This Week in Its Briefs

Rather than post anything of substance, as I'm listening to the State of the Union Address while simultaneously writing - pardon the inevitable disconnect - I give you the following entirely random bits of whatever:

1. I'd love to write a little note to aliens (the extraterrestial kind) about the differences between French and American talk shows, just to give them a little heads up during their initial planet probe and to see how well they're listening. A few observations:

First, I'd like to warn them that the presence of overt sexual overtones between hot female host and semi-hot male guest is a good clue of who they might be watching (French! good guess). Then, the amazing ability of hosts and all the guests to dress completely differently, i.e, not every single man in a pin striped suit is also a prime indicator (French again! You're doing great!), and finally, actually allowing a person to speak for at least 2 minutes uninterrupted should clinch the difference (French. You guys are so cheating).

2. I have the most vain houseplants in the universe. These are plants that are not supposed to bloom until the spring. Yet, when I feed them their "flower grow crap" amazingly, if one sprouts buds & starts to bloom the other is compelled by pride or God only knows what...

Gad - the applause for the mush that is emanating from the president's mouth is terribly disconcerting...

Anyway, back to my plants - granted, they are more sentient beings than the man leading our country. They're vain and they compete. Yay Nature!

3. Domesticity: I am a very impatient person, and the drudgery involved in housework of any kind drives me crazy with its inherently circular nature of Dirt Happens/Dirt Gets Cleaned/Dirt Happens. However, I've discovered there is a certain Zen mindset to be achieved while engaged in domestic duties. I cannot enter this magic bubble at all times, but occasionally the mindless repetition of the task involved perfectly suits the formlessness of my inner thoughts and I can actually clean without a red-hot fire of resentment coloring everything I do.

4. The domestic wire-tapping/terrorist spying issue. Oh please, people. Enough already. We all know that it is dreadfully illegal to do this without the proper FISA approvals in place, which, if history bears us out, the FISA courts always give (provided they actually know about it and it's actually warranted). The End!

In the meantime, just for fun I've been encouraging Mr. Fresh Hell to whip out the Arabic over the phone at all times and in any permutations, and to especially utilize obscure and quite obscene proverbs, cursing, etc.

I'd like to give the two native Arabic speakers some fun while they are interred in an obscure dusty basement room, forced to eavesdrop on what are most likely the most boring phone calls on the planet, hands down.

5. Our refrigerator died. The demise of this major appliance is akin to the death of a Woolly Mammoth. I'm not sorry the beast is gone, nor am I all that sorry that I had to pitch every single item in the fridge, as it once again reminds me that Arm & Hammer baking soda has a real purpose. Viva the new (ish) fridge!

6. One of my bosses, the original and erstwhile Cupcake, announced this week his impending retirement - this announcement unbeknownst to me. Points given to boss for being discreet when you least expect it? Many. Overwhelming feelings that the floor might be caving in beneath one? Rampant.

Teeny tiny place in largely indifferent universe secured? Priceless.

Dear Self Pity:

I've been alerted by management about their proposed plan to terminate your employment effective the end of this month.

In light of this, I thought I'd drop you this note, which I trust will find its way to the Powers That Be to allow you to continue your valuable work at this spa.

I like making visits to see you here. Hands down, among all the other employees, you more than all of them continue to be incredibly comforting. I find no treatment more enjoyable than indulging in a fresh round of "poor me" with you. While ennervating and invigorating at once, you manage to not only get my blood boiling but my waterworks gushing.

When the entire world seems poised to push me down face first into the muck or when every good thing I've tried to accomplish rebounds back in my face with the force of spent gunpowder, it's always an excellent time for me to visit you and bask in the relief I find in your very profound reliability. I'm comforted with the knowledge that my sessions with you will enable me to wallow like crazy.

Wallow, I say! Wallow with abandon! After all, why the hell not? As if anyone from management would notice a poor insignificant client like me, sniveling in a combination of rage and release while you pummel the crap out of me!

It's the initial rush that I enjoy and expect but as a long time employee of this establishment, you must be aware that for a client a trip to the spa is rife with expectations. It's why we keep coming back.

