The hidden secret of NIMH

The human brain is a marvelous organ capable of managing the universe of the body, but its capacity for memory and awareness is one of the more magical seeming functions. The world is filled with diversity and all it takes is the casual mention of an idea or an item and suddenly the world is filled with what was invisible before. For example: Let's say that someone shows a picture of a new car they want or just bought, a car you had previously never seen, suddenly everywhere you go the same car is driving ahead, beside or passing in front of you. Some are dusty and others look like they just drove off the showroom floor. They're everywhere. They didn't just appear; they have been there all the time. The only thing that changed was awareness.

The same is true of everything: stories, books and movie, for instance.

Cruising through the menu at Hulu yesterday, I came across an old favorite animated feature, The Secret of NIMH based on the book by Robert C. O'Brien Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH. I confess I enjoy animated films with a touch of magic and The Secret of NIMH is one of my favorites. The artistry and beauty of the film and the message of facing one's fears and helping one another is the main focus, right behind the cruelty to lab animals and the experiments of the National Institute of Mental Health that result in the mental and physical evolution of a group of rats and mice. There is another message that is integral to the book and the movie, that evolved rats should no longer live as animals stealing what they need from humans, an echo of which I've become more and more aware since reading Ayn Rand.

There are two factions within the rat community led by the aging Nicodemus. One faction wants to continue living beneath the rose bush in the Fitzgibbons' front yard and stealing what they need from the farmer, such as the electricity that powers and lights their underground world. The other faction wants to leave the rose bush and travel to Thorn Valley to found a farming colony and create their own world independent of humans. They wish to live as an evolving species and not as thieves.

I don't know if either Robert C. O'Brien or Don Bluth, the head animator of the film, realized what they were saying or how that central theme would echo through the intervening years, but the story still holds up. The concept is radical: producing what is needed versus stealing it from those already producing the necessities and luxuries needed. Sound familiar?

The one thought that continues to echo through my mind is that if sentient and evolving rats and mice could figure it out, why can't we?

There are disagreements among the rats of NIMH and none more vocal than Jenner. In the movie, Jenner engineers Nicodemus's death certain that if Nicodemus is gone the rest of the rats will follow him and continue to live by stealing electricity, food and supplies from farmer Fitzgibbons. In the book, Jenner leads seven of the rats on a hardware store raid and are presumed dead, prompting men from NIMH to bulldoze the rose bush to exterminate all the rats.

It isn't the clash between humans and rats that is so interesting, but the underlying theme that sentient and evolved animals like rats understand the need for self determination. The rats understand that they will be discovered if they remain dependent on the farmer and that the only ethical way to live is by producing their own food and necessities. It's a really simple equation, one my grandmother taught me. Determination + Work = Independence and Prosperity. I wonder even now, how the people in this country forgot that simple equation or if they never learned it.

In order to get jelly, we first had to grow and then harvest the grapes from the arbor in the back yard. Produce on the table came from the kitchen garden out back, which had to be tended, nurtured, weeded, watered, harvested and then preserved so we could have fresh corn, tomatoes and vegetables during the winter. It didn't meet all of our needs so my parents worked every day, and even worked a second job when what they earned wasn't enough. We all worked hard and for our efforts we earned a comfortable life. Everyone pitched in. Even as children, we learned how to tend the garden, harvest the produce and fruits that grew in our yard and preserve what we produced.

With the current economic picture, people are more interested in lining up for food stamps, Welfare and government grants instead of lining up for jobs. It shouldn't matter what the job is as long as it ends with a paycheck.

When I lived in Columbus, I saw people on the streets at on off- and on-ramps to the freeways with signs: Will work for food. When I stopped I offered them business cards for the local labor exchange and explained they would get paid at the end of the work day. As I drove away, I watched them either rip up the card or just toss it onto the ground. They didn't really want to work. They wanted a handout. A handout is so much easier and all it requires is standing around waiting.

I've known immigrants who crammed into small apartments and rooms and worked two and three jobs every day of the week to earn enough money to feed themselves and their families, saving a little of what they earned for the day when they could afford a place of their own. They didn't expect handouts; they were willing to work, and it didn't matter what the job was so long as there was a paycheck at the end of the week. There were always a few who would rather steal than earn a living, but they were in the minority. The job didn't matter and they often ended up with grunt work -- washing dishes, cleaning motels and hotels, making and serving food in fast food restaurants, digging ditches, mopping floors, picking produce, etc. The only thing that mattered was being independent and having a chance for a better life, one they didn't have in their home country. In the remaining spare time, they went to night school to learn the language and get an education so they could move on to a better job to earn more money.

With unemployment soaring to and past 10%, and that's only the unemployed who get benefits and haven't fallen through the bureaucratic cracks, more and more people are losing their jobs. Businesses are downsizing and moving their operations offshore to stay alive and compete. Crippling taxes and increased government oversights and regulations force more and more businesses to close. More people out of work means fewer people able to afford luxuries and cutting back on food, clothing and rent and that means more businesses folding or laying off more employees, and it just keeps getting worse. The current administration's response to the economic crisis is to print more money and hand out more food stamps and Welfare checks without facing the fact that they're stealing from the people who are still producing at an ever growing rate until the end result will be the strangulation of the remaining viable businesses as they struggle to meet payrolls and buy the raw and manufactured materials to continue producing. They too will be forced to downsize just to stay alive and that means more people out of work and on the public dole.

It's a vicious and vertiginous downward spiral with no Thorn Valley on the horizon, the effect of too many mouths sucking on the government teat. The government cow is rapidly running dry and the pasture is grazed nearly to the roots. It takes seed to grow more grass and time for the grass to grow, but none of that means anything when the cow is slaughtered to feed all those voracious mouths. In the end, the pasture grass will grow back, but there will be no cow to graze and produce milk. At least, there will be no more cattle to add greenhouse gases to the mix.

I doubt that Robert C. O'Brien or Don Bluth intended their story to be taken in this direction, but the theme is clear for anyone with even a passing acquaintance with the entitlement versus independent production debate. It's not the magic or the Frisbys need to move house that is at the center of The Secret of NIMH, but a group of rats aware that they need to be independent and produce what they need to live. It's amazing how much truth can be found in a children's book and a beautifully animated movie.

Goofing on grammar

Many moons ago I wrote a column called "Grammar Goofs". It was an attempt to teach grammar through humor and it was fairly successful -- at first. Then one self-proclaimed editor had an issue with a column and the way I presented the material and complained to the editor of the newsletter/ezine, saying she was ending her subscription. In the 6+ months I wrote the column there were fewer than six complaints, most of them from the self-professed editor, but when that one person ended her subscription my column ended because the newsletter editor didn't want to upset people or have them give up their subscription to a free newsletter. Oh, well, move on and upwards. Fast forward.

Yesterday's little grammar post was because it bothers me to see such blatant disregard for the simple mechanics of grammar, most of which I learned before the age of 10. I enjoyed it so much when the teacher moved on to English and grammar. The harmony of homonyms and the magic of I before E except after C, except in some cases, was fun and it wasn't difficult at all to figure out how to use the lessons in the real world. I had no trouble determining whether I should use TO or TOO or TWO despite them sounding alike (homonyms = words that sound alike but are spelled differently) or how to spell FRIENDS or RECEIVE, and I was a child. I cannot understand why many in the supposedly literate world has such problems. Can't completely blame texting and acronym use for all our problems. Then I saw a video of Jaywalking excerpts from the Tonight Show with Jay Leno and I understood. People are not supposedly literate, they are barely literate and stupid.

People who cannot tell you where the Panama Canal is located or who wrote the autobiography of Malcolm X aren't just camera shy, not in a world where everyone uses their cell phones to take videos and snap photos of everything they see and hear, including their best friend's hurling after a night of mobile mooning from an Infiniti or Cabriolet. Most of these people are in college and the idea that college students don't know the definition of autobiography is beyond sad. I don't believe there is a word for something this far beyond sad.

