Feline Warrior

Big news, yes. But did they have to put it this way?

Alberto Gonzales, the nation’s first Hispanic attorney general, announced his resignation Monday, driven from office after a wrenching standoff with congressional critics over his honesty and competence.

For some reason, that just frosts my ass. They wouldn’t said “the nation’s 27th white attorney general,” I don’t think. My mind probably goes too quickly to the buttheads whose thought processes would be fueled by such a statement, and add a continuation like, “SEE? I told you Hispanics shouldn’t hold such positions!”

I’m trying to be sunnily optimistic and such, but maybe not hard enough. Maybe I look too quickly to the racist crowd, anticipating nonsense of some kind.

Still… Dubya’s circle is sure shrinking, isn’t it?

Here’s a snip of the story, from US Attorney General Gonzales resigns - Yahoo! News:

“Gonzales, whom Bush once considered for appointment to the Supreme Court, is the fourth top-ranking administration official to leave since November 2006, following Defense Secretary Donald H. Rumsfeld, Paul Wolfowitz, who had a high-ranking Pentagon job before going to the World Bank as its president, and top political and policy adviser Karl Rove.”Senate Judiciary Committee Chairman Patrick Leahy, D-Vt., reacted to the announcement by saying the Justice Department under Gonzales had “suffered a severe crisis of leadership that allowed our justice system to be corrupted by political influence.” ‘

Oh, the cry that escaped my mouth when I read that headline, just moments ago. I love Grace Paley. Anytime I get to write a list of favorite books, Paley’s “The Little Disturbances of Man” is at the top of the list. A book of short stories, it came into my mitts just when I needed it.

My mother and I saw Grace Paley read from another book (I’m embarrassed to say I forget which, now) at the Folger Shakespeare in Washington, DC. She was alive - brilliant, humble, articulate, clever, human. And a writer. Everything I wanted to be. Grace Paley is someone I have admired.

So I’ll give you a few snips below, plus a link to a story on Democracy Now.

A full snip (and therefore not truly a snip, but what can you do?):

“The acclaimed American poet, short story writer, and anti-war activist Grace Paley has died. She was 84 years old and died Wednesday in her home in Vermont.

“A native of the Bronx, Grace Paley was the former state poet laureate in both New York and Vermont. She also received numerous prizes for her work including the Lannan Literary Award, a National Book Award, and a Senior Fellowship recognizing her lifetime contribution to literature from the National Endowment for the Arts.

“Since the 1960s Paley was very active in the anti-war, feminist, and anti-nuclear movements. She helped found the Greenwich Village Peace Center in 1961. Eight years later she went on a peace mission to Hanoi. In 1974 she attended the World Peace Conference in Moscow.

“In 1980, she helped organize the Women’s Pentagon Action. And in 1985 Paley visited Nicaragua and El Salvador, after having campaigned against the U.S. government’s policies toward these countries. She was also one of “The White House Eleven,” who were arrested in 1978 for unfurling an anti-nuclear banner on the White House lawn.

“Just over four years ago, at the start of the war on Iraq, we interviewed Grace Paley. In February, 2003, the First Lady had cancelled a White House poetry symposium honoring Emily Dickinson, Langston Hughes and Walt Whitman. Laura Bush had feared the invited poets might invoke poems critical of invading Iraq.”

Here’s a little bit more on her: http://www.reaaward.org/html/grace_paley.html

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Tags: GracePaley, “short story, writer

After receiving a few worried email messages, I thought it best to post and let ya’ll know that there was no tornado at my house. All’s well. When I took the girls to the basement, Lily quietly sat in her cage and watched the TV news and Frieda went back and forth between the two windows, yowling. See? Animals KNOW!

I was going to work out and let loose on my punching bag (Mm Hmm) but the sound freaked the girls out. M was out golfing but not in an area that was in the storm’s path so we didn’t worry about him too much (until he called and said he was driving home - yipes!).

Having watched all manner of horror story regarding hurricanes, tornadoes, floods and other natural disasters, I get a little edgy when those sirens go off.

(When I first-first moved here, I thought for sure the world was ending when at noon one Wednesday the sirens started ringing. M had neglected to tell me that they test those things every Wednesday at noon. Knowing me as you do, you can imagine that I was waiting for the giant horses to go galloping by, followed by other creepy Biblical stuff… a la “The Rapture.”)

