Tuesday, November 30, 2004

Dude, I'm famous.

Good morning Slothville. Is it just me or does everyone find Tuesdays irritating? I think Tuesday is the worst day of the week. At least on Monday you have a fresh-start sort of feeling. On Wednesday you're halfway to the weekend. On Thursday you know you only have to get through one more day. Friday and Saturday speak for themselves and Sunday means brunch with eggs and potato pancakes. But Tuesday? The newness of the week has already worn off and the weekend is eons away. If you are as kvetchy as I am today, I hope this picture of Felix lolling around in the backyard will cheer you up. Today is Brush With Fame Day. Or, if you will, A Certain Number of Degrees of Separation Day. Or we could call it Needy Pop Culture Victim Day. Whatever you like. Here's the short (and very incomplete) list: 1. The lead singer of Simply Red gave the roommate of a former coworker of mine herpes. 2. I once ate a macrobiotic meal with River Phoenix. Then he shot up and had sex with the caterer. 3. Dave Eggers has a much slighter frame than one might expect. 4. My friend Beverly once walked in on Val Kilmer taking a crap in his trailer. 5. Davy Rothbart accidentally gave me his phone number. There is much more but I'm already bored of myself. I suppose I should get back to my Tuesday. You all behave yourselves. I'm watching you.

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Monday, November 29, 2004

I'll be waking up on the killing floor...

I'm having a weird day. I'm sort of in a strange haze. I woke up this morning feeling like I had one foot out of the world and one foot in. Little snippets of things kept running through my head on the bus. "...the choices we make..." "...there is no direction..." "...I could simply expire..." Nothing coherent. No thoughts I could really make sense out of. Perhaps I should have stayed in bed this morning. I feel like I'm covered in cobwebs and it isn't like me at all, to flounder like this. Listening to the new Alison Krauss album all day long probably isn't helping. Discovered the Massachusetts Sex Offender web site today. Pictures of all our registered Level 3 sex offenders and a list of their convictions along with home and work addresses. It's nauseating but I can't stop rifling through the photos looking for someone I know, trying to burn these strangers' faces into my brain so that I will remember.... A majority of them live in homeless shelters, specifically homeless veteran shelters. For some reason this surprises me. I expected a more even representation of all our social strata. I wonder what the cause and effect is there? Any thoughts on this would be appreciated.

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Saturday, November 27, 2004

Weekend with Parentals: Highlight #1

At the greenhouse, purchasing wreath-making materials: Mom: "Ooh, what's THAT?" Sloth: "I think it's perfume. Or maybe linen spray." M: "Ooooooh! What's linen spray? I want some!" S: "It's.......this stuff you spray on your sheets to make them smell good." M: "This one's called 'Verbina.' Smell it." S: *holding bottle up to nose* "I can't smell anything." M: "Spray it." S: "Um...ok." *spritz spritz* M: "Do you smell anything?" S: "No, lean in." *Sloth and Mom lean in to theoretical "linen spray" cloud.* M: "Ah! Ah! Too strong!!" S: "God, that's awful!!" M: "Imagine if you sprayed that on your sheets and had to sleep in it ALL NIGHT!" S: "Gross." *Sloth and Mom walk out to car.* M: "I can still smell it." S: "Really? I can't." M: "I think it's in my nose." S: "..." M: "I think it's coating my nose hairs." *Sloth and Mom get into car.* M: "Smell my nose." S: "What?" M: "Smell my NOSE." S: "Ok, come here." M: "..." S: "HAAAAAHAHAHAHA!!!" M: "Stop it! Try again." S: *sniff* "HAAAAAHAHAHAHA!!" M: "Stop it!! Smell my nose!!!" Much maniacal laughter ensues related to touching my nose to my mother's nose and *sniffing* really hard. Maybe you had to be there but I laughed for two days. Man, everyone should be so lucky to have a mom as cute as mine.

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Thursday, November 25, 2004

Turkey Day Haiku

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!! There is mayhem in Slothville today. I wrote a poem about it for you, inspired by el sid's haiku in the last comments thread. The cat throws up bile. The dog poops blood and won't eat. I cook potatoes. Gotta run - I'm sure there's a puddle of something somewhere that needs to be cleaned up. Hope you are all having a fun and relaxing holiday with no sick pets! Take care, love y'all.

