Can We Please Move On Now?

I can’t decide which media story I’m more disgusted with – Paris Hilton, or the legions of people who should know better saying that the 2008 election will be a backlash against President Bush.

The Jailbird Heiress deserves not an agate more space in any media but the entertainment outlets, so I’m reluctant to put her name out there once more. But here’s a news flash to those who keep perpetuating the latter story: Bush can’t run for a third term.

It’s in the Constitution.

I’ll repeat myself one more time to make it clear. President Bush is not running in 2008, and neither is the Vice President, the Secretary of State, the Chief of Staff nor a single member of his administration.

Not even his wife.

Even the slate of hopefuls for the 2008 nomination is quietly (and some, like probable candidate-to-be Newt Gingrich, not so quietly) sneaking away from any association from or agreement with the fiasco that has been the Bush presidency. In fact the candidate who has worked the most closely with Bush & Co. has been Democrat Bill Richardson, former US Ambassador to the UN, a Clinton appointee, who has accepted various diplomatic missions for the current administration when asked.

But I hope that what Latifa Lyles, VP for membership with the National Organization for Women, meant by her recent remark that the ’08 vote will be a backlash against Bush is that the election will be a referendum against the Iraq war and all things related.

And that I’d agree with. Yet somehow I don’t think that that’s what she meant.

Yes, at this stage of the campaign, it’s almost a requirement that the Democratic candidates Bush-bash to beat the band. Because they know that throwing out a big old slab of red meat will rally the base faster than you can say “impeachment.”

What they are conveniently ignoring is that the current administration will be gone by the time the next punching bag – I mean president-elect – puts his or her hand on the Bible (or the Koran, for Barack Obama).

And then it will be time to look forward. At least I hope so.

Pushing the half-truth that the election is all about Bush does us no favors. It deflects the conversation from what comes next. After all, who wants to hear “boring” plans for nationalized health care when you can get a guaranteed quote on the news if you say that Bush got us into an illegal war and you’re going to make it right, or that you were against the war earlier than the other guy was against the war. So we can at least attempt to move on, the candidates have to get over something and they have to get over it now: They lost to Bush in 2000. They lost to Bush in 2004. It doesn’t matter any more.

What matters is what comes next.

And I’m one of those all-important woman voters waiting to be courted by a shiny Democratic hopeful. I want to know why you’re qualified for the job. I don’t give a flying hurrah how you were against the war now but not then, then but not now, whether you voted quietly or rancorously or while wearing a Richard Nixon mask, for Pete’s sake. And I don’t want to hear what a lousy job Bush is doing.

I already know that. I want to know what you’re going to do. I don’t want sound bites, or poll numbers, or spin.

I want to know where you stand on troop deployment. I want a long-range plan for giving Iraq back to the Iraqis. I want to know your views on immigration, on employment, on health care. Not every jot and tittle, because I know you’ll have to work with Congress and they have a way of chucking a president’s dreams off the White House balcony.

I want acknowledgment that despite the bumper stickers, some of us aren’t satisfied merely with “anyone but Bush.”

Maybe it looks as if the average citizen is too fat and happy to care about dull things like presidential elections. Like we’re all parked in front of American Idol waiting for the latest starlet’s trip to rehab. Heck, (as I've written before) even Cindy Sheehan gave up and went home. I don’t blame her. It can’t be easy standing out in the Texas heat holding up a banner when no one is paying attention.

But we’re just waiting for someone to raise the level of the discourse.

Or for a certain heiress to get released again. After all, we’ll always have Paris. (you had to know I was going to try to work that in somewhere)

The Wrong Trousers

Apparently with the Anna Nicole Smith trial mostly straightened out and Paris Hilton in jail, lawyers are looking for something to do.

Or someone else to sue.

They’re scraping the bottom of the legal barrel with the case of the Roy Pearson, DC lawyer (excuse me, Administrative Law Judge) who is suing his dry cleaner for $54 million dollars for losing his pants.

And frankly I’m worried less about the state of rampant litigiousness in this country and more about this guy’s sanity.

Because not only has he brought this absurd case – which is something I’d expect to see on “Boston Legal” or “Ally McBeal” – but he is representing himself. Which either means that Pearson is deranged or he couldn’t get another lawyer to stop laughing long enough to choke out the words, “Get out of my office, you blithering unpanted fool.”

Heck, if I tried to sue everyone who caused me “mental suffering, inconvenience and discomfort,” I wouldn’t have time to put on my pants, let alone sue anyone over them.

But this gets even more ridiculous. Because Pearson has had dealings with the Chungs, the Korean dry cleaners, in the past. According to the defense attorney, Pearson was recompensed $150 in 2002 when they lost an earlier pair of pants (ironic, that in DC some have trouble keeping their trousers zipped, when this guy can’t even find his), and was banned from the store after, presumably, some exchange of words. Pearson “begged” to be let back in because he claimed he didn’t have a car and this was the only dry cleaner in his neighborhood. (has he not heard of the DC Metro?) Three years later he returned and yet another pair of pants went missing.

Now, for the average sensible person, this would be a sign not to do business with this particular dry cleaner ever again. Heck, get a taxi, get on the subway, find a dry cleaner near your place of employment, but don’t go back to these guys.

Pearson apparently didn’t make that link. Because he kept going there.

With this final pair, I guess Pearson had had enough. He and the three owners of the store kept swapping offers of recompense and the figures went higher and higher. The negotiations dragged on for two years and Pearson multiplied the damages by the number of days since the incident and by three for each of the three owners of the store, which is how he got the stupendously insane figure of $54 million. And that was knocked down from $67 million.

There hasn’t been this much fuss about a garment in Washington since a certain little blue dress.

Pearson’s claim got so huge that the first judge dropped the case, and now there will be a new one. What I want to know is why the first judge hadn’t dropped the case earlier. Every trial lawyer that has been interviewed calls it in embarrassment to the legal profession, so either the first judge had a sadistic streak and just wanted to see how ridiculous this case would get, or she’s just as deranged as Pearson in thinking the case has merit.

Meanwhile the Chungs have spent thousands of dollars defending themselves. So much sympathy has developed since the story first aired that there has been a massive Internet campaign to collect money for them.

And yet Pearson marches on. Pants or no pants. My hunch? As one in the legal profession, eventually all pairs of Pearson’s trousers will self-combust.

So a liar’s pants do indeed burst into flames.

Let that be a lesson to you.

If you're going to practice law, get yourself a few Nomex suits.

Right Message, Wrong Messenger

There are some who will always have an albatross around their necks, and no matter how many good deeds they do, the smell of that dead bird will follow them into the grave. Think about Bill Buckner, and the easy grounder that rolled through his legs to cost the Red Sox Game Six of the ’86 World Series. Think about Ted Kennedy and the Chappaquiddick tragedy (Google it, kids).

Think about the Rev. Al Sharpton.

Actually, a lot of people who were living in the Mid-Hudson Valley in the 1980’s don’t want to think about Al Sharpton. It’s hard to shake memories of the damage he did with the Tawana Brawley case. Sharpton, along with lawyers Alton Maddox and C. Vernon Mason, defended an African-American teenager who claimed a group of Dutchess County police officers sexually and racially attacked her. A year later Brawley admitted it was a hoax, which cost county residents hundreds of thousands of dollars in legal fees and ruined the reputations of the accused officers, including then-assistant District Attorney Steven Pagones, who sued Sharpton for defamation and won.

The case, like many the reverend has become involved with, only served to deepen the racial divide, only served to hurt rather than heal, and only served to help Sharpton get more media attention.

I’m glad that he’s doing something positive with his new campaign to clean up the lyrics in hip-hop music (including collecting symbolic bars of soap), but from what I’ve seen of his actions, I can’t help but be skeptical.

Is Sharpton, given his past and his penchant for self-promotion, the right messenger for the task?

For instance, where was Sharpton when hip-hop jumped the tracks to the dark side in the early 90’s, going from energetic dance music to an in-your-face hand-grenade with lyrics glorifying shooting cops and rape? Was it not important to Sharpton then, to clean up the obscenities that were making their way into American pop culture?

Not then, apparently. Sharpton was spreading his own hate speech. In an address at Kean College in 1994, he said, “White folks was in caves while we was building empires ... We taught philosophy and astrology and mathematics before Socrates and them Greek homos ever got around to it.” (Yet he’s leading a grassroots campaign to eliminate homophobia in the black church.)

Was it not important to Sharpton when “Gangsta” rappers were shooting each other dead and flooding the cosmic atmosphere with language I will not repeat here? Apparently it was only serious enough for him merely to make the occasional statement on his web site, even though the media had bestowed celebrity status upon him and he could have had the ears of so many more who were in a position to do something about the problem.

Or perhaps he was too busy whipping up hatred between African Americans and Jews following the Crown Heights riots. And again, in the Freddie’s Fashion Mart case in Harlem, where the Jewish tenant of clothing store wanted to evict his African-American subtenant. Sharpton told the protesters, "We will not stand by and allow them to move this brother so that some white interloper can expand his business.” Following this speech, one of the protesters burned down the store, killing seven customers and himself. Yet Sharpton, while regretting the violence and his use of “white interloper,” claimed no responsibility for inflaming the protesters.

Meanwhile rap lyrics were weaving their tentacles into the minds of our children. I lived in uptown Kingston around that time, and it seemed that every day I’d hear young African-American boys calling each other the “n” word. Once I asked a couple of the boys why they called each other such denigrating names. One of the kids looked at me like I had two heads and simply said, “It’s a black thing.”

But it wasn’t just a “black thing.” White kids, too, were quickly adopting the language, the culture, the giant pants hanging below their underwear. The words they used were a noxious cloud so impervious that I was afraid that some day soon I’d open my online dictionary and find them there.

