don't you love farce?

(Who knew the opportunity would arise for me to use another line from "Send in the Clowns" as the title for a post?) Today I had to go grocery shopping. Had to. Had to force myself to. I knew the store would be a madhouse, but we're coming up on a month of massive deadlines at my office and I'll scarcely have time for adequate personal hygiene much less making frivolous trips to the store for food. So, I trudged to the very, very crowded grocery. The misanthropic little voice in my head regularly refers to the pushy people in a crowd as "a bunch of clowns." Well, today? The clowns were literal. Clowns. In the grocery store.

I knew something strange was afoot when a painfully chipper voice on the loudspeaker chirped instructions for a "game" that we could "play" while shopping. "Look for the Special, Numbered Squares on the floor in the aisles and stand on one! If we call the Number of the Special Square you're standing on, you'll win A Prize!!" There was a Special Square in my aisle. Number 19. I ignored it and just kept shopping. So did everyone else, apparently. Shortly after the chipper voice announced that Special Square 16 was the lucky winner, a slightly less chipper voice announced that they'd be moving along to Special Square 17 to try to deliver The Prize--a piece of chocolate cake. (And here I should probably note that had K been in the store and learned of that particular prize, she would have left a trail of bruised, maimed and possibly dead people as she clawed her way to the proper Special Square.) Maybe no one was at 17, either, because the "game" came to an abrupt end. Mercifully.

Then, unmercifully, the grating refrains of C&C Music Factory echoed through the aisles. Everybody dance now!!! Another chipper voice started calling out dance instructions. And I started shopping faster. Oh, but not fast enough. Before Freedom Williams was even finished [ahem] rapping, the chipper voice was saying things like "Just step in line if you'd like a balloon animal!" That's when my shopping cart and I rounded the corner and came face to face with a little gaggle of clowns. (Gaggle?! School? Herd? Pack? Colony? Flock? Pod? Rafter? Dray? Swarm? Whatever.)

I held my breath and somehow managed to do a remarkably quick about-face without flipping the cart on its side. My shopping list forgotten, I trotted toward the checkstands and away from the rainbow afro wigs, red suspenders, polka-dot pants and giant shoes. Amplified witty clown banter continued the entire time I was at the checkstand. "Would you like a balloon sword? Ok! What color? Red? Great choice!" This was punctuated by frequent pops of exploding balloons, which I interpreted as the balloons committing suicide to avoid being touched by a clown.

Just as I began to consider a similar escape, the very old man in line ahead of me pointed at a tabloid, turned to me, and said "I've never seen 'Paris at Night.' You know, that Paris Hilton sex video? I've never seen it. I'd like to some day. Maybe. Have you seen it?" I said, "No, but I just saw a bunch of clowns in the grocery store." "Me, too. I hate clowns," he replied. "But I'd like to see that Paris Hilton video. Maybe."

Aaaaand, I think that pretty much guarantees some seriously f'ed-up dreams tonight....

F-yeah!

First, do pardon the crappy camera phone picture quality. Second, please note that some wag in my office decided to indicate that the coffee in the pump-o-matic was brewed fresh on Friday by fashioning a Blair Witch-ish "F" out of snapped wooden coffee stirrers.

And I? Spent the entire day resisting the urge to add a coffee-stirrer "-U."

i'd love to work for the weekly world news

Recently spotted tabloid headlines:

1 - "ANTICHRIST WILL RUN FOR PRESIDENT"

(Um ... will?)

and

2 - "Dr. Phil in Child Beating Scandal"

(Oh, if only it had been "Child in Dr. Phil Beating Scandal." That's a story I'd like to read.)

bully cudgel

The New York Times today includes an article titled "Backers of Gay Marriage Ban Use Social Security as Cudgel." Here's a link to it, but that will expire in a week, no doubt. Apparently, the Arlington Group (whose membership includes the unsavory likes of Dr. James C. Dobson, Jerry Falwell, and Paul Weyrich) sent a "confidential letter to Karl Rove" dated January 18. A couple of lowlights from the letter, as quoted in the Times:

