Forgiven

I sat on the couch after we got home. D crashed on the bed - sleeping off the drugs. Moby hopped up beside me, and scrunched up. I laid a hand on his back, and he slowly uncoiled, until fully stretched out, then turned belly-up, front paws curled, under my hand. I indulged my ditherment with small claims court TV, and a cup of tea, keeping still to gently hold a moment of perfect peace. All is well.

The power was off this morning, soon our electrical bills will no longer be in the single digits, but it's only fair. A newish place constructed in what was basement, heated by the boiler on the other side of the wall, pipe noises our ears filter out by now. The electric meter had not been properly reading. D woke me in just enough time to make my tea and cereal, he'd been up for hours finishing his paper. Nothing by mouth for him. We set off early to let him complete writing, then print at the school, sans distracting workmen in loud, and presumably profane, Chinese out our door and window. I read a book about painting in the Netherlands between 1500-1600. I can always find interesting books in any library.

Early, per usual, after our long walk to the hospital. With laptop and heavy coats, I plopped into the waiting room, to wait, while the nurse took D away. Did the crossword and sudoku, read the local free paper, then the remnants of a NY Times, which proved more interesting and readable than I expected. A review of Into Great Silence - which I now want to see. The obit of Frank Snowden, who promoted the idea that anti-black bigotry was not a feature of antiquity. The abuses of Guest Worker programs and inadequate legislation. Even tried Will Shortz crossword, but took up D's research first, the Pia Casa in Venice during the sixteenth century. Overheard an elderly, and very pale woman, and her daughter, talk with a middle aged black woman about black hair care and styles. Heard every tiny sound from the restroom attached to the waiting room, which I decided to be amused by.

D appeared, sleepy, but no worse for wear, his esophageal stricture stretched for perhaps another couple of years yet. He ate the packaged pudding, amazed I'd remembered a spoon, as we waited for the cab. Home, made soup for my own lack of lunch, and we quietly settled, comfortable in each other, forgiven any useful activity the rest of the day.

Egg drop soup, leftover nan, leftover cake, the pressure gone, for today, for this evening. Tired, yes.

Fortunate beyond words.

Brown (Photo)

... As you say.

Older

I'm older than I've ever been, and now, I'm even older. I have brown, temporary dye soaking into my stratified, cornified, squamous epithelium, as a transition stage to the profusion of grey. Women in my family either go grey early, or hardly at all, ever. I wound up in the early camp. Figures, I'm early for everything else.

Being early, invariably, has it's own set of realities. Interfaces with the procrastinators and invariably late can be an anguish of fury and self doubt, and a lesson in patience and resignation. Helping setting up chairs and getting the pickles out of tiny mouthed jars and into glass dishes, awkward chatting or peaceful usefulness in the last half hour of pre-party preparation. Getting stuck moving a heavy OR table into the room, or time to let the sleep drain out as thought gathers at 0645. Snagging a seat at a meeting, or standing around before the bagels arrive, and the room is changed. Waiting out in the cold and rain for the Publick House doors to open at 1210 for Sunday Brunch.

It's pessimism, assuming that I will get caught in traffic, the train will break down, I will forget the paperwork and have to go back, the line will be long. I don't want to be the one everyone stares at stumbling through the row in the dark for the play. Not that I'm fond of sitting through all the ads and previews at a movie - part of why I have grown so reluctant to see a film in a theater. The always late make the assumption that all will be well, a hopeful state of mind that seems easier, less stuck to heavy worries. But, having been on the side of waiting for those who know I will wait for them, I never want to make anyone else feel so small or disdained.

It's a trade-off, like any set of perspectives. Glass half empty, glass half full, glass twice as big as it needs to be, glass with plenty of room for a top-off. I experience life from this angle, occasionally getting up on a chair to see what it looks like from there, moderating, understanding. I've gotten less stressed about consciously being early, more content with approximations, knowing when late is expected.