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Tuesday, November 23, 2004

Stealth Photography

The images in this post all come from the Boston Peace Rally protesting the Iraq war in March 2003. Seth posed the following question in the last comments thread: Hey Slothie. I'm gonna go shopping on Black Friday and want to document the craziness. Do you have any tips for stealth photography? And with the added stress of that day, would I be in danger? I can run pretty fast and won't have any shopping bags. Seth, stealth photography can be both highly stressful and highly rewarding. Since you asked, I can offer a few bits of advice: 1. If you have a digital camera, utilize the viewing screen so that you don't have to put the camera to your eye. This way you can pretend that you are just fussing with your camera while, in fact, you are getting shots of the people in front of you. If you are sitting down it's even easier, because you are less conspicuous and at a good height for lens trajectory. 2. If you have a non-digital camera, resign yourself to wasting film and leave the camera hanging from your neck while you click the shutter. You may not know what you got a picture of until you develop the film, but sometimes those pictures are amazing. The more you do this, the more natural it feels and you'll develop a knack for knowing exactly what you're shooting even though you're not looking at it through the camera. 3. Remember that many people don't mind having their picture taken at all. And even if they are a little leery of it, it would probably take some serious stalking behavior on your part to make them walk up to you and ask what you're doing. As the photographer you may feel like you're pushing someone's buttons just by clicking the shutter. Don't worry about it so much. Don't shy away from getting the shot you want because you're nervous about getting caught taking a picture of a stranger. It's uncomfortable, but ultimately worth it. 4. Wear sneakers in case you have to flee an angry mob. Just kidding. Kind of. The Boston Peace Rally was the first time I ever attempted to take photographs of strangers without their permission. There was a lot of running around involved and a lot of wondering when I was going to get my ass kicked, but it all worked out. Here are a few more photos from that day, or you can view all of the pics in the Slothville gallery, linked in the sidebar. Thanks for the question, Seth! Peace chalker Anarchist Veteran

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Friday, November 19, 2004

Long Overdue Rednecks

A while back I promised a post about rednecks and never delivered. So here it is. It's brief, but there are pictures so I hope you enjoy. My ex-boyfriend broke up with me for a car. A year ago he was offered a job on a top fuel drag racing team in Indianapolis and he went. So that's that. Except that he just moved back to Boston yesterday, wants to get back together, and doesn't yet know that I'm seeing someone. Yay for melodrama! Anyway, his team was racing in New Hampshire this past September so a bunch of our friends and I went up there to watch it. Actually, I was redneck hunting because I couldn't give less of a shit about drag racing but whatever. Let me just say that, as a feminist, environmentalist liberal, there is no place on earth where I feel more out of my element than the New England Dragway. The fossil fuel consumption alone is enough to send me reeling in despair. I mean, they have trucks that run on jet fuel, for chrissakes. Then there are the Bush Cheney stickers on pickup trucks, the Hooters girls and the fact that they don't offer any food that hasn't been sitting in the deep fryer for a week. Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. I actually enjoy going to the dragway and watching this extravaganza of humanity that is totally foreign to me. That's why I always bring my camera. My friend Adam's leg. It was about 9000 degrees that day. I just loved this kid's fro. You gotta have some balls to sport that. Big where it counts. Namely, the back of his neck. Yeah, that counts. Gotta love stupid tattoos. Uhhhhhhhhh.........I'll let you come up with your own caption here. Happy Hooters! It's........the chin, I think. There's just something about his chin that is entirely mesmerizing. Have a good weekend everybody!!

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Thursday, November 18, 2004

The Amateur

This is a calalily. Yes, it is highly suggestive. Yes, I have a date tonight. I did a post a while back about nicknames for romantic liaisons. The list goes like this: The Talker The Prince of Darkness The Amateur The Mastodon The Bee Sting (also known as Fathead) The Dart The Navy Seal The Shakes There is a story behind each of these names, and most of the stories (though not all) involve some sort of woe. Today, as part of an ongoing series, I will tell you the story of The Amateur. I met The Amateur in a bar in Portland, Maine exactly a year ago, a few days after I broke up with a man I had been dating for two years. I was visiting the parentals for some decompress-me, feed-me, give-me-unconditional-love time (oh, and also Thanksgiving) and an old friend from high school was in town so we decided to go out. We were both in serious rebound mode and I don't know about her, but I just wanted to get my flirt on. So we went to this trendy little wine bar in the Old Port that is always filled with Maine's version of eurotrash - namely, leather jackets, tiny cell phones, too much lipstick and......a giant LL Bean muffler. You have to make concessions for climate, you know? So blah blah blah, we were getting very drunk and along came the dynamic duo - a super cute guy with spiky black hair, a lanky body, and a little scruff on his chin and his less-cute, Miami-spring-break-type sidekick who claimed to be a "tennis pro." Yeah, ok. The tennis pro told me, in a candid whisper, that The Amateur was suffering the effects of a recent break-up and needed to get out more. Of course, drunk, needy Sloth found this story totally credible, being that she was going through that exact thing. So there was much flirting and then, around 2 a.m., there was The Amateur driving me home in his jeep. Needless to say, many in-jeep shenanigans occurred and I finally went inside an hour later a thoroughly-petted sloth. Not my proudest moment, but oh yes, it gets worse. The Amateur had given me his phone number - his HOME phone number - to call him the next day before I went back to Boston, ostensibly for more shenanigans, but I was too hungover so we didn't get together. A couple of weeks later I was due back in Portland for some pre-Christmas preparation and whatnot, and decided to call him and tell him I would be in town over the weekend if he wanted to get together. I have two friends named Chris. Chris #1 was like, dude, don't call him. You should leave that shit at the bar where it belongs. Chris #2 was like, dude, give him a jingle - it's just smooching, who cares? I chose the latter. Rang him up, he wasn't home, left a message. The next day I got a message from him on my home phone (a number I had not given him) that essentially said, my ex-girlfriend got this message, we broke up but she still lives here, this is incredibly awkward and difficult to explain to her, don't ever, EVER call here again. Oooooooooookay. Chris #1 was like, toldja!! Here's to learning things the hard way! Chris #2 was just horrified and inclined to hunt The Amateur down and kick his skinny ass. I was simultaneously horrified and entertained. The entertainment primarily revolved around imagining his (clearly NOT ex) girlfriend listening to the message on the answering machine and his terrified face as he stammered and huffed and tried to explain who I was and why I was calling for shenanigans. The lesson: cheating 101 - if you want to step out on your girlfriend while she's visiting her family for Thanksgiving, get a cell phone, you fucking amateur!!

