You Bet Your Life It Is . . . "

But sometimes that's a good thing.

Posted by: Attila Girl at 09:34 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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"I'm approaching Victorville, and all is well. I thought I'd call earlier than I said, so you could crash soon."

"Thanks; I'll see you in the morning, Dear."

"I'll probably be in around 11:00; I'm taking it easy, here. No rush. I'm just listening to music and sipping my McDonald's coffee."

"Good; just drive safe."

I creep into the condo very close to 11:00, kiss him on the cheek, and whisper very softly, my voice overpowered by the sound of his sleep machine. "Don't ever leave me like that again, okay?"

He shifts slightly in his bed, which to me suggests a feeling of culpability—a consciousness of guilt.

"Traipsing across the desert like that for eight days on some quixotic mission to get some old white-haired Senator elected President? For heaven's sake . . . what were you thinking?" I continue, softly.

He denies none of it—damning evidence that he realized from the beginning that it might turn into a huge waste of time.

Hey: everyone is a revisionist historian in his/her interpersonal relationships. I just like to start early.

Posted by: Attila Girl at 12:21 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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and there are a few senses in which one could take that.

On the other hand, the estrogen fairy has returned, and life is, once again, a perfectly lovely thing. There's Gatorade in the refrigerator, and all's right with the world.

Freeway closures? Hey—my car won't be out of the shop until tomorrow afternoon anyway. All's well.

Posted by: Attila Girl at 04:22 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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But then I might get sleepy, and right now at least I'm sort of getting things done around the house, as I neurotically wander around. A little here. A bit there. I might get terribly ambitious and hang a picture . . .

Posted by: Attila Girl at 02:19 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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I've lost a handful of friends this fall, due to:

1) my own ADD + someone else's jealousy/control issues;

2) politics + the other person's Asperger's syndrome/suppressed rage;

3) politics + someone else's jealousy;

4) politics + mutual depression/hypersensitivity;

5) politics + the other person's suppressed rage about things that have nothing to do with me;

6) my drinking;

7) politics + the other person's perception that I'm high-drama. Where that idea came from, I have no clue.

If I could just find a way to lose three more relationships, I'd have a strike. Let's see . . . my mother . . . her dog . . . one more relationship down, and I win.

I can't find my Prozac, and it's been a week or so. But I'm too depressed to look for it. Besides: if I slow down the rate at which I'm alienating the human race, that lowers my hermit-score, and I'm working hard on this project.

Apparently.

Posted by: Attila Girl at 12:09 PM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
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Cranberry liqueur, mango liqueur, Rose's Cranberry Twist Mix. And, I shit you not: California-produced Mango puree, complete with a "bartender's spigot" on the top. (I might just attach a hose to that, so it can go directly into my mouth. I'm not proud.)

Okay, okay: There really isn't a "best shipment from Darrell." I mean, how would I choose?—the cashmere sweater? The silk kimono? The multicolored wallet I use every single freakin' day? The gin? The scarves? The gin? The accessories? The gin? The belt? The gin? The hairbands? The gin? The dress? The gin?

But this . . . aw. It was timely. It cheered me up. It combined several of my obsessions into one handy box. And on one end of that box was pasted a notice on white paper, created with a big black marker that said, "HIGH DECLARE." No, really. It did.

I'm just so happy I could go . . . I don't know. Do something productive, or Useful to Society. Sky's the limit right now.

Note: Actually, D, I did not make it to the maildrop on time. You got that part right. But you said the package was there, so I asked them to pull the box out and hide it between the two copiers so I could pick it up after hours.

Mango puree! I can't taste it right away; then there'd be nothing left to live for.

I think it's worth noting that I own two martini shakers. One is an individual-sized official Tanqueray shaker, courtesy of Big D. The other is part of a martini set sent me for my birthday by Laurence several years ago. That martini set is, by the way, the pride of this household. (Well, one of the prides of the household—particularly among the non-abstinent 50% of the demographic within this condominium.)

Posted by: Attila Girl at 02:41 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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A little help, please?

Thank you!

Posted by: Attila Girl at 05:49 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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has solved my fruit juice problem, among others.

Posted by: Attila Girl at 11:52 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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(Not drowning; just waving. I swear.)

