The View From The TEM

A View of the Verses

2009-11-04T14:38:00.004-05:00

The humor Doug Savage taps into with his cartoon, Savage Chickens, is sheer poetry.

Check out his work by clicking (note I didn't say clucking) here.

I've been on a bit of a streak as of late. I haven't been writing here, but I've been writing. I started work on a memoir, and have been dabbling in poetry - something I haven't done since high school. Take a look at some of the pieces. Hope you enjoy them.

(My mom has a habit of sleeping at her dining room table or in front of her computer in an uncomfortable looking chair. As I watched her sleeping one afternoon, and "Shopgirl" - a kind of melancholy romance - simutaneously played on TV, this poem came to me. It's a combination of the way my mom's sleep looked to me and the mood of the film.)

Hibernation

Arms coiled about her,
like a shield from harm,
an empty approximation ofembraces long past.

Clothing drips from her frame,
her body flows to one side,
a futile dry run at pouring away
her exhaustion, her worry,
her pain that refuses to pass.

Sleep overtakes her
as she sags in her chair.
Breath coming in tentative
gulps of air, like voiceless sobs.
Her body constantly shifting
in vain attempts at comfort.
That brings little relief from
the loneliness borne of
love long past.

Never to return.

A Self Portrait

(I've been feeling a bit lonely lately, but that's partially my own design - and fault. While I've always been a bit of a loner, I find I've been isolating myself more nowadays. This poem comes out of the conflict between wanting to be alone, yet sometimes wanting companionship.)

I do not fear solitude.
The silence, sometimes deafening in its quiet,
is also a blanket of peace and calm that surrounds me.

I do not fear the cliché of having
cats about my feet.
My feline companions do not complain,
do not take advantage,
do not lash out in anger,
or betray my trust
in some unspeakable, cruel way.

I do not fear the words
Alone.
Solo.
Table for one.
By myself.
Some try and use them as
weapons of mass destruction
upon my ego,
my pride.
But I take comfort in being able
To follow my own path.
Come and go as I please.
Answer to no one.
Indulge in my own unique pleasures.

Alone is a badge of honor,
not a source of shame.

What I fear
is that one day I may lose the grace
to embrace my solitude,
hold it close to me,
and that I shall
cry out in vain
for a companion who cannot come
because that companion
does not exist.

The Ballad of Lil' Man

(This poem is a true story. I met Lil' Man coming home from work this summer. We need more like him in our neighborhoods.)

Lil’ Man had a plan.
Ball in hand, he would:
Make a run,
turn and gun,
and drive it to the hole.

There was no basket
on the barren street corner
Didn’t matter, no stress.
He would handle his business,
making his points much bolder.
Lil’ Man was going to be a legend
on that corner.

So he went for his shot.
Driving the lane,
strong and plain,
made his turn, held his spot
Let the ball go, and made his shot….

Way off target! He missed.
Lil’ Man’s friends tried to diss.
He wasn’t hearin’ it.
Held up his head, turned a little red,
but he was not gonna cry.
Not one tear would he shed.

“Hey ma’am,” he said instead
in a proud tone,
Adding as much bass
as a six year old can own,
“Can you bring me my ball?”

As it rolled across the street,
I kept my smile discreet.
Put my car in park,
got out, and did my part.
Taking the ball back to Lil’ Man.

Standing tall against the teasing,
I couldn’t hold back,
watching him summon his pride.
I was cheesing, my grin bright and wide
As I walked to Lil’ Man.
“Here you go, sweetie. Be careful.”
“Thank you ma’am,” he said, grateful,
as he reached for his ball.
“Umm ma’am, are you a teacher?”
he asked, eyes wide and eager.

“No sweetie,” I said with a smile,
thinking all the while:
“You’re the teacher on this street,
showing your boys to go for your dream
no matter how big it seems.
Add grace to your defeat.
Don’t let taunts beat
your soul away,
Exercise care and thought,
instead of acting out
on the spur of the moment.

As I drove away from the block,
Lil’ Man gave a quick shout,
of “Thank you!”
before going back to the corner,
to hold it down at the basket,
and be the dream’s owner
once again.

Sight Lines

(This is the poem, a tribute to my cousin - a very gifted painter - came to me one day, almost as though it were being dictated to me by some spirit. I've posted this before, but I thought it would be good to repost it with some of my other work.)

When you look at me,
perhaps you see a man
of quiet, calm demeanor.
A wit that’s quick.
Wisdom that’s plain and simple.

But I hope that you see,
when you look closer at me
43 years of a story that has at its heart
a love of the art of the oil,
the canvas and the brush.

A love of charcoal and pencil that glide across
paper with all the skill I can muster.
Of watercolor and ink,
every type, every color,
a conduit for me
to tell you the stories
I want you to see when you

Look at me.

If you only see what’s on the surface,
then you miss the crux of my story.
The strength of my father, who let nothing;
not the hatred that came with the struggle for integration,
nor the tyranny of a gradually immobile body,
keep him from moving, striving, creating.
That pride he lovingly passed along to me,
and I pass on to you
when you look at my canvas.

Look closer. There it is.
The knowledge I glean from the voices of
Malcolm,
Cockburn,
Amiri.
The faith nurtured in me by
Nomine Patris, Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.
The visual representation of the melodies of
Bird,
Monk,
Duke,
Basie.
My interpretation of the gifts of
Caravaggio,
Rembrandt,
Bacon,
Freud,
Delaney.
The eloquence of Baldwin.
The flow of Fassbinder.
A lyricism rivaling the story of Panchali.

I know you see green when you look at me.
Not envy, but in my roots.
Planted by the nurturing hands of Cecilia and C.T.
Blossomed in the greenhouse of creativity on Kirby,
Made whole in the ivy that surrounds me
(which, by the way sports a vivid red, black and green
in the midst of all that blue).
Growing in the park that thrives in the heart
of the Empire State clear through to my soul in Motown.

Don’t look past all this when you look at me.
If you do, then you’re looking at,
but don’t really see
My pride.
My knowledge.
My struggle.
My love.
It’s right here.
It’s me on the canvas.

More later, as the inspiration strikes. In the meantime, come and visit me on Facebook. New friends are always welcome.

A View of Remembrance

2009-09-11T15:06:00.008-04:00

Today, my thoughts inevitably turn to fear and hope.

The fear in my mother's voice, a twisted wail of grief, anguish, disbelief, and anger, as she described to me the collapse of the towers: "They fell! The towers are gone! They're gone...they're gone...they're gone...." The hope that the the victims so randomly struck by the swift and sudden chaos, the first responders bravely doing the work we so often forget puts their lives at risk, died bravely and without undue suffering.

The hope that my cousin, who lived in New York at the time and sometimes visited a friend who had a studio in one of the towers, was out of harm's way. The fear that he and his friend had been hurt or had perished. The hope that came with relief as we learned he was nowhere near the madness that was downtown New York City, mixed with the fear grief brings when we learned his friend died in the collapse of the towers.

The hope that thrived in the hearts of people in the Trade Center towers who jumped to their deaths, fearful of the horror of dying in the raging flames surrounding them and facing the fear of unknown suffering as they plunging towards the ground below. The fear in the hearts and minds of the people trapped in the Trade Center towers, in the hallways of the Pentagon, on planes traveling anywhere unsure of what terror was in the skies and hurtling toward the ground and unsuspecting victims, unable to do anything to stop the senseless violence.

The hope of the passengers in the plane that crashed into an open field in Pennsylvania that their inevitable deaths would save others from their fate, that they would not die in vain. The fear they shared of being powerless to save themselves from unspeakable evil.

The hope that today, as we move through our daily routines, we all take some time - even just one moment to remember those we lost on this day. The hope that we all take some time - even just a moment - to help someone in need in remembrance of the loss and to build the hope that we can still have the capacity to love and care for one another, not giving into the fear of distrust and hate that can easily arise after such a catastrophic loss.

Remember the fallen on this National Day of Service and Remembrance. Embrace the hope of a new peace and reject the fear being promoted that to serve is to disgrace the memory of those we lost.

More later, but know that fear breeds contempt. Hope springs eternal.

A View of the Sight Line

2009-08-19T14:21:00.006-04:00

A tribute to my cousin Richard on his birthday.

When you look at me,
perhaps you see a man
of quiet, calm demeanor.
A wit that’s quick.
Wisdom that’s plain and simple.

But I hope that you see,
when you look closer at me
43 years of a story that has at its heart
a love of the art of the oil,
the canvas and the brush.

A love of charcoal and pencil that glide across
paper with all the skill I can muster.
Of watercolor and ink,
every type, every color,
a conduit for me
to tell you the stories
I want you to see when you

Look at me.

If you only see what’s on the surface,
then you miss the crux of my story.
The strength of my father, who let nothing;
not the hatred that came with the struggle for integration,
nor the tyranny of a gradually immobile body,
keep him from moving, striving, creating.
That pride he lovingly passed along to me,
and I pass on to you
when you look at my canvas.

Look closer. There it is.
The knowledge I glean from the voices of
Malcolm,
Cockburn,
Amiri.
The faith nurtured in me by
Nomine Patris, Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.
The visual representation of the melodies of
Bird,
Monk,
Duke,
Basie.
My interpretation of the gifts of
Caravaggio,
Rembrandt,
Bacon,
Freud,
Delaney.
The eloquence of Baldwin.
The flow of Fassbinder.
A lyricism rivaling the story of Panchali.

I know you see green when you look at me.
Not envy, but in my roots.
Planted by the nurturing hands of Cecilia and C.T.
Blossomed in the greenhouse of creativity on Kirby,
Made whole in the ivy that surrounds me
(which, by the way sports a vivid red, black and green
in the midst of all that blue).
Growing in the park that thrives in the heart
of the Empire State clear through to my soul in Motown.

Don’t look past all this when you look at me.
If you do, then you’re looking at,
but don’t really see
My pride.
My knowledge.
My struggle.
My love.
It’s right here.
It’s me on the canvas.

A View of Paralysis

2009-08-09T05:21:00.009-04:00

"Real Life Adventures" is a strip that captures the humor in all manner of awkward situations.

Click on the comic to see more adventures and learn more about the artists.

"I love how you feel. You don't know how long I've been waiting for this."

Whispered in my ear in a tone as soft as gossamer, he pulled me closer - a caress as firm as it was gentle. We'd been in my living room doorway for almost 15 minutes. One kiss hello had led to several kisses. I wanted to say something witty and clever in return, give a response that was equal parts flirty, funny, and full of the attraction I was feeling. Instead, all I could manage to say was a barely audible "thank you" that was more blush than burn.

