Sorry, there’s nothing about condors here.

Best news ever: I get to go back to school. I’m going to go to nursing school! Now, my life doesn’t have to be a total waste.

I’ve been doing lots and lots of math over the past couple of days, trying to brush up on the skills. The next few days, I’ll be reviewing some chemistry and bio. Hopefully, I’ll be able to test out of some of the prerequisites. HOPEFULLY.

I have no reservations about any of that. In fact, that’s the greatest thing going on!! And it’s a really great thing.

So here’s where there’s drama: Last year when I cut a bunch of people out of my life, there were a few who wouldn’t take no for an answer. And those are the people I was trying to cut out the most. One of those people is responsible for inflicting more pain into my life and the lives of several other people than either of that couple is aware of. The other member of that couple is (I believe) willfully ignorant of the actions of the other member of that couple. What I mean is, on some level, she knows what he is. But she’s deluded herself so deeply, she refuses to see anything other than perfection.

And now, I’m hearing from both of them more and more, and every time I hear from either one I want to claw my eyes out.

Because there are few people who know the extent of the story, I have other friends and family member who ask me why I’m being such a “bitch” to this couple. That raises several questions. I would really appreciate some input here (and I’m not being sarcastic or confrontational. I really don’t get it)
1. Why can’t everyone mind their own business?
2. Why is it my responsibility to be the one responsible for uncovering the personal business of a couple I’m not a part of just to make myself look like less of an asshole?
3. Is there a way to make people mind their own business without being an asshole about it?
4. What’s a good way to make people shut up?
5. How can you cut people out of your lives and make it a clean cut so they HAVE to take “no” for an answer without getting all legal about it?

I’m on a continued path of simplifying my life. By going back to school for a specific purpose, I’m narrowing my focus. By maintaining contact with a select few people on something other than a superficial level, I’ve narrowed my emotional focus.

I can’t live sprawled all over the place.

I’m not asking rhetorically when I ask, Does that make me an asshole?

One thing I learned in college, aside from my Social Security number, is that if you look hard enough, you can find connections between anything. I am writing this blog raw: no proof-reading, and only minor pre-planning. Here’s what I’m thinking about tonight: 1. the novel “Snow Angels” by Stewart O’Nan” 2. watching “The Facts of Life” on On Demand cable, while Kim “Tootie” Fields’ sobbing on one of those round-table discussions of the puppymill-esque conditions of child stars in TV studios in the early 80s.
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I spent the major part of today (when not rearranging the fans and bottles of ice for maximum welfare air-conditioning effect) reading and re-reading “Snow Angels.” I haven’t seen the movie yet, and it’s been on my list for a while since finding out that my friend Amy is in it. Amy plays Barb, the main character’s best friend, and in my opinion, the only mentally stable character in the entire novel.

I apologize to anyone reading this who hasn’t read and plans to read the book. There are spoilers about the plot, and I’m going to write this as if the reader had a basic understanding of who’s who therein.

After my first hungry read-through (I was hooked after about 30 pages), the first thing that popped into my head was the contrasting narrative styles. The narrator, Arthur, starts out sounding pretty much okay. He’s a kid in the 70s who smokes weed, which is, of course, redundant. Then his parents divorce, and he keeps learning, time after time, that dissociation, escapism, and apathy are the three tools that will get him through his transition from child-to-teen-to-adult.

Then there’s the third-person objective narrative (in which the reader can’t see into any of the characters’ thoughts) about Arthur’s parents’ relationship. It’s all about keeping up appearances. That is, keeping up the appearance that no matter how much of a ruin your life is, you’re happy, and there’s no reason for anyone to feel anything but apathy for you. His parents only argue out of earshot from anyone else, yet O’Nan’s descriptions of Arthur’s mother’s appearance tell the story that she is in dire pain, but will not ask for help from anyone outside of the family’s psychiatrist, whom they only visit separately. She, and Arthur’s absent sister keep telling him to think of people other than himself, no matter how far away Astrid is physically, and how far his mother distances herself from him and everyone else who has ever loved her.

Usually, I prefer a third-person or first-person objective narrative because it involves the reader as another very important character. The author isn’t going to TELL you someone is in pain and hanging on by a thread. They’re going to use images, like messed-up hair and a shoddy makeup job to SHOW you someone is in pain and hanging on by a thread.

USUALLY I prefer that. But Stewart O’Nan is enough of a craftsman that he’s able to show-not-tell even with a third-person omniscient narrative (in which the reader is shown everything about a scene: time, character, motivation, spectacle, insert-Aristotilian-unity-here). He bends time to let you know the result of a scene so you can fully immerse yourself into that scene without constantly guessing how it’s going to end.

