Feline Warrior

Rush Limbaugh Arrested On Drug Charges

WEST PALM BEACH, Fla., April 28, 2006

Okay, so the headlines were a bit misleading. I must admit that I was all a-twitter at the thought of Rush L. being in the pokey.

But this whole thing is confusing to me. Here it says: Prosecutors’ three-year investigation of Limbaugh began after he publicly acknowledged being addicted to pain medication and entered a rehabilitation program. They accused Limbaugh of “doctor shopping,” or illegally deceiving multiple doctors to receive overlapping prescriptions, after learning that he received about 2,000 painkillers, prescribed by four doctors in six months, at a pharmacy near his Palm Beach mansion.

But then there’s this: Limbaugh, who pleaded not guilty Friday, has steadfastly denied doctor shopping. Black said the charge will be dismissed in 18 months if Limbaugh complies with court guidelines.

So he wasn’t doctor shopping. But he did receive a couple thousand pills from four different docs in half a year. But there’s nothing weird about all those different doctors. Hmm Mmm. Just regular stuff, visiting my four different doctors to get my sick mitts on two thousand pain pills.

Prosecutor: Teen Attack No Hate Crime, White Teens Charged With Beating, Sodomizing Hispanic Teen At Party Near Houston - CBS News

UNBELIEVABLE.

Sometimes I am ashamed to be human. And… how is this not a hate crime?
Briefly:

“Prosecutors will not seek hate-crime charges against two white teens accused of brutally beating and sodomizing a 16-year-old Hispanic boy after he tried to kiss a young girl, officials said.”

And:

“Authorities said the two dragged the boy from a house party Saturday and into the yard, where they sodomized him with a plastic pipe from a patio table umbrella and poured bleach on him. Trent on Friday described the pipe as being sharpened at one end and said Tuck stomped on the boy with steel-toe boots and kicked the pipe into him.

“At one point, the teens tried to carve something on the boy’s chest with a knife, he told CNN Friday.

“I don’t know that the very beginning of the attack was racial,” Trent said, “but there’s no question that they were venting quite a bit of hatred in their hearts.”

“The victim lay behind the house for more than 10 hours before he was found and someone called an ambulance. Trent said there were witnesses to the beating, though no one else had been charged.”

Trial Date Set for South Hills Murder Suspect

An excerpt: Illderton, who pleaded not guilty during arraignments in Kanawha County Court today, was denied bond and remains in south central regional jail. His trial has been set for August 28.

This is a followup to this post, from October 2005: Murder Close to Home

Oh, lord. I’ve been putting together a preliminary playlist for a CD I am making for a friend. I like to do this - in the 80s, I was the friend who would labor for hours and hours and proudly present only the most deserving friends (or crushes) with custom made cassettes, complete with handpainted covers. Oh, yeah, lots of red wine was always involved.  Today there’s no red wine, and there probably won’t be a handpainted cover for the CD.

In searching for songs to add to the compilation, I pulled out a BETTY CD, “Limboland.” It’s a great record, circa 1996. That’s when I heard it first, too - mine is a promo copy because I hired BETTY to play at the Ryan White Youth Service Awards for Metro Teen AIDS, a non-profit for which I volunteered.

So that was December 1996. A very dark time of life for me. When I say dark, you have to use your imagination and picture overflowing ashtrays, empty wine and vodka bottles, candlelight instead of electricity -more for mood accuracy than an unpaid bill, although sometimes it was the latter. Suicidal ideations, as they are called, were splashed across the black canvas of my mind, not as new thoughts, but in the nearing-perfection stages. It would not be unusual to notice a hint of wine coming from my pores, if one were to stand very close to me.

Not a happy time.

But I didn’t talk to anyone about it. Those close -and some not so close- could tell that something was wrong. Otherwise, off to work I went (mostly) and to my various activities.

December 1996. A young friend named William had suddenly fallen ill. First one disease, then another, was diagnosed. Finally, the doctors said he was dying from AIDS-related illnesses. AIDS-RELATED? He’s only 20, for god’s sake! Oh, the weepiness I feel expanding when I tell this story…

December 1996. William, a 20-year old black man, not known to be gay, bisexual, or an IV drug user, but not known not to be. A freakin’ youth educator on all matters sexual. Complicated. Alcoholic mother (like I’m one to judge, but sure as hell, I did), ashamed that her boy has AIDS. I never did meet her at the hospital, and that’s apparently because she did not go. Shame is a mighty powerful thing. When you stir large amounts of alcohol into that shame, you have a mighty intense concoction.

