AOL IS A PAIN IN THE BUTT

It's official. I can no longer post any photos. Thanks to AOL's hostility toward MAC computers and their recent spate of  "improvements," I"m SOL when it comes to having pictures in my blog. Every time there's a change, MACs get screwed. In fact, one of the reasons I lost one of my well deserved awards [image currently not available] is because it's not anywhere that AOL recognizes these days. Meanwhile, I no longer have access to buttons that let me post images like a PC.

So go **** yourselves.

My Memorial Day

Sports, food, and a dose of propaganda. Yesterday was my day to celebrate. I watched Indy, ate chicken, and got all blubbery during the concert on the mall in DC.  Ashley Judd looked very fetching in a rainsoaked dress when her gentleman driver hubby, Dario Franchitti, won the 500. He is Scottish apparently, despite all evidence to the contrary. I think the camera lingered on her well past its expiration date, hoping to catch a nipple sighting through her thoroughly drenched gossamer frock.

I had a moment of painful reflection during a Bill Moyers' special. He asked us to consider whether we've lived lives worthy of the sacrifices made by those who died for us. I reached for the remote after that.

This is also the weekend for NCAA and high school state titles. The Northwestern University WOMEN won their third Division I lacrosse title in a row. A three-peat. Do you have any idea how hard that is to do? Male or female? They also qualified for the NCAA Women's World Series. Not the lacrosse team, the softball team. Another Chicago school, De Paul, also qualified, but I didn't go to school there, so who cares? Another alma mater, Duke, sends its men's lacrosse team to play Johns Hopkins today. Not bad for a school that lost a captain, coach and season to a stripper last year. 

My old high school qualified a boys 4 x 800 team for the state meet this past weekend. They came in ranked 11th. White guys can sometimes be competitive at the middle distances. By some miracle their supply of Red Bull propelled them to a 6th seed for the finals. The second miracle was a third place finish. That's like four nicely washed and waxed Lincoln Town Cars taking on Team Ferrari. I don't want to say there's been some celebrating, but it's been a little like a mule went out and won the Kentucky Derby around here. They don't call these kids Cake Eaters for nothing.

Needless to say, their other team that qualified, the 4x 400 relay, didn't fare so well. There was a downpour during their qualifying heat so they had to settle for 24th. Not bad, considering they were ranked 32nd. 32nd? Who goes that deep for ANYTHING?

The boys baseball team is ranked first or third depending on who you read. The last I heard they'd won 27 to 2 in the sectionials on Friday. Hmmm, maybe I can catch a game today. Update: Over the weekend they beat a city team by another jillion, then beat the 8th seed 3-2. Wednesday is their next game and I'm in a meeting. Ack.

Let Me Get This Straight

Okay. You're at work and there's a bomb threat. EVERYBODY OUT OF THE BUILDING!!!

Now, unless your boss is a total jerk, you have the rest of the day off. Where are you going to go? Shopping? Home? To a movie? To a motel to have sex with one of your co-workers? So many options and yet, not the one that a group of states attorney types in the Chicago area chose after a bomb threat ended their day at the courthouse prosecuting drunk drivers.

Now that I've told you the job description of the people who got the day off it won't take you long to figure out where that group went -- can't stand the suspense, can you?  Okay, they went to a BAR. I'll let the shock of that revelation sink in.

Keep in mind that along with the thrill of putting drunk bad guys in jail, most states attorney jobs have a perk which only adds to their sex appeal. Congratulations, you get to drive company issued vehicles -- Impalas in this case. However, as with most things governmental, those wheels come with strings attached -- mainly, no drinking and driving, comprende? I smell a dose of irony.

After spending the day infusing themselves with hooch, one inebriated member of this elite group of lawyers drove another equally, if not more impaired, member of the group in his government car to her government car.

Now for the good part. No, there wasn't any hanky or panky.

The female of the two gets into her car with an alcohol level of .25, which for you math impaired is three times the legal limit for drunk. According to those who spent the day drinking with this 46 year old, well respected, much loved attorney, she exhibited no outward signs of being shitfaced. Which may just mean she was actually a full time 24/7 drunk. In fact, maybe she was so used to a high level of alcohol in her system that she probably didn't think she was lizard shee-tah at all. Or at least any more than normal.

Which may explain why she drove away without wearing a seatbelt, began driving 80 MPH in a 45 MPH zone and started talking on her cell phone.

Which may also explain why she never saw the car she struck head-on. Ending her life. 

The woman she hit is recovering from a broken arm and leg.

Since the details of her death have been released, her drinking buddy, the one that used his government car to drive her to her government car, has resigned to join a law firm. Isn't that like a disgraced beat cop quitting to join the FBI?

So far, none of the other drinkers and drivers of government vehicles has been disciplined. I guess death can be a wake up call.

Ask Mrs. Linklater Makes A Rare and Scary Appearance

Mrs. Linklater gets off the sofa to microwave a slice of last night's pizza and spill YooHoo on Dear Abby's column.  This one in today's Chicago Tribune is a beaut:

Dear Abby: I am a 14-year-old girl. I have this boyfriend I have been dating for a month. His name is "Travis," and he is 15 -- almost 16. Travis has had other girlfriends before me, but he said that nothing happened between them. He calls me about four times a week, and I talk to him at school daily. He keeps giving me the impression that he wants to move our relationship further.

When I told one of Travis' closest friends, I was informed that he had said that to the last three girls he had. So now I suspect that he has had sexual relationships with all of them. I would do anything for Travis, and he would do the same for me. But I am not sure I want to have sex with him -- at least not yet.

My sister, "Tess," who is dating one of my friends, told me to just go along with it. But I don't know if I would be doing the right thing. I want Travis to be happy, but I don't want to get hurt in the process. Please help.