It scarcely seemed to matter to him. He smiled and leaned in for another kiss, pulling me just a touch closer towards him, and ever so subtly grinding into me to show that no, it wasn't some object in his pocket and yes, he was quite happy to see me. And as good as it felt to be touched, desired, wanted, I could scarcely move. The intimacy of the moment clashed with the sudden realization that this man was as attracted to me as I was to him had paralyzed me.

We were going to dinner, my date and I. We'd met for coffee a couple of times before, quick dates lasting an hour or so, just long enough to decide whether or not we wanted to see each other again. Each meeting ended with a lingering kiss good night that felt good but a bit perfunctory. This time, he told me he wanted to pick me up at home, open doors for me, give me a good night kiss at my front door at the end of the evening.

"I can't wait to see you again," he said. "It's going to feel so good to kiss you."

I didn't believe him - rather I didn't want to believe him. Being open to that feeling of desire also meant being open to the possibility of being hurt again, and I'm not ready to go there again.

When he arrived at my door, I had no choice except to believe. He greeted me with the long, lingering kiss he promised. Then another. And yet another. It was my first date in months, and I looked forward to seeing him again. When he kissed me, it was so easy to respond in kind. My date was an attractive, desirable man and it felt good to desired by someone like him.

Still, I could feel myself holding back out of...what? Fear? Definitely, but of what kind? Moving too quickly? Rejection? The possibility that perhaps the attraction he said he had for me was a lie? It was hard to say, especially since his kiss and his embrace was so convincing, so real.

I had to pull back after a moment to catch my breath and gather my feelings. I tried to look at him, but could barely make eye contact. What was I seeing on his face? Part of me saw the look of a man enjoying an intimate moment with a woman he wanted to get to know better. Another part saw the leer of a man who simply wanted a somewhat easy lay and had the perfect opportunity right in front of him in an emotionally conflicted date. Which one was right?

I didn't know. I reached out and caressed his cheek with a hesitant smile, as though I'd be able to read his thoughts with a simple touch. He didn't let go. Returning my hesitant smile with a brighter, more confident one he leaned in for yet another kiss.

"If we keep this up, we're never going to go to dinner," I said.

"Don't worry," he replied. "We have plenty of time." I could barely make out the end of the sentence, the words blurring into a tender kiss.

I relaxed a little more, doing all I could to enjoy the moment and let go.

More later, because learning to move past the fear is a series of small, incremental steps.

A View of Appearances

2009-08-08T22:20:00.012-04:00

Chantay Savage - I Will Survive

The day seemed picture perfect.

I was out on the water, taking in the sun and enjoying the view of the lake and all the posh homes along the lakefront from a pontoon boat. Invited to an appreciation luncheon with other assistants, it was a rare midday treat. A chance to kick back, relax, enjoy a tasty beverage, and have fun with some of my colleagues from work.

And it was nice. The sky was as blue as the water, bright and clear - as though it had been painted. Looking out on the water, the rays of the sun almost looked like diamonds bouncing off the soft waves. Lily pads dotted the surface of the water, and tall pond grass swayed softly in the light breeze. There we sat, about 20 of us, enjoying the warmth of the sun, and the camraderie of the day. All manner of people were along the shore - grilling burgers and corn, taking a quick swim, sitting on chaise lounges to catch some rays, working on their homes, or watching a boat load of laughing women sipping from plastic disposable cups watch them. Almost on cue, a swan glided across the water, its feathers so white it was almost invisible in the light of the sun.

"The turtles eat them, you know. We've got snapping turtles in the lake, and they just pop up and pull the swans under the water and eat them. It's sad sometimes, watching a mama look for her babies and they've just been pulled under."

The woman driving the boat said this matter of factly, catching all of us off guard. A flurry of "No way!" and "You're kidding!" rushed from our mouths like a quick gust of air. A couple of us looked down at the water, as though we expected a turtle to leap out of the lake and pull one of us in as easily as our captain said one grabs a swan. How can something that seemed so benign and harmless be suddenly so threatening?

Just goes to show that appearances can be deceiving.

Much like our hostess, the captain of the pontoon boat who seemed so happy and together as she greeted her guests. Every year, the group of us gets together for an appreciation lunch thrown by our bosses. This year, the hostess offered her home on the lakeshore as an ideal location. A tent was erected on the backyard lawn next to her tiki bar. A buffet lunch was set up in the garage that was so organized and clean, it seemed as though it had never held a car. Her home was beautifully appointed - floor to ceiling windows that provided a view of the lake made for a magazine spread, perfectly coordinated furnishings, decorations lovingly selected to highlight and enhance the newly renovated home. A photo album dedicated to chronicling the work done to transform the house from a timeworn one story ranch to a three story modern showplace sat on the granite island in the kitchen. It seemed perfect - a reflection of a couple's love, hard work, and dedication to each other.

Appearances can be deceiving. Our hostess showed us the photo album and took us on a tour of the house fighting back tears the entire time.

"I thought we were building a life together," she said, choking up. "I don't understand how all of this happened. I don't know how much longer I'll be here."

Her story came out in unexpected quick bursts during lunch as the guests arrived. If you asked her for a drink, to use the restroom, or the name of the caterer, you were as likely to get the expected answer ("Sure, the tiki bar is to the right...just go up the stairs and it's the first door on the left...you know, I can't remember, let me get you a card...."), as you were a sudden rushed confessional:

"I'dlovetotellyoubutIjustcaughtmyhusbandsleepingwithanothermanand
Ithrewhimouthow'boutadrink'causetodayisallabouthavingfun," followed by a self conscious laugh and an abrupt change of subject to the weather or the week at work. The life she'd been building with her husband had been snapped up and pulled under with the discovery of his infidelity and deception. He'd been cheating on her with other men and women the entire time they'd been together. When caught, he offered no apology, no explanation, nothing. What seemed like the perfect relationship had all been a lie.

Appearances can be deceiving.

Just like that, a lunch that usually about the usual conversations - demanding bosses, challenging workloads, the upcoming busy season, and promises to keep in touch - turned into fellowship and sisterhood. We shared our stories about relationships gone wrong, how we healed, said it was okay to cry, and really got to know each other. We offered names of lawyers ("Girl, he helped me out and I know he'll help you...."), books to read, invitations to girl's night out whenever she needed, shoulders to cry on, whatever she needed to get through, get by, get past the hurt and shock. Our hostess was grateful and seemed surprised by the support she received. The end of her marriage is still new - the confrontation she shared in a sudden stream of consciousness confession had only taken place a couple of months earlier - but we were all old friends, willing to talk when she couldn't, listen when she could, hug and laugh to make the pain go away.

As we sat on that boat, floating through the water, I looked at the homes and families along the shore. It all looked so picture perfect, houses that anyone would covet, parents and children playing in the yards, boats in slips ready for a sail, swans swimming past proudly displaying their grace and beauty. I looked at my hostess, trying her best to stay cheerful as she pointed out homes, telling the stories of her neighbors and the lakeshore. She was smiling, punctuating her stories with a quick laugh or an off the cuff joke.

Appearances can be deceiving though, because every once in a while she'd quickly wipe away a tear or her voice would crack just a little - her heartbreak peeking through ever so slightly, like one of those unseen turtles in the lake taking a quick peek out of its shell to grab the little bit of happiness she occasionally set free.

More later, but not before I say to my friend that this hurt will pass and everything will work out. Stay strong, hang on, don't let this hurt steal your joy. You will survive.

A View of Coloring Outside of the Lines

2009-07-23T15:52:00.005-04:00

Actual conversation at the Concert of Colors:

Clown: Did you hear about that actress who got stabbed today? Her name was Reese...Reese...oh what's her last name?

Me: Witherspoon?

Clown: No. With a knife.

Click of the camera just as I groan. Did you know it's possible to play a rim shot on an accordian?

More later, and here's hoping my colorful friend didn't steal that bit from Michael Rosenberg.

A View of the Colors

2009-07-23T13:52:00.011-04:00

"Red and yellow and pink and green, purple and orange and blue. I can sing a rainbow...."

So the other day, I was clicking through my daily website reading list and came across an interesting article in the Detroit Free Press.

It was supposed to be a lighter side of the news piece about Detroit's sister city relationships with seven other cities across the globe. The piece, written by Michael Rosenberg, read like a bad Jerry Seinfeld routine:

"What exactly does it mean to be "sister cities"? Do you gossip about male cities? Can you borrow each other's outfits? In the '80s, did the mayor of one sister city send a mix tape to the mayor of the other sister city?"

I'm not sure what the point of the article was supposed to be, but the gist of it seems to be that Mr. Rosenberg doesn't think sister cities serve much purpose. I'm not even sure if he truly means that, or if he was trying to be funny because he also said he didn't think the idea of a brother city would work either.

"Brother cities would never call each other. Occasionally, the mayors would play golf together, but when they were done, they would go back to their cities and everybody would ask what was going on in the brother city, and the mayor would say 'I don't know, I didn't ask, but I putted great.' "

Are you laughing yet?

Me neither.

In case you didn't know it, Detroit's sister cities are Chongqing, China; Dubai, United Arab Emirates; Kitwe, Zambia; Minsk, Belarus; Nassau, Bahamas; Toyota City, Japan; and Turin, Italy. The oldest and most active sister city relationship is between Detroit and Toyota City, with student and cultural exchanges going back almost 50 years. I'm proud to say that I'm part of that history, having been part of the student group that represented Detroit in Toyota City back in 1984. My group spent just over one month visiting Toyota, Kyoto, Tokyo, and Nagoya, learning about the country and its culture as guests of Toyota City and seven host families. We learned about language, history, food, music, religion, pop culture, family dynamics, geography - it was a total immersion into life outside of the comforts of home for both us in the group and the families who hosted us.

It was an invaluable experience, one I'll never forget.

My guess is that Mr. Rosenberg's indifference to a sister city program may come from the recent reports of the abuse of emergency funds by Detroit officials, with money being used as a personal piggy bank by the Kilpatrick administration. Back in 2006, Kizzi Montgomery, an intergovernmental liaison for Mr. Kilpatrick, used about $5,800 to take the Japanese delegation from the Detroit/Toyota program on a trip to Niagara Falls, Ontario - a blatant misuse of the emergency fund. It's sad that the program has to suffer a blow to its reputation because of the actions of a corrupt administration. Looking on the sister cities page of the City of Detroit website, it appears the exchange program only exists on a technical basis, and that trips between the cities have been suspended.

