kick-ass Union Square Greenmarket which was a welcome reprieve from crappy old Whole Foods, at least for the few days that our sunchokes, stripey beets, edamame, mustard greens and cheese held up.
Since then, though, it's been pretty bleak around here...not much going on. But nighttime can't-stop-coughings or no, we're bound and determined to rejoin the living. This weekend, we're looking forward to attending our first Charm City Kitty show (Fri and Sat nights, at the Patterson), and next weekend we'll check out the much-anticipated Sex Workers' Art Show (Feb. 6th at the Patterson, but likely making a stop in your town, too). Woot!
Sometimes--not very often, but sometimes--it pays to live in Highlandtown.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Fucked Up Times
“ 'To truly support our troops, we need to apply our lessons from history and newfound knowledge about PTSD to help the most troubled of our returning veterans,' Mr. Hunter said. 'To deny the frequent connection between combat trauma and subsequent criminal behavior is to deny one of the direct societal costs of war and to discard another generation of troubled heroes.' ”
Today, the NY Times published Part I of an amazing, though totally heart-breaking, piece on the 121 Iraq veterans known to have been charged with murder or manslaughter since their return home. Kudos to the contributors of the article for their thoughtful coverage, as well as their investigative reporting--as they point out, the government keeps no such record of PTSD-induced violence, so Times reporters did the fact-finding themselves...the stories (the article features an interactive archive of all 121 cases) are some that, as much as they are difficult to read, cry out to be told.
"...an 89 percent increase during the present wartime period, to 349 cases from 184, about three-quarters of which involved Iraq and Afghanistan war veterans. The increase occurred even though there have been fewer troops stationed in the United States..."
If the rate of violence among veterans has increased by nearly 90%, even with so many soldiers stationed overseas, how high will that rate rise when and if the others ever make it home? How many others will go the "Sam Stone" route and kill themselves slowly with drugs or alcohol? What other costs will these poor bastards pay out over the years?
Ten more years might be easy for Bush to imagine, but much of the ever-growing cost of this conflict won't be reflected in the billions we've spent.
Today, the NY Times published Part I of an amazing, though totally heart-breaking, piece on the 121 Iraq veterans known to have been charged with murder or manslaughter since their return home. Kudos to the contributors of the article for their thoughtful coverage, as well as their investigative reporting--as they point out, the government keeps no such record of PTSD-induced violence, so Times reporters did the fact-finding themselves...the stories (the article features an interactive archive of all 121 cases) are some that, as much as they are difficult to read, cry out to be told.
"...an 89 percent increase during the present wartime period, to 349 cases from 184, about three-quarters of which involved Iraq and Afghanistan war veterans. The increase occurred even though there have been fewer troops stationed in the United States..."
If the rate of violence among veterans has increased by nearly 90%, even with so many soldiers stationed overseas, how high will that rate rise when and if the others ever make it home? How many others will go the "Sam Stone" route and kill themselves slowly with drugs or alcohol? What other costs will these poor bastards pay out over the years?
Ten more years might be easy for Bush to imagine, but much of the ever-growing cost of this conflict won't be reflected in the billions we've spent.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Shame on Steinem
To be honest, since my recent relocation to the Charm, I haven't been up on the news. We don't have cable and only recently got an antennae for the TV, but that's no excuse, really--it's been years since I considered any television program (besides Colbert and Stewart--and not even them, really) reliable news sources. It's funny because living in NYC and before that, in DC, I seemed to absorb the news effortlessly, as if by osmosis. Here, it's going to take some effort.
Anyway, so it was that I only saw Gloria Steinem's NY Times op-ed when I ran across it on Shark-fu's brilliantly thoughtful reaction to it on her blog, Angry Black Bitch.
First, let me note that I link to ABB on my (too short) blogroll to the right, because I've admired her since I discovered her blog a year or two ago. Last week she dropped a comment here and I nearly pissed myself, I was so excited--though excitement gave way to a short-lived embarrassment (there's not really any shame in my game) when I realized she'd checked in the day I gave a shout out--kind of--to the disgusting 2 Girls, 1 Cup.
Anyway, Shark-fu's got the bases covered, so I won't get too far into it. But I will say this:
As a white woman (I mention my white-ness because too many don't--unless we whiteys, be we women or not, acknowledge our privilege, we unwittingly promote the status quo and the idea that it goes w/o saying that we are white, white being the "norm") who grew up in a very white part of the world, to later live in several under-served, predominantly black neighborhoods, I understand how easy it is for even educated women to not realize exactly how fucking privileged they are. But for Gloria Steinem, a woman who has been around long enough to realize that not all women are white, this op-ed was fucking ridiculous.
