Divine InnerBitchin’

Hi folks.

I’m trying to get a renewed grip on this thing called blog and just this past weekend completed a days long process of clearing out 21k+ spam comments. So many, in fact, that I couldn’t simply moderate and flag them all at once and spent days of clearing through the bits and pieces. The process of filtering through the crap to get to the legitimate comments is part of what has made the process of keeping the blog up and running so frustrating. You all know of what I speak. So, for you WPers out there, what have you done to improve the situation? Is WP sufficient and I’m just using it improperly or is there some sort of add-on I should consider?

I’m also trying to learn more about WP and wondering whether customizing my blog is something that is easy enough for the non-techie type to learn that I should continue on my quest, or should I drop the idea and pay someone to do the job for me?

Your advice is appreciated.

The Bed-headed gal has been running a series of ‘Adverts that work’ and it got me to thinking about a few memorable ads from past and present.

I’ve noticed, as of late, the absence of a particular advertising campaign and I say “None too soon”. Of course, it wasn’t the offensive nature or the cry of the public that brought about its demise, it had simply run its course.

The Herbal Essences hair care line was purported to send women, and sometimes even men, into the throes of passion. For me the challenge of Saturday morning television was not the sugary cereal ads, but watching those damnable ads with my pre-tween daughter and attempting to explain to her in such a way that she would not be shocked, just why the women were tearing at their clothes at the very thought of lathering the daily grime from their tresses. Sure. I could reach for the remote and abruptly change channels, but that often gave rise to even more questions. Finally, I just told her the truth: That the women in the ads “had just returned from a boy-girl party where they had consumed alcohol and smoked cigarettes and engaged in unprotected sex and now, as they attempted to wash their shame away, they chose the product that the Pope had personally blessed. The burning was the Holy water seering their sins away.”

It must have worked. She’s twenty-three now and she’s never been pregnant, only returned home once displaying the symptoms that come with consuming copius amounts of cheap alcohol and she’s adamantly against smoking. And, I’ve never paid for a bottle of Herbal Essences shampoo.

Now, I find myself in a similarly heated frenzy with regard to a campaign that airs smack dab in the middle of prime-time television. Never one to be particularly moved to action by a commercial, I simply laughed at it….at first. Now, they’ve added a second commercial to what is sure to become a series and I’m feeling that old, familiar, sense of dread welling up inside of me, however; this time, it’s my daughter who lunges for the remote.

The bastards who came up with the ads are to be commended: They have surely earned their place in hell. No big fan of ice cream, I am ocassionally contented with a chocolate dipped cone from Dairy Queen. So, yesterday, when I drove past the Cold Stone creamery, made a u-turn and entered the parking lot, I thought to myself, “I’ll be fine. Just one scoop. Puhleeze! Am I really going to fall for the hoopla?” So, let me tell you, Yes. Yes, I did. Hook, line, and sinker.

I dropped $15 dollars on two quarts of ice cream! WTF?! $15! But, I’ve learned my lesson.

Of course, that Birthday Cake Remix was awfully good. And,ooh!, I think I still have some of that Strawberry Blonde hidden in the back of the freezer.

I wonder what that Founder’s Favorite would taste like? Or, the Berry Berry Berry Good…or the Cheesecake Fantasy…

Yesterday, as I paid for what will be the chilly death of my resolution to eat more healthfully, I said to the skinny gal at the register…”Please, my regards to Madison Avenue.”

“What?” she said.

“The commercials. Clearly, they’ve worked quite well for you.” I clarified.

“Oh!” she said, “I haven’t seen them yet.”

Of course she hadn’t. Next time, I’m there. I’m going to give them a piece of my mind.

Right after I plunk down $5 for a ‘Who ya Calling Shortcake Sundae?’

Who can blame me? Have you seen the commercials?

In light of today’s attempted homocide bombing in Glasgow, and the attempted attacks in London yesterday, I’d like to issue a quick ‘thank you’ to those on the left, and in the media, who continue to point out the importance of global warming, and universal health care, and Paris Hilton.

Again, and I suspect it is, indeed, imminent, that the media will preach to us about how imcompetent these buffoons were in their bungled attempts. We’ll hear plenty about how the attacks of today were carried out by Asian men…not, specifically, those of middle-eastern descent. Hell, they must have been Buddhists. And, well, we all know that the bad guys wear black hats and carry six shooters and, well, come from Texas.

I would like to offer the thought that, perhaps, these ‘bunglers’ are the true believers. And, for some time now, I’ve wondered how long it would take for the true believers to hit us where it hurts. Could this be just the beginning?

Hell, if I watched ‘24′ I might think I have a plot line to sell to them.

Terrorism, as of late, hasn’t really been so terrifying to any but those directly impacted by the events of terrorism themselves. Why? Because it’s ‘over there’.

Let me propose that the reason that true terror has not been struck at the heart of America has more to do with political concerns more commonly associated with Washington, D.C. than with Al Qaeda (no longer a club, but a way of life!)

Ego

Legacy

Immortality

Those who planned the attacks so successfully carried out as those which occured on that terrible day in September, 2001, have achieved a place in the history books while the true believers, the hijackers, went down with the ship. How many of them can you name today?

Ego demands that the leaders of these groups plan the most spectacular attacks possible: NYC, LAX, etc… And, if they fail in their first attempts, it is their egos which force them to return to the site to finish the job.

Whoa! Did you see that?!

(more…)

Hi there.

It’s me again.

I know I haven’t been around for a while. Okay, a long while. But, I swear, I never forgot about you.

You’ve been on my mind each and every day. Yet, the longer the span of time we spent apart, the more difficult it was to face you.

I’ve strayed.

Can you forgive me?

Caution: The following post contains harsh language and strong sexual overtones and is intended for mature audiences.

Okay, perhaps not so much.

Perhaps a more appropriate warning would be;

Caution: The following post contains the rantings and ravings of a woman who is too fucking tired to try and make some grand damned statement and support her opinion with facts of any sort.

And, furthermore, from now on, that’s what it’s all about. I’m tired of pausing before posting because of some damned urge to make a valid, well-supported argument. If I write a post and someone doesn’t agree with my point of view, I no longer give a rat’s pecker. If I write a post, and it turn that out I was, in some way, factually inacurate, well I don’t give a rat’s pecker about that either.

Whew!

I didn’t actually expect that to turn into a post all by itself.

I must say, however, I do feel a bit better now.

Please feel free to continue about your day.

P.S.

Oh! And one more thing.

Now that I’ve had a chance to re-read my post..

Forget all that spelling and grammar stuff. Don’t come here looking for any of that either!