In light of this, I'd like to make a recommendation to Mr. Rosenberg to check out next year's Concert of Colors. The yearly event is hosted by ACCESS (The Arab Community Center for Economic and Social Services), offering a plethora of music, dance, food, community activism, information exchange, and much more across all cultures. Here's the best part - admission to the event is free.

At this year's Concert of Colors, I saw an East Indian dance troupe from the School of World Music & Dance:

Watched an enthusiastic crowd help an Afro-Cuban singer with the group BombaRica celebrate her birthday by dancing in a conga line:

Caught an excellent show by the band Yo La Tenga. The main stage artists had a ban on any photography and recording, so here's a clip of the band in action that I found on You Tube.

Talked local politics and found some gorgeous jewelry that I could not resist at the Beads, Baubles & Gems of Southfield booth - a custom jewelry merchant created by two sisters. Take a look and give them a call if you'd like a trinket or three at 248-910-2047.

I also caught up with old friends (What's up Beth, Kathy, Chris, B.J., and John!), got a chance to explore the Max M. Fisher Music Center - home of the Concert of Colors, had a great dinner at Union Street (I recommend the Lobster & Cilantro Pizza), and had a wonderful time learning about all the cultures that make Detroit so great. I didn't even scratch the surface of everything there was to do at the two day event.

It was like a mini sister city exchange program in the space of two blocks. Start here, Mr. Rosenberg, and you'll learn that establishing relationships and cultural exchange across the globe is as pretty as all the colors of the rainbow.

More later, but remember all the cool kids shun xenophobia. If you can't travel abroad, check out one of the local ethnic festivals in your area. Enjoy the music, the people, the food and the fun - and if you aren't careful, you might learn something before it's done. (My apologies to Bill.)

A View of Can't See For Looking

2009-07-15T16:48:00.006-04:00

Continuing the theme of what do you see, take a look at the picture below. What do you see?

Some people see what's in this text, which is from an e-mail making the rounds on the web. You may have received it from a friend like I did this week:

Recently, Michelle Obama went to serve food to the homeless at a government funded soup kitchen.

Cost of a bowl of soup at homeless shelter: $0 dollars.

Having Michelle Obama serve your soup: $0 dollars.

A person who is receiving government funded meals while taking a picture of the First Lady using his $500 BlackBerry cell phone: Priceless.

Pretty funny, whether or not you're an Obama supporter, liberal, conservative, or just don't care one way or the other.

But look again at the photo. What do you see?

I'll wait.

Keep looking.

There. Did you catch it?

What homeless shelter do you know of that serves Mushroom Risotto? Or uses romaine lettuce?
There's more to this photo than meets the eye. Anyone willing to laugh, but look past the obvious could've merely typed in the phrase, "Obama serving in a soup kitchen" into the search engine of his or her choice. Once they did, they would've received a link to one of my favorite sites, the Urban Legends Reference Pages. This site dedicates itself to clearing up all sorts of internet rumors, urban legends, half-truths, and stories that seem to good to be true but sometimes are true.

This photo op, according to the good people at Snopes, falls under the half-truth category. The photo was taken back in March 2009 at Miriam's Kitchen, a social service agency in the Washington D.C. area. It's a privately funded organization, not taxpayer or government funded as stated in the e-mail. Moreover, it's not clear if the person with the cell phone is homeless, a volunteer, a guest, or staff member. Nor is it clear if the phone is a BlackBerry device, or if it's worth $500. Not only that, cell phones aren't necessarily for the affluent anymore given the proliferation of pay as you go phones available in many convenience stores throughout the country.

It's like my mom used to say all the time: Sometimes people can't see for looking. For another example of this, check out this story about President Obama checking out a woman's backside during the recent G8 Summit.

Or is he?

More later, and keep those eyes peeled y'all.

A View of What Do You See

2009-07-14T21:42:00.026-04:00

"This is your last chance. After this, there is no turning back. You take the blue pill - the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill - you stay in Wonderland and I show you how deep the rabbit-hole goes." -Quote from "The Matrix."

This post is the fault of two people - City Council members Ken Cockrel, Jr. and Martha Reeves. During a discussion of the sudden proliferation of billboards in the city promoting Colt 45 malt liquor and what (if any) action should be taken, the two made observations that were the living embodiment of the famous quote from "The Matrix."

Mr. Cockrel noted while he was critical of the advertisements, the breweries wouldn't target our community so heavily if the residents weren't so quick to buy the product. "We also have to check ourselves," he was quoted as saying. "I see a lot of people buying 40 ounces."

Ms. Reeves, on the other hand, decided to focus on aesthetics. She was unhappy about the way the billboards made Billy Dee Williams, who's portrayed in caricature in the advertisements looked. "He's ugly," she's quoted as saying.

Blue pill. Red pill. When you look around you, what do you see?

After reading this story, I decided it was time for me to take a look around, go down the rabbit hole if you will, and really look at my world. My drive to work takes me up Woodward Avenue, the main artery of the city. The thoroughfare passes through business districts and residential neighborhoods. It's a major transportation hub for commuters - whether by car, bus, bike, or on foot. People of all walks of life travel on Woodward.

It was also the site of my last post, the story of Jane and her daily drinking binges.

Where better to see what the world sees? I chose to study all the billboards on a stretch of Woodward between Six Mile Road (McNichols) and I-696. It covered roughly an equal distance in both the city and the border suburbs of Ferndale and Pleasant Ridge. There are several intersections along the way with a variety of businesses, meeting places, and gathering spots along the way.

My first stop was at the intersection of Six Mile Road (McNichols in the city) and Woodward. This is the border of Detroit and Highland Park, just south of the first mile of paved concrete highway in the world. The area was used for major location shooting during the making of the 2008 Clint Eastwood film, Gran Torino. It's also a snapshot of two cities in decline; surrounded by neglected residential areas, abandoned businesses, and vice. The main businesses at the intersection are Deja Vu, a strip club (their slogan is "1000's of Beautiful Girls and Three Ugly Ones"); Uptown Bookstore, an adult bookstore which features a walk-up window where patrons can purchase lottery tickets without having to enter the store:

There's also Snethkamp Chrysler Jeep, a dealership spared the threat of closure during the recent bankruptcy filing; and a Valero gas station that has a buffet soul food restaurant inside its lobby. There's also a taxi garage, a dry cleaners, two additional adult bookstores (one stays open 24 hours), a motel that advertises hourly rates, a bar, a Powerhouse Gym with attached physical therapy center, a recently closed beauty supply store, a candy shop, a hip-hop clothing & music shop, a couple of barber/beauty shops - all mom & pop operated - and three churches. There are several billboards in this area. The largest is over the gas station - one of the Colt 45 ads the Council was debating. There's also a very large billboard on top of Deja Vu promoting the club. There are smaller billboards over the garage selling motorcycles, $1 soft drinks at McDonald's, auto insurance, and the services of personal injury lawyer Sam Bernstein ("Injured? We come to you!").

On the northwest corner, is a billboard guaranteed to catch the eye:

It's positioned so that's it's easily seen by all commuters in all directions. It's next to an apartment building, right at the edge of one of the residential neighborhoods and just at the entrance to Palmer Park. The billboard promotes a service, but when you look at it what do you see? What does it say to you about the target audience for the product? The neighborhood in which it's located? What sort of feeling do you get as you view it?

Now combine those answers with the description of the neighborhood. The businesses located nearby. The other billboards surrounding it. Now what do you see? How do you feel?

Now add this fact to your thinking: Not more than a tenth of a mile away, in the shadow of La Dolce Vita (an upscale restaurant); an abandoned and vandalized landromat, and a small mosque, is a second Colt 45 billboard - smaller in size but identical in content - posted over a campaign ad for a City Council candidate.

Abdullah Bey El-Amin is being reported as the first imam to appear on a Detroit ballot. His billboard talks about making Detroit great again, and asks the community to demand good leaders. It's completely overshadowed by a caricature of Billy Dee Williams selling alcohol.

What do you see when you look at this photo? How does this photo make you feel? Does the position of the alcohol billboard positively or negatively impact your opinion of El-Amin? Does it impact your opinion at all? What does the juxtaposition of these advertisements make you think of the community where they are displayed?

About a mile north is the intersection of Woodward and Seven Mile Road. This intersection is a bit unique, in that its the meeting point of a residential neighborhood and a business district. Among the businesses you will find in this area are the Palmer Park Golf Course, a BP gas station, a McDonald's restaurant (an online search shows it may be up for sale), an ice cream parlor, Dutch Girl Donuts (some of the best donuts in town), and the Goldengate Cafe, a vegetarian restaurant and holistic treatment center. On the northwest side of the street is the southern border of the Palmer Woods neighborhood, an upscale community in northwest Detroit. The east side of the street is more working class, decaying as you continue further east. There's a construction site for a church that's been in the works for years now, and more abandoned or burned out businesses. It's also part of an area on the east side of the city being plagued by a serial rapist who has attacked four young women and attempted an attack on a fifth. As of today, he's still at large.

The billboards in this intersection include public service announcements for a drug treatment center and the upcoming primary election displayed, advertising for senior citizens housing, and another appearance by Billy Dee's Colt 45 billboard. That's three identical advertisements for the same product on the same side of the street in a mile span.

Looking at these facts, what do you see? What does this tell you about the community? About its residents? About the way the business community views the neighborhood?

The next major intersection is a biggie - it's the border between Detroit and its northern suburbs at Eight Mile Road. The Eight Mile rhapsodized in Eminem's movie. The Eight Mile Road that Coleman Young so famously told criminals to hit and keep going after being elected to his first term as mayor back in 1973 - a line that many feel sparked the ongoing animosity between Detroit and the suburbs for the past few decades.

At this intersection is a fly-over for traffic continuing north or south on Woodward, and turn around local lanes for those needing to access Eight Mile Road or any of the handful of businesses and homes in the area. On the north side of the road, there's Ferndale. There are a couple of auto dealerships, a cleaning supply store, a White Castle restaurant, a diner, and a hotel with hourly rates. On the south side is a Catholic church, the Green Acres neighborhood, a Chinese restaurant, a cemetery, a lawn supply shop, another hourly rates motel, and the northern end of the Michigan State Fairgrounds. The future of the Michigan State Fair is in limbo - the state is cutting funding for the fair after this year, and there's been talk of eliminating the fair completely. The northern end of the grounds have been empty for years, and plans for a shopping center have materialized and fallen apart. The most recent plans include the possibility of a Meijer store, but nothing has been finalized.