From the start of the novel, you know that Annie is going to be shot dead in the woods while a high school band practices nearby. Throughout the book, snow is falling. The lights are all on, and everything glares. The pond is frozen, the terrain is slippery, cars are fishtailing…everything is dangerous. What start out as tenuous relationships seem to freeze, then break apart. People who start out appearing grounded and sane seem to melt, and fall apart.

The common ground that all of the characters in the book inhabit is the way they strive toward apathy. While they confront and deal with immediate ways to make themselves feel better (a box of cookies, or bitching out a cheating lover), they are all clawing their way out of a pit and trying to not care. They try to distance themselves from their problems. As a visceral example, this distancing is shown physically when Annie knows that Brock is cheating on her, and she hides out on the frozen pond chain-smoking instead of waiting for him at home.

Arthur learns that instead of finding the prettiest girl, the best way to get what he wants is to settle for someone he used to tease. He and his mother move into the same poor building as Lila and her sister, and seizes the opportunity to “fall in love.” He learns that by distancing himself emotionally from the type of relationship that is supposed to be intimate both physically and mentally, he can present the world with a facade of happiness that will make him more accepted. He saves his money to buy Lila a necklace that he described as “cold and hard,” and presents it to her on Christmas Eve. By giving his girlfriend something “cold and hard,” and by the fact that she accepted it and loved it, he finds himself content in his apathy. He has given her nothing of himself, and she is happy. He is learning that by only giving others that about him which is dispensable and invulnerable, he’s less likely to turn into the wrecks his parents have become.

All of the characters in the book are shoving away the parts of themselves which are most easily hurt. They arm themselves against attack with bitter humor and sarcasm, escapism through either physical distance or alcohol/drugs, and a total lack of emotional investment.

All of the characters, except Barb. Barb is the only character who seems to wear her heart on her sleeve. When there’s a big problem, she faces it head-on, confronts the people involved, and tells them exactly what to expect from her. When she finds out that Annie was sleeping with her boyfriend, she said, “I don’t think I want to talk to you right now. Right now I’m talking with Brock. I will talk to you because I have some things I need to say to you but I can’t do that right now.” She spells it out and stays true to her word.

When tragedy strikes, Barb is able to put those feelings aside and come to the aid of her friend. By the end of the novel, Barb and Annie are great friends again. Barb even invites Annie to live at her home.

By confronting the major issues as they happen, Barb is able to work through her feelings and ultimately forgive. Every single other character simply reacts like a pinball bouncing around between crises. There are tears, there is screaming and yelling, and ultimately, obliteration. Barb is the only character who, despite terrible hurts and trespasses in her life, is able to walk with her head high, and look everyone in the eye. By working through her problems in a rational way, she’s able to avoid the apathy that results from escapism and emotional distance.

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Now here’s the fun part. Why, when I was thinking about child star puppy mills, was “Snow Angels” so present in my mind? The easy answer is, “You read it three times today, dipshit, of course you’re thinking about it.” I’m all about easy. That’s why I just answered my own question with the easiest answer possible. I’m going to leave that up to you.

What is the connection?

They are the “Greatest Generation.”

Threadbare and creative with recycling, they survived the Great Depression. The men, without reservation, signed up for probable death fighting imperialism in the Pacific and fascism and utter horror in Europe.

The women, unable to fight in the military, stayed home and kept the country’s factories and infrastructure running. As a sign of respect, men wore hats and removed them upon entering a building, also as a sign of respect.

After the war, women outside the workforce kept the houses clean, raised the children, and had dinner waiting when their husbands came home from work.

Before buying a piece of clothing, stitches underwent the scrutiny of the consumer, and fabric ran between judgmental fingers. People expected to buy furniture only once, ever, and furniture was treated with delicacy; often covered with plastic to protect the fabric from stains.

Members of this generation referred to each other respectfully, using the nearly antiquated terms “Missus, Mister, and Miss,” until it was agreed that to do so would negate the intimacy of friendships that were built to last as long as the furniture. Neighbors could be relied upon to wave a friendly greeting and lend the occasional cup of sugar.

This is the generation that bears witness to the 20th century in its entirety. Members don’t have to use the Wikipedia to know who Joe McCarthy was and what he was about. The Greatest Generation lived passionately, paving the way for Civil Rights to take hold, for women and other minorities to start to knock down the walls of prejudice and inequality.

I am proud that my grandmother is a member of that Generation. She remembers everything. She can solve a New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle in 10 minutes flat. After I’d been practicing the game of cribbage for a year, I challenged her to a game. She skunked me no less than three times in one game.

And don’t you dare call her “Kaye.” It’s “Mrs. Clarke” to you, buster.

