Sunday, March 13, 2011
Sunday, March 6, 2011
The Supreme Court recently clarified that freedom of speech, even if the subject, tone or intent of that speech is vile, incendiary, misguided or hurtful, is a sacrosanct and inalienable right in this country; for the time being, at least. Even though the Court found in favor of the vicious, hate-spewing, possibly inbred Phelps family that picket schools, funerals and public thoroughfares in the hopes of convincing the masses that we deserve the punitive fury of the Divine because we tolerate homosexuality*, I say, "Yay!" While I use that word often, it is one that is well-chosen, not just for its resounding affirmation, but also for its exuberance and joie de vivre. Even if your words are truly shitty, I think you should be able to speak them. I also believe there is a responsibility that comes with having a voice, and that you should think before you speak. Or type. Definitely before you text, especially if you're drunk. Sometimes I forget that I believe this, and sometimes thinking is just too much effort, but I still want to talk or write, so I do it anyway, but this post isn't about me, it's about WORDS. Why don't you just shut up, Imaginary Cyber-Conscience that's always interrupting me? Always nagging, always whining! You're not the boss of me! Shut it!
Like I was saying, words are potent. As Chief Justice John Roberts wrote in his ruling, "Speech is powerful. It can stir people to action, move them to tears of both joy and sorrow, and...inflict great pain." In 1984, arguably the best book written in the history of ever, one of the cornerstones of mass control is the manipulation and restriction of words. This is a partial explanation of Newspeak, the language Orwell created in the book. Here Syme, who is working on the latest edition of the Newpeak dictionary, is speaking to Winston Smith, the protagonist of the story:
Scraps of paper
In your pockets
In your shoes
In your memory
Shreds of love
Curled at the edges
Shards of a life
Stuffed in a pocket
To be read
Read between the lines
Underlined in red
Unfurled far away
In a piece of a place
A slip of a spark
On a scrap of paper
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Friday, February 25, 2011
That was back when I was adorable. Look how cute I was!
I wrote a blog before this one about a trip I took with McAdams to Montana.That was the birth of the magic. My very first favorite picture from that blog was this one, entitled "Holy Shit House, Batman!"
I was modest back then, and put asterisks between the 'S' and the 'T' of 'shit'. How cute is that?!
I still love it! Historically accurate rock rules!
Oh, just listen to my love sound! By the way, The DeFrancos were Canadian. That's just another little fun fact I offer you here, on this blog, free of charge. Anyway, this just proves that I have always had impeccable taste in music, and you should think that I am wise, discerning and urbane. Think that now, please.
Mama came home from school and shrugged the heavy book bag from her sagging shoulder. Then came the slow process of shedding the armor she wore against the cold: the peeling off of the gloves, finger by finger; the wool hat releasing the damp hair beneath; the unwinding of the scarf, over the head and around, over and around, enough to make you dizzy; thick coat, button down sweater, pullover, and finally the elegant figure of mama emerged, like a delicate bird that had landed uncertainly in the living room. Only her belly looked incongruous, as if she had swallowed a beach ball. Where had she found a beach ball, here in the middle of a Wisconsin winter?
“You asked me where your sister came from, and how she got in my stomach. Those are good questions. I got you a special book from the library today. Shall we make some hot chocolate and read it?”
The book was filled with pictures made from figures cut out of brightly colored construction paper. It was called Where Did I Come From? We spread the pages across our laps, warm and filled with the taste of sweet, curled in on each other like the leaves of a cabbage. I smiled. I was happy and ready to begin. “Your Mommy and Daddy love each other very much,” she began, as I fingered the picture of a smiling, dark haired man, holding the hand of a pretty blonde lady…
I think I am about to embark on some firsts coming up in the near future. Normally, change scares the heck outta me, and I resist it like kitties resist the shower. Try it. They resist real hard. But many of my firsts have been great, and if it weren't for them, there would never have been seconds. Bring it on, life! I ain't afraid of you!
*Charo pronounces it "cuchi - cuchi". Two free fun facts in one posts! Damn, this blog is good!
Monday, February 21, 2011
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
My niece is turning six this month. What a great year! It's full of surprise, too. When I was six, I realized that I was going to keep getting older, forever. At the time, that was a good thing.
It was a phase.
I lived across the street from the school and I started the first grade in September (no preK or Kindergarten for us, we just manned up and learned it all in one year!)
Reading, wRiting & aRithmetic , and it was taught to the tune of a hickory stick, they could spank you if you were bad. I never got spanked. Others did.
I went to school with my older brother and lots of cousins and everyone in the neighborhood went to the same school.
I had crazy curly red hair and my mother made all my school clothes. She sewed all summer for my wardrobe. It was not extensive or creative. It was functional.
My Mom starched my petticoats (until they cut your naked legs) on the weekends and hung them out on the clothes lines to dry.
My brother had stretchers that they put in his jeans to make a crease. Laundry had its own life!
I had skinny feet and needed good shoes (my father didn’t enjoy that!). We got ONE pair per year. Period.
I had lots of playmates and we played after school and after dinner until dark. No homework until you were older. Maybe the 3rd grade and not much at that.