(And, Rob, I believe I deleted your clever comment when cleaning up 994 spams. Sorry.)

What?

It’s January 2nd already? I can’t believe it.

It seems like just yesterday we were celebrating the new year.

Before you know it, it will be Christmas all over again.

Make a note:

Only 356 Christmas shopping days left!

Indeed.

Over the past couple of years I’ve been up and down with Bill Ardolino. At times I’ve considered him one of the must-read blogs and at others I’ve wanted to kick him square in the ass. He’s always been one of the first on the scene…Rathergate, snagging an interview with Bob Schieffer, interviewing retired soldiers on the mall in Washington, and poking fun of moonbats wherever he may find them. Now he’s putting his money where his mouth is…and possibly his life on the line, to do what all the so-called journalists fear (or simply refuse) to do…

He’s imbedding himself with the U.S. military in Iraq.

Drop by and wish him well. And when you say your prayers for our brave men and women, nod your head to Bill as well.

God be with you on your journey, Bill.

As the mother of a now twenty-two year old, I thank God each and every day that my daughter has arrived at adulthood bearing as few scars from adolescence as can be managed these days.

No addictions.

No out-of-wedlock children.

No arrests.

Not even, unless you count her pinky toe, a broken bone.

For all of the fighting and fewding that occurs between the two of us on a daily basis, she is, by all accounts, a really good kid. When she came home with her first real falling-down drunk I accepted it, helped her to bed, and watched and waited for her reaction… it hasn’t happened since. She, like I, was the child who always told her friends not to run with scissors. And, when her teenage friends started hanging out at the clubs and doing ‘X’, she struggled to maintain the friendships, but eventually let them go. She has never been one to follow the crowd, and that is something for which I am eternally grateful, especially, in light of stories such as this.

Now, I ask you….How much must your child, now a young adult, be in need of acceptance in order to accept as part of a ‘ritual’ of belonging the wearing of fairy wings, and blonde wigs?

Women’s underwear? No problem.

Hot dogs? Bring ‘em on.

Of course, every parent’s dream is that their child be popular, right?

No. Not right.

Wrong! Very, very wrong!

Bad parent! Bad!

I fell like pulling aside every parent I come across at the mall and slapping them across the nose with a newspaper.

Teen girls getting boob and nose jobs. Abercrombie and Fitch panties with naughty messages written across the crotch. Halloween costumes that resemble tranny-hooker attire. Rap videos wherein both men and women are made fools. And, video games wherein cruelty is rewarded.

What the f–k is wrong with people?!

Supply and demand….

These wretches continue to be available in an ever more shocking and graphic nature because parents continue to purchase it for their children.

Why? Because ‘all the other kids are doing/wearing it’?

Parents, the next time your child uses that line on you, remember the line your parents used to retaliate….

“Yes, dear. But if Johnny let his frat pals stick a Johnsonville up his ass, does that mean you have to do it too?”

Damn, people!

Now excuse me while I go puke.

I hate a backhanded apology.

You know the kind:

I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bump into your big ass.

I’m sorry. I didn’t do whatever because I couldn’t understand your mumbled instructions.

I’m so sorry. I knew when I first saw you that you must be sick or something.

And, my favorite….

I’m sorry that you were so stupid that you just didn’t get what I was saying.

What a prick.

It seems to be in bloom these days…

Culture! Culture! everywhere! Perhaps, it’s the change of weather that has brought it about.

After all, my daughter is watching “Dancing with the Stars” and my p.c., unfortunately, is in the room where it’s playing.

Boy, can that Jerry Springer cut a rug.

And, just last week, I saw Peter Frampton..’Live.’

Oh. I bet Rob’s jealous now: How can Atlanta compete with culture like that?

Okay, not so much.

Well, we J’villians do possess a couple of gems or two and yesterday I had the pleasure of an early quit and so headed over to gawk and awe for a couple of hours.

The Cummer Museum of Art and Gardens is tucked away on the shore of the St. Johns River along an oak-lined street in Riverside, just a mile or so from downtown Jax. Originally opened in 1961 with only a small collection of sixty pieces donated by Arthur and Ninah Cummer, it is now possesses a collection of more than six thousand pieces. And, on Tuesday…courtesy of one of the baby Bells, admission is free. I went alone as I find it impossible to take in art with someone yapping in my ear about their day at work or the color of poo that their particular darling has produced as of late.

I once visited the Cummer on a rather frequent basis. My daughter attended a performing arts school for eight years and quite a few performances were held at the Cummer. It has, however, I’m ashamed to say, been years since I’ve passed through its doors. Entering the museum, I turned left and came upon a few pieces of a beautiful silver tea service and a sandwich glass water service.

It was at this point that I wondered “Oh dear…is this as good as it gets?” Perhaps it had been too long, for I had forgotten.

What awaited me was two hours of what might, to a passerby, have appeared a rather clumsy waltz…four steps forward, four steps back.

The first room I entered contained art of a mostly religious nature; testimony to the passion and devotion, not to mention, brilliance, of men who lived centuries ago. I passed from there to the ‘Baroque’ room wherein I found myself stunned…literally stunned..on more than one occasion, virtually unable to remove myself from my place in front of one work, in order to view another: Rubens ‘The Lamentation of Christ’, Sir Peter Lely’s ‘The Countess of Radnor’, and another painting, commonly titled ‘The Miserly Woman’ by an artist who’s name escapes me. Winding through a series of rooms I came upon Whistlers and Sargents, Bouguereau’s ‘Return from the Harvest’, a Renoir bronze, and a Degas etching, yet I was still carrying around the mixed feelings of lightness and dread from the Baroque room and thus headed into their beautiful gardens to clear my mind. After relaxing for a few moments in the shade of beautiful oak tree, I headed back indoors, and into the ‘’American’ room. There, I found myself performing what had by then become an exercise in muscle memory, four steps back, four steps forward, when I turned to face the opposite wall and saw first the pieces that I’ve yet to shake.

Perhaps, it was the contrast between the two, perhaps it was planned that way, but hanging side-by-side were a Rockwell and a Curry. The simplistic style of Norman Rockwell, the Kapra-cornyishness about his works, within the same straight-ahead range of vision as the dark and haunting Curry..an obvious study in contrast. Rockwell’s ‘Second Holiday’ depicts an elderly couple sitting on a bench, dressed in their Sunday best, seemingly awaiting a bus, or perhaps a train. I could easily have overlooked the Rockwell, but was drawn in when I noticed the neatly hidden expressions upon the couples faces: He, awkwardly holding his head up high, while his eyes were cast downward, she, looking straight ahead, the lower part of her face seeming to have recently escaped a heavy sigh and her eyes, upon closer examination, revealing a mixture of strength and worry. I backed away and looked again, at which point I saw a man, dressed in white, a stethescope dangling from his hand, was nearly hidden from view, and I appreciated more the talent of Norman Rockwell. From there I moved right, to stand in front of the Curry.

