When I took this
picture a few years ago, I didn't know whose boots these were.
Whether they were left by a loved one or brought to The Wall
by a soldier who hoped to find closure.
Thousands of momentos are left at The Wall every year. At the end of
each day they are collected, cataloged and saved with great respect.
These are the talismans of a war whose lasting legacy is the memorial
created to its fallen soldiers.
The Wall is a touchstone for those of us who were left to carry the
memories of the ones we lost.
For me it is also a reminder not to forget those who lived but came back lost.
To all of them, thank you.
Sunday, May 28, 2006
The Big Easy Is Hard Up for Cash
I've just been to New Orleans. Reluctantly.
On the flight down I sat next to guy in the Coast Guard -- in case you forgot, they were the only people who seemed to know what to do after Katrina hit.
I knew he was military by his haircut. After we were airborne he asked if I was from New Orleans. No. Chicago. He was returning from his first visit to my city, which he loved. I was heading to his city for my first visit in thirty years, which I wasn't sure about.
I thanked him on behalf of a grateful nation for getting all those stranded people off the rooftops. He laughed and said he only cooked for the guys who did the flying, but he'd mention it.
I didn't realize it at the time, but he is typical of the people who live in the Big Easy: open, gregarious, friendly, funny, and polite. My name is Tony. Hello, I'm Mrs. Linklater.
[UNNECESSARY FACTOID: I learned he had been stationed in Honolulu for a time and often cruised the waters off Alaska to keep the Russian trawlers from fishing illegally. Interestingly, the fish seem to know where the legal fishing boundaries are. There is an imaginary line that those gilled and scaly creatures refuse to go beyond. Apparently entire schools of fish are smart enough to swim up to the edge of that line and stop.]
As we came in for our landing, I was surprised by how lush and green the city looked from the sky. Such a change from last summer's camera views of water water everywhere.
On the ground, the air didn't smell like mildew or wet rugs like I half expected it to. The piles of debris we saw daily on the news are still there, but you have to look for them. A cab driver will take you on a one hour tour of the remaining devastation for $35 if you want to have a looksee. Of course, there are those who think rebuilding may never take place in those areas. Not if you have to wait for the insurance companies to help. But, this is America, never say never.
There were some abandoned cars pointed out to me beneath an overpass on the way downtown. I wouldn't have noticed them otherwise. They were still parked, waiting for someone to come get them. Their owners had left the autos there, thinking it was higher ground, only to have them submerged in the flood waters.
A thin yellow line runs along the walls of the highway, like the stain left by urine in a dirty toilet. It's one of the few reminders of how many weeks the city was under water. There are boarded up buildings, but not nearly as many as I expected. No more than any metropolitan area undergoing urban renewal.
The beignets are hot and delicious again at the Cafe du Monde. I had mine with some iced coffee and chicory. The French Quarter is all gussied up with gorgeous baskets of flowers hanging from the balconies overlooking Bourbon Street. The white mules are pulling carriages again next to Jackson Square. The gardens are blooming again. The River Boats are paddling up and down the Mississippi.
The people who work at the airport and in the hotels, who drive the cabs and bring you food in the restaurants all seem genuinely happy to have visitors coming back to their town. There is one notable exception to their kindness and hospitality -- the antagonism felt by everyone toward the insurance companies. The nameless, faceless people on the other end of the phone are still arguing about what percentage of damage was caused by water and what was caused by wind.
The hospitality when we arrived at the hotel was effusive. When we stepped out of our van, we were greeted by several smiling people who practically shouted, "Welcome to New Orleans!"
The official drink of the city is, ironically, the Hurricane, made with Paddy O's [Pat O'Brien's] sour mix and rum. Unlike so many of my friends who can brag about drinking five Hurricanes and surviving, I'd never had one. I also didn't want to deal with the two shots of alcohol recommended for enjoyment, so I opted for the virgin version. Ack. It needed at least a little rum. So I had one with half a shot of dark rum. Perfect. Just enough to cut the sweet. But not enough to knock me over. Because that's a long way down.
Most of the people I talked to, those who worked in the city, had lost everything during Katrina. There are a million stories. One cabdriver I talked to woke up to find that he'd lost a fence to the wind, so he went back to sleep thinking the worst was over, only to wake up with water rising by the side of his bed.
His pregnant wife and their young daughter had left town as a precaution. He soon found himself alone in the attic kicking a hole through the roof to keep from drowning. Once outside, he spent the next two days in the hot sun, getting more and more dehydrated. The Coast Guard rescued him, which turned out to be the best and worst experience he went through.
He escaped the rising flood waters hanging onto one of the Coast Guardsmen, a man whose name he doesn't know, but whose face he'll never forget. However, he still has nightmares of the rig snapping as it pulls him up to the helicopter. Something that never happened.
I asked if there was any counseling offered to the survivors. Yes, he said. What did you have to deal with? You think it's your fault. You've lost everything you had, everything you've saved for. You feel like you've failed your family. I pointed out that he had saved his family by sending them to safety ahead of time. He knew that logically, but emotionally he still struggles.
We watched FEMA and local government fail the folks of New Orleans last year. There are plenty of problems to go around still. The insurance companies refusing to pay for a lot of the damage, primarily. Plus the levees aren't entirely fixed yet. The SuperDome is still being repaired. And hurricane season is here again.
One bright note -- the Convention Center is not only huge, it's busy.
To her credit, and, despite what the media might say, New Orleans is up and running, in large part thanks to the people who live and work there. What they've got now is a PR problem -- getting their bread and butter back -- tourists. Especially when most are like me and think the place is still a total wreck.
Now that I've had a chance to see how far New Orleans has come since last year, I realize there is something all of us can do to pitch in and help.
Forget the Red Cross and the Salvation Army. If you want to donate your money directly to rebuilding New Orleans, I can't imagine a better way than spending a weekend down there, eating, drinking, and having a great time.
Like I did.
On the flight down I sat next to guy in the Coast Guard -- in case you forgot, they were the only people who seemed to know what to do after Katrina hit.
I knew he was military by his haircut. After we were airborne he asked if I was from New Orleans. No. Chicago. He was returning from his first visit to my city, which he loved. I was heading to his city for my first visit in thirty years, which I wasn't sure about.
I thanked him on behalf of a grateful nation for getting all those stranded people off the rooftops. He laughed and said he only cooked for the guys who did the flying, but he'd mention it.
I didn't realize it at the time, but he is typical of the people who live in the Big Easy: open, gregarious, friendly, funny, and polite. My name is Tony. Hello, I'm Mrs. Linklater.
[UNNECESSARY FACTOID: I learned he had been stationed in Honolulu for a time and often cruised the waters off Alaska to keep the Russian trawlers from fishing illegally. Interestingly, the fish seem to know where the legal fishing boundaries are. There is an imaginary line that those gilled and scaly creatures refuse to go beyond. Apparently entire schools of fish are smart enough to swim up to the edge of that line and stop.]
As we came in for our landing, I was surprised by how lush and green the city looked from the sky. Such a change from last summer's camera views of water water everywhere.
On the ground, the air didn't smell like mildew or wet rugs like I half expected it to. The piles of debris we saw daily on the news are still there, but you have to look for them. A cab driver will take you on a one hour tour of the remaining devastation for $35 if you want to have a looksee. Of course, there are those who think rebuilding may never take place in those areas. Not if you have to wait for the insurance companies to help. But, this is America, never say never.
There were some abandoned cars pointed out to me beneath an overpass on the way downtown. I wouldn't have noticed them otherwise. They were still parked, waiting for someone to come get them. Their owners had left the autos there, thinking it was higher ground, only to have them submerged in the flood waters.
A thin yellow line runs along the walls of the highway, like the stain left by urine in a dirty toilet. It's one of the few reminders of how many weeks the city was under water. There are boarded up buildings, but not nearly as many as I expected. No more than any metropolitan area undergoing urban renewal.
The beignets are hot and delicious again at the Cafe du Monde. I had mine with some iced coffee and chicory. The French Quarter is all gussied up with gorgeous baskets of flowers hanging from the balconies overlooking Bourbon Street. The white mules are pulling carriages again next to Jackson Square. The gardens are blooming again. The River Boats are paddling up and down the Mississippi.
The people who work at the airport and in the hotels, who drive the cabs and bring you food in the restaurants all seem genuinely happy to have visitors coming back to their town. There is one notable exception to their kindness and hospitality -- the antagonism felt by everyone toward the insurance companies. The nameless, faceless people on the other end of the phone are still arguing about what percentage of damage was caused by water and what was caused by wind.
The hospitality when we arrived at the hotel was effusive. When we stepped out of our van, we were greeted by several smiling people who practically shouted, "Welcome to New Orleans!"
The official drink of the city is, ironically, the Hurricane, made with Paddy O's [Pat O'Brien's] sour mix and rum. Unlike so many of my friends who can brag about drinking five Hurricanes and surviving, I'd never had one. I also didn't want to deal with the two shots of alcohol recommended for enjoyment, so I opted for the virgin version. Ack. It needed at least a little rum. So I had one with half a shot of dark rum. Perfect. Just enough to cut the sweet. But not enough to knock me over. Because that's a long way down.
Most of the people I talked to, those who worked in the city, had lost everything during Katrina. There are a million stories. One cabdriver I talked to woke up to find that he'd lost a fence to the wind, so he went back to sleep thinking the worst was over, only to wake up with water rising by the side of his bed.
His pregnant wife and their young daughter had left town as a precaution. He soon found himself alone in the attic kicking a hole through the roof to keep from drowning. Once outside, he spent the next two days in the hot sun, getting more and more dehydrated. The Coast Guard rescued him, which turned out to be the best and worst experience he went through.
He escaped the rising flood waters hanging onto one of the Coast Guardsmen, a man whose name he doesn't know, but whose face he'll never forget. However, he still has nightmares of the rig snapping as it pulls him up to the helicopter. Something that never happened.
I asked if there was any counseling offered to the survivors. Yes, he said. What did you have to deal with? You think it's your fault. You've lost everything you had, everything you've saved for. You feel like you've failed your family. I pointed out that he had saved his family by sending them to safety ahead of time. He knew that logically, but emotionally he still struggles.
We watched FEMA and local government fail the folks of New Orleans last year. There are plenty of problems to go around still. The insurance companies refusing to pay for a lot of the damage, primarily. Plus the levees aren't entirely fixed yet. The SuperDome is still being repaired. And hurricane season is here again.
One bright note -- the Convention Center is not only huge, it's busy.
To her credit, and, despite what the media might say, New Orleans is up and running, in large part thanks to the people who live and work there. What they've got now is a PR problem -- getting their bread and butter back -- tourists. Especially when most are like me and think the place is still a total wreck.
Now that I've had a chance to see how far New Orleans has come since last year, I realize there is something all of us can do to pitch in and help.
Forget the Red Cross and the Salvation Army. If you want to donate your money directly to rebuilding New Orleans, I can't imagine a better way than spending a weekend down there, eating, drinking, and having a great time.
Like I did.
Monday, May 22, 2006
ASK MRS. LINKLATER "BITCH BITCH BITCH" EDITION
Mrs. Linklater takes on not one, not two, but three advice bitches. Hey they call themselves WE THREE BITCHES.
Young Whippersnapper
My back hurt a lot today. I went to my health club to enjoy the whirlpool and a long hot shower, followed by a half an hour in front of the mirror doing my hair and make up, even though I had no place to go. I finished up around thirty minutes before closing. Besides me, there were no more than four other women in the entire locker room.