The dye is temporary, a delay, demurring to my vanity, obvious, but soothing to my sense of time. A visual crutch, to slow me down, and not rush off to wait. The world is not out to get me, personally. Nor are my late friends. Nor am I out to embarrass them. I try to match every other step of my minor key allegro to their languid happy dance, infuse my intensity into a slow Chiftitelli.

Emulate Moby, in repose.


I dare you now to respond to this circuitous announcement of my 45th birthday with anything but Happy Birthday. In fact, I challenge you to post a comment most snarky and irreverent. C'mon, I know you can...

Eccentric

My mother-in-law, when I said this place was no home, told me she'd have thought Boston would be the perfect setting for me (not in those words). I answered, I'd concluded that I would fit in nowhere. I was too essentially eccentric, that I could never count on a place where I would feel a deep sense of belonging. No place, no large group of people could ever be that kind of home, for me. D raises his hand to say, ditto, me too.

Our odd center, which we circle elliptically, is our sense of place, of belonging. We can put it anyplace, and we oval around our near centers of gravity. We wobble, spinning happily.

D never got the opportunity to tell anyone on Wednesday, "You missed a spot." I got smeared at the hospital chapel, vaguely disappointed. Nice lady, chaplain, both of us stood, she also, softly, reminded me to remember god's love. NO, no, no nonononono. That's religion and dogma and belief, hooey. I only know the power of ritual. Kneeling before an old priest, with a thumbfull of black ash, and he's not afraid to use it. When he warns me, in an "I've seen it and I know," graveled timbre, to Remember Man That Thou Art Dust and Unto Dust Thou Shalt Return, I feel marked, REMINDED. Oh, yeah. I wore my OR hat low, I had no need to advertise, enough to feel the grit.


I choose to savor that moment when no air was moving into my lungs, when I thought, This is a stupid way to die. It's not that I am replaceable and disposable that bothers me, when I am distressed. I am much more bothered that, for some, I am not. And no matter my discomfort, I must soldier on, no end in sight. I stare at 45, having taken care of two ninety year old patients this week, knowing both my grandmothers lived past ninety, aware that I may have as far to go as I have come so far. Daunting.

Spell (Photo)

Spangle (Photo)

Spin (Photo)

Spun (Photo)

Span (Photo)

Spoon (Photo)

I like spoons, shiny ones in particular. I love the feel of a good spoon in my hand, in my mouth. The shiny fun-house mirror of the bowl. This one was a surprize.

Three weeks ago, I was getting low on my good tea. But I was too tired, it was too cold, so I delayed the inconvenient (like any errand here is convenient) trip to Coolidge Corner and the Indian grocery store to get the tea. Yeah, that was a great idea. I ran out this weekend, and had to make do with blah bags, good enough as a theophilline delivery system, hot, better than crap tea, but... oh. Despite the cold, and the sidewalks of churned frozen slabs of hardened slush, we got to the Trader Joe's, and the dark, narrow store with spices in bags, gods for sale, as well as loose tea. I usually get Taj Mahal, and did today, but added a box of Red Label, as variety, because I don't want to run low again anytime soon. This was the plan, before I stepped inside. I barely looked at the boxes, paid, left.

When I got home, I opened the box to pour the tea into tins. Only then did I notice the little special offer. As the last of the balled, dried leaves dropped into the tin, I felt for the "Free Spoon Inside." Sure enough, a nice little spoon, with their logo. Huh. I'm sure I didn't notice the come-on before, it certainly had nothing to do with my buying that box, or I might have considered getting two of the Red Label. Probably not, but, possible.

Well, Spoon! (The TIck's battle cry. Arthur's is "Not in the face! Not in the face!")

Moby had to check out his bed on top of his stool, jumped from D's chair in an impressive display of virtuosity. (I was vacuuming.) I also swept up the tissue drifts that were forming around the waste basket. I am still snotty, but not glued to the bed anymore.

Iced (Photos)

I finally went to see the ice on the Fenway, having only seen the park in the dark for the last month. Wednesday evening, I slogged home through the 4-6" deep puddles of slush, avoiding it by taking the bus, then staying home, since.