John Steuart Curry, I’ve sinced learned, was at once beloved and hated in his home state of Kansas. His works exhibited the simple, and not so simple existence of life in the Midwest and did so in a way that was both simple and, not so simple all at once. When asked to paint his murals upon the walls of the state capitol, he did so in his usual style, and found himself ridiculed and run out on a rail. His wife claimed that it was his heartbreak at the events of that time which drove him to his death in 1946 at the ripe old age of 49. The Cummer painting clearly sheds light upon what surely must have been aghast reaction at a time when, following the first world war, there would have been intense criticism of anyone who questioned the act of war or the remnants thereafter.

‘Parade to War: Allegory’, is not the same painting as ‘Parade to War’ and I suppose that it’s those differences which make the image nearly impossible to obtain on the web. I try to imagine the controversy it must have created in 1941 when it was painted.

The image, for those of you have not seen it, is complex in a way that is difficult to convey. While most obvious in its statement and painted in a ‘cartoonish’ manner it, for me, provoked very intense emotions. The painting depicts a scene wherein our soldiers are marching to war. All around them are children gathering streamers and crowds of people cheering them on. The soldiers, standing proud and tall, march toward what we now know as a victory in the most unimaginable fashion. The first thing you notice about the painting is the couple marching in line; a soldier and his girl. She, in a soft white dress, he in his uniform. You do not see her face, but the position of her head and the natural flow of her body suggest that she sees nothing but the love of him, as his affection is seen in the way he marches taller than the others, seeming to puff up in the pride of having her on his arm. He glances down at her with a softness of expression that most no one could ever have hoped to achieve upon the skeletal image that was his face. It’s a haunting image and it caused me to look away again and again. The feeling I got as I stood there was that of seeing what no one else in the scene could see; death..of spirit, life as they knew it, of, even, their souls. I’m not certain whether Curry knew of the impending war when he painted it, or if he was simply making a statement about the act of war itself but, now, looking at it with the knowledge of what occurred over the next several years, it has grown in its power to affect.

Too long in a room with Mr. Rockwell might have provoked a gagging gesture, and almost any time spent in a room with J.S. Curry would have resulted in a furious political fight, but there is no denying that, even today, decades after they have departed this earth, they are very much on my mind.

Admittedly, I am no artist. Hell, I’ve never even taken a liberal arts class, but as it goes…”I may not know art, but I know what I like” and I think that the person who decided to display these two pieces together is brilliant and I’m incredibly proud that our little local gem has had the foresight to seek out these wonderful works.

I will return again this weekend, once again, to stand in awe.

P.S. After hours (!) of searching, I’ve yet to locate an image of Mr. Rockwell’s ‘Second Holiday’, but finally managed to find a link to a print of the Curry. When the site comes up, simply search for ‘Parade to War’ or item # 1075-224. You’ll recognize it when you see it.

Of course, you must find your way to Jax to see them some time soon.

41

41 years old.

Well, actually, it’s more like 41 years and six months, but still…41.

And, I’ve noticed how of late I’ve begun to think of things such as; It’s exciting how my hometown is changing. Damn. I wish I could be here to see what it would look like in fifty years.

Then I think…What?!

I’m only 41. Am I already planning for my funeral?

Because, the truth is, I’m loving life.

I really do, for the first time, enjoy my life.

No longer do I allow others to get to me the way I once did. No longer must I get dressed to the nines to go grocery shopping. No longer do I worry about how I’ll pay my bills and how I’ll support my child.

It’s funny. Some of the things that might have sent me into tears just a few years ago are now giving me the biggest giggle.

I’m 41 and I’m getting braces, top and bottom, for the first time.

And, this week, I had my first eye exam in years and although I still have great vision, it’s grown different than what I’ve become accustomed to, so I’m getting my first pair of readers. I’ve chosen geeky, black framed glasses. (I’m hoping they’ll give me that sexy librarian look.)

My hair hasn’t been colored in two months so I now have about an inch of gray peppered throughout my hair and in the last 6 years I’ve put on 45 pounds.

I haven’t dated anyone in more than two years.

Yet.

I don’t care. In fact, I’m enjoying all of these things. It’s not that I don’t want to be thinner, but the truth is that, even when I weighed 60 pounds less, I still thought I needed to lose weight. Now, losing weight is more about my health than it is about pleasing someone for whom I might remove my clothes.

Perhaps, it’s just a different form of insecurity: Perhaps all of these things are meant to challenge myself, and others, to see me as I really am.

Nonetheless.

Darn it.

I’m happy.

I just turned on the television, and American Beauty is playing. And I think, I get it now.

Why wait until everything is perfect in your life to start enjoying it?

Several years ago, in and interview with some magazine or another, the founder of Amazon.com was asked about the way in which he lives his life, and he summed it up in a way that I’ve never been able to forget:

Regret minimalization

Television…internet…flat irons….blow dryers…ironing your sheets….

When you’re old and gray, how many minutes of your life will you wish you could get back?

There really are no do overs.

Winn Dixie Brand Raisins
Serving Size - 1.36 oz
Calories - 130
Fat - 0
Carbohydrate - 31g

Le Seur Very Young Small Early Peas
Serving Size - 4.3 oz
Calories - 60
Fat - 0
Carbohydrate - 12g

Reduced Fat Wheat Thins
Serving Size - 1 oz
Calories - 130
Fat - 4g
Carbohydrate - 21g

Turkey Creek Pork Skins
Serving Size - .5 oz
Calories - 80
Fat - 5g
Carbohydrate - 0g

Papa John’s Cotton Candy (not that Papa John)
Serving Size - 1 oz
Calories - 106
Fat - 0 g
Carbohydrate - 28g

Guess which I’ll be eating for dinner.

Leave It To Beaver

“The Shave”

Late Saturday afternoon, I arrived at the Bay St. Louis/Waveland exit. The exit is just forty miles from Biloxi, and Waveland had been ground zero for Katrina. The exit was marked with the typical exit markings; Lodging, Gas, Food…, but when I pulled on to the road that would lead me to the coast, it was immediately apparent the difference that just that forty miles can make. Five miles from town, even further from the beach, and the wind had destroyed everything within site. There were window shutters, and clothing, and roofing in the tops of trees and the gas stations I had expected to find were barely recognizable. Low on gas, I realized that I’d better find a station soon, because if Biloxi had been any indication, I might not find a working pump for miles, and in a couple of hours it would be dark.