-- Lost and Confused in Lake Charles

Dear Lost And Confused: Travis may be the nicest boy in the world, but look at the last three girls he "had." He's not with any of them, is he? That means your boyfriend has a short attention span, and more than a girlfriend, he wants a challenge.

Please do not listen to your sister's advice and "go along with it" to make him "happy." There are three sad girls standing in the background who tried to make him happy. I predict that trio will soon become a Greek chorus, and you do not want to be part of that crowd. Strictly limit your "alone time" with him.

Dear Lost and Confused: Mrs. Linklater hates to say this, but the Ab-meister has a point  -- "Please do not listen to your sister's advice. . ." !!! No shit. Your sister Tess sounds like she's just three condoms short of a gang bang. By the way, do you girls have PARENTS? You know, the people who give you direction and warn you about the lies lies and more lies that teen aged boys and the men they become will fabricate to get you to make them feel "happy."  Or should I say, make "Mr. Happy" feel happy?

Mrs. Linklater predicts that Travis picked your sorry ass out of the lineup because nobody's home after school. An empty house is as good as the back seat of a 1967 Buick Riviera parked in the woods. While we're at it, if Travis the wonder boy ever looks at you with his baby blues and actually has the balls to say that those other girls meant nothing to him, listen carefully -- because he's saying you mean nothing to him either. Now go to your room, you're grounded for life.

Note to ABBY -- "Greek chorus"? Oblique references to 2000 year old plays is just confusing to hormone poisoned teenagers.

Thoughts I Can't Stop Thinking

All those who think Rosie O'Donnell is the poster girl for a woman who is running low on estrogen and might be carryiing a gun, take one step forward.

Did Ivanka Trump get a boob job? 

Will Oprah put her dad in a home when his tell-all book or, at least, his tell-the-good-parts book is published?

Ever since ABC started doing the nightly news with less commercials, does it seem like there are more ads on all their other shows?

Is Anna Nicole dead yet?

Except for maybe Carrie Underwood, and she's more virginal than anything, none [as in ZERO] of the American Idol winners has one teeny tiny bit of curb appeal. Whereas losers like Tamyra Gray, Catherine McPhee, Chris Daughtry -- and if I took the time I could think of more -- are far more bankable in the long run. Time will tell.

What's with Charlie Rose anyway?

Do you love Mike Rowe selling Ford trucks or what?

Is Lost going to turn out to be someone's nightmare? Like when Bob Newhart went off the air and the last episode ended with him waking up from a dream?

Is Rachael Ray really that good that she rates cable and network TV shows?

Why doesn't that Gonzales dude resign?

Does anyone really think there's any other way for us to get out of Iraq except to leave?

Are chocolate covered raisins worth the effort?

You know those books on tape? Why can't they read the whole book?

Did you know that in 1969 some of the 17 year locusts around here emerged in 13 years?  And then they went back to 17 years again. Which doesn't explain the ones that showed up in 1990. I think about things like that and wonder WTF?

Does it seem weird to hear a cowboy's voice selling a Toyota truck? Is it weird to have a Toyota anything called a Tundra?

Is Asian the new white? Is black the new beautiful? Is the husband of the sixty year old mother of newborn twins going to die soon?

Are you tired of separating your garbage?

A Little Peace and Quiet Please

One of the reasons I stayed out in the burbs after my kids grew up is because I liked coming home to quiet. No street noise, except the sounds of children laughing and playing. Or one person talking to another. I could even look up at night and see the stars. In the morning it was nice to wake up to the sounds of birds chirping and walk outside to the smell of grass and the wind rustling through the trees.

Not so much anymore. The suburbs are no longer a refuge from ANYTHING. Between the lawncare people and the construction gangs, I might as well be living next to the elevated tracks.

While I'm at it, what this world needs is a law against lawn mowers. Okay that will never happen. Unless we get rid of lawns. There's a thought. 

How about somebody inventing a lawn mower that runs on pennies. I didn't say FOR pennies like a gas saving device or something.  I said it should run ON pennies. You put a penny in and it starts. That's one way to use up those useless little coins. Maybe there's a way to melt whatever metal they're made of these days, since all the copper is gone to make gutters for the house under construction across the street. Melt the metal in the pennies until it vaporizes and becomes a new source of fuel. Aha! I should have been a scientist.

Oh, and the motor should be silent. You don't hear any noise except the sound of grass screaming when it's cut. And don't tell me to get an electric mower. I want nothing to do with wires and blades together like that. One misstep and voila!! burnt toast.

Today I was in a meeting with four other people on somebody's porch and the postage stamp lawn two houses down had four guys wih mowers the size of tanks beating the grass into submission. For freaking EVER. Up and back. Up and back. All right, already.

Almost at the same time we all stopped talking and said, "How long is that going to take?"  Naturally, as soon as we started moaning and groaning, the noise ended.

Within seconds, it sounded like they'd moved everything over to the lawn of the house on the other side of the porch, which was under construction and didn't actually have a lawn. It had rocks and gravel. "No," we were informed. "That is not the sound of a lawn mower. That is the sound of a saw cutting stone."  Ni-i-i-ice.

Could somebody invent a MUFFLER for all those construction machines? The things with the shovels on the end that dig holes. And the huge trucks that park with their assends blocking my driveway. I thought the housing boom was BUST. But you wouldn't know it around here. 

And the cicadas haven't even STARTED making their insane noise yet.

MEMOS

To Katie Couric:

With all due respect Ms. Couric -- have you considered the shelf life for a straight guy in his thirties and a menopausal woman? Just something to contemplate as you shop for new underwear and keep your legs and moustache waxed.

And don't play the Mary Tyler Moore card. Sure, she's fifteen years older than her husband. And looks good in a preserved and embalmed kind of way. But she didn't have kids who still needed to be raised. Also part of me wonders if her younger doctor spouse isn't gay. My apologies for reverting to steorotypes.
 