And when Sharpton called for Don Imus’s resignation after the morning shock jock uttered his infamous comments about the Rutgers women’s’ basketball team, he was accused by Jason Whitlock, a Kansas City Star journalist, of using the victims to further his own agenda of raising his profile in the media. Instead of drawing attention to himself, Whitlock wrote, Sharpton should have been doing everything he could to clean up the lyrics of hip-hop music that glorify indignities toward women.

Yet at the same time Sharpton was criticizing Imus, the reverend was on the agenda to give an award to Island Def Jam music group, a record label that boasts foul-mouthed rapper Ludacris as one of its artists. But realizing how bad this would look, Sharpton had the good sense to cancel. It makes me wonder: when Sharpton had already begun his “campaign” against hip-hop lyrics, why he was on the award agenda at all?

How can we look upon Sharpton as a leader in the fight against hip-hop music when he’s lauding the creators at the same time, and when he can’t even keep his own hate speak in check?

Perhaps Sharpton should take one of those iconic bars of soap he hopes to collect and use it to clean up his own act first. Then use the rest to wash away the smell of the albatross still hanging around his neck.

It's Enough To Make You Crazy

Insomnia is a mental illness.

Or so my HMO says. And since my particular HMO, partially sponsored by New York State, does not cover mental health, in turn it won’t cover medications prescribed for mental health disorders.

This includes anti-depressants and sleep aids, which are commonly prescribed for conditions that have nothing to do with depression, anxiety or any other “mental illness.”

So since, by their classification, insomnia is a mental health disorder, and since insomnia is a side effect of both the perimenopause and fibromyalgia that I’m living with, then these disorders are mental illnesses.

I beg to differ. In fact I beg to differ so strongly I want to strap the person who thought of this into a chair and slap them very, very hard.

That said, I told my HMO that I would like to appeal their decision. I wanted to go off on them like Alec Baldwin, but then they might get the idea that I do have a mental illness, and would blacklist all of my medications.

Unfortunately I only had a limited amount of space in which to record my appeal, but if I had more room I would have told them that with one numerical classification, they’ve set back the Fibromyalgia Awareness movement back thirty years. All the studies that have been done, all the doctors weighing in, all the people living with fibromyalgia – forget the progress they’ve made. Let’s go back to the years when doctors thought you were crazy, that your symptoms were all in your head, that you just needed to get a hobby and get some exercise and a psychiatrist and get a life.

But I’m deluding myself if I believe HMOs are the business of helping people get the proper care they need. They’re in the business of refraining from spending money so they can make more money. They’re in the business of putting people into categories to make life easier for their employees and further help the companies hold onto their profits.

This must change.

But how? Everyone is making money out of this deal: the pharmaceutical companies, the HMOs, the doctors (though doctors aren’t making as much as people think), and the lobbyists and politicians. Whichever candidate or elected official truly gets elbow-deep into this muck will find that it is not the easy five-step plan they claimed it to be.

They might spend some sleepless nights fretting over it. And if the insomnia turns chronic, I hope they have better health insurance than I do.

Lead, Follow, Or Get Out Of The Way

As so many with more politically savvy minds than mine have noted, when the Democrats attained the majority in the 2006 mid-term elections, newly-elected Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi promised to do a lot of things in the first hundred days, one of which was to stop Bush from continuing the war.

I’m still waiting.

I learned enough from high school civics classes to know that aside from writing lots of angry Letters To The Editor, the only influence I truly have is over my own political representation: two Senators from my state and one Congressional Representative from my district. And, more specifically, in my power to get as many people as I can to choose the other guy (or gal) next time the elections come around.

And, occasionally, there are people like Cindy Sheehan, but she got tired and went home. I don’t blame her. I guess there’s only so long a person can bear to stand out in the Texas heat and wave a banner when no one is paying attention anymore.

As I’m really not the type to chain myself to a tree or get myself dragged away from a presidential speaking engagement wearing an uncomplimentary message on my t-shirt, I guess I’m stuck with the latter forms of influence.

However I’m not placing much faith in the hands of my two Senators. Hillary Clinton has already written New York off, although she “vowed” when reelected to finish out her term. We’re bluer than the blue sky of Wyoming, here. So she figures she doesn’t need to court our votes, and can spend all her time frantically trying to spin herself into a position that won’t alienate too many potential voters at either end of the political spectrum. However, she did “vow” to do something about the war “when” she becomes president.

Frankly I’m losing faith in her “vows.”

Then there’s Chuck Schumer. What rock did he crawl under? A check of his web site shows that he’s racking up frequent flier miles jetting around doing all kinds of wonderful things for the state (as he’s New York’s only working Senator these days). And that’s terrific. Go Chuck. He’s one of my favorites in Washington, if one can have such a thing. But one more wonderful thing he can do for the state is to keep our men and women from dying in Iraq by bringing them home. But his record shows that all of his committee involvements and legislative work is on domestic issues only. Re Iraq, other than a token (and very quiet) vote against the spending bill, he’s been laying as low as Don Imus.

My last hope is my own Congressional representative, Maurice Hinchey, D-NY, who is as left as they come. Here’s a taste of what he’s doing now:

1. Trying to reinstate the “Fairness Doctrine” (which requires political balance in public media) so he can get his mug on more Sunday talk shows and further his own agenda (most of which includes getting reelected).

2. Leading Congressional efforts to stop the Department of Energy from putting a 200-mile long power line through upstate New York.

3. Helping the House pass a bill to punish “gas gougers,” that is, fuel vendors who artificially inflate their prices. (also known as the piece of news that could have the most unintentionally funny headline of the week)

4. Pushed for answers in a “friendly fire” incident involving a local soldier. “It’s time for misleading answers and half-truths to end,” Hinchey said. “We must lift the cloud hanging over Eddie Ryan’s case and obtain the Bronze Star medals for the marines who put their own lives at risk in order to save Eddie.”

Which are all wonderful things. Any non-Republican looking at Hinchey’s record would be proud that he’s working so hard for us.

But my hopes were raised when I saw, in a note further down on his web site, mention that he voted against the Iraq spending bill. His explanation, taken from his web site:

"Congress has an obligation to our servicemen and women and the American people as a whole to use the power of the purse to end this illegal occupation of Iraq and bring our troops home. Unfortunately, the new Iraq spending measure fails to include withdrawal dates and readiness standards for our troops. This new spending measure pretty much amounts to a blank check for President Bush who has shown himself to be the most incompetent president in our country's history. It makes no sense to continue giving President Bush the keys to the car when he has repeatedly crashed into a wall with every other time.

"I fully recognize the tough position the House leadership faced in trying to put together a bill that would pass and ensure our troops in Iraq have the resources they need to stay safe. However, I personally cannot support a measure that does not come close to adequately holding President Bush accountable and does not put this country on a timeline for getting out of Iraq. I refuse to buy into this false argument that the only way to support the troops in Iraq is to fund their operations there. The real way to support our troops is to fully fund their withdrawal from Iraq. It is well past the time our troops begin to redeploy home and to other parts of the world where they are truly needed such as Afghanistan where the Taliban is regaining strength and al Qaeda continues to operate."

I agree with one or two things here. Yes. Absolutely. Fully fund a withdrawal from Iraq now. Get thy equipment on a bunch of C-5A Galaxys and get thine selves home.

But why can't they, those who are in the positions to do so, do anything more than bitch about what is or isn't happening?

I might be politically naïve, but don’t the Democrats have the keys to the car? Can’t they simply rise as the majority and take away the checkbook? Heck, deal with Bush’s accountability afterward, if that’s what’s holding up the legislation. He’s not going anywhere until the next sucker puts his or her hand on the Bible (or Koran, if the case may be).

If they feel so strongly about ending the war, why not simply push to get what needs to be done now? I’m not buying what Joe Biden tried to explain to Dennis Kucinich in last night’s debates, that they don’t have the 67 votes it would take to override a presidential veto so therefore they can't do anything. Can they still rise as a body and send a stronger message to the White House without denying the funds that the troops need to stay safe until WHOEVER grows a pair, writes some clear legislation and decides that this nonsense should come to an end?

Unless…unless Hinchey and Biden and Clinton and the other Democrats WANT to keep us in Iraq. So they can continue to hammer Bush about it, oh, right through the 2008 election or thereabouts, assuring that they get to keep their jobs. So when they get one of their own into the Oval Office, they can proclaim, like Hillary kept beating it into the ground last night, that this is “Bush’s War,” and they will be the big heroes and get out troops the heck out of there.

No. I can’t believe it. I don’t want to believe it. Would a responsible member of our government actually put his or her own office and keeping their party in power ahead of the life of a young man or woman in Iraq?

Now who would be that cynical?

Not me.

Attack with a Deadly Legume

The debate has now been settled, once and for all.

Guns don’t kill people.

Baked beans kill people.

Or at the very least, they can cause some nasty burns and a really big lawsuit.

But fortunately, if you have a lot of money and are a big celebrity, like Hugh Grant found out recently, you can make the lawsuit go away.

Only the stains are left behind.

But because Hugh Grant (despite the recent tossing out of the lawsuit for lack of corroborating evidence) might have intended to use the tub of baked beans as a weapon to repel photographer Ian Whittaker from snapping pix of ex Liz Hurley, the potentially dangerous picnic food should be added to the “no-fly” list and confiscated if found in passenger’s belongings.

After all, the trained professionals who pat us down with wands before we can get on the plane are going after food now. My mother told me that before a recent flight, security personnel gave her breakfast a once over, and said that they would not allow her to bring a small container of yogurt aboard.

When she asked why, she was told that she was “over the limit” for liquid-type products.

Yeah. I can just see a terrorist (in the form of my 5’2” mother) leap from her seat, grab the nearest flight attendant around the throat and threaten to hijack the plane using a plastic container of live and active yogurt cultures.

Yet they let her keep her banana.

And you can do a lot more damage with a banana than you can with yogurt. You could put someone’s eye out. Or slowly poison them from the pesticides in the peel.

But baked beans?

Hell. You don’t want them, or any kind of food aboard.

Just ask Ian Whittaker. Or my mother.