Your real gift, and between you and me, what you should really showcase with management, is that eventually you push me up and out - you're honest with the clock but you give me more than enough time to wallow before passing me on to one of your colleagues.

After soaking, sponging and wringing me out, rinsing me perfectly clean, you have the foresight to look ahead to my next treatment in the line and send me off, bled dry of my reciminations and wrapped in a fluffy fresh towel, direct into the arms of Ambition, an employee who by your own admission ranks the number one in this place.

Hopefully you'll be able to make your case with management. If you are indeed let go from this establishment and find yourself without patrons I would hope you would get in touch with me - I have several good friends who would be more than willing to avail themselves of your valuable services.

Sincerely,

All The Rest of Us

Blog for Choice - Better Late Than Never

I messed up by failing to post on the Blog for Choice on January 22nd (the 33rd anniversary of Roe v. Wade). One can easily refresh one's reading on the subject with my recommendation of a quick trip around Ye Olde Internets, which will yield any number of incrediblly eloquent women bloggers on this subject, all of whom should be required reading of both genders.

In the spirit, however, of how most of my anniversary wishes run, i.e. generally belated, here are my thoughts:

I feel incredibly lucky that I don't actively remember a time before this landmark legal decision. I personally have never had to make a choice to terminate a pregnancy. If anything, my quest was to actually become pregnant, a story that may be told another day, if ever.

For every woman like me who has never experienced an unplanned pregnancy, there are dozens of others wrestling with this decision every day.

I use the verb "wrestle" advisedly, as I refuse to believe a woman exists in this universe who will willingly submit to what amounts to an invasive internal procedure and do so with a "la di dah" dash of elan, fitting it in between picking up dry cleaning and grocery shopping.

Given the general hurry up and wait of most women's lives however, it would come as no surprise to me that they do have schedules that force them to do just that: and I use the word "force" advisedly, here, as I firmly believe no woman should be so stressed that she has to do this between stops, as it were.

On a personal note: I, possessing an enormous phobia of hospitals (the anxiety attack producing kind,) some years ago actually went to a hospital in Brooklyn to collect an incredibly dear friend after just such an invasive procedure. After she stopped laughing at my hospital hypertension we shared a quiet, simple meal at a favorite local coffeeshop. It was near Christmas that year, and I brought her a gift - a large jar of a specific vanilla scented lotion I knew she loved. I know that my actions weren't that important, really - after ushering her into a cab home I'm aware she cried that night alone. But the fact that she could do what she did, and do it legally, an action that in retrospect still remains the only possible option open to her at the time, is something that should never be arbitrarily snatched away.

I have always been pro-choice - no doubt about it. I have never really liked using the word choice, however, as it implies a decision between two equally appealing alternatives, much like I choose vanilla ice cream as opposed to chocolate. Making this often life changing decision holds very little appeal. There are hardships inherent either way.

As pro-choice as I am, and will continue to be, my thoughts have always turned to pro-education, an active mindset determined to do everything in one's power to forestall ever being placed in the position of making such a momentous decision.

I'm frightened by how many young women embark on sexual relationships with little or no knowledge of exactly how their bodies function. I find that in turns appalling and unbearably sad. All of the outlandish stories that teenagers share with each other (and frankly, if they did this in my youth I'll bet you dollars to donuts they still do) about how conception actually occurs leads nowhere in the end but to furthering ignorance.

What is more appalling to me are mature adult women who still haven't grasped the essence of female bio-mechanics, to whom the workings of the depths "in there" are as remote as the Moon's surface. Sadly, I've encountered more than a few of these, so if you think that white, middle-class college educated women can't possibly be that naive, well, I've got a bridge in Brooklyn for sale - call me.

While I'm all up for obtaining all the knowledge possible with which to arm oneself, in the interim before this utopia arrives, there simply must remain an ironclad law, which is so fundamental it's even ridiculous we have to mention it, but sadly we not only have to write about it but continually defend it, which is:

The right of a woman to control her personal biological destiny, which lies inherent in Roe v. Wade, which is the fundamental truth that a woman's body is hers, that what happens inside it, mystery or no, is no one's business but her own, and that her wishes, interests, circumstances and preferences are respected, without question.