Not exaggerating to call it an ice rink. The path was churned half ice, half ice water and grit. Safer, more solid at least, to the side. The 'snow' covered, as if by a tough plastic coat of ice, any foot prints would have been from Wednesday, since my full weight made no impression. More water means more free water for the ducks, at least. Compare.

Blanket

Not going to write about being sick again. I want to be tougher than this, want to feel good again, and it is so frustrating that I am not. But, this is pretty much normal for me, infections linger and my immune system is leaky and unreliable. Damn. Damn, damn, damn. Relapse city.

Spent yesterday, lying down under a red wool blanket, coaxing the abc.com player to indulge me in all but the last episode of Day Break. An incredibly well written, and made, show about a cop living a day over and over, until he can make it come out right amidst LA gangs, political corruption, and everyone having a secret. It's also about love, with his girlfriend, his partner, his sister, and even his informer. And the people they love in turn. And about those motivated by power to violently oppose them. It's about being smart, and compassionate, and trusting instincts. And about how an innocent action can have unintended and catastrophic consequences. It is also infused with a sly humor, delivered by a peerless cast.

It was written to be 13 episodes, a complete story. But because it confused people who were apparently expecting to be spoon fed, as the CSI franchise does, it was cancelled before being completely aired. As so many shows that give an audience credit for intelligence are doomed.

But I hear it will be shown on Bravo in the UK. (You Brits will love this.) And they are showing it on the network site as online streaming. A DVD cannot be too far behind. Because, although it never got the numbers to be a 'hit', there are enough bright folks to recognize it for the gem it is. I hope the DVD includes an interview with the writers. And I want to see their flow chart, which must be a dense page of swirling, multi-colored lines and polygons.

Looking up the cast on IMDB, I found the majority have at least one X-Files credit. Not terribly surprizing, it was a long running show with a large guest cast. Still.

Cuddle (Photo)

Lightly sandpapered, back to work, not missing bad tv (is there any other kind?), and wishing for a solid night's sleep. Soon, soon, soon. Moby has been taking care of both of us. The Boston storm of the year has made quite a wet mess, and the certain iciness of the morning awaits.


Shocked and numb about the shooting at the Salt Lake mall, close to where we once lived, so familiar. None of our friends were there, but could so easily have been. Random insanity, a bus over a cliff, a plane into the ocean, too big, unpredictable, uncontrollable.

Take shower, try to sleep.

Viral (With Photo)

Last night was a half dream of aches and congestion and a heavy cat. Each involuntary swallow a sharp scrape across open membrane. Nightmares flirted with drugged, exhausted semiconsciousness, tossed with anxious knots of memory. Snot drained onto my pillow, as I ran out of tissues. I tried to turn gingerly, to let both of my guys sleep.

I dreamed I was getting a ride in my parents SUV, having gotten my mom boxes of good tea, and hoped to lie down in the back seat and sleep. My father's driving was worse than usual, more like an average Boston cabbie, and as I woke I was angry at myself for going with them, and not with my friends just because I wanted to sleep. (No, my parents have never driven anything faintly SUV-ish.)

I woke for real about 4, journeyed to the bathroom, afraid I would not be able to get back to sleep at all, considered crawling to the sofa and watching bad tv. But I got back to bed, nudging Moby over a bit, putting a hand on D's back, and stumbled into a kind of doze, only waking enough when D kissed me to remember he was off to work this morning.

Later, I put out a foot to nuzzle Moby, and he licked my toe a while, and his muscular tail thumped my ankle reassuringly. I forced my way to the floor, joints screaming, to make tea and cereal.

After a few hours, and a shower, I began to feel I'd passed through the worst. My temperature was down to my normal low, my congestion sounding worse than I felt. So, the virus is losing to the mighty white cells. Tomorrow is a regular day off.

What is it about a simple, common cold, that always makes me wonder if I'm going to make it?

Lines

It's always darkest before you switch on the light.

No thesis proposal survives contact with the ... research.

"... Enemy." Says D.

I'm down with damn cold, but I still got it.

Think (Photo)

Think I got whatsgoinground.