There are nine or ten showers. One of them is larger with a portable spray and a built in bench to sit on with a railing to hang on to. Actually all the showers have a railing and there are seats outside all of them that you can move into the showers to sit on.
All of a sudden I could hear a woman's voice berating the person using the big shower. "That's the handicapped shower. What are you doing in there?"
Keep in mind there is virtually no one in the club. Another woman came up to me and told me to listen to the self appointed shower police. You could hear the schoolmarm voice. She was on a roll, bitching and moaning, complete with "You're not handicapped!" And "How dare you" and "Shame on you." Nothing like a having a stranger scold you for breaking a rule you don't know exists, while you're standing there naked and wet.
I know women who use the "handicapped" shower when they don't want to get their hair wet. Or take off their mascara. Or they had surgery on their faces and don't want to get water on it. Who the heck cares why anybody uses that shower? Especially when there's no one else in the club. In particular, no one who is handicapped.
So this wicked witch is prattling on and on. Long enough for the person she's lecturing to finish her shower. Clearly the woman being lectured wasn't paying a lot of attention to the lecture.
Next thing I know the shower police matron is asking me something about leaving all my stuff in one of the showers, which I hadn't. I ignored her question and asked her another question.
Who gives a shit what shower anybody uses? The club's almost closed. And there's almost no one here.
Well, that's the handicapped shower. She shouldn't be using it.
How do you know that's the handicapped shower? Is there a sign?
No. But that's the handicapped shower. It's bigger than the other ones.
How do you know that isn't a shower for fat people? Fat people need more room.
It's for handicapped people.
You're sure of that?
Yes I am.
And you're saying there's a rule that says you have to be handicapped to use that shower?
Yes.
Just exactly where is the rule posted that says you have to be handicapped to use that shower?
Well, you do.
Well, maybe you don't. Are you handicapped?
No.
So you aren't handicapped. You're just an asshole.
You're too young, you don't understand.
I'm 62.
She was 58, which shut her up. But that wasn't even the point.
There are nine or ten showers. One of them is larger with a portable spray and a built in bench to sit on with a railing to hang on to. Actually all the showers have a railing and there are seats outside all of them that you can move into the showers to sit on.
All of a sudden I could hear a woman's voice berating the person using the big shower. "That's the handicapped shower. What are you doing in there?"
Keep in mind there is virtually no one in the club. Another woman came up to me and told me to listen to the self appointed shower police. You could hear the schoolmarm voice. She was on a roll, bitching and moaning, complete with "You're not handicapped!" And "How dare you" and "Shame on you." Nothing like a having a stranger scold you for breaking a rule you don't know exists, while you're standing there naked and wet.
I know women who use the "handicapped" shower when they don't want to get their hair wet. Or take off their mascara. Or they had surgery on their faces and don't want to get water on it. Who the heck cares why anybody uses that shower? Especially when there's no one else in the club. In particular, no one who is handicapped.
So this wicked witch is prattling on and on. Long enough for the person she's lecturing to finish her shower. Clearly the woman being lectured wasn't paying a lot of attention to the lecture.
Next thing I know the shower police matron is asking me something about leaving all my stuff in one of the showers, which I hadn't. I ignored her question and asked her another question.
Who gives a shit what shower anybody uses? The club's almost closed. And there's almost no one here.
Well, that's the handicapped shower. She shouldn't be using it.
How do you know that's the handicapped shower? Is there a sign?
No. But that's the handicapped shower. It's bigger than the other ones.
How do you know that isn't a shower for fat people? Fat people need more room.
It's for handicapped people.
You're sure of that?
Yes I am.
And you're saying there's a rule that says you have to be handicapped to use that shower?
Yes.
Just exactly where is the rule posted that says you have to be handicapped to use that shower?
Well, you do.
Well, maybe you don't. Are you handicapped?
No.
So you aren't handicapped. You're just an asshole.
You're too young, you don't understand.
I'm 62.
She was 58, which shut her up. But that wasn't even the point.
Patrick's Saturday Six
Saturday night
I was on the computer and the doorbell rang. Hmm, it's after
midnight, WTF? So I ignored it. A booty call? Haaaaaaa. A girl
scout selling cookies? Ummm, no. Some goof? Probably.
About
two minutes later the doorbell rang again. I wasn't expecting
anyone. And anyone who wants to come to my house after midnight
better call first, so I ignored the doorbell again.
Then I
heard pounding on the front door. So I got up and walked out to the
living room and said, "Who is it?" No answer. I peeked out a
window and saw what looked like an SUV parked at the curb with its
engine running and its tail lights on. But for some reason, there was
no one at the door now.
I shouted, "Who is it?" again.
Suddenly there was a flashlight shining into my living room through a
window, someone was trying to force open my front door, and there were
male voices shouting something I couldn't understand. Apparently they
couldn't hear me at all. So I went outside the back way, came
around the front and yelled,"Hey, what do you want?"
I
was confronted by two cops and a guy who looked like one of my brothers
-- what's he doing here? Until I realized that my "brother" was my next
door neighbor. I had left a garden hose on. It was pumping water into a
window well which had filled up and water was about to go into the
basement.
My neighbors came home from a party, heard water
running, went to check it out, and tried to call me, but I was on the
computer so they got voicemail.
Meanwhile some
cops patrolling for teen drunks and other stupid people saw them
walking around with flashlights and thought they were trying to break
into my house. Since I have the smallest house in the neighborhood,
this was not likely, but you never know. The cops weren't in a regular
squad car and they didn't have any flashing lights on, plus their car
was partially blocked by one of my trees, so I had no clue who was out
there. Or I wouldn't have ignored them.
Anyway, I turned off
the water. End of adventure. I better set up the DSL on that line
again. The call from my neighbors would have reached me. The
cops wouldn't have thought the neighbors were breaking in. Or that I
was dead. Or needed to be rescued. And nobody would have started to
take down my front door.
Mostly I'm just glad I still had my clothes on.
All of which makes the Saturday Six seem very tame by comparison.
Check out other Sixers at Patrick's Weekender URL: http://patricksweekender.blogspot.com/
1. Do you believe in near-death experiences? Have you ever had one yourself?
I
am a believer. A few years ago I talked to a cameraman who entered an
industrial paint room without protection and subsequently suffered
internal and external chemical burns so severe, painful, and finally,
life threatening, that he was pronounced dead by the medical team
taking care of him. The moment they pronounced him dead he was
floating, pain free, above the docs on the ceiling of his hospital
room, watching it all take place. When they revived him he was suddenly
sucked back into his body to experience the unbearable pain for many
more weeks.
I
have never experience a near death experience myself, but I have
flashed on another person's near death experience from a motorcycle
accident.
2. If you could have on DVD any old television show that you adored as a child, which show would you pick?
TV
wasn't invented when I was a child. Okay, I lied. But it was black and
white. Plus my family didn't get a set until I was about nine. We had
to make do with playing outdoors, drawing, card games, and spending
time with our families. Meanwhile, my mother kept waiting for the
prices of TV sets to come down. There wasn't much to watch in
the fifties. Except the Kate Smith Hour, Uncle Johnny Coons at
lunchtime, The Howdy Doody Show after school, and White Sox
Baseball. I loved baseball. If I could have a DVD, I think
I would love to see a game where Satchel Paige was pitching
again. He was at the end of his career, in his late forties, even
his fifties, but the guy was still good and the announcers just loved
to tell Satchel Paige stories from his days in the Negro Leagues.
3. At what age do you plan on retiring? Do you suspect that you'll keep working past that?
What's
retired? If you mean not doing what you love to do, then I won't
retire. If you mean not working for a boss, I retired from that a
long time ago.
4. Take the quiz: What kind of food are you?
I'm Japanese food. "Strange yet delicous. Contrary to popular belief, you're not always eaten raw. " Is it just me or does that sound obscene?
5. When is the last time you ate the type of food mentioned in your last answer?
I
had some tuna makaki two weeks ago with friends at a Japanese owned
restaurant that features a couple of Mexican sushi chefs. That took me
some time to get used to. I'm over it. Usually I have a California roll
from my grocery store at least once a week.
6. What was the last photograph you took? Have you posted it online.
The
last photograph I took is still in my camera, which is in my car, which
is out in the driveway. Right now, I'm not dressed. Since I don't
feel like putting on clothes to bring it in to see what pictures I
took, I can't tell you what the last picture I took is a
picture of. [Ha, I checked. It's a purple Harley I saw at the new
place near me.] Needless to say, it hasn't been posted online. YET.
But, don't hold your breath.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
Stupid Newsweek Trick
Newsweek Magazine, in an attempt to make
money by playing the same game as US News and World Report, put out a
report card ranking the twelve hundred or so top high schools in the
country.
I can assure you that everyone I went to high school with assumed that ours would be in the top ten, if not number one. Just ask Donald Rumsfeld.
There is good reason for this. High SAT/ACT scores, National Merit Scholarship finalists/winners, percentage of graduates who go on to college, the quality of the colleges attended, AP courses offered, AP test scores, the variety and quality of the athletic programs [more state championships that any other school in the state], the fantastic range of extracurricular activities from the creative arts to the radio station to the math teams -- you get my drift.
But according to the magazine, my high school was rated at No. 407. To say that ranking rankled a few people would be an understatement. Then we found out why we have a right to be pissed off.
Apparently the only, emphasis on ONLY, criterion for a high school's rating was the number of AP TESTS taken by students divided by the number of students at the school.
What a crock. There are almost four thousand students at my high school. The rating system automatically penalizes large schools.
EVEN MORE ASTONISHING -- THE SCORES ON THE AP TESTS DID NOT MATTER IN THE RANKINGS! WTF?
The guy at Newsweek who devised the system apparently thinks that more and more students should be encouraged to take the AP tests, no matter what their scores may be. The reason he doesn't want to factor in the scores is because he's worried the schools would only let their smartest students take the tests. And the problem with that is?
Here's what reporter Michael Winerip of the New York Times wrote on May 17th:
Newsweek ranks Eastside High in Gainesville, Fla., as the sixth best high school in America. The state of Florida gives Eastside a C grade, which means there are 1,846 A or B schools rated ahead of Eastside in Florida alone. The Florida report card reveals that Eastside has 1,028 students, more than half of them African-American; only 13 percent of those 589 African-American children are reading at grade level. At the sixth best school in America?
For the whole article, go here or type in this URL: http://www.nytimes.com/2006/05/17/education/17education.html?pagewanted=1&_r=1
He goes on to say:
Los Angeles has 700 schools, and last year it singled out the nine lowest performing for reorganization. All failed to make adequate academic progress under the federal No Child Left Behind law for five straight years. On the city's nine-worst list were Locke High, 520th best on the 2005 Newsweek list, Fremont High, 872nd best on the list, and Roosevelt High, 990th best.
My high school isn't the only one that got the short end of the Newsweek stick. There are plenty of others around the country equally flabbergasted by this incredibly stupid, inaccurate rating system.
How about rating the high schools by how many students would choose to go there if they had the chance? Or how many parents would send their kids?
Lincoln Park High School got the highest ranking in the Chicago area. It's not even one of the ones you might expect, like Roberto Clemente.
I guarantee if you told the kids that go to Lincoln Park and Roberto Clemente what would be offered to them if they went to my high school, both those schools would be empty tomorrow.