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Tuesday, November 16, 2004

Mini-Post (Your favorite kind, I know...)

No time to write anything coherent for you today so just a few thoughts that occurred to me on my commute this morning: 1. It's really hard, no matter what you're wearing, to feel cool and fashionable and all grown up when you're sitting on the bus and your feet don't touch the floor. 2. I hate those feckin' Lance Armstrong bracelets. I know they're for a good cause, blah blah blah, I know half of you are wearing one right now, I know you think they're *cool* and *hip,* but they are SO UGLY. And so OVER. 3. Know what else is over? Feckin' furry eskimo boots. THEY ARE NOT IN FASHION ANYMORE, PEOPLE. 4. It seems I have a thing for redheads. I am attracted to yet another redhead who I see on the bus all the time. She's tall and kind of big, but not in a fat way, she's in proportion, and her face is so beautiful, angelic. And she's got that look, you know the one, reserved for redheads, that says, "I'm all messed up, crazy, tragic, please please give me love." The Tori Amos look. She's got it and I want to smooch it right off her face. That's all for now. Y'all be good today...or not, whatever.

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Monday, November 15, 2004

Distressed Sloth

This past Saturday at Planned Parenthood was particularly stressful. I've been escorting for four or five years now and this ranked among the top five most difficult shifts I've ever worked. I, in particular, get a lot of flack while I'm working because I look at least five years younger than I am and I'm small - just over five feet tall. Sometimes the protesters tend to single me out because I look like the runt of the litter; the most vulnerable. But I'm not. I'm like the guard at fucking Buckingham Palace. You can't faze me. I'll admit, when I first started escorting I did find the personal heckling very distressing. But now, I've been doing this so long that it really takes a lot to get a reaction out of me, which is what they want. A reaction. They're just ACHING to get into it with us. Only once have I ever lost my cool, and I learned that day what a giant mistake it is to show a chink in your armor. Ruth. She's........sofuckinghorrible. I can't tell you how this woman drives me up the wall. She stands right inside the buffer zone SCREAMING at the top of her lungs all the usual stuff about you're a mother, mothers don't murder their children, you're doing an evil thing, blah blah blah. Well, this one day she had a gigantic umbrella that was basically blocking the whole doorway. Even though the fine print of the law does allow her to stand inside the buffer zone (didn't know that, did you?) she can't block the entrance. But the cops that are supposed to watch the clinic and help us out don't seem to care much about a woman's right to choose and convincing them to get off their butts and enforce the law is like trying to get hair off soap. It's just not happening. So I was already mad. But then she poked one of the escorts in the eye with her umbrella and I just kind of lost it. I angrily told her to get her umbrella out of the doorway and watch where she was standing. BIG MISTAKE. That goddamn woman dogged me for the next two hours, yelling in my ear about killing and murder and going to hell and blah blah blah. They finally had to send me home because she was rendering my presence entirely ineffectual, which I suppose was the whole point of her being there. So anyway, I woke up at 6:30 this past Saturday morning and it was bucketing snow outside. I was like, fuck this, I'm not going anywhere. Then I laid in bed arguing with myself for half an hour until I finally decided that if I was this loathe to go to Planned Parenthood, then maybe none of the other escorts would show up either so I had better get off my ass. When I got there I encountered a protester who I had never seen before. She was Latina, very beautiful, probably in her early forties, and she was an extremely effective protester. I was the first escort she singled out, but she eventually accosted everyone one at a time and then made her way back to me again. She got right up in my grill and begged me to "educate myself" and find out what was really happening in that "death camp." She said, "You're young, you don't know what you're doing, you think you're helping women but you're hurting them," and then she started crying, blah blah blah. Try to imagine this for a second. You're an escort standing on a freezing cold sidewalk and a woman is hollering in your face in a way is actually sort of embarrassing. You can't speak because you have a job to do and you have to stay focused. She wants to distract you, she wants to get into it with you, she wants to keep you from doing your job, she wants to make the patients more vulnerable by effectively taking out one of the escorts. So you look past her while she's yammering away at you and you try not to lose your cool. That's stressful enough. Then add a woman who thinks she's the next Ann Coulter, orating for two hours straight, nonstop about evil, baby-hating liberals, Ruth with her giant umbrella (which she was blocking the door with again) and the big prayer group that shows up on second Saturdays with the podium and the loudspeaker and the singing off-key. It was just a nightmare. And then the new protester, the one who was all in my grill, followed one of the escorts home and went into her building and threatened her and the escort ran all the way back to the clinic without a coat on and we had to call the cops and it was a big mess and the whole thing was just very very stressful, blah blah blah. Sometimes I wonder how many more years I can keep this up.