A Lesser-Known Baseball Curse (updated 6/3)

You can’t help but feel bad for Armando Benitez. The Mets just spell poison for him. When he was in their bullpen, fans groaned when he was called in, because…well, because he just sucked, to be plain and simple. He blew more saves than a Kryptonite-addled Superman. Then he was sent to the Yankees. And much more quickly than the Mets’ front office had, the Yanks wised up and traded him to Seattle. He was bounced back to the Mets for the remainder of the 2003 season (only God and Brian Cashman knows why), but we’d had enough and he was packed off to Florida. Then something happened to him. We call it the “reverse curse.” Seems that when a mediocre-to-bad player is traded by the Mets, often he has the season of his career. It took getting out of New York for this to happen to him, And away from the fishbowl of the New York sports media, he shone, and came up with the lowest ERA of his career.

But every time he faced the Mets, something happened.

They knew how to get to him.

Unfortunately the reverse curse only seems good for a season, maybe two. And when Benitez wound up at San Francisco, every time he blew a save or walked in the winning run or just plain self-destructed, New York area reporters would say, “And Mets fans would have said, ‘we told you so.’”

Then the Giants came to Shea.

The pre-game coverage seemed to be dominated by one name – Bonds, Barry Bonds – and why he was sitting on the bench when nearly every Met fan with the transportation and the wherewithal had come to Shea to see the mega-man wield his bat, even if nearly every pitcher tries to pitch around him.

But it seemed like a pitchers’ duel broke out instead.

The two teams took a 3-3 tie into extra innings. When the Giants went ahead one run in the top of the twelfth, it looked like all was lost. While the Mets (I think) hold the record for extra-inning games, they don’t often win them. But this is a different Mets team this year. There seems to be something – and I hate to use this word – almost inevitable about them. From the camaraderie to the depth of their bench to the way they’re consistently winning, and that even when one of their big guns slumps, someone else picks up the slack.

But when the Giants called Benitez in to finish the game, hope in Shea sprang eternal once more. You have to thank Jose Reyes’ deadly speed on the bases - and the Mets’ knowledge of what rattles Benitez’s cage - for the tying run. He drew a walk, danced around threatening to steal, which unnerved Benitez enough so that he balked Jose to second. Endy Chavez sacrificed to move Reyes to third, and in a repeat performance, Armando balked in the tying run.

Then red-hot Carlos Delgado unloaded a walk-off homer – his second four-bagger of the night - to win the game.

And Armando, now 0-3 on the season, could do nothing but watch the ball sail over the fence, and his Mets’ curse continue.

Editor's note: Benitez was traded back to the Marlins last week. Let's hope he can get his groove back there.

Memorial Race Day

I don’t know about you, but I can’t think of a more fitting way to show support for the men and women who gave their lives for their country than for 43 guys to climb into fireproof suits, don helmets, get installed into souped-up cars and race around an oval track for a few hundred miles.

Or, a few hundred miles north-northwest in Indianapolis, for 33 guys and gals (go, Danica!) to suit up and do the same.

Oh, but they do sing the “National Anthem” first (and Jim Nabors sings at Indy), so I guess that makes it all right. And they’ll probably all take a moment of silence to remember our fallen heroes while a squadron of F-18s flies overhead.

Yeah, OK, Husband is a big fan and I, while not quite that excited about NASCAR and Indy, have been known to sit down and watch for a few dozen laps, and have learned enough of the terms to impress the neighborhood guys.

But we always seem to let the actual meaning of holidays get lost in the shuffle. Yes, there’s the small town parade, the ceremonies, the laying of wreaths. Then we rush home to start the barbecue, watch the race, vegetate in front of the war movie marathon on TV, or just enjoy a day off from work.

Or, like all good Americans, we go to the mall.

I’m not saying we should sit shiva for the troops who made the ultimate sacrifice, but just take a moment to think about why you have the day off before you head to the beach or start warming up your credit card.

Because you know the media won’t. You’ll see coverage of war protests. And in the presidential race, you’ll see every single candidate get into a fireproof suit and…no, wait, that was the other race. But you’ll see every candidate who can get his or her face in front of a camera lay a wreath and make a speech pontificating their views on the best way to support the troops.

But come on, wouldn’t you like to see Mitt Romney and Hillary and Obama get into Nomex suits and really race each other? The Repubs could bump-draft each other to try to get the lead and you know Guiliani and Clinton will be trading paint until the checkered flag.

Damn straight it would be more fun to watch than the debates.

On Being An “01”

A couple months back, Husband and I were forced, due to the termination of my COBRA benefits, to search for alternative health insurance that one, wouldn’t bankrupt us; and two, would cover most of our needs.

We found one, a stripped-down version of our “current” HMO, offered through the state of New York at about half the price of a “standard” HMO for individuals. It didn’t offer mental health coverage, but if we wanted health insurance, we had no other choices.

After much research and many phone calls to this company, I decided that it would be in our best interest to buy the insurance under the aegis of our being sole proprietors. Doing this would give us, supposedly, more benefits for the same price as if we bought it as individuals. And as I was just starting up as a freelancer and Husband was a well-established sole proprietor, we applied for the insurance under his name.

At the time, I had no problems with this. For a variety of reasons, and for some, who the hell knows why, some household bills and investments are primarily in his name and some are primarily in mine. It just worked out that way.

But the insurance, as I’d been the one with the steady jobs, was always in my name.

We even had our first problem with the HMO, which had to do with which prescription drugs were covered and which weren’t (it will require another blog to vent about this). And all during those phone calls, when every time another person picked up the line I was required to supply my account number, it didn’t bother me that the insurance was in Husband’s name.

Until this morning.

The prescription drug coverage argument eventually came down to my doctor being required to submit a preauthorization letter to the HMO so that the certain drug they wouldn’t cover would be covered.

I’d talked to my doctor’s assistant about it yesterday afternoon and she agreed to do it, except that this morning she called back and needed my new ID number. After I read it off to her, she said, “Are you the 00 or the 01?” Meaning was I the primary carrier on the insurance or the “domestic partner,” as they so politically correctly called it.

I felt my shoulders sag. “I’m the 01,” I said.

I’m the 01. I know, it really means nothing. Just like it means nothing that his name appears over mine on our mortgage and I’m the “junior owner” on our investments.

But at the time, assigned a number that put my name below my husband’s, I became “the wife.” Subordinate. Dependent. In the kitchen with my pearls and apron.
And for about ten seconds, I hated it. I hated the position I know felt myself boxed into by that one little digit.

I’ve struggled with “the dependency thing” since I lost my source of steady income. And I thought I was, if not completely OK with it, at least arriving at some sort of peace within myself.

I guess I’m not quite done yet.

But, just like Patrick McGoohan always says in the intro to “The Prisoner,” I am not a number. I am a human being. One that might have to have my name below my husband’s for a while, but still, a human being.

But, for the sake of computer records, you can just call me “01.”

Just don’t ever expect to see me in the kitchen wearing pearls and an apron.

False Idols

Call me a cheap entertainment junkie (just don't call me "cheap"), but I couldn’t help myself last night from watching most of the “Idol” finale (or final “reject” show, or whatever the heck they call it), while flipping back and forth between the Mets/Braves and Yankees/Boston games, of course.

And every time I saw Melinda singing, I couldn’t help but think, “Honey, it should have been you.” I imagine that’s what one of the Wynans (BeBe or CeCe, I don’t know which is which) might have been whispering in her ear as they were hugging her after their number.

Yes, Jordin isn’t that bad and Blake, although he doesn’t have the best voice, kicks ass with that beat-boxing thing, but neither of these kids deserved to be in the final two.

Husband says I need to get over this, and Melinda will get lots of work, and she’ll be fine.

And I know it’s just a dumb reality show designed for maximum eyeballs, hang the actual purpose of the thing, but still. I guess it’s just this stupid overdeveloped sense of justice that I can’t seem to shake. And, after all, haven’t the judges been (attempting to) get across all season that this is a SINGING competition?

Problem is, as I’ve mentioned before, the power of this show is in the hands of twelve-year-old girls, all with their own cell phones.

And I wouldn’t blame Simon if he didn’t return next season.

Now back to the actual show. Was it my imagination, or should this have actually been called The Carrie Underwood Show? She had, what, three numbers and an award presented to her?

But it was a kick to see Gladys Knight and Smokey Robinson out strutting their stuff.

I could have done without Sanjaya screeching with Joe Perry, though. Poor Joe. I guess he didn’t mind the publicity (and they probably paid him pretty well), but I can imagine he was cringing as that overblown Fauxhawk butchered every note of Aerosmith’s music.

But I suppose I shouldn’t cry too hard for Melinda. Besides Carrie, how many other “Idol” winners have been more than the flavor of the month?

OK, Fantasia’s on Broadway, but beside that?

Out of all the Idol finalists, Clive Davis announced last night, it’s breakout (and rejected) Idol finalist Chris Doughtry who got the last laugh: his album made more money this year than any other artist (not just Idol artists but ALL artists), and it’s been in the Top Ten for the last six months.

Take that, you Idol voters.

So I guess no matter who gets elected (or selected, according to your political view), good old capitalism will out.

And wasn’t that the original intent of Idol? To find talent that will make the producers a lot of money?

I suppose I shouldn’t be too upset.

After all, I don’t make any money off of it. And I might even have to part with some, when Melinda Doolittle puts out her first album.

Popeye Was Wrong

Have you noticed that whenever the Food Police looks at a new study, however faulty, and pronounces a particular food “good” or “bad” (Chocolate cures cancer! Coffee prevents diabetes!), that the media runs with it faster than you can say antioxidant?

Then a massive public relations campaign ensues – the Avocado Board or the National Associated of Dairy Farmers or the American Cabal of Salty Snack Food Pushers – educating the previously ignorant public that if they only had five or six servings of their particular food each day, then they’d live to be a hundred and get a better job and have to fight sexy young things off their doorsteps with broom handles?