She is a formidable woman, a product of the years she lived and survived as the daughter of settlers on Vashon Island, later living in both Anchorage and Seattle.

Few non-Japanese people were certified to teach the intricate and difficult method of Japanese embroidery called Bunka. As long as I can remember, her fingers were nimble and sure, working quickly to fill an 18×36 canvas with embroidered images of fish, roses, birds, and replications of classic and historic paintings and landscapes.

She tried to teach me Bunka, but I didn’t have the patience. As a member of Generation X, my mind wanders, even when my hands are not idle, devil’s playthings. I couldn’t stare at the needle and thread as my fingers worked to poke it through canvas, trapping the thread below with a firm scratch, for hours at a time.

My grandmother could embroider all day and into the night, and she taught many Japanese immigrants her art, which originated in their country of origin. She is still corresponding with the majority of those women, and is fond of reminiscing about the days her basement classroom was full of the delightful Japanese women who attended class toward the sole end of maintaining their heritage and traditions.

Every time she and I enter a restaurant where she’s been before, there’s a staff member who remembers her kindness and faithful correspondence with them and their families.

Everybody loves her. She smiles without reason, and laughs easily with a palpable generosity of spirit and friendship.

Until she re-married at the age of 81, Gram worked for at least three companies as a bookkeeper. She loathes inactivity, and it drives her crazy to have the television on during the day, unless there’s a baseball game to watch.

A couple of years ago, Gram was diagnosed with congenital heart failure. She’s been able to lessen her decline with medication and concentrated oxygen intake. Occasionally, she requires hospitalization, usually for one night or so.

Yesterday, she was admitted into Valley Medical Center through the Emergency Room. She had fluid on her heart, and could barely breathe. Death drew nearer to her than it had ever dared. She waited six hours to be seen.

Upon examining her, the ER doctor said, “If she was 50 years old, I’d run all sorts of tests, but in her state, there isn’t a lot I can do.”

He admitted her, thus transferring responsibility of her care to another physician. He all but said, “Let’s just put her in a room and let her die.”

Overnight, with medication, Gram clawed her way back to life. Her nurse confirmed that she was in decent shape, and would probably be discharged. A family member was with her all day until about 6 in the evening.

No doctor had examined or even seen Gram since the ER last night; nearly 24 hours would pass before one would. In the HOSPITAL, where there is a high concentration of physicians, not a single doctor even poked a head in her doorway to say hello. It was like going to the zoo without encountering a single animal.

Around 7 in the evening, a doctor finally arrived and told Gram she’d have to stay a couple more days because of fluid congestion around her heart.

Gram lived through the night by sheer dumb luck.

Valley Medical Center’s physicians appear to have forgotten that people Gram’s age ARE the Greatest Generation. They have lived so long and given so much of themselves, enabling today’s doctors and lawyers and general public to enjoy the freedom and pride we each enjoy. Every single person they encounter owes them respect.

Once a person passes 80 years old, they deserve the same, if not better, level of care and attention from medical professionals as their children and grandchildren.

When I hear of someone who, through neglect and apathy, inflicts harm and discomfort onto my grandmother, I can’t describe the feeling.

Nobody’s loved ones should have to endure pain and near death due to the ignorance, arrogance, and total lack of humanity shown by the physicians and staff at Valley Medical Center in Renton, Washington.

If you need to take a loved one to the hospital, and you don’t want them to suffer and/or die, STAY AWAY FROM VALLEY MEDICAL CENTER in Renton, Washington.

Valley Medical Center, get in line to eat me .

Signed,
Gram’s granddaughter

Since I am a rage-o-holic, and can’t go more than a few hours without a dose of rage-o-hol, let me address the infuriating topic that appeared in my latest box of popsicles:

1. I bought a box of regular old orange, cherry, and grape popsicles ONLY because the store was out of those delightful frozen strawberry popsicle-bar things.

2. I bought the box of orange, cherry, and grape popsicles ONLY for the red cherry ones. I figured if I couldn’t have strawberry, at least I could stay in the “red” family, and sport a fancy stained tongue, along with permanent lipstick (permanent for a few hours, at least, which is sort of like a “long set of NONSTOP music,” in which the music is bound to stop eventually).

3. In order to pace myself, I decided to eat an orange popsicle first, and then a red, just so I didn’t end up with nothing but orange popsicles. I don’t like oranges very much, but hey! they’re better than NO popsicles, right?

4. I ate the orange one, and didn’t wast a lot of time getting around to the red one. The wrapping for each individual popsicle is white, but you can sort of make out what color the popsicle is.