When last I checked in on Science, stubbornly they still report that as of this day a man does not have a uterus.

Therefore I must conclude that, other than the rationale found in the morally corrupt claims of patriarchy, there is absolutely no earthly reason for men to pass laws on what they do not possess.

When we start regulating testicles, let me know - I know millions of women, I among them, who will certainly have a few suggestions to offer.

Greenery Again

Britspeak, continued.

Stoic's comments on my post about Why I Like British Writing got me thinking - I considered hammering out a comment answering his questions but instead have taken the easy road and created a blog post out of it. Voila, Instant Content!

Stoic had some good questions, which I'll reproduce here without his/her permission (this is my blog, content patent pending - check is in the mail or something):

Q: is it because we don't know the qualities of other literatures except through translations (and translators are usu. not as adept as the first author)? Your command of French may be enough to judge it in the originals. Comments?

I don't agree. Most folks who translate authors, at least those who do so these days, are not only adepts in the author's language but in the translated-to- language. They study for a very long time to get to that point and besides, most translations are done collaboratively. The lead translator is the one who gets to be named on the cover, but there are generally dozens of other sources that are plumbed, including in many instances the author. Your Mileage May Vary, however, and while this is a generalization, it's of course possible that translations of Albanian erotica fail dismally to convey the verve of the original.

I read fairly well in French, but not well enough to truly appreciate the specific phrases used due to their use of more formal language; thus for me the enjoyment is definitely muted. It's certainly a clear enjoyment, but more one for simply reading in another language as opposed to deeply feeling the story.

Reading in one's primary language will necessarily always be more satisfying, I think, which is why English literature is one native speakers will ultimately get. I'm reminded of Joseph Conrad, whose third language was English, yet it was the only one (if I recall correctly) in which he was published. Conrad's works resonate on a very high scale due more to his innate talent than his facility with language, I think; he certainly chose his words with extreme deliberation, and this thoughtfulness, in some of his works, really shows.

Q: if translation is a factor, why can't we find consistently high quality in American (or Canadian) authors? is it because the Brits have a longer literary history, and so much of our stuff (say, until the last century) was derivative?

I beg to differ with Stoic on this point, as he/she takes to task American and Canadian writers. Not listed are Australian, Irish, South African, Caribbean and Indian authors - countries where, due to emigration or status as former British colonies, most authors write in their native English (I'm wearing my pedantry hat for a reason - it's fun and it fits!).

There are a huge number of extremely talented American writers of whom I'm quite fond. I've not read so deeply into the other lexicons of the Used to Be Colonies Club as I could have, but even just skimming the surface of that Club has yielded for me quite a motherlode, which I look forward to plumbing further.

Q: is the appeal of British writing just the sharing of a culture? While institutions may differ, I think we define good/evil, gentleman/scrub, honor/dishonor, etc. much the same.

Our definitions are similar and yet they aren't: much as the film Master and Commander: Far Side of the World illustrated very nicely the class divisions and attendant institutions that have for centuries been (and still are, to a large degree) the bedrock of British culture, so the fundamental questions posed in Stoic's comment would vary wildly even there, much less in America, depending upon who's doing the writing. I'm reminded here of some extremely talented current British writers - Magnus Mills, Christopher Brookmyre, and Irvine Welsh, all of whom write earthy, witty, satisfying and astonishing novels featuring distinctly lower class protagonists.

Americans have our own class issues but ours are more subtle, ill-defined, and certainly shoved under the rug to a large extent - they exist more as a lingering aroma then issues confronted openly and frankly. (Although the fundamental dichotomies posed above could be those that are more easily filtered through a common Judeo-Christian lens than an aspect of shared literary culture.)