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Maybe this was their way of telling me not to invite myself out to dinner with them any more at the end of Siggraph: one guy showed up with his wife; they were discussing possible names for a baby. I suggested that rather than risk breaking their hearts, they should wait for a fetus before they got too excited about reproduction.

"Oh," my friend remarked. "You are out of the loop, aren't you?" His wife showed me her expanded belly, and he told me they were expecting in October.

So, which is more unbelievable: (1) the fact that my friend never thought to let me in on the fact that his wife was pregnant; or (2) the fact that none of my other friends, who surely knew about this, never thought to inform me or the other person in the dinner party who has suffered through infertility. (Of course, this other person may be on the brink of Marriage Number Three, so there is hope for him. For me, not so much.)

I mean, I could have been happy for them if it hadn't been thrown in my face so suddenly. Why didn't anyone drop me a hint about this?

Posted by: Attila Girl at 03:09 AM | Comments (8) | Add Comment
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1 Came upon your blog while surfing. I am new here and I don't mean to be rude or unsympathetic, but wouldn't it make more sense, as a friend, to be happy for your friend, regardless of how the information was relayed to you? Its likely to be far more rewarding, in the end, than holding your happiness hostage because you feel their good fortune somehow reflects negatively on you. Angela

Posted by: Angela Bateman at August 16, 2008 05:29 PM (1+w38)

2 Having been the "last to know" on several friends pregnancies, it comes off as you're just not that important. But they sure do double-time it to make sure I get the baby shower invites early and often. What I was taught is that friendship is a two-way street. Was I wrong, Angela? I don't really ask for much, just a little consideration.

Posted by: I R A Darth Aggie at August 17, 2008 08:03 AM (1hM1d)

3 No, no. Angela's right. If I have any negative emotions whatsoever, the healthy is to pretend that they do not exist. Because only bad people have negative emotions. To be a good person, one has to have only positive emotions. Look: I'm stoked that they are expecting. Really, really stoked. I just wish I'd been told, rather than having things unfold in a way that felt that humiliating. BTW, Angela, I'm going to take a flier, here: you've never suffered the pain of infertility.

Posted by: Attila Girl at August 17, 2008 12:27 PM (TpmQk)

4 Forgive me for being a totally f*-up hardass, but would you like a bit of ammunition for the next time round? If so, read on... ... my unmarried colleagues (yes, in the same chain of command, she reports indirectly to him) were expecting their child some 3-4 weeks ago. The baby was stillborn. Labour had to be induced 2 weeks ahead of schedule because the baby had died in the womb. Now, we're supposed to be a MNC (multinational company) and therefore sophisticated and cosmopolitan and allathat. I still found it shocking that they weren't married (but I don't say anything - not my business, really). And this sort of thing happens to people good or bad. But, anyways, if you really want to carve a pound of flesh out of the nest someone who's not all that sensitive to your plight, repeating the above story (in a smarmy, pseudo-friendly tone) might be the ticket. /like I said, f*ed-up hardass On a more serious note, may I point out the bystander effect? It may very well be they assumed you knew. Or did not see it of prime importance. I sometimes find out my 'friends' are married after I get an invite to their son's 'full-moon' (it's an Asian thing). My own sister did not want me to know she was seeing this boy until after the engagement and wedding dates had been set.

Posted by: Gregory at August 17, 2008 11:59 PM (cjwF0)

5 I found it heartbreaking and upsetting when, going in for a pre-op visit for an extremely necessary sterilization procedure I'd avoided for years, I was put in an examination room chock-full of photos of babies the doctor had delivered. Hundreds of them, washing over me in my time of sorrow. I wish they'd had a room more sensitive to how I was feeling and what I was going through. And I wish your friends had thought to tell you in a way you could process privately. Unfortunately, people (especially certain kinds of people, which includes logical types, socially awkward types, people who are happier than they'd expected to be, and sometimes guys) don't always remember that other people might feel differently about something, and might want some time to digest it. The adjective Considerate comes from the verb To Consider. An action not everyone engages in. Hang in there, sweetie! you're entitled to your feelings, and you're a good and lovely person. xo

Posted by: Rin at August 18, 2008 06:54 AM (4Mpxg)

