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Wanna be my toaster?
I just want to say a whole hearted thank you to all the great people who shared birthday time with me. between people at work buying me beer at the local bar, high school kids singing "Happy Birthday" to me in a really good restaurant, or the absolutely incredibe birthday soiree, complete with cocktail dresses and champagne, this has easily been the best birthday ever.
This May 17th marks the 50th anniversary of Brown v. Board. Sometimes I wonder if we have really come as far in that half century as I hope we have.
There are a certain number of things that I understand that I need to do for myself, but will never force myself to do. Most often, it has to do with medical stuff. I hate doctors, dentists, chiropractors, shamans, pharmacists, and all their ilk. Unless there is some kind of spooky tangible lump somewhere or blood squirting from a major artery, I will not go to a doctor. All too often, it is only the gentle insistance of an attractive womun who can make me actually do positive things that I just don't want to do. It has been very much the same thing distancing myself from Rosie. I know it needs to happen, and more and more I am comfortable spending weeks without hearing her particular brand of whining. This weekend, though, marked a milestone in that distance. All of Rosie's things that were previously sitting on shelves, or in corners, or dangling from the wall have been meticulously wrapped in newspaper and put into boxen. Soon even those will be shipped away. Many thank-yous to Heather, my new ballerina friend, who took a solid 24 hours (plus naps) out of her weekend, scaring her mother, to help me package things. Finally, I was also able to hang up an incredibly pretty and soothing lamp that Rosie refused to let me put up. It's about two feet tall, and has a large reservoir of oil in its base. There is a pump that runs oil up through tubes to fall over a miniature millhouse with a turning waterwheel. The best part, though, is the 30 or so strings that encircle the outside of the lamp at regular intevals, and drip oil down themselves like rain. I can stare at that lamp for hours and be transported back to my great-grandmother's couch and the smell of cats and birthday cake. And I thought kicking Rosie out wouldn't have its perks.
I hate emo and emo kids. Especially ugly ones with messed up hair and thick-rimmed glasses that think that Taking Back Sunday isn't really punk in emo-kid clothes. Simple exercise in logic: if all emo is terrible, and TBS isn't terrible, then, by extension, TBS is not emo. QED.
The following sign was shown at the huge March on Washington a couple of days ago. Geneva snapped a picture of it for me. It pretty efficiently explains my ultimate position on most feminist issues.
(Sparticist League is a very old sub-division of the global Communist movement, that has met with quite a bit of criticism from within the movement.)
This May 17th marks the 50th anniversary of Brown v. Board. Sometimes I wonder if we have really come as far in that half century as I hope we have.
There are a certain number of things that I understand that I need to do for myself, but will never force myself to do. Most often, it has to do with medical stuff. I hate doctors, dentists, chiropractors, shamans, pharmacists, and all their ilk. Unless there is some kind of spooky tangible lump somewhere or blood squirting from a major artery, I will not go to a doctor. All too often, it is only the gentle insistance of an attractive womun who can make me actually do positive things that I just don't want to do. It has been very much the same thing distancing myself from Rosie. I know it needs to happen, and more and more I am comfortable spending weeks without hearing her particular brand of whining. This weekend, though, marked a milestone in that distance. All of Rosie's things that were previously sitting on shelves, or in corners, or dangling from the wall have been meticulously wrapped in newspaper and put into boxen. Soon even those will be shipped away. Many thank-yous to Heather, my new ballerina friend, who took a solid 24 hours (plus naps) out of her weekend, scaring her mother, to help me package things. Finally, I was also able to hang up an incredibly pretty and soothing lamp that Rosie refused to let me put up. It's about two feet tall, and has a large reservoir of oil in its base. There is a pump that runs oil up through tubes to fall over a miniature millhouse with a turning waterwheel. The best part, though, is the 30 or so strings that encircle the outside of the lamp at regular intevals, and drip oil down themselves like rain. I can stare at that lamp for hours and be transported back to my great-grandmother's couch and the smell of cats and birthday cake. And I thought kicking Rosie out wouldn't have its perks.
I hate emo and emo kids. Especially ugly ones with messed up hair and thick-rimmed glasses that think that Taking Back Sunday isn't really punk in emo-kid clothes. Simple exercise in logic: if all emo is terrible, and TBS isn't terrible, then, by extension, TBS is not emo. QED.
The following sign was shown at the huge March on Washington a couple of days ago. Geneva snapped a picture of it for me. It pretty efficiently explains my ultimate position on most feminist issues.
(Sparticist League is a very old sub-division of the global Communist movement, that has met with quite a bit of criticism from within the movement.)
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