I used to watch as
much Law and Order as NBC and cable could dish out. All of them, from
SVU to Criminal Intent, to the regular brand. But people change. And
one day CBS began running all those different CSIs. I didn't get into
the shows until late one weekend when I started watching one of the
re-runs in the middle of the night.
Re-runs, that's the ticket. And CSI has nothing but re-runs, all over
the place. A&E, Spike, CBS late. But then after gorging myself, I
realized I liked one of the CSIs better than the others.
At first, the CSI with Chicago's very own William Petersen was the one
I liked best [his family owns a furniture store here], but after awhile
I thought the film was too dark for my taste. Of course, I realize
nothing happens in Las Vegas until dark, because the town sleeps all
day. But the film always felt like they were working with the lights
off.
I only caught a couple of episodes of CSI: New York with another one of
Chicago's very own, Gary Sinise. But I kept wondering what the heck he
was doing in New York when he's from Chicago. And that film is almost
too gritty for my taste.
But CSI: Miami. Holy cow, that show glows in the dark. The film is
dressed up like a transvestite hooker strolling along the sidewalks of
South Beach. Even the CSI offices look like a drag queen version of a
municipal building. I find myself watching the show just to see the
kaleidoscope of colors. And how the light bends and refracts through
the many glass windows and doors of the sets.
Even David Caruso, who plays Horatio or "H" [gimme a break] has bright
orange hair to match the filter they use on the sunsets.
Coincidence? I think not. He even has orange freckles which contrast
nicely with the one black suit he always wears.
Except for Caruso, the cast is better looking in Miami than Las Vegas
or New York I think. But Caruso brings his small screen star quality to
bear with the cheesy dialog he delivers at white hot intensity, albeit very, very
slowly.
Today I noticed that I'm so into the colors of the show that I haven't
been following the stories much. I realize that they're probably not
very true to life. For instance, when a SWAT team in
full regalia -- with helmets, Kevlar and big guns -- is about to breach
a bad guy's living space, the person in charge of the criminalists
probably wouldn't be the one leading them through the front door. In a suit and tie with no helmet. Except on TV.
Not to mention the absurd love story between Horatio and the gorgeous sister
of one of his CSIs. As if a Miami version of Sophia Loren is going to
give a craggy old white dude with red hair, freckles and a face that looks
like a map of Ireland the time of day. Okay, she's supposed to have
cancer, but still.
Hmm, I guess I was watching the story after all. But it's the colors that hooked me.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Memo to Alec Bladwin and Kim Basinger
About your request
to be considered for 2007 American Parents of the Year. . .
While all of us here at Parents Are People Too realize how important you are to the livelihoods of your publicists and attorneys, I'm afraid that the judges must decline your generous offer to be this year's poster boy and poster girl for moms and dads behaving like complete idiots after the divorce.
We can only stand back and applaud such shining examples of utter self absorption. Narcissism has never been in better hands.
Mr. Baldwin, that heartfelt and touching voicemail message to your young daughter is a credit to all parents who use their kids as bargaining chips following the disintegration of a marriage. Calling her a "pig" was a defining moment for anyone who has ever felt the backlash of a child who had something better to do than talk on the phone. Truly, Mr. Baldwin, you are an inspiration to fans of parental alienation everywhere.
You and your former spouse, Ms. Basinger, deserve something special for all the sacrifices you've made to raise your daughter. Your combined attempts to destroy the psyche of an innocent child are laudable. Needless to say, we hope you'll find it in your hearts to escalate your efforts to crush what self esteem she has left, and then reapply next year.
This was a difficult decision for our panel, as we couldn't have asked for two people more representative of the thousands of incompetent jerks who think they qualify as parents, just because they got drunk one night and swapped enough DNA to make a baby.
We wish you continued success and look forward to reading your application for next year's award.
P.S. Naturally we understand your disappointment, but in just a few more years, your daughter will be ready for drug and alcohol re-hab, so look on the bright side.
While all of us here at Parents Are People Too realize how important you are to the livelihoods of your publicists and attorneys, I'm afraid that the judges must decline your generous offer to be this year's poster boy and poster girl for moms and dads behaving like complete idiots after the divorce.
We can only stand back and applaud such shining examples of utter self absorption. Narcissism has never been in better hands.
Mr. Baldwin, that heartfelt and touching voicemail message to your young daughter is a credit to all parents who use their kids as bargaining chips following the disintegration of a marriage. Calling her a "pig" was a defining moment for anyone who has ever felt the backlash of a child who had something better to do than talk on the phone. Truly, Mr. Baldwin, you are an inspiration to fans of parental alienation everywhere.
You and your former spouse, Ms. Basinger, deserve something special for all the sacrifices you've made to raise your daughter. Your combined attempts to destroy the psyche of an innocent child are laudable. Needless to say, we hope you'll find it in your hearts to escalate your efforts to crush what self esteem she has left, and then reapply next year.
This was a difficult decision for our panel, as we couldn't have asked for two people more representative of the thousands of incompetent jerks who think they qualify as parents, just because they got drunk one night and swapped enough DNA to make a baby.
We wish you continued success and look forward to reading your application for next year's award.
P.S. Naturally we understand your disappointment, but in just a few more years, your daughter will be ready for drug and alcohol re-hab, so look on the bright side.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Wedding Pictures
Here
are a couple of pictures from the wedding two weeks ago. See, I
told you my niece was a cute little flower girl.
Here she is [below] with one of her grandmas telling her what a great job she did.
Here she is [below] with one of her grandmas telling her what a great job she did.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Blacksburg and Guns
Back in the middle
ages, during college, I dated a med student whose dad was an English
professor at Virginia Tech -- you've probably read some of the reference
books he edited. So I've had some good times in the Blacksburg
area. The landscape is very pretty there, with lots of winding
country roads dotted with charming mountain homes. But it's also in a
southern state with a history of defending the second amendment. Everybody's got a gun.
My boyfriend's family not only had small firearms, they also had racks of rifles. Somebody, I think it was his mother, liked to restore old guns as a hobby. No knitting for that lady. She eventually divorced his dad and moved up north to live with another woman. It was a long time before I figured out they weren't cohabitating to save on the rent. But, I digress.
One afternoon during a visit, my hunk of burning love put a .22 pistol on the seat between us and took me out to shoot at cans in the dump. I had no choice in the matter.
Over the years I've noticed that people who love guns think it's their duty to convert people who don't like guns to their point of view.
Despite all their efforts, I still don't like pistols. As far as I'm concerned they have no other purpose than to threaten, maim or kill. I can do that with a look.