While we're at it don't play the Demi Moore card either. I will make bet that when Ashton Kutcher grows up he's going to want to make babies of his own. If those two make it ten more years I will eat my hair gel. Ted Danson's first wife was ten years older and I think he stayed because she had a stroke. I bet he waited to leave until it wouldn't affect his career. How's that for a cold assessment?

Mrs. Linklater has been there and done all that. Passing the fifty year mark seems to bring out the thirty something curiosity seekers. After realizing their interest isn't a college prank, you succumb to the thrill of it all, then the discovery that in the end, because it will end, you were only for show and tell. When the semester's over, they're gone. Although they like to stop by the alumni office from time to time.

Don't look past next week Katie. You will because you are a woman and we can't help ourselves, but don't say I didn't warn you.

To Angelina Jolie --

How many kids are you up to? Four. And you say you want to have more. Why? Chiildren aren't Hummel collectibles. Having one of each color isn't a good reason to adopt. First of all you aren't married. That should be one of the most important reasons to consider when you're ramping up to own a baseball team. I'm sorry, did I say own? My bad.

Your partner could leave at any time, which may be sooner rather than later if you both get maxed out on parenthood. [Any bets on when that will be?]

Children deserve a mom and a dad. Ask anyone who is divorced and raising their own. They also need lots of face time, when they can look up from what they're doing at any time and see you there. Quality time is what they call parenting in fifteen minute increments. It makes moms and dads who aren't around much feel better.

Meanwhile, you seem to be in a frenzy to adopt as many as you can as fast as you can. Why not spread them out more, so each one can be appreciated for themselves and not clumped together like a daycare group. That way you and what's his name might have a chance to make this work. At least as long as you have money to keep hiring nannies.

To Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, and Nicole Richie

Three words:  Human Papilloma Virus

This One's For You, Kokomo

A friend of mine, we'll call him Ted, just broke up with his girlfriend of four plus years. The truth is, she broke up with him. Everybody thought they'd be getting married soon, since they're really good together.

By the way, if you loved the Mother's Day entry, you'll eat this one up.

Ted met his girlfriend, whose real name is Kate, through his first cousin, when he was in college. That's because his cousin's dad, i.e., his uncle, and his girlfriend's dad have been close friends since they were kids. Even though there's no technical incest here, it sure feels that way.

Right after they broke up a few weeks ago, Ted was encouraged by his uncle to do what he could to get Kate back. So he made a couple of hardcore efforts to undo whatever damage had been done and get things on track again, but no go. Ted's dad and I both said just let her go. In my experience, male or female, they all come back. It may be tomorrow; it may be at the 25th reunion.

Ted had said something stupid that figuratively opened the door for Kate to leave the relationship and she had walked out with no intention of returning anytime soon. She called his bluff and raised the ante. He went all in.

Meanwhile Ted's cousin is getting married in June. By the way, his cousin's girlfriend is named Katie, just to confuse things a little more.

Here's the deal -- the first time Ted and Kate will see each other since the break up will be at his cousin and Katie's wedding. Ted is his cousin's best man. He has to keep from being distracted since the groom is going to be in a mindless stupor on his wedding day, if the history of bride and groom behavior is any indication.

The problem is that Ted is currently in his own mindless stupor over the break up.

Meanwhile, I guess Kate's dad and Ted's cousin's father have been talking to each other. They're trying to orchestrate a pre-wedding get together between the two former lovebirds so the wedding doesn't get sidetracked.

That's the distinct feeling Ted got the other night when Kate called him and they had their first conversation since it all ended. There had been some voicemails, but this was real time. Kate wanted to make plans to see Ted before the wedding. He thought she was only doing it because her parents were pushing for it after her dad had talked to his uncle. So Ted didn't give her an answer, which is what he seems to do when he wants to keep all options open.

Meanwhile he doesn't want Kate to come to the wedding at all. I said that wasn't his call.

Meanwhile, he needs to put on his happy face the day of the wedding, because everybody's going to be watching them. A trainwreck in the bridal party is far more interesting than a run of the mill happy bride and groom. I can hear the buzz now.

Just to throw a monkey wrench in, Ted also got into business school. Kate was supposed to try get to a transfer from her company to be with him, but that's not happening now.

Not that stubbornness could possibly be at the root of their problems, but neither one of them would move to the other's city so they could be together up close and personal each day. Instead of be together on the phone.

This is exhausting. The last time I had a relationship that required so much maintenance was, uh -- nope, never happened.

BLOG COMMENTS

There were two things that I became addicted to when I started writing this journal. One was the counter. The other was the number of comments. Or more accurately, the QUALITY of the comments.

After the counter self-molested itself any number of times, I just took it down. Since re-hab doesn't work the first time, I lost my mind and put up the counter one final time, like a drunk who thinks they can stop when they want to. Next time it farouked up, because it WILL, you know, I just took it down forever. And I don't miss it. Really, I don't. Hello, my name is Mrs. Linklater and I'm an addicted to the number of people who stop by my journal.

As for the comments, I have a great appreciation for funny people, since I considered myself funny at one time. Living alone I can't tell anymore. You don't get the same audience feedback. 

However I don't count people who think that telling joke after joke is amusing. They aren't funny to me. They just have a skill -- remembering somebody else's funniness.

The ones I admire are the ones with the ability to write the quick and funny quip. At my expense, usually.  If I need a laugh, I can come here and be razzed by some of the best. I rate the quality of my entries based not on how many comments I get, but on how hard I laughed at the insults, sardonic observations and flat out jabs -- all in fun of course, to clarify for those of you who lack humor skills.