Pardon the F-bombs. They're only words, people. Only words.
I hate the way that the media is covering Hillary's bid--in ways that they would never cover a man's. But I also hate what they've done to Obama. Come to think of it, I hate the ridiculous shit that she's doing to Obama. I shudder to think what the Republican hate-machine will have in store for either one.
In a perfect world, Kucinich would not only be a contender, but he'd be a black trans man and a contender. And the media would be talking about the candidates' stance on (gasp!) the issues.
Anyway, so it was that I only saw Gloria Steinem's NY Times op-ed when I ran across it on Shark-fu's brilliantly thoughtful reaction to it on her blog, Angry Black Bitch.
First, let me note that I link to ABB on my (too short) blogroll to the right, because I've admired her since I discovered her blog a year or two ago. Last week she dropped a comment here and I nearly pissed myself, I was so excited--though excitement gave way to a short-lived embarrassment (there's not really any shame in my game) when I realized she'd checked in the day I gave a shout out--kind of--to the disgusting 2 Girls, 1 Cup.
Anyway, Shark-fu's got the bases covered, so I won't get too far into it. But I will say this:
As a white woman (I mention my white-ness because too many don't--unless we whiteys, be we women or not, acknowledge our privilege, we unwittingly promote the status quo and the idea that it goes w/o saying that we are white, white being the "norm") who grew up in a very white part of the world, to later live in several under-served, predominantly black neighborhoods, I understand how easy it is for even educated women to not realize exactly how fucking privileged they are. But for Gloria Steinem, a woman who has been around long enough to realize that not all women are white, this op-ed was fucking ridiculous.
Pardon the F-bombs. They're only words, people. Only words.
I hate the way that the media is covering Hillary's bid--in ways that they would never cover a man's. But I also hate what they've done to Obama. Come to think of it, I hate the ridiculous shit that she's doing to Obama. I shudder to think what the Republican hate-machine will have in store for either one.
In a perfect world, Kucinich would not only be a contender, but he'd be a black trans man and a contender. And the media would be talking about the candidates' stance on (gasp!) the issues.
Monday, January 7, 2008
Local Warming
The Charm is enjoying some unseasonably warm weather this week, a fact that makes for pleasant dog-walking, even if the mind wanders to global warming, energy crisis (experienced in our car-less home by rising heating costs--where's Hugo Chavez when you need him?), you know, impending doom...and the springy-ness of the weather, which would be a novelty, is spoiled by the budding (no shit) of the tree in the churchyard across the street, which we worry won't bloom this year, supposing that it freezes hard again, which it better, since it's January.
On a better day, I might be able to shove the inconvenient truth into the back of my mind and soak up the vitamin D, smug in the fact that we don't drive, but the fact is that we live in an old townhouse with a wacky thermostat that doesn't shut off when it warms up and it took us awhile to figure out so we burned a ton of gas over the last few months, so I was already feeling guilty before Mr. Man and I sat down to watch The End of Suburbia last night.
I think I would have really liked this movie when it came out in 2003 (or 2004). But at this point, the ironic retro film clips don't make the subject matter any less depressing, and the clever soundbytes offered by a fewpompous white guys interviewees would have been better enjoyed in a print or text format. I like to drive home a point as much as the next girl, but maybe part of what keeps the masses from waking up/organizing is the emphasis on how dumb/fucked we all are and the under-emphasis on what we should be doing about it.
For our part, we're figuring out our heating shit and getting a recycling bin (kudos to Baltimore City for finally getting their shit together on that one, even though they didn't order enough for everybody) and hoping to find a CSA and trying to figure out where to position ourselves before the shit goes down.
And in a macabre way, we're kind of looking forward getting to know our neighbors and leading a simpler life after watching the machine chug to a stop.
On a lighter note, our feline ice princess, Bitsy, is showing signs of thawing in relation to our neurotic bitch, Belle. They're not making out yet or anything, but Bitsy has been adventuring down the stairs and away from her baby-gated lair, and often strays from her safe space on the back of the couch over to the end table next to the dog bed, where she can peer down on Belle, who gazes upmaniacally adoringly. Come to think of it--like most cats, she's totally heat motivated--maybe the keeping the heat down will force her to submit to Belle's obsession--I might be fooling myself, but I'm dreaming of an interspecies snuggle session (think of it--we would rule Lolcats with their cuteness).