I don't blame teachers forced to follow curricula that have nothing to do with teaching the basics and teach level testing because they also have to police classrooms and spend time strip searching and metal detecting their students, which does not leave a lot of time for teaching students how to think or learn the basics. I blame the government for kowtowing to political interests fully invested in treating the the symptoms and not the disease. It's patch therapy for a gaping, gushing, arterial wound.

Instead of focusing on how fat people are getting because of the introduction of fat-free foods and putting the empty calories of salt/sodium and sugar in everything, how about focusing on real education and teaching people how to learn? It's no wonder so many businesses are sending their companies overseas, not only for the tax benefits but because American workers are too dumb to handle even the simple jobs without demanding high wages while they sandbag their way through their jobs to get more overtime and benefits. They're not working hard at all, but they're also not working smart, unless you call fleecing their employers and the American consumer smart.

But everybody does it. Yes, and everybody who does it needs to get in line and take a very long walk off a very short pier over the Marianas Trench. Don't worry. Most people won't get that one either.

So, in hopes that someone will read my posts and get something out of them, I will write one grammar post each week on Thursdays. I'd write one every day, but it will take a while for the information to sink in and I don't want to overload those delicate and unused synapses by explaining more than one grammatical rule a week. For those of you who understand grammar and would like to participate by sending your pet peeves and irksome, brawling grammar goofs, please feel free to comment with your wish list. All comments that I hoist myself on my own petard and spin will be laughed at and held up to ridicule because I have no doubt the comments will be phrased in horrendously horrible homonym failures.

That is all. Disperse.

Kicked out of Eden

A couple of days ago I received my new tarot deck to use with Tarot for Writers. Since I went to bed early, I woke up early and couldn't get back to sleep. I pulled out the new deck of cards, shuffled and pulled three cards with a friend's problems in mind.


The Hanged Man


Ace of Wands


Death

At first glance, the news isn't good, but that would be the wrong assumption. The basic meaning is that a sacrifice is required before a new and better future can take place and it will change everything. You will be transformed, but in order for that to happen you have to be ready to accept the change, and the change will be a bigger and better job or opportunity.

No, no one is going to die. Death is about transformation, change, clearing the decks. The Hanged Man is sacrifice and seeing things from a different perspective. The Ace of Wands is illumination, a gift, a powerful and different path lit by the fires of change and inspiration, but you have to be ready to accept the change and not be mired in the past or in a comfortable and safe rut.

The first thing that came to mind was Adam and Eve being forced out of the Garden of Eden. Some sects believe their expulsion from Eden was as a result of sin, the first sin, and that being cast out was a punishment. Many other sects believe that it was a good thing, the best thing to happen to Adam and Eve.

Adam and Eve were children living in a comfortable and beautiful garden with no real responsibilities and no cares. Everything they needed was given to them and in exchange all they had to do was follow the rules. But, like children, telling them not to do something put ideas in their heads, especially Eve's. In a way, Eve and Pandora are the same. They are curious and adventurous and willing to take chances. Eve took a chance and shared her discovery with Adam, but that is the way it was meant to be. Had Eve not taken the apple, she and Adam would have remained children, all potential with no results. Stagnant. Unchanged. Stuck in a rut in a very comfortable zone.

Change demands sacrifice and sacrifice is often a painful wrench. After all, who wants to give up a comfortable rut for the unknown?

Adam and Eve's sacrifice was their childhood, their innocent trust. They took matters into their own hands and had to rely on gaining skill and experience to meet the demands of a changing existence. It's the difference between a pool and a stream or river. If the pool gets no fresh water, it becomes stagnant and dries up. It dies. A stream or river is constantly moving, changing the boundaries and wearing away the obstacles, sometimes quickly and sometimes slowly, but always inexorably.

What seems like a disaster or a blow to the ego or the heart is often the Universe's way of forcing us out of the comfort zone, expelling us from the Garden of Eden where nothing and no one changes and life becomes stagnant and safe. Lose a job or become injured or ill and we see it as negative when in reality it is an opportunity for change, clearing the mind and the decks down to the bedrock to build something stronger and better. Change is a light burning in the midst of a dense forest that no one sees until the path is cleared and the dead wood moved out of the way. Then the light is visible and lights the path ahead for miles. The dark and forbidding forest is transformed into a clear road forward where more can be seen.

Four years ago I was forced out of my Eden and periodically the Universe kicks me in the hind quarters and forces me out of my comfort zone. The big transformation for me was a new job and moving to a new city. I still have the job but I was forced to move to a new place and it has turned out for the best. As I look back through the years, I see other abrupt upheavals when the Universe gave me a shove and forced me to move on and to change. It was hard at first and I grumbled at the inconvenience and sacrifice, but ultimately, every single time, the change was for the best. I gained new skills, stretched new muscles and arrived in a new and better place. Some of the changes weren't so pleasant, but they always gave me something I could use, some knowledge or skill that I would not have otherwise had if I hadn't been pushed to change, to sacrifice the status quo for a chance to better myself and my life. I didn't always see it that way and sometimes it hurt to be forced to move on, but there is truth to the saying: No pain, no gain. Sometimes you have to tear something down before you can build something new and better, and stronger.

Losing my job five years ago was devastating and the year it took me to climb out of the rut of self pity I dug was difficult. I sacrificed so much and was asked to sacrifice a little more. I thought I had pared my life down to the essentials, but the Universe demanded more. I'm sure there will be further demands if I fail to see the path ahead, but one thing I have learned is that I will survive because I have survived worse.

No matter what we do in life, if there is untapped potential, more will be demanded. It's comfortable and safe in the ruts we dig for ourselves in our relationships, jobs and choices. It's so easy to keep doing things the way we have always done them, but that way lies stagnation. We don't always have to keep changing things just to change them, but it helps to take the hurdles and detours as life's way of pushing us to see things from a new perspective. Whatever the sacrifice, it will be difficult and it might hurt, but the price of transformation is usually costly. The prize is always worth the price.

Had Adam and Eve not been kicked out of Eden, there would be no human race, no dizzying heights of accomplishment and no abysmal depths of destruction and pain. There would be only two immortal children in a stagnant world full of unrealized potential unaware that they are meant for more. There would be no interesting times in which to live only the same chores day after endless day in an unchanging landscape in eternal spring with no surprises and nothing to take the breath away. In short, existence without ever living. The best thing that happened to Adam and Eve was the apple. It wasn't sin. It was sacrifice, a wondrous gift and transformation. It was growing up.

No-contact sports

There is a letter waiting for a stamp on top of the microwave. It's the letter I wrote to my brother's ex-wife in response to her attack because he cannot control me. Bobbie was adamant about none of his family contacting her. That was in response to my letter to her and Alisha, their daughter, about not sending a wedding gift to people who never welcomed me in their home or included me in other birthdays, holidays or special events. She got so verbally abusive my usually silent brother blew up. Bobbie shut up. He should have blown up before this when she isolated him from his family and made certain none of them were welcome in her home.

Beanie thinks I should let it go and not send the letter because it will only cause more problems for Jimmy. If I still lived in Columbus, it wouldn't be an issue; I'd go to her house and tell her what I think of her not being mature enough or woman enough to face me instead of attacking my brother. He's an idiot, but he's my younger idiot brother. And she wonders why people don't like her.

Bobbie's excuse for not including me before in family celebrations was because she didn't know where I was. I lived in Columbus for about ten years and she didn't know where I was despite being invited to my home for family celebrations. She didn't know how to contact me and yet she knew enough to ask Jimmy to email me and ask for my address. Beanie and my parents have always known how to reach me wherever I was, but it never occurred to Bobbie to ask them or have Jimmy ask. Picking up the phone to call me when I lived in town was too difficult to manage all on her own, but getting my address to invite me to send a gift for Alisha's wedding is more important than any previous family celebration. Higher stakes must mean taking the time to finally include me. Uh, no.