5. Imagine my shock and chagrin when I opened the RED popsicle, only to find a MAUVE popsicle that smelled and tasted like my grandma’s overzealous perfume!!! The kind she’d wear to every family brunch, and I’d have to ride in the car with it with the windows rolled up, and only ever complained once due to a firm kick in the leg from someone who didn’t think it was appopropriate to criticize the Gram.

6. MAUVE, PERFUMY popsicles?! Tell me it was a fluke. Tell me that some she-she raspberry bullshit popsicles found their way into some welfare box of popsicles that by some twist of fate ended up in my kitchen.

Those motherfuckers. If they go and take away red popsicles, I’m giving up on popsicles altogether. I will mix my own bright-red SUGAR Kool-Aid, and freeze them myself. I am lazy, yes. Too lazy, in fact, to go downstairs and check the exact brand of the popsicles I bought. However, I am not too lazy to freeze my own, if you know what I mean.

I’ve been editing a treasure-trove of old family photographs-you should check them out on my Flickr site. Mostly, you should check them out for three photos: 1. my mom in a tutu 2. my dad looking like a Hitler Youth participant and 3. my great-grandfather in his Knights Templar uniform, complete with feathered hat and sword.

Guess which one this is:

And this one:

And this one:

Also, there’s a photo of me at 1 year old, wearing a belly-dancer outfit my Aunt Nancy made me. It’s pretty goddamned cute, if you want the truth.

And let’s all take a moment to ponder this: My mother, of primarily Scottish and British (what’s the difference, I ask you?!) ancestry, delighted in wearing a “Mammy scarf.” She also insisted on constantly running around in some hand-me-down coveralls from her older brother. Much to the chagrin of her mother, who was (and is) extremely proper and delightful, despite her penchant for loading up on the perfume:

Tisk, tisk, little Stephy. Tisk, tisk. I like to imagine she was pretending to be Butterfly McQueen, and ran around in circles all day yelling about how she don’t know nothin’ ’bout birthin’ no babies, Miss Scarlet!!

PostScript: I can’t be alone in feeling that this is not a REAL Saturday. Last night there was no new Battlestar Galactica. Therefore, it can’t be Saturday. What is one supposed to do on Friday nights without Battlestar Galactica? I’ve pretty much shunned everyone who doesn’t worship at the altar of Bear McCreary and Admiral Adama, and everyone else is just as lost as I am. Any advice on Fridays would be greatly appreciated. Keep in mind that I don’t want to have to actually go anywhere or put forth any effort, whatsoever.

When your tail feels low, you can take your powerful painkillers, set up some lights and a camera, and invent some really bitchin dance moves.

My secret formula is this:
1 part insomnia
1 part horrible pain
1 part apathy toward pain
1 part worrying about grandmother
3 parts painkillers
=
a really fun set of photos

So here, take a free lesson at the Line Up To Eat Me Dance Conservatory!!

I call this “Underwater Godzilla.” It’s more of an expressionist move. Use your imagination and pretend to stamp Atlantis into a powdery mess. At the club, it’s sure to be a big hit.

I call this one “Bilateral Hip-Hopping.” Throw your right arm and right leg or your left arm and left leg into the air and jump. The best part is, this move works on either the right or the left! It’s a smash hit!

“Lightning Speed” can be performed in several various ways. In this photo, I have positioned my legs to vaguely recall the shape of a lightning bolt. The trick is, do it quick. REALLY quick. Make it a move that leaves them wanting more.

Jump into the air and pretend you’re sitting in a chair. When you land, people will be like, “HEY! Where did that chair go?! I could have SWORN I saw you sitting on a chair when you were in the air!” It’s a hell of a trick, and will no-doubt get you laid, if that’s what you’re into. No matter what, it will earn you mad respect on the dance floor. Good for weddings!

“Pike” is more of a position than a dance move. It’s a good move to show off your flexibility, and your ability to touch your toes. It’s a good one to perform for a bouncer outside a club that doesn’t allow fat people. PROVE that you can not only see your toes, you can almost touch them if you try really hard!

The “Pre-Cartwheel Fake-Out” is one to pull out of your dance pocket when you require room on the dance floor. Set yourself up so it looks like you’re going to turn a cartwheel, then jump in the air. No doubt, people will make room for you. No guarantees but you’re welcome to try it as long as you pay shipping and handling.

“Tuck” is a dance move that nods at my days as a diving (board diving) instructor. If you have a bad knee, be sure that you’re on enough painkillers to numb the inevitable pain-induced screech-fest that will follow this move. “Tuck” may also remind you of AIDS and inspire you to give money to charity.

What are you waiting for? Get yourself out on that dance floor and KRUNK!!