Keep hope alive.
On a better day, I might be able to shove the inconvenient truth into the back of my mind and soak up the vitamin D, smug in the fact that we don't drive, but the fact is that we live in an old townhouse with a wacky thermostat that doesn't shut off when it warms up and it took us awhile to figure out so we burned a ton of gas over the last few months, so I was already feeling guilty before Mr. Man and I sat down to watch The End of Suburbia last night.
I think I would have really liked this movie when it came out in 2003 (or 2004). But at this point, the ironic retro film clips don't make the subject matter any less depressing, and the clever soundbytes offered by a few
For our part, we're figuring out our heating shit and getting a recycling bin (kudos to Baltimore City for finally getting their shit together on that one, even though they didn't order enough for everybody) and hoping to find a CSA and trying to figure out where to position ourselves before the shit goes down.
And in a macabre way, we're kind of looking forward getting to know our neighbors and leading a simpler life after watching the machine chug to a stop.
On a lighter note, our feline ice princess, Bitsy, is showing signs of thawing in relation to our neurotic bitch, Belle. They're not making out yet or anything, but Bitsy has been adventuring down the stairs and away from her baby-gated lair, and often strays from her safe space on the back of the couch over to the end table next to the dog bed, where she can peer down on Belle, who gazes up
Keep hope alive.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Coincidence?
Mr. Man and I bought a TV antennae today, ordered a mediocre pizza and set up camp on the couch between a neurotic dog and grouchy cat to watch the New Hampshire debates, which gave rise to the following questions.
Was the title (One Night, Two Parties) of the debate, sponsored by Facebook (techy!) inspired by the web phenomenon Two Girls, One Cup? Now, I didn't link to Facebook because I don't think they need any more free advertising, and I didn't link to 2G1C because it's totally fucking disgusting, and if you must, you can Google it yourself. Lest those of you who know what I'm talking about think I'm a total perv, I ran across the video through a blind link on Perez Hilton a month or two ago. I will admit to being pretty pervy, and while I'm not into scat, it doesn't freak me out that much that other people might be, but this video is not only insanely gross, but it is impossible for me to believe that the women involved were not on drugs, being blackmailed, or at the very least, being taken advantage of in a severely abusive way. Please believe me when I tell you that YOU DO NOT NEED TO SEE THIS SHIT (pun unavoidable).
Which probably could also have been said about the debates.
Also, has anybody noticed that Hillary's initials are HRC? Hmm..."liberal" politics that flip-flop, pander to the right and fail miserably to represent the people they claim to...coincidence? I wanted so bad to want to vote for Hillary. But like the HRC, she leans too far to the "right."
Was the title (One Night, Two Parties) of the debate, sponsored by Facebook (techy!) inspired by the web phenomenon Two Girls, One Cup? Now, I didn't link to Facebook because I don't think they need any more free advertising, and I didn't link to 2G1C because it's totally fucking disgusting, and if you must, you can Google it yourself. Lest those of you who know what I'm talking about think I'm a total perv, I ran across the video through a blind link on Perez Hilton a month or two ago. I will admit to being pretty pervy, and while I'm not into scat, it doesn't freak me out that much that other people might be, but this video is not only insanely gross, but it is impossible for me to believe that the women involved were not on drugs, being blackmailed, or at the very least, being taken advantage of in a severely abusive way. Please believe me when I tell you that YOU DO NOT NEED TO SEE THIS SHIT (pun unavoidable).
Which probably could also have been said about the debates.
Also, has anybody noticed that Hillary's initials are HRC? Hmm..."liberal" politics that flip-flop, pander to the right and fail miserably to represent the people they claim to...coincidence? I wanted so bad to want to vote for Hillary. But like the HRC, she leans too far to the "right."
Friday, January 4, 2008
Home Sweet Home
Mr. Man and I actually got home on the 29th, but the jet lag, the overdue spiritual cleansing of the house (which up until just before I moved in, also housed a crazy bitch who I won't comment on here but suffice it to say had left something of a bad air in the place), a long, wonderful visit with two of his besties, getting back to work (sorta) and a day or two of overdue processing (phew!) really took it out of me and it's only now that I remembered that I started a blog last year. Oops.