There was a time when having large numbers of comments was important, although the most I ever got was when I was the Guest Editor and people were forced to come here. I think that number got up to thirty-eight, which is just an average day for a lot of people.

To get that many on a regular basis I know I would have to market myself by reading lots of really crap journals and leaving a smarmy comment with my link so they'll come visit. I gave that up when I began to get some people coming here that wrote like they smelled bad. No thank you.

I'll take quality over quantity anytime, even though that sounds like I'm rationalizing why I don't have a lot of comments. I have the ones I want. They read my journal and make me laugh. Thank you.

Meanwhile, I miss some of the wild and crazy people who used to stop by and don't anymore. For various reasons they've stopped writing or they may not be reading or maybe they're just lurking these days. 

But  I don't miss the people who never learned how to read for comprehension, although I've never claimed to be comprehensible. They find one phrase and chomp down on it like a bone. Only it turns out they grabbed a snake. Gotta look at all the words, dumbass.

By keeping my profile low after the blow up when everyone fled AOL, I don't have to deal with the EEEEEEEWWWWWW factor so much.  EWWWW, why is this person reading my journal? Please go away.

You begin to understand why celebrities have bodyguards. Not that I'm a celebrity. But complete strangers can come here and say strange things and not clean up after themselves.

Where am I going with this? Nowhere I'm thinking. Just wanted to write something after a long work week. I had to go to TWO meetings!!  And write emails. Sheesh.

Technology

I notice that my Heartsong Award can't be viewed. On both the AOL browser and FiREFOX. Is that just on MY computer? Or is everybody getting that message? I clicked on EDIT to see what was wrong with the ABOUT ME section. And THERE"S NOTHING THERE to edit.

I can see a picture of myself in the ABOUT ME section next to my most recent entry. But when I click on EDIT to move it or anything, it ain't there.

Not to mention what's going on with loading pictures to my blog from my FTP space. Which I can't do anymore. Crapola.

The problem with technology is that it feels like changes are made just to make changes. Usually the IMPROVEMENT just seems to mean relearning how to do the same bunch of stuff a new way. It's not faster. It's not easier. It's just different.

Frankly, I really resent having to waste so much time figuring out the new way to do the thing I already knew how to do.

Then, even after I think I've got the NEW METHOD licked, another twenty something nerdnik in a flannel shirt has a eureka moment and I'm SOL again.

Whine whine whine whine whine.

Four Things You Don't Know About Me

I always drink my orange juice before my milk. For some reason if I drink the milk first I think the oj will curdle it. 

I laugh like a loon. The bird, not the crazy person. This helps to balance my offputting tone of voice, which has been described charitably as EDGY. At least when people hear me laugh they know I was just kidding.

On the other hand, the cable service guy who answered the 800 hotline gave me his name and home phone number at the end of our conversation. Maybe he's into S & M.

My version of what happened when my children were growing up bears no resemblance to their version.

I could eat sushi for breakfast lunch and dinner.  And I have.

If someone tells me there's a rule against something, that rule will be broken. This usually applies to rules made by control freaks as opposed to rules of law. I said usually.

Ooops, that's more than four.  But it's not like the 88 that Jon at Lone Star Concerto came up with.

[http://journals.aol.com/jayveerhapsody/LoneStarConcerto/entries/2007/05/18/88-things-about-myself/600]
[See PIANO MAN over in my other journals if you can't link or cut and paste.]

Mother's Day

Mother's Day was really weird this year. A good friend who used to live here was coming to Chicago for a convention that started on May 13th. Five weeks ahead of time, she called to say let's get together.

Meanwhile my brother in DC invited me to their beach house for Mother's Day. I said yes, until I realized that May 13th was Mother's Day. So I told him I had a previous commitment with my girlfriend and couldn't come.

Four days at the beach with my cute niece and nephew and I couldn't go. As it turns out, I should have gone.

My girlfriend decided to make her trip a two-fer, so she also took some time off to visit her daughters in Indiana the week before coming to Chicago.

You with me so far?

Then I got an email from one of her daughters who thought it would be great to have a party in Chicago for her mom with her close friends in the area.

So I set up a Mother's Day brunch at a mutual friends' apartment, halfway between everybody. They have loads of room and he loves to cook, so that seemed like the best idea. Plus one of my own daughters could also join us after she ran in the Y-Me race that morning.

Meanwhile, my friend began to finalize her plans. She said her daughters would be coming with her on the South Shore train to Chicago which arrived at around ten in the morning. 

I would pick them all up at the station and take them to the brunch. After the brunch she had to check in for the convention. Her daughters would get back on the train to Indiana. And I was going to spend a night or two at her hotel so we could have some girlfriend time.

Then the following things happened:

My friend said she would be coming in on Amtrak, not the South Shore train.

Amtrak doesn't run on time. Ever. They might say they get in at 9:45 AM, but that's just an estimate.

I called to make sure. I was right, no miracle had occurred. The train had been running an hour and a half late all week. On Friday it was almost three hours late. I called on Saturday right before it was due and that train was already more than three hours late.

I could only imagine how late the train would be on Sunday.

So I called my friend to say we should probably skip the brunch because her train was going to take twice as long to get to Chicago as it takes to drive. I even thought about driving to pick her up at one point, but you'll discover that was a moot point as it turned out.

I called her daughters so we could make plans for something else to do when they finally got here. But they told me they never planned to come in the first place. Huh?

I called the hosts of the brunch and left a message on his cell phone Saturday night cancelling everything.

On Sunday morning, my friend called from the train. She said the conductor told her they were going to be about an hour late. I told her I'd already called and she was going to be almost four hours late.

So Mother's Day ended up with no brunch.

But I was going to meet my friend at her hotel for dinner and a slumber party.

No hotel. She was now staying with another friend downtown.

I called my friends to say I was sorry for canceling the brunch.