In the end I can only speak for my fascination, which I suppose boils down to this: the Brits are masters of the pithy retort, the breath-stopping rebuttal; emperors of the heart of the matter and kings of the components of situationally comedic episodes. The fact that the best of them seem to do it as naturally as breathing always surprises me, pleases me, and never fails to rouse the green of envy.

In Which We Discuss Puppies, Envy, Writing and the British

I confess - I have Brit envy.

I'm a dyed in the wool Anglophile, with a lifelong fascination with British culture, most especially literature and history. Most of my favorite authors, both living and dead, are British. Britian looms hugely in the several historical eras that I enjoy. Many blogs on my favorites list are written by Brits.

The British all seem to have this inborn art for language used wittily, sharply, and eruditely, an art that I swear seeps right out of them - some special language sense that must be bred into them.

Although envious, I don't want to actually be a Brit, as I have enough English ancestry from my father to qualify sharing in the highly diluted gene pool. I don't necessarily want to sleep with any of them, as I've already done that and found the experience, while memorable in the abstract, not compelling enough to repeat.

What I really want is to write like them - use the English language to probe, to parry; to delight, to exort; to spring up and sink its delicate yet lethal talons into the throat; to leave its reader astonished, confounded, forever changed. To be able to use language akin to raising an eyebrow sardonically, looking down the nose and intoning "Indeed", without ever truly moving the lips.

Even though Brits have been called a nation of shopkeepers, what I think is more accurate, at least for those who write, is they are a nation of storytellers. And what raucous, wonderful, and often eccentric stories they have to tell.

For every sentence I write that I believe is as warm, heart-tugging and achingly perfect as a basketful of warm puppies, I read some blisteringly sublime paragraph written by a Brit on the same subject that dissolves me in helpless laughter, shaking my head with profound admiration at how neatly and concisely it's been done.

And then I pound my fist with rage. Oh, the unfairness of it all!

But for all this envy I've not visited Britain. In one way I long to see the places that through books or films have ignited my imagination in myriad ways and for so many years.

In another way I'm afraid the places I would visit won't ring with the resonance I so dreamily expect; that the buildings of the past won't appear to me as towers of history or knowledge or even places infused with the conciousness of hundreds of lives, but be merely poky old piles of timber and stone, devoid of inspiration and more thrilling in the abstract.

Or, most contrary and frightening of all - my expectations and the reality will match up according to a recipe of unknown fiery combustion and I'll never be able to leave.

So, for the time being, I'm content to view my Britain from afar. I'll get there, eventually, but for now, even with my envy, it can remain a romantic destination seen comfortably from an illusionist's armchair.

One of my heroes, William Shakespeare, definitely set the bar very high with the following passage:

This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands,--
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.

William Shakespeare, "King Richard II", Act 2 scene 1

Now that's a basketful of warm puppies!

File: Walled City, Secrets Of

My first glimpse of Taroudaant is the bus station outside the city walls. It's hardly a romantic vista in July of 2000 - I arrive exhausted after a 9 hour all night bus ride south from Casablanca with my brother-in-law, after which I can barely keep my eyes open.

Taroudaant is a small market town in southern Morocco, about an hour inland from Agadir on the coast - it's a hub for the agricultural areas surrounding it, with huge farms outside the city limits.

The town itself is a walled city - one of a few remaining medieval walled cities in southern Morocco, erected during the 13th or 14th century. It's accessible and attractive, with a pleasant and managable souk. and walls that are in many places walkable.

Although some decades ago the town was considered a "must see" tourist stop for southern Morocco, recently it's been eclipsed by Ouarzazate, situated further inland; a more convenient trip south from Marrakesh, and home to the country's burgeoning film industry. (Practically every film with desert scenery that's been made in the last decade is filmed in or around Ouarzazate.)

I personally believe Taroudaant has suffered somewhat for being taken so cruelly off the tourist route, as tourism remains Morocco's life blood. But the town is still thriving, as it is first and foremost the market town for the agricultural areas surrounding it, a marketplace for the gigantic farms comprising thousands of hectares of citrus, dates, olives, argan. The town center also boasts a thriving tannery industry.