Worse is if the study (Ten eighteen year old male college freshmen were studied over a two month period and it was found that a steady diet of pizza and video games not only cured depression but improved their hand-eye coordination and prevented unwanted pregnancies!) pinpoints a particular vitamin, mineral or nutrient.

Then, after the Food Police blankets the media with press releases, food processors start adding that vitamin, mineral or nutrient to their product. No matter how inappropriate, effective or just plain ridiculous that addition might be.

After fluoridation of drinking water, probably the earliest incident of dietary
“enhancement” would be enriched flours, then adding vitamins to processed dry cereals. Which on the surface seems appropriate, and even a good thing (hey, at least those finicky-eater kids are getting something nutritious with their Cap’n Crunch). But think about it: we process the living daylights out of perfectly good, healthy, whole foods, then supplement them with vitamins and minerals, then pat ourselves on the back for giving our families a “vitamin-enriched” diet. Problem is that some vitamins and minerals don’t like each other, and the proportions of nutrients added back into foods isn’t necessarily the proportion that works best as found in foods in their natural habitat.

Then they started messing with the orange juice. Folic acid was found to be good for pregnant women so it was added to the orange juice, but what nobody seemed to tell the women was that folic acid is a B vitamin that is meant to work in correct proportions with the other B vitamins, so who knows how much folate they would actually be absorbing.

Then calcium was the shiny new kid in town and that got added to the orange juice. Which seemed odd, but not totally ridiculous. For a time, I even drank it, as I’m sensitive to dairy products. But milk with added calcium? What, we had a boatload of calcium sitting in a warehouse that the Red Cross couldn’t give to some starving children? Kids are growing up in Africa with malformed bones and we’re adding CALCIUM to our MILK?

Somebody needs to be slapped for that decision.

Then antioxidants were our new savior. They were added to everything. Until it was determined that antioxidants on their own were shown not to prevent cancer.

Then it was soy.

And it went on like this for a while, and now, with the dietary news item that naturopaths and nutritionists have known for years, that Omega-3 fats (fish oils, canola oil, walnuts, flax seed, etc.) are better for you than trans-fats, the rage for Frankenfoods seems to know no boundaries.

You can now buy eggs with added Omega-3. Butter substitutes with fish oil. And on, and on, and on. I started to wonder, “Why bother eating food at all? Why not just wait until all of our daily dietary requirements are compressed into easily dispensed tablets, like in science fiction books and movies?”

But, for now, people still like to eat and feel much better knowing that their junk food of choice has some redeeming qualities.

OK, I can sort of live with that. For now, we still have free will and, except in Manhattan, can choose what we put in our bodies.

But something I saw recently really got my feathers ruffled. It was an ad in a women’s magazine, announcing “Diet Coke Plus…now with vitamins and minerals!”

Oh. My. God. Let’s take a product that can dissolve tooth enamel and remove rust from your bicycle chain and fortify it with vitamins and minerals that probably, once added to the can, don’t stand a chance of outliving Kevin Federline’s career.

Who thought this one up, the same people who brought us “Manimal?” (Google it, kids)

And anyway, where are the people who used to tell us that buying vitamin and mineral supplements was overkill because if we eat well, we’ll get all the nutrients our bodies need?

Either they’ve finally realized that our soils are depleted and our foods don’t have the RDA of vitamins and minerals that they once did in our great-grandparent’s day, or they’ve copped to the daily diet of the average American adult, which is composed of sugar, white flour and caffeine?

At least we can breathe a sigh of relief that the white flour is fortified with twelve vitamins and iron to make us strong.

And speaking of iron, Popeye had it all wrong. The oxalic acid in spinach counteracts the iron, making it just another green, leafy vegetable containing other nutrients, but don’t count on it when Bluto’s on the rampage.

For that, you’re just going to have to drink your folic acid and calcium-enriched orange juice.

The Oldest Profession Should Have A Union

(Warning: this entry contains adult content)

Once again I’m behind on the news. But I’m remembering a little item that blipped into the headlines and then was wiped away by some disaster, some prominent death, some poorly chosen phrase uttered publicly by a public figure.

And that’s the case of the infamous DC Madame, who got caught doing business as such, and was forced to divulge her little book of names. I can only imagine who might have been on the list. One was, reportedly, a lower-ranking official in the Bush Administration. And there were probably other patrons of all political stripes. But as mentioned above, no further hoopla was whipped up in the media.

While pure animal (and writerly) curiosity at first made me wonder who had been frequenting one of Washington’s more prominent escort services – especially if said frequenter had been thumping his chest in the name of “family values” or whatever the politically correct police is calling it this week – I gave it another thought.

And my thought was this: why the uproar? Do I really care who patronized a prostitute inide the DC beltway? As long as it wasn’t paid for by my tax dollars, or rubbed in my face on national media during a months-long prosecutorial stand-off whereupon said patronizer covered up his little escapades, why do I give a flying fig (or fig leaf, as the case and penchant might be) who paid how much for whom?

And while we’re on the subject, why is it that the oldest profession, one that, unlike nearly all the others, has managed to escape the robotic arm of technology, is still illegal in 49 states of this country?

Why not simply legalize it throughout the land and let freedom ring? (and ring again, if you care to pay for a double session?)

Because aren’t those of us who support the right to abortion under the aegis of women having free reign over their bodies hypocritical if we don’t also support the right of women, who are of legal age and do so of their own free will, to legally charge for sexual services, should that be their chosen profession?

There are caveats to participation, of course. These “sex workers” should be licensed professionals (requirements for the licensing exam to be finalized by Bill Clinton, Hugh Grant and Heidi Fleiss among other distinguished members of a carefully selected panel of experts). They are to be of legal age and regularly screened for STDs and other health issues. They are to negotiate their services and fees in advance of each transaction. They are to be citizens of the US or immigrants with legal papers, pay taxes and have entered the profession of their own free will.

So who is getting hurt here?

Some might say that the sex workers are at risk being physically hurt by their customers, because the nature of the transaction puts them in a vulnerable position. But think about situations many people face every day where they could potentially be vulnerable to attack:

• Getting a massage
• A visit to the gynecologist or other health care professional
• Going into a dressing room of any store that features “free webcam coverage of your visit with each purchase”
• Trying to take Alec Baldwin’s picture

And consider at the advantages these “sex workers” could have, should their line of work be legally protected:

• No “pimps” to take their money and beat them up
• Health insurance, which would cover breast augmentation and other plastic surgery services as required
• A professional union that would protect their interests, offer training courses and set guidelines for fees. This union (National Personhood of Professional Sex Workers, Local #69) would also go to bat for its members should their jobs be threatened with outsourcing or faced with rate undercuts by other countries who don’t treat their workers fairly.
• Legal backing should a customer be physically harmed or die in the act
• A little respect, damn it

One might also posit that legalized prostitution could lead to the encouragement of adultery and the instability of the institute of marriage in general. But a married guy could slip off his ring and pick up an amateur, if he were so inclined. If a marriage is healthy, then the partners are most likely satisfied and wouldn’t seek outside recreation. If one party chooses to engage the services of a sex worker, then that should be between the married couple and the purchaser’s moral compass. And as far as divorce law goes, patronizing a sex worker would have the same punitive value as adultery. More so, if he’d spent Junior’s college fund getting his jollies with the freelancer down the street.

Professional sex workers could also become a profit center for the US government (after all, if what has been reported in the DC Madame’s book is true, members of Congress seem to be the highest patronizers of such services). Each transaction would be taxed, and the sex worker would fill out a Schedule C and other paperwork as required by any freelance professional.

So legalizing prostitution could be a win-win situation all around. Customers, especially prominent ones, win by not having their names plastered all over the media. The workers get professional training, status and protection. No more cargo-loads of pre-teen Chinese girls forced to work off their transport. No more girls trading their bodies for crack or getting beaten up after not providing enough of a cut to their “managers.” If a guy still needs that touch of the forbidden, he can just close his eyes and pretend he’s in Bangkok. Hey, these girls are professionals, after all.

And finally, it’s a legal way for women who are so inclined to pay for college, so they don’t have to suffer the humiliation of earning it by slinging overpriced burgers while wearing a Hooters uniform.

Or being a White House page.

Gilmores Swan Song

Yes, a few million eyeballs will be glued to Idol tonight, but for the last few weeks, quietly tip-toeing behind that monolith have been the last handful of Gilmore Girls’ episodes.

And tonight, we will see the last of Stars Hollow and its denizens. Unlike other shows that are splashed all over TV land just for ending their seasons, tonight’s “Gilmores” series finale is going down without an iota of fanfare. Just a few promos, a web site that might linger on until the Next Big Thing wipes it clean, and a sniffle or two from me.

Well, we’ll always have Paris Geller. On DVD, of course.

It’s weird. Some of you have chimed in before that either Gilmores isn’t worth the video it’s filmed on, or its seven seasons have passed by overrated, or just for too damned long.

But I’ve been a fan since the day, several years ago, when Husband called me over to the TV, flithered around finding something on a the VCR, then played a show that he promised I would love.

And I did. Compared to so much of the trash that passed for television, this was brilliant. The main characters and set-up were well drawn, the dialogue quick-paced and clever, and even the minor players (if you’d call talented veterans like Sally Struthers, Edward Hermann and Kelly Bishop minor) held up the rest of the fabric of the show flawlessly. It was…as if Dorothy Parker and Jane Austen had returned to life and collaborated on a TV series. And I was hooked ever since. Watching what I’d missed in syndication. Sneaking looks at the current seasons. And one by one, getting each season on DVD.

Yes, some seasons were better than others. And husband and wife creators/writers Amy and Daniel Palladino “jumped the shark” not after they left the series but the last season it was under their watch, in a plot line that still leaves me scratching my head. Why, why why why would diner owner Luke Danes, who’d adored Lorelai from the moment he met her, who was engaged to marry her for Pete’s sake, why, when he found out he had a pre-teen daughter from a long-buried relationship, why would he choose taking time to get to know his kid over marrying his beloved?