Novelty

I do not read books with certain elements. Thrill killers, fantasy in trilogy, and adultery as a main theme. And this is not because I have not read them, but I do not now.

I went through years of reading the most gruesome murder mysteries, real crime, horror, until I was surfeited, deeply repulsed. It was a well for my anger, and served a purpose, but then it was enough. As mentioned, I still enjoy COPS! and some of the better police procedural shows, but not for the violence. I watch for the human interaction as they deal with the violence. I will read murder mysteries, if they are very formulaic, as a kind of anesthetic. The soothing familiarity of a staid old genre. I read Lindsey Davis' Roman mysteries more for the history and romance than for the puzzle, and not at all for the anger.

Fantasies were once my addiction. Started out with Tolkien, read over and over. Then all the rest who read Tolkien, and it showed. Working at a library meant rolling dice on whether I would be able to read a whole trilogy in order. Elizabeth Ann Scarborough was one of my last attempts, a long process of getting all the books in the series. Worth it, but so frustrating, that the next time I picked up one of those paperbacks on the twirling rack with the subtitle "Second in the Mythbender Royal Assemblage Trilogy!" I took a pass. The draining, sprawling generations of story became like listening to one of D's friends talk about Amber. (If you get this reference, fine, if not, don't worry about it.) And, despite repeated temptation, I have never again picked up a novel that was part of a series of three-or-more.

My intention to explain my distaste for adultery themed stories kept me up last night, in a nightmare about the ex. But I was the one who went outside to have illicit sex. I could not have explained it at the time as a bone deep hunger for affection and regard, but that is what it was. There was more sex with him, and painful yeast infections, and coercion, but it was like living on Doritos, I was full and fat, but starving. And, I had offered him an open relationship when we got married. Which he agreed to, but presumably, only for himself, although he never used the option. I'd specifically made no promise of lifelong sexual fidelity, out of a quietly prescient intuition that only having him all my life was going to choke me. Rationalization, but I had known, and had not vowed.

Since finding D, I have not so much as wanted to kiss another man. But in the early days, I was pessimistic about my ability to be faithful, loyal. I promised him, I wanted to be, but then, I hadn't really intended any of the affairs, before. They had indeed, just sort of happened. As the years have grown, and with a few, easily dismissed, temptations, I find I have as little interest in romance outside of D as with five part fantasies about thrill killers. I am well nourished, now. I still hug male friends, and enjoy standing near some of our young residents, but that is enough.

I see adultery stories as empty and soul eroding. Prurient interest in sin and debauchery, best indulged when young. I survived it, never to waste time on those paths again, as they lead only in circles. I don't object to them on principle, only that they leave me cold, wanting my wasted time back. I want to tell the neglected women having affairs to just end the marriage, or the joyful adulterer to just walk away, and not fuck up the lives around. I see affairs as symptoms of heartsickness, not as erotic adventure.

It's a matter of understanding. Which is why funny drunks are not funny, and beating kids isn't a joke, and rape isn't exciting, and Henny Youngman schtick is lame, blackface is not harmless entertainment but bigotry, and beating a spouse is not a justifiable custom. That sentence would not parse if read in 1930, for many people in power. But that there were jokes, meant that these subjects were at least, being discussed.

There is a four part fantasy novel in that.

Reprise

Romance and Valentine

Well, I was going to write about these same things, and went back to see if I'd already told the Cafe Trang story. And I had.

What did you write about last year at this time?

So (Photo)

Vow

Simply Wait has posted her Writer's Manifesto. And although I believe the advice Never trust anything that needs a manifesto, I had to dip my hand in. But then, she is a real, published writer, with a book out and another to come. She is my hero.



I've never been a snob about books, and will read any genre, any kind of book. That is mostly from shelving everything in a library. They passed through my hands, and I sifted through for anything that caught my eye. I cannot remember most of the books I've read, never bothered to remember authors until long after I'd read massive booktrucks worth. And yet, each one laid a layer of story onto my mind, added a facet to my life. Now, I can barely make myself read, even the ones I've read over and over. The ones I love. As I try to learn to write a novel.