Nearly 90 million women worldwide suffer from endometriosis, which is an extremely painful reproductive and immunological disorder. Essentially, what happens is that the sensitive lining of the inside of the uterus (where babies grow) grows OUTSIDE the uterus, and on surrounding organs.

There is no cure.

The only way to eliminate endometrial tissue is to cut the woman open, and use lasers to burn the endometrial tissues, then sew her back up, with no guarantees that the tissue won’t grow back next month.

Of all the endometriosis research currently underway, there are NO studies actively seeking a cure. Sounds like quite a racket for not only the surgeons, but the pharmaceutical companies supplying all of the surgical and post-surgical medication for all of these surgeries!

From the Endometriosis Research Center, here are a few statistics:

Endometriosis affects twice the number of Alzheimer’s patients and seven times those with Parkinson’s Disease, and is a leading cause of female infertility, chronic pelvic pain and gynecologic surgery. It accounts for nearly half of the 500,000 hysterectomies performed in the United States annually. It is more prevalent than breast cancer, yet continues to be treated as an insignificant, obscure ailment. Recent studies have even shown an elevated risk of certain cancers in women with Endometriosis. Endometriosis can be so painful as to render a woman or teen unable to care for herself or her family or attend work, school or social functions. Endometriosis affects every aspect of a woman’s life, from her self-esteem to her relationships to her ability to be a contributing member of society.

When was the last time you watched a television for longer than 15-20 minutes an did NOT see an ad for one of many, many drugs that help men who can’t maintain a boner for very long?

Know now many men “suffer” from lack of long-lasting boners? “Estimates” from the US National Institute of Health, those numbers range between 15 and 30 million men.

Let’s get this straight (pardon the pun):

90 million women are in a lot of pain every day from a disease that is currently only diagnosed and treated by CUTTING THEM OPEN.

At MOST, 30 million men can’t fuck. They can take one of myriad pills, and can fuck again whenever they like.

And where does all of the research funding go? Turn on the television and see. Or do a quick Google search like I did.

What the hell is wrong with this world?! I suppose the squeakiest wheels get oiled. The NIH should take this into consideration:

When I’m screaming in pain, it’s sort of difficult to bitch about it to the government. What form, exactly, would I have to fill out to register a complaint anyway? How do I contact medical researchers? I can’t. I can’t because I have no power. I don’t work for Big Pharm. All I have is a lot of pain, and no options for pain relief other than surgery.

Am I saying that endometriosis is the worst disease out there and should take precedence over devastating and fatal illnesses? No. I’m saying that there needs to be a law that lists, by priority, disease research programs that are eligible for federal and state and private funding. There needs to be oversight of research funds.

While I understand that socialized medicine is extreme, and could very easily result in a reduction of the quality of medical care in this country, there absolutely needs to be SOME sort of control over where research funding goes.

I can hardly wait to go under the knife again. And yes, I resent each and every medically-induced boner. It seems like the 90 MILLION women are suffering excruciating pain, in essence, we are all paying for your erection.

You’re welcome. You’d better enjoy each and every minute of it. And don’t come begging me for a handjob when you give yourself priaprism.

I guarantee that if men had the sensitive material that comprises their testicles growing on other, internal organs, there would be several cures for it right now.

I’m not saying that women’s issues are more important than men’s issues. I’m saying that strictly in terms of numbers (90 million versus 15-30 million) and severity (terrible, crippling pain versus embarrassment), endometriosis NEEDS to take precedence over erectile dysfunction, both financially, and academically.

Let me preface this by saying I adore Kathy Griffin. She is one of the only people on the planet who is completely honest about her insecurities and aspirations, and that is to be admired and exalted.

Let me also preface this by telling you something I am not proud of whatsoever: when I was in 7th and 8th grades, I had a really, really bizarre obsession with the movie “Beaches.” I would watch it over and over again, memorizing every little detail, right down to the shade of lipstick Barbara Hershey said made Bette Midler look like a corpse.

I delighted in pointing out hilarious errors in continuity (Every scene on the beach, there are 2 people riding the same goddamned horses back and forth, especially during the “Wind Beneath My Wings” montage-it’s hilarious), and recontstructing the whole fight scene in which Bette Midler is wearing a denim-and-silver tassled number and screaming about how, “It looks like a flamingo threw up in here!” I spent a lot of time alone, and had a great time performing scenes from plays and movies and tv shows. I can play ALL the parts. You should see me do Jesus Christ Superstar. It’s something to behold, especially during “The Last Supper,” when I’m Jesus and get all pissed off and throw the wine and unleavened bread at everyone and then start singing like crazy. I’m also a pretty good Pilate, dancing around in circles singing, “What’s the Buzz?”

Clearly, I digress.