I drove the road towards the coast and steered east at the first major intersection, a few miles later I found a working station and filled my tank. Bay St. Louis was just east of Waveland, and night after night I had seen the Bay Bridge on the news. I had seen the pictures of those huge concrete sections lifted away, and the blood curdling site of that trailer, devoid of tractor, poised at the very edge of one of those gaps. I can’t imagine the horror that the driver must have felt as he surely realized the err of his decision to push onward. As I drove east, I again began to make my way towards the coast, weaving up and down small roads, using the compass in my rental car for guidance as even a map would have been useless as most of road signs were missing. The devastation, if possible, was twice what it had been at Biloxi and extended much further inland. I eventually came across a sign for Main Street, and reasoned that it would take me through the heart of town, and as it was positioned north-south, I reasoned it would take me to the beach. CSX Transportation had performed a near phenomenal feat in having rebuilt the bay crossing in just a matter of months, and I wanted to see it for myself. As I traveled down Main Street, I noticed other cars ahead of me performing three-point turns and heading back in my direction. When I arrived at the end of Main Street I understood why.

Main Street had once been the center of town and ended at the bay where another road had once followed the shoreline. Elevated some 20 or more feet above the bay, Bay St. Louis had not been protected from the wrath of the surge that flooded through its streets. Facing the shoreline were the Hancock Bank building, a couple of restaurants, and a few other small businesses that spoke to the charming little spot it once had been. Now, it is a ghost town. Only gawkers such as myself go there now. From the end of Main Street I could see to the left of me, a little distance off, the battered and broken bridge. Just to the right of me was the new CSX train bridge. I tried to imagine what it might be like to be an engineer on one of those trains, crossing the bridge each and every day and finding the same despair, day after day, at either end of the crossing. I left the shore, heading back up Main Street and began to make my was westward. I meandered one half, to one mile from shore, and found that block after block, street after street, the conditions grew worse.

Close your eyes.

Picture Hiroshima.

Picture Nagasaki.

Now you’ve seen what I have seen.

Nothing you’ve seen on the news can prepare you for the reality of what has been suffered there.

I took few pictures because as I drove the new road they’ve built along the shoreline I found that there’s nothing left to photograph. If I hadn’t known that there had once been homes alongside that road, I would have thought that some timber company had recently harvested there. For one quarter to one half mile from the beach, there is virtually nothing left. The slate has been swept clean except for the mangled trees and occasional iron fence post that remains. Now, dotting the roadside are tiny little travel trailers. Within the couple of miles or so from the beach, there are hundreds of travel trailers, all so small that it’s difficult to believe that a single person could call one of them a home, much less an entire family. In Waveland, as in Bay St. Louis, there is no longer an upper and a lower class. Each block is indistinguishable from the last and regardless of household income, there aren’t enough construction crews in the country to rebuild what has been lost. Not any time soon. And, thus, the tents remain: the U.S. Army, the Red Cross, the Salvation Army. Large and small church groups and volunteers have gathered to try and bring some peace of mind to those who are suffering there.

To shed tears at the site of it all seemed selfish and lacking in any genuine compassion. And, I could barely catch my breath as I drove along one small street and came upon one small home that had been utterly destroyed and yet showed the strength of hope and faith and of the human spirit. The owner of the tiny home had placed a sign in one of the trees that still stood, “Please protect tree. Planted by grandson.” In the face of all that the occupants of that home had had to endure, despite losing their home and everything in it, they were trying desperately to hold on to something of what once had been. Now, a week later, I weep for them. And, I pray with all that I am that the people there will survive. They have survived the storm, but now face desperation and despair and it will require great strength and the compassion of strangers to get them through it all.

It would be dark in an hour or so and I knew that it would be difficult to find my way back to the interstate if I remained any longer, so I drove north again, glancing in my rearview mirror the entire way. I wanted to flee the pain and the suffering I had seen as I sped west along I-10 and as I passed through New Orleans, I barely glanced at the side of the road as I feared it would be too much for my tiny mind to handle. I love New Orleans, but couldn’t bring myself to pull off to Canal Street, not knowing what I would find, and thus I continued westward.

Texas! I said.

Perhaps, Texas will be far enough away from the suffering to put my mind at ease.

The whole ‘72 virgins’ thing…

Well, it all sounds like one big friggin’ headache to me.

And, frankly, who the hell wants to screw a different, inexperienced, uptight, previously passed-over broad each night anyway?

Lately I’ve had the feeling that the walls are caving in around me: My house is a shambles due to too many half-completed projects. I’m new to my job and, at the moment, direction is sorely lacking. I’m am now, and for years to come will be, helping to support my mother. My daughter, at 22, is no where near being prepared for moving out on her own. And, I’m experiencing extreme guilt over baling out on the Red Cross after leading the local director to be so excited about having me speak locally about emergency preparation. etc, etc,…

So, this past weekend, after long feeling the urge to run screaming from everything, I headed out for a long overdue solo roadtrip.

This was not my first time heading out on my own, and I actually prefer a roadtrip by myself. When alone, you turn where you want, eat where and what you want, stay where you want, and there’s none of the “When are we going to get there?” or “I don’t really want seafood tonight”. So, eager to get on the road, I rented an SUV (the only way to roadtrip), threw a map and a bag of clothes in the car, and off I went.

But where? I started south, through central Florida, but when I heard that a Nor’easter was on its way, I decided to turn around. I headed north to the I-10 / I-75 junction and turned west…and just kept driving. I-10, as anyone who’s ever driven it will tell you, is one hell of a boring ride, but was made more interesting by the jackass who insisted on cutting me off in traffic, several times, as he could never actually seem to keep up the pace. I sped west, at more than 80mph, determined to get as far away from Jax as I could, and it was at 11:00 pm when I decided to pull over to rest for the night. I turned south on I-110.

I had driven through Biloxi years before while returning from a trip to Nawlins, and remembered that it had been a hullabalu of activity. Heading down I-110, elevated above the rooftops, I could see that a little damage remained from the storms of the past, but was relieved to see that there were several massive casino hotels open for business. I landed on 90, and after witnessing the mad dash of folks at the casinos, turned south to look for a more peaceful nights stay.