Only to discover they never got my message. So they had a lot of bagels and blintzes and omeletes, etc., etc. And no one was coming to eat it.

On top of everything else, I'd taken my car in to be fixed on Friday, so I could drive everybody around on Sunday. But it needed a part that wouldn't arrive until Tuesday. My mechanic said I could drive it, but not out of the driveway.

So I didn't have wheels anyway.

I did talk to my daughter who lives in London. She had called me on their Mother's Day which is in March or something. So I called her on my Mother's Day and we had a nice chat. The bad news is that I don't get to see her very much.  The good news is that I get two Mother's Days out of it.

Wait a minute, what happened to my other daughter?

Spencer Tunick Is One Weird Dude

Cristo, the avant garde artist who first arrived on the scene a generation ago was into covering the earth, literally. If he could have, he would have wrapped huge sheets of cloth around Mt. Everest. But he.settled for wrapping some buildings and hanging sheets across an entire valley somewhere. He floated a bunch of huge golf umbrellas upside down on a Japanese river, and hung curtains from trees in Central Park.  I know, a picture would help.

Anyway, this Spencer Tunick guy, the one I think is weird, is the one that gets people to strip off their clothes and lie down nude in traffic so he can take pictures. He used to have to snap his photos quickly since the cops would come and arrest people who didn't escape fast enough.

That was before he'd done his thing so many times in so many places that it was elevated from indecent exposure to artistic expression.

I guess his biggest group of naked folks was 7000 until recently. With this last photo shoot in Mexico City, he's up to 17,500 people letting it all hang out.

In the name of art.

I don't think so.

Tell me he's not just a voyeur who found a way to get perfect strangers to strip for him and let him watch. But he doesn't stop there. After they remove their clothes, his subjects let him take pictures of their naked bodies assuming whatever poses he requests.

That's a porn perv's wet dream. A Peeping Tom's titillation.

While I think the participants have been duped into participating in Mr. Tunick's strange sexual fantasy -- one that he is trying to pass off as art -- you have to admire his chutzpah. He's giving the rest of us a master class in charisma and mind control.

Jim Jones would have been proud. 

Sad News

Jenn, the sassy, smart police officer who wrote An Officer's Day is dead. Her last entry was posted sometime last September.

Her husband Brody contacted a few of us who had corresponded with her to let us know she died last year. He also asked if we would use our blogs to tell people about her passing. He's in so much pain he hasn't been able to tell her online friends until now.

Jenn was on her way to visit her mother when she died. The truck she was driving was hit broadside by a car that ran a red light traveling at 67 MPH. The truck rolled and she was ejected.

I don't remember how I found her journal, but I couldn't believe my luck when I started reading her stuff. Her entries grabbed you by the throat. They ran the gamut from funny and full of humor to angry, petulant, resigned, and fed up. But they were always well written. With a rat-a-tat style that was as energetic as her personality. Her relationship with the officer who became her husband was a subtext that crackled with passion. You could tell there was and always will be a powerful connection between them.

In Brody's email he sounded bereft. He's keeping her screenname, Anonymous Badge, so we can still read her journal.  If you have a chance, take a minute and read some of her entries from a year ago. Or go all the way back to the beginning. You won't be disappointed. While you're there you could leave a message. Here's the link:

http://journals.aol.com/anonymousbadge/AnOfficersDay/

Jenn was around the same age as my daughters. When I heard the news today, I felt like I'd lost one.

Haven't Done One Of These In Awhile

John Scalzi's Weekend Assignment #165: You've had your share of birthdays by now. Relate one or two that stick out in your mind. Could be a happy birthday, or an important birthday, or a birthday when something interesting but unrelated happened. Any interesting birthday works.

Extra Credit: What birthday are you looking forward to? Numerically, I mean.

NOTE: If you want to play -- click on BY THE WAY in my Other Journals.


Let me do this backwards, Extra Credit first. Since I turned 63 last October *COUGH COUGH CHOKE* I'm not looking forward to future birthdays of any numerical persuasion, except as proof that I'm still around.

So let's take a trip down memory lane to find a birthday I looked forward to. The only one I can remember anticipating was my 22nd. For a very strange reason.

When I was little, around six or seven, I went to a school fair in a gym for a fundraiser. There was the usual stuff you find at those things -- food stands, bean bag tosses, stuffed animal prizes, and a high school or college kid dressed as a fortune teller. For some reason I wasted a ticket having my fortune told. What was I thinking?

He must have been off his medication, because he got all hung up on predicting when I was going to die. My mother was walking around with my little brother and sister, so she couldn't point out that his predictions were for entertainment purposes only. 

Being at an impressionable age, I naturally assumed that what he told me would be the truth. The whole truth. And nothing but the truth. Needless to say I was disappointed to hear that I was going to croak at 21, At 6 or 7, that birthday was still a long way away, relatively speaking. Plus when you're little, time passes in dog years. Regardless, I spent my childhood and teen years waiting to die at 21. Not every day. Not all the time. But the thought hung around like a dead elephant in the room.

So it wasn't until I survived to 22 that I finally got on with my life. Hey, what do you know, that pimply-faced nimrod was mistaken.


Now for a birthday that stands out. For good or evil.  

My 16th and 18th were surprise parties. The only thing I remember is being surprised. My 23rd birthday was a month after my mother died, but somebody brought a new game to play -- TWISTER. My 30th birthday was a disappointment because nobody took my picture even though I whined and whined. My 45th was the last time I had dark curly hair and fake nails.

I share a birthday with Ivanka Trump and a couple of guys I dated in high school. Our dads were probably on leave at the same time during WWII. I still hear from one of them on OUR b-day.

One of my best girlfriends has a birthday just two days after mine. I wouldn't want people to think she's holding up better than I am, but somebody once asked if she was my daughter.