WHAT I’M TRYING TO SAY IS THIS:

Tonight, at one point in “Kathy Griffin: My Life on the D-List,” Kathy’s hair was styled exactly the same as, and she was wearing the EXACT SAME outfit Bette Midler wore when she was driving that car to watch Barbara Hershey pretend to die of a disease that didn’t even remotely look like the disease she was supposed to have (undifferentiated viral cardio-myopathy). Thanks be to Oprah, it wasn’t the cowgirl nightmare with tassles and shit. It was simply this: a tight black shirt worn under a royal blue cardigan-shaped sweater.

I have not seen anyone who is not a very talented tranny look more like Bette Midler.

I will take screen shots as soon as I feel like it. Probably never, because honestly, I don’t think I own a copy of Beaches any more. Doesn’t matter to me, though, I can still play the whole thing over and over in my head, although I’m 32 now, and Mayim Bialik, who played a young Bette Midler, is a neurologist I believe. Something to do with neuro-science at any rate. I can still hear her tap-dancing down those stupid stairs and telling the girl who played a young Barbara Hershey, “I’m glad she’s not MY Aunt Vesta,” and later saying, “Ta-DAH!” as she’s being kicked out of a fancy hotel.

I do, however, own a DVD of Jesus Christ Superstar, which I watch occasionally. I don’t think I could ever get sick of that acid trip of a show.

Also, I have been performing all the roles of Evita since I think it was around 1982 or so, whenever my mom got the LP of the London recording, and then the US recording, which I don’t sing with very well. Patty LuPone sings on her own register that I don’t think anyone could match. I’m not quite sure it’s on-key, ever, but for her it works. I mean, she got the job and everything. Madonna can suck my balls, but the movie version was worth watching because Antonio Banderas looks good doing anything, as long as there’s a mute button nearby. My first year of college (I didn’t attend a single class after Spring Break) was in Salem, Oregon. When “Evita” came to Portland in 1994, my friends and I went up to see it. That was the first time I ever saw it performed. A few days later, another friend and I went up to see it. That was the second time.

It’s definitely better on stage than on the movie screen.

There are many other plays and movies and television shows in my repertoire. If you need something performed by just one person, let me know. I just might have it memorized. The whole memorization thing came in terribly handy when I was a lifeguard and diving coach in high school. A less-interesting job has never been invented. At least, nothing is as boring as lifeguarding. Coaching diving was actually really fun, because I got to dive as much as I wanted, and sometimes, if a kid nicked the board with their neck or back, I got to “rescue” them.

There was one kid who got so excited before class one day. He came up to me, telling me he had taught himself how to do a back flip. I secretly LOATHED it when kids “taught themselves” anything, because it meant that I would have to re-teach them how to do it the “right” way. So this kid gets up on the board to show me. His stance was right, and so was his “hurdle,” which is really just an arm-motion when you’re facing away from the water. His form was great, right up until the time his upper jaw smacked the backboard.

When he came up, there was a lot of blood already, and I was in the water, towing him to the shallow end while stabilizing his spine with my forearms, keeping his neck still with my hands. I remember screaming to one of the kids to run and get another guard (the diving was in the outdoor pool, and the only “extra” guard was on break in the office) to man the backboard.

He lost a tooth, and had another one crammed up into his maxilla. Luckily, his mother had been there the whole time, and knew it wasn’t my fault, so nobody got sued. He was actually back in lessons 2 weeks later. Tough little guy. His name was Erich. I can’t believe I remember that.

I only had to put one other kid on a backboard, and she wasn’t hurt at all. Her name was Emily, and she had arched her back too far when leaning into a “beginner’s” back dive, and scraped the surface of her skin on the board. No big deal, but the rule is, if their back, head, or neck touched the board, they get put on a backboard and sent to the hospital just in case. I think that’s a pretty good rule.

My, my, tangents are FUN!!

Oh, another thing that’s awesome about Kathy Griffin-she is fantastic to her assistants. I have only ever been an assistant to one person who was (and is) only marginally famous. I’d known this person since I was 11, first in Seattle, and then in Boston, Philly and Rochester, NY. She turned into a total head-case. I made ONE little “audio documentary” making fun of her megalomania, and got fired not too long after. Oops. For all the time I knew her well and later worked with her, she was a hardcore born-again Christian. But that didn’t stop her from making everyone from her engineer to the janitor do her chores for her. Toward the end of my stint as her “assistant,” I couldn’t do any of the work I was actually supposed to be doing because I was babysitting her baby son. They found out when he was about 3 that he has some rare disorder that made him hurt really badly any time his skin is touched. That’s why he was constantly screaming, and I had to walk him up and down the hall, bouncing him. I’m just glad that period of my life is (whoa, I just did the math) 10 years behind me!!