I can assure you that everyone I went to high school with assumed that ours would be in the top ten, if not number one. Just ask Donald Rumsfeld.
There is good reason for this. High SAT/ACT scores, National Merit Scholarship finalists/winners, percentage of graduates who go on to college, the quality of the colleges attended, AP courses offered, AP test scores, the variety and quality of the athletic programs [more state championships that any other school in the state], the fantastic range of extracurricular activities from the creative arts to the radio station to the math teams -- you get my drift.
But according to the magazine, my high school was rated at No. 407. To say that ranking rankled a few people would be an understatement. Then we found out why we have a right to be pissed off.
Apparently the only, emphasis on ONLY, criterion for a high school's rating was the number of AP TESTS taken by students divided by the number of students at the school.
What a crock. There are almost four thousand students at my high school. The rating system automatically penalizes large schools.
EVEN MORE ASTONISHING -- THE SCORES ON THE AP TESTS DID NOT MATTER IN THE RANKINGS! WTF?
The guy at Newsweek who devised the system apparently thinks that more and more students should be encouraged to take the AP tests, no matter what their scores may be. The reason he doesn't want to factor in the scores is because he's worried the schools would only let their smartest students take the tests. And the problem with that is?
Here's what reporter Michael Winerip of the New York Times wrote on May 17th:
Newsweek ranks Eastside High in Gainesville, Fla., as the sixth best high school in America. The state of Florida gives Eastside a C grade, which means there are 1,846 A or B schools rated ahead of Eastside in Florida alone. The Florida report card reveals that Eastside has 1,028 students, more than half of them African-American; only 13 percent of those 589 African-American children are reading at grade level. At the sixth best school in America?
For the whole article, go here or type in this URL: http://www.nytimes.com/2006/05/17/education/17education.html?pagewanted=1&_r=1
He goes on to say:
Los Angeles has 700 schools, and last year it singled out the nine lowest performing for reorganization. All failed to make adequate academic progress under the federal No Child Left Behind law for five straight years. On the city's nine-worst list were Locke High, 520th best on the 2005 Newsweek list, Fremont High, 872nd best on the list, and Roosevelt High, 990th best.
Locke's high dropout rate — two-thirds of the students leave between ninth grade and senior year — actually helps its Newsweek rating. It means the number of graduating seniors is so small that even if they take a modest number of AP exams, Locke's ratio looks great. (Not that it matters, but Locke students failed 73 percent of their AP exams with 1's or 2's.)
. . .And so, it is not hard to find busloads of educators who agree with Daniel Hastings, M.I.T.'s dean for undergraduate education. "It does not make sense to evaluate high schools on this basis alone," he said. Asked about Newsweek's rankings, Les Perelman, a director of undergraduate writing at M.I.T., quoted H. L. Mencken, "For every complex problem there is an answer that is clear, simple and wrong.My high school isn't the only one that got the short end of the Newsweek stick. There are plenty of others around the country equally flabbergasted by this incredibly stupid, inaccurate rating system.
How about rating the high schools by how many students would choose to go there if they had the chance? Or how many parents would send their kids?
Lincoln Park High School got the highest ranking in the Chicago area. It's not even one of the ones you might expect, like Roberto Clemente.
I guarantee if you told the kids that go to Lincoln Park and Roberto Clemente what would be offered to them if they went to my high school, both those schools would be empty tomorrow.
Friday, May 19, 2006
Can't They Leave Well Enough Alone?
I just realized
yesterday that I don't like change. I used to think I liked new things
and enjoyed the latest in cutting edge stuff, but maybe I don't.
I went to my bank's ATM and everything was different. Geez. I'm just trying to get money for a Dove bar. Now the instructions are new, the choices I have to make are different, even the questions they ask disorient me. Nothing I did to get money was the same. "What was wrong with the old way?" I found myself asking no one in particular.
Twice now I've been back to the new improved ATM. I'm still startled when confronted with the faster, easier, more colorful and convenient way of getting my money. I'm a creature of habit who relies on the regular order of things. Things being the SAME. The reason is so I can put myself on auto pilot and not have to think. When I drive downtown I'm in a zone. In fact I've been all the way into the city sometimes before realizing I was only going to a friend's house.
I hate having to think about what I'm doing. And this new ATM thing hurts my brain. I can't just mindlessly drive up and get money out of my dwindling account. I have to think what I'm doing and pay attention. Is there anything more annoying?
There are other things that I count on to stay the same, but they are changing now too.
My toothpaste. Before I just used to get a tube of Crest. I weathered the tartar control, breath control, birth control and other variations. But now it doesn't even come in a tube anymore. How is that possible? Now you can choose between four or five hundred [bet you think I'm exaggerating] different flavors in this new upside down dispenser do-dad. Wintergreen. Spearmint. Peppermint. Chocolate Mint. Mint Julep. Lime, Cinnamon, Orange, Toasted Almond, Aluminum, Raccoon. With more whitening, even more whitening than that, and so much whitening you'll glow in the dark. Ack.
Don't do this to me. I don't even recognize my neighborhood anymore. All the houses as I knew them are gone. Instead there are huge replacements with turrets lining my entire street now. I feel like a two car garage floating in a sea of McMansions. And my favorite square back Jeep style is history. Not my own Jeep. of course, which I will drive until I'm asked to stay off the roads. The new version of the square back looks like something on steroids, thick with chrome and gansta rap colors.
Dogs are changing too. Labs and goldens are now poodledoodles, labratrievers, and dingleberries, strange cross breeds of two perfectly good animals created on a whim so someone can make big bucks selling you something new and different to walk on a leash and pick up poop after. Are there any collies left?
There are some happy moments from time to time. Some trips down memory lane that give me hope. They brought back Clove and Blackjack gum for awhile. I can still buy a new Lava Lamp.
A local dairy here sells its milk in glass bottles. And they'll deliver it to your back door, too. Or course it costs more, but I swear it tastes better than milk out of a carton, even though it's easier to drink milk out of the carton when you're standing in front of the fridge.
More good news -- I can purchase an old fashioned Dairy Queen sundae -- that tasty palm oil blend of vanilla flavored whipped styrofoam with extra chocolate sauce. Is there nothing better after a five course meal at Charlie Trotter's? I think not.
Over time I've learned to adjust. In the seventies I had to learn to pump gas and check my own oil. But I was more than a little grateful for Pampers. In the eighties I reluctantly embraced the world of waxing. If only to wear the new high cut bathing suits. In the nineties I finally accepted the microwave, the computer and the thong. And for the past six years I've happily endured instant messages from strange men who can't spell. Just so I can have a social life.
But sometimes it just feels like change happens only for the purpose of making a change. Not for any reason that makes sense to me.
I went to my bank's ATM and everything was different. Geez. I'm just trying to get money for a Dove bar. Now the instructions are new, the choices I have to make are different, even the questions they ask disorient me. Nothing I did to get money was the same. "What was wrong with the old way?" I found myself asking no one in particular.
Twice now I've been back to the new improved ATM. I'm still startled when confronted with the faster, easier, more colorful and convenient way of getting my money. I'm a creature of habit who relies on the regular order of things. Things being the SAME. The reason is so I can put myself on auto pilot and not have to think. When I drive downtown I'm in a zone. In fact I've been all the way into the city sometimes before realizing I was only going to a friend's house.
I hate having to think about what I'm doing. And this new ATM thing hurts my brain. I can't just mindlessly drive up and get money out of my dwindling account. I have to think what I'm doing and pay attention. Is there anything more annoying?
There are other things that I count on to stay the same, but they are changing now too.
My toothpaste. Before I just used to get a tube of Crest. I weathered the tartar control, breath control, birth control and other variations. But now it doesn't even come in a tube anymore. How is that possible? Now you can choose between four or five hundred [bet you think I'm exaggerating] different flavors in this new upside down dispenser do-dad. Wintergreen. Spearmint. Peppermint. Chocolate Mint. Mint Julep. Lime, Cinnamon, Orange, Toasted Almond, Aluminum, Raccoon. With more whitening, even more whitening than that, and so much whitening you'll glow in the dark. Ack.
Don't do this to me. I don't even recognize my neighborhood anymore. All the houses as I knew them are gone. Instead there are huge replacements with turrets lining my entire street now. I feel like a two car garage floating in a sea of McMansions. And my favorite square back Jeep style is history. Not my own Jeep. of course, which I will drive until I'm asked to stay off the roads. The new version of the square back looks like something on steroids, thick with chrome and gansta rap colors.
Dogs are changing too. Labs and goldens are now poodledoodles, labratrievers, and dingleberries, strange cross breeds of two perfectly good animals created on a whim so someone can make big bucks selling you something new and different to walk on a leash and pick up poop after. Are there any collies left?
There are some happy moments from time to time. Some trips down memory lane that give me hope. They brought back Clove and Blackjack gum for awhile. I can still buy a new Lava Lamp.
A local dairy here sells its milk in glass bottles. And they'll deliver it to your back door, too. Or course it costs more, but I swear it tastes better than milk out of a carton, even though it's easier to drink milk out of the carton when you're standing in front of the fridge.
More good news -- I can purchase an old fashioned Dairy Queen sundae -- that tasty palm oil blend of vanilla flavored whipped styrofoam with extra chocolate sauce. Is there nothing better after a five course meal at Charlie Trotter's? I think not.
Over time I've learned to adjust. In the seventies I had to learn to pump gas and check my own oil. But I was more than a little grateful for Pampers. In the eighties I reluctantly embraced the world of waxing. If only to wear the new high cut bathing suits. In the nineties I finally accepted the microwave, the computer and the thong. And for the past six years I've happily endured instant messages from strange men who can't spell. Just so I can have a social life.
But sometimes it just feels like change happens only for the purpose of making a change. Not for any reason that makes sense to me.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
WHAT'S HER NAME WILL WIN AMERICAN IDOL
Remo may know when
gold is on the rise. When I'm in the mood, I can pick idol
winners. Well, I've only picked one so far. But I picked her way
early. Now, I'm putting my money on another one that I picked
even earlier.
After season one when Justin had the looks and Kelly had the voice, I didn't watch The Idol Show very much or even bother to vote. But from time to time I've dropped in for a few minutes just to see what's going on. Neither Clay or Reuben had the looks. Only Clay had the voice. Fantasia has a voice, but not star quality.
I saw Carrie Underwood sing when she was one of twelve still standing. As soon as I heard her and saw her I said, "That's the winner." And I didn't watch again until the very last show and saw that she was one of the final two. Bo Bice was a good lounge act at best.
This time I watched some of the auditions. That's usually the most fun part anyway. When a beautfiul dark haired girl with a huge voice and phrasing beyond her years auditioned I made a note to myself. That girl could win it all I thought. She had a stage mother who had been her voice teacher since she was little. Except for that, I thought the girl had everything she needed to be a star. So after all the noise about Chris getting voted off last week -- I finally heard him sing and wasn't impressed -- I watched the competition this week. Wait a minute isn't that the girl I liked? It was.
No contest. Katie, Katharine, whatever her name is, the girl I saw in the auditions way back when -- she'll win. She should win. That other guy, Taylor? And Elliot, the guy just voted off? You've got to be kidding.
Yeah, I know. Even if I'm right, I'm full of s*it. But you knew that.
After season one when Justin had the looks and Kelly had the voice, I didn't watch The Idol Show very much or even bother to vote. But from time to time I've dropped in for a few minutes just to see what's going on. Neither Clay or Reuben had the looks. Only Clay had the voice. Fantasia has a voice, but not star quality.