On the other hand, I think shooting rifles or shotguns at targets or clay pigeons sounds like fun. And based on my limited but eyeopening experience at my daughter's camp, I have a natural ability at marksmanship that I didn't know about. But long ago, I opted for sports that didn't use bullets.
For the most part I think guns follow the laws of attraction. If you have a gun for protection, you will attract people you need to protect yourself against.
My boyfriend, being a good southern boy, wanted to show me how to use the gun. He figured if I had the experience I would somehow be converted to a gunlover.The fact that I didn't want to touch the pistol, let alone shoot the thing didn't matter. After my safety lesson at the dump, he told me to shoot at the cans. I did what he asked, hated the noise, didn't see the point, and handed the .22 back to him for good.
Eventually we broke up and he married someone else in my class.
A couple of decades later I was at college for a reunion. Before the day's scheduled festivities, I joined several classmates in a beautfiul garden not far from the main campus. We gathered around a natural stone memorial we had donated to honor the woman who had married my old boyfriend. She had recently died in an unfortunate accident.
Apparently, after my ex-boyfriend became a doctor he continued the family tradition of restoring antique firearms. Supposedly he's considered to be one of the best in the country. When we were dating I was not aware that guns were so tightly woven into his character. My distaste for them was probably a dealbreaker for him. His rigid personality ended up being the dealbreaker for me.
On their property there was a firing range to test the guns. Supposedly his wife was out on the range when a bullet she shot ricocheted and hit her in the chest. She died instantly. I have yet to buy into the story because it raised more questions than it answered. Regardless, nothing would bring her back to life. But the details of her death weren't the main thing that struck me when I first heard the news.
What got me was the uncomfortable realization that somehow, in some way, she could have been me.
My boyfriend's family not only had small firearms, they also had racks of rifles. Somebody, I think it was his mother, liked to restore old guns as a hobby. No knitting for that lady. She eventually divorced his dad and moved up north to live with another woman. It was a long time before I figured out they weren't cohabitating to save on the rent. But, I digress.
One afternoon during a visit, my hunk of burning love put a .22 pistol on the seat between us and took me out to shoot at cans in the dump. I had no choice in the matter.
Over the years I've noticed that people who love guns think it's their duty to convert people who don't like guns to their point of view.
Despite all their efforts, I still don't like pistols. As far as I'm concerned they have no other purpose than to threaten, maim or kill. I can do that with a look.
On the other hand, I think shooting rifles or shotguns at targets or clay pigeons sounds like fun. And based on my limited but eyeopening experience at my daughter's camp, I have a natural ability at marksmanship that I didn't know about. But long ago, I opted for sports that didn't use bullets.
For the most part I think guns follow the laws of attraction. If you have a gun for protection, you will attract people you need to protect yourself against.
My boyfriend, being a good southern boy, wanted to show me how to use the gun. He figured if I had the experience I would somehow be converted to a gunlover.The fact that I didn't want to touch the pistol, let alone shoot the thing didn't matter. After my safety lesson at the dump, he told me to shoot at the cans. I did what he asked, hated the noise, didn't see the point, and handed the .22 back to him for good.
Eventually we broke up and he married someone else in my class.
A couple of decades later I was at college for a reunion. Before the day's scheduled festivities, I joined several classmates in a beautfiul garden not far from the main campus. We gathered around a natural stone memorial we had donated to honor the woman who had married my old boyfriend. She had recently died in an unfortunate accident.
Apparently, after my ex-boyfriend became a doctor he continued the family tradition of restoring antique firearms. Supposedly he's considered to be one of the best in the country. When we were dating I was not aware that guns were so tightly woven into his character. My distaste for them was probably a dealbreaker for him. His rigid personality ended up being the dealbreaker for me.
On their property there was a firing range to test the guns. Supposedly his wife was out on the range when a bullet she shot ricocheted and hit her in the chest. She died instantly. I have yet to buy into the story because it raised more questions than it answered. Regardless, nothing would bring her back to life. But the details of her death weren't the main thing that struck me when I first heard the news.
What got me was the uncomfortable realization that somehow, in some way, she could have been me.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Mental Health Professionals Are The Last To Know
Each time there's a
school massacre, the mental health professionals who could have kept
the killer's sorry ass locked up and out of harm's way have the balls
to go on camera and tell the country --
"We just can't predict this kind of behavior."
To which I say, how f**king stupid are you people?
The crack mental health professional who was treating Laurie Dann, a deranged young woman who killed or maimed a bunch of little kids at a grade school several years ago, claimed he was as shocked as the rest of us by her behavior. What a retard. She had already tried to kill her sleeping husband with an icepick.
Why is it that everyone else who ever came into contact with these oddballs knew in their gut that they were quite capable of blowing people away? Family and friends, roommates and teachers -- they knew. But people with years of training are always surprised.
After more than a decade of frustration, law enforcement finally got a break when the Unibomber's own brother recognized something familiar in his crazed manifesto, when it was published by the New York Times.
Time after time, these Dr. Freud wannabes, who charge $200 for a 45 minute session, continue to pretend that they had no idea this type of behavior could possibly happen. Somebody should ask for their money back.
In a profession that demands empathy and understanding, too many of these mental midgets, especially adminstrators, seem to think their job description is to slap permanent labels on troubled people, load them up with drugs that make them zombies and warehouse them until their insurance runs out.
Why don't they talk to them? And not just when they're admitted. Why don't they talk to their families and the people who know them best? Even better, why don't they LISTEN to what they're saying?
The FBI has profilers who can predict what kind of a person is a serial killer. Cops can tell you patterns of behavior that have been distilled into a type that is predictable.
I was a battered women's advocate. There is a list of twenty-five characteristics of men who are abusers. The more characteristics they have the more you can predict they will kill their partners. OJ had 23 of the 25 markers. I told a girlfriend that the things her live in boyfriend was saying meant she was in danger. I told her to get out right away, but he had never hit her before. So she stayed. He beat her up the very next night.
I'm not a genius. I just recognized the patterns of predicability. And the shrinks can't? Come on.
Let me go out on a limb here -- behavior is predictable. Okay, I'll qualify that -- there is a lot of behavior that is predictable.
Most people think they're making choices about their behavior because they like to think they have free will. But if I can predict what you're going to do, you can kiss free will good bye.
We finally learned that pedophiles can't be cured. Talk about predictable behavior. However, since our system of law is based on having the freedom to make our own choices, lack of free will is just a philosophical discussion.