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Anyway. Even the best of shows have their stupid moments.

So tonight, when you’re watching Idol (or whatever else it is that occupies your Tuesday evenings) think of me indulging in a little sniffle or two. And even if you didn’t like it, think also of the ground this show broke, and the faith a network took in an hour-long family comedy/drama that didn’t depend on clichés, laugh tracks or cheap jokes to get an audience.

Let’s hope that after reality shows lose their luster (Will they ever, ever end? Except Survivor and Amazing Race, of course), some network will have the courage to return to entertainment like Gilmores.

Or, please, at least to more shows that require writers.

We need the work.

Like This Is Going To Help?

In a misguided attempt to curb a growing graffiti problem, my local city council just passed a law that would fine vendors $250 for the sale of spray pain to minors.

Get real, guys.

While an optimistic gesture, what have similar restrictions done to reduce underage drinking, smoking, attendance at R-rated movies or purchase of inappropriate video games?

And any law that punishes the enabler only serves to…well, punish the enabler. It does little if anything to stop those who commit the crimes from committing them over and over and over, and empowering them to, eventually, commit worse crimes.

Now, I’m not saying that Doom is a gateway drug. But if a kid gets away with tagging the wall behind the hardware store, then hunkers down with his buddies and a few beers some older kid or a fake ID bought for them, that only sends a signal that laws don’t apply to him and he can go ahead and do anything his moral compass allows.

Which will end up costing a hell of a lot more than $250.

How about trying to catch them instead? Here’s a clue: they smell like Krylon. They come out at night, and really, really seem to like broad, empty vertical spaces like sides of buildings and parked panel trucks. And they have to carry their spray cans in something. And often these containers are stained with overspray.

Which also smell like Krylon.

There’s something the police could train their K9 squad to sniff out. I know that the cops can’t be everywhere at once and I’ll raise many hackles if I even mention security cameras, but there are some more obvious graffiti magnets than others.

And instead of putting the blame on those who sell the stuff (who’s to say that all taggers are under 18, anyway?), put some effort into catching these kids in the act. Make them pay for the cleanup or sentence them to clean it up themselves.

Or, instead of condemning them as criminals, how’s this:

Give graffiti artists their due. Many of them are extremely talented, and many rap albums, etc. use graffiti in their designs. And who hasn’t seen or heard about the brilliant designs painted on New York’s #7 train? One episode of a past season of “The Apprentice” had as one task to direct the design of a graffiti mural that would sell kids on a particular video game. We celebrate other arts, why not recognize tagging for what it is? An attempt to make one’s mark. Have a festival for it. Hell, if there can be a festival in Woodstock, New York celebrating piercing and body art, why not a graffiti fest? Take a park, build some sturdy partitions, pass out the paint (in CFC free containers, of course), and let the kids at it. Give out awards. If the government is still funding arts in any way, create a program and start writing grants. Give out canvases. Let those who are so inclined express themselves. You never know where the next Picasso or Pollock will come from.

Maybe he’s lurking in front of the hardware store, waiting for a buddy to buy him some spray cans.

Back In A Flash...

I'm on a brief hiatus while I prepare a few of my "greatest hits" for a writing contest.

Wish me luck, and perhaps you would like to peruse the work of some very talented and articulate bloggers by clicking the links on the right side of this page.

Type at you soon...

Op

Payback's A Bitch

I heard Vicky Burnett, a reporter for the International Herald Tribune being interviewed on NPR this morning, and she was talking about a recent trend in cocaine trafficking. Seems there’s a reduction in demand in the US (See, Nancy, those “Just Say No!” buttons are finally paying off…or we’ve discovered other, more fashionable ways to get high) so the goods (because it’s not exactly true that if demand dries up, supplies dry up….supplies are just marketed elsewhere) are now getting smuggled from South America to Europe. Another factor influencing the change in market patterns is the strength of the Euro against the American dollar.

But how, the NPR reporter asked, are cocaine traffickers getting through European restrictions?

Simple, Burnett said. They’re going through Africa. Certain countries with, say, a looser interpretation of the law and greedier warlords, such as Ivory Coast, Nigeria and others, have formed sophisticated syndicates that filter Bolivian marching powder from Latin and South America to the youth of Africa’s former colonial slavemasters. And Africa is rapidly becoming the hub for the American supply, as well.

Like I always say, karma is going to get you sometime. If not right away, in your next life. Or your next. Take that, White Man. It took a while, but I knew they’d find a way.

Meanwhile, in the US, we are funneling millions and millions of dollars to Africa, to help combat AIDS and feed the starving children. Bush promises new initiatives (read, “large sums of money that make him look good but could have helped people here”) for Africa. Even “American Idol” got into the act, showing starving African children crying into the cameras because their lives are so hard, while American kids sit on their ever-spreading rumps IM’ing each other and playing video games.

The warlords were probably watching that show and laughing their asses off.

I wonder how much of that money is actually going to the people who need it. If the children are getting fed, if they’re getting new schools and books, if the ones with HIV are getting medicine. Or if the warlords are just feathering their nests or buying Russian-made rocket launchers and automatic weapons and other armaments to protect their new drug interests.

And how would we ever know if any of the help is getting through? A camera, and the proper spin, can show anything. If the American right-leaning media can take an anti-war protest of, say, a thousand people or so and make it look like a hundred, what’s to say the warlords can’t make their own propaganda, and show a bunch of happy, shod children in a brand new school, show clinics where the HIV-positive are getting medication. Or coerce or pay them, like Sadaam Hussein used to do, to crowd into the streets with signs and raised fists, protesting European interference, when really, if they knew they could get away with it, any one of these men would strangle Hussein with their bare hands.

So how will we ever know the real story?

Perhaps this administration, and succeeding ones, should look more carefully at the goings-on in the countries to which they promise aid. And Sting, Bono, American Idol and the like should do the same.

And why aren’t our pop idols, with their power to draw money, doing their thing where it really counts – like giving the people of Iraq money to rebuild their lives, or helping draw more attention to the genocide in Darfur?

Or better yet, make them honorary Red Cross workers, and send them there. But we’d better be careful whom we send, because we might find some unintended cargo in their private jets.

Welcome to Wal-Mart

I’ve always hated Wal-Mart. It’s no one thing, it’s all things making war on my senses at the same time: the lights, the noise of babies crying and registers blipping, the cavernous space, the long, glary aisles, the majority of the people who shop there.

If one were to write a nervous breakdown scene into a TV program or movie, it would have to be set in Wal-Mart. In that section where they have all the stuff to organize your closets, of course.

A woman once yelled at me there, called me the most horrible names, because all I did was try to protect her toddler son from a collision between two carts coming together at a perpendicular angle. Her husband later apologized, blamed her pregnancy hormones, but still.

Every time I go there it’s under duress.

And now I find out that I’m not alone.

A judge, according to the New York Post (and brought to my attention by fark.com), sentenced a woman who had shoplifted from Wal-Mart to stand outside the store (with her partner in crime) wearing this sign.

I don’t know what’s worse – having to wear the sign or being so desperate that you have to shoplift from Wal-Mart.

Well, at least she could have had a more severe punishment. She could have been made to wear a blue apron and be one of those people who greets shoppers.

Or she could be one of those people who are always been called upon to fix the self-checkouts.

Now THAT would suck.

More Words….

Have you noticed lately that “global warming” has become “climate change crisis?”

This has got to be the fastest politically-correct switcheroo in history. We barely got the t-shirts and bumper stickers printed up before they went and changed the name on us.

I suppose it was to foil those people who saw hellish winters and cold springs and said, “I don’t see any global warming here!” You know, those “global deniers.” Which will probably make it into the dictionary pretty soon on its own.

And speaking of which, here are the most commonly used words on the web and in the media in 2006, from the Global Language Monitor: (descriptions are theirs)

1. Sustainable – Originally a ‘green’ term has moved into the mainstream meaning ‘self-generating’ as in ‘wind power is a sustainable power supply’. Can apply to populations, marriages, agriculture, economies, and the like. The opposite of ‘disposable’.

2. Infonaut – Those who blithely travel along the ‘infobahn’.

3. Hiki Komori – One million young Japanese men who avoid intense societal pressures by withdrawing into their own rooms (and worlds) rarely venturing outside.

4. Planemo -- Planets that didn’t make the cut in 2006 as sustainable planets. Pluto was demoted to a planemo.

5. Netroots -- The activists who have transformed the practice of fundraising and getting out the vote – through cyberspace.

6. Londonistan – Nickname for London as its Asian population swells.

7. Brokeback (Mountain)– A cultural phenomenon (Brokeback, Brokedown, etc.) with almost a million references to Brokeback jokes alone on Google.

8. Ethanol – Proxy for all things ‘green’ and energy independence.

9. Corruption – As in ‘Culture of’; analysis of mid-term elections suggests this was the key for the turnover of the House.

10. Chinese (adj.) – All things Chinese currently in ascendance.

Now taking your nominations for top words of 2007. My favorite so far is “carbon credit.” I’m waiting for the day when I’ll get a junk mail pitch for a carbon credit card.

This Idol Moment Brought To You By...

Idol Moment

Two things I was very happy NOT to see on American Idol Tuesday night were the prospect of Sanjaya screeching and hamming his way through a Bon Jovi tune, and any more of Simon Cowell’s chest hair.

One thing I was psyched about was that finally, finally, it was head-banger night on Idol. Not that I’m a big Bon Jovi fan (although I have been known to play air drums against my steering wheel and howl a bit when a Van Halen tune comes on the radio – pre-Sammy Haggar, of course) but I’d hoped something would come up that would give these kids a REAL challenge.