I drove along 90, just a mile or so, when everything grew dark and eerie. I could make out shadows along the roadside that hinted that things were not as they might first have seemed. I felt tears well up in my eyes as I remembered that Biloxi had been hit by Katrina. Hard. I thought to myself, however, “but that was more than nine months ago.” I soon found a couple of small hotels, a Best Western with a blinking ‘No Vacancy’ sign and a Hampton Inn. I plopped down $140 for a room at the Hampton and then headed out to find something to eat. I drove for what seemed like miles without ever finding a restaurant or grocery store, and after developing a sudden sense of claustrophobia, I turned back to the hotel to make-do with vending machine fare. In the morning I awoke, ready as ever to hit the road in my quest to escape my ordinary life. I opened the curtains and looked out upon the Gulf. There was nary a ripple in evidence and the water shone like a pool of emeralds under a clear blue sky. “Beautiful!” I thought, “I must have been so tired last night that I wasn’t seeing things clearly.” With that, I grabbed a cup of coffee from the lobby and headed out the back door to my car. I pulled around to the front of the hotel, and while pausing to turn out of the parking lot, I looked to the left, and then to the right, and I was overcome. I had stayed in the only building within several blocks that was whole.

I-110 in Biloxi ends at the beach…well actually, over the beach. It runs out over the Gulf of Mexico a few yards before turning back in a tight circle which sends you in the direction of the casinos. There is no option to turn south, and it is clear that it is by design. The casinos will be the source of tax money that will help to rebuild the town. I turned north, towards the casinos, where trucks and tractors and cranes worked furiously to demolish the remains of a few huge hotels on the beach, and others worked to build new ones. I drove several blocks away from the beach back into the residential neighborhoods and could see the water lines up to the eaves of the homes. Most had tiny travel trailers parked in the yard as the owners worked to repair the damage. There were Red Cross and Salvation Army tents helping those who came calling. And, there were signs of volunteers re-building homes. I turned around and headed south, passing buliding after building which showed clear evidence of the force of the water that had passed through the town. Of those buildings that stood, most provided a clear view through the first and second floors to what remained on the blocks behind them. I felt embarrassed to be driving through, gawking at the destruction, and I felt angry at the sea. I realized that I had yet to even glance at the Gulf since early that morning.

My drive took me past a cemetary alongside the road which had been completely upturned: headstones lay everywhere and crypts were open. A tiny headstone reading ‘Our Little May’ lay next to the sidewalk which ran alongside the road. I stopped the car when I realized that no one would ever believe what I had seen and with certain unease, took a photo. At about that time, a woman pulled up and honked the horn. My car was parked near the entrance to her battered driveway, and she yelled that there was no parking in her driveway. My first impulse was to yell back at her that there was at least twenty feet of clearance by which she could have passed around my car, but instead I found myself meekly responding with “Yes, Ma’am” as I headed toward my car. I continued driving south and saw homes, hotels, businesses, entire shopping malls that had been reduced to ruin. All the while that I drove I felt the urge to cry but could not because I had been holding my breath so often that I soon had a severe headache. Each mile was a new horror as I drove through Long Beach and Pass Christian all the way to the still closed Bay St. Louis Bridge that we’ve all seen on television at least a hundred times. In Pass Christian there was a Wal Mart, across the road, set back away from the beach, and on a bit of an incline. The entire bottom half of the store had been passed through by the surge and as I drove the block that ran along the side of it I could see where the water had continued through the store and for a full quarter of a mile behind it had destroyed everything in its path.

The force of nature was appalling…and awe-inspiring.

I passed what was once a community of brick homes in a subdivision named “Destiny Oaks”. How cruel a destiny it had been. Another gated subdivision of huge homes was fronted by a series of small ponds which were filled with garbage and sinks and household appliances. One bright spot occurred in one small community where they were holding a carnival. It was inspiring to see the number of people who showed up to enjoy a day in the sun away from the devastation that had become an every day part of their lives, and I realized at that point that except for the sound of construction equipment, and despite the number of cars on he road, that there had been near silence through all of the towns I had passed. I began to notice how everyone else, like me, stood roadside with their cameras, heads held down, void of any gesticulation, wanting to capture the moment, but also wanting to be respectful of those we would leave behind upon our own journeys home.

It was late afternoon, and I remembered that I hadn’t eaten the entire day. I had spent nearly the entire day driving that one strip of beach when it hit me…this was not ground zero.

To see that, I would need to continue further west along I-10.

So, here’s the thing…

I take three pairs of shoes to the cobbler and ask him to:

polish the first pair

polish the second pair

clean and repair the achiles heel on the third pair

One week later and:

the first pair is polished

the second pair is not

the third pair hasn’t even been touched because he forgot what I wanted done

Another week goes by and:

the second pair is polished, but in the wrong color, and the polish is still on the shoes

the suede on the remaining pair has barely been brushed and the wrong repair was performed on the shoe

So, tell me ladies…

Why does it irk me so that the bastard, rather than just repairing the achiles hill as requested, removed the lining which read “Stuart Weitzman” as well?

This is a bit of self-discovery that I could have lived without.

The job I wanted, a better than cost-of-living increase, and a 24% bonus.

‘Nuff said.

Introducing the Republican Party’s new comprehensive plan for desegregation of the South.

Proof, once again, that bussing is not the answer.

Tips for the day: If you can’t beat ‘em fairly…fuck ‘em any way you can.

A couple of years ago I attended, on the company dime, a Karrass Negotiating Seminar. I enjoyed that class, and found I had a real talent for negotiating, and when necessary, for playing hardball. Most importantly, I took away from the seminars some lessons that I use on the job, and in my life, each and every day:

Don’t show all your cards.

Never accept the first offer.

The other guy always has an agenda.

And, most importantly…

If your only goal is to screw the other guy for all you can get…make it worth your while, because you’ll likely never get the chance to screw him again. In other words…

A successful negotiation leaves both parties eager to return to the table again in the future.

Unfortunately, the heads of the company for which I work feel no inclination to ever leave a table open, or any bridge un-burned. It’s ‘get it all while the getting’s good’, and let the chips fall where they may. Most of the time, however, having already burned too many negotiating bridges outside our company, it is the employees who are used as the whetstone to sharpen their cloven hooves.

In a company controlled by thieves and sadists, a negotiation goes somewhat like this…

One month ago, when ‘the company’ decided to deploy their Jacksonville salesforce to the field, they called them into a room and offered the following:

“Your jobs have been relocated to; Atlanta, Charlotte, Memphis, Columbus, East St. Louis, and Dallas. You no longer have a job at HQ. Of course, there are other options as well: You can choose to take a lesser position and remain in Jax, with a significant reduction in pay, or you can choose to do none of the above, and leave the company of your own volition. You need to submit your resume, along with your job preferences, in order of priority from one to four. You have two days to decide.”

“Oh, and…by the way, there will be no offering of severance, and if you choose to leave, you will not receive your bonus for 2005.”