Another friend has a birthday two days before mine. So I'm often on the east or west coast to be with one of them. 

Many of the other birthdays I've celebrated -- with a couple of notable exceptions, which modesty and the fifth amendment prevent me from revealing -- have been at a Halloween party somewhere, a result of my natal moment occurring around Pumpkin Day.

A guy I was dating showed up at one of those Halloween soirees in a head to toe pig costume, complete with pink tights. Except he wasn't wearing any shorts under his tights and everyone on the dance floor, including me, got a eyeful when he was sitting, well, like guys tend to sit. I don't remember much about the rest of the party.

Somewhere around here I have pictures from my 47th. I invited a bunch of friends and family to my favorite Italian restaurant for dinner, although I think it was actually a Sicilian eatery.. The owner, Giorgio, hired waiters who sang opera so occasionally they'd break into song, which I loved. I also love pasta. And tiramisu was the hot new dessert. On my 47th, I was in a happy place.

One of my guests brought silly noses and glasses to wear. Wisely, he decided against the fake poop and plastic vomit. 

My recently deceased friend Greg brought me a toilet seat, along with a bunch of other really stupid and therefore perfect selections retrieved from the depths of one of his packed storage lockers.

There is a fine line between hoarding old crap and collecting antiques. Greg's wife didn't care as long as it was all off campus and not in their basement. The good news was that he had a really cheesy bust of Elvis that I took to a party for a friend who shared a birthday with The King. I always wanted to buy it, but Greg thought it was valuable so we never agreed on a price. The bad news was that for a long time it seemed like he'd never do anything with all the broken frames, old politcal posters, ugly lamps, and other detritus he'd acquired. Except save them. Then along came eBay.

Anyway, back to my 47th birthday party . There were about fifteen of us at the table, so I got a nice bunch of gifts, but that toilet seat is the only present I remember. I really should find those party photos. For now, you'll just have to settle for a word picture. There's a particularly fetching pose of me wearing the seat around my neck if I'm not mistaken. And several shots of me with a very attractive banana nose. Yep, that was a good birthday.

You would think I'd love birthdays more than I do, or at least remember them better, since they are all about ME ME ME ME ME.

Hmmm, I suddenly have a taste for some chocolate cake with raspberry filling and buttercream icing with roses, topped with a scoop of Oreo cookie ice cream.

At the Laundromat

I had to go to the laundromat the other day. Big stuff washes better there. You know, sofas, plasma TV's, carpeting. I happened to be there when the grandpa and grandma that own all the giant washers and dryers were also there. I noticed they were doing laundry that wasn't theirs. Unless those Hello Kitty shirts and Spiderman pajamas could be sex toys for people over sixty.

So I got to thinking how nice it would be to have someone do my laundry for me. I already eat out most of the time. I shower at my health club, If I outsourced my laundry, I could pretty much take the rest of my life off. In no time I won't need a house, except to have someplace to practice killing weeds.

The owners left with bags of neatly folded children's clothing in fresh plastic bags and I went out to sit in my car and listen to the Bulls lose again. I was parked right in front so I could watch my clothes spin around in the machine. I could have sat and waited inside. But you never know where the behinds that sit on those plastic chairs have been.

That's when the weird guy showed up. He was wearing a brown plaid shirt, a pair of brown pants with a brown belt, and brown wing tips. He had gray hair and a gray goatee. With me out in the car and the owners gone, he was the only one in the place and he probably thought he could do things that notbody would notice.

He seemed harmless enough at first. But after he started a couple of loads of wash, I noticed he would take an empty detergent container and fill it with water, then pour it into one of the washers he was using. He did this at least eight or nine times. Didn't he know that the machines fill up with water all by themselves?

Then he started to straighten up everything. He lined up all the carts in perfect rows. He pushed the chairs into the tables. And he wiped off the tables. I had a bag on top of the washer I was using and he smoothed it out and folded it up.

Hmmm. Maybe he's related to Monk.

That's when I got out of the car and decided to mess with his mind.

I went inside and deliberately took one of the carts and moved it. As far as he knew I was just another customer. Then I pulled out a chair, sat down for a bit and left it askew when I got up. Next I picked up my bag, looked inside and put it back on top of the washer rolled up in a ball.

After I wreaked havoc, at least to anyone with OCD, I left to go back out to the car.

A couple of minutes passed and he got up and started making things neat again. The cart, the chair and the bag. As soon as he finished tidying up, I got out of my car, went inside and messed up ALL the carts, not just one. I did this by bumping into them as I passed. I moved ALL the chairs pretending to look for something. And I took the bag and hung it on the door of the washer. 

And left.

A couple of minutes passed with the guy looking around at the mess I'd made. Then he started straightening it all up again. 

Yes I went back and messed around two more times. Each time stumbling around like a bull in a china shop. And two more times he neatfreaked out again.

I finally just went back to my car and sat there watching the entertainment.

The funniest part is that he never looked directly at me once. He watched me while he was looking at something else. Sideways.

Gee, I Wonder What Happened to Lisa Stebic?

Apropos of the previous entry. . .

I gotta give the cops credit for not leaping to conclusions. A couple is going through a divorce and the wife disappears. But the police pretend she may have been abducted. Neighbors go through the motions by putting up fliers. TV cameras let hubby pretend he is tearful.

Lisa Stebic, 37, left home to go work out, according to her husband. And she hasn't been back. Of course, there's no indication that she actually left. Her car is still in the driveway. Her credit cards haven't been used.

Did I mention that Mr. and Mrs. Stebic are getting divorced? I did? Well, it's worth repeating. Also, Lisa called a battered women's group for help a week before she disappeared. And Mr. Crocodile Tears Stebic was very cooperative until the cops asked him to take a lie detector test.