I saw Carrie Underwood sing when she was one of twelve still standing. As soon as I heard her and saw her I said, "That's the winner." And I didn't watch again until the very last show and saw that she was one of the final two. Bo Bice was a good lounge act at best.
This time I watched some of the auditions. That's usually the most fun part anyway. When a beautfiul dark haired girl with a huge voice and phrasing beyond her years auditioned I made a note to myself. That girl could win it all I thought. She had a stage mother who had been her voice teacher since she was little. Except for that, I thought the girl had everything she needed to be a star. So after all the noise about Chris getting voted off last week -- I finally heard him sing and wasn't impressed -- I watched the competition this week. Wait a minute isn't that the girl I liked? It was.
No contest. Katie, Katharine, whatever her name is, the girl I saw in the auditions way back when -- she'll win. She should win. That other guy, Taylor? And Elliot, the guy just voted off? You've got to be kidding.
Yeah, I know. Even if I'm right, I'm full of s*it. But you knew that.
Oh, Lordy
Pat Robertson, who
is not a meteorologist, but a certifiable, right wing religious
nutcase, says he has been getting weather forecasts from The Almighty.
What concerns me is that his predictions are being reported with a
straight face by the print and broadcast media.
On May 8th he announced, "If I heard the Lord right about 2006, the coasts of America will be lashed by storms."
If he heard the Lord right? Are God's woofers and tweeters not producing good sound these days? Or did the reverend forget his medication?
He continued, "There well may be something as bad as a tsunami in the Pacific Northwest."
O-o-o-o-o-o-o, I'm scared. I'm also in the midwest.
Pat Robertson, by the way, is the same guy who said we should assassinate Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez. He also thinks Israeli Prime Minister Ariel Sharon was struck down by a stroke as divine retribution because Israel pulled out of the Gaza Strip.
And the reason the media is reporting Robertson's weather from God is because. . .?
Is this the network news' version of reality entertainment?
On May 8th he announced, "If I heard the Lord right about 2006, the coasts of America will be lashed by storms."
If he heard the Lord right? Are God's woofers and tweeters not producing good sound these days? Or did the reverend forget his medication?
He continued, "There well may be something as bad as a tsunami in the Pacific Northwest."
O-o-o-o-o-o-o, I'm scared. I'm also in the midwest.
Pat Robertson, by the way, is the same guy who said we should assassinate Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez. He also thinks Israeli Prime Minister Ariel Sharon was struck down by a stroke as divine retribution because Israel pulled out of the Gaza Strip.
And the reason the media is reporting Robertson's weather from God is because. . .?
Is this the network news' version of reality entertainment?
If they want dumbass
predictions to fill a slow newsday, I have a boatload. But they aren't
from God. They're from falling asleep with the TV on.
Here's one: Americans will get even fatter. Except for Kirsty Alley.
Here's another:
The money you pay your HMO will not cover the medication or surgery for
whatever it is you're sick with. But if you're between 55 and 85 you
can buy funeral insurance for just pennies a day.
Here's another:
To fix Social Security, the government will let everyone over 65 move
to FEMA trailers in New Orleans which have been decorated by Nate
Berkus from the Oprah Show.
And another: The
estimated twelve million illiegal immigrants is really closer to forty
million, but that new electric fence from Home Depot will keep dogs
from crossing the river.
What's Pat Robertson got that I don't have?
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Another Chapter in the Mrs. Linklater Soap Opera
There was
a comment a few entries back asking me to write more stories about my old
boyfriends. At least that's how I interpreted it. She may have said, "Boy
you have a lot of old friends and boring stories." Do I care?
I believe the entry was a whiny one where I had run out of things to write about and finally turned to my readers for suggestions. Frankly, I didn't realize I wrote so much about former relationships. But apparently I do. However, since there are no new relationships to speak of, old ones will have to suffice. Even so, for several days I wasn't sure who should be exhumed for inspection.
Until tonight.
I was watching a PBS documentary on animal emotions, which featured a combination of poignant and astonishing examples of animals expressing their feelings, as well as moments of unexpectedly altruistic behavior -- like the dog who threw herself in front of the family car and died preventing the driver from hitting one of his own children.
I found the film very moving, especially since a number of respected scientists finally confirmed what anyone who has ever shared space with a companion animal knows intuitively: Animals have feelings too!!
At the end of the program, while the credits were rolling, I saw the name of an old boyfriend's production company. Brian has become quite successful as a filmmaker and producer, since the days when I first became aware of him in high school, hung out with him in college, and finally started dating him in our early twenties.
He was one of those people who couldn't be labeled a sporto, a brainiac, or a druggie, since he was all of these. Sure he played on the football team, but he had a good singing voice, too, and didn't mind being in the school shows, not usually a choice for jocks. Having a bunch of older brothers meant he had also been initiated into the smoking and drinking rituals of growing up, along with not a little taste of marijuana.
I first noticed him in high school for the typical female reasons -- he was popular and cute. Shallowness began early in my life and continues to this day. He was aware of me peripherally, because we were in school shows together, but I was a goody two shoes and he was not only in great demand by other females but also two years behind me, so our paths didn't cross much on weekends.
Because of our theater experience together in high school, he contacted me the summer before he was going to college, when there was a job opening as a summer stock apprentice at the theater where he was working. There was no money, but it was fun to be backstage with people like Ossie Davis and Ruby Dee starring in his play Purlie Victorious, before it became the musical Purlie. Godfrey Cambridge, the comedian, was also in the show and used to do stand up for us when there was down time during rehearsals. He was at the peak of his popularity, so we loved the attention. Show biz seemed normal during that run.
The next show featured Jackie Mason and Jessica Walter. That one was more like being locked in an insane asylum. She was, and still is, a brilliant actress, but also a diva, so there were occasional tantrums and more than a few tears. Especially because Jackie Mason was a comedian with no acting training. Unfortunately he was the draw, but clearly she had the talent. I got caught in the crossfire between them enough times to give up any thoughts about going into the legitimate theater. Those people are nuts.
Seven years later, when a cast member called me to try out for Second City, the one thing I noticed right away is that the difference between the people who do improv humor and people who read lines and call themselves "serious" actors is night and day. Would you rather spend time with Robin Williams or Ralf Fiennes? I prefer funny people. In my experience, they are usually smarter and aren't such drama queens. In every sense of the word.
Back to Brian. During that summer stock season he used to drive me home from work from time to time with the top down on his little sports car. I think it was an MG. I was hoping to parlay those rides in his car into something more interesting, but I realized he only gave me rides when he wasn't messing around with his main squeeze. She was also an apprentice, a girl my age that he and I knew from high school. She was studying acting at Goodman Theater. Later she went on to play small parts in soap operas. Unlike the rest of us who were glorified servants, she got a bit part in the Jackie Mason show, wearing a Playboy Bunny costume. If she hadn't been a friend I might have been jealous of her big rack. She sure got Brian's attention. Olive Oyl was one of my nicknames for a reason.
The last time I saw her she showed up at our fortieth high school reunion to say goodbye to everybody because she was dying from brain cancer. We laughed a lot at some very black humor and talked about sharing Brian for one last time.
Despite flunking algebra two times at least, Brian somehow got into Princeton. His wealthy, widowed mother had a friend who was a trustee or something and maybe he put in a good word. Brian's dad had been a doctor before dying of cancer so that probably helped too. Actually, I am as mystified as anyone as to how he got accepted.
His family had a huge house on a high bluff overlooking the lake, down the road from where one of our US senators lived. This locale will be relevant later.
Senior year in college, my roommate at Northwestern had a friend she grew up with who was also at Princeton. He invited her out for a visit over our spring vacation. She invited me to go with her after finals. But I had carried a heavy class load that quarter and I was tired. I also had enough credits to graduate early, so I had some decisions to make. Leave school or carry a light load and enjoy partying during spring quarter senior year? Graduate and get a job or play? Hmmm.
Coming off finals, I said no to the trip at first. What was I thinking? Why I ever turned down a chance to spend a week at an all men's school is beyond me. But I recovered. I also decided to come back to school for spring quarter. Next thing I knew we had borrowed her brother's baby blue VW and began the drive out east.
When we got to Princeton, we quickly settled into Mrs. Palmer's Victorian rooming house, where the females who came to visit this all male school could rent rooms in the good old days. Out and about, we serendipitously ran into Brian and discovered that he and my roommate's friend, who was captain of the crew, were in the same eating club, the Princeton equivalent of fraternities. Remember this was before Brooke Shields so there were guys EVERYWHERE. Mrs. Linklater was in spring break heaven. We even got mentioned in the school paper -- coeds from Northwestern visitng on campus.
Brian was a sophomore by that time and we had a reunion of sorts at meals -- he belonged to an eating club remember? -- but I was busy meeting as many guys as I could during the week I was there so we just buddied up when I needed a break from all the attention. He was always there ready to entertain me if I had some free time. Since I was carrying a light load, I came back for a couple of more weekends later that spring.
I learned to juggle billiard balls, almost got arrested for being with a bunch of guys who were throwing rocks at street lamps, met local hero Cosmo Iacovazzi, said hi to Bill Bradley, went to see "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane," froze my ass riding in the launch with the rowing crew's coach on a cold, sleet-drenched day, watched strapping young men work up a steamy sweat in those skinny boats, wearing only their underwear, got wined and dined, felt like a kid in a campus candy shop, and had a great time.
Back in the real world, I graduated, got a job, and settled into living La Vida Loca in Chicago. Brian showed up in my life once more. I honestly don't remember how we hooked up again, except that one of his high school football buddies moved down the hall from me in my high rise. He was a real party guy, so living there was more like being in a dorm, although the Mah Jong ladies in 4A might not agree.
Brian was working from 6PM to 2AM at the local PBS station. I used to sit in the control room while he worked the shows. Afterward, we'd hang out then lie in bed, listening to Bob Dylan sing Lay Lady Lay about a million times. Needless to say I was showing up for my nine to five job a lot closer to ten.
One night we were up at his family's house for dinner, the place with the high bluff that went down to the lake. Sitting out on the back lawn, I noticed there were a lot of weeds on the side of the hill. He laughed and said those weeds were marijuana.
Two years before, a daughter of the US senator who lived a few doors down had been murdered in a home invasion. Afterward dozens of police officers spent days combing the bluffs for clues. They stomped all over the vegetation, pushed it back by hand to see what was on the ground and stuck their faces right into it. Not once did they notice the yards and yards of marijuana plants in front of them. At first Brian's brothers were a little concerned that they were about to be busted for growing dope. But the suburban cops didn't learn how to spot reefer madness until way later, so the boys lucked out.
I really liked Brian and thought about him for years after we broke up. But he and I drifted apart because he was smoking a lot of pot and I didn't do the stuff. Except for that one time when one of his brothers was in the hospital after a motorcycle accident. His thoughtful girlfriend had made brownies and offered me some. "Why do these taste like oregano?" I remember asking as I took a huge bite. Because they were loaded with marijuana, Mrs. Linklater. The girlfriend had broken the cardinal rule of sharing drugs. In those days you never gave drugs without asking first. Not to be nice -- mainly so you didn't waste them on a non user. Like ME. Two hours later I was seeing strange colors and bizarre things floating in front of my eyes. Pissed me off.
So, too much dope was one reason. There were other reasons, too, but they're not suitable for younger and more sensitive readers.