6 I found it heartbreaking and upsetting when, going in for a pre-op visit for an extremely necessary sterilization procedure I'd avoided for years, I was put in an examination room chock-full of photos of babies the doctor had delivered. Hundreds of them, washing over me in my time of sorrow. I wish they'd had a room more sensitive to how I was feeling and what I was going through. And I wish your friends had thought to tell you in a way you could process privately. Unfortunately, people (especially certain kinds of people, which includes logical types, socially awkward types, people who are happier than they'd expected to be, and --sometimes-- guys) don't always remember that other people might feel differently about something, and might want some time to digest it. The adjective Considerate comes from the verb To Consider. An action not everyone engages in. Hang in there, sweetie! you're entitled to your feelings, and you're a good and lovely person. xo

Posted by: Rin at August 18, 2008 07:03 AM (4Mpxg)

7 Hi there! Sorry it took so long to respond to this but my access to the Internet is intermittent. Like you and others on this board, I too have had problems with fertility--which is what made your comment stick out to me. I under what is like to feel reminded of a lost possibilty. I remember what it was like in the first few years after my hystorectomy. It took me a good while to get used to the idea and no longer view the good fortunes of my friends as, first and foremost, a reminder of what I had lost. I remember feeling terribly bitter. Like I had failed in some way as a wife and as woman. Coupled with other frustrations in my life (my career was going nowhere at the time) and dissatisfactions in my marriage, I eventually realized I was being terribly unfair to both myself, my husband (now ex) and what few friends I'd had left at the time. But I was lucky. With support, I was better able to separate the fortunes of others from my own bad luck and find a different path towards the emotional and personal fulfillment I sought. In life, we sometimes have painful trials. I hope that, eventually, the bliss you deserve presents itself. I never suggested you were a bad person. Only that the good fortune of our friends should exist independent of our own misfortunes. At least on a good day. :-) Lord knows we all have bad ones sometimes. I guess I've just found it's usually helped me to try and put my best foot forward. Although, occasionally, it still ends up in my mouth. Angela B.

Posted by: angela bateman at August 19, 2008 07:28 AM (twnFD)

8 Alrighty, then.

Posted by: Attila Girl at August 19, 2008 11:47 AM (TpmQk)

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"I think you're off the deep end."

"The deep end of what?" I ask my dad.

"I don't know what. But there's something really wrong with you."

Ah. I'll try to get that fixed right away, then—that thing he can't quite diagnose or even articulate. That nonspecific thing. I'll claw my way right out of the deep end of [static, mumble mumble, vague paternal disapproval].

I wonder if he got that from his first wife, to whom he hasn't been married in four decades. Because it certainly sounded . . . familiar.

In point of fact, the discussion shouldn't have upset me in the least, because it has nothing to do with me: rather, it was a moment of payback to wives #1-3. Which is another way of saying that the whole encounter was about my grandmother, but since she's gone deaf—I guess I have to hear it.

It also served as notice that, for the first time in my life, my father doesn't just require tolerance and patience from me, but Actual Handling. Like any 70-somethng parent.

I've always wanted to be part of a real family! See?—we're normal after all, in our own way! Pinocchio finally gets his wish . . .

Posted by: Attila Girl at 08:28 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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But I think I'd prefer to hear "no, I'd rather not do you a favor," as opposed to "I'll do you a favor, and reserve the right to publicly humiliate you over it."

Perhaps that is peculiar on my part.

Posted by: Attila Girl at 10:27 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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It was a birthday treat from the husband. As God is my witness, for years the title of that movie was generally treated with the numeral: 1000 Clowns. But now "1000 Clowns" is a rap group, and IMDB lists the movie as A Thousand Clowns. Amazon is using the words for it, but won't sell it. [Cue Charlton Heston voice: "Darn the luck!")

This movie is my family's signature film in the way that Harvey is my husband's family movie. But K Clowns always makes me cry (not in a bad way), for two reasons: (1) in this storyline the main character, eccentric as he is—beautiful and charming as he is—is forced to comes to terms with the world of work, of conformity. Of dealing with what he cannot help but perceive to be lesser minds. Contrast this with Harvey, wherein Elwood P. Dowd has to make a sacrifice similar to that of Harry Potter in The Deathly Hallows. In a move that must feel like a kind of death to Elwood, he is forced to put his love for his sister above his love for a (possibly) imaginary creature who happens to be his best friend.