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Friday, November 12, 2004

So since we have sex on the brain today...

A friend of a friend has been hired to translate a Japanese vibrator catalogue into English. They gave her the Japanglish version to work from and told her to make it "cute and cool." Here are some excerpts: Realistic Large Straight Surprising size and powerful volume—the biggest one on the lot! With a skin-like feel and realistic anatomical detail. Strong, firm, deep pleasure for vaginal or anal penetration. The permanent hole are not in use since their size. Available color: Beige, Pink, Marble Blue/White and Black/White. Put the Small ball in the anal then gradually insert smooth thicken bottom, the top bulge of the Flirt offers a slight variation in the usual standard design, It’s also nice for firm vaginal penetration. Available sizes: Small, Large, Copper. The power controller is the latest model, has 7 different kinds of vibrations - from tantalizing rhythm of "boo bo bo bo bo" to fixes vibration. Enjoy your favorite one! Add lube a lot, and then slowly insert the Joy Berry into your vagina. You can go to a hedonistic world where you have never been. Sexy metallic Buzz resembles a penis in size and thickness. In safe silicone. Cordless micro mini vibe fits into the base for good vibrations with or without a harness. The base is relatively small for Buzz’s size, so use a dildo ring for best results in harness play... Slip this vibe completely into the vagina and feel it go off! "You will bark like a wild animal with strong sensation!" promises one enthusiast. "Orgaster vibe stimulates your clitoris as if somebody really sucks it!" With a unique mechanism for clitoral stimulation, this vibe really does feel like getting sucked off. But don’t take our word for it! Very handy, easy to use, and powerful! And my favorite: A Rigid silicon provides firm penetration, they’ll push opening of uterus. Um, is that a good thing?

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You want details?

You got 'em. But first, my mom just called me and scolded me for being a crazy person. She was like, "You're so tiny, what is the matter with you? There are people out there with real issues about weight and you're just a pipsqueak who doesn't know she's a pipsqueak! Cut it out!" Lest you get the wrong impression, she was laughing while she was scolding me. Sorry Mom - I hope that it doesn't come across as rude to complain about body issues. I mean, you've seen my pictures and you all know what I look like. Sometimes I look at a picture of myself and I think, who is that skinny person? I think I really just have some kind of dismorphia - is that even a word? Ok, so, remember back when I broke up with Mike-Lite? Well.......he respectfully declined to be broken up with at that time. Moving forward he shall be known as The Salty Dog (Salty for short) because he's got a lot of salt in his pepper and he's seven years older than me. He knows I have a blog but I won't tell him the URL. Let's hope he doesn't find us, eh? So.......Jamie, Bunsen, you were right. After going out with Salty even just one more time I couldn't believe I had tried to break up with him. What was I thinking??? Thank god he talked me out of it because that would have been a huge mistake. And of course because I'm a jaded sloth, my tendency is to always be waiting for the other shoe to drop but this time I have decided to cut that shit out and just let myself be happy. I'm not going to approach this relationship with a wall around me for fear of getting hurt. I'm going to just throw caution to the wind and if it comes back to bite me, so be it. In the meantime there is all that new-relationship kind of quivering going on. Oh, it's so nice.... Oh, and he cooked me breakfast. Beat that! And if those weren't the kind of details you were looking for, too bad. Shame on you, you know me better than that! Let's just say that I've been mooning around, smiling at strangers and leaving huge tips for cashiers ever since Wednesday night.

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You're filthy cute and baby you know it...