• "We couldn't help but notice the contrast between how the president is approaching the difficult issue of Social Security privatization where the public is deeply divided and the marriage issue where public opinion is overwhelmingly on his side," the letter said. "Is he prepared to spend significant political capital on privatization but reluctant to devote the same energy to preserving traditional marriage? If so it would create outrage with countless voters who stood with him just a few weeks ago, including an unprecedented number of African-Americans, Latinos and Catholics who broke with tradition and supported the president solely because of this issue."


• "When the administration adopts a defeatist attitude on an issue that is at the top of our agenda, it becomes impossible for us to unite our movement on an issue such as Social Security privatization where there are already deep misgivings."


• "[President Bush] even declined to answer a simple question about whether he would use his bully pulpit to overcome this Senate foot-dragging."

Um. Wow. Where to begin? I mean, "African-Americans, Latinos and Catholics"?! Hoo-hoo! I hate when they satirize themselves, it takes all the fun out of it. Oh, wait. They freaking always satirize themselves. Sigh.

Remember the good old days back in the Clinton era when the press uncovered that secret letter from Bernie Sanders, Katrina vanden Heuvel, and George Soros to George Stephanopoulos demanding that "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" be fixed in exhange for supporting NAFTA? Yeah. Me neither.

if at first you don't succeed...

...introduce your ignorant, hateful, unnecessary legislation again.

Rumor has it that the Republican Senator from Colorado, Wayne Allard, is going to reintroduce the laughably named Marriage Protection Amendment in the Senate today. (And, really, check out his web page. The Religious Liberties Restoration Act? It's one thing to feel that you need to have a martyr complex in order to be a Good Christian. It's another thing to legislate it. Feh.)

With all the really important issues that our fearless leaders should be focusing on, isn't it a tad outrageous that a handful of right-wingnut wankers would choose to resurrect the MPA?

No doubt we've all complained about how the painfully vocal ultra-conservative minority in this country gets so much attention (and action) from their squawkings. Well, this year, let's all resolve to squawk back from the left. Send a letter to your Senators and follow that up with a call to their offices. Even if you know your Senator is on our side, voice your opinion.

yellowsploitation

E-mail exchange with a coworker this morning:

Coworker, SUBJECT: Um...

LOS ANGELES, California (Reuters) -- Conservative Christian groups accuse the makers of a video starring SpongeBob SquarePants, Barney and a host of other cartoon characters of promoting homosexuality to children.

The wacky square yellow SpongeBob is one of the stars of a music video due to be sent to 61,000 U.S. schools in March. The makers -- the nonprofit We Are Family Foundation -- say the video is designed to encourage tolerance and diversity.

But at least two Christian activist groups say the innocent cartoon characters are being exploited to promote the acceptance of homosexuality.[Emphasis added.]

I'm really trying to understand how you might *exploit* a cartoon character, but then again, I’m not a Christian activist, so maybe I just don't get it.

D, RE: Um...
I think the lesson here is just that many evangelical Christians know as much about grammar as they do theology.

D kills ants dead

Once upon a time not too terribly long ago, I was one of those people who tried to avoid killing insects. I practiced careful catch and release. A tall drinking glass and a piece of cardboard were the only tools I needed to happily rid my home of almost any type of creepy-crawly menace. And then, one January, the ants came. They came slowly at first, and I felt bad about killing them. Before I'd go in for the squish, I'd actually say out loud, in a soft voice, to the ant, "Sorry, friend, but I just can't have you in my kitchen. Please do forgive." I always tried for surgical precision, flattening them quickly with one press of my thumb.