I don't know if Beanie is right and I shouldn't send the letter or if I should follow my own conscience and let Bobbie know what I think of her hypocrisy. I admit I have a big problem with hypocrites and women who abuse their husbands verbally and emotionally, especially because men like Jimmy don't want to admit their spouses are abusive. After all, a man can take being called names and having their manhood called into question. They can take being cut off from their families and friends so they have no outside support. They can take being emotionally and verbally brutalized because they're men. It would be easier to stand face to face with Bobbie and tell her what my family has been unwilling to say all these years when they smiled and welcomed her into their homes only to be treated like dirt beneath her white trash feet. They excused her rude, arrogant and abrasive behavior because they didn't want to make trouble for Jimmy. They didn't get it then and they don't get it now. Jimmy's troubles began when he decided to go through with the marriage despite knowing it was a big mistake.

Like Jimmy told Bobbie, no one controls me. Not my parents. Not my family. Certainly not Jimmy. Now I have to decide whether or not to send the letter. Bobbie said she doesn't want Jimmy's family contacting her. Maybe it would be best to honor her wishes and make sure none of Jimmy's family contacts her again -- or comes to Alisha's wedding or sends a gift. After all, those actions would be contact.

The physics of revolution

There is this horrid problem involving theft and what I assume are tachyons and quantum physics. It couldn't be anything else. It happens when I get an idea, snippets of dialogue and description, stories and characters and all the things that go into writing successful articles and books and posts. The words effortlessly come together, spinning out like the most wonderful of Charlotte's webs and I am caught in the zone, traveling at the speed of thought. I decide the inspiration will still be there when I get back from the store or running errands or doing whatever needs to be done and don't stop and record it or write it all down and go about the tasks at hand. When I return and have the time to sit down and write, they're gone. The most brilliant prose disappeared as though no more than smoke on the wind. No trace of existence remains in the synaptic cul-de-sacs of my brain. My words have been stolen -- again. I'll find them weeks, months and even years later looking up at me from someone else's books and articles and stories as though they belong there. It's quantum theft on a massive scale and I am diminished, violated, raped with no recourse to justice. That's what's happened this morning.

I had a wonderful idea for a post yesterday but I had some chores to do, food to buy and a horrid book to finish reading so I can review it today. The foulness that was the book lingers in my mind like a nasty aftertaste of some poisonous or rotted food that no amount of tooth brushing and gargling has removed. I doubt even writing the review will purge the horrible story from my mind and it will linger, tainting my reading enjoyment with crass, half-assed plotting and prose that barely deserves the designation.

Is half an ass a mule?

The post is gone and I am left sitting here, my fingers tapping out consonants and vowels, arranging them in some coherent order, bereft of my original impulse. In it's place, I offer this:

In the Muslim world it is acceptable to murder women and one movie says it all so eloquently: The Stoning of Soraya M.. This is the truth behind the news, the rights of women that Obamessiah upheld and pointed to in his Cairo speech. This is the tip of the iceberg in Iran and other Muslim countries where sharia law is practiced and where demonstrators for democracy are beaten with clubs while the President offers his mealy-mouthed protestations that he supports peaceful demonstrations. He just does not get it. In a theocracy where human rights are denied and the people oppressed and fearful of speaking out, there is no such thing as a peaceful revolution. Women are demonstrating in the thousands throughout Iran in defiance of the Ayatollah Khamenei's demands that they stop because demonstrations will not change the vote nor will he be pressured as he has pressured the Iranian people since the Shah's overthrow in the 1970s. The people are tired of mock elections and lies and are willing to stand up for their rights to a free and democratic government. It's too bad the President of the United States cannot be pried from his teleprompter to respond as vehemently as he did when he denounced the bloodshed in Romania. After all, pushing more pork and his universal health care agenda is more important than the outcries of an oppressed people in the enlightened Muslim country of Iran.

Peter Pan and real men

While watching a British male version of Sex and the City (that's the advertisement not the actual fact) called Manchild I was struck by the difference in attitudes and social situations of these four men. Only one of them has not had children or been married, Patrick, and the other three are as juvenile as they come, which puts me in mind of my own father on this Father's Day and I am sad, not just because this is the third Father's Day without my father but because these men are indicative of what fatherhood has come to mean. These are definitely men who are children with large disposable incomes.

My dad had his faults. He was vain and afraid of getting old. He primped and preened, but he was a father, a real dad. He was a good role model and still the mark against which I measure all men. He was responsible, caring, thoughtful, generous with himself and his time, tough when he had to be, loving and kind. He was a real man, not a child with a car, house and bank account. He was a little obsessed with age but he was never old and he didn't look old even though he was 79 when he died, not because he was childish or a child but because he was thoroughly engaged in living and enjoyed every moment of his life.

Although Dad wasn't wealthy -- how could he be married to Mom, a woman determined to have everything she ever wanted -- or have an obscenely large disposable income, he wasn't obsessed with things. He was obsessed with family and living. He still managed to go on long vacations and have most of what he needed and a few things he wanted, like his chickens and trees and flowers and plants. He was involved with all of his children, not as an ATM or someone who threw money at them and then went on about his own life, completely invested in our lives, our thoughts, dreams, aspirations, trials, tribulations and joys. He cared.

He cared about his family and his friends. He cared about the people around him. He never needed or wanted to impress anyone and yet impressed them anyway with his friendliness and generous soul. He may have wished to remain young, but he didn't spend his life obsessing about toners or moisturizers or manicures or any of the million things that men today seem to be caught up in. He could admire a beautiful young woman without needing to find a way between her legs to prove his virility or his youth. He was more interested in how people see and live in the world than sexual Olympics, which is not to say he was oblivious to sex. He preferred to keep that part of his life private and not parade it for the whole world to see. He was quite modest in that way. Women found him very attractive and Dad accepted their interest but didn't seek to indulge some Peter Pan fantasy that he still "had it". He had it, no mistake about that. He didn't need to flaunt it or take it out for every Tonya, Diana or Harriet. Dad was a grownup, something most men nowadays are not.

I've found very few men who could live up to my idea of a responsible husband and father. My brother is one of them and I can honestly say I know two or three men of my acquaintance that came out of the same class, one of them a very close friend who lives nearby. I wish there were more like my father. No doubt the world would be a better and a safer place.

On this Father's Day I remember my father and I wish the men like him a very happy and well deserved rest. Thank you, Jimmy, Jerry, Chili Bob and John for giving me real men to appreciate and believe in, men like my father. This day is for you.

Take my breath away

This morning someone asked me what I like to show family and friends who visit me here in Colorado. It's an easy answer.

There are so many things to see here in Colorado: deserts, mountains, wildlife, nightlife and history. My favorite place to take people is the spectacular beauty and grandeur of the view from Wilkerson Pass west of Colorado Springs up I-24. It always takes my breath away.



That is all. Disperse.

All fired up

Fire warms and cooks and provides romance on a cold, snowy night. Fire lights the way and cheers when glowing through a window on dark nights in a solitary landscape. Fire destroys and in that destruction provides nourishment for growth.

In the July/August issue of Grit an article about prairie fires caught my attention. A couple decided to buy land in the Midwest and reclaim the land. Part of the reclamation is controlled burning every 2-3 years, something indigenous people did regularly to nourish the land and increase its productivity and diversity. Animals flee as the fire races across the prairie devouring everything in its path. The ground is blackened and plant incursions by competing species are ash that enrich the soil. When the flames die, native plants grow quickly supercharged by the life-giving sun, its heat concentrated by the blackened earth, reaching quickly toward the sky and once again covering the prairie. Animals and insects rapidly return and ecological stability is maintained and preserved.

The same thing happens with forest fires. Forest floor litter is consumed and the ash enriches the soil. Seeds safe in the earth from the fire grow unimpeded, no longer choked by the thick undergrowth. Small trees consumed by the flames allow sunlight to stream down through the remaining trees. Pine cones open in the intense heat and release their seeds and indigenous trees with thick cobble-stoned bark protect the inner layers that contain the circulation that provides nutrients and water that keep the tree alive and thriving. Fire is nature's spring cleaner, weeding out the weak and nourishing the strong and it works for writing, life and relationships as well.