At this intersection are three very large billboards. One advertises the services of the Detroit Medical Center. One is a promotional billboard for Motor City Casino's Sound Board concert venue. The third is for WADL-TV's "Classic Comedy Block" of afternoon programming. A third of the bottom is covered in very large, very bright graffiti.

Here are some questions to ponder: How did the graffiti artist (or artists) get up on the billboard - which is brightly lit at night and positioned for maximum viewing - and paint without being noticed? If someone did notice, did they report what they saw? How come the billboard has been allowed to stay up without being cleaned up? Why vandalize this particular billboard? How long did it take to tag the billboard? Was more than one trip required?

There's is a fourth large billboard on the southwest corner of the intersection advertising the gourmet burger menu at MGM Grand Casino's Bourbon Steak, but the way it's positioned only allows for viewing when traveling south on Woodward. There's also a small, building mounted billboard on the northeast corner of the intersection advertising Everfresh juice, but it's not very visible either.

If you go a bit further north, you reach the intersection of Woodward and Nine Mile Road in the heart of downtown Ferndale. There are almost too many businesses and services to mention: two churches, three cemeteries, a gas station, two theaters - The Ringwald and the Magic Bag - a post office, a bank, a car rental agency, an insurance agency, a drugstore, a cellular phone store, Metro Parent magazine's offices, a school, a self-storage facility, an optical shop, and numerous restaurants, shops, and nightclubs. I know I'm leaving out some places in this list, but you get the idea of how it's thriving. I only saw one completely empty commercial space passing by - and it's being renovated for occupancy. Two other spaces north of Nine Mile are about to lose their tenants - the stores are in the process of holding going out of business sales.

The billboards in the area were for businesses like Body Morph, a fitness training facility (there were two for this company - one to consumers and one recruiting sales & fitness workers); TNT Televison, for a new show called "Dark Blue"; a public service ad advocating smoke free workspaces; a promo ad for Panera Bread; an advertisement for an upcoming Demi Lovato/David Archuleta concert.

I only saw two billboards advertising liquor - one over the Magic Bag Theatre for Molson Beer, and one over Flagstar Bank for Corona Beer.

Here's what I didn't see: Abandoned, boarded up buildings. Fields or lots choked with overgrown weeds. Garbage on the streets. Graffiti. Billy Dee Williams with his can of Colt 45.

In all of the neighborhoods, I saw people who were friendly - offering a smile and saying hello when spoken to. I saw people going to work, or hanging out with friends. Below Eight Mile, I only saw African-American people walking along Woodward. Above Eight Mile, the majority of people were white. There were more people jogging, walking dogs, or bike riding above Eight Mile. Below Eight Mile, there were more people waiting for busses.

No one spoke until spoken to. No one asked why I was taking notes or pictures. Very few people looked up at the billboards until they saw me taking pictures.

Here's a question to ponder: When they looked up, looked around, what do you think they saw? Do they see what's around them - and what do they think about their surroundings?

I think both Ms. Reeves and Mr. Cockrel had, in their own way, good observations. The image of Billy Dee and his can of Colt 45 are ugly, in that it promotes a way not to notice the world around you. Colt 45 "working every time" is an escape from reality - a red pill of sorts. The idea that people need to pay attention to what they consume and that marketers will only target areas in which consumers demand the products they sell is also on point. We create the reality in which we live.

Still I think both Ms. Reeves and Mr. Cockrel missed one point: What we see is often what we think we are. And the billboards I saw when I looked around my neighborhood were one bitter blue pill to swallow. We've got a lot of work to do to improve our point of view folks.

More later, but not before I invite you to take the journey I took up and down Woodward Avenue. Take a good hard look all around. Get out of your car and take in the neighborhoods on foot. You might be surprised at what you truly see when you do.

I should also mention that the links and pictures included in this post are not necessarily endorsements for products, services, or candidates by me. They're just snapshots of what I saw in my journey down the rabbit hole.

A View of It Happens Everyday

2009-07-10T20:32:00.007-04:00

I hop in my car at the end of a long work week. It's Friday! Time to enjoy a relaxing weekend. But first some errands, just like I do everyday. Stop and get gas, pick up some potting soil and a new planter for an office plant that needs more space, think about picking up something for dinner before deciding to cook something when I get home.

I'm driving down Woodward, just like I do everyday, enjoying some music, happy to feel a cool breeze coming through my windows, when I see something I don't see everyday.

There was a woman on the corner of Woodward and Glendale. She was slumped over in a wheelchair, her right hand grazing the pavement. Her hair fell forward in her face, her feel slack on the sidewalk. She was wearing black knit shorts, worn down flip flops (or should I say a worn down flip flop - one had come off her foot), and a black and white plaid shirt that was almost completely open. The way she was positioned in the chair and the way she was slumped over, it was hard to tell if she were male or female.

The driver in front of me blew his horn in an attempt to rouse her. She didn't move. At that moment, the light changed and it was time to move on. Just like drivers do everyday. I had to pull forward and drive through the parking lot of the gas station across the street in order to circle back into the parking lot she was in front of and call the police.

As I was on the phone with a dispatcher, a woman walked by the woman in the chair. She tapped her on the shoulder, and for the first time since I'd seen her, the woman in the chair moved. It was a slight nod of her head, just enough for the passerby to assume she was okay. She kept on walking. The dispatcher told me an ambulance and a squad car was on the way - someone had called a couple of minutes earlier. I hung up the phone, turned off the car, and got out.

"Ma'am? Are you okay?" I asked walking toward her. She barely moved. I noticed an old bandage about six inches long taped on her leg. It looked like hadn't been changed in several days.

"Ma'am? Are you okay?" I got a bit closer. By now, I could see that she hadn't had a bath in at least a day or two. The bare foot was ashy and dirty, almost black on the bottom. She looked up slightly and murmured something, but I couldn't hear what. She looked old and neglected. Her teeth were ragged, her lips dry and a little chapped. She barely opened her eyes.

I started to go a little closer, but I was afraid to touch her. I didn't know what was wrong with her. Was she having a seizure? Hypoglycemic? High? Combative? I didn't know what to do.

Fortunately by this time, the ambulance was pulling up. At the same time, a man was approaching the corner. He was shaking his head.

"She does this everyday," he said, as the EMT was walking up to the woman in the wheelchair. Almost simultaneously, the EMT spoke to the woman.

"Jane (not her real name)? Have you been drinking again?"

"I had to put her out of the gas station," the man standing next to me said. "She comes over to the gas station and hangs out with the other drunks. We have to throw her out everyday."

The second EMT asked the two of us some questions about her. How long had she been there on the corner? Just a few minutes. The two men she'd been drinking with wheeled her across the street and left her on the corner before they took off. How much had she had to drink? The men had thrown away and empty fifth of vodka before wheeling her away from the gas station. How long had it been since a call went in to 911? When I talked to the dispatcher, it was 6:44. The dispatcher told me she'd received a call about the woman at 6:38.

"I don't know why she's in that chair," the man next to me said. "She can walk, you know. She lives right across the street.'

By now, the woman was sitting up a little straighter in her chair, though she was still slumped over. The first EMT buttoned up her shirt as he asked her what she wanted.

"I just want to go home," she said. Her words slurred. The EMT stepped back, flinching from the smell of alcohol on her breath. The second EMT began unloading a gurney from the back of the ambulance. At about this point, a squad car arrived.

"Jane? Are you okay?" The police officers knew her by name, too.

"It's the usual," said the first EMT. "She's had a lot to drink today."

The man next to me worked at the gas station across the street. He said this happens everyday. Jane comes to the station to panhandle and drink. She has too much and gets kicked out, passes out, or both. The police and an ambulance show up, get her some treatment, then take her home.

"It happens everyday," the man from the gas station said. Shaking his head, he walked away. I asked the EMT if he needed anything else from me. When he said no, I began to walk to my car. I looked back, and I saw them preparing to put her on the gurney. The cops and the EMTs talked to her and each other, handling her with care, trying to joke with her and each other.

I got in my car and headed down Woodward towards home. Just like I do everyday.

More later, but I can't help but wonder if she's okay. And I hope that the same thing that happens to her everday doesn't happen to her tomorrow. If you know anyone who has a drinking problem, please get in touch with Alcoholics Anonymous, your doctor, or trusted adviser for assistance on how to help that person; and Al-Anon to get help for yourself on how to cope with a loved one's addiction. Keep your eyes open as you go about your day-to-day affairs, and don't be afraid to provide any assistance if you see someone in trouble or something that isn't right - even if that assistance is simply calling 911. For every person who stopped, there were at least ten who kept on going as though nothing was wrong. Everyday will just keep happening the same as it does unless we try to do just one thing a little different.

A View of the Lie Told and the Aftermath

2009-07-09T14:57:00.009-04:00

I've been thinking about lies lately, and the ways we try to extricate ourselves from problems lies leave behind.

It all started when, in an attempt to get away from the wall to wall coverage of Michael Jackson's death, I clicked onto The Frisky, one of my favorite guilty pleasure websites. There I found a very interesting post that posed a provocative question: What's the correct answer when asked how many sexual partners have you had? Amelia McDonnell-Parry, author of the post outlined seven sex partners that don't have to count. "It's not...lying per se; it's just that a few...partners just don't register on the same scale," she said, and thus don't have to count in a person's tally. For example, a partner doesn't have to count if the sex lasts 10 seconds or less and no one finished. It doesn't have to count if the sex was forced or if "you're less than 51% sure that penetration actually occurred." I could list more, but that would take away from the fun of clicking on the link and reading the piece - or creating your own reason why a partner shouldn't count. It was an interesting article that made me laugh and think about the ways we lie to others and ourselves.

And no, it didn't make me rethink my number. It also won't make me tell you that number either, so don't bother asking. Anyway, Catherine Strawn posted a companion piece about the five "I Love You's" that don't have to count, like if you were lonely or very drunk. I read this a few days later, after the news about the death of Steve McNair broke. McNair is the former NFL quarterback who was shot and killed by his girlfriend Sahel Kazemi in her Nashville residence - provided to her by McNair. A few days earlier, Ms. Kazemi and Mr. McNair were stopped on suspicion of DWI. She was driving a car purchased by Mr. McNair. She was charged, he was released. They'd been dating for several months, and she told friends & family that Mr. McNair was planning to divorce his wife to marry her.