But the ants kept coming. I just didn't understand. My kitchen didn't have anything to offer them. I mean, you've seen my fridge. More and more of them marched onto my counter, my sink, my stove. I kept dispatching them efficiently, apologizing to each one. But the ants kept coming in greater numbers. Then one day, I stopped apologizing to them. And the next day, the ants invaded my bathroom. My bathroom. What? Is up with that? I'm tidy. Often unreasonably so. There wasn't even the slightest glob of toothpaste in the sink for them. But they came. They came just the same. And I got mad at the ants.

I remember my first angry kill. My thumb hovered over the ant as it changed course, trying to escape. I spat at it loudly, meanly, "That's right! Scream! Warn the others! Tell them to turn back or they, too, will suffer under the thumb of the large angry human female! Warn! The!! Others!!!" And I squashed it slowly, with an unkind pivoting press of my thumb. Then, I unleashed the poison. Fifteen drops on a piece of cardboard. The ants circled it. I stood by, rubbing my hands together like a cartoon villain, telling them "Drink! Yesssssss, driiiiiiink! Oh, what's that? Is it the sweet nectar of ... DEATH?!"

It was all very Lord of the Flies, party of one. I didn't smear the dead ant carcasses on my cheeks or anything, but clearly I was on the verge of shattering the conch. My equivalent of the Naval officer arriving on the island came in the form of my most recent ex-girlfriend (heretofore referenced as 3of3). And Windex. 3of3 asked me if I'd ever seen what happens when you spray an ant with Windex. I hadn't. Now I have. And? It really just ain't right. Instant death. Instant. It's brutally effective, but it just ain't right. I don't call it Windex anymore. It's Blue Death. And I'm never cleaning windows with it again. Shudder.

black thursday

I don't know about you, but I wasted a fair chunk of my day either loudly ranting about or quietly grinding my teeth over the coronation that took place in D.C. today. So, this evening I decided to do something to make myself feel better.

Remember how good it felt to send some cash to help the tsunami victims? Well, here's a chance to recapture that lovin' givin' feeling. Consider these quotes from an article in the January 11 Toronto Globe and Mail:

• "Since the tsunamis struck on Dec. 26, 136,000 people have died of AIDS, 6,500 people a day in Africa alone."


• "While 50,000 children are believed to have been orphaned by the tsunamis, UNICEF says 11 million children have been orphaned by AIDS in Africa."


• "The tsunami-relief pledges may soon equal the total amount, $5.8 billion, that the United Nations received for all humanitarian relief around the world last year."


• "'This has proved the money exists -- it's there,' [Mercy Otim, Kenyan activist in the Pan-African Treatment Access Movement] observed yesterday. 'They can get hands on it quickly when they want to.'"

Oh, and don't forget about the 50,000-plus people killed and 1,000,000-plus people (mostly women and children) displaced in Darfur.

Suddenly the global AIDS crisis and the unrest in Sudan seem to be tragedies of tsunami-like proportion, eh?

So, even though it was right after the holidays and you were broke, you still managed to scrape up the dough for tsunami relief. Well, scrape up a little more. It'll make you feel nice and morally superior to the DubyaClubbers who are spending their money on a "three-day inaugural feeding frenzy."

Doctors Without Borders, UNICEF, and Mercy Corps are just three of the organizations that will put your money to very good use in Africa and elsewhere.

just a few quick links and a note

• Does your heart pitter-pat with a patriotic sound when you see a ginormoid SUV sporting one of those yellow or stars&stripes ribbons? Yeah. Now you can beat them while you join them. Hee!


• Oh my. "The Salvador option." Almost makes you nostalgic for the good old days when our government at least had enough shame to be covert about this sort of crap, doesn't it?


• Already made a generous donation to the tsunami relief efforts? Excellent. Now take a few moments to examine these before & after satellite photos and give more cash. The destruction really is almost incomprehensible.


• Apparently, last night, the People's Choice Awards for best film and best dramatic film went to Fahrenheit 9/11 and The Passion of the Christ, respectively. Um. Hm. The People? Are weird.

steelers fan by birth, packers fan by choice

For reasons I won't bore you with, I'm unreasonably cranky today. But I promised to tell you why I [heart] the Packers, and I haven't posted since last week. So here we are.