Argan oil is one of the the most amazing products of the region - the argan tree only grows in a few locations on earth, southern Morocco being one of them. Its fruit is like an olive, only larger, rounder, and darker, with a hard outer shell like an almond. Harvesting methods reamain primitive, however, and it generally takes at least 20 hours of intensive work to produce 1 litre of oil.

Argan oil has two incarnations and as a cooking or eating oil, its chemical properties don't just mimic the benefits of olive oil, in many aspects it surpasses them. With an additional refining process it is ready to be used cosmetically, and is a natural rival to some of the most expensive anti-aging creams. Prohibitively expensive in the States, good quality is still available in Canada and Europe. The best, of course, is still to be found in southern Morocco.

At the close of my first day there, at sunset, we climb the walls of Taroudant and I walk on ramparts that enclose what I feel is one of the most picturesque cities in Morocco. The sunset is particularly vivid, brushed with a reddish glow from the surrounding brick walls, motes dancing in the dust - the traditional deep blue of the women's clothing as they congregate on benches situated on the main street leading into the city is a gorgeous contrast to the white-gold sand of the walls and streets.

In Taroudant, we stay with family friends in their spacious house about a 20 minute walk outside the city walls. This is my first experience (outside of Mr. Fresh Hell's family) living in a sophisticated middle class Muslim household.

In addition to the parents there are two younger children living in the house [the oldest daughter a university chemistry student]. The children have their daily chores in addition to school attendance and study - their very limited free time is not spent in front of the television set - although a small one is displayed in the men's and guest salon at the front of the house.

In this extremely traditional setting, the father works outside the home. The children as well as their mother and the daily kitchen worker perform their chores with no grumbling. Laughter and good natured teasing drift upward from the first floor salon to the cathedral ceiling Mealtimes are calm and ordered but not somber - lively conversation and laughter dominate the table.

This is an example of basic country living in Morocco - a traiditonal Muslim household with no influence of Madison Avenue advertising or MTV, not many books on display that aren't school texts. It is an atmosphere of peace and calm. Traditional it may be, but each person appears to me to be at ease with life, in a way that sharply contrasts with my New York life. (Not that I'll give that up in a New York minute, but I feel it instructive to venture outside its confines and take some notes while I'm there.)

Moroccan hospitality is legendary, and as a guest I am spared no comfort. This visit becomes a very fond memory for me of relaxation and warmth.

I return to Taroudaant in August of 2001 with Mr. Fresh Hell, my sister, and her husband. We drive a sporty rental car rather than relying on the bus, which is merely the first of many differences.

What I see on this second trip is the town seen through Mr. Fresh Hell's eyes - he had lived there while growing up, spending his summers and weekends at the family farm. In the 103 degree heat, we drink a pot of mint tea on the shaded terrace of the local cafe, where he shares his reminiscences of the town and notes, despite the passage of years, its relatively few changes.

While my sister & brother-in-law explore the small souk, Mr. FH struggles to convince the cafe proprietor that he indeed lived in the area while young. The cafe owner remains skeptical, in a fashion I find surprising, given Mr. FH's knowledge of local landmarks and lore.

Until I think about the commotion surrounding our parking the teeny rental car in the local lot and wandering up the street to the main square. I assume, as I often do during this particular trip to Morocco, that the intense local interest lies in the juxtaposition of Mr. Fresh Hell and his three light-haired light-eyed companions.

Watching closely, however, I realize that for all that Mr. FH resembles the men lingering outside of the shop entrances, or shares a basic body type with the teenage boys congregating at the corners, there are many bold differences that mark him as someone who no longer belongs. He certainly can't be marked as different merely by speech alone, as he speaks like the native he basically is.

Part of it is definitely the obvious quality of his shoes, the undeniably superlative First World cut of his clothing, the stylishness of his haircut. (I like to believe part of this difference is also his intrepid American wife, but this is likely wishful thinking.)

Finally, I decide that what sets him apart is an awareness of self and body that is only developed through living 15 years in New York; an urban swagger, if you will, that translates to these muddy streets as a quiet and sure self-confidence, underpinned with the merest trace of hidden menace - a combination of alertness and expectation.