I loved my box of Crayola’s and never pealed the paper off or broke them. I was so happy when I moved up to 16 from 8 colors.
My favorite color was Burnt Sienna and that was a big step on the color wheel.
We did not have TV or even a clue about TV. We listened to the radio. We took naps. We read books. We wrote in tablets so our handwriting improved.
I had the chicken-pox and nearly clawed my skin off. And Measles also. No shots for us. Just endure and survive.
We had the first Polio vaccine and we took it in sugar lumps. Yummy, but very edgy.
We had only little white children in our schools, and celebrated Christian holidays only.
I bit my nails. I had bird legs and looked like a stick figure. It was all part of a journey that we all took together.
I still have lunch and talk to those kids that were with me in Miss West’s first grade class at James B. Bonham.
We are still on that journey that began at age 6. It was a great adventure, and amazingly enough it started 60 years ago!
This is Nikki Sixx. He has nothing to do with this post, but this is what he looks like when he shouts at the devil.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Sexy, right? I would have paid extra for any of these hirsute harlots. I especially like the one who may or may not look like a lady whose name rhymes with "Godzilla Porker-Gnomes", on account of I like how eager she is to show off her Beiber-do. Beiber-do-me-right, right?! Yeah, she wants me...I mean, she wants Justine. Anyway, according to my source, who may or may not be a figment of my imagination, Justine went for this guy, the uber-hottie Baby Boy 87 Zevran Sierra, a sim-star in his own virtual universe:
Grrrr! Baby Boy Zevran looks like a sweetie, but he's a real nasty minx! In the Smelly Pages, which is a listing of all things stanky, B.B. Ate Sev-Zev, as I like to call him, is described as "... a suave young boy with windswept hair. He had brown eyes and brows which made him looked [sic] perpetually frightened and scared." Dang y'all! How hot is that?! Sounds kind of like a man-child we all know who is comin' atcha with a new 3-D biopic, on screens in a theater near you later this month, right? But it gets better still; BB87z has an identical twin, Baby 86 Giovanni Sierra! Double my pleasure, double my fun! Can I get a discount if I double my order? (Seriously, you must check this out! I didn't know things like this really existed!
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
I think he looks a lot like David Sedaris, world famous author, commentator and funny man. They have the same teeth.
The horses on the carousel refused to budge.
Notes of music froze and
shattered with prismatic finality...
The mimes couldn't change their expressions.
When a bread truck overturned and
baguettes were suspended in mid-air
pigeons were afraid to leave their roosts for the feast.
Women in expensive fur hats could not retract icy stares.
Rats went skating on rivers of frozen dog piss.
Double busses refused to straighten out
continued running in circles indefinitely.
Terrorist bombs exploded in s l o w m o t i o n
allowing everyone to escape harm.
A fountain in the Place Edmond Rostand became
a crystal pineapple inhabited by eskimos.
A Norwegian with a pickax broke off pieces for souvenirs.
Outside Paris waterfalls retreated back into mountains.
God Himself became an irrelevant ice cream vendor
slowly scooping a ball of lemon sherbet
from horizon to painted horizon.
©1986, Whitman McGowan
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Monday, January 24, 2011
Saturday, January 22, 2011
The historic part of Deadwood is mostly torn down, burned up, or remodeled, nowadays. The area was severely economically depressed until 1989 when gambling was legalized, and the gaming industry gave the city a much needed financial shot in the arm. Unfortunately, now Deadwood is filled with casinos that are dimly lit and tacky, like I imagine all of Reno to be. I don't know why, I just do. The HBO series also did much to generate interest and tourism to the city, so there are a lot of cheesy souvenir stores and uninspired eateries, including one that is owned by Kevin Costner that is crammed with memorabilia from his movies. That was kind of weird. Deadwood is a little out of the way, because it was bypassed by I-90, and I found its sister city, Lead, to be more interesting and charming. Even the famous whorehouses are gone, the victims of a big raid in 1980. The last one to close was called "Pam's Purple Door." There's some trivia for ya! After some industrious sleuthing, I did happen to spot a sinful roundheel strumpet plying her wares in front of a "slot house"...
You can see less famous graves like this:
Ms. DuFran was the most profitable madam in Deadwood, and also had brothels in Belle Fourche and Rapid City. The one in Belle Fourche was called "Diddlin Dora's" and was advertised as "Three D's - Dining, Drinking and Dancing - A Place Where you Can Bring Your Mother!", which is especially convenient if your mother is Elliot Spitzer, Jimmy Swaggart, or Hugh Grant. Calamity Jane worked for Dora DuFran as an occassional cook and maid, and it was from Diddlin' Dora's that Jane went off on her final bender. The little devil planter in the corner of the photo is one of four, that represent Dora's four business establishments. Also buried at Mt. Moriah is Dora DuFran's beloved husband and her pet parrot, Fred.
All right, my precious co- umm, concubines, that's about it for Deadwood. My fingers are tired and my mind's half worn from thinkin', so I hope you're satisfied, coc- Caucasians and other racial groups who read this blog. I'm out! Signing off from Deadwood,