Has this ever happened to you? You're sitting in front of the television on your couch or futon or barstool, enjoying a playoff game for your favorite professional team sport. Then, the director of the network telecast makes the unforgivable move of cutting to camera B, marring your viewing pleasure with the sudden on-screen appearance of the team owner. You know, the guy who looks like a 1920s movie caricature of a bloated, evil, greedy factory owner. He's the only guy in the stadium wearing one of those blue dress shirts with a white collar and French cuffs. And he just looks so ... rich. And privileged. And Republican. And oogie. (Redundant? Sorry.)

Seeing The Owner jostles you out of your willing suspension of disbelief (The players are loyal to the team, the city, and the fans! The obscene salaries and ticket prices haven't ruined the sport! It's ok that some of the mascots and rally cries are grossly offensive to Native Americans!) and reminds you that you're not just watching some fun, dumb sport, that instead you're watching exactly what is wrong with this country. You start thinking that our particular brand of you-can't-be-too-rich-or-too-selfish capitalism is ruining the planet and that when The Revolution starts.... Well, maybe that last part only happens to me. But you get the idea.

So, have you ever noticed that the television networks never cut to the oogie cuff-linked guy in a luxury box in Lambeau Field? That's because the Green Bay Packers have 111,507 owners. The team is a publicly owned, non-profit corporation. The owners = the stockholders = the fans. It's as close to Communism as you'll get in the NFL. That also explains how tiny Green Bay, Wisconsin, a city of 100,000, has been able to remain the home of the Packers while other teams have jumped from city to city looking for the highest bidder, the sweetest deal, the newest stadium. Good for you, Green Bay!

Another reason I [heart] the Packers? Apparently it's a training camp tradition for little kids to take their bikes to Lambeau Field in hopes of getting a player to ride it. Instead of walking to the practice field, some of the players will hop on a young fan's bike, with the kid riding double or happily trotting alongside. How cute it that? I have to admit that I'd probably still have my yellow banana-seated 1976 girly bike if Lynn Swan or Franco Harris had once pedaled it to practice.

Unfortunately, the Packers lost to the Vikings today (no, that's not why I'm cranky), so I'll just have to wait until next season to contemplate becoming a true Packer Backer by purchasing stock and wearing one of those ridiculous cheese wedges on my head during games.

aw, crap. i like football.

In theory, I hate football. In practice, I watched almost four hours of football today. And enjoyed it.

The theory.
It's a ridiculous sport. From the shape of the "ball" to the cut of the uniforms, football just looks silly. And those "chains"? I have to roll my eyes a bit each time they trot out with those poofy orange sticks to measure for a first down. Because the location of the football generally depends on the "spot" from the official, couldn't "fourth and inches" usually just as aptly be labeled "ah, hell, they probably made it"? And don't even get me started on the copious patting of asses....

It's a violent sport. If the main objective of the game is to move the ball down the field, the second objective is to pound the tar out of whoever has the ball. Or whoever is between you and the ball. Or whoever is trying to get around you to get to the ball. Most of the players actually seem to roar like beasts when they complete a tackle. Maybe that sort of chest-thumping just reminds me way too much of the senseless aggressiveness that seems to plague so much of our country, from drivers succumbing to road rage to politicians invading foreign nations.

It's a boys' sport. This certainly isn't limited to football, but the only hope a woman has to be "involved" in the game is as a scantily-clad cheertart or as a trophy wife. That's probably my glitch with just about all professional team sports. And though it's gradually changing with women's basketball and soccer, it's never going to change with football. Little boys can grow up dreaming of football fame and fortune (or at least college scholarships). Little girls? Not so much.