Our day ends and we are rewarded on the drive to Agadir with the extraordinary sight of a whole herd of camels being driven down the side of the highway.

My travels may never lead me back to Taroudaant; however, the mysteries uncovered in this intriguing walled city linger on in my memory.

Oh The Irony of Writing about...How Hard it is to Write

Boy do I expect a lot from the God of Inspiration.

Apparently, he doesn't linger in the skies Zeus-like clutching thunderbolts of genius ready to fling at my head and thus onto blog.

Nor is this Kind and Noble Sir found, as many have claimed, at the bottom of a whisky bottle.

But I, who am rarely if ever at a lack for words, spoken or written, find myself often confronting blank blog space with, er, nothing but blank space where my brain should be,or at least when I left it last I used it.

I've gotten into the habit of posting at night, as I'm emphatically not a morning person, the lure of blankets, bed & sleep being far more compelling. Consequently I think about writing posts during the course of my day - some times it's an active sort of thinking where I select and discard topics - at other times I'm inspired [finally, Gods! Thanks!] by an especially worthwhile or elegant post on another blog.

Mostly though there is an undercurrent of thought that's shadowy, half-formed by an article I read during the day, or a mundane situation that registers as a hearty ping on my pet peeve monitor. For all the subjects I deem now to be too personal to blog about - oy, check back with me in a year when I've exhausted all of the suitable ones and we'll talk.

Alas, lately the standoff between the blank screen and I feel like nothing more substantial than the static snow of a television station off the air in the wee hours of the night [now there's a question for trivialists - does a station exist now that actually goes off the air and broadcasts only snow, or is that something that only those of us of a certain age will ever remember?].

Why do I blog? Why does anyone? I have few illusions that I'm reaching untold silently lurking thirsty thousands drinking in my wisdom [ah, pardon my gag reflex just now], or that the words I write on this date, at this time, during this life, will be exhumed in some obscure future by a hapless cyber-scholar and cherished for their oddities of early 21st century life, if nothing else.

During my short blogging tenure the discipline of writing something, anything - which I have striven to do on as close to a daily basis as I can manage - has changed subtly [and in some ways consierably ] the form my writing has taken, the way I choose to edit, punctuate, and select my words. My hopes, vain or otherwise, is that this nifty trajectory of progress continues with an upward trend and I end up wiser at the end. Perhaps all my words can do is nourish me - food for thought, indeed.

Although if you run into the Gods of Inspiration, it's always wise to do as I do - buy them a nice scotch on the rocks, sit back, and wait for the thunderbolts to fly.

Hippies, Partially Explained

Hippies.

I know, hippies! Seriously. Is hippiedom still considered an alternative lifestyle? Does anyone think about them anymore? Perhaps they exist somewhere on communes in the middle of rural nowhere, solidly butressed against the present by their persistent adherence to the past.

I must confess. I grew up as a psuedo hippie. In the early 70's, my newly divorced mother flirted with the counterculture. Since she was far too repressed to do anything but dabble, and then vaguely, she espoused hippies.

For me and my siblings, as kids, what did we know? We knew jack shit about politics, and didn't understand the underpinnings of any of the causes we learned about - but the outings were fun, the crafts were compelling, and the music was bouncy.

In my mother's defence, she was likely waging a private personality war with the uptight 50's mentality with which she'd been raised and the strictures of her Depression-era parents.

During the 60's, the responsibilities of a [too] young mother raising four small children didn't allow her much Flower Power. My father remained traditional, although ironically all it took was one tiny footstep into the 70's and he had grown longer hair and a moustache, and was wearing wildly colored paisley patterned polyster shirts. [Go ahead, cringe. This was high fashion, people! Does no one remember bellbottoms? Pretty soon I'll be yelling at the neighbor kids, "Get offa my lawn!" Sigh.]

With the dawning of the Me Decade, however, I suspect my mother felt justified in finally having the freedom to "do her own thing". I've put quotes around that now, but back in the day it didn't need any to make its point.