But I’m not bitter. Kathy Griffin is not a douchebag. And you can quote me on that. I will be watching her show to see if there are any more Bette Midler costumes. I would be so much more her fan if she did that intentionally; dressing up every week in one of Bette Midler’s costumes from Beaches. If I was her assistant, I would totally encourage her to do that. She should hire me on the basis of that alone, don’t you think?

Honestly, I don’t know that I would ever want to be an assistant again. I’m much better working on my own, or with others on a project that I control. I prefer HAVING assistants.

I keep thinking about Kathy Griffin intentionally dressing up like Bette Midler in Beaches and laughing. Dude, that would be the greatest. I’d give her mad respect, and maybe buy a t-shirt. MAYBE. I can’t make any guarantees, due to the fact that I will probably forget all about all of this mere minutes after I hit the “Publish” button.

Let’s hear it for methadone!!!

Edit: I aplogize for the blurriness of the photo I took of my television. It’s pretty dark in here, so I had to slow the shutter down to let in more light. That means that the photo will be blurry unless I put it on a tripod, and I am far too lazy to put it on a tripod.

Anyone involved with Battlestar Galactica (the new one) does not have to eat me. Whatsoever. That show is the best thing that has happened to me in YEARS.

One of the disturbing things about that show is that people are executed by being shunted in to the vacuum of space.

As a scuba diver and overall water junkie, I’m very familiar with the various ways to die in the water, both shallow and deep. None of them are pleasant, although hypothermia is only painful for a short time before you go numb and ultimately die.

I am not, however, familiar with the physiological elements of death in the vacuum of space. I know that humans can survive up to about a minute and 45 seconds, but until now, I had no idea just how horrible those last moments would be. I’d really, really hope that I’d pass out in the first few seconds. Because let me say this about death: I have had enough diseases and bodily trauma that I can tell you, without question, that I would rather NOT be conscious when in a great deal of pain.

When it comes to death, I don’t want to be that chick who fucks up a suicide, or be the brave cancer patient holding out hope till the very end. I don’t want to be the AIDS patient covered with sores, lying on my death bed, suffering as visitors come in and out, crying or acting brave, teaching people that it’s okay to touch me, you can’t catch it from being in the same room as me, etc.

I want to die FAST. I don’t want pain, and I don’t want to have to deal with the grief of others. If I ever get more than 10% of my body covered in 3rd degree burns, somebody just kill me. I don’t want life support, I don’t want to be shocked back to life.

It’s all about keeping the pain to a minimum, and if something is going to kill me, I want it to kill me RIGHT AWAY.

A short while ago today, I clicked on a link to find out how long I’d last if jettisoned into the vacuum of space. Here’s what the site has to say about life after the security of a spaceship:

Congrats! You could survive for 1 minute 23 seconds !

In the first 30 seconds any fluid on the surface of your body would begin to boil due to lack of ambient pressure, this includes the saliva on your tongue and the moisture in your eyes. Your eardrums would most likely burst due to the pressure in your body trying to equalize with the vacuum outside. Unlike what some science fiction films have suggested, your body would not explode.

After the first 15 seconds you would lose consciousness. If you held your breath you could potentially stay alive longer but you risk pulmonary trauma. If you didn’t hold your breath you’d pass out sooner, but your lungs might have a better chance of avoiding permanent damage.

The pressure in your veins would rise until your heart no longer had the capacity to pump blood, at which point you’d die.

Find out how long you’d survive here:

Created by OnePlusYou

Yet another disclaimer:

When my brain goo starts coagulating, stuff comes out of my ears that doesn’t make any sense, especially for a professed atheists such as myself. So just bear with me as I contradict pretty much everything I believe in. My ass is bleeding painfully again, so it’s best to just smile and nod. Or send me a “Cher-Crow” like the one I just saw on the Simpsons. Or just skip this post if you have thin skin and lack any sort of intellectual curiosity.

Let’s talk hypothetically. Rather, I’ll type hypothetically, and you agree to suspend your disbelief/sense of common decency. Sound good? No, you say? Fine. I can’t make you love me if you don’t. Don’t patronize me. I’m not being defensive, you’re being defensive. FLAMES!!! On the sides of my head!!!!, etc.

Let’s say you’re a cult leader. You have quite a few followers who are incredibly devoted to you, and accept you as the Messiah. You have a few really close friends who also accept you as the Messiah. One of those friends kind of suspects you might not be all you claim to be, but agrees to support you in any way he can, because people are better off with something/someone to believe in, and by golly, your message, aside from the typical cult-leader egotistical melodrama, is benign. You’re a little bit goofy sometimes, going on rampages and telling everyone that they’re doomed unless they believe in you.