Chasing Armageddon

Because of the movie, which I have not yet seen, I decided to read The Watchmen, the 1980s graphic novel and so far it's interesting and provocative. No, not in a sexual sense, but in a provoking thought sense. The whole concept of a human being bombarded by nuclear material reassembling himself over several days into a blue skinned, blank-eyed hunk is quite startling and innovative, but the idea of costumed adventurers battling for good and evil is even more so and it makes me think about the state of the world now.

Ozymandias's plan to bring the world to the bring of nuclear war to create peace is not a new concept and could have been taken from Star Trek, the original series, when Gary 7 detonated a nuclear warhead about 10 miles above the Earth's surface. The same idea was put forward in the war with the Shadows on Babylon 5 where two separate factions from ancient races battled it out with the universe's races and the Shadows believed that all out war brought out the best in humanoids so they were forced to evolve quicker. But where does all this evolution and using the threat of nuclear annihilation take us?

For some reason, it took me into a dream of driving down a hall where children were frantically and gleefully ripping books off shelves, throwing them onto the floor and stomping on them. My partner and I stopped the vehicle even though we were in a rush to question the children. I wrote down their names and tried to get information on their families while deciding whether I should contact their parents by phone, letter or in person. I was appalled that the children would treat books in such a fashion and despaired of the human race if that kind of behavior continued. That scenario is probably a direct result of having talked about a similar subject with Lynn yesterday.

I have trouble understanding why when I was in grade school a teacher could handle 30+ students without paras and aides and all the extra staff needed today. Granted, Lynn works with mentally retarded and developmentally disabled children (MRDD), but even in regular schools the teachers need help. Why? Because children are out of control and their parents are becoming less and less involved in teaching them social skills and discipline.

The first response on my lips when someone tells me about a child or teen who has talked back to a teacher or abused an adult is that I wouldn't be here today. My parents believed in corporal punishment, although I got less of it than my brother. Jimmy seemed to need a minimum of twice daily spankings: one in the morning when he got up to remind him to behave and one at night before he went to bed for anything he did that was missed and not punished. (It's only partly a joke.) Soap was my mother's favorite tool of punishment for because caught with the taste of banned words and a chair facing the corner or one of us standing in the corner with our nose to the wall the second favorite form of punishment. There were spankings with belts, switches (we had to cut them ourselves) and whatever was closed to hand at the moment of discovery and the occasional backhand in the face when soap was not available, but we were by no means abused children -- well, at least the other three weren't abused. Anything at school that resulted in a visit to the principal or vice-principal's office for a spank meant a repeat performance at home, but then all of us were more afraid not to bring a note home from school than to bring one home.

Punishment really isn't about spanking but about setting limits and sticking to them. Kids need limits, and so, in my opinion, do most adults. Kids do best with limits and learn quickest when there are object lessons about cause and effect. Steal something and get punished and you're less likely to steal again -- or you'll become more efficient at getting away with it. Somehow it was easier to face the owner of the goods and apologize than to face my mother's wrath if I got caught, so stealing was out of the question. The real issue is parents being involved and aware of their children's actions. My parents were involved -- sometimes too much, but that turned out to be a good thing . . . most of the time.

The strange thing about my dream wasn't just the children, but the way the teachers and adults in the school responded. They remembered me as a student and said that I had exceeded their expectations and they knew about me. I found myself in the bathroom before I could find out what they meant and that was the signal for me to wake up and go to the bathroom for real.

What I wonder still is how close children need to get to nuclear meltdown before parents take over again, but that presupposes there will not be a nuclear war with missiles fired from North Korean or Iran and there will still be children to worry about.

Seeking god

When I was a child living on an Army base in Panama, my father decided to convert to Catholicism and the family went with him. It didn't last long, just until Dad found out he had to give up being a Mason, and that he refused to do. We got off the Catholic train and followed our parents through several different Christian reform sects until they settled on Baptist after a lifetime of being Methodists.

Off and on through my adult life I moved toward and backed away from the Baptists and from Christianity, feeling something unsettling about their history and doctrine, but never quite sure what it was. Time and again I came up against dogma and all my questions, questions I had asked since I was a small child of three or four, were met with the same answer: It is not our place to understand just to obey and take everything on faith.

I have faith in many things: the turn of the season, the sun rising in the morning, the moon hanging in the night sky showing its many faces as it glimpses the sun and that death certainly follows life. I began having doubts about any religion that negated the "gifts" that I was supposedly given by god, like my curiosity and intelligence. Ministers and laymen alike told me I was not allowed to use them to question god or to question anything that was already accepted by their religion. Then why give me curiosity and a thirst for knowledge if not to use it? I couldn't accept that an omnipotent god would be so incensed and upset by me using what s/he gave me and so I began to search and to question.

In my early twenties I studied the Mormons and every other religion I could. I briefly became Mormon, but their exclusion of other races and their problems with people who were born different chilled me to the bone. I walked away and went back to Christianity, and thus began the dance toward and away, toward and away. As Christianity became more and more exclusive I backed farther and farther away until I realized that it no longer fed my soul, met my spiritual and temporal needs or filled me with joy.

The more I learned of Christianity and its history, of the truth it has suppressed in order to gain more power over people's minds and hearts, the less I wanted to do with it. Organized religion was the path to corruption and destruction of the souls and minds of humanity, steeped in excess and rife with lies. I could no longer give my talents or my allegiance to what I was raised to believe.

I had flirted with paganism, finding in its simple tenets and open embrace of curiosity and intelligence a peace and joy I had not felt since I was a child, and finally I turned away from organized religion altogether and embraced the calling of my heart and soul. I have not only considered converting, but actually have. I still read about and question adherents of other religions because knowledge is power and because knowing what calls to another's heart helps to understand them and myself. I will always seek understanding. In many ways, that is my religion, seeking god at the heart of nature and creation. Understanding may never fully come, but I will always seek it. It is what I was born to be.

Bermuda Triangle of Democracy

After the elections in Iran and the declaration of Ahmadinejad as winner, Tehran and surrounding areas erupted with violence. Protesters chanting, "Where are our votes?" were beaten and arrested. One hundred government officials resigned in protest. Ahmadinejad's opponent, Mousavi, disappeared on his way to see the real power in Iran, Khameini. All the while Ahmadinejad smiled and posed for the cameras as he declared himself the winner, the once and still president of the Islamic Republic of Iran, while highlighting the "free and healthy elections". Doesn't sound so free or so healthy and the people obviously don't agree with him.

What happened on Friday and over the weekend in Iran is a mockery of the democratic process, but not a big surprise. The people have been lulled into believing a fantasy, that a free and healthy democratic process is possible and their votes matter. As long as Iran is governed by Khameini and his band of Basiji thugs, this is what the Iranian people can expect, more puppets like Ahmadinejad spouting religious platitudes and fiery speeches about the destiny of a nuclear Iran that will result in a prosperous and economically stable country rivaling the great superpowers. Iran is just one more Bermuda Triangle of Freedom.

In a country where they have to import refined petroleum products because their own refineries have neither the capacity nor the expertise to refine their own crude oil and their best and brightest citizens take the first opening to run for freedom in the West, it's hard to see Iran as anything near to a superpower. Iran's oil wealth has gone to finance terrorist groups like Hezbollah and Hamas in an effort to destabilize the rest of the Arab world and destroy Israel instead of into a flagging and crumbling economy. Had the leaders of Iran been serious about freedom and the democratic process, they would have elected someone whose main focus wasn't in destroying Israel, terrorism and building a nuclear arsenal to hold the rest of the world hostage. Iran would not have to loan money to couples who cannot afford the cost of an apartment in a concrete block building for their marriage ceremonies and Iranians would have a better standard of living with low cost petroleum products and electricity, if such had been the real goal.

My Gram always said the proof was in the pudding and the proof of the governing authorities in Iran is evident with the continuing riots over the weekend.

