If Only We Could Get People In Charge To Be This Creative

    CNN reported this. A guy in a grass suit who was busted by a police dog. Just read the article.
    How would the world be different? No telling, but I'm sure that it wouldn't be any more stuck than it is.

This Just In: DADT Finally Freaking Ruled Unconstitutional

      The BBC reports what so many of us have known or felt all along: Don't Ask, Don't Tell has been declared unconstitutional by a federal judge. Citing violations of the 5th Amendment ( against self-incrimination) and the risk to national security presented by the divisiveness of the policy, it's been halted.
      And please, God, let it not be appealed. President Obama has been going off about being a fierce ally of the LGBTQ community. This is his chance to prove it.
    

What Brings You Joy?

    Some years ago, I participated in a journal group, five or six women at its core, with friends popping in and out. "What brings you joy?" was the usual greeting of one of them.
     It stopped me cold in the tracks of many a bitch and moan fest. Not "How are you?" with the socially conventional, "Oh, fine. And you?" when I was aware that I'd chewed a new hole in my bite guard (I grind my teeth in my sleep.  Feel free to report me to "TMZ.")  And stood poised to chant the litany of what had triggered it.
    On to this past weekend. I couldn't watch the news--humanity has collectively lost it. The Spouse did some technological upgrading around the house. His mom is back in the hospital after falling for the second time in a month. What's bringing you joy? echoed from some deep recess of my memory.
     Well, there's the flowers the The Spouse bestowed on me for my birthday, and the cake. We went for a hike and out for a good dinner. I found the Dali Lama's website. The weather was great. Today is Eleanor Roosevelt's birthday. My tea is just right.
     So what's bringing you joy today?
      
        
    

Notes from Behind the Love Seat

   Originally I was going to write about how the world has gone totally insane. Then I realized that it already nuts, making my views redundant.
    It's not even noon as I tap away. So far, there's a high ranking appointee by the governor of Indiana who was busted in a men's room for exposing himself and encouraging an undercover cop to touch him. (http://pamshouseblend.com). Of course he's a Republican family values supporter.
     I'm waiting on word about the case before the SCOTUS, the one concerning the (protect your keyboards) Westboro Cult Baptist Church. You know, the good people who show up at kids' events and other churches with the lovely neon signs to spread Jesus' love by using homophobic slurs and telling passersby that they're going to hell? The ones who attend funerals of soldiers to inform the grieving families that their child's death was God punishing America for tolerating (insert slur here)? Oh, and make up lyrics detailing their...whatever. It is not theology....viewpoints to songs by Lady Gaga and Ozzy Osbourne? Yep. They're being taken to task by the Snyder family for protesting at their son's funeral.  (http://commondreams.org)
     While you're over at Common Dreams, check out the story about the fire department that let a house burn to the ground because the owner hadn't paid the $75 fee.
     As all things do, this cycle of crazy will pass. Won't it? In the mean time, you know where to find me.

I Heart my Mac

    Steeped in Laura Ingalls Wilder and Louisa May Alcott, I envisioned my writing career centered around an antique oak table with pens and writing tablets, perhaps a typewriter. In a garret overlooking a scene that varied from day to day. Sometimes I overlooked a sunny apple orchard on my estate in Vermont. Other times, I found myself watching the cityscape of Manhattan.
    Well, it came to pass that I sit on my green sofa in the family room, looking out over the soybean fields with my Mac on my lap. The romantic idea of pens and tablets is, unfortunately, quaint, save for personal journaling and first drafts.
    Getting me this far technologically took getting dragged by the pits by The Spouse (an engineer who was allowed one "I told you so")with a cadre of friends on the ankles. And being very specific about not wanting a PC again in this life or the next ones after several crashes and a virus last year.
      This past weekend was the one year anniversary of working with my Mac. One freezup in the whole year. Now I know what the fuss about technology is about.
       

This Should Not Have Happened And Hell, Yeah, I'm Taking It Personally

   No.

   I just feel ill when I see stories about bullying. Earlier this year, there was Phoebe in Massachusetts. She was targeted another girl who'd been complained about by several other parents for her cyber abuse of fellow students. Earlier this week, there was Ashton in Texas. Now there's Tyler at Rutgers. Click on the purple "no" at the top of this entry for the HuffPost's coverage.

    The combination I presented--that of being taller and heavier than average, sounding more like an adult than a kid, and the premarital name of Gay--was like a bullseye to the arrows of the bullies K-12. My parents diligently reported incidents to the principal, but nothing really was done about any of it.

     Telling the kid to have compassion for the bully doesn't work. "Well, we just have to learn to get along" is useless.  Ignoring doesn't work, and that goes double if it gets physical. It's called assault, battery, defamation of character. All crimes in the adult world, so why put up with it in children? 

    Especially not now in the cyber-age. I had to deal with prank calls, practical jokes, and unordered pizza delivery. That was bad enough. Finding that images of myself in a sensitive situation had been taped and uploaded without my knowledge or consent is incomprehensible.

    I went to an away college and then moved from my hometown. I'm married to a man who comes from a culture that adores the curvier variations of the female form and regularly tells me that women with graduate degrees are hot. Life did get better, even though I felt as if I danced down an IED-filled road as I passed though the early part.

     But I'm here now. I have no wisdom to offer, except that if you can't get the principal, the administration, the R.D. (resident director) to help you, get the ACLU or some other group behind you. You don't deserve this. The shame is on them, and someday they will be the victims of their actions.

     

      

      

An Update and Related Thoughts

    Let's start with the update: I did get a response to the email I sent to the marketing director at the theater where The Spouse and I saw the trainwreck of a show this past Saturday. While she apologized for the disappointment we experienced, she included a patronizing reminder that there was a warning in the brochure (albeit a very inadequate one) and the website billed it as rated R (at the time I checked to see when the tickets went on sale, oh, no they had not put up the big red letter in the lower right corner). She kindly included links.
    I didn't bother to click on them. I know what I heard at the show, and I know what I read. The inaccurate description and refusal to own up to it bothered me more than the monologue itself.
     Anyone who's known me for more than, oh, ten minutes is aware that I drop my share of f-bombs. I try not to do so out of respect to others' sensibilities until I get to know them and know what their boundaries are. I also do it for free.
     There are times in the arts that it becomes necessary to use coarse language or graphic imagery. Character development and authentic dialog are two situations when you may have to let 'er rip. Visuals depicting the consequences of inhuman behavior, such as Picasso's "Guarnica" would have lost power had they been dumbed down or sanitized. If there's a point to it, so be it. If there is no point, it brings into question the talents of the performer or writer or comic.
     I'd like to believe there's a caring person inside the rage the main act exhibited on stage. By the end of the night, I wanted to gently take him by the shoulders, sit him down, and tell him that it's ok to be angry (among other issues, he's just been divorced and his ex got everything except the clothes on his back), but that it's not ok to use racial stereotypes and insult people who make up the bulk of your fan base because they liked your two tv shows).
     Just as the marketing director didn't get it, he wouldn't either. So I'm going to go crawl inside a Jane Austen movie until I feel that I can face the world again.