This wasn't true. There was no divorce filing. His wife and four sons did not know about the relationship he had with Ms. Kazemi. In fact, Ms. Kazemi was becoming distraught because of the DWI arrest, growing financial issues, and because she began to suspect that Mr. McNair was cheating on her with another woman. As a reaction to this, she purchased a gun, shot Mr. McNair as he slept, then killed herself.

She was only 20 years old. He was only 36 years old. This was a case where lies, the ones told to others and the lies one chooses to believe, ended in the worst way possible. Two families are now trying to figure out why. Why was there a need to step outside of a seemingly happy marriage? Why did this young woman think the only way to resolve the issues facing her was to kill her lover? Kill herself? Why did any of this have to happen? Why couldn't it be stopped? Here lies the other tragedy in this story: They may never get all the answers they need to heal and move on. This one hit close to home for me because I understand the pain both families are feeling. I've experienced the hurt and betrayal felt upon the discovery of an unfaithful spouse, and I know the pain of never getting all the answers one craves upon learning of the suicide of a loved one. I can only hope both families have the strength to heal as best they can, and not give in to the temptation to lash out at each other as they cope with their hurt and grief. It's not going to be easy, especially given how public this story is right now.

Lies are never fully understandable. Sorting out the logic and the rationalizations behind them can be a futile exercise in circular logic that would confound M.C. Escher. Most of the time, the smoke and mirrors behind the lies are created in order to distract from the truth and throw those who dare question the liar off track. Say what you will about Monica Conyers, but she is a twisted master of the bait and switch. So desperate is she to make people forget that she took bribes in exchange for her vote in the Synagro scandal (she pleaded guilty in Federal court to conspiracy to commit bribery - a felony offense - and was forced to resign her City Council post), so desperate is she to escape inevitable jail time, and so desperate is she to cling to whatever power she can grab, that she's willing to make a complete spectacle of herself on TV.

She's decided to keep her public access level parody of "A Face in the Crowd," called "Ask The Councilwoman" on the air - even though she's no longer on City Council. She's also decided to play "Monica Conyers: Cub Reporter" by threatening to expose the drunk driving record of a reporter who questioned her as she reported to the set of her show this week. You have to click on this link and watch the video to see just how bizarre it gets.

Here's where lying and the web it creates gets even more tangled. In the clip, she accuses Scott Lewis, a reporter for Fox 2 News of having a drunken driving conviction on his record. This led to some haughty, "I've done no wrong" posturing by the reporter. At this point, the story he files turns from news reporting to almost "Network" style bombast. The report would've carried a bit more relevance had the station been brave enough to point out that Ms. Conyers got Mr. Lewis confused with another Fox 2 reporter, Andrea Isom, who was arrested back in 2006 for drunk driving. I found an excerpt of a newspaper report that ran in the Detroit Free Press, but could not find a link. Here's the story:

Channel 2 reporter Isom in DUI incident

By JOHN SMYNTEK FREE PRESS STAFF WRITER

November 21, 2006

WJBK-TV (Fox, Channel 2) news reporter Andrea Isom was in hot water Tuesday morning after having been stopped by Michigan State Police on a Detroit stretch of the Southfield Freeway allegedly driving the wrong way Monday night. She reportedly blew a .18 in a roadside sobriety test; the Michigan standard for driving under the influence is .08. Channel 2 GM Jeff Murri said he could not comment on Isom’s situation, citing company personnel policy. Isom did not immediately respond to a phone message. Isom began working at WJBK in April 2004. She previous toiled for stations in Kansas City, Dayton, Ohio, and Elmira, N.Y. She is a Cleveland native and an Ohio State University grad, according to her station biography.

The omission of this fact is a bit of a distortion of the truth, though it could rightfully be argued had nothing to do with Ms. Conyers or her behavior. It could rightfully be argued that the reporter's records have nothing to do with Ms. Conyers criminal behavior, it's impact on the city now and in the future. It could even rightfully be argued that Ms. Conyers continued disregard for her actions, her disrespect for her constituents, and her constant antagonizing attitude is proof of her unrepentance, requiring the maximum amount of punishment allowed when she's sentenced.

Still, the fact was omitted, and that added a bit of a taint to Mr. Lewis's piece. But that's the trouble with lies. The things we say to get out of trouble can sometimes lead to more trouble. The things we don't say in an attempt not to hurt someone's feelings can come back to haunt us in ways we can't imagine. Let your conscience be your guide, but always do the right thing.

More later, but first a shout out to my new friend at Dyspathy - thanks for adding me to your links. It's quite the honor. VFTT readers, be sure to check out his site daily. You'll love every minute of it, and you might learn something too.

A View of The Pursuit

2009-07-04T15:11:00.005-04:00

I've been posting on Facebook a lot lately - catching up with old friends, making new ones, and having a good time. Most of the posts have been goofy - links to cartoon video clips, sharing favorite "Man Walks Into a Bar" jokes, taking crazy quizzes about what state you're destined to live in. Some, however, have had some substance to them.

Like today, for example. One of my posts was about the firing of Chief James Barren and the mayor's decision to replace him with Wayne County Sherrif Warren Evans. To many Detroiters (myself included), this is yet another signal that our mayor, Dave Bing, is not what he made himself out to be during the campaign. His staff appointments (keeping or rehiring many of former Mayor Kilpatrick's staffers), his seeming reluctance to make public statements about his plans for the city, his statement about not wanting Monica Conyers (the City Council member who pleaded guilty to felony conspiracy to commit bribery charges in Federal court) to resign, and his failure to visit victims of a recent mass shooting outside a local school until two days after the incident (even though a state appointed DPS financial manager showed up at local hospitals within minutes of the incident and detail plans to assist the victims and their families) have all been disappointing indications that our mayor is either overwhelmed by his duties or intentionally out of touch with the city and its citizens.

One of my friends called me and told me he'd seen the post, joking that he thought I was preparing to run for office. Another friend posted a half joking response - one he's posted before when I've talked local politics:

After I laughed, I posted a response which I think could be applicable to anyone who wants to make their government stronger. This response is geared toward Detroit politics and government, but it doesn't take much to adapt it to your corner of the world.

Can't say it too often. It's pretty clear that the majority of our elected officials are full of...well let's just say this town needs several enemas. Until that day, here's how we can clean things up.

Know your candidates. Unfortunately, the mayoral race is pretty much out of play because quality challengers decided to back out of the race in deference to Bing - a strategy that backfired. Still, we have a chance to make our City Council more effective in the next election. More important, we have the Charter Commission being formed - the right members can provide real reform to the city's government. Go to MiVote to learn about all the candidates and make an informed choice. (http://www.mivote.org/)

Get involved in your community - block club, neighborhood watch, PTA, whatever - if you're involved with your neighbors, then you're connected to your city's vitality. Even spreading the word about local affairs on your Facebook page keeps you connected. You've got to use what you've got to get what you want.

But wait, there's more. Do all you can - through your actions and words - to promote the idea that the revitalization of Detroit is a regional and statewide effort, not just the work of those of us who live in the city. To the rest of the country and the rest of the world, Michigan IS Detroit. Think about how we're being covered in the media. The auto crisis, out of control crime (that school shooting made national headlines), ineffective government and educational leadership - that's what the world sees when they see Detroit. We have to try to work together to make this area functional again. That means championing the area, encouraging honest government, and letting go of that city vs. suburbs mentality. It's not easy, but nothing worthwhile is.

That's the enema, don't you think?

Today is Independence Day, all about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. What's more revolutionary than making your world a better place?

More later. Until then, go be patriotic and start your pursuit. And check me out of Facebook. I'm always looking to make a new friend. Just click on the link to stop by and say hello.

A View of a Difficult Day

2009-06-25T20:55:00.006-04:00

Nothing helps ease the pain of grief like the joy of laughter.

"Speed Bump" by Michigan's own Dave Coverly is a great comic strip. Read, laugh, and share.

Today was a very difficult day.

It was one of the first things my boss said to me this morning. She's still coming to terms with the loss of her mother who died about two weeks ago. Her mother was an amazing woman - smart, funny, strong, and full of love. My boss is very much like her mother, and it's been hard to watch her cope with her loss. Today was especially difficult because she did something I've only seen or heard her do once before.

She began to cry. It was out of nowhere. She called this morning to check in and, as she ran through her schedule for the day, she noted that she had to go to the dentist for a routine cleaning. The appointment was always set up so that her mother would go at the same time for her cleaning. This was her first appointment alone in many years, and having to cancel her mother's appointment brought her to tears.

The difficult part was not the fact that she was crying, but that it felt like there was nothing I could do to help. She apologized to me for the tears, which almost made me cry. It felt as though I should be the one offering the apology for only being able to say, "Don't apologize, just let it out." It felt like more should be done. What, I don't know. I gave her a moment to pull herself together, to let the tears flow. She quickly pulled herself together, and we talked for a few more minutes about the day ahead, about her mom, and about moving forward.

The day didn't get much easier. It was an unspeakably hot day and no one could get comfortable in the office. Some were too hot, others were too cold - there was no middle ground. A training session to go over a new piece of office equipment got delayed because of a configuration issue. I was behind because my day started with my cable going out, which led to a much too long call to a customer service rep walking me through steps I'd done at least three times before calling before she finally announced that I needed a service call - what I asked for in the first place. I went out at lunch to buy some salad dressing for the salad I remembered to bring for lunch, only to discover that I'd left my bank card on my desk.

The day became even more difficult when I learned that Farrah Fawcett had died. When I was a kid, I dreamed of being Jill Munroe - complete with the flowing hair, flirty charm, and cool Mustang Cobra. Years later, it was a treat to discover she had true acting talent in work like "Extremities" and "The Burning Bed." I came to admire Farrah during her battle with cancer - she was kick ass enough to help catch health care workers leaking her medical information. Reading about her passing felt like a part of my childhood had gone. She was only 62 - much too young to be gone so soon.

Then I got home, turned on the TV and (before the cable went out - again) heard that Michael Jackson was in a coma. Then I heard that the hospital he was in was being closed off and crowds were gathering. Then I heard my mom through the ceiling.

"OH NO! NO, NO, NO!"