December 1996. This story all happens, really, within a two-week period of time, at the most. William, hanging on, me holding his hand, kissing his soft forehead, rubbing his hands. Me telling him that we love him, we’re proud of him, that the Ryan White Youth Service Awards program is going to be a big hit because of the work he did (maybe a lie, but big deal). I tell him that it’s okay to let go. I tell him I will never ever forget about him, and that I’ll see him in heaven one day. (And at that point, I think it might not even be that long ’till I’m headed that way.)

December 1996. William lets go. I freak out. I killed him, I told him to let go and he did. It’s all my fault. In a drunken rage, I try desparately to reach Kent’s roommate Alma, who is a pastor. She’ll know what to do, she’ll be able to tell me if god (who I only conveniently believe in when I might be in trouble) will be mad at me. Finally, after a thousand rings, call-backs, slurry voice mail messages left, she calls me back. Alma assures me that god is not mad at me, and I helped William to let go. That is a good thing.

December 1996. During this entire time, the BETTY, “Limboland” CD is playing. Constantly. It is the soundtrack of my life at this point. When William dies, and then for the weeks following, I listen to this CD over and over. (William never heard it - it’s just one of those things.) Certainly I played other music too - I had one of those 5-carriage CD players. There had to be other stuff on there, too. But this CD was the soundtrack.

January 1997. Life changes completely. The dark starts to fade, light shines in at times. I don’t start to see in full color for another year or so, but it is better. Much better.

But back to the CD: I could not listen to “Limboland” for a number of years after William’s death. I’d try, because I just love BETTY. Yes, love. But every time I heard it, I’d be shot back in time. I’d find that my heart was filled with unexplainable pain and deep, deep sorrow. It was too much to bear. Finally, I was able to listen to the CD, and most often I just enjoy it for what it is - a damn fine record.

April 2006. Kapow. Listening to “Limboland” as I search for just the right songs to add to the compilation CD, the tender spot isn’t quite as sore as it was earlier today. But that first note, a bassy sound, a softly driving beat, damn if I didn’t get the old feeling. And so in my own odd way, I prayed for William - for his soul, for the life he didn’t get to live, and finally, for the first time, for his mother. I hope she’s better, too.

No, she didn’t say those words. But I was chatting with a very lean, very bleached-blonde woman at the gym today, discussing, of all things, cell phone etiquette. We both agreed that it is rude when people talk loudly on cell phones in public. Further, we agreed that it is unsafe and sometimes scary when drivers’ cell phones are taking all of their driving attention. Then she said, “Even here,” waving towards the rest of the gym, “people do it.” We both shook our heads slowly. Mm-mm-mmm.

But here’s the part that got me: “I’m not prejudiced, but it’s always the blacks and they are loud!”

I stared, shook my head quickly from side to side to snap out of my stare, and said, “I better get back to stretching!” put my headphones back in and stretched.

There are those low-hangin’ pants and shorts. The rubber slip-on sandals worn with socks. The hunched over-head-down posture. All this prison-inspired stuff. But don’t call yet! I have discovered Prison Issue sneakers from Vans.

Their full name is Prison Issue #23 and are available in a wide range of colors and sizes. You may purchase these snappy little dog-warmers from the official Vans web site for $45 (+ s&h) or from Urban Outfitters for $48 (+ s&h).

On the Urban Outfitters page, it says, Made for real-live prisoners in California prisons, Vans created these as laceless wonders with Velcro straps instead - because with all that time on lockdown, there’s no telling what kind of trouble you could get yourself into with a set of shoelaces. Rubber-capped toes, canvas uppers, triple-closures and classic Vans style at the crisscross soles. Logo tag at the ankle and heel, because a number just seems so impersonal.

Now, let’s pause for a moment here. In fact, I encourage you to take a breath, look about your surroundings, and think about the last time you were on lockdown. (And in case you have been on lockdown, I am not making fun of it - read on.) You haven’t ever been on lockdown, you say? Perhaps you are a parent and are thinking something like, “Why in the hell would my kids need shoes that are perfect for lockdown?!” or, “Why in the hell would my kids need shoes that were made for prisoners?!” The answer is simple: They shouldn’t.

I did a quick Google search on prison clothes popular with youth and came up with a few articles, and will share a snippet of one with you here. This is from Znet: Youth Watch, World news involving youth. Youth Watch is just one of many sections of Znet, A community of people committed to social change.

The article of note, Zero Tolerance: Youth and the politics of domestic materialization, by Henry A. Giroux, points to a New York Times article by Guy Trebay that focuses on “jailhouse chic” as the latest in youth fashion. Surrendering any attempt at socially responsible analysis, Trebay reports that the reason so many teens are turning prison garb into a fashion statement is that an unprecedented number of youths are incarcerated in the United States. When they get released, “they take part of that culture with them.”