You would think that the mental health pros could at least come up with a list of characteristics -- their own FBI profile -- of someone who could commit a school massacre.
And I don't just mean making a list of jargon filled characteristics that describe the illness a disturbed person might have. A list of particular behaviors that would wave a red flag and help school administrators and clueless therapists keep this person out of the mainsteam for good, if need be.
But then they might have to admit to being accountable for someone's actions. Perhaps a couple of lawsuits could encourage them to feel a greater sense of responsibility to the public when it comes to identifying someone who is a danger to the community.
Well, enough with the whining, I should try to help out. The least I could do is create a list to help people identify a creepy kid who might start shooting up a classroom or dorm someday. Let's see, I have a degree in English and six years as a volunteer talking to battered women, so I think that qualifies me for something.
1. Young man [Laurie Dann was a notable exception] 14 to 25
2. Loser according to every girl who even knows who he is
3. Monosyllabic answers to direct questions
3A. Wears black all the time
3B. Lies around all day, sleeps with his pet gun
4. Laughs when there's nothing funny
5. Writes/draws guns/knives and sexual/sadistic images
6. Watches the same violent movie over and over
7. Gives you the creeps
8. History of being bullied or otherwise traumatized [this requires talking to him, which no one wants to do, so we may not learn this until after he has committed his atrocities]
9. History of therapy or time in a mental health facility
And the tenth sign that someone like this will shoot up the campus -- his therapist announces after the massacres that "There was no indication he would be violent."
"We just can't predict this kind of behavior."
To which I say, how f**king stupid are you people?
The crack mental health professional who was treating Laurie Dann, a deranged young woman who killed or maimed a bunch of little kids at a grade school several years ago, claimed he was as shocked as the rest of us by her behavior. What a retard. She had already tried to kill her sleeping husband with an icepick.
Why is it that everyone else who ever came into contact with these oddballs knew in their gut that they were quite capable of blowing people away? Family and friends, roommates and teachers -- they knew. But people with years of training are always surprised.
After more than a decade of frustration, law enforcement finally got a break when the Unibomber's own brother recognized something familiar in his crazed manifesto, when it was published by the New York Times.
Time after time, these Dr. Freud wannabes, who charge $200 for a 45 minute session, continue to pretend that they had no idea this type of behavior could possibly happen. Somebody should ask for their money back.
In a profession that demands empathy and understanding, too many of these mental midgets, especially adminstrators, seem to think their job description is to slap permanent labels on troubled people, load them up with drugs that make them zombies and warehouse them until their insurance runs out.
Why don't they talk to them? And not just when they're admitted. Why don't they talk to their families and the people who know them best? Even better, why don't they LISTEN to what they're saying?
The FBI has profilers who can predict what kind of a person is a serial killer. Cops can tell you patterns of behavior that have been distilled into a type that is predictable.
I was a battered women's advocate. There is a list of twenty-five characteristics of men who are abusers. The more characteristics they have the more you can predict they will kill their partners. OJ had 23 of the 25 markers. I told a girlfriend that the things her live in boyfriend was saying meant she was in danger. I told her to get out right away, but he had never hit her before. So she stayed. He beat her up the very next night.
I'm not a genius. I just recognized the patterns of predicability. And the shrinks can't? Come on.
Let me go out on a limb here -- behavior is predictable. Okay, I'll qualify that -- there is a lot of behavior that is predictable.
Most people think they're making choices about their behavior because they like to think they have free will. But if I can predict what you're going to do, you can kiss free will good bye.
We finally learned that pedophiles can't be cured. Talk about predictable behavior. However, since our system of law is based on having the freedom to make our own choices, lack of free will is just a philosophical discussion.
You would think that the mental health pros could at least come up with a list of characteristics -- their own FBI profile -- of someone who could commit a school massacre.
And I don't just mean making a list of jargon filled characteristics that describe the illness a disturbed person might have. A list of particular behaviors that would wave a red flag and help school administrators and clueless therapists keep this person out of the mainsteam for good, if need be.
But then they might have to admit to being accountable for someone's actions. Perhaps a couple of lawsuits could encourage them to feel a greater sense of responsibility to the public when it comes to identifying someone who is a danger to the community.
Well, enough with the whining, I should try to help out. The least I could do is create a list to help people identify a creepy kid who might start shooting up a classroom or dorm someday. Let's see, I have a degree in English and six years as a volunteer talking to battered women, so I think that qualifies me for something.
1. Young man [Laurie Dann was a notable exception] 14 to 25
2. Loser according to every girl who even knows who he is
3. Monosyllabic answers to direct questions
3A. Wears black all the time
3B. Lies around all day, sleeps with his pet gun
4. Laughs when there's nothing funny
5. Writes/draws guns/knives and sexual/sadistic images
6. Watches the same violent movie over and over
7. Gives you the creeps
8. History of being bullied or otherwise traumatized [this requires talking to him, which no one wants to do, so we may not learn this until after he has committed his atrocities]
9. History of therapy or time in a mental health facility
And the tenth sign that someone like this will shoot up the campus -- his therapist announces after the massacres that "There was no indication he would be violent."
Monday, April 16, 2007
The Wedding -- Day Three
Well the bride and
groom are off to Lost Wages. The ceremony was very pretty. It started
with my niece at the top of a huge staircase. She had rehearsed her
part the day before, but there weren't any people sitting in chairs and
looking up at her like the real thing.
She was wearing a pretty white dress with a huge black bow and she carried a basket of roses with petals for tossing. Her eyes got very wide when she saw everybody. The first thing she did was scrunch down, stick her head through the balustrade and say, "Hi everybody!!" Then she started down the winding stairs holding the railing with one hand while she looked around to see if there was anyone she knew. "Oh!! Hi, Daddy!! Hi, Mommy!!" Lots of laughter. At the bottom of the stairs she was pointed towards the aisle that led to where the groom and the minister were waiting. That's where she could start tossing her flower petals.
Instead of walking down the middle of the white covering for the carpet, she walked along the edge so she wouldn't get it dirty. She stopped to drop a few petals. Then she walked a little farther and dropped a few more petals. She pretty much milked it for all it was worth, taking her time, enjoying the whole process along with the rest of us. Not bad for a two year old. Okay, she'll be three in June.
The other flower girl, who looked equally adorable in her white dress and big black bow, had clearly done this a million times. She marched down the stairs, tossed her flowers and finished with a flourish in about thirty seconds. Maybe beinig four years old helped.
After the ceremony, which was captured on video and cellphone as well as a number of professional and amateur digital cameras, we adjourned to the dining room for my favorite part of the occasion -- FOOD.