Some of them missed the mark (Jordin and her Gina/Sanjaya hair screaming through Living On A Prayer) and some of them kicked ass (A newly brunet Blake’s way-cool, way-out-there rendition of You Give Love A Bad Name, beat-boxing and all). And I was pleasantly surprised by Melinda and Lakisha, because I was thinking all through the show, how are they going to pull this off? As we’ve seen so many times before, it’s all in the song selection. Bon Jovi has done some softer ballads that the ladies could do justice to. And Melinda and Lakisha did it right (Melinda went with a newer tune, “Have A Nice Day” like a young Tina Turner, and Lakisha did This Ain’t A Love Song so proud after a string of poor choices that she got a kiss from Simon), while Jordin tried to muscle her way through something she loved but wasn’t up to singing…well, that’s the flip side of being seventeen.

My guess is that Chris (alias Timberfake) and Phil (good but not strong enough to keep up with this crew) might be packing their bags tonight. But I’ve been wrong before.

Now back to our regularly scheduled blog.

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This Call To The Bullpen Brought To You By…

It had to happen sometime. Already, at least in Met-land, whenever manager Willie Randolph decides he’s had enough of the pitcher on the mound (and always a batter or two too late), he picks up the dugout batphone that presumably connects him to the bullpen, and he tells the coach who to get up and throwing. And the announcers take the opportunity to plug a sponsor, by saying, “This call to the bullpen brought to you by Verizon.” (Or whoever happened to give the network more money in that particular season.)

And last night, in Yankee-ville, one of the boys in pinstripes stole second, and that steal was brought to you by…you might have guessed it by now…Lo/Jack.

I’m not kidding.

I can’t wait to see what parts of the game will go to the highest bidder next.

• Wild pitches or updates of scores around the league may be bought by Axe cologne…it’ll drive the ladies wild. Or Scott’s lawn products, so your lawn won’t grow wild.

• Double-headers, pitchers who make it through a whole game and inside-the-park homers could be sponsored by Viagra…they also go the distance.

• Pop flies will be sponsored by Pepsi, or Topp’s, even though they no longer put bubble gum in the packs of baseball cards.

• Triples brought to you by whichever fast food concern is selling the triple-burger-aorta-buster.

• This sacrifice comes to you courtesy of the IRS.

• Two-baggers by Victoria’s Secret.

• If a batter steps out of the box to readjust his cup…well, whatever formula relieves that particular itch could buy a game or two.

• Guy reaches first on a well-placed line drive to the outfield? Why be single when you could find your perfect mate on Match.com?

• If Viagra didn’t get its bid in time for the homer, then the Fox network could pony up a few bucks and have a little cartoon Homer Simpson trotting around the basepaths.

• Runs, of course, will be owned by Nike.

• A great catch? Any company that makes fishing gear. Or, again, Match.com.
• The pitcher gets the other team’s slugger to strike out in a key situation? Any number of male enhancement or grooming products could buy that moment.

• A fan is concussed by a stinging foul ball or a broken bat flying into the stands? This call to the hospital brought to you by Blue Cross.

• Rain delay? Plug the station’s weather report. Or Turtle Wax.

• Player needs a new bat? Plug whatever sequel to Batman is coming out that summer.

• Team won the big one? You can, too, if you buy a lottery ticket. This week’s jackpot is…probably not as much as the starting lineup makes in one game.

Language And Political Ideology

Word nut that I am, I’ve been following the pulse of the English language for quite some time. And lately there’s been a clear shift of the language to suit political and sociological ideology. I suppose this has always been the case…every politician with an agenda and power behind it (and the fourth estate behind them) has created their own catch phrases that have entered the lexicon. Soccer mom, Freedom Fries, Reaganomics, trickle-down theory, people of color, plausible deniability, and so on back to the day the first male of European descent looked at the first Native American and said, “Oh, you’re still here?”

But lately they’ve been coming at us faster and more furiously…and are getting downright ridiculous. At least for those of us who’d prefer to call an implement for creating holes in the earth a shovel.

For instance, you can’t say “illegal aliens” anymore. They are now called “migrant workers,” whether or not they’ve come across the border with legal papers in order to pick the harvest. I’m sure that ET and his brethren are now breathing a sigh of righteous relief, and will now step up their lobbying efforts to get the word “illegal” dropped as they don’t feel they are governed by any of our planetary laws.

Thanks to Congress and the Clinton Administration, “government spending” is now “government investing.” This way, they can raise taxes but still spin it into a good thing because it’s an investment, not frittering public dollars away on programs that will really just get sucked up into administrative costs and never reach the people who need them.

Thanks to the Food Police, when you make your Rice-A-Roni, in a large skillet you now stir your rice packet plus “butter, margarine, or the trans-fat-free spread of your choice.” Even though you should know by now that trans-fats are bad for you and cause childhood obesity, heart attacks, and global warming.

Thanks to Hurricane Katrina, when used in the US, “refugee” is now “survivor.”

Thanks to Hallmark, “Secretary’s Day” has now become “Administrative Professional’s Day.” I think I’m due about a dozen bouquets of flowers and a whole heap of free lunches.

Thanks to the Department of Health and Human Services (which itself used to be Health, Education and Welfare), “slums,” which became “Economic Oppression Zones” have now become, with the help of the Association of Realtors, “Economic Opportunity Zones.” Heck, I’m too dizzy from this one to comment.

Diplomacy is now “preemptive outreach.” So are diplomats now “Preemptive Outreach Workers?”

And the Politically Correct trend rains on.

According to the Global Language Monitor, you can no longer use the term “flip chart” as it is a term that is offensive to Filipinos. It is suggested that you use “writing block” instead.

I want to believe that this isn’t true, but staff at a Glasgow coffee shop refused to serve a customer who ordered a black coffee, believing it a racist snub. He was not served until he asked for “coffee without milk.”

A new, gender inclusive version of the Bible (Titled, “The Bible in a More Just Language”) includes the phrase, “Our Mother And Father Who Are In Heaven.”

And according to a training manual used at the Kirklee Council in West Yorkshire, England, the term “politically correct” is now politically incorrect.

We also have England to thank for replacing “terrorist” with “misguided criminal.”

Maybe they just need some preemptive outreach.

Post-Reality Show Separation Anxiety

As we are approaching May sweeps, the big reality shows will soon have their finales. After the last survivor is voted off the island, the winning couple makes it to the final pit stop, the pop Idol starts planning his or her publicity tour, some reality show fans, like some baseball fans, are left with a sense of…emptiness.

This is an actual documented psychiatric syndrome: post-reality show separation anxiety. And fortunately, no medication or therapy is required. The best cure is…new reality shows!

Yes, there are a ton of them on the docket, slated for summer and early fall. But here at RFG, our creative team has come up with a few that probably will never make it to the airwaves…but who knows? Stranger things have come out of Mark Burnett’s mind than…

The Apology Tour

Follow a cadre of chastised celebrities week by week as they atone for a variety of public sins. Watch Don Imus, Michael Richards, Mel Gibson, Trent Lott and the rest of our recently excoriated contenders as they attend sensitivity training, then compete for the best and most sincere apology to each group they are considered to have offended. Jesse Jackson, Al Sharpton and Gloria Allred will be our all-star panel of judges. Danny Bonaduce will host.

American Paparazzi

Who wouldn’t want a cushy job annoying celebrities? Our sixteen hopeful amateur photographers will vie for a coveted one-year contract with the National Enquirer by stalking, staking out, climbing fences, hanging from helicopters, buying off personal assistants and other creative ways of finding and shooting the celebrities du jour. Bonus points for catching the celeb in a compromising position (like, without makeup, or on the beach while bulking up for a role as a Real Person). Extra bonus points for getting punched out by Alec Baldwin or Tyra Banks.

So You Want To Be A Porn Star

Yes, you might have seen the adult DVD…but not this full-season reality show! D-list celebrities and desperate rejects from other reality shows are paired up with professional porn industry actors so they can learn the ropes (so to speak) and compete for a role in a real adult film! As this is a family web site, we can’t tell you further details. Will air on the internet only. You must be over 18 to have access to this site. All major credit cards accepted. Paris Hilton and Traci Lords co-host.

Breaking O’Donnell

A slice of life show, starring Rosie O’Donnell. Follow Rosie’s triumphs and failures as she recovers from her recent firing, sues the Donald, attends charm school and moves on, with Kelly and their children at her side.

So You Want To Be On A Reality Show

Watch twenty carefully-culled contestants tough their way through a week-by-week Boot Camp during which they will learn any skill they might need to pull out of their hats for any number of reality shows. For example, Carrying Heavy Things For Long Distances, Eating Disgusting Animal Body Parts, Singing Like A Pop Star, Hailing A Cab In A Foreign Country While Running And Waving Money, Enduring A Complete Makeover Including Getting A Full Body Wax Without Crying Like A Little Girl, Backstabbing With A Smile, and Bungee Jumping Off A Tall Building Without Wetting Your Pants. Loser of each weekly task gets the boot. Whoever is still able to walk without assistance at the end of the series gets a slot on the reality show of Mark Burnett’s choice.

Earth Day

This is a public service message from the management of Rooting For Gargamel.

Yes, some will tell me that the "real" Earth Day is actually the Vernal Equinox, and it has been for thousands of years. But I'm talking about the "political" Earth Day, celebrated on April 22, the original intent of which, in 1970, was to raise awareness of the fragility of our ecosphere and what we all could do to stop pollution. Which is great. I am old enough to remember the first Earth Day, and I am a child of the late 60s and early 70s, who grew up recycling and not littering and loving the flowers and the trees.

But I think this simple message, the beautiful intent of Earth Day’s founder, Senator Gaylord Nelson, has gotten lost – in cynicism, in fear, and has become a giant political football.

So please, for one day, can we please stop the Global Whining and the finger-pointing and the talk of carbon footprints and drowning polar bears and just enjoy what’s still out there?

We have all year to recycle and repurpose and conserve, and I’m in agreement that these are wonderful habits that if all would agree to pursue, would make a great difference to our environment. We have all year to write fomenting letters to newspapers and our congresspeople, all year to complain about what the current administration is or isn’t doing, all year to debate the longevity of compact fluorescent bulbs versus the mercury they contain. And these are good things to talk about, too.