It's easy to point to people lining up at the polls and 85% of the registered voters participating as proof of the democratic process, but the proof is not in the queues or the number of people that turn out; the proof is in the results of an orderly transition of power or the smooth return to business as usual in the event of the re-election of an incumbent.

When voters are beat up or terrorized at polling places or their votes miraculously disappearing in known strongholds of the opposition, something is definitely wrong with the process. When the media caters to the approved favorite who spends most of his time playing to the crowds and mugging for the camera without one single piece of concrete evidence of his fitness for the position or his ability to make good on his campaign promises, the scent of lies is like the smell of shrimp beginning to rot in the curtain rods. It's faint but grows stronger with each passing day, an undefinable stench that begins to permeate everything. Fiery and stirring rhetoric inflames the emotions, but is a poor substitute for results in a flagging economy where truth is a vanishing commodity.

As the religion of persecution and the cult of the personality grow, it becomes a festering wound on the soul of a nation that poisons the whole system, but it is a fraud, a bit of prestidigitation to hide the real truth that freedom is diseased, slowly and subtly eroding like creeping leprosy until people wake up to find it gone. They wonder how it happened and when, but it was right there all the time, spreading its subtle influence like an expanding Bermuda Triangle engulfing sense and reason in lies and showmanship, stage dressing and sound bytes until truth lies in ruins or little more than a faintly remembered dream.

Ahmadinejad's "victory" is but the visibly flagrant symbol of an inward state of rot and while the world's attention is focused on him, the real danger in goes unnoticed and unchecked. Beware the Bermuda Triangle coming to a country near you.

Days I need wine and roses

"The days of wine and roses...laugh and run away like a child at play..." That song is stuck in my head right now as the lights flicker on and off and another thunderstorm moves through this usually arid area where rain falls everywhere but here. It's been like for over a month, and believe me I'm not complaining. I love the rain and I adore thunderstorms, just not when I need my Internet connection to stay stable and actually on. Had to give up watching another episode of Babylon 5, but I wasn't really able to get into it because of administrative duties that ended in me firing someone. I hate when that happens. Suffice it to say, he deserved it and I did what I had to do. And the day started out so nice -- for a few minutes, and then an email I should have immediately deleted instead of reading hit me wrong.

What is it about some people they feel the need to rip at someone who disagrees with them, usually with some form of snide comment that looks like a compliment but isn't? The world, and this country, offer a widely diverse range of experiences and it takes all of us to be able to experience everything. However, one person can rack up quite a list of experiences if they spend any time traveling other than the safe and guided highways and byways. I've had the good fortune to live in interesting times and even more interesting places and I've never been afraid of new experiences. I have mingled with people from all strata of society and learned things, some of which I wished at the time I hadn't. I have had lots of experience in business, television, medicine, publishing and security, to name a few industries, and my resume covers maybe one-third of my background. I am, as I have told many people, a Jackie-of-all-trades and have mastered quite a few. Doesn't mean I wouldn't like to master a few more, and believe me when I saw I shall. Life's too short to waste it waiting on the sidelines for life to happen. I'm not the shrinking violet or wallflower type.

At any rate, I sent a shot across the bow of the correspondent who sent her snide comment. I'm sure it hit its mark since no response has returned. That's the thing about secrets, and I've said this before. They never stay buried if more than one person knows. When the secret is part of public record that is available for a few cents a copied page and an afternoon digging through civil and probate court records, it is so much easier to find and paper keeps for a long time.

It reminds me of the saying on a wall in a graphic novel. "Who watches the Watchmen?" In this case, all it took was a request for information and I took the time to watch the guardian. Some people feel so safe bilking the government and attempting to hide in reams of bureaucratic paperwork, but there's always someone willing to wade through the red tape, pay the fees and get the information, especially when there is a loved one's health and well being at stake. Even the guardians need to be guarded. The only reason the information didn't come out before this was because one of the parties afraid of the repercussions and what would be lost. I do not share the fears, but I respected the request. Sounds so mysterious and cloak-and-dagger, but I've no doubt the information, if it merely grazed the mark before, will be received and noted in due course. If nothing else, it will make a great story about families, fraud, malfeasance and greed. I'm sure it will quickly find a following.

I guess some people never read the sign that says, "Don't poke the bear," and take it to heart when they should. There is only one thing more dangerous and ferocious than a pissed off bear and that's a pissed off writer. Think I'm kidding. You've obviously never read the famous feuds and poison pens employed by pissed off writers that rival the Hatfields and the McCoys. There are enemies turned into villainous characters in novels and public and written sniping, as when Gore Vidal quipped that Truman Capote's horrendous end was "...a good career move."

Writers, as in a recent post by a friend, are more than capable of rendering life into art and finding new and inventive ways to murder those who raise the writer's ire to Mount St. Helen's or Krakatoa's proportions that can darken the horizon for years. I've always wondered who Dickens loathed so much as to immortalize him in the greedy, grasping and obsequious person of Uriah Heep? Probably someone who was given guardianship over a loved one.

Yes, this day would have been better for wine and roses, but I guess I'll have to settle for a glass of wine. The roses aren't in bloom yet.

Scorched Earth

There are some programs I enjoy watching again and again, finding something new among the old. Babylon 5 is one of those shows.

While watchingAnd the Sky Full of Stars this morning, the show seemed suddenly so timely despite having been off the air for years. Commander Sinclair is captured, drugged, hooked up to a cybernet and forced to remember what happened during the 24 hours he was missing at the Battle of the Line, the last battle between Earth and the Minbari during a war that would ultimately end with the genocide of the entire human race. Suddenly, with the destruction of Earth and the entire human race within their grasp, the Minbari surrendered. The war was over. Why did a superior force on the eve of victory surrender to a beaten enemy?

During the cyber-torture, the torturer tells Sinclair that many influential people back on Earth believe that Sinclair and others were recruited for a fifth column to destroy Earth and humanity from within, that Sinclair agreed to collaborate with the enemy to bring his own race down. The torturer points to aliens buying up land, investing in businesses and immigrating in ever larger numbers, pushing out humanity and taking over. Sound familiar? Like I said, old shows touched on the hot issues during their initial run and are seemingly prophetic. Or are they?

Do shows like Babylon 5 predict the future or do we just not learn the first time around and continue to repeat history? There is another possibility, that some shows act like barometers to point to the first hint of trouble, shining a light on a problem that, if unchecked, will continue to grow and get worse.

Near the end of the Shadow War when the Earth President (the VP who killed the President in order to take over) is trapped and Earth is being bombarded by the rebel forces gathered by the crew of Babylon 5, the President is in his office and he pushes a button that begins the process of what he calls Scorched Earth, turning the Shadow technology on Earth and its people. He knows he's trapped. He has weakened the planet and its people from within, but since he can no longer rule he is going to destroy the planet rather than face justice. Scorched Earth.

The men who vowed to protect Earth against all enemies, foreign and domestic, had been corrupted, not by the Minbari, but by the dark forces of the Shadow, wooed by power and control and dark technology that counted human life as a commodity and the truth as malleable and elastic. They were co-opted by greed and the need to be seen as saviors, messiahs of truth and justice and everything that humanity held dear. It was a small concession at first to protect themselves against the covert invasion by the Minbari who helped to fund and build Babylon 5 and the four Babylon stations that were sabotaged, destroyed and went missing before the final Babylon 5 project successfully came on line to give form to the idea that alien races could all live and work together for the common good. While the powers that be were focused on the Minbari, they made a devil's pact with the Shadows and sealed their doom, sealed the doom of Earth and of all peoples living on the planet.

Beware those that work in the shadows and wear pleasant faces calling for peace and spouting peaceful platitudes and bromides, laying the blame on their opponents. That way lies danger and scorched earth.

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity. Surely so
revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

— WB Yeats's "Second Coming"as first printed in 1920

Gifting, regifting and land mines

I'm awake. Breakfast has been eaten and now I'm relaxed with my cup of Jasmine green and black tea with a little honey. Life is good. Sort of.