And how about the kids? Hubby sent them to town to get something on their bikes. When they got back an hour later, Mom was gone. Hubby floated one story about how she might have left in someone's car, implying there might be an affair. But no hot emails on her computer. 

Time to tear the house apart.

See what happens when you leave your little boy with wolves when he's only two? 

The Incredible Hulk Effect

DISCLAIMER:  The writer of this rant has no credentials to speak of.

Oprah did a show this morning about a battered woman whose son actually videotaped her husband abusing her. For an hour. That, by itself was astonishing. The creep finally got a LONG jail sentence, longer than most of those buttwipes. But she was with this guy for twenty-four years before the light went on. Not that I don't understand the mechanism that makes these women stay, but sheesh.

Okay, I need a dose of empathy. Ooops, fresh out.

I've mentioned more times than anyone cares to hear that I once worked as a volunteer crisis counselor and advocate for battered women. I lasted six years. The legacy I left behind is an event which happens every October 1st on Oak Street Beach in Chicago. At dusk 3000 luminaria are lit to memorialize the women who are killed each year by their abusers. No one knows the actual numbers. And no one counts the women who commit suicide because of abuse.

I quit finally, because I got so tired of the same ol' same ol' from the abused women who wouldn't leave and endangered their children. Because they love the guy. Or because law enforcement's hands are tied. One cop summed up the problem with what may be the best solution, ". . .have a family member dump them in the river."

I was also tired of the "feminist" bullshit that preached we shouldn't rescue battered women because they had to rescue themselves. They had to leave on their own. What a crock.

I talked to a lot of women who couldn't leave for financial reasons, not to mention fear of losing their lives, since most are killed when they leave. It was clear to me fairly quickly that what is needed is a witness protection program that helps these women and their children escape and sets them up in a new community way far away.

During the last year I was an advocate, I worked with a flamboyant. redheaded, media savvy women's advocate named Susan Milano, whose police officer father was an abuser. I think he finally killed her mom and then killed himself.  She worked with a network of people who spirited battered women away and set them up with new identities. I finally realized she was a pathological liar -- not uncommon for the children of abusers, since they learn to lie about what's going on in the family from an early age.  But she lied about something that caused me considerable embarrassment professionally, so, after I called her on it, I cut her loose.

My point in all this was that during the time I spent on the phones talking to the men as well as the women, I discovered the brownout effect. A lot of the guys who beat up women have no memory of their rages. One guy told me he felt like he was watching himself at the end of a long tunnel.

Hmmmm. What's that about I wondered. Aha, a multiple personality.  The monster emerges overtaking the normal person who has little or no memory of the event. They don't call abusers Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde for nothing.  Or for today's exercise, The Incredible Hulk.

I never found anyone who had cracked the code about what creates these guys, except for lip service to cultural reasons or the lessons learned from watching an abusive father beat up their mother.

There had to be more I thought. Because you don't change personalities and rage against the person you purport to love without a more powerful internal mechanism to set it off. 

Then, after a year or so as a civilian again, a guy I knew contacted me because he needed to talk to someone about his obsessive love for a woman who dumped him. It seems that all his friends were tired of listening to his whining.

Lucky me.

So I listened to him obsess for a couple of hours every Sunday night for as long as I could stand it. He was pathetic and beating a dead horse, but, meanwhile, I was fascinated by the complete one sidedness of it. The me me me-ness of it. It was all about him. His dreams for their future together. His fantasies about the dumbest stuff. That she was bi-polar and needed therapy. His almost stepping across the line into stalker-dom.

Yo -- she's gone and she ain't coming back. What is it about a dead relationship that you don't understand, you necromancer?

But in his mind, the relationship was alive. I realized he needed more than talking to me on the phone. So I pushed for therapy.  He managed to find a therapist who said he could help him get her back. Even though she was with someone else. I almost laughed out loud at that one. He never got her back by the way. She's married to the someone else.

However, it was something he said that made me realize his obsession for her was like a two year old toddler's obsession for the first important love of his life -- mom. That's a very good thing when you're a toddler. But I noticed his loss was the same as a small child's pain and anxiety when the parent he loves more than life itself leaves him. Handled badly, that can become be a very troublesome thing.

I could imagine how that childhood despair would grow to white hot intensity as an adult -- with testoterone thrown in. The toddler anger becomes Incredible Hulk rage or obsession that can turn into murder -- without some kind of intervention. A tantrum magnified by size and muscle.

So I asked him -- did your parents ever leave you for long stretches when you were a toddler? 

Yes. Several times. To vacation with friends. And he hated the memory of it. And lots of people don't have such early memories so it must have been powerful.

I even mentioned this phenomenon to my father, the psychoanalyst, who actually found a case history and a short description of a disorder that seemed to describe the problem in one of his myriad books. I was pleased that he gave my idea so much validation. But that's another entry.

My point is this -- and I'll use the Unabomber as an example -- be very careful about leaving your little ones for long periods at a time. Parents often seem very cavalier about leaving children under two so Mom and Dad can spend a week in Vegas. Or not preparing toddlers for a separation.  Bad idea.

A little boy's future wife may pay with her life when that helpless toddler rage against being abandoned by a loved one morphs into an adult. The jealousy, the need to have her to himself, which isolates her from others, the need to control her -- in my experience, these are often behaviors seen in toddlers.

Extended families can probably help prevent the anguish that separation from the primary caretaker can cause. When a toddler has bonded with aunts, uncles, grandmas and grandpas and, in this day and age, nannies, the anxiety doesn't have to be so worrisome.

The Unabomber's mom had to leave him in the hospital for months when he was two years old. She wasn't allowed to hold him or touch him, except to view him through a window. 

And we wonder why he wanted to blow people up.