After some excellent hot hors d'oeuvres and glasses of champagne, we got down to serious gnostication, starting with a mixed green salad, followed by a fantastic big fat noodle sun-dried tomato pasta. I was full by then. But they brought me salmon with whipped potatoes and baby carrots anyway. Steak and chicken were the other options. I forgot what I ordered, so I just asked what they had the most of. Dessert was out of the question. I just stared at the huge pate of wedding cakewith a side of ice cream in a molded chocolate cup. The cake was very tasty, but I could only muster a single bite.
I'm not one for DJ's at weddings, but after listening to a couple of very loud, very bad bands in recent years, I have a greater appreciation for the variety they offer. You don't like one tune, here's another. I could do without the tacky spinning colored ball though. In a room with multiple crystal chandeliers, it's like having a huge swag lamp. At least the DJ didn't wear a green brocade vest.
I went home afterward and passed out fully clothed. Not from drink. From being too damn old for this anymore.
The next morning I managed to roll out of bed for yet another meal anyway. There were lots of out of town relatives staying at the Marriott so we all gathered again for MORE FOOD! The bride and groom joined us, yawning. It was a casual group. My half brother, the nuptial boy, was wearing his tux shirt and patent leather shoes with a pair of sweat pants.
I polished off a chef's omelette, orange juice and bacon and I could barely move. My 13 month old nephew ate a whole bagel, half a Belgian waffle, a bowl of Cheerios, a bowl of fruit, and his bottle. Then he had breakfast.
His uncle, the groom, was almost ten pounds when he was born. He drank sixty ounces of milk at three months. He used to eat an entire fourth meal in the middle of the night until he was past two years old. He's almost six four, so at least he grew tall, not wide.
I wonder if there's any Zantac around here. I haven't eaten this much food since, oh, right, since Easter. Ooops.
She was wearing a pretty white dress with a huge black bow and she carried a basket of roses with petals for tossing. Her eyes got very wide when she saw everybody. The first thing she did was scrunch down, stick her head through the balustrade and say, "Hi everybody!!" Then she started down the winding stairs holding the railing with one hand while she looked around to see if there was anyone she knew. "Oh!! Hi, Daddy!! Hi, Mommy!!" Lots of laughter. At the bottom of the stairs she was pointed towards the aisle that led to where the groom and the minister were waiting. That's where she could start tossing her flower petals.
Instead of walking down the middle of the white covering for the carpet, she walked along the edge so she wouldn't get it dirty. She stopped to drop a few petals. Then she walked a little farther and dropped a few more petals. She pretty much milked it for all it was worth, taking her time, enjoying the whole process along with the rest of us. Not bad for a two year old. Okay, she'll be three in June.
The other flower girl, who looked equally adorable in her white dress and big black bow, had clearly done this a million times. She marched down the stairs, tossed her flowers and finished with a flourish in about thirty seconds. Maybe beinig four years old helped.
After the ceremony, which was captured on video and cellphone as well as a number of professional and amateur digital cameras, we adjourned to the dining room for my favorite part of the occasion -- FOOD.
After some excellent hot hors d'oeuvres and glasses of champagne, we got down to serious gnostication, starting with a mixed green salad, followed by a fantastic big fat noodle sun-dried tomato pasta. I was full by then. But they brought me salmon with whipped potatoes and baby carrots anyway. Steak and chicken were the other options. I forgot what I ordered, so I just asked what they had the most of. Dessert was out of the question. I just stared at the huge pate of wedding cakewith a side of ice cream in a molded chocolate cup. The cake was very tasty, but I could only muster a single bite.
I'm not one for DJ's at weddings, but after listening to a couple of very loud, very bad bands in recent years, I have a greater appreciation for the variety they offer. You don't like one tune, here's another. I could do without the tacky spinning colored ball though. In a room with multiple crystal chandeliers, it's like having a huge swag lamp. At least the DJ didn't wear a green brocade vest.
I went home afterward and passed out fully clothed. Not from drink. From being too damn old for this anymore.
The next morning I managed to roll out of bed for yet another meal anyway. There were lots of out of town relatives staying at the Marriott so we all gathered again for MORE FOOD! The bride and groom joined us, yawning. It was a casual group. My half brother, the nuptial boy, was wearing his tux shirt and patent leather shoes with a pair of sweat pants.
I polished off a chef's omelette, orange juice and bacon and I could barely move. My 13 month old nephew ate a whole bagel, half a Belgian waffle, a bowl of Cheerios, a bowl of fruit, and his bottle. Then he had breakfast.
His uncle, the groom, was almost ten pounds when he was born. He drank sixty ounces of milk at three months. He used to eat an entire fourth meal in the middle of the night until he was past two years old. He's almost six four, so at least he grew tall, not wide.
I wonder if there's any Zantac around here. I haven't eaten this much food since, oh, right, since Easter. Ooops.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
The Wedding -- Day Two
There were about
twenty of us at the rehearsal dinner, if you count all the rugrats. The
last rehearsal dinner I went to they served eighty some people and I
got up and sang a little ditty, accompanied by the piano guy who kept
me on key. I wrote the lyrics to the tune of the Twelve Days of Christmas.
This was for a couple that had been dating for over six years and feted
with about eighteen parties ahead of time. It was the second marriage
for both. She wore white again. Hundreds came to the reception. The
marriage lasted eight months.
Where was I?
My little niece, who was wearing a cute-as-pie herring bone skirt with matching hat that she didn't like very much, was reminded that I'm her Auntie Grandma. Since I only get to see her every few months or so. she's at the stage where I'm a brand new relative every time. Especially since I never look the same. Last night was a bad hair day on top of it all.
I could see her brain trying to process the concept of Auntie Grandma as if it didn't make a lot of sense, so I asked her what her favorite color was to keep her from breaking down in sobs. [Just kidding.] She actually thought about it for a few seconds and said, I like purple. Only it came out sounding more like POORPLE. Then she pointed to her sippy cup and said, "Like my milk." But she didn't really mean her milk, she meant her sippy cup. Luckily one of her grandmas was there to correct this error and she said, "Not my milk, my sippy cup."
These are the kinds of conversations I will be having most of the weekend. I hope. She also announced, "I think I'm happy." Out of the blue. I asked her what a happy face looked like. Big smile and crinkled up eyes. Then she did a sad face, then angry. Then I made a funny face and she made a funny face. And nobody was taking pictures. Damn.