That's when I knew he was gone. Such a troubled life. Such sparkling talent. Such a sad, tragic death. I could tell by the sound of my mother's voice that she was about to cry. When she came to my front door ready for me to take her to work, the first thing out of her mouth was an apology.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I don't know why I'm crying." Then, after a second, I made a joke to help her pull herself together, and we went back to the routine of the day. On the ride to work, we listened to the radio for news about Michael's passing and talked about Farrah's death. I thought about my boss, who's in the midst of settling her mother's last affairs. I thought about the people left behind - how they must be feeling, the hurt they must feel, the love that my boss's mother, that Farrah, that Michael gave to everyone they touched.

And I tried not to cry. More later, but not before saying rest in peace.

A View of a Father's Day Tribute

2009-06-20T20:15:00.004-04:00

Happy Father's Day to all the dads out there and with love to my dad. I know you would've found this cartoon especially funny.

More later, now go bond with your kids.

A View of the Return

2009-06-16T14:50:00.006-04:00

Reading "Rhymes With Orange" won't reduce your clutter, but it will increase your laughter. Check it out.

I'm back! Yay!

You'd think that wallpaper stripping and painting one room would be a pretty straightforward job, right?

Not when you're in a 60+ year old home. It took two days to strip the wallpaper off the walls. It took a day to repair a section of plaster that buckled and crumbled as I stripped the wallpaper. It took three days and about 2.5 gallons of paint to cover the room. It took nine hours, three people (including an electrician), and just under $200 (payable to said electrician) to put up a new ceiling fan in the room because I found out the hard way that one wire can control lighting in at least two rooms. I'm still cleaning up the dust from the two days of wallpaper stripping. Flocked, gold foil wallpaper does not go out without a fight or leaving evidence of its existence behind in any way it can.

Anyway, the work is done (aside from the mopping) and the room looks 200% better than it did. Next up will be painting the ceilings and trim in my den, sewing room, and bedroom - but not until the fall. I need a vacation from the paint brush and I need a bit of time to take in some of the valuable lessons I learned as I prepped, primed, and painted.

You will go over your budget when you take on a DIY task. Accept it. Deal with it. Increase your credit limit. Things will go a lot smoother if you face this fact from the beginning.
A sander has the potential to maim until it completely stops running. I'll have a scar on my left index finger to remind me of that for the rest of my days.
A cat is more frightened by the sound of a sander than he is curious about how that funny colored liquid in the long pan tastes. (It took the cat about three times to learn this lesson for himself.)
You will never have enough paint. Accept it. Deal with it. Be ready to buy more. Things will go a lot smoother if you face this fact from the beginning.
When you move furniture, you will find items you lost long ago and forgot about or things you never knew you had. I discovered my ex-husband's favorite spot to stash his empty bottles of vodka (his liver must look like crispy bacon), about 30 assorted cat toys, two wall outlets I never knew about, and a layer of shedded cat fur that was roughly three inches thick under my china cabinet.
Someone will always have a suggestion on how to do some task better, faster, easier, or different - once you've completed said task. I heard about a gazillion tips about removing wallpaper from plaster after the last bit of paper was off the walls - and my finger was just beginning to heal from my run in with the sander. I got a suggestion to strip the paint off my windows and part of the ceiling "to let the wood show through" after the last coat was applied. I'm still hearing about how you never paint a ceiling any color except white, or little remarks like, "Wow, I didn't think that color would come out looking so nice...."
You will get paint on you in the most unexpected places. Doesn't matter how much clothing or protective gear you wear. Fortunately, latex paint washes right off.
It's hard work, but taking on a large task and finishing it gives one an enormous sense of pride and accomplishment. It feels good to have this project under my belt.

More later, and pics too, as soon as I stop being lazy, mop the floors and put down the rugs.

A View of a Dust Up

2009-05-27T22:49:00.006-04:00

This is going to be a quick post folks. I'm taking a bit of a vacation from the blog until the beginning of June. I'm taking down some old wallpaper that's hermetically sealed to my old ass plaster walls (it's on so tough, I have to take it down with a sander), and re-painting my dining room.

Here's something you won't learn watching the DIY Channel: If you hold that paper tiger long enough or inhale enough decades old flocked, gold foil wallpaper dust, you'll start babbling like the guy in this clip:

Do it yourself is great, but paying someone to do your dirty work is even greater. More later after the work is done and oh yeah, GO WINGS!

A View of "...and nothing but the truth"

2009-05-15T13:34:00.015-04:00

I invite you to check out "Rhymes With Orange" - a very funny and insightful strip by Hilary Price.

This comic and my adventures in online dating reminded me of those MadTV "Lowered Expectations" skits.

Click on the picture for one of the funnier clips.

A couple of posts back, I wrote about a buncha rules. Part of the post was about my attempts to get back into the dating scene. I included a portion of my online dating profile, which listed a sense of honesty as one my ideal man's must haves. My friend Blogs Browser, who always has some good insight, commented how that might be a turnoff for a potential date. "That thing of honesty is just a killer," he wrote. "It should not be in the profile. It should be presumed and so on."

It made me rethink my position. In many ways, he's right. A person should not have to say to another, "If you're going to be my friend, you have to be honest with me." That should be a behavioral given - something learned back in kindergarten right?

Not necessarily, and here's an example. In that post, I mentioned how one of my dates was with a guy who, as it turned out, was looking for recruits for a direct selling outfit to which he belonged. We met through an online dating site. His post mentioned nothing about recruiting. In fact, his post read a lot like mine. He was the pursuer, sending me a wink and a note first. In fact, I didn't see his profile until he sent me the note. We e-mailed each other several times for a couple of days, then decided to give each other a call. We talked several times for the remainder of that week. During our first conversation, he told me about the work he did with direct sales and gave a very brief sales pitch. I told him I wasn't interested and had no desire to sell. He said he understood and that it wouldn't come up again. On a later call, he asked if we could meet in person that weekend because I sounded like someone he wanted to get to know better. We met at a restaurant that Sunday evening.

We laughed, we talked, we flirted. It seemed like things were going fine until the sales pitch came up again. Again, I told him thanks but no thanks. Between my job, my volunteer work (both of which have non-solicitation policies), and my absolute aversion to selling, I just wasn't interested. Besides, if I ever wanted to go into independent business, I would work with my cousins who have a catering business rather than go to work for someone else. If I were go out completely on my own, I said, I would pursue my dream of writing. Direct selling was not the path for me, I told him. Ever.

Then came the million dollar jackpot question: I asked him point blank if that was a deal breaker. "Is the only reason you're seeing me tonight is to recruit me?"

No, he said. I think you're an attractive woman, he said. I want to get to know you better, he said. The topic didn't come up again for the rest of the night. We ended up spending about two hours at the restaurant, laughing, talking, flirting. The evening even ended with a kiss goodnight that he initiated, and a call to make sure I made it home okay.

He then asked me to meet him the following Tuesday. Sure enough, it was a recruitment meeting for his group. Keeping an open mind, I sat, listened, took notes, and watched the crowd through the entire meeting - about 90 minutes. When the meeting closed, I left.

"I thought this topic was closed," I said. "I'm still not interested. I will never be interested. This is not something I want to do, but I respect your passion for your work." I asked again if recruiting was the only reason he asked me out. I knew the answer at this point, but I was interested in hearing what he had to say.

No, he said. I think you're an attractive woman, he said. I want to get to know you better, he said. I thought you might change your mind once you saw this opportunity in person, he said. The evening ended with laughing, talking, flirting, but no kiss goodnight and a request for me to call him to let him know I made it home. Which I did and he kept very short.

Then I noticed that the frequent calls from my suitor changed to occasional text messages and maybe a call once or twice in a week. This was fine by me. The writing on the wall from this guy had said "she's a sales prospect" more than it ever said "she's dating potential." I also noticed the tone of the calls & texts went from "let's get to know each other" right into "how about a booty call" territory.

So I called his bluff. A couple of days ago, he sent a text that pretty much requested a one night stand. I texted back, "Okay. Name the day, name the date. I'm free when you are." His response?

"Ooh! I'm tellin' yo mama!" Just the answer you'd expect from a 40-something year-old man who asks for a no strings attached hook-up and gets "let's do it" as a response.

In my online profile, I say that I'm not looking for Prince Charming to sweep me off my feet, nor am I looking to marry. I'm just looking to date. A lot of time, both mine and his could've been saved if he'd just cut to the chase from the beginning. How hard is it to say this from jump:

"Look. I saw your profile online and was attracted. I'm looking for a no-strings attached arrangement. When we can hook-up, we can hook-up. If something else develops from this, cool. If not, cool. And, by the way, I have a great direct sales opportunity that I'd like to bring you into. Would you be interested in one or the other - preferably both?"

It's not hard to ask for what you want, especially if you're willing to accept that you can't always get what you want. Had this guy been up front from jump, he would've learned that I would've been okay with the occasional hook-up and not interested in the direct selling. If one had been contingent upon the other, then we'd be right where we are now - moving on and not hooking up.

That's an example of why my profile says a guy has to have a sense of honesty. It would be nice if one could presume it was there, but it's not always there. I suppose I could say "no games," but it's much more direct to say have a sense of honesty.

Plus saying "have a sense of honesty" is being, well, honest.

More later, and you can believe that. I wouldn't tell a lie. Especially on this point: Thanks for making me think, Blogs Browser. Your feedback keeps me thinking and on my toes.

A View of Maintaining A Healthy Level of Insanity

2009-05-13T11:23:00.008-04:00

This "Pearls Before Swine" strip is apropos of nothing. I just think it's hilarious.

This is an internet classic, but I have to post this because this blog has been so damn serious lately.

How to Maintain a Healthy Level of Insanity

1. At lunchtime, sit in your parked car with sunglasses on and point a hair dryer at passing cars. See if they slow down.

2. Page yourself over the intercom in your office. Don't disguise your voice.

3. Every time someone asks you to do something, ask, "Do you want fries with that?"

4. Put decaf in the coffeemaker for three weeks. Once everyone has gotten over their caffeine addictions, switch to espresso.