It's just my opinion, but I think abusers are simply variations on the Unabomber --  only they are socialized enough to marry and use their spouses as stand-ins for venting their buried rage. 

Thank you, you may resume your regularly scheduled lives.

Wad You Say?

The father of a good friend was hard of hearing after all the up close and personal gun blasts he had to endure during WWII. By the time he was in his sixties he was wearing hearing aids and reading the closed captioning. 

I know my hearing is not quite as sharp as it used to be. But I spent the war years, the Vietnam war years, on Rush Street in Chicago.

Dancing next to a six foot speaker in the basement of a club back in the sixties shut down my right ear for a few days after an especially loud riff. I actually felt a kind of explosion on the right side of my head when the music went AWOL. Not that I want to compare my experience with combat, but there is a certain ironic twist to losing one's hearing during the, uh, dating wars. 

Now when I hear ringing I have to check first to see where it's coming from before answering the door or my phone. And I notice that I've taken to watching someone's lips while they speak -- especially my Korean mechanic, although I don't think I could understand him anyway. Luckily he gives me a computerized receipt so I can find out what he did to my car. 

I often keep the TV on while I work on the computer. That's when I realized that what people say isn't what I hear. How do I know this?

A commercial came on for some entertainer who is coming to town. In a voice that reflected the excitement and enthusiasm you might expect, the TV announcer exclaimed that you could go to TICKET BASTARD to buy your passes for the concert. But you better get there fast, because they're almost sold out.

Yeah, TICKET BASTARD. 

Guns Don't Kill People, People Shooting Guns Kill People

The governor of Virginia closed the loophole in their gun law the other day.  It used to be if you were deemed a nutsoid, you had to be involuntarily committed to an institution before they put you on the DO NOT SELL GUNS TO THIS PERSON list. Now they can put you on the list just for being ordered to get outpatient therapy. Maybe they should do it for people who watch Dr. Phil, too. 

I don't think that's enough. Mainly because I don't think that the mentally ill are as dangerous as some of our other fine citizens. Drunks, for instance. And the most dangerous drunks with guns are alcoholic dads. The soused father who lived two doors down from me once shot his .357 magnum through the ceiling of his living room into his son's bedroom. Luckily the kid was at camp. He was a school principal who was certified as a full contact wacko shortly after that. His wife divorced him. And he works in a homeless shelter now. 

So I would like to expand the list to include anyone arrested for a DUI. Yep. Put ALL of them on the DO NOT SELL GUNS TO THIS COMPLETELY WASTED PERSON list.

Drunks should also be tattooed with a target on their forehead that glows in the dark when they get shitfaced and think about taking hostages. So the cops have something to aim at. But that's just my opinion.

Anyone arrested for domestic violence -- put 'em on the NO WAY YOU"RE GETTING A GUN list, too. They're usually drunk anyway.

This will never happen of course. The NRA is there for all the David Hasselhoffs of the world. 

I remember doing some pro bono ads for a gun control group back in the eighties. I was working at a huge ad agency at the time, and a bunch of us were doing ads for the group after work. The NRA got wind of what we were doing and threatened to tell the agency's clients. My feeling was that the clients were probably in favor of gun control, but the agency told us to stop working on gun control. 

Around that time the Chicago Sun Times took matters into their own hands and ran an edition of the paper that had nothing in it but stories about handgun deaths. Page after page after page.

There are a number of towns around here that have voted themselves as nuclear free and gun free zones.

A few years ago my village had a meeting and invited people to discuss the gun control issue. I caught a glimpse ofthe meeting room filled with people who showed up to defend their second amendment rights. 

I have never seen so many balding, beer bellied, ruddy faced keepers of the faith in my life.  And I have never seen them since, which makes me wonder if they were trucked in for the occasion.  Considering that my town is mostly white collar and not blue collar, it's a real possibility.  I didn't stay because I was young enough to be intimidated by the NRA. And I had to carpool my kids somewhere.

But there will be a next time. Maybe I'll fight against permitting concealed weapons since that's the latest shoot to kill idea that's been floating around. I've already decided I have no need to return to Texas any time soon, since it's legal to carry weapons hidden in your drawers down there. You can conceal your gun there too. 

Roseanne Barr To Replace Rosie?

There was a time when I was concerned with larger issues such as the future of the Soviet Union or whether weightlessness contributed to muscle loss, but not so much any more.

Take today for instance. Getting dressed would have been my crowning achievement. But I heard something on TV that got my hackles up. So I find myself in that rare position of having to speak out.

Regardless of the consequences, I find it necessary to put my foot down because I heard this morning on one of the early shows that Roseanne was being considered as Rosie's replacement on The View, Gag me.

I'm sure to most of you -- especially the guys -- those two women seem like the same person. They're both female; they're both considered fat by any standard; they're both over forty, they're both obnoxious; they both have similar names, and, supposedly, they're both comedians.

However, Roseanne's idea of funny is to sing the National Anthem off key on purpose. Not funny. And she posed semi-naked covered in mud with her husband of the moment, Tom Arnold, for Vanity Fair. That picture was just EEEEEWWWWWWWW. 

As if all that weren't enough, the truth is I can't stand her voice. It drives me insane, stuck up in her nose like that. It whines through her nasal passages and comes out sounding like she's not speaking, she's blowing her nose. 

Rosie sounds positively mellifluous by comparison.

Not that America's highest profile lesbian hasn't stepped over the line with her My Way Or The Highway attitude toward other people's opinions. I actually agree with a lot of her liberal crap [being full of it myself], except for her cockamammy theories about building seven being blown up with explosives on 911. Oh, please.

But she could be a little less STRIDENT. There, I said it, the one word besides bitch that nobody ever calls a man.

Couldn't they find someone who's just as controversial, but not necessarily a cartoon version of a female? 

Like say, Ann Coulter.