Jimmy, the Mushroom, emailed me this morning to ask for my address. My niece, Alisha, is getting married in August and wants to send me a wedding invitation. Okay. What I don't get are her plans for marriage.

Until she graduates from college, which may take a while, she will live at home with her poor mom who has no one to take care of her. I guess JC and Alex don't count, and JC is the eldest of the three children. Bobbie has never needed anyone to take care of her -- or like her for that matter. She is a rock, an island, an often contentious one. At any rate, Alisha's new husband will live wherever he's living for the duration, presumably with conjugal visits. I never did understand my brother's wife and now I must extend that to my niece who has not spoken to or contacted me in about 10+ years. I didn't even seen her two years ago when I was there for a week before my father died and she never came to the hospital to see Dad. I was there almost the whole time. Jimmy was there, but his wife and none of his children visited and no explanation or excuse was given. After all, it wasn't a big deal. Dad only had terminal metastatic bone cancer. So the Mushroom's request for my address, something he could just as easily have obtained from Mom, Carol, Beanie or his daughter Alex, he requests of me.

I don't know if his request is a warning or just a simple request because the Mushroom didn't think of asking anyone else and I certainly do not know why I'm being included since they never bothered to invite me to birthday parties, family dinners and barely tolerated me when we spent Xmas Eve together. I couldn't tell you when my nephew and nieces birthdays are because I've never been a part of their celebrations or present during the births even though I lived in Columbus at the time, hence the questions.

The only reason I can think of is that since I will receive a wedding invitation I will be expected to respond with a wedding gift for the happy, if strange, couple. I received no such invitation to either JC's or Alisha's high school graduations and they received no gift. I give great gifts, thoughtful and personal gifts. However, I don't know Alisha all that well, except for a brief period on All Poetry when she was in her dark, cutting and suicidal phase and I keeping out a weather eye to warn the Mushroom of impending trouble. That was over five years ago. I find it difficult to buy a present for anyone I don't know well and really dislike generic presents. I like presents to mean something, to express a common bond and show my affection and regard (or disregard) for the person as in the poem I wrote about the first Xmas the Mushroom's wife shared with our family. It was a very memorable occasion, if I do say so myself.

Gifts have been a subject of a few discussions this week and it's one on which I have but a single opinion and it's similar to tipping for services rendered. If I can afford it, or conversely have the material to make it, gifts will be given that are commensurate with the service and my regard for the person.

I'm a spontaneous person, although my spontaneity can result in Machiavellian plans and schemes on the manner of delivering and sometimes purchasing the materials or gift in question. For instance, I took a very special book, one given to me by Andre Norton that she had signed, one of my favorites, and sent it to my grandson, Jordan, my youngest son's oldest child for his seventh birthday. I had previously been informed by AJ's wife, Jacque, that I was expected to make amends to Jordan, and presumably to AJ and her, for having slighted him for the first six years of his life with a very good gift. I also bought a book by Ray Bradbury beautifully illustrated and put it together with the Norton book. Then I designed and sent seven birthday cards.

The day it arrived I got a long, rambling and foully written email from my ex-husband's wife, AJ's stepmother, Brenda, blasting me for ruining Jordan's birthday by sending him such trash and including a book I autographed myself. She railed at me for several email pages for believing myself a writer when it was only the sycophantic fans of my blog who considered me a writer and for being a whore who had sleep with the entire seventh fleet and probably every marine, pilot and soldier in the western world despite being an ugly and ignorant whore. (I paraphrase of course. It would take far too long to list all my offenses.) How dare I ruin her grandson's birthday when he was expecting all the Harry Potter books. A few hours later I received another foul email from Jacque, my daughter-in-law, also blasting me for ruining Jordan's birthday. Where was my son in all this? And why did no one seem to remember that in their wandering they had never seen fit to even inform me of Jordan's birth until he was three years old and then to keep forgetting to send me a picture or their address? How could I have confused and upset Jordan so much as to send SEVEN birthday cards? What was I trying to do -- traumatize him?

Okay, I admit I felt a certain mischievous glee when I made each of the cards for all the missed birthdays, but I have never known a child to be confused or upset by getting birthday cards in the mail. They are usually delighted because it is such a new and exciting experience for them. Mail addressed to them and delivered by the mailman to them personally.

Where was my son in all this. I wanted to know and, not being a shy or retiring sort of person, I asked. Was he hiding behind his stepmother and wife, expecting them to do the dirty work? He finally responded via his wife's email to say he knew what was going on and he was also appalled and shocked that I would have deliberately hurt his son that way.

After several more foul emails from the female quarter and a phone call directly to my son, bypassing my daughter-in-law, the truth came out. Jordan's party was not until the following Saturday and he knew nothing of the gift. Brenda had been there when my son and his wife opened the package and flew immediately into a rage at me and my paltry gift when her grandson had expected all the Harry Potter books, including the one that was released on his birthday, something I had never promised since the gift would not arrive in time for Jordan's birthday.

Saturday's party came and went and I got a much different email from AJ that said Jordan was delighted with my gift and began reading the books before he even ate his cake. He loved the cards, too.

I find it difficult to believe in the innocence of anyone who, upon first contacting me, sends me a list of my grandchildren's birthdays and includes my own son's birthday and hers with a long list of what kind of gifts they want to receive from me. I can understand it for the grandchildren, but not for a daughter-in-law who has had nothing but contempt for me and had never contacted me in the past.

The gift road has been very rocky indeed over the past two years. Gifts sent to the children have been returned because the family moved and left no forwarding address, more than once. I have also been approached to send money instead of gifts to help them pay for something they wanted after being quite explicit about such a move. AJ has not contacted me in the past except to get money or information, so I have told them that I am not their personal ATM and I will not give them any money. If they want a relationship with me, it must be a two-way street. Have I mentioned that none of them has remembered my birthday, sent me a Xmas gift or card and have never sent me so much as a card on Mother's Day? They always claim, several weeks later that they sent an e-card and cannot understand why they didn't get it. And thank you notes for the gifts they have received? I have yet to see those either, although they have done better this last few months and the thank you emails arrive within a couple weeks.

Oh, there are a thousand gift stories in this naked city, and some of them are actually good ones. Please forgive me for mentioning the horror stories first. One should be aware there are always flies in the ointment.

I was brought up to believe that a gift received meant a thank you note or call or one personally given should follow and that you don't give gifts to people you don't really know. I believe gifts should be special and individual and should have meaning and take thought. That doesn't mean it has to be new, just not something you received you didn't like and couldn't wait to give someone else to get it out of the house. It also does not mean giving someone a gift they gave you that you didn't like and have forgotten the person gave to you. My ex-mother-in-law was good for that one. A gift should be memorable not make you shudder with disgust or shake with confusion. Most of all, it should be personal. Cost isn't an issue if it's someone you like or care about. And anonymous gifts are often the best, especially if the person would feel they should reciprocate. A simple thank you to whomever is sufficient. The message will be received and appreciated.

Gift giving can be a land mine with some people and with others a simple and honest joy. I prefer the latter to being expected to send a gift to someone I barely know simply because we are related. As far as I am concerned, gifts imply a relationship. Where there is no relationship, a simple card without a gift or money is sufficient. I'll bet you can guess what I'll be sending if and when I receive the wedding invitation. I feel neither the need nor the desire to impress my niece who has not taken the time to get to know me or see me when I lived in the same area. I'm past the age of caring what others think of me, especially when they do not know me. I'm sure there will be anger and venom headed in my direction, but my give a damn's busted.

Unexpected gifts

I love being a reviewer. Having access to some of the best writers and books in the world is a huge perk and keeps my book buying budget down. The only bad thing about that is that I end up buying more food and that means I have a harder time losing weight. It's so much easier on a starvation diet in a house full of books.

The mailman dropped a package on my deck this morning, a white quilted package full of book. A nice heavy and thick book that wouldn't fit in the mailbox. The sender's address on the label was a dead giveaway and I'm sure people heard my Yahoo! all the way to Trinidad. Inside the plastic wrapped package was a first edition copy of Tarot for Writers and it is going to take a lot of self discipline to go back to work and do my job instead of reading every single solitary page and absorbing all that knowledge. But here I go again, back to work again, so I can finish and dive into the well of tarot and writing and my idea of heaven.