But for today, just go outside. Go for a walk. Take a deep breath (if circumstances allow) and note the difference between outside air and inside air. Feel the sun on your face, the breeze on your skin. Stand quietly and listen, beyond the hum of automobiles, for the smaller sounds - bird songs and insects humming and (if you’re fortunate enough to live deep enough into the country to hear this) the peep of tree frogs calling for mates. If you live in a city, go to a park and smell the dark aroma of earth, feel beneath your feet the energy of a world about to burst into bloom. Look beyond the graffiti and the crudeness of trash discarded into the weeds. (Where do people think those empty beer cans are going, huh? Surely not back into the earth. Not while we’re still on it, nor our children.) Take a few minutes to appreciate the budding trees, and the energy it takes them to grow new leaves each spring. Watch the ripples on the surface of a pond, the rush of streams and creeks swollen (as ours are) with the heavy spring rains.

Appreciate what’s still here.

Now back to our regularly scheduled program. You are now free to resume calling Bush an idiot and counting the days until he leaves office.

And tomorrow, when you write your fomenting letters, try to do so electronically, and preferably from a laptop computer. This saves paper and energy.

I’m going outside now.

Enough With The Guns, Already

Why does the American media do this? Every time there’s a terrible event such as Monday’s massacre in Virginia – after the initial shock and horror has settled for a day or so – the drumbeat begins anew that the culprit is gun control. That it is simply too easy to get a gun in this country, and something should be done about it.

I can understand why we want an easy solution. It’s difficult to look at the horror of how someone could walk across a college campus – what should be a safe, bucolic haven nurturing the future leaders of America - and shoot thirty young people to death, without wanting answers, without wanting someone to blame.

And often the last person to get the blame is the one who pulled the trigger.

Although a gun was used to commit the crime – a gun purchased legally, mind you - this was not the impetus that did the killing. A disturbed young man was behind it. And no matter what kind of laws we make about guns, if this disturbed young man had been denied his gun permit, if he wanted a gun he would have gotten it illegally, and would have used it.

The two teenaged boys who perpetuated the Columbine massacre had, along with the automatic weapons they’d convinced other people to buy for them (as they both had mental health issues on their records), material to make bombs that they'd downloaded from the Internet. These were sick, sick children who practically screamed with signs they needed help, and got some, but not enough. But yet again, we blamed the weaponry. And this time, video games.

Timothy McVeigh also wanted to kill a lot of people in a hurry, except he found it more expeditious to build a bomb out of fertilizer. Should fertilizer be banned?

No one wants to answer the difficult questions. Such as, why are we raising people sick enough to do these acts? The parents of Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris had to have seen that something wasn’t right with their boys, yet the help they got was inadequate at best, and perhaps they refused to admit that something was happening at all. Maybe they thought it was a phase they’d grow out of. Or didn’t want to go through what they might have perceived as the embarrassment of additional therapy, or couldn’t afford the expense. After all, who wants to believe that their children were murderers? And more evidence is surfacing about how disturbed this poor young man in Virginia had been. That as early as 2005 his teachers and classmates had been noticing his behavior yet although it was “recommended” that he get counseling, there was no evidence that he got the help he so desperately needed. Yet he passed his legal background check and was allowed to buy a gun. What I want to know is where were the parents? If the school is noticing how disturbed he was, why weren’t the parents involved?

Or did they simply hope it would go away, too?

No one wants to look at this part of the problem because it’s so complex. It’s not an easy fix, like passing a new gun law (when we don’t even enforce the gun laws we have) or putting a metal detector at the door. Some people I’ve talked with want the problem solved by arming everyone, which I don’t accept. I can’t imagine this doing anything but making a bad situation worse. Can you imagine someone with a latent mental illness (or even someone under extreme stress) reaching their tipping point and trying to shoot their way out of it? No. We can’t let this happen.

The truth that we don’t want to see is this: there are sick people in America. There are sick people who aren’t getting the help they need. Either because they can’t afford it, or families think they can handle it themselves, or because the stigma is so great that they don’t want to pursue it. Some can’t afford the medication. Or they take the medication but either can’t afford or can’t otherwise get access to the follow-up care that goes hand in hand with the pills.

We want to blame the guns.

Because it’s easy.

And when we’re in grief, when we’re bombarded with this overload of tragedy, we want answers.

And we want them now. Then we want to pass a law guaranteeing that it will never happen again.

And then something else knocks it off the headlines and we forget about it.

Until the next time.

“Comedy bends; it shouldn’t break”

Or, Shock Jock Touches Third Rail

OK, I’ve been busy doing my taxes and attending to other things that unfortunately have taken more time and energy than I would have liked, but even though this news story has probably been examined through every possible microscope, and from every angle, I still feel the need to weigh in.

Don Imus, like so many others of late who have already begun and ended their Apology Tours, including the obligatory kissing of Al Sharpton’s rump, said something idiotic (which I will not repeat here), after a career of saying other idiotic things, for which he is paying dearly and will probably never forget. Whether you found his most recent words egregiously offensive or merely stupid (I’m somewhere in the middle, but I’ve never been much of an Imus fan) the media fallout is only a symptom of a larger problem in our culture.

Part of it is a fundamental tenet of humor that spans all cultures, ethnicities and historical eras. Jokes are perceived as funnier when the oppressed make fun of the oppressors. The serfs can sit around the fire making fun of the king (out of earshot of his noblemen, of course), but when the king makes jokes about the serfs, they’re not funny; they’re merely cruel. Making fun of those who have power over you is a survival mechanism, a way of cutting off Goliath at the knees. This is why women made fun of men, slaves made jokes about their masters, Jews made jokes about…well, about everyone, and so on. Since the dawn of time, the weaker tribe of stooped-over hairy men sniggered about the stronger tribe of stooped-over hairy men.

But many of the gender and class lines in this current primordial soup of American culture have been blurred. White teens in the ‘burbs wear hip-hop clothes and rock out to Ludikris on their iPods. Black teens are wearing hockey jerseys. Women have so much freedom that the movement for equal rights is barely a footnote on their agendas, and gay marriage is gaining more and more acceptance.

Still, with all this blending, mixing and pureeing going on in our multicultural Cuisinart, some rules still apply. Certain groups can get away with using specific types of language and others cannot. Blacks can call each other the “n” word and it’s cool (I don’t happen to think so; I think it demeans everyone, but the one time when I took a kid to task about it, he gave me a blank stare and said it was a “black thing.”) but if you’re white and you say it – even about another Caucasian – you’re dead meat. Anyone who knows me or has read any of my novels should know that I’m no prude, and that I know the power of words (and hopefully a little bit about humor), but I hate to death that black comedians and rappers are polluting the atmosphere with filthy language about women and each other and no one calls them on it. Bush had P. Diddy (or whatever he calls himself these days) to the White House. Hillary had rappers perform at a campaign fundraiser. Richard Pryor used that language, but he was genuinely funny and had talent and was coming from a place of extreme hurt, which is the source of the best and most genuine comedy. Yet coming out of Chris Rock’s mouth it’s simply more racist crap. Yet these people are glorified and make lots of money.

And Don Imus gets fired. His crime – aside from saying a lot of crass things over his career and finally reaching the tipping point with his sponsors – was that he was a white man making a joke (albeit bad) at the expense of a group of black women. It might have been a different story if he were talking about the Rutgers’ men’s basketball team. I’ve lost track of the number of sports broadcasters and commentators I’ve heard compare the current state of men’s professional (and NCAA) basketball to the actions of street gangs using some very colorful and not very complementary language.

But while it’s generally considered acceptable to trash-talk your own, a white man simply can’t talk about black women that way. Even if Fifty Cent or other rappers can compare their “sisters” to gutter slime, Imus (or Howard Stern or any other white guy) simply can’t. Even if any one of those Rutgers women could take Imus in a fight before you can say “sensitivity training,” that’s one joke we’re just not ready for.

But should he have been fired for it? Yes…and no. While I believe it was a monumentally stupid and insensitive thing to have said – and a bad joke besides – listening to it in context, I don’t believe it was motivated by racism. Only a desperate and misguided attempt to be funny. And perhaps racking up enough of these incidents could be grounds for dismissal.

Yet if Don Imus were black, what he said about the Rutgers women might have been perceived as a complement.

And, most likely, wouldn’t have made the news at all.

Belief-O-Matic

Since it's raining, and I feel lousy, and American Idol has become a big fat joke, and I have to scramble to finish our taxes this week, I'm posting this quiz my mother recommended.

Give it a whirl, if you have the inclination. Below are my results, topped with a disclaimer by the producers of the quiz. It wasn't exactly a big surprise. Although I was a little disturbed that Christian Science came up higher than Roman Catholic.

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“The top score on the list below represents the faith that Belief-O-Matic, in its less than infinite wisdom, thinks most closely matches your beliefs. However, even a score of 100% does not mean that your views are all shared by this faith, or vice versa.

Belief-O-Matic then lists another 26 faiths in order of how much they have in common with your professed beliefs. The higher a faith appears on this list, the more closely it aligns with your thinking.”

1. Secular Humanism (100%)
2. Unitarian Universalism (97%)
3. Liberal Quakers (86%)
4. Neo-Pagan (82%)
5. New Age (77%)
6. Theravada Buddhism (76%)
7. Mainline to Liberal Christian Protestants (76%)
8. Mahayana Buddhism (67%)
9. Nontheist (67%)
10.Taoism (64%)
11.Reform Judaism (59%)
12.Scientology (56%)
13.New Thought (53%)
14.Orthodox Quaker (50%)
15.Jainism (49%)
16.Bahá'í Faith (45%)
17.Sikhism (43%)
18. Christian Science (Church of Christ, Scientist) (42%)
19. Hinduism (35%)
20. Orthodox Judaism (31%)
21. Islam (25%)
22. Mainline to Conservative Christian/Protestant (25%)
23. Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints (Mormons) (23%)
24. Seventh Day Adventist (21%)
25. Eastern Orthodox (15%)
26. Roman Catholic (15%)
27. Jehovah's Witness (11%)

What A World It Could Be…

There’s a movement afoot, started by Howard Stern and web sites such as VoteForTheWorst.com to keep Sanjaya on American Idol as long as possible, and make him the winner if they can. Just to prove what a joke Idol is and to screw over Simon Cowell, who is contracted to produce an album for the “winner” of each season. And according to BuddyTV.com, betting web sites list Sanjaya as the favorite and are paying off $155 for every $100 placed.