We didn't live on a commune, weren't given outlandish names or wear tie-dye, and were only very peripherally, discreetly exposed to a soft drug scene, but...rock bands often practiced in our living room at nighttime, we went to communes [to visit my aunt just for the day, try not get too dirty], and my mother introduced us to early vegetarian cuisine.

You can thank me now for eating what you'll never have to. Lord, how tasteless 70's soy burgers were! Vegetarian food in its infancy lurched backwards to a psuedo-romantic "back to the land" philosophy often involving intense application of rough peasant flours, which when baked into lumpen cakes or cookies were tough enough to crack a tooth. Mainstream consumption wasn't geared to being health conscious, so the products or recipes on hand weren't rules, per se, but more guidelines.

Freshly blended carrot juice is vile, no matter how the modern smoothie gets spun. I will admit that I liked the homemade granola, but the rest of it - ppfftt! I rapidly became a rabid carnivore as a result of this force feeding, and, while my food sense has improved immensely, still find a secretive glee in selected preservative-laden snacks.

It didn't help that my mother was an indifferent cook at best, and has only improved in recent years because she uses Mr. Fresh Hell's recipes.

My childhood hippie experiences, when seen against the backdrop of the uber techno-googleness of 2006, seem awfully quaint. It was spending hours sitting cross-legged on the floor listening to some guy with waist-length hair strumming a guitar, or discovering strange herbal mixtures deep within the musty confines of a health food store. It was a throwback to the days of making your own candles, creating original batik designs for a sofa throw, or a macrame plant hanger.

I've heard persistent rumors that soy burgers aren't nearly as tasteless as they used to be. Doesn't matter, as I'll continue use them as doorstops.

Boy do I feel dumb

Because my father's birthday is actually today.

Oh well - the sick/funny/true part is he won't mind that I got it wrong!

[You know, the fact that he's dead part.]

For My Father

Today is my father's birthday - had he lived, he would have celebrated his sixty seventh year.

He died thirty years ago on December 26; thus my memories of my father will always be colored by the fact that he was young when he died, and so was I.

He had a wickedly pointed and dry sense of humor, which I have inherited. I remember him most fondly as "Action Figure Daddy" - a grand player of and lover of games of all kinds. His keen competitive nature was revealed in his mastery of physical prowess and team sports as well as his love of mathematical teasers.

He had a profound fascination with probability theory and its definition in chance found in its most playful forms. My interest in puzzles and logic games is definitely due to his influence.

He had a love for travel, and a fascination with American history. He was not very sentimental nor overtly emotional.

I consider myself lucky that in addition to photographs I also have his image preserved on 8 mm film transferred to videotape [which very soon will have to be burned onto a CD to survive] with which to comfort myself, and to remind myself that he not only did exist but thanks to technology he does so still.

His essential adult personality is still shrouded in mystery to me, a mystery which remains largely intact even now. [I wonder idly whether we would have a productive relationship as adults, and whether he would approve of my husband. To the former I always reply tentatively; to the latter I most certainly know that he would, at the very least, have appreciated Mr. Fresh Hell.]

The mystery remains because when he died I wasn't an adult experiencing a mature and equal relationship with a parent; rather, I was stuck in an adolescent limbo, armed merely with my memories and a limited genetic legacy of his height and profile with which to forge a bond.

A limbo which abruptly stopped.

It took me many years and much heartache to reconcile myself to the fact that no matter how much I may have wanted to change the facts, my father was gone. Unlike my peers, I didn't have common experiences of a male parent as signposts along the way to adulthood, and often when I was younger my rage at the unfairness of it all threatened to engulf me and sometimes, to my chagrin, defined me. That rage at being cheated was often a justification for bad behavior, or a rationale for failed relationships, and not the least a ready excuse for my personal failures.

Which is not how he'd see it at all.

