Here’s their response:

Just had to comment on how HILARIOUS your review was. Thanks for a giving me a chuckle. Although, ummm…do not agree with you at all…really you saw all that in this harmless Suspend-All-Belief-That-Apllies-To-Our-UN

Here’s my response (and I actually gave that person a “this was helpful to the discussion” click):

Glad you got a chuckle! I’ve heard from family and friends that I’m really funny when I’m extremely angry. I had a hormone injection recently to treat a medical condition, and the mood swings have been crazy-I probably should have waited to watch a dumb Disney movie until the effects settle down.

However, you asked a question, and I’m happy to answer!

Yes, I did see all of this. Suspension of disbelief is a great thing. However, when (unfortunately) kids learn more from movies and television about morals and values than any other source outside the home, it’s important that those morals and values aren’t ridiculously relevant to Europe 500 years ago, or Afghanistan 5 years ago, or [insert any repressive, sexist regime] today.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t want my daughters growing up with the expectation that no matter how stupid they are, no matter how many times they flunk Bio, their lives will all be made right if they meet the right man. I want my daughters to grow up to become complete people. Of course it’s important for them to form relationships, but I’d rather have them form romantic relationships for the right reasons. I want them to think that it’s a GOOD thing to be self-sufficient, both financially and emotionally.

Do I expect Disney to teach those values to my daughters? Of course not. But I would rather have my daughters watch films that aren’t going to degrade them for getting good grades, getting a job, excelling at a career, and trusting a man based both on attraction AND rationality.

In the beginning of the movie, G.A.Y. is exlplaining to his daughter that he and Nancy, the fiance, work well as a couple because they have actually thought about their compatibility rationally. This rationale is rendered useless as soon as the crazy, vacuous redhead with big hair falls asleep on his sofa and cleans his apartment.

Have you seen all the princess products adored by little girls? It’s great that they have imaginations, and want to dress in shiny clothing. However, can’t you think of the possible negative implications “princess” thought could have on their futures? Sadly, many parents aren’t equipped with the patience, intellect, or finesse to explain to their children that not all girls grow up to be idiots; that not all girls grow up with goals other than dancing with the prince at the ball.

That sort of thought results in girls whose entire lives peak at either their proms or their shotgun weddings. Those girls are the types who end up on Springer, or end up in loveless relationships without the mental or often physical capacity to get out of a lousy situation.

With guidelines of what makes a grown woman happy such as the storylines of “Cinderella,” “Snow White,” “Beauty and the Beast,” and now “Enchanted,” sadly, many girls will end up in such lousy situations.

If anybody would like to contribute to the discussion, click here and go for it!!

This post refers to my earlier post entitled, “Eat Shit, Disney. Eat Shit and Die.”

One morning, I woke up on the floor beside my bed to my mom laughing her ass off, and Katie running in to see what all the commotion was about.

“You STILL fall out of bed?!” my mom gasped between guffaws.

“Apparently,” I said from the floor, and then climbed back up on the bed.

That trip was before I quit smoking, and was meant as a celebration of my 30th birthday.

The day before my birthday, Katie and Tony and I went to Amy S’s apartment for the first time. She lives in the W Village, and the three of us were puttering around down there that morning. We stopped in at Starbucks, where Amy called Tony’s cell and told us to just come on over since were were in the neighborhood. Katie and Tony had to use the bathroom, so I went outside to wait for them.

Some girls from the Jamba Juice next door (it’s a quaint little W Village juice store, unique in all the world, you know) were giving away free smoothie samples, so I took one.

When Katie and Tony came out, and we started walking toward Amy’s apartment, I asked them if they thought there was yogurt in the smoothies. My stomach was churning.

Katie and Tony proceeded to explain to me that yes, there was yogurt in ALL smoothies not made by my mother, who knew that I was allergic to the live culture in yogurt.

My stomach rebelling fast, and my throat starting to feel a little tight, we made our way to the doorman and told him where we were going, waited for the okay, then got in the elevator.

When we stepped off the elevator into a darkish hall, we heard a can of change shaking-Amy’s signal that her apartment was in that direction. We got to the door, hugs all around, then sat down for a chat. She was in the midst of cranking out another draft of her book, and rather stressed. There were book props all over the place, and her rabbit Dusty was nowhere to be seen. She sat at the table, Katie and I on the couch, and Tony sat in the rocking chair, which Amy informed him, was only allowed provided he not sit still in it.

About a half-hour later, Tony looked over at me and asked if I was okay. No, not really. My throat was swelling and it was getting harder to breathe.

Amy asked what happened, and we had to tell her. She thought it was hilarious, and provided me with a much-needed antihistamine.