The food was great. Fried calamari, neopolitan pizza, some kind of mozzarella and greens for appetizers. The bread was great, served with olive oil and a side dish of parmesan. My salad was spinach with blood oranges, goat cheese, and walnuts in a light vinaigrette. I ordered duck that arrived with a polenta like Italian cornbread thing ladled on the side. That duck was good. The 16 year old niece sitting next to me said she thought duck was just another version of chicken. And pork is the other white meat. She ordered veal hockey puck or whatever they call it when it's pounded, breaded, cheesed and slathered in marinara.
I couldn't tell she was sixteen until she told me. Bleached blond hair will do that. She's at an age that looks anywhere from 14 to 25 depending on the outfit. Turns out we're both softball players. Well, I used to be anyway. She was built like a catcher, but I ddin't want to bring that up. So I asked if she played infield. For some reason instead of asking if she was a shortstop or a third baseman, I said "Second base?" That's such an insult. She said "Third base." So I recovered nicely with "You must have a good arm." Just not good enough to be a short stop. [No, I didn't say that out loud.]
I also didn't ask her any Don Imus questions, like how many of her teammates were gay, because they usually don't come out in high school. Recently, a friend of mine and I reminisced about an All Star team we played on years ago One of our pitchers became a big deal at Time Magazine, the publisher or something. Gay. No, she's gay? Somebody else was running an ad agency. Gay. Really? I didn't know. We went around all the positions and realized we were the only two straight women on the team. Not that there's anything WRONG with being straight and playing sports.
I went through the same thing when I was catching up with my younger daughter about her former teammates on her basketball and soccer teams. How's cute Katie? Gay. No. And Marsha? Gay. Etc., etc.
My stepmother wasn't sure how to get home so I let her follow me. I stayed in the right lane so I wouldn't lose her. But have you noticed the ruts that trucks make. The left lane isn't only faster, it's way smoother. In fact, why don't they use a tougher asphalt for the right lane, since the vehicles are so much heavier. Why do I bring this stuff up?
Anyway, my stepmom is brilliant, but she doesn't process directions very well. She took the long way to the rehearsal -- an hour's drive. The faster, more complicated way takes half the time, but you have to make three cloverleaf turns one after another which have you going in one direction, then turning in the opposite direction, then heading in a third direction -- which she [and lots of others] couldn't compute. She's just getting used to a cellphone and hasn't mastered email, so why risk sensory overload?
Did I get to dessert yet? No. Tiramisu for me. I couldn't finish it and sadly it wouldn't fit in my purse. One of the grandmas had creme brulee. Some kind of chocolate ganache cake was popular with the younger peeps. Did I mention all the red and white wine? I have now. And this morning they all gathered for breakfast. I'm still digesting last night. Only 10,000 calories to go.
Okay, I've only got five hours to get ready for the wedding. I better get started.
Where was I?
My little niece, who was wearing a cute-as-pie herring bone skirt with matching hat that she didn't like very much, was reminded that I'm her Auntie Grandma. Since I only get to see her every few months or so. she's at the stage where I'm a brand new relative every time. Especially since I never look the same. Last night was a bad hair day on top of it all.
I could see her brain trying to process the concept of Auntie Grandma as if it didn't make a lot of sense, so I asked her what her favorite color was to keep her from breaking down in sobs. [Just kidding.] She actually thought about it for a few seconds and said, I like purple. Only it came out sounding more like POORPLE. Then she pointed to her sippy cup and said, "Like my milk." But she didn't really mean her milk, she meant her sippy cup. Luckily one of her grandmas was there to correct this error and she said, "Not my milk, my sippy cup."
These are the kinds of conversations I will be having most of the weekend. I hope. She also announced, "I think I'm happy." Out of the blue. I asked her what a happy face looked like. Big smile and crinkled up eyes. Then she did a sad face, then angry. Then I made a funny face and she made a funny face. And nobody was taking pictures. Damn.
The food was great. Fried calamari, neopolitan pizza, some kind of mozzarella and greens for appetizers. The bread was great, served with olive oil and a side dish of parmesan. My salad was spinach with blood oranges, goat cheese, and walnuts in a light vinaigrette. I ordered duck that arrived with a polenta like Italian cornbread thing ladled on the side. That duck was good. The 16 year old niece sitting next to me said she thought duck was just another version of chicken. And pork is the other white meat. She ordered veal hockey puck or whatever they call it when it's pounded, breaded, cheesed and slathered in marinara.
I couldn't tell she was sixteen until she told me. Bleached blond hair will do that. She's at an age that looks anywhere from 14 to 25 depending on the outfit. Turns out we're both softball players. Well, I used to be anyway. She was built like a catcher, but I ddin't want to bring that up. So I asked if she played infield. For some reason instead of asking if she was a shortstop or a third baseman, I said "Second base?" That's such an insult. She said "Third base." So I recovered nicely with "You must have a good arm." Just not good enough to be a short stop. [No, I didn't say that out loud.]
I also didn't ask her any Don Imus questions, like how many of her teammates were gay, because they usually don't come out in high school. Recently, a friend of mine and I reminisced about an All Star team we played on years ago One of our pitchers became a big deal at Time Magazine, the publisher or something. Gay. No, she's gay? Somebody else was running an ad agency. Gay. Really? I didn't know. We went around all the positions and realized we were the only two straight women on the team. Not that there's anything WRONG with being straight and playing sports.
I went through the same thing when I was catching up with my younger daughter about her former teammates on her basketball and soccer teams. How's cute Katie? Gay. No. And Marsha? Gay. Etc., etc.
My stepmother wasn't sure how to get home so I let her follow me. I stayed in the right lane so I wouldn't lose her. But have you noticed the ruts that trucks make. The left lane isn't only faster, it's way smoother. In fact, why don't they use a tougher asphalt for the right lane, since the vehicles are so much heavier. Why do I bring this stuff up?
Anyway, my stepmom is brilliant, but she doesn't process directions very well. She took the long way to the rehearsal -- an hour's drive. The faster, more complicated way takes half the time, but you have to make three cloverleaf turns one after another which have you going in one direction, then turning in the opposite direction, then heading in a third direction -- which she [and lots of others] couldn't compute. She's just getting used to a cellphone and hasn't mastered email, so why risk sensory overload?
Did I get to dessert yet? No. Tiramisu for me. I couldn't finish it and sadly it wouldn't fit in my purse. One of the grandmas had creme brulee. Some kind of chocolate ganache cake was popular with the younger peeps. Did I mention all the red and white wine? I have now. And this morning they all gathered for breakfast. I'm still digesting last night. Only 10,000 calories to go.