So, now…six of our co-workers…six of our friends, must decide between uprooting their lives, their families, and moving to a new city, or staying in Jax and taking significant pay cuts, or leaving outright and losing the bonuses they’ve already earned.

Now, what you must know is this…they’ve timed the ‘offers’ for maximum effect. Bonuses are paid the third week of each February, and you must be an active employee on the day that the bonuses are handed out. Most of those effected by the change are at a bonus level in the 18-21% range, and the payout this year, and for the first time ever, is in the range of 125-150% of maximum payout. In other words, everyone worked their ass off this year. To walk away means, for most of them, that they would leave behind anywhere from 21-32% of their annual pay in bonuses.

Here’s where the timing comes in… If they try to use the system to their advantage, and accept a job out of state, they must begin spending the relo funds immediately. And, if they do start the process, and begin to spend the money, and then bail out after bonuses are paid, they are responsible for re-paying the relo money in full.

Hell of a choice they have to make, eh?

One of the men involved just purchased a new home, and the company does not reimburse for the financial loss attributable to selling a home just purchased.

Another of the men, employed by the company for more than thirty years, has been by his wife’s side for the past year as she has endured cancer treatment. Now, he has to make the decision whether to lose his job, take a pay cut, or move his seriously ill wife to another state.

One of the women involved cannot move out of state because to do so would cause her to lose custody of her child.

One of the men, single with no kids, has been called all but expendable if he chooses not to move, because…afterall…what excuse does he have for refusing to go? I mean…besides his hometown, his mother, his sister and his nieces, his church and his friends?

The final two of the six effected have been dating for more than eight years, and became engaged last year. Are they now to deploy to jobs in different states?

Now…I must inform you that at no time were these six employees pulled aside for private discussion. Those in charge never once explained to those in jeopardy that they held a valuable place in the company, and that they were ‘needed’ in the field at the new locations. At no time were they appealed to through their sense of loyalty.

Had these individuals been pulled aside, and had they been made to feel that they held a valuable place in the company, and that the company ‘needed’ them to deploy, they could likely have worked out a deal which would have led, at least two of them, to go without a fight. But such was not the case. Instead, they used the element of surprise…throwing at them every vile threat they could conceive and forcing them to react without adequate time to consider their options.

So, when all six of the employees opted to stay in Jacksonville and take lower paying jobs, the president of our division took it as a personal attack upon his skills in ‘negotiating’ and issued a statement that all Jacksonville jobs were now off the table.

You must deploy…or lose everything.

Now, in his blind rage, and in his quest for domination, he seems to have forgotten that by his own design, that if he succeeds in ‘persuading’ them to relocate, he will deploy six disgusted, bitter…enraged employees to the field to sell our services to our customers. Or, that should they choose to tell him to go to hell, that he will have to stand by and watch six experienced, highly knowledgeable salespeople walk across the street to our competition…all with vengeance on their minds.

Our own little Hitler, it seems, has been overcome by his overwhelming need for dominance. He has let his emotions…his all-consuming contempt for the ‘little people’ get the best of him because, without confrontation…without a single shot being fired…without even a single closeted super-secret meeting, the sales folks have prevailed.

They stood together, patiently, and waited it out.

Now, one month after it all began, someone, somewhere…within the hidden recesses of our corporate legal department, has stepped forward with a big ‘ol… “Are you out of your fucking mind?!”

Suddenly, in the last three days…all bets are off. All of the field jobs will be posted to our career site, and all corporate employees are invited to apply. Through attrition, the filling of those jobs will cause vacancies at HQ which can then be filled by those with no desire to deploy.

For the time being…the threat has been lifted. But…why was it ever issued in the first place?

How could those heading a 300M division of a multi-billion dollar corporation think that this was the best way to handle the situation?

Are they stupid?

Or, are they blinded by their own sense of self-importance?

Every employee in the company has been made even more distrustful of those in charge of watching over the hen house. Every single employee in the company is disgusted by the treatment of their co-workers and, for the past month…between the gossiping and the resentment…productivity has been cut in half. And now, it’s my department that’s on the block. For the entire time that the salesforce has had to contend with their impending execution, our pricing and marketing teams have been splitting apart. The heads of the departments were announced weeks ago, and just now, weeks later, the task of determining just exactly what it is that each department will do and how they will do it is being addressed.

As is typical in these situations, some folks will come out better than others. Some will get more than they deserve, and some will get screwed. It’s inevitable for, once again, an outside consulting firm…people with no personal knowledge of our employees’ work histories or successes will be making the decisions based solely upon our resumes.

Why is it that we stay? Why do we continue to stay behind, year after year, time and time again suffering this same fate? Are we addicted to the pain, or is it because we all possess a naive faith that things will…some day…get better? Why do we continue to return to the table again, and again, and again?

Perhaps, we did not learn our lessons so well as we might have thought.

Perhaps, there are those who will always do the kicking, and those who will always find themselves spitting teeth.

Because, in this particular scenario, those in charge have nothing to lose. They are committed to multi-year, golden-parachute contracts. Even if discharged, they walk away with millions. And, not unlike the NFL, a failed executive will find another job at another franchise within days. He will sign a new contract, and he’ll be off and running again.

Frankly, I think it is by design. If you sign a five year deal, and only work two to three years before doing the same somewhere else…financially, you come out way ahead in the game.

Of course, that supposes that the person manipulating the system to his financial gain does indeed have cloven hooves, because only an evil bastard would repeatedly torment the human beings under his command simply for financial gain.

And, what does that say of us, the tormented, that we would keep coming back for more?

Nevermind.

I’m afraid I already know the answer to that one.

I’ve purchased three of these in the past two weeks; one for my daughter, one for my best friend, and one for me.

What a bargain. True. It’s not the top of the line model, but it gets the job done, and now, having tried it, I’m seriously considering a permanent installation unit.

A couple of hundred channels, most uninterrupted by commercials, representing every genre of music from Billie Holiday to Hank Williams and everything in between, and talk show variety from Snoop Dogg to Fox News to Air America.

All for the modest price of $12.95 per month.

I highly recommend that you get one of your own, and suggest Wal Mart as the seller of choice: $75-79 at every store I shopped…$48 at Wal Mart.

Happy listening.

I am so confused.

A few weeks ago, when surfing late night cable for porn, I came across a show I’d never seen before, ‘The L Word’. At first glance, a rather steamy glimpse of the show, I settled in for what appeared to be freebie lesbian action.

Now, it appears that I’ve bitten off more than I can chew, because in the past week, I have become convinced I am a lesbian.

And, no.

I’ve never had sex with a woman.

I’ve never even kissed a woman.