WBNS-10TV, Central Ohio’s News Leader - Severe Thunderstorms - Viewer Pictures | August 25, 2007

* This isn’t too far from where we live:

* If the above image doesn’t show up, it’s because I deep-linked and it’s been moved. You can see the whole series at the above link - provided that hasn’t been moved too.

There’s a tornado warning going on right now. Sirens blowin’, it’s on the TV news - everything. I just hate that my last meal could be popcorn and grapes. Oy, vey!

Just in case I get blown away, let me leave you with these words:  For the love of all that is good and right, if you’re going to get into a bear cage at the zoo, leave your clothes on! People will naturally assume that you went in for a little nooky and you won’t be around to set the record straight.

I’m coming up with a list of rules for my mother. So far, they’re in my head - not recorded anywhere. I told La Gordita about them today and she seemed astonished. But there was this time, many moons ago, when I lived at Dupont Circle in Washington, DC, when she wanted to take a nap at my apartment. I don’t recall why, but I was at work and she had a key and called to ask if I’d mind and I said it would be fine.

But see, while she was there, she answered my phone, which she should not have done. Why? I’ll tell you why: The person calling was not a person she knew of -not a known friend of mine- yet when the male caller asked if she knew how he could reach me, she gave my work number.

And yes, that was the Year of the Stalker. So indeed, the stalker had my work number and could call and harrass.

So yes, there will be rules. And plenty of ‘em.

She’s moving in with us. My mother is moving from California to Ohio to live at my house. Dear God in heaven, help me. You realize that I’m going to have to find a therapist, right? I mean, I can already feel the issues starting to bubble and it’s still a few weeks away.

It’s not permanent, she says. Just so she can heal her foot and get set financially.

Pray for me.

My mother has been asked to leave the home where she’s been staying. Staying for free. First the homeowner / housemate gave her 2 weeks to leave. A mutual friend talked her up to 3 weeks. My mother has a part time job but is on disability because of a foot surgery so essentially… no job. No money. Hardly anyone left - she’s systematically driven everyone from her life.
Oy.

Saga to be continued…

“I’m the decider, and I decide what is best. And what’s best is for Don Rumsfeld to remain as the secretary of defense.”
–George w. Bush
Washington, DC
04/18/2006

That’s from Chimp-o-Matic and I strongly urge you to dash over and get the code to add it to your Google home page, email signature, MySpace or something. Get the feed and have yourself a little giggle every day.

Nothing but joy, I tell ya!
Here’s a sample:

It sounds all fun and frivolous: “Oh [tee-hee] I’m an alcoholic!” [insert silly sticky-sweet shooter here]

Not that. I’m talking about an alcoholic. A person who, once they take that first drink, is in the grips of a monster. Once it starts, it seems impossible to stop. That sort of thing. Not the giggly knucklehead who thinks that it’s funny to “confess” to being an alcoholic after two shooters.

So yeah, the tough stuff. A friend of mine who had been sober for over 5 years decided to drink over the weekend. At first I thought “Why the hell did she do that?” and the next thought sort of boomeranged off the dumb question: She’s an alcoholic. I’m of the belief that an alcoholic must make a total change in order to stay free of booze. Total as in physical, spiritual, mental. This friend did not do that. I watched her struggle with a bunch of issues, and we bonded over the inappropriate relationships we had with our fathers. (That alone sets off a storm of potentially lifelong troubles.)

We talked today and she said, “well, it was probably a long time coming,” a statement with which I could agree. Still… unavoidable. All those “-isms” are unavoidable, but it takes a ton of hard work to get to the other side of them.

I’ve written here about a friend who committed suicide (sat down with a gun, shot himself), another who overdosed (a suicide, too, just a slower process), and others I didn’t know who were murdered, committed suicide… and it’s just heavy. I mean it feels physically heavy. I’m sad about my friend, but I think she’s back on track now. It’s that other sadness that I talk about sometimes - the faceless sadness, the longing that I cannot explain. And tonight I will add that it’s a heaviness of not understanding why we aren’t just smart enough or well equipped with the proper tools (or something) to fix ourselves.