And............it's Short Attention Span Friday! Welcome to Slothville's version of Surgical Strikes. I have nothing to do today except work on some homework and blaaaaaaawg so you get a whole lotta Sloth comin' atcha. First off, a short missive on body image. I have deplorable body image and here's why: I have these tiny hands and feet, tiny arms and legs, and then right in the middle of it all, squishy butt, big boobs and a pot belly. It's just not right - it's all out of proportion. People always tell me I'm insane over this but I really think it's true. Why is it, then, that every guy I have been with is most enthusiastic about the parts of me I don't like? They love the sloth butt. They all want to squeeze it and pinch it and bite it. What is that? They love the Buddha belly. They all want to rub it and smooch it and nuzzle on it. Why? I want to look like a super model but it doesn't seem like that is what people are really and truly attracted to. I say that I don't like how my belly sticks out and they look at me like I just said I don't like breathing oxygen. Is it possible that my perspective is so skewed that I really can't tell what I look like? Or is it that what I've been led to believe is the pinnacle of attractiveness is really just a preying-mantis-woman with a bony ass? This is all just a long drawn out way of leading up to telling you that your Baroness got lucky on Wednesday night. !!!!!

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Wednesday, November 10, 2004

Baroness is just a title...

This is a succulent. Yes, it's really called that. Morning Slothville! Everyone sleep tight? I slept like a rock in a river bed. So, there's this awesome rumor going around that I'm "from money." It's so beautiful, I can't stand it. Each and every one of the fifty-three dollars in my bank account thanks you for your faith and support. Mom, I know you're reading this and I can't even imagine how hard you're laughing right now. At least as hard as the time the city evicted us from that warehouse we were living in so they could pave a parking lot over it, yes? I mean, that was a laugh riot, am I right? I'm laughing at least as hard as that time in the sixth grade when the kids in my gym class made fun of me for wearing imitation Converse sneakers because you guys couldn't afford to buy me the brand name kind. What a gem of a day that was. The only thing I can think of that's funnier than that is the time dad and I were in D.C. (when I was a kid, when grampy died, remember?) and I was so hungry that I was crying. Dad and I went all over the city sticking our fingers in pay phone coin returns until we scrounged enough to buy me a hot dog. He turned it into a game to hide how scared he was. Boy was that a blast. What could be more fun? Oh, I know! The time when I was a baby and you were so starved and malnourished that you had to break into the neighbor's house to steal food so your breast milk wouldn't dry up. Gosh, what a great memory that must be for you. Hey Slothville! Anyone ever traded sex for rent? No? Just me? Well then. I guess if I'm rich, I wouldn't wish "wealth" on any single one of you. I'm sorry, you know what? This was supposed to be flippant and funny but it didn't turn out that way at all. It seems poverty is kind of hard to joke about. I'm ok now, and so are my folks, thanks for asking. We made it through to the other side (even if I am still broke all the time - it's the shoes, man, I have an addiction). But we didn't skate here on solid gold. We sweated and crawled and got our noses shoved in shit just like you. If you want to hate me, hate me because I'm a bitch. Hate me because I pissed you off and pushed all your buttons. But don't hate me because I'm gagging on some mythical silver spoon you shoved in my mouth (pipe down, pervs). That ain't mine. But even if it was, it would not, in itself, make me worthy of disdain. The line between good and bad does not lie on the line between rich and poor, no matter how tempting it sometimes is to believe so. Listen Slothville citizens, I'm getting sappy here. I just want you to know how much I appreciate that you come back here day after day, letting me be Meek Sloth and Loud Sloth and Sad Sloth and Angry Sloth and Ecstatic Sloth and Thankful Sloth and every kind of sloth that I am. I may not be rich, but I sure am complicated. Thank you for walking this road with me. The more feet there are kicking through these leaves, the easier it is. *touch*

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Tuesday, November 09, 2004

Baroness von Spazenstein

Well, now that the fires of righteous indignation have died down a bit, we can get back to the business of doing whatever it is we do around here. Here is a short list of current issues affecting the Baroness: 1. I have a pimple. This is exceedingly distressing. It's fairly small, but it's right in the middle of my cheek. Remember that movie The Believers when the chick got hit with the voodoo curse and a little bump was on her cheek and then ants crawled out of it? Yeah, I'm not happy about this. 2. Davy Rothbart found my blog like a month ago and left a comment that I didn't notice until the other day. So.....I sent him an email. And he wrote me back. Now before I go any further into this I should say that I am torn equally between being psyched and being completely and utterly horrified that he found Slothville. Remember how I was crushing on Davy so bad while I was on vacation? Yeah, he read that. I haven't yet decided how embarrassed I actually am. Still trying to suss it out. So anyway, he wrote me back and gave me his digits and I, in turn, did the same. But here's the thing: I don't think he MEANT to give me his phone number. I think his phone number is part of a larger signature line. But I can't tell for sure because gmail has this weird format that I don't really understand. What I'm trying to tell you is that if his phone number is part of his signature, there is no way that Davy Rothbart doesn't now think that I'm a desperate, pathetic psycho handing out my digits. So once again I'm torn between "tee hee! I have Davy's phone number!" and "oh crap, he must think I'm a total freak show." So, Davy, if you're reading this, I'm not normally such a spaz. (All right people, pipe down!) 3. There is no 3 really, I just don't think you can have a proper list with only two things on it. 4. Oh! There is something else after all. So, this is sort of 3, I guess. We've all been talking about getting back on our feet after this election and doing the work that needs to be done instead of moping around and feeling hopeless. If you want to do some volunteer work to that end, I suggest visiting Howard Dean's project, Democracy for America, and checking out what they have to say. I really like this organization and they can always use more help.