Everything turned out juuuust fine, thank you! And I learned an important lesson: do not accept beverages from strangers on the streets of New York. And if you do accept them, don’t drink them. And if you do, have some medical attention at the ready. Even if it’s a chain like Jamba Juice.

Seriously. That advice could save your life some day.

Pee on me.

By reading a paper, I can tell exactly what my current obsession was. For instance, one binder was full of sociology, anthropology and English papers. Every last one of them somehow related to the awesome-yet-defunct band 7 Year Bitch. All of my Shakespeare III class papers are about astrophysics in one way or another. “Romeo and Juliet,” the “star-crossed lovers,” were compared to the mechanics of diurnal neap tides, while Juliet’s wetnurse was more of a spring tide-type person.

I repeat: I got straight A’s.

I’m thinking that because most of the lit/comp classes I took were at a community college, and the teachers weren’t used to students who not only read the assignments, but who actually thought about them.

You should have seen/read the play I wrote involving a discussion between Leslie Marmon Silko, S. Freud, Max Headroom, Neil Postman, and Mary Shelley. I played both Mary Shelley (live) and a Max Headroom-type person (on a tv screen-I’d mostly just stand still with my eyes darting around, but sometimes, I’d throw in a Pepsi Cola ad. Gibson would be proud….

My favorite disjointed, thinly-analogized paper was about Macbeth. I’ll copy it for you now, just so you can see what I am talking about. The second half of the second-to-last paragraph was one of those sections marked, “Not likely, but ingenuous.”

Here it is:

“How Macbeth Relates to Black Hole Theory”
23 Feb 98

If that was the case, then all of the events in the play that lead to the demise of all competitors to the line of Banquo were not grisly and tragic as they might appear through a non-brown-noser’s lens. Perhaps, like a Black Hole, things were backwards; contrary to the laws of nature. Instead of reading the play and thinking of it chronologically, it makes more sense to look from the future first, then delve into the past; from James I to Banquo to Macbeth to Duncan instead of the other way around.

I’ll leave you with that. It makes me giggle just thinking about it. The sad thing was, I wasn’t even high when I wrote it. I actually thought like that back then.

1. When Galactica arrived on Earth, they found a sort of nuclear wasteland.

I’m thinking they have found a future version of Earth which has been abandoned in favor of the “gayagri loka,” described in Wikipedia as: “The mother gayatri lives in the gayatri loka which is a planet like our earth though not visible through any scientific instruments available todate on our earth.Then how can we reach towards our divine mother our ancients saints, rishi vishvamitra found a simple method to reach towards our divine mother and get her blessings through Gayatri Mantra.The mantra asks wisdom from mother which is a necessity in today’s stressful life.”

You may have guessed that the Gayatri Mantra is the theme song of Battlestar Galactica.

Copied and pasted from Wikipedia:
oṃ bhūr oṃ bhuvaḥ oṃ svaḥ oṃ maḥ oṃ janaḥ oṃ tapaḥ oṃ sat yaṃ
(a) oṃ tat savitur vareṇyaṃ
(b) bhargo devasya dhīmahi
(c) dhiyo yo naḥ prachodayāt

translation:
We meditate on the lovely
Glory of the god Savitr
That he may stimulate our minds

2. Speaking of Hinduism, let’s talk about reincarnation. The cylons, when they still had their resurrection ships and hub, were the original reincarnators. As Six mentioned in the first half of the fourth season in a conversation with Tigh, she wants to feel pain so she can learn from it. Earlier in the series, one of the cylons stated that they learned from every death. This is one of the basic tenets of all religions that believe in reincarnation: that in each incarnation, there is a fundamental lesson to be learned, and that until one is enlightened (a la the formerly-boxed D’Anna models, who were boxed because they knew the faces of the Final Five cylons), reincarnation ensues.

And then, of course, there’s Starbuck. Kara Thrace’s return to life along with a brand new Viper present the viewer with uncountable questions. She’s in great shape, except the “feelings” and heightened intuition; a new detachment from all people and things other than Leobin, who encouraged her to explore her spirituality, and now shares in her quest to achieve her destiny.

But what lesson has Starbuck learned? In many ways, she is incredibly immature. She is impatient, she provokes fights, she is prideful, etc. However, after her nearly instant bonding with little Casey, her “daughter” (we still don’t know for sure-Casey might just be Kara’s bio daughter) and subsequent loss of Casey, she went through unimaginable grief. Working through and overcoming that grief may have been her lesson. Moments before she and her Viper exploded, we saw her resolve her guilt and grief over her lost relationship with her mother.

Perhaps her Lesson was about the mother-child relationship. Perhaps she needed to go through that so that when she succeeds in uniting the Fleet with the Croatoan-esque former Earth settlers, she can fully realize and excel in her role as “mother” to the three siblings: the 13th colony, the Fleet, and the cylons.