Okay, I've only got five hours to get ready for the wedding. I better get started.
Friday, April 13, 2007
Here Comes Da Bride
Today begins three days of wedding stuff.
Rehearsal dinner tonight. Wedding tomorrow. Brunch on Sunday. One of my
brothers is being nuptialed. We're typical mild-mannered WASPS. They're
second generation German-Americans who like to sing and dance and
drink. I smell vomit in the men's room.
There will be a videographer so I expect you'll see me on YOUTUBE soon.
A couple of the nieces will be flower girls. One of theirs. One of ours. I hear my niece, who's three, has been practicing her moves, walking with a basket of flower petals and tossing them left and right until she thinks she's got it right. Both of her parents are attorneys. Is this practicing until it's perfect thing a good sign?
Here's a bad sign. The rehearsal dinner starts at 6:00. The rehearsal starts at 4:00. Two hours to rehearse? Or does this just mean extra time for imbibing? I think it's the latter. I'm so not into alcohol infused conversations.
I'm just hoping for some free food and a chair to sit in. And I hope the bride's father, a recent widower, doesn't get so drunk that I look like date bait. He kissed me on the lips at Christmastime [PTUI] because I gave hiim a bunch of Bears' shit -- a shotglass, one of those magnetic logos for the side of your car and a window flag. He drives a Cadillac, so he decided to put the magnetic thing on his basement bar. Next to the velvet painting of Elvis I bet. I'm nothing if not the thoughtful giftgiver. And such a respectful sister in law of his daughter.
Wake me when it's over.
There will be a videographer so I expect you'll see me on YOUTUBE soon.
A couple of the nieces will be flower girls. One of theirs. One of ours. I hear my niece, who's three, has been practicing her moves, walking with a basket of flower petals and tossing them left and right until she thinks she's got it right. Both of her parents are attorneys. Is this practicing until it's perfect thing a good sign?
Here's a bad sign. The rehearsal dinner starts at 6:00. The rehearsal starts at 4:00. Two hours to rehearse? Or does this just mean extra time for imbibing? I think it's the latter. I'm so not into alcohol infused conversations.
I'm just hoping for some free food and a chair to sit in. And I hope the bride's father, a recent widower, doesn't get so drunk that I look like date bait. He kissed me on the lips at Christmastime [PTUI] because I gave hiim a bunch of Bears' shit -- a shotglass, one of those magnetic logos for the side of your car and a window flag. He drives a Cadillac, so he decided to put the magnetic thing on his basement bar. Next to the velvet painting of Elvis I bet. I'm nothing if not the thoughtful giftgiver. And such a respectful sister in law of his daughter.
Wake me when it's over.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Nifong Gets His Schlong in a Sling
"Unconscionable
prosecutorial misconduct" -- that's what one prosecutor called Mike
Nifong's handling of the Duke lacrosse case. Mr. Nifong is this close to being disbarred.
Don't get me wrong -- I think the lacrosse team deserved to forfeit their season. They engaged in yet another instance of underage drinking, exacerbated by the idiocy of hiring strippers, followed by insulting them with racial slurs. File the team's behavior under conduct unbecoming to the university. Putting the reputation of your school in harm's way with a public display of stupidity, no matter how trumped up the charges turn out to be is reason enough to drop the hammer on the season.
Unfortunately, the code of conduct for scholarship athletes is often ignored on many campuses, particularly when the team ranks tops in the country. It's time to revoke the get out of jail free cards for badass students who enjoy an all expenses paid college education just because they're more coordinated. So I have no problem with that part of the deal.
The accused lacrosse players became the poster children for every young woman of any race who has ever been sexually assaulted by college athletes. Even more so in Durham, because this was also a white on black sex crime that took place in the South, where repressed rage simmers just below the surface, a legacy from the unprosecuted racial abuses of the past.
The irony is not that the Duke boys were innocent in this case, but that there are hundreds, if not thousands of cases where real rapes have occurred and nothing was ever done.
However, arresting three members of the team who are white for raping a black woman -- with no DNA evidence to back it up is questionable. Especially when one of the players can prove he wasn't at the scene of the crime when it supposedly happened.
Withholding the discovery that the black accuser's vagina contained semen from several [5 in one report; 9 in another] other men who weren't at the party is more than a little problematic.
Not interviewing the alleged rape victim for months and months afterward, then finding out she's changed her story is pretty much the icing on this piece of poop.
Mike Nifong was loving the media spotlight at the outset of this case. But it was the glare of media scrutiny that revealed his incompetence. A blogger named KC Johnson kept that fire stoked. Now it's payback time.
During a television interview a couple of months ago with the parents of the boys who were falsely accused and still faced charges, one mom assured Nifong that they had every intention of becoming his worst nightmare -- for the rest of his life. She was a mama bear protecting her cub.
That's the one really good thing about having the benefits of a good education and plenty of money to go with it. That way, when someone tries to f**k with you, you can turn around and f**k them back. Tenfold.
Don't get me wrong -- I think the lacrosse team deserved to forfeit their season. They engaged in yet another instance of underage drinking, exacerbated by the idiocy of hiring strippers, followed by insulting them with racial slurs. File the team's behavior under conduct unbecoming to the university. Putting the reputation of your school in harm's way with a public display of stupidity, no matter how trumped up the charges turn out to be is reason enough to drop the hammer on the season.
Unfortunately, the code of conduct for scholarship athletes is often ignored on many campuses, particularly when the team ranks tops in the country. It's time to revoke the get out of jail free cards for badass students who enjoy an all expenses paid college education just because they're more coordinated. So I have no problem with that part of the deal.
The accused lacrosse players became the poster children for every young woman of any race who has ever been sexually assaulted by college athletes. Even more so in Durham, because this was also a white on black sex crime that took place in the South, where repressed rage simmers just below the surface, a legacy from the unprosecuted racial abuses of the past.
The irony is not that the Duke boys were innocent in this case, but that there are hundreds, if not thousands of cases where real rapes have occurred and nothing was ever done.
However, arresting three members of the team who are white for raping a black woman -- with no DNA evidence to back it up is questionable. Especially when one of the players can prove he wasn't at the scene of the crime when it supposedly happened.
Withholding the discovery that the black accuser's vagina contained semen from several [5 in one report; 9 in another] other men who weren't at the party is more than a little problematic.
Not interviewing the alleged rape victim for months and months afterward, then finding out she's changed her story is pretty much the icing on this piece of poop.