Ironically, a few years after I got married and had children, Brian's mother sold her very big house and moved several miles away to a smaller big house right around the corner from us. I discovered all this when I ran into Brian one evening, walking with one of his kids in front of our home. Cosmic, no?
After my divorce, I ran into his old girlfriend again -- the one who later had brain cancer. I was out in LA editing at a production house and she showed up there by mistake for an audtion. Cosmic, yes?
We ended up having a long talk and comparing notes about dating Brian and laughed about having the exact same problems with him. It was the kind of conversation that guys dread: Women talking about them and laughing. EEEWWW. She still hooked up with him from time to time even though he was married by that time. Not me.
With the death of his old girlfriend, my only reminder of Brian these days is when I see his name at the end of a PBS documentary or drama.
That, plus an occasional, startling glimpse of one of his brothers, who moved to the same town I did after my divorce. Coincidence? I think not. He looks like a carbon copy of Brian. With white hair.
Everything happens for a reason.
I believe the entry was a whiny one where I had run out of things to write about and finally turned to my readers for suggestions. Frankly, I didn't realize I wrote so much about former relationships. But apparently I do. However, since there are no new relationships to speak of, old ones will have to suffice. Even so, for several days I wasn't sure who should be exhumed for inspection.
Until tonight.
I was watching a PBS documentary on animal emotions, which featured a combination of poignant and astonishing examples of animals expressing their feelings, as well as moments of unexpectedly altruistic behavior -- like the dog who threw herself in front of the family car and died preventing the driver from hitting one of his own children.
I found the film very moving, especially since a number of respected scientists finally confirmed what anyone who has ever shared space with a companion animal knows intuitively: Animals have feelings too!!
At the end of the program, while the credits were rolling, I saw the name of an old boyfriend's production company. Brian has become quite successful as a filmmaker and producer, since the days when I first became aware of him in high school, hung out with him in college, and finally started dating him in our early twenties.
He was one of those people who couldn't be labeled a sporto, a brainiac, or a druggie, since he was all of these. Sure he played on the football team, but he had a good singing voice, too, and didn't mind being in the school shows, not usually a choice for jocks. Having a bunch of older brothers meant he had also been initiated into the smoking and drinking rituals of growing up, along with not a little taste of marijuana.
I first noticed him in high school for the typical female reasons -- he was popular and cute. Shallowness began early in my life and continues to this day. He was aware of me peripherally, because we were in school shows together, but I was a goody two shoes and he was not only in great demand by other females but also two years behind me, so our paths didn't cross much on weekends.
Because of our theater experience together in high school, he contacted me the summer before he was going to college, when there was a job opening as a summer stock apprentice at the theater where he was working. There was no money, but it was fun to be backstage with people like Ossie Davis and Ruby Dee starring in his play Purlie Victorious, before it became the musical Purlie. Godfrey Cambridge, the comedian, was also in the show and used to do stand up for us when there was down time during rehearsals. He was at the peak of his popularity, so we loved the attention. Show biz seemed normal during that run.
The next show featured Jackie Mason and Jessica Walter. That one was more like being locked in an insane asylum. She was, and still is, a brilliant actress, but also a diva, so there were occasional tantrums and more than a few tears. Especially because Jackie Mason was a comedian with no acting training. Unfortunately he was the draw, but clearly she had the talent. I got caught in the crossfire between them enough times to give up any thoughts about going into the legitimate theater. Those people are nuts.
Seven years later, when a cast member called me to try out for Second City, the one thing I noticed right away is that the difference between the people who do improv humor and people who read lines and call themselves "serious" actors is night and day. Would you rather spend time with Robin Williams or Ralf Fiennes? I prefer funny people. In my experience, they are usually smarter and aren't such drama queens. In every sense of the word.
Back to Brian. During that summer stock season he used to drive me home from work from time to time with the top down on his little sports car. I think it was an MG. I was hoping to parlay those rides in his car into something more interesting, but I realized he only gave me rides when he wasn't messing around with his main squeeze. She was also an apprentice, a girl my age that he and I knew from high school. She was studying acting at Goodman Theater. Later she went on to play small parts in soap operas. Unlike the rest of us who were glorified servants, she got a bit part in the Jackie Mason show, wearing a Playboy Bunny costume. If she hadn't been a friend I might have been jealous of her big rack. She sure got Brian's attention. Olive Oyl was one of my nicknames for a reason.
The last time I saw her she showed up at our fortieth high school reunion to say goodbye to everybody because she was dying from brain cancer. We laughed a lot at some very black humor and talked about sharing Brian for one last time.
Despite flunking algebra two times at least, Brian somehow got into Princeton. His wealthy, widowed mother had a friend who was a trustee or something and maybe he put in a good word. Brian's dad had been a doctor before dying of cancer so that probably helped too. Actually, I am as mystified as anyone as to how he got accepted.
His family had a huge house on a high bluff overlooking the lake, down the road from where one of our US senators lived. This locale will be relevant later.
Senior year in college, my roommate at Northwestern had a friend she grew up with who was also at Princeton. He invited her out for a visit over our spring vacation. She invited me to go with her after finals. But I had carried a heavy class load that quarter and I was tired. I also had enough credits to graduate early, so I had some decisions to make. Leave school or carry a light load and enjoy partying during spring quarter senior year? Graduate and get a job or play? Hmmm.
Coming off finals, I said no to the trip at first. What was I thinking? Why I ever turned down a chance to spend a week at an all men's school is beyond me. But I recovered. I also decided to come back to school for spring quarter. Next thing I knew we had borrowed her brother's baby blue VW and began the drive out east.
When we got to Princeton, we quickly settled into Mrs. Palmer's Victorian rooming house, where the females who came to visit this all male school could rent rooms in the good old days. Out and about, we serendipitously ran into Brian and discovered that he and my roommate's friend, who was captain of the crew, were in the same eating club, the Princeton equivalent of fraternities. Remember this was before Brooke Shields so there were guys EVERYWHERE. Mrs. Linklater was in spring break heaven. We even got mentioned in the school paper -- coeds from Northwestern visitng on campus.
Brian was a sophomore by that time and we had a reunion of sorts at meals -- he belonged to an eating club remember? -- but I was busy meeting as many guys as I could during the week I was there so we just buddied up when I needed a break from all the attention. He was always there ready to entertain me if I had some free time. Since I was carrying a light load, I came back for a couple of more weekends later that spring.
I learned to juggle billiard balls, almost got arrested for being with a bunch of guys who were throwing rocks at street lamps, met local hero Cosmo Iacovazzi, said hi to Bill Bradley, went to see "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane," froze my ass riding in the launch with the rowing crew's coach on a cold, sleet-drenched day, watched strapping young men work up a steamy sweat in those skinny boats, wearing only their underwear, got wined and dined, felt like a kid in a campus candy shop, and had a great time.
Back in the real world, I graduated, got a job, and settled into living La Vida Loca in Chicago. Brian showed up in my life once more. I honestly don't remember how we hooked up again, except that one of his high school football buddies moved down the hall from me in my high rise. He was a real party guy, so living there was more like being in a dorm, although the Mah Jong ladies in 4A might not agree.
Brian was working from 6PM to 2AM at the local PBS station. I used to sit in the control room while he worked the shows. Afterward, we'd hang out then lie in bed, listening to Bob Dylan sing Lay Lady Lay about a million times. Needless to say I was showing up for my nine to five job a lot closer to ten.
One night we were up at his family's house for dinner, the place with the high bluff that went down to the lake. Sitting out on the back lawn, I noticed there were a lot of weeds on the side of the hill. He laughed and said those weeds were marijuana.
Two years before, a daughter of the US senator who lived a few doors down had been murdered in a home invasion. Afterward dozens of police officers spent days combing the bluffs for clues. They stomped all over the vegetation, pushed it back by hand to see what was on the ground and stuck their faces right into it. Not once did they notice the yards and yards of marijuana plants in front of them. At first Brian's brothers were a little concerned that they were about to be busted for growing dope. But the suburban cops didn't learn how to spot reefer madness until way later, so the boys lucked out.
I really liked Brian and thought about him for years after we broke up. But he and I drifted apart because he was smoking a lot of pot and I didn't do the stuff. Except for that one time when one of his brothers was in the hospital after a motorcycle accident. His thoughtful girlfriend had made brownies and offered me some. "Why do these taste like oregano?" I remember asking as I took a huge bite. Because they were loaded with marijuana, Mrs. Linklater. The girlfriend had broken the cardinal rule of sharing drugs. In those days you never gave drugs without asking first. Not to be nice -- mainly so you didn't waste them on a non user. Like ME. Two hours later I was seeing strange colors and bizarre things floating in front of my eyes. Pissed me off.
So, too much dope was one reason. There were other reasons, too, but they're not suitable for younger and more sensitive readers.
Ironically, a few years after I got married and had children, Brian's mother sold her very big house and moved several miles away to a smaller big house right around the corner from us. I discovered all this when I ran into Brian one evening, walking with one of his kids in front of our home. Cosmic, no?
After my divorce, I ran into his old girlfriend again -- the one who later had brain cancer. I was out in LA editing at a production house and she showed up there by mistake for an audtion. Cosmic, yes?
We ended up having a long talk and comparing notes about dating Brian and laughed about having the exact same problems with him. It was the kind of conversation that guys dread: Women talking about them and laughing. EEEWWW. She still hooked up with him from time to time even though he was married by that time. Not me.
With the death of his old girlfriend, my only reminder of Brian these days is when I see his name at the end of a PBS documentary or drama.
That, plus an occasional, startling glimpse of one of his brothers, who moved to the same town I did after my divorce. Coincidence? I think not. He looks like a carbon copy of Brian. With white hair.
Everything happens for a reason.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
GIRLS GONE WILD
Oh great. First
Duke, now the women's soccer team at Northwestern University, another
college I attended. I guess the team has been caught hazing its
players. Even better they posted pictures of the hazing on the
internet. Do college students think no one can see them in cyberspace?
Supposedly there are also photos of some of the players giving lap dances to guys. But from what I saw on TV, it's hard to tell, so those may be women, not men whose laps are being danced in. Like it matters.
What's next? A cheerleading scandal at my old high school? Oh, wait, they stopped having cheerleaders because none of the girls wanted to try out. Same with pom pom girls. No homecoming queens, prom queens, or May queens either. Of course, with four thousand students there's always the opportunity for some inappropriate student teacher noogie. If it could happen, it will happen.
I am the queen of bad karma.
Supposedly there are also photos of some of the players giving lap dances to guys. But from what I saw on TV, it's hard to tell, so those may be women, not men whose laps are being danced in. Like it matters.
What's next? A cheerleading scandal at my old high school? Oh, wait, they stopped having cheerleaders because none of the girls wanted to try out. Same with pom pom girls. No homecoming queens, prom queens, or May queens either. Of course, with four thousand students there's always the opportunity for some inappropriate student teacher noogie. If it could happen, it will happen.
I am the queen of bad karma.
Monday, May 15, 2006
DUKE UPDATE -- HE SAID, SHE SAID
Okay,
our female suspect, I mean victiim, has no evidence of semen from ANY
of the lacrosse boys in her on her or around her, whatever. The stuff
they found matches SOMEONE ELSE -- i.e. boyfriend? A client?
BUT THAT DOESN'T MEAN SHE WASN'T RAPED BY A LACROSSE PLAYER!!!!!!!! Nosirree!! At least according to the guy who wants to prosecute this thing.