The books I love, and have loved, have all had characters that I wanted to spend even more time with. Winnie the Pooh, Encyclopedia Brown, Ramona, Miss Marple, George Smiley, Cordelia Naismith, Granny Weatherwax, Bilbo Baggins, Philip Marlowe, Ford Prefect, Lord Peter Whimsey, others whose names are lost, but I would welcome them back into my life gladly. Idiots, the self obsessed, the utterly selfish, cheaters, liars, the mean and petty, are fine for conflict, but I don't want to feel obliged to like them, to spend too much time with them, not have them as the main character. I won't. Flawed, yes. Misguided or inexperienced, certainly. But if they gain no wisdom, and persist in blindness and stupidity, betrayal and greed, cruelty and violence, I want my time back. I know this is not what real life often dishes out, but this is why I want those stories, to hope on, to aspire to, to live for. I don't need shocking controversy, lurid intrigue and dangerous sex. I want humanity, and most folks doing the best they can with what they have.

The books I love have humor, even in the darkest moments. Le Carre makes me laugh out loud in the midst of disaster, "Jesus Christ only had twelve, and one of them was a double." Turns of phrase that surprize and amuse. Thick in Pratchett's fine novels, thinner, but still visible in Jane Austin, Christopher Moore's raunchy raucous humor overshadows the uneven quality of his work, for me. I love a light touch, wit and a wry peek. I consider humor to be indispensable to intelligence or sanity, and humorless authors infuriate me. I have been known to inflict such grim books with violence against walls, at high speed and with extreme prejudice.

The books I love languish in language. Eva Figes writes poetry in prose form, John Mortimer's imagery, Tolkien's experiments in linguistics. Chandler couldn't plot, but such twisty, funny verbiage, oh I forgive him much for that. I have tried to read authors with journalistic simpleness, and always feel manhandled, bored and angry at their dull cliches. I lose interest in their story, because they don't bother to search for better words to tell it with. More words, re-woven into new cloth, or spare words perfectly chosen and stark against a faint wash. It's not the style, but the intention, and attention. Lao Tsu's few words carry the whole world lightly.


The books I love teach me, challenge me, force me to see life from a different viewpoint. The Death of Attila by Cecelia Holland (one of those workhorse authors) opened my eyes to another realm. Ok, yes, there was some sex. But her very commercial historical romances caught my interest in history and the wider world. Grendel by John Gardener, all the Curdie books, Robinson Crusoe, Gabriel Garcia Marquez - all, The Trumpeter of Krakow, Bury Me Standing, Watership Down. Every book that asks more of me, expects me to think and see through other eyes, has changed how I look at the world.

The books I love end well. I read one, very enjoyable most of the way through, until the end. Which was stupid and wrong, shocking, but wrong. But then, Frank Herbert never could end a story, and Soul Catcher was my first hated book. I swore to never read another by him, and I never did. I got roped into watching the movie Dune, and I regret it to this day. On the other hand, Stephen King wrote Cujo, a plotted series of dominos that lead to the same ending, the death of a young boy, but it could not have ended any other way. I don't need a happy ending, but the right one, or at least a hopeful one. I object to authors murdering characters to get out of a bad plotline, but I have no issue with characters dying as an inevitable consequence of the story. It's a matter of internal consistency. I want most of the threads untangled, though no contrived miracles, and a few mysteries left over is the linger of a pleasant aftertaste.

What do I promise my readers? What can I promise? Less than I would like to offer.

I can endeavor to write characters that fascinate, but who are warm and human, and striving to live well. I want a light touch, a smile, a laugh, trusting my own amusement will leak through. I search for the right word, the evocative phrase, the subtlety of not spelling everything out - in triplicate, trusting to reader's intelligence. I can only offer my own experience, which is different enough from most people to qualify, I hope. I work hard to make the story whole, and end hopefully, and with a sense of rightness and completion, without gluing down every line.

I have not gotten the grasp of any of this, but I can just about touch it.

More editing in March.