But in Harvey, Elwood's sister realizes that forcing her brother to give up the "delusion" of a six-foot rabbit would change him, and ultimately she doesn't want her brother changed.

Deus ex machina. To some degree: the willingness to sacrifice turns out to be sacrifice enough, as in The Deathly Hallows (at least with respect to Harry Potter's own life).

In A Thousand Clowns, the Jason Robards character has it tougher [always the way, when one is grappling with oneself]: in order to retain guardianship of his nephew, he is required to get a job (a notion that truly horrifies him), and that means (as he vaguely conceives it) being nice to people whom he feels superior to. People he may in fact be superior to, the movie allows.

His quandary finally requires that he act like an adult, rather than drifting along in the dysfunctional role-reversal that has characterized his relationship with the nephew he had been raising, in his own way, up to that point.

A Thousand Clowns is a tough movie for Bohemians, for iconoclasts, for rebels who do and do not have causes—because in this story middle-class morality—the need for a modicum of conformity&mdashwins. Ultimately, playwright/screenwriter Herb Gardner suggests, we can each listen to the beat of our own drummer, as long as we don't do it on the clock. And no matter how bright we are, we must make our peace with the larger society around us. Do things that might appear to be "beneaath us." Engage in activities we don't particularly feel like. No matter how hippie-like we are inside, we all have (Gardner and K Clowns tells us), the responsibility to figure out what we want. And then—at least with respect to that one thingmdash;we must grow the fuck up.

Not a cheerful little movie. And yet still a very charming one, because the potentially distressing message is delivered with love. Or, perhaps, because it reflects the larger notion that dying to one's shortcomings/sins may bring about new dimensions of life we'd previously only dreamed of.

Dealer's choice.

* * *

A Thousand Clowns is also difficult for me personally to watch because it reminds me of Dick Siegel. That is, Richard W. Siegel, the former geneticist at UCLA, who was my stepfather (not legally, but for all practical purposes) for several years. Not only does he look vaguely like Jason Robards in the movie, but he turned my mother on to that film, and she took my brother and me to see it when I was something like seven years old, and he (the brother) was maybe nine. It was playing in a revival house in Maryland somewhere, and we got to stay up late on a school night to see this funny movie she thought we'd like.

It is a funny movie, but in a tragicomedic way, so I always weep just a bit when I see it on that account. And the rest of the crying—which I try to hide from my husband, lest he think I'm not enjoying it—has to do with how haunted I am by Siegel. By not knowing whether he's even dead or alive right now. By having lived in such intimate quarters with him for several years, and then having had to cut off all contact. (And that was a necessary evil: my mother simply could not keep her balance with that man around; it was a severely unhealthy relationship. Mom is a sensitive lady).

Still: for me, cutting off part of the past felt like—feels like—amputating a limb. (Yes: the neurons are still signalling from my stepbrothers and stepsisters in the Siegel family, with whom I've largely lost contact).

Last I heard, Dick had retired to the Pacific Northwest (a not-atypical thing for Southern Californians to do). Somehow I hope he's still alive, and that if he isn't, he died a happy man.

In the meantime, I have a black and white movie he turned my mother on to that features "Yes, Sir, That's My Baby" (which Dick, also, used to sing around the house).

I never learned to play the harmonica, as he could (though I tried), or learn to speak other languages, either (which did not really try to do). I was always very narrow, and rather alien. I ultimately didn't fit into academia any better than I fit into any other professional niche in this world. (That is not really good or bad; just a fact.)

As a child I was, more than anyone else, like the 12-year-old Nick in A Thousand Clowns, trying desperately to find the humor in all the silly, zany things others called "physical comedy." And trying to be polite about it. (Only two people have ever made me laugh at physical comedy: Steve Martin, and Bryan Cranston of Malcolm in the Middle. Cranston really gave me an appreciation of that art that no one ever had before. The couple of years that Attila the Hub and I watched Malcolm and the Middle regularly (because it was the only sitcom he could bear, and he loved it) didn't just made me laugh: they made me realize that I wasn't a total freak. (Just mostly one.) Because that one guy—Bryan Cranston—made laughing at absurd bodily movements the most natural thing in the world.