Provided people believe that you are the Messiah, and that by believing in you, no matter what sort of lives they’ve led, they’ll be able to live in paradise along with other believers forever and ever.

Here’s the rub: the government don’t take too kindly to cults. There have been some nasty ones, and the ATF has been arching its machine gun-shaped eyebrow more and more often lately. As you are not David Koresh, and you haven’t transported your followers to a remote compound in Idaho or New Guinea, you understand that your reign as Messiah is just about at its end.

Since you are a control freak, and want your “message” to really pack a punch, you draw up a plan. Your best friend, although probably not a true “believer,” can be trusted to help you out. You take a walk with him and outline your plan. Because he is your best friend, and completely devoted to you as a person, he agrees to fall on the sword for you, almost literally.

You tell him to go to the ATF, and tell them that he is no longer your follower, and will gladly show them not only where your secret compound is, but will take them directly to you. Then, they will arrest you, and prosecute you to make an example of you for other people claiming to be above the law.

You tell him that after he does this, your other followers are going to hate, hate, HATE him, and that he should probably make himself scarce. Witness Protection sounds pretty good. But your friend, because he is your good friend and knows the truth about you and doesn’t want to do anything that would ACTUALLY betray you, such as go into hiding and pretend to have never really liked you, does you one better. He agrees to be prosecuted right along with you.

Since you are a megalomaniacal cult leader, this is unacceptable. YOU are the one who wants to be seen as the sacrificial lamb. Your prosecution/sentencing has to mean something to your followers. You want to look as though you planned the whole thing. So you tell him that no, that would be unacceptable.

You gather your close friends for lunch, and go all prophetic on their asses. You tell them that soon, one of them is going to turn him in to the law. Your best friend turns to you and says, dramatically, “It won’t be ME, will it?”

You say, in a hushed tone, “Whatever you say, my brother.” Then, you take him aside and say, “Go do what you’re going to do, but make it quick.”

You give your friends a spiel about how whenever they eat and drink, they are eating your bones and drinking your blood. Yeah, that sounds about right. Should give them a nice sense of guilt, and for the TRUE believers, will make them feel like you are always with them. No. Better than that! They will feel like you are a part of them! That will keep them believing in you!!

So your best friend comes back, cops in tow. The ATF puts you under arrest, and then, in an odd twist of justice, takes you back to your neighborhood. There are a few punches thrown into your gut on the way, even though you were hardly mouthy. Some feds just can’t take a joke.

They make you stand on a stage, overlooking a crowd of people you grew up with. On the stage with you, there’s only one other person: a guy who’s been snatching purses from old ladies. The Agent In Charge gets up on the stage, and points at an applause meter. He gets on a microphone and says, “Whoever gets the most applause gets to live. Whoever loses, will be executed!”

This isn’t great news for you, as the people in your neighborhood have been dealing with your ego since the day you were born. You, the know-it-all. You, the bust-up-the-Saturday-market-guy.

Yeah. You’re screwed.

And your best friend? As soon as you’re executed he kills himself.

For 2000 years, you are worshiped, and wars are started in your name, and everyone thinks your best friend is the biggest douche who ever lived.

So tell me, was Judas Iscariot, Jesus’s best friend really a bad guy? Was St. Augustine going overboard? How about Dante? Should the worst part of hell be reserved for Judas?

The defense rests, your honor.

I’m not sure whether my next door neighbors (there are about 30 of them in the house) are:

a) re-flooring the house
b) expanding their “square footage” without adding on to the physical house
c) having an all-night cleaning party
d) airing everything out outside while it isn’t raining
or
e) moving out while it’s dark to dodge their landlord, spreading garbage all over their lawn, the alley, and the street in front of their house

At about 11 this morning, I started smelling charcoal. This isn’t unusual, as they barbecue often, making the entire block smell delicious. No big deal.

At about noon, I looked out my kitchen window, and there were no less than 10 of them in lawn chairs, camped out around their driveway, while maybe 3 or 4 of them hauled out a set of bookshelves, placing various barbecue gear on the shelves.

Throughout the day, more and more furniture, garbage, rugs, blankets, and people poured out of the house and onto the lawn.

Car alarms started going off in their driveway. This was a signal that several of them were trying to drive somewhere else.

At 10:30, I looked out my window, and they have removed the carpet from the front room (It was the nastiest carpet I have ever seen. It needed replacing.) and placed a large straw mat in its place. There are still several people wandering around the yard, and the giant subwoofers are pounding out a monotonous rhythm on the street in front of their house. My walls are literally shaking.

I love my neighborhood.