And when I realized that I looked at this loss in a new and different light:

One that forgave us equally for being who we were; one that cherished the few memories for their substance without bemoaning the lack of a future; one that didn't place the blame either with him nor with me, but where it should always have been, at the foot of an impersonal universe that took him away too soon; one that reconciled the man he was with the woman I have become.

Requiescat in pace, Daddy.

Terror and Me - We Go Together

Fear was the defining feature of the New School of Propoganda, first developed in the early 21st century.

[This is what I hope future historians write.] Lately, it seems to me that nearly all of this country's news media trade primarily in fear.

If it's not one's local television or print news with "breaking stories" on Graham Crackers That Kill, or alarming headlines such as "Suicide - How To Tell if Your Teen is Next" or "Robbery on The Rise - Are You Truly Protected?", it's fear paraded on a global basis with a story about the next 4 persons in rural Turkey to have succumbed to avian flu, or my own personal favorite, the topic most likely to sell newspapers and keep Americans glued to their television sets in the most abject positions of fear - The Global War on Terror, or GWOT, as it's often abbreviated all over the Internets.

I usually look at that acronym and immediately think "G-Wot? What? Wha-oh, yeah, right, that one." Sometimes if I'm merely scanning a blog post or article, my eye will read it as BLOT, which I'll admit is due to my habit of speed reading.

Call it what you like, but one cannot deny the power of the shivery fingers of Terror, Global War On. It's craptacular! It's ginormous! It has extremeosity! Ooh baby, this story sizzles and sells!

Take note: at any given time, usually during a temporary lull of the scary, when it's entirely possible that our citizenry may have forgotten, if only for a nanosecond, to cringe in fear that pesky evil foreigners/outsiders may be penetrating our metaphorical private parts with their dastardly weaponry, there is some kind of turbulence created by this administration and broadcast loudly enough to insure our attention is turned away from the Man Behind the Curtain and the strings he may be pulling back to what's on center stage, illuminated by the very foofy color-coded terror alert system [I defy any regular person to not only know which color refers to which level but how we go from level to level and, more importantly, why we should care].

Every day it seems the stakes get ratcheted up - every single lame justification, arrogant maneuver, or naked attempt at usurpation of power that has been perpetuated by the current administration gets somehow deflected by, blamed on, or given important and improved justification by our new compatriot, the good old GWOT.

GWOT is dependable - it's got legs. It ain't going away anytime soon; most particularly because it's not a war between nations, but a war between ideologies, global hegemony, and ownership of dwindling natural resources.

It has, as simply as early melodramas, a moustachioed swarthy villain conveniently shrouded in black lashing a helpless blonde damsel with a very nice figure to the train tracks, chortling with glee as the onrushing train makes its way towards her, twirling his moustache in anticipation. Who doesn't love the suspense? Will our stalwart blonde find a way to escape her bonds before the train dismembers her? Will her eventual triumph spell the complete and utter downfall of sheer evil? Stay tuned!

All of which makes these times interesting as well as chock full of the chewy goodness of manufactured fear which is, of course, the multi-colored sprinkles on our ordinary portion of plain vanilla Fear: we haven't misplaced our garden variety fears in any of this exertion - we still have the old standards - fear of losing our livelihoods, fear of death and/or dying alone, fear of abandonment, fear of creepy crawly things - now we have fear layered in fear with a side order of fear.

Fearsome, right?

I certainly can't speak for all citizens, or even a healthy minority - but honestly, it takes most of my energy to cope with my fear of small spaces, let alone anything more existential.

Since September 11th, 2001, my life hasn't changed quite as I should believe, if I was actually foolish enough to believe what I've been told.

I still get up every weekday to go to work, riding to and from my office on the very same subway system I did before; I still stop by the corner deli to buy my beer, bread, milk & eggs; I still have evenings with friends & family, and still travel by air to vacation in exotic destinations; I still have to find a way to get my drycleaning out of hock.

Living my life now exactly as I always have, without making any kind of modifications other than those imposed on me by the perceived fears of my largely pantywaist government, I'd like to think I've kept my fears commensurate with my reality.

So I ruin some future student's thesis [exit stage left, laughing and twirling extravagant moustache].