* * *

So thank you to everyone, for a terrific birthday: thanks to Attila the Hub, for the nice presents and the beautiful movie. Thanks to Fred Coe, for directing A Thousand Clowns, and to Herb Gardner for writing it. Thanks to Dick Siegel for stopping by in my life for a few years, and telling me tales about New York City and Real Delicatessens and Serious Academic Life.

Thanks to Jason Robards and Barbara Harris. And thanks to Barry Gordon, for being Nick.

And thanks to Bryan Cranston, for helping me break free of my (sometimes) overly cerebral sense of humor.

Sweet dreams, beautiful world.

Posted by: Attila Girl at 10:54 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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The other good news: tomorrow I turn 46. I liked being an age that represented a venerated caliber and rock and roll singles.

But this age is divisible by two. I mean—all other things being equal—aren't even numbers preferable?

Posted by: Attila Girl at 07:40 PM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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So between my head cold and a slight case of clientitis, blogging may be bogged down for a couple of days.

What I'm doing at this moment is watching an insane amount of Star Trek over the web, in an attempt to fill in one of my educational lacunae (as W.F. Buckley would have put it).

I don't know if anyone's noticed this, but William Shatner is . . . I mean, he looks young. Did they do that with makeup? Soft lighting? He looks like jailbait or something.

Posted by: Attila Girl at 02:21 AM | Comments (11) | Add Comment
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1 You will probably need a copy of the Star Fleet Technical Manual. It has the full text of the organizing documents of the United Federation of Planets, the study of which will also help make sense of Al Gore's 2000 campaign. The exercises below will establish whether you are sufficiently immersed to be considered a Trekkie: 1) Pay careful attention to the manner and frequency with which Capt. James T. Kirk routinely breaches the Prime Directive. Name 4 such episodes. 2) Ponder the metaphysics of the transporter--was the transported person destroyed in the process and a duplicate person reconstructed at the planet's surface? Identify episodes in which transporter incidents figure prominently. 3) Compare and contrast Vulcan and Klingon political philosophy as it applies to legitimacy of governing institutions. In particular, identify the main precepts of Surak and Kahless. 4) What is the Curse of the red Star Fleet Uniform? 5) Compare and contrast your own version of and grip on reality with that of alternate juror number 4 in the 1996 Whitewater trial. 6) Is there a First Amendment Right under United Federation rule pursuant to the Prime Directive? Cheers.

Posted by: George Tobin at July 07, 2008 10:56 AM (x8Tpp)

2 I think the Red Shirt thing is oversold: e.g., the first few episodes feature dead guys in blue uniforms, and Scottie wore any number of red shirts without incident. What bothers me is that whenever Kirk is duplicated, we never see him next to himself, in the same frame. Why didn't they do that? It seems careless.

Posted by: Attila Girl at July 07, 2008 11:29 AM (1q/ac)

3 You have to realize that the special effects/sets budget for the original Start Trek for the entire season was probably less than the budget for any one episode of Star Trek Next Generation. Not to mention the fact that 1965 technology was, well, 1965 technology. I am more impressed by Gene Roddenberry's visionary insight that women of the future will all happily flit about in very short miniskirt uniforms. It is noteworthy that there are no fat chicks by the year 2266 but still a lot of paunchy older guys. ...Ah to be an old guy in the Star Trek future..some Sorian brandy, a near infinite energy supply, a replicator and babes... "Computer, dim lights, begin Barry White sequence 2"....."Bridge,..Mr. Sulu, plot a course for Hefner 4...."

Posted by: George Tobin at July 08, 2008 09:11 AM (x8Tpp)

4 The "yoeman" do. Above a certain rank, women may or may not be permitted to wear actual clothes. Officers wear actual clothing, when they show up. But the miniskirt thing is bound to seem just a smidge impractical, those matching brief-style panties notwithstanding.

Posted by: Attila Girl at July 08, 2008 09:43 AM (1q/ac)

5 Hey, trolling's hard work! Anyways, always liked my women hot and riled up... But good to know you're feeling much better.