Anyhoo, my trip home was a little depressing--I hail from Western Washington State, an area which was ravaged by floods in early December. Although the closest acquaintances of mine to be personally affected by the flood was the cuh-razy sister of my "estranged" sister-in-law and the new-ish boyfriend (who I'm not quite sure about) of one of my besties, and the freeway and most public areas had been cleaned up pretty good, there was a definite air of depression and loss in Lewis County. Also, my little brother's wife (the estranged sis-in-law, who I love--the "estranged" term was her own, and tongue-in-cheek, though I can tell she feels bad for having done by brother so wrong) left him last summer, and although my adorable neices are dealing and I think they'll be fine, I feel bad for my bro and just wish the whole thing had gone differently.
On top of that, a truly estranged friend of his and mine passed away and we skipped out on the service, which I think is fine--the deceased, a drug addict from way back, had fucked my brother over in some unforgivable ways, which complicated the "grieving" process. I'm not saying that we should or shouldn't have gone to the funeral--I think there are lots of ways to say goodbye to someone, and lots of people piss people off before they die--but the whole thing took me back to an even sadder time, when my brother was a junkie and made me reflect on what kinds of chances this guy ever had, which were not many. Erk.
The day after Xmas I flew to Denver to meet Mr. Man's mother, brother and brother's girlfriend. Which went ok, in spite of the fact that the four of them had spent most of the previous six days together, and his mom, like my own, is a pretty tough case. His brother's girlfriend seemed to have suffered the most stress, which resulted in her hiding in their bedroom the length of my visit and saying about three words to me the entire time I was there. Which made for some uncomfortable moments. Erk again.
So talk about PHSD (post holiday stress disorder)! It was really good, after all of that, to get back to our own little house. We finally got some decent food (the families don't know how to eat anything but processed yuckiness that Hillary Clinton endorses) and cleansed the place in our birthday suits, and then welcomed our friends to the Charm by taking them to a fabulous New Year's Party, held by our best new couple friends (we seem to have hit the equivalent of a queer networking gold vein with this couple, who we also adore--the party was crawling with adorable and brilliant queers). And although we are both still suffering some of the fallout of PHSD, and getting back into the swing of domestic bliss, I am wicked glad to be sat on a comfy couch, free of all things familial (except the pet-daughters) next to the best boyfriend money could buy.
Happy New Year.
Anyhoo, my trip home was a little depressing--I hail from Western Washington State, an area which was ravaged by floods in early December. Although the closest acquaintances of mine to be personally affected by the flood was the cuh-razy sister of my "estranged" sister-in-law and the new-ish boyfriend (who I'm not quite sure about) of one of my besties, and the freeway and most public areas had been cleaned up pretty good, there was a definite air of depression and loss in Lewis County. Also, my little brother's wife (the estranged sis-in-law, who I love--the "estranged" term was her own, and tongue-in-cheek, though I can tell she feels bad for having done by brother so wrong) left him last summer, and although my adorable neices are dealing and I think they'll be fine, I feel bad for my bro and just wish the whole thing had gone differently.
On top of that, a truly estranged friend of his and mine passed away and we skipped out on the service, which I think is fine--the deceased, a drug addict from way back, had fucked my brother over in some unforgivable ways, which complicated the "grieving" process. I'm not saying that we should or shouldn't have gone to the funeral--I think there are lots of ways to say goodbye to someone, and lots of people piss people off before they die--but the whole thing took me back to an even sadder time, when my brother was a junkie and made me reflect on what kinds of chances this guy ever had, which were not many. Erk.
The day after Xmas I flew to Denver to meet Mr. Man's mother, brother and brother's girlfriend. Which went ok, in spite of the fact that the four of them had spent most of the previous six days together, and his mom, like my own, is a pretty tough case. His brother's girlfriend seemed to have suffered the most stress, which resulted in her hiding in their bedroom the length of my visit and saying about three words to me the entire time I was there. Which made for some uncomfortable moments. Erk again.
So talk about PHSD (post holiday stress disorder)! It was really good, after all of that, to get back to our own little house. We finally got some decent food (the families don't know how to eat anything but processed yuckiness that Hillary Clinton endorses) and cleansed the place in our birthday suits, and then welcomed our friends to the Charm by taking them to a fabulous New Year's Party, held by our best new couple friends (we seem to have hit the equivalent of a queer networking gold vein with this couple, who we also adore--the party was crawling with adorable and brilliant queers). And although we are both still suffering some of the fallout of PHSD, and getting back into the swing of domestic bliss, I am wicked glad to be sat on a comfy couch, free of all things familial (except the pet-daughters) next to the best boyfriend money could buy.
Happy New Year.
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