This makes sense a bit, but then you look at who wears this stuff, and you realize there are no cultural boundaries to prison chic. Ah, finally, the youth of America have come together: rich kids, poor kids, white kids, kids of color, boys, girls, straight, gay, bisexual, and on and on… this stuff is being worn by kids in all of these categories. I do think that it began with kids at the lower end of the economic scale, and of those, kids of color - one need only look to national statistics to find out to which communities jailed youth were being released. Add to that the popularity of rap, which has also reached across once uncrossable zones, and you have prison fashions for everyone. Yay.

When I pose the question, Why are kids who aren’t in prison and who have never been in prison wearing prison garb? I am not resting my gaze upon the rich white kids, or the rich black kids, or any kids in particular. Truly, I am looking across the vast horizon of all youth, and wondering what the hell is going on.

I’ll admit it, in case it hasn’t become fairly obvious along the way: I’m no spring kitten. Perhaps my choice to not have children has given me an opportunity to maintain more of my own childlike qualities (because I didn’t have to get all grown up and such in order to make another dinky person suitable for society) - but this is just a theory and isn’t really the topic at hand. I digress…

The point here is that when I was a youth, say 12-18, there were different fashions that adults didn’t get. My mom was pretty strict, so I didn’t even get to wear most of them until she moved out when I was around 16. (And then the dams broke, oh, yes indeed!) But I was part of that punk era, when mohawks really were alarming, as were bright colors of hair (blue, stop-sign red, purple, etc.). Safety pins took the place of earrings and leather jackets were metal-studded; some wore that creepy face-paling white makeup and dark, heavy black eye makeup. And I participated in that, to one degree or another.

So today I am going to think about that time, the punk era, and compare it with today’s time, the prison chic era, and try to see if I have become one of those adults who just don’t get it. Because honestly, right now, I am thinking that while we all looked really weird and admittedly (and intentionally) scary, we weren’t emulating penitentiary inmates.

Here’s the part where I (try to) make it clear that I am not making light of being on lockdown, or in a prison (past, present, or future): Maybe for some folks, prison feels somehow safer than the outside world. My life has not been such that I can really understand that, or even try to paint a picture of it. But for some, it’s home, there is structure, they can be a big fish in a relatively little pond - something. Yet life in prison is nothing to sneeze at - it’s not for the faint-hearted.

I speak from second-hand experience. Way back when, there was a beau who was in California State Prison, LA, and while he and I did not get to speak by phone often, there was a man who phoned on the boyfriend’s behalf: Michael said to say he love you. Bring cigarettes next time. Please. So that boyfriend told me what it was like, and frankly, it sounded like he got a good deal when he made friends with that guy, who was, apparently, quite a bit larger than my not-so-big boyfriend.

Prison isn’t cool. That’s the damn point. Committing crimes isn’t cool. Being a gangsta thug isn’t cool. I mean, the style might be cool, but the lifestyle is not.

Is wearing a pair of Prison Issue #23 Vans indicative of anything more than participating in a fad? Maybe not. But at the very least, it concerns me when anything about prison is cool - because doing whatever one might do to get there is not cool.

If you see smoke coming from over here, it’s my brain working hard on this one.

Sorority Under Fire For Giving “Blackest Member” Award

Favorite quote: …a white member accepted the award.

A group of black students met Thursday with sorority members, who said the award was meant as a joke and was the idea of just a few students, including the black date of the recipient.

He said his date received the award because she was motherly and nurturing.

apophenia: growing up in a culture of fear: from Columbine to banning of MySpace

Old but well written and insightful.

Here’s another of those forwards that I keep getting. In this one, the man is the one who ends up being pushed into a mold:

A man was sitting on the edge of the bed, observing his wife, looking at herself in the mirror! Since her birthday was not far off he asked what she’d like to have for her Birthday. “I’d like to be six again”, she replied, still looking in the mirror.

On the morning of her Birthday [sic], he arose early, made her a nice big bowl of Lucky Charms, and then took her to Six Flags theme park. What a day! He put her on every ride in the park; [sic] the Death Slide, the Wall of Fear, the Screaming Monster Roller Coaster, everything there was.

Five hours later they staggered out of the theme park. Her head was reeling and her stomach felt upside down. He then took her to a McDonald’s where he ordered her a Happy Meal with extra fries and a chocolate shake. Then it was off to a movie, popcorn, a soda pop, and her favorite candy, M&M’s. What a fabulous adventure!

Finally she wobbled home with her husband and collapsed into bed exhausted. He leaned over his wife with a big smile and lovingly asked, “Well Dear, what was it like being six again??” Her eyes slowly opened and her expression suddenly changed. “I meant my dress size, you fool!”