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Is it some sort of self-destructive urge to squander my talent, or is this more like the William Butler Yeats problem?—

The Fascination of What's Difficult

The fascination of what's difficult

Has dried the sap out of my veins, and rent

Spontaneous joy and natural content

Out of my heart. There's something ails our colt

That must, as if it had not holy blood

Nor on Olympus leaped from cloud to cloud,

Shiver under the lash, strain, sweat and jolt

As though it dragged road-metal. My curse on plays

That have to be set up in fifty ways,

On the day's war with every knave and dolt,

Theatre business, management of men.

I swear before the dawn comes round again

I'll find the stable and pull out the bolt.

But we almost never do, and most of us are never quite sure whether that drive to do the Hard Thing (oh, shut up, ya pervs) is a measure of sickness, or the spark of something divine in human nature. How thin is the line, after all, between heroism and dysfunctionality? There are places where it is crystal clear, but they are in ministries and war zones: where I live, it's more complicated.

So, here's a true story: I'm eating brunch with Dr. Nurse, the Sexy Anglican Biblical Scholar. There is a salmon dish in front of her, and some sort of exquisite salad at my place setting, and no bottle of wine on the table.

Because if we order an entire bottle of wine, that indicates Intent. Far better to simply buy by the glass. Sure: it might cost more&mdaash;especially on Montana Avenue—but pinot grigio by the glass is Morally Sound, and you can't put a price on that. Furthermore, if the spirit strikes, you can order five glasses, which last time I checked is greater than 4.5. [Perhaps my engineering and/or math-oriented readers can back me up on the arithmetic.]

(Oh, get off your high horse: like we don't walk along Montana Avenue for two hours afterward, and window-shop and talk about sex and theology. It's not like I'd let her drive tipsy: I barely tolerate her driving without any alterations in her biochemistry at all. But I'm not her husband—for better or worse—so I'm not supposed to worry about all this.)

The point of this story being that she's smarter than I am, and once in a while it really shows. For instance, I only know the first two and the last two lines in the Yeats poem, but the good doctor is grilling me about why business is so interesting to me. (Perhaps it's because I need the money, Doll-face. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.)

"Oh," I mutter. "Just the fascination of what's difficult." I grab a bite of salad, being careful to spear lettuce, cheese, and papaya on my fork, all together. Otherwise, why bother?

"Right," she responds. "It's dried the sap out of your veins, and rent

Spontaneous joy and natural content

Out of your heart. There's something ails your colt

That must, as if it had not holy blood

Nor on Olympus leaped from cloud to cloud,

Shiver under the lash, strain, sweat and jolt

As though it dragged road-metal. So your curse on plays

That have to be set up in fifty ways,

On the day's war with every knave and dolt,

Theatre business, and management of men."

I swallow my bite of salad. "You got it, Babe," I tell her. "I swear, before the dawn comes 'round again I'll find the stable, and pull out the bolt."

But, as discussed, we know I will not.

I flag down the waiter and ask him for two more pinot grigios, and flash him some eye-contact in case that might speed things up. (Laugh if you must, but it does: I got carded again on Thursday.)

Posted by: Attila Girl at 02:18 AM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
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1 I always suspected that "Eat To The Beat" referred to more than just mastication and swallowing.

Posted by: Darrell at July 05, 2008 02:11 PM (mhbUT)

2 In my experience, Wikipedia is a place where misogynistic cyberbullies go to harass independent artists and riot grrrls. Case in point: Jeanne Marie Spicuzza, a leading artist and tarot card reader, had her article yanked from Wikipedia for no apparent reason. And when her sister Mary Spicuzza, a print journalist, wrote an article about it, she was forced to resign for “violating journalistic ethics.” You can read about it here: http://www.sfweekly.com/2008-02-13/news/wikipedia-idiots-the-edit-wars-of-san-francisco/ BTW, you can also read what happened according to the creep who sexually harassed Jeanne Marie on Wikipedia starting here:: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wikipedia:Administrators'_noticeboard/IncidentArchive372#Attempted_Outing_of_Wikipedia_Editor_User:Griot_by_Tawdry_Tabloid_Journalist Remember: Information is only as good as its source. Garbage in; garbage out…

Posted by: puzzgirl at July 08, 2008 12:55 PM (pryOM)

3 @puzzgirl: That's why you shouldn't edit an article if you have a sentimental connection with it. Wikipedia is a place where anyone with internet access can go and edit, and it happens that there are "misogynistic cyberbullies" on the internet, so of course it is possible that you will run into these people. Besides, this article was shit. There was far too much information regarding Wikipedia's policies, making it look more as though she was simply venting her frustration with the site than reporting on an important story. I'm not surprised she was forced to resign. Try thinking about the matter a bit more, maybe you'll understand.