5. In the "Memo" field of all your checks write, "For Marijuana."

6. Skip down a busy hallway rather than walk and see how many looks you get.

7. Order a diet water whenever you go out to eat, with a serious face.

8. Specify that your drive-through order is to go.

9. Sing along at the opera.

10. Five days in advance, tell your friends you can't attend their party because you have a headache.

11. When your money comes out of the ATM, jump up and down and scream, "I Won! I Won!"

12. When leaving the zoo, start running towards the parking lot yelling, "RUN FOR YOUR LIVES! THEY'RE LOOSE!"

13. Tell your children over dinner, "Due to the economy, we're going to have to let one of you go."

14. At the pharmacy, pick up a box of condoms and ask the clerk where the fitting room is.

More later, because they're coming to take me away.

A View of a Buncha Rules

2009-05-12T11:14:00.008-04:00

Check out "Watch Your Head," drawn by Cory Thomas - it's one of my favorites.

Click on the comic for an intro to the cast of characters.

I've been trying to date again. Emphasis on trying. So far, it's been a bit of a comedy of errors. One guy seemed like he was into me, but it turned out that he was trying recruit me into some direct selling scheme. Another guy, with whom I connected through an online dating site, was great on e-mail and downright creepy over the phone. I've got profiles up on two online dating sites. Many have looked at it, but few have replied.

Perhaps it's because I have some ground rules. In my profile, I say a potential match should have a kind heart, a good sense of humor, an open mind, be intelligent, not be an ESPN junkie, and most important of all have a strong sense of honest. When I choose my ideal date's attributes, I say that the man should not smoke, not be in a current relationship or be "separated" (either you're married or you're not), and that I'm currently looking to date - not remarry. I didn't think I was asking for too much, but it seems I'm one of those females with a buncha rules.

I'm not happy with my dating life right now, but I'm not going to change what I want just to get a man. What will be will be. Until I meet the right person, I have my work, my family, my pets, and my volunteering - more than enough to keep me occupied and fulfilled.

Still, every once in a while when I'm home alone, I wonder about the rules I've set for myself, and the ones we set for ourselves. I wonder about the rules we set for relationships, for sexuality, for roles women and men play in our society. Take for example the rule that women need to preserve their sexuality, or that young women in particular should preserve their virginity lest they be labeled promiscuous or "slutty." I never understood the line of thinking that encourages males to have many partners and explore their sexuality because "boys will be boys," but castigates women if they do the same thing. Is the mindset that "good girls don't" healthy? And if "good girls don't," then why do we make sexual promiscuity so glamorous? Think about the images our celebrities - especially female celebrities - project. Look at a Beyonce or Ciara video, watch a show like "Dollhouse" (where a woman's memory is wiped so she can be made into "anything you want her to be"), thumb through any magazine and look at the advertisements. The conflict between being a "good girl" and being sexual (which is the equivalent of attractive in these ads) is a constant tug of war.

Jessica Valenti explores this dissonance in her book, "The Purity Myth." Valenti, founder and executive director of Feministing.com and author of "Full Frontal Feminism," believes that we are too harsh on women who are sexual and challenges the "lie of virginity." In the introduction of her book, she states that "(i)t's time to teach our daughters that their ability to be good people depends on being good people, not whether they're sexually active." She explores the current trend of purity balls (did you know that some of them are federally funded?), the pros and cons of abstinence only education, and how the sexual double standard is harming our young women.

I also thought about whether I'm being picky as a knee jerk reaction to the way my marriage ended. One night, I remember thinking that perhaps my ex cheated because I may have asked for it. Was I too rigid? Not good enough in bed? Too controlling? Not controlling enough? I fell asleep before I could let that line of self-doubt and self-pity run out of control. Still, if I'm feeling lonely enough, the question does creep into the back of my mind: Does a woman ever deserve to be cheated on?

Fortunately, there's a bigger and more sensible voice in the back of my head that answers that question with a confident and loud, "FUCK NO!" It is, however, a question that's come to the forefront lately because of the tempest in a teapot that is what I like to call "Jon & Kate Plus 8 Gate." Long story short: Boy meets girl, boy marries girl, boy and girl have kids, girl wants more, boy goes along, boy and girl have a litter, boy and girl exploit their brood via reality TV, girl turns into diva, boy slinks out in the middle of the night with younger girl.

There's a lot more to this story than the snarky thumbnail I've written, but this is the gist of the story. The ugly part of this story is not the allegations of infidelity (though, if true, is pretty ugly), but the scuttlebutt out on the blogosphere that Kate Gosselin deserved to be cheated on by her husband Jon because of the way she treated him on camera. The idea that a spouse or partner deserves or earns mistreatment because of one's behavior is reprehensible to me. If there's a problem in a relationship, then you talk it out. Go to counseling. Try to find the root cause of the problem and work it out. Or leave the relationship - no matter how painful that initial breakup may be. Seeking comfort outside of the relationship, establishing another relationship on the side, well that's just cowardly. Kids runaway and hide from problems. Grown-ups deal with them and work them out. I can understand the temptation to say that, if someone is not being kind or respectful to his or her partner, they deserve the hurt that infidelity brings. Two wrongs, however, don't make a right. Bad behavior needs to be identified and corrected on all sides.

I do hope Jon and Kate are able to work out their problems, especially for the sake of their children. I also hope they work on this off camera and in private. I hope that, if Jon is having an affair, he makes a choice - either end it and return to his family, or choose the other woman and be as amicable as possible during the divorce. I also hope that Kate learns to work on whatever issues she may have to improve herself and her relationship. I say may have because most of what the public sees is on a highly edited "reality" TV show produced for maximum impact, ratings and entertainment value. The only people who know what is really happening are Jon, Kate, and the other woman. If they do divorce, I hope Kate will be as amicable as possible during the process. Their children deserve a domestic situation with as much mutual respect, love and maturity between the adults as possible to ensure their mental health and emotional stability.

Man that's a buncha rules, isn't it? More later, after I try to set up another online date for myself.

A View of a Foul

2009-05-04T13:25:00.004-04:00

Gone, but not forgotten. "Citizen Dog" is now defunct, but you can find repeats at Comics.com.

In high school, one of my classmates was a basketball player who went on to be a moderately successful NBA player and local celebrity after he retired. Everyone knew him in our school because he was being courted by all sorts of scouts and schools. He was a basketball star. He had the potential to be a good student, but opted to be as dumb as a post up. Still, he got a pass from a lot of teachers because he was a basketball star. He constantly got in trouble, but he got a pass because he was a basketball star. He got a complete free ride to a major university, where again got into all sorts of trouble (both legal and academic), but got pass after pass because he was a basketball star. As a pro, he got into legal trouble several times but never really got into serious trouble because he was famous. He's had a couple of successful businesses here in the city, but has lost one or two because of money troubles. He's got health issues now, some of which can probably be linked to a history of drinking problems.

Another classmate of mine was also a basketball star. I know he went on to a successful collegiate basketball career, but I don't know if he became a pro player. He attended my high school because it had a strong basketball program - and the school accepted him because he was an exceptional young player perfect for a school looking to defend it's state title. He constantly got into trouble because he was a Jehovah's Witness - my school at the time was a Catholic school - and he got into fierce arguments with our Intro to Religion teacher over the subject matter. Intro to Religion was a requirement for all freshmen, but the school decided to waive it for him after about a month of constant "class disrupting" debate. The school described it as "a recognition of freedom of religion," but many of us knew he would've been expelled had he not been a strong basketball player.

I've thought about these two men after reading stories about troubled high school student athletes.

The first was a story about John Wall, an 18 year old student and "one of the nation's top uncommitted college (basketball) prospects" facing a misdemeanor charge of breaking and entering an unoccupied home in Raleigh, North Carolina. Mr. Wall, a student at Word of God Christian Academy, was being pursued by a number of colleges, like Duke, UNC, and Memphis because of his athletic ability. While the charges may be problematic, some scouts believe this will not have a negative impact on his basketball career. The school declined to comment on his arrest or the charges against him, asking reporters to "speak with his mother."

The second story was about Jeremy Tyler, a junior from San Diego who recently announced he plans to leave high school, skipping his senior year, to play professionally in Europe. He plans to return to the U.S. in time for the 2011 N.B.A. Draft. He hasn't signed with a team yet, but several teams are interested. He's the first student to skip high school to play professionally overseas, but he's not the first prep to pro player. That path was forged by players like Tracy McGrady, Kobe Bryant, LeBron James, and Dwight Howard. The N.B.A. passed a rule back in 2006 that established a minimum age for drafting players. It essentially makes a player attend one year of college before being eligible to play in the pros. Mr. Tyler has decided to go his own way and find away around the rule - seemingly with the blessing of his family.

The third story was about Renardo Sidney, a basketball All-American from Los Angeles, who had announced his decision to attend the University of Southern California (USC), only to end up signing with Mississippi State after USC rescinded its scholarship offer. Why? The school believed that the family was playing games with their money. The family, according to reports, "...moved multiple times and resided in upscale homes during Sidney's high school years; and steffather Renardo Sr. directed a club basketball team with financial backing that was unclear beyond a relatively modest shoe company sponsorship." Another source in the report said university officials felt the stepdad was expecting some form of compensation for his son to sign with the school. When asked to comment, the parents declined. Their lawyer spoke for them instead.

These stories bother me a great deal. Why would a young man with a promising future risk damaging his potential career by committing a crime? Why would a family willingly encourage a child to end his education? What kind of parent would use his child for his own financial gain? Or allow someone to use her child for personal financial gain? Why are we so willing to neglect the development of our children's character and integrity in the name of sport? Why do we not encourage the all around development of student athletes? Must the choice be academics or athleticism? Why can't it be both? How come our culture doesn't see the decisions made to promote sport over intellect in these young men, and the impacts of these decisions, as detrimental to their development? How come the families don't see this? Why are the adults in these situations not looking out for the best interests of these children?

I don't know much about basketball, but I do know a foul when I see one. More later, after a brief time out.

A View of Some Holy Bad Ideas

2009-04-10T12:46:00.007-04:00

I don't worship. I've written about that fact many times before. Still, that doesn't mean I don't shake my head and wonder what's wrong with people when I come across something that's disrespectful of religion.

For example, some people here in Detroit are upset because today is Opening Day for the Tigers. Some of the Motor City faithful had to choose between religious obligation or a Ball Park Frank. I didn't see this as particularly disrespectful. (Scroll down to #7 for the reference if you click on the preceeding link.) Opening Days come and go and a baseball season has, like, a gazilliondy games in a season. If you are truly faithful, then you go to church. If you aren't or are willing to ask for absolution, then you go to the game and attend an all night Easter Vigil or something. Pretty easy choice to me, right?