The practice.
My dad loved football. So many of my fond memories of my dad involve Sundays and football. I remember watching games together when I was in elementary school. He'd have a pony bottle of beer, and he'd always let me have a sip when I asked, even though I'd always just screw up my face and say that it tasted gross. And when I got older and less interested in the games, I still got a kick out of listening to my dad grumping at the referees, coaches, and players. Oh, how he loved the Steelers. My dad's brother passed away this Thanksgiving. In a sympathy card to my auntie, I wrote that I hoped to take a little comfort in the thought that somewhere, my uncle and my dad were together again, yelling at the tv, enjoying the Steelers game. And even though I really don't believe in the possibility of such an afterlife, it's a nice thought, isn't it?

I grew up in Pittsburgh. The Steelers won four Super Bowls when I was a kid. I remember making black and gold construction paper decorations for our living room when they got into the playoffs in 1979. That team? Terry Bradshaw, Franco Harris, "Mean" Joe Greene, Lynn Swann, John Stallworth, Rocky Bleier, Mike Webster, Jack Lambert, Jack Ham, Mel Blount, Dwight White, coach Chuck Noll, owner Art Rooney ... I can still rattle off their names as easily as I can the names of my bazillion cousins (Irish Catholics, so many kids). I even still have the sheet music for the "Steeler Polka" that my fourth-grade band teacher gave us. Maybe I'll dust off my trumpet for the playoffs this year!

Football is so gay. Football has to be so excessively, stoopidly macho and homophobic, because it's so, so gay. And that? Cracks me up. Where else will you see so many big, beefy man-hands swatting so many snugly uniformed, tight little man-butts? Where are the quarterback's hands right before the center snaps the ball? Do they really have to grab onto each other and roll around on the turf for so long after the ball's been whistled dead? Mm-hmm. Some day, during the fourth quarter of a really tense game, after like 50 minutes of thrashing hard play, some defensive lineman and some offensive lineman are going to look across the line of scrimmage at each other and get so caught up in the adrenaline and the moment that they throw off their helmets and totally make out. I'm telling you, it's just a matter of time. And I hope I'm watching when it happens. (And I don't even like boys.) Whee!

The realization.
Watching and enjoying football is a way to happily remember my dad. It's one small, comfortable way to stay connected to him and his memory. So, today, on the anniversary of my father's death, I think I've finally learned to just accept the fact that my heart wants to love football as much as my brain wants to hate it. Aw heck, if the Steelers get into the Super Bowl, I might break down and buy a Terrible Towel to wave during the game. Maybe I'll even make black and gold decorations for my apartment.

Next Sunday? I'll tell you why I spent part of the day glued to the tv rooting for the Packers.

worry-sitter

Having had the better part of the last week to lounge around and use an excessive number of tissues (I'm rapidly tearing through box #3), today I started thinking about how I could have made better use of that time. I mean, it's just a rotten cold. What a waste. If you're going to be house-bound and cranky and generally worthless, you should at least have the flu. So it occurred to me that I should have been able to find a way to make things worse. And that's when I came up with it.

Wouldn't it be great if we could volunteer to take on other people's worries temporarily? Really, completely take them on so the other person is totally relieved of a specific burden or two for a short period of time? Kind of like baby-sitting, only without the awesome responsibility of keeping the offspring alive/wholesomely entertained for an entire evening.

For example, my friend Marzipan Pig has a brain tumor and her Pappa-san has cancer, too. Now, that's a lot of blech for one little piggy. While snuffling and coughing and napping on my futon, I could have taken on all of MP's worries so she could've had a fancy-free holiday week. (Well, just the cancer-related worries, not every little worry. Wouldn't want MP getting so carefree she'd forget that you shouldn't touch a hot stove or that you shouldn't lick the spoon when you're making a batch of soap, eh?)

And you wouldn't have to wait for a bad cold or the flu to sign up for worry-sitting duty. Doing laundry? Cleaning the house? Visiting relatives? You're not going to be having fun anyway, so why not take some worries with you?

Well, I've come up with the idea, K. Now all you have to do is find a safe and effective method for transference of worries. You work at a university, get the Academy working on that.