NOTE: If you'll recall Mrs. Linklater assumed the lacrosse guys were guilty at first, so it's not like she wasn't on this woman's side at some point. Now that beeyotch is looking more and more like a hootchie babe who wants money to shut her up.
ANYHOO -- back to the sperm germs. According to the Durham Keystone Kops, there may not be semen BECAUSE it is possible that the rapists may not be making any semen -- they may be shooting blanks.
HOLD IT!! Perhaps if there had only been one rapist. Maybe, even if there were two. But what are the chances of THREE athletic young men at the peak of their testosteronal powers shooting blanks?
It's VERY hard to imagine the odds of THREE 20 year old spermocidal maniacs not being able to lock and fire a full load. At least ONE of them. Ya know?
In fact, I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that the chances of all three being spermatozoa free are probably ZERO.
As for using protection to catch the evidence -- if they had used condoms there would be condom residue -- lubrication, latex, a Trojan logo, something. But no-o-o-o-o-o. Nothing.
Meanwhile, to bolster their leaky case, the Kops have come up with something else now.
There's a claim that THEY found a little DNA from a player on the alleged victim's fake fingernails -- the ones that had been broken and tossed into the wastebasket. The kind of DNA left when you pick up a broken nail and put it into the basket. Not the kind of DNA left by scratching someone when they attack you.
HOWEVER, the Kops don't care. They are going to take this all the way to the supreme court. To prove what? That rich, mostly white people, who attend an elitist school, are sensitive to accusations made by minorities, even when those accusations and the accuser's integrity are looking more and more bogus every day.
And let's not forget that our heroine, "who takes courses" at the OTHER university, previously accused three other guys of raping her back in the 90's when she was fourteen. Those charges were dropped.
Like these should be.
BUT THAT DOESN'T MEAN SHE WASN'T RAPED BY A LACROSSE PLAYER!!!!!!!! Nosirree!! At least according to the guy who wants to prosecute this thing.
NOTE: If you'll recall Mrs. Linklater assumed the lacrosse guys were guilty at first, so it's not like she wasn't on this woman's side at some point. Now that beeyotch is looking more and more like a hootchie babe who wants money to shut her up.
ANYHOO -- back to the sperm germs. According to the Durham Keystone Kops, there may not be semen BECAUSE it is possible that the rapists may not be making any semen -- they may be shooting blanks.
HOLD IT!! Perhaps if there had only been one rapist. Maybe, even if there were two. But what are the chances of THREE athletic young men at the peak of their testosteronal powers shooting blanks?
It's VERY hard to imagine the odds of THREE 20 year old spermocidal maniacs not being able to lock and fire a full load. At least ONE of them. Ya know?
In fact, I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that the chances of all three being spermatozoa free are probably ZERO.
As for using protection to catch the evidence -- if they had used condoms there would be condom residue -- lubrication, latex, a Trojan logo, something. But no-o-o-o-o-o. Nothing.
Meanwhile, to bolster their leaky case, the Kops have come up with something else now.
There's a claim that THEY found a little DNA from a player on the alleged victim's fake fingernails -- the ones that had been broken and tossed into the wastebasket. The kind of DNA left when you pick up a broken nail and put it into the basket. Not the kind of DNA left by scratching someone when they attack you.
HOWEVER, the Kops don't care. They are going to take this all the way to the supreme court. To prove what? That rich, mostly white people, who attend an elitist school, are sensitive to accusations made by minorities, even when those accusations and the accuser's integrity are looking more and more bogus every day.
And let's not forget that our heroine, "who takes courses" at the OTHER university, previously accused three other guys of raping her back in the 90's when she was fourteen. Those charges were dropped.
Like these should be.
Patrick's Saturday Six on Monday
LINK TO PATRICK'S PLACE if you want to play.
Mother's
Day is when all calorie caution is thrown to the wind. So I
ordered Eggs Benedict at brunch, just in case I hadn't reached my
yearly dose of cholesterol yet. I managed to consume not one, but two of those English
muffin thingys piled high with extras and slathered in Hollandaise. I
couldn't eat anything else all day. Okay, except for a couple of pieces
of candy I found in the pocket of my jacket. Yes! I needed a jacket.
It's MAY here in the Chicago area. 40 degrees and damp.
1. When is the last time you switched from one company to another for an important service? What made you switch? Did the company you were leaving try to make you a better offer to make you stay?
I
have three phone lines -- all different carriers -- because I don't
trust any of them. So I keep getting deals every time I threaten
to switch from one to another when I don't like the service I'm
getting. Soon I hope to get all free.
2. What emblem or logo was on the last coffee mug you drank from?
I
drink tea, not coffee. Usually it's Snapple Peach tea out of the
bottle, even in the winter. HOWEVER, I do use mugs for a nice
cuppa soup or hot chocolate with the little marshmallows. The cup
I use most has rabbits funking all over it. But you have to look
hard to notice that's what they're doing. I'm all class.
3.
On a scale of 1 to 10, 10 being a world-class chef and 1 being someone who
can't even scramble an egg, how would you rate your cooking ability?
I
WAS a good meat and potatoes cook -- especially mashed with gravy, or
anything grilled -- from turkey to roasts, to fish and veggies. I also
loved to baking cookies, pies and cakes and made great butter frosting
from scratch. I even went through a homemade bread phase. But don't ask
for something with a foreign name, except Hollandaise sauce. Now, if it
doesn't heat up in the microwave, I don't buy it. So I'm probably in
negative numbers these days.
4. Take the quiz: Are you a good cook?
Apparently
I'm a creative cook. Haaaaaa. Which means I can look in my cupboard and
come up with something edible on a moment's notice. As long as you like
canned kidney beans with garlic ramen noodles.
5.
When was the last time you prepared a meal for someone other than yourself
or those already living with you? Was it well received?
I
last cooked for more than myself TWO years ago. I managed not to kill
twenty something people at the Jersey Shore. They feasted on my
signature 1950's retro style tuna tettrazini made with real cream,
smoked Gouda and parmesan. The women hate it -- too fattening.The guys
love it, based on the shovel they use to load it on their plates. Guess
who I cook for?
6.
Since it is that time of year, what show's season finale are you most looking
forward to? Which show do you wish would just go away?
Law and
Order -- all of them -- still my favorite shows. Nova and Frontline are
second. But it's hard to tell when PBS has a season finale. On the
other hand, I get physically sick just looking at the bugs and slimy
stuff they want people to eat on Fear Factor, just surfing passed the
channel it's on. EEEWWW. For some reason, I can't watch DEAL OR NO DEAL
either.
Friday, May 12, 2006
Ask Mrs. Linklater is BAAA --AAA-- ACK!
You've been dying to read a new entry at
Mrs. L's Blogspot spot, haven't you? Well, here it is. It's
been awhile, but she's out of re-hab and ready to take on one of the
advice ladies again. The world will be a better place.
ASK MRS LINKLATER
ASK MRS LINKLATER
Liar Liar Pants On Fire
John Scalzi's Weekend Assignment: Present three "facts" about yourself: Two of the facts true, and one of the facts false. Let people guess which "fact" is the fake one. Reveal the fake fact on Monday. You don't want to give away the fake fact too early, so be sure to make it sound plausible, next to the other two real facts.
Okay, I'll play.
FACT NUMBER ONE: A photographer's rep was trolling the halls of the ad agency where I worked in the sixties and spotted me. I'd never met him before. Looking up at all six feet of me he said, "You're lanky." And that's how I became Miss Goosepimple of 1967.
FACT NUMBER TWO: In college I was working as an apprentice for a summer stock company at the old Edgewater Hotel Playhouse in Chicago. I was assigned to help Jessica Walter [Arrested Development] during her quick changes. She was starring with Jackie Mason in a show called Fair Game. Mason kept ad libbing and after one scene she told him off. Ripped him a new body part. The next night I was terrified she would get angry at him again. She walked off stage. I froze. He walked up to her. Uh oh. She smiled at him. SMILED? Then he said, "Is sex out of the question?" That's when I knew I didn't want to be in show business.
FACT NUMBER THREE: John Hughes, the director of Ferris Bueller's Day Off went to high school in my town. And he shot a lot of his movies around here. During one shoot they needed a house with a garage to shoot a scene where a sports car was kept. The garage needed to be above ground so they could shoot the car flying out the back and crashing to the ground. That was my house. And my then husband's car was one of the stand ins.
EXTRA CREDIT: Can you lie with a straight face? Really?
I can't lie because I would forget what I said and tell the truth. But I can fib with the best of them. "No really, you're the first."
NUMBER THREE IS A LIE. IN CASE YOU HAVEN'T FIGURED IT OUT YET. OR READ THE ANSWER IN THE COMMEHTS FROM THE PERSON WHO GAVE IT AWAY. Mrs. L
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Cute Baby Alert
Auntie Grandma got
some more pictures of her favorite niece and nephew from her brother
and sis in law. That's what's so nice about having a journal on AOL. I
can treat this place like my purse. And throw anything in here.
The cutesy wootsies were at the beach a couple of weekends ago. Along with quoting Aristotle in the original Greek, my niece says "Delicious!" now when she's had a tasty repast. My nephew is still in the polar bear cub stage. His sis is tall and delicate. He looks like he swallowed a baby seal, but in a good way.
The picture of the gate [if you're trolling through the pics] is something my brother put up at the beach house to keep the kids from doing what small children do with terrifying results -- fall down the stairs and affect their future SAT scores. Nice job, l'il bro. At least the stairs there are wooden.
One of my other brothers took a header down a cement stairwell when he was two and had petit mal seizures until he was ten years old. I remember once playing checkers with him -- it may have been the last time. When it was his turn I looked up to see him just staring into space. I got up slowly so I wouldn't startle him, then I ran screaming from the room. Crisis management was not one of my strong suits at twelve.
Okay enough family stuff, time to get my ass in gear.
The cutesy wootsies were at the beach a couple of weekends ago. Along with quoting Aristotle in the original Greek, my niece says "Delicious!" now when she's had a tasty repast. My nephew is still in the polar bear cub stage. His sis is tall and delicate. He looks like he swallowed a baby seal, but in a good way.
The picture of the gate [if you're trolling through the pics] is something my brother put up at the beach house to keep the kids from doing what small children do with terrifying results -- fall down the stairs and affect their future SAT scores. Nice job, l'il bro. At least the stairs there are wooden.
One of my other brothers took a header down a cement stairwell when he was two and had petit mal seizures until he was ten years old. I remember once playing checkers with him -- it may have been the last time. When it was his turn I looked up to see him just staring into space. I got up slowly so I wouldn't startle him, then I ran screaming from the room. Crisis management was not one of my strong suits at twelve.
Okay enough family stuff, time to get my ass in gear.
Monday, May 8, 2006
Monday Gigantic Photo Shoot -- Now Smaller
This is Beans, about
to leap at my camera, snapping at me. He hated flashbulbs and I
was taking pictures at his owner's wedding.
So it looks like a smile, but he's growling.
I ran this picture once before, but I need a smile today so I decided to share a LARGE version.
Okay the LARGE version is gone -- it really was WAY TOO BIG.
So it looks like a smile, but he's growling.
I ran this picture once before, but I need a smile today so I decided to share a LARGE version.
Okay the LARGE version is gone -- it really was WAY TOO BIG.
Saturday, May 6, 2006
ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME
Since a lot of the
work I do can be telecommuted I don't dress in power suits to sit at my
computer. Nor do I feel the need to glam up my make up for a meeting
when it's going to be held on the phone.