Ankle

Moby is a poem of frustration. I dreamed as he kneaded my hip with sparkling claws that I picked him up to trim the needle ends, but got too sleepy, and let it go. He walked on my pelvis, painfully, and mrrrrk'd at me to get up and feed him, play with him, give him full kitty massage, but I slept on, heavy and human.

He has mewed more than ever all morning, though D fed him, but not quite as much wet smelly yummers as I usually do when I get up at five to trundle off to work by six. He has been carefully trained through intermittent reinforcement that one of us in the kitchen means better than kibble food. Happy kitchen activity. He knows he has to help That One, or The Other One to get the food down to him, a gentle paw reached up to pull the dish down to the floor. We occasionally get in his way, as he shepherds us to his due care and food.

As D was getting milk, Moby sang, to the tune Tainted Love (channelled through me.)

Sometimes I feel I've got to 
get you to, I've got to 
get you to 
to the kitchen and my food 
and the food you give to me 
Seems to go nowhere 
And I'm hungry now
Though I walk on you, you just sleep at night 

(chorus) 
Now I run to you,
stay right here and 
all this ankle love I'm giving 
I give you all a cat could give you 
Give me food yes just that food, in that dish there!
Oh...ankle love, ankle love

Now I know I've got to 
rub my head, and reach right up to you
You really want to give more food to me 
open that fridge
I need someone to open that can 
And I know love is being fed 
And I know that you love me that way.

(chorus...) 

Just feed me please 
I cannot stand the way you tease 
I love you when feed me so 
Now I'm going to push you to the door 
Ankle love, ankle love 
Touch me if you want, but feed me too,I give you, ankle love..


Moby has now had a generous portion of lunch, and is sleeping happily, dreaming of chasing fluttering feathers.

Panic

Alright, all over the blog medium there are those making a big joke of Boston's response to the mislaid ad campaign. The Boston Globe did a very thorough job of reporting both sides fairly. In other cities, the ads were in commercial areas, and were more easily seen close up. Not to mention that many of them are missing - perhaps not put up at all. Now being sold on Ebay. Nor is it widely reported that as these ads were found, they kept quiet, instead of calling the Boston Police and saying, "No, those are ours, just an ad campaign."

On one blog, the official response was likened to Mc Carthyism. Which is nonsensical, except tangentiallly to imply that Homeland Security is on a hunt for subversives, which it is. This was a safety response to suspicious devices on strategic, heavily trafficked areas.

And they were on bridges, hospitals, freeway supports. And noticed during the day, when the lights were not visible, and they were black boxes with tape and wires coming out. Seen from any distance, or from any angle but the front, they did indeed look like bombs

And, obviously, a bomb couldn't have an ad on it for camouflage. Had the cops just ignored it, and there had been a bomb... Maybe it was a little paranoid, but this is what we pay them to do, guard public safety, not "get the joke."

The guys hired to put them up are facing lesser charges, and I suspect will wind up on probation, or with suspended sentences. Turner Broadcasting is paying the costs - like if I did something stupid and needed wilderness rescue and was subsequently sent a bill.

The media got what it deserved, since generally doing a poor job of reporting it, and with a well deserved reputation for alarmism. Even so, those two guys really should have just shut their traps, instead of coming across as tools. Maybe it was funny on the other side of the country, other side of the world, out of context, but right here, not so much.

And, no, I wasn't thinking it was foreign terrorists. We grow our own violent nutjobs locally, abundantly, and that has nothing to do with Homeland Security (the Real New McCarthyism.)

Luke Helder and his plan to draw a Smiley Face across the US, in Bombs!


I went to a reinactment of the Boston Massacre last year, and was amazed and delighted, that they gave a fair account of the actions of the Redcoats. And the strong impression that the individual soldiers deserved to be exonerated - despite the colonists call for blood. Despite the lopsided version I was taught in school.

Go too far either side, and any argument falls apart. Only by fairly and thorougly presenting both sides is there any understanding. Given a clash of motives, public and private, beligerence, duty, expectation, and entitlement, it's amazing mass shootings don't happen more often.

Let's step back, gather evidence, think this through, refrain from ill placed mockery, pull back our claws, understand that nervous laughter is common, and not make any more enemies. Quit forcing and fighting.