But, now, after catching a glimpse of the character Marina, I am ready to switch sides.

And, apparently, I am not the only one who has become entranced by the oh-too-sultry Karina Lombard.

Damnit! This is gonna make giving those self-righteous, morally superior, lectures of mine a bit awkward.

Of course, I’m not gonna let that stop me, now am I?

I couldn’t help but laugh, and then think of Rob when, while researching my new stray’s neurotic behavior, I came upon this site.

Rob, you are by no means alone in this world so long as there are others with a distaste for the feline species.

Oh, and don’t forget to browse the other petitions while you’re there.

A very, merry Christmas to each and every one of you.

God Bless you today, and everyday throughout the coming year.

I have no idea what’s going on with my comments.

I’m still trying to find the problem.

Please, stand by.

Thank you.

Human beings are, by nature, curious beings; analyzing, probing, exploring. I am, perhaps, an exception to the rule in that I am in a constant state of over-analysis. And, because of this, every now and then, I cross the line from introspective, to a more aggressive form of all out ass-probing.

This has been that kind of week.

Usually, when I enter into this particular circle of hell, I emerge battered and singed, but better for the experience. I have, in years past, found myself performing an inventory of those in my life, and have walked away from relationships which were in some way lacking. The decision to purchase a home of my own was brought about through one of my periods of self-evaluation.

Most of the time, whatever the outcome, I can walk away feeling clean once the deed is done. I can walk away from ‘friends’ or sign on the dotted line without difficulty because…

I feel like I’m in control.

This time, however, my metamorphosis has been less than that of a butterfly emerging from the cocoon.

I feel unfulfilled.

Worse.

I feel lost.

Those who know me at all will attest to my willingness to step up to the plate, express and opinion, and back it up. I usually have no problem in standing up for myself, and have even less difficulty in standing up for someone else.

Which, actually, as it turns out, is part of my problem.

For example…Last year, when the company I work for was screwing with me, and I was passed over for a promotion to a job for which I had previously been hand-picked, and had been training for more than a year…I did nothing. Well, nothing but bitch and moan, that is. However, a month later, when the same thing happened to a co-worker, I was enraged, and took action. Of course, I found myself standing alone, again, and the fury eventually died down.

Again…when out at a nightclub with a gal friend of mine, a stunner who always has a huge smile upon her face, I watched a man towards whom she had expressed no attraction attempt to browbeat the will out of her, and get her to cough up her phone number: “How can I contact you? What’s your last name? Are you in the book? No, really, what’s your home number?” After about ten minutes of listening to her say politely “I’m sorry, I can’t get calls at work. If you want my last name you’ll have to try and guess it. No, thank you, I don’t feel like dancing right now.” I turned around, and in attack posture, screamed “Damn! Can’t you get the friggin hint? She doesn’t want to give you her phone number! She DOES NOT pick up men in bars!” Suddenly, dazed, the guy spun around on his heels and made a mad dash for his by then hysterical buddies, watching from across the bar.

They didn’t send anyone else over to take a shot at her.

Come to think of it, my protective streak runs all the way back to my childhood when my over-protective, hyper-serious thinking made me the girl from whom everyone sought advice. My sister, however, was the one who got the party invitations.

And now…

Just last week, something happened that made me sit up straight and take notice of what I’ve allowed myself, as of late, to become. It was a small thing, really, but it was the way in which I handled the situation which has made me so uncomfortable with myself, for I realize, it is becoming a habit.

Last week, while waiting in line at Wal Mart to return a ceramic heater, I allowed a woman to cut in line ahead of me.

It started off innocently enough. The line was crooked and had meandered into the main walkway when, after repeated “excuse me”s, I had attempted to move the line back up against a wall to make way for those leaving the register. A few minutes later, a couple of women walked up and stood beside me. As the line progressed, I noticed that the women persisted in standing alongside me, and after a few more inchings forward, I heard one of the women say, “Don’t let her jump ahead of you.” I turned and said, “Pardon me?” to which I heard, “Oh. I was talking to her.” We continued to move forward in the line, my mind racing…

Had I been the one to jump in line?

Didn’t I just watch them walk up after me? Wait! Am I sure that I actually saw these two women walk up to the line?

No! I was there first. I knew I was.

So, wearing my shiny new passive-aggressive attitude, I stuck. Every step they took, I took one too. If they tried to inch ahead, I inched ahead. Then, as the moment of truth approached, I found myself pulling a full-on con job…on myself.

It’s not really worth it…

Hey, if they can live with their rudeness, I certainly can live with it…

Let them have their moment, it’s likely one of only a few they’ll ever have…

I’ll just screw with them…and then let them have the register when the time comes. I’ll make them sweat it out…

I’m not going to lose any sleep over this…

And then, we were at the front of the line, and with two registers in front of us, I secretly hoped that both would come available at the same time so that they would ‘learn a lesson’ about how playing unfairly doesn’t really win in the end.

But, no.

I stood there and waited while they stepped ahead to the first available register, and was still standing there when they walked away; No doubt proud of themselves for having not allowed the pushy gal with the designer bag to get a leg up on them.

I felt a terrible sinking feeling. And, so, I continued to con myself.

Well, if they really believed that it was I who had rudely skipped ahead in line, then it was a simple misunderstanding.

Really, it just wasn’t worth the hassle.

The truth is, I knew that they had skipped, whether they knew it or not. And, I allowed it to happen.

…Just as I’ve allowed Cingular Wireless to push me into another month of charges by telling me that the problems with my service would be addressed.

…Just as I’ve allowed my roofer to get by with inferior work because, after all, he’s just a small, little, family-owned company. I don’t want to ruin their Christmas.

…Just as I allowed the p.c. bullies to make me uncomfortable with saying “Merry Christmas” when ringing the Salvation Army bell last week.

Being a doormat is becoming a none-too-welcome part of my everyday life.

And I don’t like it one damned bit!

I would never allow a friend to sit by and take crap off of someone else. I would never respect a person who constantly allowed others to walk all over them. So…how in the hell did I become the anti-me?!

I’ll tell you how: One day…one little indignity at a time.

My willingness to compromise in order to maintain harmony has zapped my energy, and worse yet, my self-esteem. I know, I know…no one can take your self-esteem if you don’t hand it over to them. Yeah. I know. But, that’s where it gets tricky, for all it takes is for you to let someone get the best of you… just one time, and the self-doubt begins to set in.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

And, I’ll be the first to say…

Shame on me.

So, now begins the hard work of getting back to a place where I feel comfortable with myself. …getting back to a place where I value myself more than just anybody else I pass on the street.