Keep in mind that often, the greatest gift a mother can give is to sacrifice herself for the good of her child/children.

3. Pithia said that the dying leader (the role Laura Roslin said she was undertaking) would not live to find the permanent home of the Colonies. Yet the last shot of the season was of Laura Roslin standing on what we can only presume is Earth. This leads me to believe that the Fleet really has encountered the planetary equivalent of the lost Roanoke settlement. Hopefully, the first shot of this coming season will have something to do with someone finding “Croatoan” or its BSG equivalent scratched into some bent and charred metal ruins.

4. Who can say for sure that Laura Roslin is the “dying leader” in Pithia?

5. Doc Cottle. I’m pretty sure he had something to do with creating the hybrids, and ultimately the “skin job” cylons. He’s too awesome a character to be merely the curmudgeonly old doctor everyone loves. There’s clearly more to his story, and I’m looking forward to finding out what his story is!

6. The Final Cylon Debate. I have been through just about every character on BSG, and there are many good options for the final cylon. It’s hard to keep in mind that Ronald D. Moore has stated that none of the major, major players is the final cylon. Roslin would have fit perfectly, as would Kara and Lee. In my mind, it’s sort of a pointless debate, and everyone has his or her opinion. There are several criteria that the final cylon must meet:

a. D’Anna must recognize them. Remember, when she saw the face of the final cylon, her eyes got all teary and she said, “You. I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

b. This person must not be one of the major characters, meaning Admiral Adama, Kara Thrace, Lee Adama, Laura Roslin, Gaius Baltar, and I’m thinking Helo also.

Here are some of my favorites that fit the criteria and might actually be the final cylon and why:

a. Doc Cottle. Although I tend to believe he is a human who had a heavy hand in bringing about the rise of the Cylon and destruction of humanity, he has never shown disdain toward any cylons. He treats humans and cylons as equals, and won’t tolerate anyone who won’t do the same. At least, not in his sick bay.

b. Dualla. She would be a good choice if for no other reason than she is always close to the action, and she weaseled her way into Lee Adama’s life and bed with her naive adoration for him, and her need to be wanted. After losing Billy, it appears she gave up on finding someone who loved her as much as she loved them. So she decided to love someone like Lee, who, on Galactica (and in the civilian Colonial government), is a character larger than life.

I can’t understand why D’Anna would apologize to her, though.

c. Gaeta. But that would be too easy. Again, I can’t imagine why D’Anna would get so emotional about it being him.

d. The candy-grubbing psychic chick from New Caprica who gave D’Anna the news that baby Hera was alive, played by Amanda Plummer. Now this would be an interesting choice. That character surfaced just briefly, but was pivotal to the plot. She was there just as D’Anna was ready to nuke New Caprica, giving her the “gift” of baby Hera, which stopped D’Anna in her tracks. Holding and loving Hera allows cylons and humans alike to begin the bridging-of-the-gap between human and cylon. Love for Hera was what stopped the nuclear annihilation of New Caprica, and softened D’Anna considerably.

The fact that the Amanda Plummer girl was supposedly dying, and the nature of her information lead me to believe that we certainly haven’t seen the last of her. D’Anna would apologize to her for nearly blowing her to bits.

It fits perfectly. It also doesn’t hurt that she’s a pretty major guest star. Following the Law and Order principle that the guilty party is ALWAYS the guest star, either it’s Amanda Plummer or Dana Delaney. But I don’t think it’s Dana Delaney because D’Anna never met her (as far as I can remember).

e. Billy. This would bring the most closure all around. Dualla could learn to love someone who loves her back. Roslin would leave a legacy behind when she dies. There could be a satisfactory leader for the Colonists in Roslin’s absence.

Also, he’s adorable.

f. Kally. I really hope it isn’t her. You know how Tigh, a cylon, impregnated the Six on Galactica when he thought she was Ellen? If Kally was a cylon and was able to reproduce with Chief, who is also a cylon, it would bring about closure for the Cylon, as their greatest desire is to be able to reproduce as “God” commanded.

Kally coming back could also bring up some serious shit for Tori.

7. The four cylons revealed at the end of Season 3: are they really cylons? I know the one raider scanned Sam and didn’t fire on him, but that could be like the other cylons were saying; that the raiders weren’t going to fire on the Fleet because they were afraid to kill one of the final five.

Other than that one scan and the fact that only those four were hearing “All Along the Watchtower,” are the only pieces of evidence to prove that they’re cylons.

I say, it doesn’t hold up in court.

8. I’m sleepy.

Here’s my latest toy, which I Photoshopped to make it scan you. It’s sitting on my night stand, and to be honest, scares me a little.

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.

__

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?

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

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.

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!!

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 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.