Mike Nifong was loving the media spotlight at the outset of this case. But it was the glare of media scrutiny that revealed his incompetence. A blogger named KC Johnson kept that fire stoked. Now it's payback time.
During a television interview a couple of months ago with the parents of the boys who were falsely accused and still faced charges, one mom assured Nifong that they had every intention of becoming his worst nightmare -- for the rest of his life. She was a mama bear protecting her cub.
That's the one really good thing about having the benefits of a good education and plenty of money to go with it. That way, when someone tries to f**k with you, you can turn around and f**k them back. Tenfold.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Neener Neener Neener
For a long time I've
said that a major problem with therapists -- from high school
counselors to psychoanalysts -- is that they see abnormal behavior in
everything.
That's because they're trained to define behavior in terms of craziness. They aren't trained to see normal. Normal isn't their business. Crazy is.
This extends beyond their professional lives and messes with their personal lives. As the child of a therapist I've seen it mess with my personal life.
Many people mistakenly think that therapists can raise children better than regular folks. No they can't. They have no idea how to create a normal child any more than the rest of us. But they're great at blaming messed up kids on poor parenting, especially moms.
Needless to say, they can screw up just like regular people. Heck, I've lost track of the number of times I've heard someone insist that a shrink's kids are the craziest of all. What's that old saying about the cobbler's children going without shoes?
Which brings me to an experiment I just heard about that may prove I was on to something. I can't believe I didn't know about this experiment. It is so wonderful.
Back in the late sixties and early seventies a psychologist named Rosenhan at Stanford decided to see if he and a bunch of other people who were normal, i.e., no history of mental illness, could get admitted to some psych hospitals by claiming they heard voices that said three words, "empty", "hollow" and "thud."
After they were admitted -- and all were admitted -- they were told to say they felt fine and then act normal the rest of the time. There were twelve hospitals in five states involved in this study by the way.
Apparently only the people in the loony bins could tell that the fake patients weren't really crazy, but the shrinks who admitted them never had a clue.
I remember when someone I knew wasn't happy that she was expected to help her family get packed for a big move, so she had her shrink admit her to the hospital until they were finished packing. I went to visit her on the psych ward and she was on a major dose of Thorazine that made her a zombie. The only thing wrong was that she was just a lazy ass teenager.
The fake patients were in the hospital for an average of 19 days -- most with a diagnosis of paranoid schizophrenia or bi-polar disease. They stayed until the doctors said they could go.
Unfortunately when the patients were discharged, their diagnoses didn't revert back to normal -- they were now called schizophrenics "in remission." That's scary.
Not one doctor in the study hospitals was able to spot normal.
Then there was a follow up experiment. One hospital that wasn't part of the first experiment claimed they wouldn't be duped by fake patients. So Rosenhan told them he would be sending a bunch of fakes who would try to be admitted.
Their crack staff said "GOTCHA" and claimed that almost half of the patients that showed up were fake. So there, Dr. Rosenhan -- we're much better than those other hospitals.
Except that NO fake patients had been sent to them.
Here's one of my favorite parts about the study as it was reported in Wikipedia -- "During their stay, hospital notes indicated that staff interpreted much of the pseudopatient's behaviour in terms of mental illness. For example, the note-taking of one individual was listed as "writing behaviour" and considered pathological."
All they had to do was ask me. I coulda told them that would happen.
Haaaaaaaaaa. You can read all about it here:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rosenhan_experiment
That's because they're trained to define behavior in terms of craziness. They aren't trained to see normal. Normal isn't their business. Crazy is.
This extends beyond their professional lives and messes with their personal lives. As the child of a therapist I've seen it mess with my personal life.
Many people mistakenly think that therapists can raise children better than regular folks. No they can't. They have no idea how to create a normal child any more than the rest of us. But they're great at blaming messed up kids on poor parenting, especially moms.
Needless to say, they can screw up just like regular people. Heck, I've lost track of the number of times I've heard someone insist that a shrink's kids are the craziest of all. What's that old saying about the cobbler's children going without shoes?
Which brings me to an experiment I just heard about that may prove I was on to something. I can't believe I didn't know about this experiment. It is so wonderful.
Back in the late sixties and early seventies a psychologist named Rosenhan at Stanford decided to see if he and a bunch of other people who were normal, i.e., no history of mental illness, could get admitted to some psych hospitals by claiming they heard voices that said three words, "empty", "hollow" and "thud."
After they were admitted -- and all were admitted -- they were told to say they felt fine and then act normal the rest of the time. There were twelve hospitals in five states involved in this study by the way.
Apparently only the people in the loony bins could tell that the fake patients weren't really crazy, but the shrinks who admitted them never had a clue.
I remember when someone I knew wasn't happy that she was expected to help her family get packed for a big move, so she had her shrink admit her to the hospital until they were finished packing. I went to visit her on the psych ward and she was on a major dose of Thorazine that made her a zombie. The only thing wrong was that she was just a lazy ass teenager.
The fake patients were in the hospital for an average of 19 days -- most with a diagnosis of paranoid schizophrenia or bi-polar disease. They stayed until the doctors said they could go.
Unfortunately when the patients were discharged, their diagnoses didn't revert back to normal -- they were now called schizophrenics "in remission." That's scary.
Not one doctor in the study hospitals was able to spot normal.
Then there was a follow up experiment. One hospital that wasn't part of the first experiment claimed they wouldn't be duped by fake patients. So Rosenhan told them he would be sending a bunch of fakes who would try to be admitted.
Their crack staff said "GOTCHA" and claimed that almost half of the patients that showed up were fake. So there, Dr. Rosenhan -- we're much better than those other hospitals.
Except that NO fake patients had been sent to them.
Here's one of my favorite parts about the study as it was reported in Wikipedia -- "During their stay, hospital notes indicated that staff interpreted much of the pseudopatient's behaviour in terms of mental illness. For example, the note-taking of one individual was listed as "writing behaviour" and considered pathological."
All they had to do was ask me. I coulda told them that would happen.
Haaaaaaaaaa. You can read all about it here:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rosenhan_experiment
The Comedy of Don Imus
I trying to find some. Gimme a minute.
Until yesterday when Don Imus claimed his daily four hour screed was a comedy show, not a news program, I confess I had no idea he was funny. Nice of him to clear that up. Now that I know, I can hardly wait to laugh my ass off the next time that pencil necked wrinkled old white man with a 70's haircut takes to the airwaves.
Not to put too fine a point on it, but isn't the first rule of comedy to MAKE ME LAUGH?