Unfortunately after a hard morning at the keyboard, I get hungry. With no husband or kids around, my refrigerator usually has an echo in it. So I take a break and head for one of the umpteen fast food emporiums that make my suburb a magnet for families with cupholders and DVD players in the back seats of their cars.
Often when I rush out for a quick bite to eat, I'll be halfway to the sandwich shop before realizing that I'm still in my sweat pants, hoody, and flip flops. And no make up. Just the shiny leftover grease from the Vaseline I use to take off my eye shadow and mascara. It's a raccoon look.
Since I'm not going to the Four Seasons and there's no maitre d' to question my attire, I'm not worried about being seated near the window. Unless it's the drive up window.
But yesterday I was telecommuting with someone else at her place. We were reviewing some footage on her TV. No need to tie up the conference room at her ad agency when we could do the same thing at her house. But I thought it would be smart to dress higher up on the food chain. And make up my face a bit. I even styled my hair, since she is a client after all, although we are friends, too, thanks to our special bond as the only two straight women on any of our former softball teams.
We were there for about five hours, watching tape after tape, while snacking on baby bagels and cream cheese chased with a glass of Tropicana orange mango something. For lunch we splurged and made Kraft macaroni and cheese. It was like all those times in junior high when happiness was playing Monopoly all day Saturday and your mom just kept bringing food so you never had to move. Only we were getting paid for it.
When we finished, it was getting close to four o'clock. I was meeting someone for an early dinner at 5:00. Shut up about the time. You'll be eating early one of these days too. So my decision to put on the paint and look suburban instead of homeless was about to pay off.
I had to copy and mail a bunch of stuff, so I stopped at Kinko's on my way to dinner. As I was picking up an armful of things and preparing to go out the door, some guy asked if I wanted him to open it for me. I said no I'd just push it with my big butt and I demonstrated my derriere move. Outside the store I turned to go to my car and he said, "Mrs. Linklater, you don't have a big butt."
He knows me?
He knew me.
I had no idea who he was. For about two beats. And then I recognized him from some volleyball tournaments and very late nights 28 years ago. The good news is he recognized me right away. Phew. It's all about ME ME ME in this journal, remember? The bad news is that I wouldn't have known him on a bet. Until we started talking. I realized I was looking at someone from long ago, just a supersized edition of his younger self. He also seemed about two inches taller. Or I'm two inches shorter. His height threw me off more than anything.
So we did the what have you been doing for the past 28 years thing. I wondered if he was still younger or closer to my age now.
He also checked to see if I was wearing a ring. Every time I run into a guy I knew in a former life, that's the first thing they do. Like I'm single and we're going to race off into the sunset? Or they're going to get lucky?
The whole time I was saying, "Thank you God." The woman's gratitude prayer. Because my hair was having a good day and my makeup was in its upright and locked position.. Plus I was wearing slacks not baggy sweats. And shoes, not shower thongs. Not because I wanted to rekindle an old flame. At my age that would take a blow torch. I just wanted him to tell people I was looking good when he ran into someone we both knew. I have my priorities straight.
Okay, for my more sensitive readers, the whole time we stood there chatting, I was saying, "Thank you, spiritual being who guides me through the thick and thin of life."
We exchanged cell phone numbers and email addresses -- the 21st century version of *kiss* *kiss* let's do lunch.
Surprisingly he called me as I left the parking lot and headed for dinner a few minutes late. Why so soon? To see if I'd given him a real number. He said.
This morning I thought I would put his number into my cell phone book. So I clicked on Received Calls to store it and he had blocked it. After writing it down for me on a piece of paper. Gee, I wonder where that piece of paper disappeared to? It's a shame I lost it.
THE END.
No, really -- that's the end of it. It'll be another 28 years before I want to see him again.
Unfortunately after a hard morning at the keyboard, I get hungry. With no husband or kids around, my refrigerator usually has an echo in it. So I take a break and head for one of the umpteen fast food emporiums that make my suburb a magnet for families with cupholders and DVD players in the back seats of their cars.
Often when I rush out for a quick bite to eat, I'll be halfway to the sandwich shop before realizing that I'm still in my sweat pants, hoody, and flip flops. And no make up. Just the shiny leftover grease from the Vaseline I use to take off my eye shadow and mascara. It's a raccoon look.
Since I'm not going to the Four Seasons and there's no maitre d' to question my attire, I'm not worried about being seated near the window. Unless it's the drive up window.
But yesterday I was telecommuting with someone else at her place. We were reviewing some footage on her TV. No need to tie up the conference room at her ad agency when we could do the same thing at her house. But I thought it would be smart to dress higher up on the food chain. And make up my face a bit. I even styled my hair, since she is a client after all, although we are friends, too, thanks to our special bond as the only two straight women on any of our former softball teams.
We were there for about five hours, watching tape after tape, while snacking on baby bagels and cream cheese chased with a glass of Tropicana orange mango something. For lunch we splurged and made Kraft macaroni and cheese. It was like all those times in junior high when happiness was playing Monopoly all day Saturday and your mom just kept bringing food so you never had to move. Only we were getting paid for it.
When we finished, it was getting close to four o'clock. I was meeting someone for an early dinner at 5:00. Shut up about the time. You'll be eating early one of these days too. So my decision to put on the paint and look suburban instead of homeless was about to pay off.
I had to copy and mail a bunch of stuff, so I stopped at Kinko's on my way to dinner. As I was picking up an armful of things and preparing to go out the door, some guy asked if I wanted him to open it for me. I said no I'd just push it with my big butt and I demonstrated my derriere move. Outside the store I turned to go to my car and he said, "Mrs. Linklater, you don't have a big butt."
He knows me?
He knew me.
I had no idea who he was. For about two beats. And then I recognized him from some volleyball tournaments and very late nights 28 years ago. The good news is he recognized me right away. Phew. It's all about ME ME ME in this journal, remember? The bad news is that I wouldn't have known him on a bet. Until we started talking. I realized I was looking at someone from long ago, just a supersized edition of his younger self. He also seemed about two inches taller. Or I'm two inches shorter. His height threw me off more than anything.
So we did the what have you been doing for the past 28 years thing. I wondered if he was still younger or closer to my age now.
He also checked to see if I was wearing a ring. Every time I run into a guy I knew in a former life, that's the first thing they do. Like I'm single and we're going to race off into the sunset? Or they're going to get lucky?
The whole time I was saying, "Thank you God." The woman's gratitude prayer. Because my hair was having a good day and my makeup was in its upright and locked position.. Plus I was wearing slacks not baggy sweats. And shoes, not shower thongs. Not because I wanted to rekindle an old flame. At my age that would take a blow torch. I just wanted him to tell people I was looking good when he ran into someone we both knew. I have my priorities straight.
Okay, for my more sensitive readers, the whole time we stood there chatting, I was saying, "Thank you, spiritual being who guides me through the thick and thin of life."
We exchanged cell phone numbers and email addresses -- the 21st century version of *kiss* *kiss* let's do lunch.
Surprisingly he called me as I left the parking lot and headed for dinner a few minutes late. Why so soon? To see if I'd given him a real number. He said.
This morning I thought I would put his number into my cell phone book. So I clicked on Received Calls to store it and he had blocked it. After writing it down for me on a piece of paper. Gee, I wonder where that piece of paper disappeared to? It's a shame I lost it.
THE END.
No, really -- that's the end of it. It'll be another 28 years before I want to see him again.
Thursday, May 4, 2006
Healthy Schmealthy
MY AOL main screen had a headline that caught my eye: THE FIVE HEALTHIEST FOODS IN THE WORLD. Says who?
I think healthy foods are relative. Remember when the big push was on for the green goodness of broccoli until we found out that one serving contains enough pesticides to use up your lifetime allowance. Same with grapes. I laugh when people wash grapes to get them clean. My Organic Gardening magazine used to point out that nothing can neutralize the amount of bug spray on those nodular little fruits. That's one reason why I no longer read Organic Gardening.
Another reason is they had a whole article on how you can make your very own indoor outhouse. Sorry, that totally creeped me out. Supposedly you just have to get used to not flushing. For those of us who can't get used to not flushing, there's a handle you can add to accommodate your inability to give it up. I couldn't give up on the idea that all your poops and peeps would be in the basement covered in lime. Nope, I wasn't that much of a tree hugger. I kept my toilet and gave up my subscription.
And that whole thing about the healthy Omega 3s in salmon. Fine, as long as you can handle the PCB's and whatever new sludge they've found in that pasty pink flesh. I can't even look at swordfish without wondering how many more I have to eat before I can be certified as a thermometer.
Prior to checking out what the five healthiest foods were I decided to try to guess them for myself. No dummy here, I knew right away that chocolate covered cherries, Angus burgers, buttered anything, frosting out of a can, and a Philly cheesesteak were probably not on the list.
I also know enough not to eat a pint of Ben and Jerry's unless nobody's around. But I can fake healthy. So mostly when I guessed the top five, I went for the fruits and vegetables.
An orange I figured was probably very healthy because of all its anti-oxidants and colon clearing, cholesterol reducing fiber. Same for apples, bananas, and oat bran. I just couldn't think of a fifth food.
I do think avocados deserve to be on the list. I hear rumors that they have too much this and too much that, but frankly I consider mashed avocado and chips as two of my major food groups.
I have a friend who keeps lots of avocados in a bowl instead of fruit. She makes a point of eating at least one every day. And she can do the same moves as those couples on Dancing with the Stars at the advanced age of sixty, which, I am painfully aware, is younger than I am. Even better, she can find a guy who wants to dance with her despite that whole sixty thing. I'm sure it's the avocados.
But, let's face it, avocados wouldn't ever be considered one of the healthiest foods. Not enough good PR working for them. Like portabello mushrooms which, thanks to frou frou vegetarian chefs, are much higher up on the healthy list, assuming you like to eat things off the forest floor.
Whaddya bet the fifth healthiest food is green tea. Never has something so good for you tasted so much like compost.
I actually ordered green tea ice cream the other night. They also had vanilla and chocolate. But no-o-o-o-o. A scoop was offered for dessert with my tuna makaki, which is named for the sound you make trying to swallow those big chunks of raw fish.
My bowl of green colored ice cream arrived. I took a bite. Everybody just stared at me when I said, "EWWWW this ice cream tastes like green tea." Lots of sidelong glances and headnodding. "That's because you ordered green tea ice cream." I knew that. However, I didn't think it would actually taste like it. Nevermind, it's too hard to explain.
When I finally looked at the list of the five healthiest foods, I was not ready for what I found. In fact, I was rather disappointed.
Olive oil? Soy? Lentils? Yogurt? And kimchi? They just don't seem like they ought to be the top five healthiest foods. Ethnic yes. Healthy, not so much.
Having said that, I've already made the switch to olive oil. Sure I would prefer to peel the paper and lick a stick of butter right down to the nub, but my days of making Hollandaise sauce just to feel the cholesterol coursing through my veins have passed. Mostly.
Olive oil is great, once you can get past all the confusing designations of virginity, something I still don't understand entirely. I mean how virgin can something get? EXTRA virgin totally escapes me. And not because my own virginity is such a distant memory. You either are one or you aren't I figure. People who try to explain olive oil virginity usually get caught up in their underwear explaining things like the first pressing. That makes me think of heavyset, bearded women with feet larger than mine stomping on olives in a barrel. No thanks.