It’s a bit scary, and I’ll likely piss off a few people along the way, but it has to be done, because…

Damn!

I don’t even recognize myself anymore.

And I do not like the person I see in the mirror each morning.

This is my fourth attempt to contact you regarding the still not completed repairs to my roof.

When my new roof was installed, just one year ago, I selected your company from the several which I interviewed, not because of your rate, but because of your reputation. At that time, your profile with the Better Business Bureau was near spotless (such, as I now find, is no longer the case), and you came recommended by a co-worker. Furthermore, as is typical in such dealings, I selected a small, family-owned company because of the more personal level of customer service I had hoped to receive.

I now question that decision.

Twice, your company has performed repairs to the flashing around my chimney, and yet it is still not satisfactorily repaired. And now, additional, significant leaks have been located.

I will remind you, at this time, that when you quoted my new roof, a complete tear-out and replacement of my flashing was included. Yet, relying upon your expertise and advice, when the job was performed, I did not question your decision to leave the existing flashing in place. Your advice, after the fact, was that it would be better to leave the “good flashing” that was already in place. Clearly, this was bad advice. Furthermore, I remind you, that a refund for those costs was not offered nor provided.

This will be my final attempt to contact your company.

The following are required in order to satisfactorily address the issues with workmanship:

1. A complete and proper replacement of the chimney flashing.

2. Replacement of any and all rotten wood which is found in the areas surrounding and adjacent to the leaks.

3. A home assessment should be provided, at your cost, to determine whether damage to the structures; chimneys, plaster, walls, flooring, electrical, etc… has occurred as related directly to the work performed on my roof or due to the subsequent and persistent leaks which have followed.

4. Remediation of all mold resultant of the leaks.

This will be my final attempt to contact your company prior to proceeding with the following actions effective Friday, December 23, 2005:

1. Filing written complaints with the Better Business Bureau and licensing boards in Tallahassee

2. Filing a claim with the courts

Finally, if these regretful actions are met with less than satisfactory results, I will seek, through our local consumer advocate, to inform the consumer public of the potential risks associated with conducting business with your company.

It is my hope that an agreement between us can be reached so that we may continue, amicably, our business relationship throughout the remainder of our contract period.

Respectfully,
J. Michele Flynn

Perhaps my mind is in the gutter.

Okay…

My mind is in the gutter, but am I the only one who sees more than just “a reclining figure“?

Damn!

I need to stay away from the pay-per-view.

“Brokeback Mountain Breaks Records”

A film, a, eh, love story, is released, in a very limited set of venues, and draws record crowds for a ‘limited release’ movie.

Pardon my ignorance, and perhaps I am completely off the mark here, but it occurs to me that those numbers, or for that matter, the numbers for any given movie, could be rather easily manipulated through the ‘limited release’ process?

Let’s say someone makes a film about gay cowboys…

Let’s say that in order to legitimize the movie with main stream audiences, and create wider appeal, they decide to portray it as a movie which many people are eager to see…

Let’s say that it is suggested that to not see the film would immediately render one narrow-minded…

Let’s say that they, then, release the movie in only a handful of venues in San Francisco, Los Angeles and New York…

After five plays, Variety touts Brokeback as breaking the record for “highest ‘per-screen take’ of any pic this year.” Memoirs of a Geisha, meanwhile, came in second in ‘per-screen take’, in eight plays, with an overall take more than $100g higher than Brokeback.

What are the chances that in the cities which represent a predominance of the gay and lesbian population, that the film could easily pack the few houses in which it debuts?

How many people will they succeed in persuading with what appears to be (in my eyes) a tactic?

Not many I suspect.

Sure, there will be those eager to be recognized as ‘enlightened’, and who will go to see it just so that they can point their fingers at the rest of us God-fearing Koolaid drinkers and feel superior. But me…

I am not ready to see two men making out. And, I suspect, neither are the majority of American adults. However, for the sake of full disclosure, I do admit to having watched girl-on-girl porn, and enjoyed it. So, does that make me a hypocrite?

Probably.

And, beyond a superficial explanation as to why there is a difference, I have no defense.

Perhaps, if they had promoted the movie as a great drama…or a great love-story…or a great western, I could have watched the movie and accepted the man-love as simply part of the storyline.

It was they who opted to make this a ‘gay cowboy film’.

It seems a bit sensational…and manipulative. Yet, unskillfully so.

I recall a decade or so ago another movie which was debuted to shocked audiences, and which contained a rather brutal twist to the story mid-way through.

The difference…

The focus of the movie: An interesting and original plot line and an outstanding performance by Forest Whitaker. And, in The Crying Game the ’surprise’ was part of the story, it was essential to the story, and while shocking, it was not offensive in and of itself.

Another huge difference, those who went to see it, kept the secret to themselves so that that their friends would be suckered into the theaters too.

Now, that’s manipulation.

Now go…enjoy.

The ‘chaps’ are waiting.

Me?

I’m Netflixing 9 1/2 Weeks.

Because nothing is more shocking than the site of Mickey Rourke seducing a pre-Baldwin Kim Basinger.

Update: As suspected, the gay cowboy charm isn’t enough to hold the attention of an audience who seeks more than a mere tagline. And, as usual, Ace has done a superior job in stating a point which I can only clumsily grasp.

While watching the Jaguars-Colts game, I hear one of the announcers remark on the view of the St. Johns river, “One of only two rivers, along with the Nile, which flow south to north.”

Is that a fact?

It reminds me of when, during the coverage of the Superbowl, there were at least a half-dozen different statistics cited for the size, in square miles, of Jacksonville. Even accounting for the odd political geography of Jacksonville; Jacksonville city limits, Jacksonville and Jacksonville Beach, Jacksonville and all beaches, all of Duval County, there were several extra quotes to spare.

No thought is given to the tossing about of information, or misinformation, in the media.

And, in the scheme of things, what do these particular examples matter in and of themselves?

Nothing, really.

Not a hill of beans.

But is does reflect the loosy-goosy attitude of ‘reporters’ these days. Which is to say that they aren’t, in many cases, reporting at all.

I mean…they’re only sports commentators, right?

Does that excuse the ease with which statistics are tossed about?

No.

Not in my opinion.

If you’re tossing about facts…the least you can do is perform a ‘google’ search. It’s not as if they have to send out a crack team of researchers to scour the national archives for information. It’s a few freakin keys on the desktop.

Frankly, when you get down to it, it’s just plain laziness.

And, none of which makes any friggin difference as to whether the Jags had their asses handed to them today.

No difference at all.

A bumpersticker:

I Played D&D Before It Was Cool

Oh, really?

Now I know where all the ‘cool’ guys have been hangin’.