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Monday, November 08, 2004

Sloth Fur Flyin'

Sunflower (again). Sorry, they make me feel hopeful. Ah, good old Slothville. Home sweet home. I had a peaceful, quiet "vacation," even if it did reek somewhat of desperate isolation. It was a total media blackout - no blog, no NPR, no newspaper, no television, no nothing. I worked on my apartment, went on a couple of dates, attended a wine tasting and bought a spectacular mixed case of wine. It was all very soothing. But now I'm back. "Hee-hee. I can't wait until you break out the death on those motherfuckers." -el Dastardo As Lovisa would say, oh, it is brought-en. Before we return to our regularly scheduled programming, I have a few things to say to the people who left impassioned (and sometimes lunatic) comments on my last post. First of all, to the conservative blowhards who stopped by to leave their poison pills in my comments thread, all I can say is - whatever the fuck!! Nobody cares about your toxic attitude so buh-bye. To those conservatives who stopped by to talk about why they voted for Bush (as opposed to mooning me and giving me the finger) all I can say is - thank you for voicing your opinion, I disagree with virtually everything you believe in, but you're welcome to come here and state your case if you want to with no sarcasm or personal slight from me (unless you're a bigot, but we'll get to that in a minute). To those republicans who simply stopped by to say hi and check in and give me a friendly punch on the arm, I want to say a very sincere thank you for being gentle and treating me with kid gloves when you knew I needed it. Thank you Jack and Jay for being true citizens of Slothville and for respecting my upsetitude when it was at its worst (oh, but Jay, honey, lay off the Daz will ya? Everyone should be so lucky to have a friend like him.). And thank you to everyone else who felt what I felt and offered condolences. Last Wednesday was a dark day indeed. Now then. To the person who had the fucking goddamn nerve to walk her punk ass into MY town and accuse me of having a pity party because I wanted to take a few days off, I have this to say: the next time you want to accuse me of trying to make people feel sorry for me, I suggest you take a good hard look at the shit you post on your own blog. Because let me tell you, that complaint is pretty fucking rich coming from you. Don't you ever - don't you fucking EVER come over here and tell me that my concern and love for my country is nothing more than hurt pride. Don't you fucking EVER come over here and call me a quitter for taking time off to decompress. I don't know what the fuck is the matter with you, but if you want to act like a callous, hypocritical bitch, do it on your own time. Oh, you're not going to beg me to be your friend? Sorry to break this to you, sweetie, but I don't consider that much of a threat. To those of you who were insulted when I mentioned bigotry, I have this to say: if you oppose gay marriage, you are a bigot. There's no getting around it. Doesn't feel good to hear that, does it? Know what else doesn't feel good? Having your lifestyle compared to bestiality and child molestation. Having a swaggering prick in the White House who wants to make damn sure you never forget that in this country you are nothing more than a pervert and a second-class citizen. Being told that your happiness and equality is the mechanism that will destroy the fabric of our society. Nope, that stuff doesn't feel good at all. Hey, if you oppose gay marriage, I'm sorry you're such a bigoted, intolerant person. But I'm not sorry for pointing it out. And all the whiny, hand-wringing, PC sissies who want me to be nice to everybody and not talk about peoples' sick, stupid prejudices for fear of offending them, need to grow a fucking spine and get out of my fucking face. You are pointing your finger at the wrong person and if you want to keep that finger you had better get your preachy, condescending attitude out of my grill and stick it back up your uptight ass where it belongs. You want to bite your nails and tip-toe around and worry about insulting people who are entirely dedicated to implicitly insulting you and everyone you love, go right ahead. But don't take the fucking moral high road with me. Subjugating your opinion out of fear of what other people might think of you doesn't make you better than me. It makes you weaker than me. If what you're most worried about is how the right perceives the left, as opposed to what the Bush Administration is doing to hurt the citizens of this country, then I feel sorry for you, you sad sack of shit. How's that for condescension? And...my work here is done. Now back to the permanent party that is Slothville. And folks, from now on, when non-citizens try to start a shitstorm in our town, let's have a big ol' belly laugh at their expense.