Soy is one of the five healthiest foods? How about most ubiquitous instead? It's everywhere. In everything. How does that qualify as healthy? Lately no one seems to be sure just what it does. Soy sauce is so salty you could start your own ocean. Tofu is like mystery meat. It takes on the flavor of what it's cooked with. Hmmmm, dee-lish.
Yogurt made the list. Not the yogurt I eat -- the Yoplait cherry flavor which tastes like a custard dessert. They're probably talking about the plain stuff from Siberia that tastes like sour cream and makes your mouth pucker.
Lentils. If ever a food looked like rabbit turds, this is the one. Unlike Raisinets which also have that same visual appearance, lentils actually taste like rabbit turds, too. They're considered healthy because they keep you on the toilet more often. As far as I'm concerned, that's not healthy. You can get hemorrhoids from all that sitting.
And kimchi. Korea's answer to sauerkraut. I've never tried this hot cabbage dish because it sounds like it could rip a hole in your esophagus. Since when is THAT healthy?
This whole thing has to be a PR stunt. The kimchi, lentil, yogurt, olive oil and soy bean associations all got together and decided to call themselves the healthiest foods in the world. Nobody asked them.They just volunteered when we weren't looking.
What happened to the olden days when a chocolate malt and fries meant something good, not evil?
Tuesday, May 2, 2006
FYI
From my buddy in LA:
On Friday, President Bush blasted the idea of singing the Star Spangled Banner in Spanish.
But Bush’s highly-scripted 2001 inaugural ceremony actually featured a rendition
of the national anthem sung in Spanish by Jon Secada. From Cox News Service,
1/18/01:
Pop star Jon Secada sang the national anthem in Spanish.
Apparently, Secada singing the anthem in Spanish was a regular feature of the Bush campaign. From the 8/3/00 Miami Herald:
The
nominee, his wife Laura, erstwhile rival John McCain and his wife Cindy joined
Bush on a platform where children sang the national anthem - in “Spanglish,”
Secada explained.
From a radio show in Chicago:
For
all you folks who think the illegals here don't pay taxes, many many
many of them acquire fake social security numbers which they give to
their employers so they can work under the guise of being legal.
BTW: One of the seven thousand Irish illegals in Chicago was
interviewed after the parade. The fellow said that until the parade he
had no idea there were any other illegals around besides him and his
Irish brethren. His job? Working at city hall as a contract
negotiator. Now back to our story.
Meanwhile,
the Social Security Administration takes note when they think Social
Security numbers are fake and lets the employers know that they know
they might be fake. But other than that they haven't done much else. Like
arrest people, deport them, stuff you might expect.
Why?
Because there is a special fund set up for the money sent to those fake
SS#'s. The money that will never be collected because illegal
aliens earned it.
Right now, according to the report on the radio this morning, there's BILLIONS of dollars in that fund.
Stuff like this just warms my heart.
Monday, May 1, 2006
Throw Away the Key
While we're tracking
down twelve million illegal immigrants with angry talk about kicking them
out of the country or just shooting them at the border, let's do
something about removing drunk drivers from the roads. Not just
overnight or for a few months -- but for real and for good.
Don't just put mangled cars on the lawns outside high schools during prom week. Or interview the presidents of MADD and SADD. Assign special drunk license plates and driver's licenses to convicted souses. So everybody can watch for them. Especially the police.
How about finally making these creeps accountable for killing people when they're impaired? GO DIRECTLY TO JAIL. Or in a new twist on community service, let them be crash dummies for a day.
I also think blood tests should be mandatory for everyone involved in any accident because nobody thinks twice about driving no matter what's in their systems. Above the legal limit for alcohol, you're automatically under house arrest and your license is revoked for five years.
I'm not just talking about drunks, either, but people with seizure disorders or people on prescription pain medication. Unfortunately, most of us think that impaired only means stuff like marijuana and alcohol. I think Levitra could even be a distraction. Or being too tired. Book 'em Dano.
But let's get the drunks first. Especially when they're repeat offenders like the terrible story of the twenty year old Arizona kid who has had seven traffic infractions in four years, three of which were DUI's. You have to be a serial stupid driver to have that kind of record.
After this past weekend that doofus should now become the poster child for raising the age for a driver's license to twenty-one. Or, in some cases, twenty-five.
This kid, who lives in student housing and was driving a Mustang -- no doubt a gift from Mom and Dad -- ran a redlight. Young people think traffic lights are there to stop other people, not them. There seems to be an entire generation of youths who consider a stoplight merely a suggestion. Stop if you're in the mood.
But on this occasion, the eighth time this addle-brained dope screwed up while driving, he killed somebody. And not just anybody. A beloved motorcycle cop. The first police officer on his force to die in the line of duty in eight-six years.
Drunk as a skunk, maybe even high, and in broad daylight, this kid was so out of it he impaled the motorcycle with the front grill of his car, where it exploded and burned.
After the crash, which had sent the police officer flying from his motorcycle and left him dying on the road, this young drunk and his passenger both ran away from the scene of the accident.
I keep calling the kid a drunk based on his DUI's. But some judge already agrees because he mandated AA as part of one of an earlier plea bargain which put this waste of life back on the road.
There is a rule of thumb, according to a relative of mine in AA, that if you've been arrested for two DUI's you are an alcoholic. In case you're counting.
He didn't even bother to check to see how badly the officer was hurt. Apparently he and his friend were absent when the gene for good character got handed out.
I hope that this young person who has been given multiple free passes through his short but sorry life finally has to be accountable for his depraved disregard for others. So far he's only received a slap on the wrist. Unfortunately, I wouldn't expect much more this time either. Unless killing a police officer means something for once.
The irony of the officer's tragic and completely unnecessary death is twofold. He died going to work as part of a DUI detail getting drunks off the road. And tonight is the night of a special program held each year in Arizona to remember fallen police officers.
There won't be a dry eye in the state.
Don't just put mangled cars on the lawns outside high schools during prom week. Or interview the presidents of MADD and SADD. Assign special drunk license plates and driver's licenses to convicted souses. So everybody can watch for them. Especially the police.
How about finally making these creeps accountable for killing people when they're impaired? GO DIRECTLY TO JAIL. Or in a new twist on community service, let them be crash dummies for a day.
I also think blood tests should be mandatory for everyone involved in any accident because nobody thinks twice about driving no matter what's in their systems. Above the legal limit for alcohol, you're automatically under house arrest and your license is revoked for five years.
I'm not just talking about drunks, either, but people with seizure disorders or people on prescription pain medication. Unfortunately, most of us think that impaired only means stuff like marijuana and alcohol. I think Levitra could even be a distraction. Or being too tired. Book 'em Dano.
But let's get the drunks first. Especially when they're repeat offenders like the terrible story of the twenty year old Arizona kid who has had seven traffic infractions in four years, three of which were DUI's. You have to be a serial stupid driver to have that kind of record.
After this past weekend that doofus should now become the poster child for raising the age for a driver's license to twenty-one. Or, in some cases, twenty-five.
This kid, who lives in student housing and was driving a Mustang -- no doubt a gift from Mom and Dad -- ran a redlight. Young people think traffic lights are there to stop other people, not them. There seems to be an entire generation of youths who consider a stoplight merely a suggestion. Stop if you're in the mood.
But on this occasion, the eighth time this addle-brained dope screwed up while driving, he killed somebody. And not just anybody. A beloved motorcycle cop. The first police officer on his force to die in the line of duty in eight-six years.
Drunk as a skunk, maybe even high, and in broad daylight, this kid was so out of it he impaled the motorcycle with the front grill of his car, where it exploded and burned.
After the crash, which had sent the police officer flying from his motorcycle and left him dying on the road, this young drunk and his passenger both ran away from the scene of the accident.
I keep calling the kid a drunk based on his DUI's. But some judge already agrees because he mandated AA as part of one of an earlier plea bargain which put this waste of life back on the road.
There is a rule of thumb, according to a relative of mine in AA, that if you've been arrested for two DUI's you are an alcoholic. In case you're counting.
He didn't even bother to check to see how badly the officer was hurt. Apparently he and his friend were absent when the gene for good character got handed out.
I hope that this young person who has been given multiple free passes through his short but sorry life finally has to be accountable for his depraved disregard for others. So far he's only received a slap on the wrist. Unfortunately, I wouldn't expect much more this time either. Unless killing a police officer means something for once.
The irony of the officer's tragic and completely unnecessary death is twofold. He died going to work as part of a DUI detail getting drunks off the road. And tonight is the night of a special program held each year in Arizona to remember fallen police officers.
There won't be a dry eye in the state.
Is that a bottle of Bud in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?
Boy I'm glad I'm not
in college. There was a survey at three Chicago universities and one in
every eighteen male students is using Viagra. Doctors are surprised by
the high number of young men who claim to have sexual dysfunction. Why
do I think those boys are lying? Betcha they're just so drunk they can't get
it up so they reach for the chemical enhancers.
Apparently students don't get a doctor's advice when they get the little blue pills. Mainly because they get them from a friend or off the internet. Plus, like I figured, they mix the pills with alcohol and crystal meth which may be why only half the guys use a condom. Probably because manual dexterity is the second thing to go, especially when you're drunk and high.
Youth is so wasted on the young. Maybe because most of them are so wasted.
Apparently students don't get a doctor's advice when they get the little blue pills. Mainly because they get them from a friend or off the internet. Plus, like I figured, they mix the pills with alcohol and crystal meth which may be why only half the guys use a condom. Probably because manual dexterity is the second thing to go, especially when you're drunk and high.
Youth is so wasted on the young. Maybe because most of them are so wasted.
How many can you count?
Today is the immigration rally in the city. I refuse to go downtown since I'm not a glutten for traffic punishment. I get enough on ordinary days.
However, just for the heck of it I thought I would count all the Latinos and other immigrants I encounter in my day. For purposes of this experiment, an immigrant is someone with a foreign accent, since I have no other way of telling.
Starting at around 8:00 AM:
I left to do a bunch of errands and went through the Micky D's drive through for a sausage burrito to sustain myself. [Should I count all the ethnic food I eat today, too? We'll see]. The Latino manager himself took my money with his heavily accented, "Good morning, how are you?" Followed by a "God Bless you!" I don't think he was being effusive just for today, because he's like that all the time.
On my way to my next stop, I decide to swing by National Pride to change my oil. It's cucharachaville in there. Seven people work there. All Latino. I try to learn a new Spanish word each time I go. Useful things like "oil filter" and "transmission fluid." Given my age and with my short term memory being what it is I can look forward to learning them all over again the next time.
Then I swing around to visit Mr. Moon, my Korean mechanic, to see when he can take my car for a tune-up. Somehow I can eventually figure out what he's telling me.
Now I'm at Kinko's to print out some color pictures and the only accents I hear are from Shecawga. Customers and co-workers.
I took a comforter to
the laundromat, which is owned by an Asian couple whose country of
origin is a mystery to me. They also own the dry cleaning establishment
next door, where I dropped off a silk blouse with the counter girl who
bowed when she took my order. Anyone that polite you know is not from
here.
Since I was there at
the strip mall for the other stuff I went into Dunkin Donuts to, uh,
smell the coffee and buy some chocolate milk from one of the two
Latinas working the counter. The two ladies spoke Spanish to each other in between taking my
money. I don't usually go in there after I've already had breakfast,
but I wanted to get more immigrants in my count for the day.
Still counting.
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