This is so sad. OK, it’s funny, in a way. But I think about the effort by all these people focused in one direction at one time and wish it could be used for good instead of just to prove some inane point.

Yeah, American Idol is fun. But, bottom line, it’s dumb escapist entertainment. Meanwhile, our government has us in a war that seems pointless and unwinnable. There are people in this country without health insurance (I’ll be one of them in a few days) and who can’t afford adequate health care. American children are going to bed hungry. I could go on and on about the things going wrong around here that could use the focus and energy that these legions of young people are abusing by striving to keep an untalented guy in a stupid singing competition.

My message to all those Sterniacs and VFTW fans: Instead of being a sheep and following the herd over the cliff, do something worthwhile. Donate to a charity. Write an angry letter to the editor. Find a deserving presidential candidate and work on his or her campaign.

Or at the very least get off your asses and get some exercise.

A Taste Too Far

I keep two bottles of olive oil on the countertop in my kitchen. One, the lighter and less expensive version, is for everyday – frying eggs, sautéing garlic and onions, whatever. Whenever I will be using it in quantity and don’t it to interfere with the flavors of the other ingredients.

The other is the good stuff – extra virgin olive oil – the cost of which I have to defend every time I purchase it.

“There’s a difference,” I tell Husband. Like there’s a difference between homemade cookies fresh from the oven and the cardboard ones he buys in the supermarket. But a discussion of grades of olive oil and types of pressings and the taste of dipping anything edible into a pool of jade green heaven would be lost on him. Give him a baked potato with margarine on it and he’d be content.

“There’s just a difference, “ I say. “And a little goes a long way.” And I put it into the cart.

And I’m oh-so-abstemious with my treasure. A dab on my plain steamed vegetables. A dime-sized (oh, make that a quarter-sized) dot in which to dip my chaste, wheat-free crackers. A carefully measured teaspoon to mix into my brown rice or drizzle over my salad.

Sometimes after I’m done meting out my careful dose, I notice some of the foil from the label coming off on my fingers. The tiniest of residues is dripping from the cap after I seal it up. It doesn’t bother me greatly, and I don’t think about it. Now, if I saw a major quantity leaking out or pick up the bottle and see a little green ring on the counter, then I might take action, like transferring it into a decanter, but it isn’t enough to make a fuss.

Until yesterday.

I’d been wondering, these past few months - well, not merely wondering but enjoying the fact thereof – why we haven’t seen tail nor whisker of the usual ration of mice that move into our home and help themselves to whatever they can in our kitchen.

It’s never more than half a dozen or so, during a good cold winter, but still. None at all? No droppings left behind, no vitamin bottles gnawed, no bread wrappings chewed?

Yesterday our rodent-free streak came to a streaking halt.

“Husband!” I yelled up the stairs.

“What?” he yelled down, annoyed to have been disturbed from verifying his HTML. Or working on a project in Photoshop. Or cruising eBay for die-cast cars. Or whatever the heck he does up there in the afternoons.

“Mouse evidence!” I said.
Silence. I stare at the thing that gave the mouse away. My bottle of extra-virgin olive oil. The bottom of the label has been shredded, the way you might do to the label of your beer bottle with a fingernail when you’re standing around in a bar or at a party and the conversation runs thin. Bits of shiny label are scattered around the countertop.

At least this one, unlike the ones before who’d gone for my vitamin bottle caps or a candle or a bag of store-bought taco shells, has good taste.

Finally Husband answers. “I’ll set the traps.”

I saw the trap when I came downstairs this morning. All the other items on the counter –the “cheap” olive oil, the can of Pam (don’t ask), my tin of teabags, a ginormous cardboard vat of store-brand oatmeal - had been casually pushed away, as if to make the object of the mouse’s affection the center of attention. He’d even left the shreds of label in place. And the trap lurked just a hair downstage (what he had baited it with that would be more enticing than the smell of extra-virgin olive oil, I couldn’t imagine).

And after breakfast, after my exercises, after I’d just put on a self-hypnosis CD and sunk into a deep, back-relaxing trance, I heard the familiar rattling.

“Give any background noises your permission to be there and make them part of your trance…” the narrator says.

Rattle. Rattle, rattle, rattle. I thought I heard a tiny voice saying “Attica! Attica! Attica!”

No. I couldn’t make that part of my trance. My attention was drawn away from my deep relaxation breaths to that poor mouse, imprisoned for the simple act of wanting something more sumptuous in his diet. Or was it her diet? I couldn’t be sure. Were mice the sort of species that send the females ahead to find the food, or the males, or was it every rodent for him- or herself? Whatever I say is going to get me in trouble with somebody who reads this.

“It’s normal to drift in and out of your trance.”

Heck. I hadn’t drifted out, I’d been heaved out of the gentle waters and landed with a thud upon the shore.

I tried, I tried to let go and get back under, but no matter how many relaxation breaths I took or how much I tried to regain access to my happy place with its soothing colors, I was done. Password denied.

Besides, the CD was bout over anyway.

I checked on the mouse in the Have-A-Heart trap. It (whatever it was) was no longer rattling its cage and was sitting quietly, dark little body at one end and its tail curled around the corner.

I felt for it then, stuck in something it couldn’t get out of, not knowing its fate. I even admired him or her a little, not satisfied with the dregs that trickled down the sides of the bottle and trying oh, oh so hard to gnaw through that label to the lovely green stuff inside.

The little bastard.

Husband is still sleeping, but when he wakes up and prepares Mousie for his trip across town, maybe, just maybe I’ll throw in a little cracker dipped in olive oil.

You know, a little something for the ride.

House of Blasphemy

Actual conversation Husband and I had yesterday afternoon:

Me: “I’m going to the Y.”
Husband: “Are they open on Sundays?”
Me: “Yeah, from noon to five.”
Husband: “But isn’t that the Young Men’s Christian Organization? Aren’t they supposed to rest on Sundays?”
Me: “Apparently, God likes to play racquetball then have a little steam.”
Husband: “I thought he was looking a little buff lately.”

Apparently we do create God in our own images. But seriously…

I’ve always wondered why it is that the YMCA is the one with the aerobics room and the pool and the YWCA is the one with the childcare, the human services programs and maybe a yoga class or two. There is a YM/YWHA but I don’t think they have racquetball. They have Jewish camps, adult day care, arts and sciences camps for kids. And you may be able to take a karate class, depending on your chapter. But very few centers (there is one in North Jersey) have any spinning, Pilates or freeweights, or even a pool. Although you may be able to find one at the Jewish Community Center.

Why do Christian men get the monopoly on working out?

And the YMHA has Jewish programs, even a link on their web site to “Jews in the News.” Yet the YW/YMCA doesn’t have prayer services or Bible camp. They can state that they are closed on April 6 and April 9th but they are not allowed to say why. And can you imagine if they sprinkled a few Bibles around the locker room? Are you kidding?? They’d get shut down faster than a whorehouse in Utah.

Not that I’m especially pro any organized religion…I just want a little parity.

I mean, I don’t believe in God and was raised Unitarian and am female and technically Jewish but I am still allowed to be a YMCA member. But can a Bible-thumping fundamentalist wander in to his local YMHA and join up because they have a better pool than his local YMCA?

I don’t know. My e-mail to the closest YM/WHA hasn’t yet been returned.

But I have a feeling that it has something to do with public funding. For the same reason that Rudy Guiliani wanted to pull the public funding for that museum in Brooklyn that had the Madonna (no, not THAT Madonna) covered with elephant dung.

Sure. Burn a cross, desecrate a religious icon…hell, get some guys to dress up like the Wise Men and have them reenact a Three Stooges short and as long as you do it on private property and don’t ask for any government funding you’re golden, as long as you can take the heat you’re undoubtedly going to get.

That’s called free speech. Or, more technically, that’s the part of the Bill of Rights that states “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof….”

In other words, where religion is involved, the government has no right to get involved. They want to…oh, how they’ve tried…and how they still try…if they keep whittling down those personal freedoms who knows what will happen.

But whatever happens, (as I am currently receiving no public funding) I still reserve the right to make blasphemous statements anywhere that won’t get me shunned, egged, or burned at the stake.

Or maybe I shouldn’t be giving this administration any ideas…

Holy Moses

Husband emailed me this joke, and I thought I'd share it with you. And I'm also feeling too lazy to write anything original. Happy April Fool's Day!

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Moses was sitting in the Egyptian ghetto. Things were terrible. Pharaoh wouldn't even speak to him. The rest of the Israelites were mad at him and making the overseers even more irritable than usual, etc. He was about ready to give up.

Suddenly a booming, sonorous voice spoke from above:

"You, Moses, heed me! I have good news, and bad news."

Moses was staggered. The voice continued:

"You, Moses, will lead the People of Israel from bondage. If Pharaoh refuses to release your bonds, I will smite Egypt with a rain of frogs"

"You, Moses, will lead the People of Israel to the Promised Land. If Pharaoh blocks your way, I will smite Egypt with a plague of Locust."

"You, Moses, will lead the People of Israel to freedom and safety. If Pharaoh's army pursues you, I will part the waters of the Red Sea to open your path to the Promised Land."

Moses was stunned. He stammered, "That's.... that's fantastic. I can't believe it! --- But what's the bad news?"

"You, Moses, must write the Environmental Impact Statement."