That's probably where I went wrong. I got distracted from the hilarity of it all because I was listening to his nasal voice as it threaded its way through that faucet he calls a nose. By the way, are your teeth yellow, Don, or did someone piss in your mouth? Hmm, I may have stepped over the line on that one.
But, like I say, now that I know that he's funny, because he told me so, it's going to be a heck of a lot easier to enjoy his unique brand of laff riot humor. Nothing like insulting women and minorities to get people rolling in the aisles.
Of course I have to wait a couple of weeks to listen to his show, since he's recovering from the tap on the wrist that the courageous folks who broadcast this relic from the fifties felt pressured to inflict. Apparently they believed him when he said, "I'm not a bad person. I just said a bad thing." Isn't that the Mel Gibson defense without all the alcohol?
He portrays himself as someone who insults everyone equally. Like he's the Don Rickles of radio -- if Rickles made inappropriate, racist, sexist remarks that are never, ever funny.
I predict that Imus will be fired. Yep, his ass is grassola. But, not to worry, he'll get an offer from the Discovery Channel to star in a documentary about dinosaurs. I can't wait to hear what it was like when the asteroid hit.
Until yesterday when Don Imus claimed his daily four hour screed was a comedy show, not a news program, I confess I had no idea he was funny. Nice of him to clear that up. Now that I know, I can hardly wait to laugh my ass off the next time that pencil necked wrinkled old white man with a 70's haircut takes to the airwaves.
Not to put too fine a point on it, but isn't the first rule of comedy to MAKE ME LAUGH?
That's probably where I went wrong. I got distracted from the hilarity of it all because I was listening to his nasal voice as it threaded its way through that faucet he calls a nose. By the way, are your teeth yellow, Don, or did someone piss in your mouth? Hmm, I may have stepped over the line on that one.
But, like I say, now that I know that he's funny, because he told me so, it's going to be a heck of a lot easier to enjoy his unique brand of laff riot humor. Nothing like insulting women and minorities to get people rolling in the aisles.
Of course I have to wait a couple of weeks to listen to his show, since he's recovering from the tap on the wrist that the courageous folks who broadcast this relic from the fifties felt pressured to inflict. Apparently they believed him when he said, "I'm not a bad person. I just said a bad thing." Isn't that the Mel Gibson defense without all the alcohol?
He portrays himself as someone who insults everyone equally. Like he's the Don Rickles of radio -- if Rickles made inappropriate, racist, sexist remarks that are never, ever funny.
I predict that Imus will be fired. Yep, his ass is grassola. But, not to worry, he'll get an offer from the Discovery Channel to star in a documentary about dinosaurs. I can't wait to hear what it was like when the asteroid hit.
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
PETA Kills Animals, NAVS Doesn't
A couple of entries ago, I got a comment from a reader about PETA [People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals]. She asked if I knew they got caught killing animals. I was not aware of this. However, I have wondered why PETA has been keeping a low profile lately. So I Googled PETA KILLS ANIMALS and I found a website devoted to the issue:
http://www.petakillsanimals.com/petaKillsAnimals.cfm
I also found an article in the San Francisco Chronicle entitled Better Dead than Fed that really takes PETA to task for what they've been doing to animals that should be adopted out [sorry if this link is kind of temperamental]:
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/c/a/2005/06/23/EDG11DC9BK1.DTL
Here's an excerpt:
DON'T BE FOOLED by the slick propaganda of PETA, People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. The organization may claim to champion the welfare of animals, as the many photos of cute puppies and kittens on its Web site suggest. But last week, two PETA employees were charged with 31 felony counts of animal cruelty each, after authorities found them dumping the dead bodies of 18 animals they had just picked up from a North Carolina animal shelter into a Dumpster. According to the Associated Press, 13 more dead animals were found in a van registered to PETA.
If you would like to give money to an animal rights group that believes in kinder, gentler tactics, there is one I can recommend -- NAVS. The National Anti-Vivisection Society. They've been around since the early part of the last century.Years ago a friend of mine went to work for NAVS, which wasn't NAVS then, it was still The National Anti-Vivisection Society, an impossible name to say let alone remember. It took years for them to wise up and shorten their name to NAVS. Now you can Google NAVS and their long, endless name comes up.
At the time my friend went over to the dark side, PETA was, and still is, the sexy animals rights group. They had the easy name and the media spotlight.
I didn't realize that there were activists who didn't believe in throwing blood on people who wore fur. I also assumed they all would get in your face if you weren't a vegan. Or picket your house if you called your dog and cat 'pets', instead of "companion animals." NAVS, it turned out, was more middle of the road, although they finally asked a receptionist to find other employment when she kept wearing a fur coat to work.
One day my friend called and asked if I would write some radio PSAs [commercials] for their group. And I went over to the dark side myself for several years.
I learned right away that NAVS was a more rational, less volatile organization. They kept a low profile. I could still feel safe if I accidentally wore leather shoes to meetings, or carried a leather purse, and I never felt pressured become a vegan, although I tried to eat salads when we went to lunch. I liked the fact that the executive director was a mom with five kids, which said to me that she wasn't going to put anybody in harm's way to attract media attention. Unfortunately with their long, impossible name and unwillingness to start riots, nobody had heard of them.
With an unfortunate name and a dearth of PR, I am sure YOU'VE never heard of them either. Not that I, personally, didn't do my best to try to help raise awareness. After my friend called, I wrote and produced radio PSAs for them over several years.
Radio stations sometimes have a hole in their line up of commercials because someone cancels a spot, so they will run a PSA from some non profit group that can't afford the price of a thirty or sixty second commercial. The more they like your commercial, the more airplay you get.
Every time the very amusing or sometimes, heart-tugging, spots I wrote aired around the country, NAVS would get a load of calls at their 800 number. But still, nothing like the attention PETA's outrageous guerilla tactic PR events have generated over the years. Frankly PETA has overshadowed any other group's efforts to the point where most people think they're the only animal rights group.
So check out NAVS' web site. They provide grants to all kinds of worthy animal causes -- from sanctuaries helping to retire chimps from medical testing, to groups who save animals from disasters like Katrina.
They offer large, detailed models of frogs to schools so kids don't have to kill and dissect animals in science class. They even have computer programs for medical students so they don't have to practice operating on live dogs, which are always put down even if they could survive.
One of the most useful things they offer is a book that lists all the companies that don't test on animals. Especially the cosmetic companies, where testing on animals is not only cruel, it is not required.
You can Google NAVS and find them. Or, here's a link:
http://www.navs.org/site/PageServer?pagename=index
If you do contact them, tell them Mrs. Linklater sent you.
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