It’s not so easy as that, I know. Hell, I am still good for a few more years of therapy, I’m just putting it off because I dread it so. (Finding a good therapist is like dating, but without the potential for sex - of course a good thing in the therapeutic context - I’m just sayin’.) Anyway, in talking with Ari during his meltdown, I kept thinking about how damaged we are. The universal “we” - that means you, me, and the guy behind you. You can’t always tell looking at someone, but it’s almost a certainty that he or she has lived through some kind of crazy bullshit.

So what does that have to do with an alcoholic drinking? Everything and nothing. Why are people alcoholics in the first place? Why do alcoholics go back to drinking after a time of sobriety, when they know damn well that it’s going to be bad news? (These are rhetorical questions, but if anyone has a serious answer, I’d love to hear it.)

Glad she’s back on the wagon, sorry that I’m back in a place of questioning life. It’s furnished (that place is) with questions about God, afterlife, the Bible, Koran, Zen Buddhism, meditation, prayer, and everything in between. I leave almost nothing out, in terms of organized religious groups, when I visit that place. Every time that I exit that place, I feel more certain that we start alone and we end alone. That is inevitably followed by my final question for the evening: What are you doing with the in-between?

“Words never say what you want them to…” Ari lamented. Over the last few days, I’ve been his sounding board, personal therapist, sister-type-person, as he’s gone pretty much full cycle with his girlfriend. An argument, a slammed phone, great geographic distance preventing a conversation -or even a screaming match- and he was stuck here. With me. And as it turns out, that wasn’t such a horrible thing.

From Sunday evening until last night, it was up and down. Never once did I say, “Break up! I’ll find you someone new!” Supportive, that’s my way. (Usually.) And she’s back in town, they made up, all’s well.

He called me at 8:20 this morning, just as I was getting out of the delicious purple PTC, and had the full report. Naturally, today was walking with La Gordita day, so I had my walking clothes in a bag, plus we were celebrating Zan’s birthday, so there was a cake and then M. had made cold cucumber soup which I’d promised to half the damn campus (um, 2 other people), so I had all this STUFF to carry.

Now I can look back at parts of my life and say, “ooh, bad choice there,” but except for a few (hundred) falls up (and down) staircases in (and around) Washington, DC, having been a bartender has continued to serve me well, even today. What the hell am I talking about, you ask? Well, I was able to carry all that stuff, use the key-bleeper thingy to lock the car, carry my water bottle (a 32-ouncer, personal rule to drink the whole thing on the way to work or no coffee!) AND talk to Ari on the phone. Gym bag, cake bag, bag o’ soup (lunky because of the ice thing), water bottle and of course my handbag. (A delightful lovely summertime statement in a tan weave with faux brown croc trim.) And the phone.

Am I making too big a deal of it? Of course. Am I doing it on purpose? Nope. I was up late doing some network repairs here at home (aah, cute but techie, too!), but had to still have my night time shower (nothin like it I tell you) and then was awakened by the cat you see below (Frieda Tomatilla A-H) who decided that batting my sleeping face with her mouse-head toy at 3am was a good idea. So now I’m drowsy but I don’t wanna go to bed yet. StOOpid, I know. Blame it on the moon.

And what the hell does that mean? Nothing, but it proves (perhaps) what Ari said just yesterday: Words never say what you want them to.

What’s not to love about this mug, huh?

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Franky baby! Leader of the pack! Ol’ blue eyes! C’mon, now… And yet I just came across a video from 1956 - Frank singing “Fly Me to the Moon,” which is just a great song, and the other human in my house refused to hear it. Hell, I wasn’t even close to being born in 1956 (being busy with celestial tasks, perhaps) but I have this spot deep in my heart that is Frank Sinatra-shaped.

He’s maybe not everyone’s favorite, but he’s Frank! The link is here. Poke around there and listen to “Under My Skin.” You’ll find tunes by Etta James, Fred Astaire.. all the greats.

I don’t understand how someone could say, “Um, no, actually. I’m not that fond of him,” in response to my saying (okay, maybe yelping), “Oh! I just found one of my favorite Frank S. songs! Wanna hear it?!” I watch stOOpid golf on TV. What would one Frank song hurt? I could have asked him to listen to a Tex & the Horseheads song! Now that woulda upset the lad. I get a scowl when I wear my now antique DK’s tee shirt. So compared to those folks, Frank should be a joy.

Hmph. Who doesn’t wanna hear Frank?

WWFS?