That is all. Disperse.

Flying monkeys and Barnabas Collins

Beanie and I were talking about the news that Johnny Depp is going to resurrect Barnabas Collins in a new movie directed by Tim Burton predictably called Dark Shadows. She had been reading MSN and came across a news item about the True Blood leads carrying their on screen relationship off screen and Depp and Barnabas jumped out at her. She had to tell me about it. I had to check it out.

If the movie is successful, and why wouldn't it be with Depp as Barnabas Collins, then Burton will resurrect the rest of the werewolves, monsters and demons at Collinwood in a new franchise. I wonder if Depp will like being in a successful movie franchise as much as he liked being in a successful TV show. Should be interesting.

Beanie said she didn't think either Sookie or Bill were attractive and Anna Paquin certainly can't act, but that she enjoys True Blood anyway and Ants loves it. The Code Monster is not so easily impressed. Beanie and Ants thank me for introducing them to the show, which means I'll have to find some way to thank John for introducing me to the show last year.

When you get right down to it, Jonathan Frid wasn't at all handsome, but he was compelling as Barnabas Collins. It was something about the penetrating eyes, onyx ring on the forefinger, cape and cane with the curving silver wolf's head that kindled the urge to be enthralled and bitten in the most unusually strait-laced and unlikely of victims, like Mom. She worked at a dry cleaner's in North Olmsted, Ohio when the show was on and rushed home every afternoon to watch the show. We kids were forbidden to interrupt, which wasn't hard because Carol and I were glued to the screen right beside her and Jimmy and Beanie were outside playing quietly. No noise was allowed anywhere within a 50 mile radius during Dark Shadows, and I doubt there was anywhere among the female population of North Olmsted or the northern Ohio region. Men knew they'd get short shrift, lousy meals and freezing accommodations if they ignored the ban and ventured to so much as whisper. All distractions were forbidden. Mom still has a thing for Quentin Collins after all these years so she'll be first in line at the theater -- as long as there is no "language" in the movie. I know what we'll get her for Xmas or her birthday as soon as it is out on DVD.

From Barnabas to movies, the conversation moved and Beanie and I reminisced about some of our favorites, telling me some surprising stories about Ants, like not ever watching The Wizard of Oz, because he was terrified of the flying monkeys as a child. Beanie loves the movie -- so do I -- and she watches it every year. When she was little I'd sing Over the Rainbow to help her sleep most nights and I sang to her boys when they were little. Ants loved the song, but still won't watch the movie. He says he's too old, but I'll bet he still gets the shivers when the evil flying monkeys take off after Dorothy and her companions.

Movies have such a powerful affect on all of us, although not the same movies. Ants loves The Monster Squad but he still gets a little nervous when Frankenstein's monster comes on the screen. To Ants, he's terrifying. When the boys were little, every time that movie came on the world had to stop so Ants could watch it, even when they were at my house during the summer. I've seen that movie so many times I could doubtless still recite all the dialogue. It's a cute movie and I like it. Beanie mentioned another movie, but I seem to have forgotten what it was. Oh, well, no big deal since the point is that when the movies came out on VHS Beanie bought them for Ants. Unfortunately, he loaned one of them to Jimmy. Big mistake. When Jimmy and his wife split, Ants worried he'd never get his movie back. He was right to worry. Jimmy was too lazy to look for it and didn't want to brave his now ex-wife to spend the time looking for it, and there was no question that she would take time out of her busy schedule to find it. It was lost and Ants was furious. Beanie went out and bought the movie on DVD and Ants was happy once again. I still think since Jimmy was such a coward he should have replaced the movie, but it's difficult get The Mushroom to do anything. He is proof of the first law of thermodynamics: a body at rest tends to stay at rest and a body in motion tends to stay in motion -- at least until it runs out of fuel. Jimmy at rest is like a barnacle on the hull of a ship, nearly impossible to remove without sharp tools and lots of elbow grease.

I can't say that I have even one or two movies I cannot live without. I have lots of favorites spanning a variety of genres. I'm more pragmatic about things like that. I can always get another copy or do without. Nothing is so special that I'll lose sleep over it. A few people maybe, one or two in particular, but not things. Things can always be replaced and what can't be replaced can be lived without. Then again...

The whirling dervish of spin

The Washington Times posted an interesting op-ed piece on the B.O.'s record and asks, if he is the first Muslim president.

Dick Morris has quite a bit to say about the mortgage rescue plan, health care rationing and Obamanomics.

That is all. Disperse.

Obsessive compulsion

Obsession:
Pronunciation: \äb-se-shən, əb-\
Function: noun
Date: 1680

1: a persistent disturbing preoccupation with an often unreasonable idea or feeling ; broadly : compelling motivation
2: something that causes an obsession
— ob·ses·sion·al adjective
— ob·ses·sion·al·ly adverb

I don't understand about obsessions. Fetishes, leanings, cravings, yearnings and desires, I get, but not obsession, especially when it comes to an obsession with people. Maybe that makes me shallow or just more interested in living than in focusing all my energy and attention on one object or person. I wouldn't say I have ADD, but rather that I have a short attention span for minutiae and people.

I've always said I have a magpie mind, attracted to bright and shiny new information and knowledge, and I do have interests in several subjects, like the history and mythology of Atlantis and Egypt and Stonehenge and the world in general. I hear those words or see them on a book and I want to know more. For instance, I know a lot about Jack the Ripper, especially the facts of the case and all the data gathered during and after the murders. It's always fascinated me. One book I didn't read was Patricia Cornwell's book about who she thinks The Ripper is, treads too heavily in obsessive territory. That is one writer who has too much money and far too much time on her hands, and is obviously bored with writing for her character, according to the most recent reviews of her books. She's lost her momentum, but then that happens when writing turns into a chore. It's the reason Stephen King's writer killed off Misery. That put him in touch with his fan base, a Misery-obsessed ex-nurse with a god complex, but, hey, that's life.

I've always wondered why some people get obsessed with other people. I wasn't even obsessed with my husbands when I was married and I've walked away from my share of lovers along the way. When I'm done; I'm done. No sense going back like a dog revisiting it's vomit or feline excreta. It's not worth it. That does not mean, however, that there aren't times I had a fleeting thought of "what if?" slip through my mind once in a while. I do. I just prefer to let it keep on passing. Can't change what was, only what will be and can be.

I told someone once I understand obsession, but as I find myself the object of someone's obsession, I can't say I do. I had a glimmer of a glimpse of what it's like, but no real grasp on it. What turns a seemingly intelligent person into a raving lunatic who can't get through a week or a day without checking up on their obsession? I guess if they could, they wouldn't be obsessed. If it's love or desire or a really bad case of "what if?" why does it end up turning to violence?

Once upon a time when I was a little girl in the sixth grade, I liked a very popular boy, Rob Stokes. He did all the things boys at that age do to show me he liked me. He taunted and teased me, embarrassed and found ways to get close to me. He caught flak from some of the other boys who thought he should look at more profitable (easier) territory. Then one of the boys in class, a good friend named Byron, told me that Rob didn't really want me, but he didn't want anyone else to have me either. It took me a long time to figure that one out. How could Rob want me and why would he care if someone else did? Simple. He was obsessed with me. I don't know why, but I do know when he stopped wanting me. That would be when I tried out for his singing part in Jack and the Beanstalk as the money bag and beat him. And that's when he became obsessed with me, not wanting me but wanting to make sure no one else got near me or wanted me either.

Rob was Mr. Steffens' pet. Even when Rob was tossing paper balls at the trash can and missing and Mr. Steffens made Rob get down on his hands and knees and push the paper around the room with his nose while he swatted Rob with Excalibur, the wooden paddle in the shape of a sword, Rob was still Mr. Steffens' pet. Mr. Steffens knew where the line was drawn. That's what I think is missing in people prone to obsession; they don't know where the line is drawn. They cannot get over a perceived slight or someone being better than they are at something they consider themselves to be expert or extremely talented and turn their disappointment and anger outward on the person that makes them doubt themselves and their abilities.