The moral of the story: Even when a man is listening, he is gonna get it wrong.

SEND THIS TO SMART WOMEN WHO NEED A LAUGH AND TO MEN YOU THINK CAN HANDLE IT.

There are so many issues to discuss, which to begin with? Let’s start at the bottom, as that’s where it all really goes bad, IMHO. The moral of the story is really irritating. Men, even when listening will get it wrong. Why is that? Is it because they’re just too stOOpid to get it? Because they’re from Mars and women are from Venus? Is that it?

That last line, the one that suggests to whom one ought to forward this tidbit, is ridiculous. Let’s dissect it, shall we?

On the list of recipients are smart women. Why the women must be smart is beyond me. The story is pretty basic, and even a not particularly smart woman would know that a person referring to clothing size would usually say, I’d like to be a size six… or at least I’d like to be a six…not I’d like to be six… The latter does in fact lead one to believe that the speaker wishes to be the age of six again. (And frankly, it makes more sense as a statement in relation to an upcoming birthday.)

But then that last group who ought to receive this silliness: Men you think can handle it. - that’s about as irritating as it can get. What’s to handle, exactly? That only certain men -strong men? and if so, in what way?- will be able to handle this story? Or only men who can handle the moral of the story (that even when they’re listening, men are gonna get it wrong)? I think that men are used to being told this message. The book to which I referred (the planetary reference) made millions by making the assumption that men and women are so different that we simply do not understand one another.

I am not going to aver that males and females do not reach adulthood without having been taught a great many ways to be separate from one another. Most certainly we are brought up in western culture to believe a great many things about ourselves and each other that taint our communications. However, to assert that a man must be able to handle this story, or at least its moral, is just plain ridiculous.

Add to that slap the notion that presumably the email was forwarded to a woman - that is, that the reader is a female, and so she will be determining which men can handle this horrific truth. If a woman is the recipient of the mail, then she is smart, because the directions clearly state to send it to smart women. So a smart woman is to determine which of the men she knows will be able to handle it. And I ask again, handle what?

It’s just annoying, all of it. A smart woman is not going to buy into the myth that men, even when listening, just don’t get it. And if she’s really smart, she’ll know better than to forward it to anyone else, male or female.

pfft!

A friend forwarded the image below to me. The text that accompanied it read:

Check out the new mirror I’m selling - taking orders now!

—– My Reply—-

We already have this mirror - only it works in reverse and is often called “anorexia.”

::::::::::::::::::::::::

Am I being oversensitive? See, here’s the thing: I “get it,” I do. But I can’t help focusing on the fact that females send stuff like this to their female friends. Sure, everyone laughs, BUT, does anyone stop to wonder why we’re supposed to want this mirror? Yes, I know it doesn’t really exist, yet to me it is symbolic of the messages we (females) receive that, under the guise of humor, deliver pretty strong messages about how we ought to look.

And going from a pudgy, soft-cheeked woman to one with a more socially acceptable body isn’t easy. It takes a hell lot more than a magic mirror; no doubt, if such mirrors existed, many American women would have bodies like this. Why? Because we’re supposed to. It’s in the overt and covert messages we receive from the time we are tiny girls throughout our lives. But really, such a change would require not just a change in diet (perhaps), not just a change in exercise (perhaps), but also a change of mindset - a new set of goals. And for what? What is the goal? To look like a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model? To feel less old, to fit in, so that males of all ages will find us attractive?

And why do we care what all those nameless, faceless men think of us, anyway?

Maybe we don’t. Maybe I just see images such as this and wonder why we do it to ourselves. Yes, funny, the mirror shows YOU (not an audience, just you!) a completely different body than the one you have. Why would we want a mirror that lies to us? Hell, why would we want to lie to ourselves? What this tells me is that it is better to have a magic mirror that lies to me about my body than it is for me to love myself - flaws and all.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Hmph.

pfft!

Senior Republican to Bush say “exactly what happened?”

Favorite quote: Sen. Arlen Specter (news, bio, voting record), chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee, said on Fox News Sunday that “there’s been enough of a showing here with what’s been filed of record in court that the president of the United States owes a specific explanation to the American people.

Laughing through his final days

Oh, man, what a great testimonial. Spend your life making people laugh and go out the same way. Art Buchwald, showing us the way.

Favorite quote: Waiting for the end, Buchwald said people shouldn’t be too concerned about where they will end up in death. What they should really be asking, he said, is “Why was I here in the first place?”

Why does Buchwald think he’s here?

“Apparently to make people laugh,” he said, “which is as good a reason as any.”

You can peruse Buchwald’s columns here at the Washington Post site.