Blaze

Groundhog Day, then the Feast of St. Blaise, all in one week. Phew.

I've always rather liked Groundhog Day. My brother left for the Air Force on 2 February, I was 7. It made an impression. It was 1969, Vietnam War and all, he wound up in Thailand, fixing jets. I worried about losing him. Now, he is our parents' executor, and one day I will have to refuse whatever is left, if anything. Because despite being disowned, I am certain no documents have been changed, and, if there is anything, one third will be sent to me. I have been stewing about this today, and I don't know why.

Of course, if the Groundhog sees his shadow, that means six more weeks of winter, if he does not, then it's another month and a half.

Groundhog Day is one of those rare, perfect movies, that I can watch again and again (appropriately.) The premise could so easily have been tedious and awful, but was, instead, inspired. And Bill Murray's character, for all that he becomes kinder and more human, is still, at heart, in the end, a bit of a jerk. I read once that enlightenment doesn't solve our problems, is less comfortable, as we become more real. Opening one's eyes, and looking into one's soul to the bottom, is not heaven, not easy. Willful blindness, however, is fatal.

In the Catholic tradition is the blessing of throats on the Feast of St. Blaise, February 3rd. My mother always took me, and I knelt at the altar while the priest crossed those large cool candles across my neck, and fervently hoped this would help my sore throat. It was always a little disappointing that the candles were not lit. Not that I ever noticed any fewer infections, and I did get my tonsils out, but all day today, I wished I could have gotten my throat blessed. The new study suggesting that tonsillectomy has a protective effect on ADHD has had me thinking, perhaps blessings are indirect, and an extra infection or three got me my tonsils out, and may have helped my attentiveness.

Context, and viewpoint, as well as interpretation, define reality.

Now I imagine a Groundhog chasing me with two large candles.

Paranoia (Guest Writer)

You may have heard about the hullabaloo here in Boston.

A friend, a real writer, in LA, wrote this response, which with his permission I want to share with you here.

Michael Shields

Boston VS LA

So I noticed today that the Boston authorities were getting a lot of flak for a Lite-Brite inspired bomb scare that had everyone freaked out for a while, and thought I'd share something that happened here as an illustration that no matter how bad things are, they could always be worse...

A subway was shut down all day in Los Angeles recently because some homeless guy spilled mercury on the platform. He found the mercury in an industrial dumpster, and kept it because he thought it was 'neat.' And who can blame him? It is neat. Sadly, mercury is toxic as well as shiny. I mean, it's not going to ooze together into a cyborg killer from the future and destroy us all, but you wouldn't want to lick it or anything.

But here's where LA demonstrates that it can be completely incompetent in two entirely opposite ways in one night! Mercury Guy calls MTA and reports that he spilled mercury on the platform at 11pm, and the dispatcher was all 'sure, thanks, we'll get right on that' but he didn't report it and it was there all night, with people steppin' in it with their bunny slippers and poking the puddle with sticks and stuff.

Finally during the morning commute someone thought that mercury was acting suspicious and called 911. The cops found two janitors trying to clean up the mercury puddle with a mop (I bet that looked funny) and it was time for a TERRAR ALERT! They shut down the whole subway, and there was a manhunt for the Mercury Guy that lasted several days, until he finally read about it in the newspaper and helpfully turned himself in. Wouldn't that be weird to be the subject of a huge manhunt and not have any idea they were looking for you? They could be looking for you RIGHT NOW.

But anyway, the point here is that absolutely no one (that we know of) was hurt, which frankly, kind of amazes me, but THEY COULDA BEEN! So, in the future if you happen to spill meth lab chemicals or bomb supplies or somethin' sticky in a public place, when you call it in (before or after running like hell) you should probably explain WHY this is a problem to whomever answers the phone, in case he's drunk or watching TV or something. And if there are any terrorists reading this, don't get any bright ideas! Sure, some homeless guy off his meds may have outsmarted the City of Los Angeles accidentally this time, but we won't be fooled so easily next time! Because...because I said so!