While Rob obviously found me attractive, he wasn't ready to give up the spotlight, or the part of the singing money bag, to me, to someone who was perceived as being able to sing and act better than he did, especially since the judge was the teacher he thought he had wrapped around his little finger. It didn't matter to Rob that I had practiced for hours or that I had to hold onto the legs of my desk with sweaty hands while I sang so my voice didn't quiver and I didn't faint from embarrassment. All that mattered to him was that someone chose me over him, someone declared me better. And thus an obsession was born, an obsession that included him doing his best to publicly humiliate me every chance he got and to say nasty things behind my back. Rob didn't know with whom he was dealing. I was used to people calling me names, especially in my own family, and his lame attempts fell on my deaf ears. I moved on. He didn't seem quite so cute any more. I always knew he was just a passing fancy; the boy I really liked was too shy to speak up and tell me so.

Rob Stokes is a fading memory. I moved on. Writing about him this morning makes me wonder if he has. If he hasn't, it's too bad. I have better things to do with my time than feed his obsession. It's called living.

That shy boy, the one who wouldn't speak up? He spoke up. Now that's a compulsion I can understand.

The Emperor's Newly Clothed Stimulus Plan

I went to bed early, which is why I'm up before the sun -- again. Imagine my surprise when I turn on the computer and the first thing that hits me is B.O.'s usual spiel about things getting better while announcing his new stimulus plan in the wake of a 42% disapproval rating. My favorite part of the report was B.O. pointing to the 150,000 jobs his plan has saved while point to his new plan, which seems amazingly like the same plan, forgetting of course that since February 2009 1.6 million jobs have ended. With the highest unemployment rate in 25 years (which does not include the unemployed who have slipped through the cracks and no longer get checks) rising to 9.4% and headed rapidly for double digits, I wonder how 150,000 jobs saved match up against 1.6 million jobs lost. With my old math skills, that works out to less than 10%, and somehow doesn't come nearly close to the 600,000 jobs created that the old stimulus bill, now the new revised amazingly similar to the old stimulus bill, predicted. What is wrong with this picture?

Money is being spent like the Fed is printing it night and day and yet less than ten percent of the jobs lost have been saved. How is this good news? Seems to me more like the ceiling is leaking and the floor is flooded, but it's okay because the bucket caught some of it, so we're going to be just fine. Uh, no.

My brother-in-law and my nephew both work for the same company and they were laid off a couple months ago. Randy got back to work within a couple weeks, but with reduced hours; he had every Monday off. Ants didn't get called back to work for weeks and once he did he had the same mandatory Monday off. Beanie works for the state of Ohio at the Bureau of Employment Services and she belongs to the Union. It's not like she had a choice. It's part of the state of Ohio's policy. She's been told that after 22 years working for the state she must take mandatory leave without pay to help balance the budget. Did I mention that this is in the wake of the stimulus package?

Let's see. The unemployment figures are rising. Beanie works for a state agency that processes claims and she, and everyone across the board, are being forced to take time off without leave. Something's wrong with this picture, too. Am I the only one who sees it or does pointing it out make me a Right Wing Wacko? From where I'm sitting, B.O.'s deficits are showing.

No matter how he and his economic advisers spin this, no matter how fast they print and get the money out and no matter how they package the new improved same old tired stimulus plan they keep touting, it didn't work. You can't run an engine that's made to burn gas on water -- or air. Maybe if B.O. spent more time working on the economy and less time on his apology tour, photo ops and wheedling Ahmadinejad he'd still come up short. It's one thing to get the 3 a.m. phone call and quite another to not only answer the phone but give the right response. So far, all the responses have been wrong.

It's a good thing my job is recession proof. As long as people get sick and die, I'll be here typing up the reports.

American Crude

I've been playing phone tag with Carol's voice mail when I make my bi-weekly call to my mother to let her know I'm still alive and check to see if I can drink the champagne in the fridge or if she is still alive and the champagne has to wait. I don't know how long champagne stays good in the fridge, but I guess I'll find out. It may outlast me. After more than a week of voice mail tag and no return phone calls, I finally got hold of Mom.

During the conversation, Carol's boyfriend, Clark, someone she talks to or sees nearly every day, called and Mom put me on hold and cut me off. I didn't call back. Instead, I called her this morning to tell her how I felt about being cut off. It isn't the cut off part that bothers me so much as being put on hold on my dime so she can answer the phone to talk to someone she talks to or sees every day simply because he's calling long distance. Uh, Clark is a multi-millionaire and stands to inherit several more millions and it's more important to save his dime than to save mine? What is wrong with this picture?

For someone who chastises me for using words she doesn't understand and not calling twice a week when there's nothing to report or say, I consider it very rude to put me on hold or hang up on me to talk to someone who will call back or leave a message if no one answers. Mom is more concerned with other people being rude than in how rude she often is. It's becoming an epidemic. That isn't to say there aren't exceptions, but it seems that people are getting ruder and ruder all the time and technology gives them an excuse to increase their rudeness. People have lost touch with manners and taste and simple courtesy.

People who should know better don't. Today, and every day, I get proof of that. Every day I listen to doctors dictate operative reports, most of them barely intelligible or talking so fast slowing things down only makes them more garbled, but the worst offenders are those doctors who waste my time looking through files they should have checked before they began to dictate or take phone calls and carry on conversations with colleagues and leave me hanging for long periods of time for a one-page report, out of which I had to waste 30+ minutes listening to their conversations or sitting on hold while insipid Muzak or recorded advertisements on endless loops play in my ear. And I have to listen to the whole tape, for which I do not get paid because there are no words making it onto the page. One of these days I'm going to type what I hear whether it's their conversation or ads on continuous loop and let them pay me for it. Of course, I'll be penalized because it's not part of the report, but maybe, just maybe, someone will get the message and they'll stop being rude and wasting my valuable time. I cannot afford to waste 30 minutes in which I could have typed 10-15 pages to get one page of dictation at $1.70 a page, but doctors don't care because it doesn't affect their salary, just mine and I'm nobody important, just a wage slave who is there for their convenience. Just when I thought people couldn't get any lower, I found out I was wrong.

In San Francisco, politicians have reached a new low with a homeless man who has decided to work his way back into the mainstream. Moore, an enterprising fellow, decided to buy some brushes and shoe polish, picked out a street corner and offered to shine shoes for $7 ($5 for the unemployed). An enterprising reporter did a feature story on Moore and the city of San Francisco repaid Moore's get-up-and-go by taking most of the money he had earned towards getting an apartment and out from under the bridge where he's been living for a few years to pay for a sidewalk vendor permit. Out of the $573 he earned towards the $600 he needed, the city demanded $491.

When the people of San Francisco found out what had happened to Moore, they responded by inundating the city with emails and phone calls and finding Moore to give him $100 tips for their $7 shoe shines. People went out of their way to patronize Moore's corner and added $1000 to his coffers.

I guess you could say that for every rude person there are at least a dozen decent people who don't waste your long distance charges to talk to someone they see every day or allow the politicians to beat down a man who is doing his best to climb back up on the ladder of society. It gives me hope. However, I don't think I'll make any more bi-weekly calls to my mother. She more interested in talking to people she sees all the time and who live in the same area than in finishing a short conversation with me. Maybe if I don't talk to her she'll forget about me and not start calling the police and neighbors in the area to find out if I'm still alive or, worse yet, hop on a plane and make a surprise 2-week visit. I can always hope.

Oh, did I mention that I called Mom again today and got right through. I asked her one question. How often do you and Carol see and talk to Clark? She said, "Every day." Then I told her what I thought of her cutting me off to answer his call when he made a lot more money than I do and they saw and talked to him every day. She said, "Okay, I get your point." Too bad I can't do that with the doctors.

That is all. Disperse.