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Wednesday, November 03, 2004

Schooled Sloth

On photo safari with El Dastardo...gosh, I haven't done that in awhile. "I saved the leaf that landed in my hair in the hope that I will find it in the pages of a book someday and think, 'This is the leaf from the day we fired that monstrous fanatic who was our president for a short time.'" I will still save the leaf. I'll put it in a book, maybe E.B. White's essays or The Master and Margarita. When I come across it, someday in the future, dried and flat, I will think, "This is the leaf from the day I learned to fear my country." Thank you, America, for teaching me a valuable lesson. Never again will I underestimate the power of your ignorance, the poison of your bigotry, or the depth of your fear. Sometimes, when a sloth feels frantic and defeated, she needs to hibernate. I'm hanging up the pink hat for a while. I'm going to take some pictures, do a mud mask, ignore my television, and cook something good to eat. Maybe I'll go to a pet store and play with some puppies. There's lots of housework to do - I haven't even hung the paintings on the walls yet... You all take care and be good to each other. I don't know when I'll be back. P.S. In case you were not aware, George W. Bush has asked Clarence Thomas to step in as Chief Justice of the Supreme Court when William Rehnquist passes away.

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Tuesday, November 02, 2004

Democracy Means WE Choose

When I voted in the last election, there was no line. I walked right into that fire station with no trouble, no waiting. This morning I arrived at the voting place at 8:30 a.m. to find a line the length of two city blocks. I waited for an hour and a half with a bunch of other cold, quiet people. As I got nearer to the station, a gust of wind came through, bringing a shower of bright yellow leaves rustling down on my head. I saved the leaf that landed in my hair in the hope that I will find it in the pages of a book someday and think, "This is the leaf from the day we fired that monstrous fanatic who was our president for a short time." If I prayed, I would pray today. Please, please, please.................

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Monday, November 01, 2004

Heads-Up, Ladies! Please read this!!