Posted by: Jesus at July 09, 2008 02:25 PM (ILvP7)

4 I agree with Jesus. Mary Spicuzza's article in the SF Weekly was total shit. I mean, all she did was write a feature story about her sister's internet woes by trying to start an edit war on Wikipedia. Now that's some classy reporting.

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"After all," I explain, "that is not the same thing as a dog."

"Puppies have a marked tendancy to turn into dogs," he tells me.

I sigh. "Don't you remember what Juie Bernstein told us?&mdaash;'Once a puppy, always a puppy. Though sometimes the dimensions get slightly larger.'"

"The dimensions always get larger, unless you manage to off it," he responds.

You see how badly he wants one, right? Else why protest so much?

"You know," I tell him, "I think you're getting way into some left-brain-dominant thinking. Do you need to go back to T'ai Chi class? Because it seems to me like you aren't living in the now. Be here now. Don't worry about the future. If your heart calls out for a puppy, you need to respect that call."

See, he thinks I want a pit bull, or a golden Lab, or German Shepherd, or a retreiver. But to me a tiny little terrier would be just fine, once I got Mandy acclimated to him or her. Mandy is very tender with little doggies, once she understands that they are family members.

So I think we have everything all settled, now. Except for the part wherein A the H sees the puppy and realizes the error of his ways, and submits to what he really wants, deep down. And how long could that take?

Posted by: Attila Girl at 11:29 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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1 Oh, gee, Greg--thanks for the help!

Posted by: Attila Girl at July 02, 2008 03:59 AM (1q/ac)

2 You have no idea how long it took to come up with that flamebait, okay? That is possibly the only recipe featuring dog meat online that I could dig up in anything resembling Net-time. And then no response whatsoever... sigh. In all seriousness, the way some people treat dog cultivation in China is offputting. I'm not against eating dogs, but the idea that a St Bernard gave his life so's I could eat some stew is kinda nauseating. Bambi, not so much. You haven't lived until you've had venison cooked with ginger and soya sauce in a hot pot. And a dash of wine...

Posted by: Gregory at July 02, 2008 04:55 AM (4VYLZ)

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Philips SHL9500 Lightweight Premium Headband Headphones.

They're cool--not quite noise-cancelling, but more comfy than earbuds. And they'll work with the computer or the iPod.

And they fold up.

Also, they didn't cost a jillion dollars. Earphones shouldn't cost a jilion dollars.

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"Anyway, you'll note that I made it good to her, which she certainly didn't do with me."

"You did say something about feeding her your gun."

"I made the point that that was metaphorical, and represented the fact that I had no intention of getting all suicidal anymore because of other people's tactlessness. That's growth."

"Also, you called her a 'cunt.'"

"Ah--but I meant that in the Canadian sense. What do you want?--A fucking affidavit? 'I hereby do concede that I overreacted to KT's overreaction.' I'll even sign it and get it notarized. You guys will have it on the East Coast in a matter of days, and you can all fucking frame it."

I don't sound defensive, do I? I'd hate to think that I was acting defensive. My imaginary friend Binker gets defensive all the time, but that's Binker--just a volatile guy.

More James Thurber/New Yorker cartoons: "The hounds of springs are on winter's traces--but let it pass, let it pass."

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He had to pull strings.

All my mom had to do was get on the waiting list, wait for a bit of a break on same, and exercise that white-haired little-old-lady charm that she's been resorting to in the last couple of decades. (It's her best chance for manipulating people since she chopped her breasts off a while back to ease up on her back problems. As a matter of fact, I think the white hair might work better than the breasts did. After all, my mother always gets her way, and I don't always get mine. Perhaps I ought to dye my hair white.)

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