I just received this article in an email. On the eve of the most important election in my lifetime I felt it appropriate to post here. Please read this and please vote !!! (That was for you, Dan. "vote!vote!vote!") As Oprah Slaps Bush With 30 states poised to smack down women's rights again, the one true savior emerges By Mark Morford, SF Gate Columnist So there she was, the nation's most powerful and popular public female, kicking butt on a recent installment of her insanely beloved TV show with the help of celeb guests (Drew Barrymore, Cameron Diaz, P. Diddy, Christina Aguilera) and galvanizing stunned women across the nation to participate in this election, or else. There was Oprah, doing what she does so freakishly well, cheerleading and extolling and impressing upon, getting women up and getting them angry and demanding that they exercise their hard-won right to vote and demanding that they quit dissing their feminist ancestors, the ones who worked so damn hard for suffrage and for freedom of choice and for the right to tell powerful sexist Republican men where they can shove their repressive sexist antichoice bigotry. This was her fabulous, much-needed message: Take your rights for granted at your peril, ladies. Move, or else. Choose how you want the laws to treat and respect you and your body -- or someone else, someone who hasn't touched a vagina for 30 years and who thinks sex is only tolerable in the dark, fully clothed and with a respectable prostitute, will choose for you. Sound like a cliché? Same ol' quasi-feminist rally message? Not exactly. Not this time. Just imagine this: Imagine Bush filches another election in November. Nations mourn, black clouds gather, children cry, colons spasm, the remaining shreds of the American experiment wither and die. And within a very short time, as many as 30 U.S. states have recriminalized abortion and made repressing women and hating sex fun again, as young American females everywhere who thought their right to choose was pretty much incontrovertible and indisputable and unfailing and who therefore didn't bother to vote in '00 or '04 suddenly go, oh holy freaking hell. Hello, 1950s. Hello, coat-hanger surgery. Hello, millions of despondent daughters of uptight parents. Hello, dead or mutilated teenage girls who suffer botched procedures. Hello, a fresh national nightmare, revisited, regurgitated, reborn. And hello again to smug right-wing males who've wanted to put women back in their place for the past 50 years. Check that: 200 years. Check that: forever. Just a silly nightmare? Utterly impossible? A ridiculous liberal daydream? Not even close, sweetheart. It's all about the Supreme Court, of course. Fact is, our next president will almost surely get to appoint a number of new high-court justices to replace those who will likely retire after enduring Bush's toxic first term. They hung in there, these few -- especially stalwarts Sandra Day O'Connor and moderate, pro-choice John Paul Stevens -- hoping to disallow the nation's highest judiciary from becoming overly stacked with homophobic self-righteous right-wing neocon wingnuts (hi, Justice Scalia!) who would have us revert -- morally, sexually, spiritually, misogynistically -- to 1953. Check that: 1853. Check that: 1353. With the exception of nearly useless neoconservative sycophant Clarence Thomas, not a single justice now serving on the court is under 65. Many insiders say Stevens, O'Connor and bitter old man William Rehnquist (almost 80) are all likely to retire before 2008. BushCo's chosen replacements could easily tip the scales of the court the other direction, from its very precarious 5-4 progressive tilt to a very sneering 6-3 conservative one, a court that would then very easily overturn parts or even all of Roe v. Wade. Talk about a malicious legacy. It gets worse. It gets nastier, more widespread. Because should Shrub swipe another term, he will also be on his way to naming more federal trial and appeals judges -- hundreds, by most counts -- than either Clinton or Reagan, the last two-term presidents. Bush could, in short and for all intents and purposes, stack the nation's courts with enough neoconservative, antichoice, antiwomen crusaders to make Strom Thurmond giggle in his grave. Which brings us straight back to Oprah. Say what you will about the often weirdly effusive and overtly gushy and often slightly smarmy woman who just gave away 276 Pontiacs to her entire studio audience (hard to tell if that was an act of astounding generosity and beneficence, or some sort of weird punishment -- I mean, they were Pontiacs), but the woman can electrify and inspire and educate her millions of devoted viewers like nobody's business. And if there's one famously disenfranchised and alienated and apathetic voting bloc that needs to get off its collective yoga butt and stand up and make itself known this election lest it lose an even larger chunk of its basic human rights than it even realizes, it's youngish women. This is, after all, what so many women don't seem to know. That the Bush administration has already, in just a few short years, managed to roll back a truly astounding number of their basic rights, making it more difficult, for example, for doctors to perform abortions, or making it illegal for schools to discuss contraception or for hospitals to discuss pregnancy-termination options. From demeaning and ineffectual abstinence-only programs to biased counseling to cutting all funding for international women's health organizations that provide care to poor women in third-world nations (hell, Bush hacked that one away in his first month in office), Dubya has done more than any president in the last 100 years to smack women upside their sexually empowered heads. Oh and by the way, that suggestion currently being floated by some in Congress that the Iraq war has become so nasty and desperate that we might very well need to reinstate the military draft? That draft includes young women. And oh yes, Bush has already upheld the ban on abortions for servicewomen stationed overseas, even if they pay for it themselves. Feeling patriotic yet? This has been the GOP's message to women since, well, forever: Be like Laura Bush -- submissive, matronly, heavily shellacked and ever flashing a disquieting mannequin grin, off in the corner reading stories to the kids and cutting lots of pretty ceremonial ribbons and keeping quiet about the Important Stuff and never having sex and always be standing just out of the spotlight, secondary and inferior and in the background. You know, right where you belong. Truly and sadly, few indeed are the powerful and articulate public female voices in our major media to counter this ideological poison. Who, Barbara Walters? Not exactly hotly connected to youth and issues of the day. Katie Couric? About as female empowering as a terrier. Martha Stewart? Busy designing barbell cozies for the prison gym. The wholly queasy pseudo-feminists on the wholly awful "The View"? Please. And while plethoric are the powerful women working behind the media scenes, execs and pundits and writers, senators and world leaders and even forthright, independent wives, and while there are plenty of strong-willed, outspoken female celebs making their voices known, in terms of visibility and raw power and sheer reach, nobody can touch Oprah. Which is exactly why her message was so wonderful. Here's the bottom line: 50 million eligible women didn't vote in 2000, and 22 million of them were single and nearly every one of them probably thought their vote doesn't matter and it isn't really worth it and who cares anyway because no matter who wins, everything's still pretty much run by rich powerful men anyway. Which is, you know, sort of true. But not quite. Because as Oprah knows, there are powerful men who get it and who love women and who understand their issues and who have cool articulate daughters and opinionated self-defined multilingual firebrand wives (Hi, Teresa), and there are aww-shucks antichoice Texans with lifeless token wives who think your body is government property and you should just pipe down and keep your damn legs closed and go pray to an angry Republican God to forgive your plentiful vagina-induced sins. Hey, it's your choice. But not for long.

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Monday Morning Mini

This is...a leaf. I hope everyone had a fun weekend. Mine was like this: -much shopping -regularly spaced heart palpitations over looming election -read best editorial EVER in the New Yorker and interesting article about Paul Wolfowitz called "The Believer" -stepped in dog poo in nubbly-soled shoes and had to use toothbrush to clean it (and for some reason found the whole thing hysterically funny) -drank apple cider martinis at pumpkin-carving party -caught up with old friend at pumpkin-carving party -got baby fever at pumpkin-carving party (caused by v.v. cute baby that fell asleep in my arms - not my fault) -hurt hands during complicated project involving rope and a decapitated kiwi vine I will be voting before work tomorrow morning and I hope it doesn't make me late. I hope you have all figured out your voting plans already. If any of you are not voting, I don't want to know. For fun reading, click here for a witty, sardonic post about early voting that I found highly amusing.

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