Some are still trying to find, shall I say, a blessed medium between the world ways and the Word. And it's not pretty. I mean, who thought turning the Passion of Christ into Twitter tweets was a good idea? Trinity Church, an Episcopal parish on Wall Street in lower Manhattan is offering this and a web version of the Stations of the Cross. Yet another reason to hate those folks on Wall Street, don't you think? This story outlines all sorts of ways churches are exploring creative Good Friday worship options. Not only are there Holy Twitterers out there, there's an interactive Stations of the Cross in downtown Santa Cruz, for those who may not be online.

If you are online, however, and too busy to go to church today, Easter Sunday, or any other Sunday, you can now rest easy. Discover Magazine's Discoblog (the name is kind of a sin in itself) discusses a monthly prayer subscription service available from Information Age Prayer. For a mere $4.95 a month, much less than your average collection plate donation or tithe, you can have your computer pray for you. The program offers four denominations - Catholic, Jewish, Protestant, or Muslim - and uses text-to-speech technology to say prayers in roughly the "same volume and speed as the average praying person." They also offer a variety of subscriptions covering the gamut from daily prayers to prayers for economic stability. No word on whether you have to make sure your Blackberry faces east or what happens to one's mortal soul if you lapse in subscription payments and get cut off from automated salvation.

Kind of makes a baseball game on Good Friday look harmless, doesn't it?

More later, after I quote what my Dad would've probably said about all of this: "Jesus wept."

UPDATE: One of my fondest memories as a child was going to see a musical called, "Your Arms Too Short To Box With God" with my family. The play, which came to town annually, was very entertaining. It told the story of Jesus's crucifixion and resurrection based on the book of Matthew. This was back in the days when African-American musical theater meant shows like "Timbuktu!," "Purlie," or "For Colored Girls...," not "Beauty Shop," "Madea Goes to Jail." Anyway, the part of "Arms" that stood out the most for me was when Jesus rose from the dead, and the resurrection portrayed with a joyous song called "Didn't I Tell You?" One year, we went with a neighbor who - upon seeing Jesus (who was played by a very attractive and well built dancer) come out on stage dancing regally - she exclaimed, "Oh my goodness! Jesus got muscles everywhere!" "Arms" is sadly no longer being produced, but Greater Grace Temple, a local megachurch is trying to fill the void left behind with its own passion play. "The Whip, Hammer, and Cross" has music, elaborate costumes, live animals, and an unfortunate title. I wonder if its Jesus has muscles everywhere, too?

A View of the TEM Knocked Up

2009-04-08T15:53:00.008-04:00

Hilary Price has a way with words and pictures - check out her strip, "Rhymes With Orange"

Where there's sex, there's bound to be pregnancy. The two are inextricably linked -the way nature intended.

I've talked about my decision not to have children here on VFTT before. I'm still happily childless - much to my mother's chagrin. I'm still defending my choice to those who either don't know me or are convinced that I'd change my mind once I birthed a mini-me. I take it in stride now, but I've often wondered how other women who have chosen to remain childless cope. Recently, I came across an article about a woman and her husband who have chosen not to have children. It struck a chord with me, and I found the comments quite fascinating. Check it out for yourself, whether or not you have kids. It's thought provoking.

Still, the need to procreate is strong. Mankind wouldn't exist if that need wasn't hardwired into us, and I admire most of those who want to be parents. Some, however, might take that need too far. Take, for example, Marissa Evans. Her son Nikolas died this weekend from injuries sustained in a fall outside of an Austin bar after being punched duing a bar fight late last month, but she didn't want to lose his potential grandchildren. She requested an emergency hearing in Travis County Probate Court to harvest her dead son's sperm in the hopes of creating the three boys he someday hoped to have. Judge Guy Herman ruled in her favor, ordering his body to be kept at the proper temperature to support harvesting of sperm within 24 hours of his removal from life support. Other organs and tissues will also be harvested for donation. There was no mention of a potential mother for these children in the article, nor have there been any arrests made in his assault. A bioethicist also noted that Texas state law is "unclear" as it relates to sperm donations. Despite these concerns and possible ethical issues, my heart breaks for his mother. "I want him to live on," she was quoted as saying. "I want to keep a piece of him."

The possibility of outliving a child I helped create is a horror I can't begin to imagine. It's still difficult for my mom to talk about my sister who died when she was a baby. Just as the need to procreate is hardwired into us, so is the need for the parent to nurture their children and protect them from harm. Julie Halpert wrote about the conflict between wanting to protect a child from hurt and the need to allow a child to grow into a thriving, independent adult in a recent Newsweek article. She chronicled her daughter Alyson's search for a college where she could be herself - and she learned to accept that her daughter was a lesbian at the same time. The entire process helped them both grow and become better people in the process.

"I think I'm going to end up being happy," Alyson says at the end of the article. Her mother agreed. They were happy with her choice of school. Mom was happy with her choice to accept her daughter as she was, not as she wanted her to be. Daughter was happy to find a place where she could thrive and that she still had her mother's love. That's how it should be. Love and and parenthood should be inextricably linked. Just like peace of mind and one's life choices - like the choice to have or not have children.

More later, because it's all about being happy.

A View of the TEM with Sex on the Brain

2009-04-06T16:06:00.014-04:00

Carol Lay is one of the wittiest comic artists around. Check her out at Salon or at her site, Way Lay.

One of the drawbacks to not being in a relationship is that needs just don't get met. This means I've been thinking about sex a lot. No matter who I try to get away from it, sex is there. It's like the horny elephant in the room that I can't ignore no matter how much I try. I'd like to think I can distract myself with something - anything - and the urge will go away.

I'd like to think that, but I also know that's a crock. Like poor Andy Stitzer, the more I try not to think about it, the more I'm unable to avoid it. Just try not thinking about sex when you're on the Internet. Don't get me wrong - I'm not a porn surfing nerdling at my desk. Just go to any news site, any entertainment page, or check out any blog and sex is all in your face.

I can take comfort in knowing that I'm not as desperate as Jason Leroy Savage. He let his needs overwhelm his common sense and it ended with him getting caught by Saginaw Police as he got all romantic at a car wash. With a vacuum cleaner. How sad is it when you have to pay for sex, and the only outlet that will take your money is a Max-Vac? He's now serving a 90-day jail sentence and will have to submit to drug testing. No word on if the Max-Vac is seeing anyone else.

I thought about going to a movie, but that's like going on a diet then living in a Dairy Queen for a week. Besides, the MPAA is a bit skittish about what you can and can't see on the big screen lately. Suppose, for example, I wanted to explore an alternative lifestyle and be first in line to see "Bruno," the new film Sasha Baron Cohen is planning to release in July. If that were my plan, I'd be just as frustrated and unfulfilled as I am right now because it's been slapped with an NC-17 rating. A similar scene in an Austin Powers movie is cool because it's in silhouette and with Heather Graham. A male nude wrestling scene in Mr. Cohen's previous smash, "Borat," is cool. But simulation out in the open is damaging - more damaging than any of the "Saw" films or Vin Diesel being allowed in a movie without the words "Iron" or "Giant" in the title.

Vin Diesel sucking helium? That's kind of hot. Damn, I need some release or some sort of distraction. I've got some friends I can text message. Maybe, if I play my cards right, I could get into some down & dirty sexting. It's okay for me to do it because I'm over 18. If I were a teenage girl, I'd be in danger of being slapped with a sexual abuse of a minor charge. Prosecutors across the country are going after teenage girls for sending naughty texts and pictures to their boyfriends. Because nothing says "sexual predator" like a 16-year old with a Sidekick or an iPhone you know. Three girls in northeastern Pennsylvania stood up to one overzealous agent of the courts who charged the girls with sexual abuse of a minor - even though they posed for pictures at a slumber party from the waist up wearing bras - and sued the prosecutor's office. The prosecutor stands by his decision to charge the girls, labeling the pictures "provocative."

I wonder what that prosecutor, who sounds like he's more sexually frustrated than I am, would've done had he been under the employ of the Oakland County Courts when angry parents demanded the closure of "Primal the Club," a teen dance club in South Lyon for hosting a bikini contest on March 28th. Girls as young as 16 could compete for $500 in prizes. No one under the age of 14 and over the age of 19 is allowed admission, but the club is like a mini Spring Break in training - offering non-alcoholic Jell-O shots and energy drinks to the partying teens until 1:00 a.m. Police informed parents that the club didn't break any laws, but that didn't calm down the outrage. Here's the funny part: The day I found this story, the banners on the website advertised a "Rock Girl" contest for a local radio station - complete with girls in bikinis posing provocatively with guitars. The teen club is in on the joke too - their website had a posting for a "Foam Party." I bet those parents are worked up into a lather over that one.

How many of those outraged adults go to the mall? Or to the beach in the summer? Or check their children's My Space or Facebook pages? The things they're liable to see in their kid's browsing history will make them as hot as their teenager - but their heat will be from anger or righteous indignation. Or maybe embarrassment over what their children are doing online - like the parents of a 14-year-old girl in New Jersey who posted over 30 nude pictures of herself on her MySpace page. She could be forced to register as a sex offender if she's convicted. I'm not saying that this girl should not be punished for posting the pictures, but I think a criminal record and a life sentence - which is what the sex offender registry amounts to - is the right approach here. That girl needs to learn about controlling her urges. How to respect her body. How what gets posted on the Internet never goes away. That family needs to address the climate in their dynamics that led to this young woman to believe it was appropriate - cool even - to post what the prosecutor described as "very explicit" photos of herself online. This child, this family and others like them need counseling - not a Scarlet Letter and a criminal history.

Let's just hope that the help doesn't go off the deep end - like the current "purity" movement that's starting to gain popularity. In case you haven't heard of it, the "purity" movement involves children, usually daughters, making a pledge to their parents, usually fathers, to preserve their virginity and abstain from any sexual contact until marriage. Jane Treays has explored the movement in a documentary called "The Virgin Daughters." The film, which aired in the U.K. last fall, follwed a group of fathers and daughters in Colorado Springs as they prepared to attend a purity ball. Here's the interesting part - one in six American girls makes a pledge to her father to remain a virgin until marriage, but there are no plans to air this documentary on this side of the pond in the near future.

A young girl in U.S. can go to a club and pose in a bikini contest - seeing the advertisement for that party on a site that promotes an adult bikini contest. A young girl can spend years of her life in beauty pageants made up to look like a mature woman at the behest of her mother. A young woman can pledge purity to her father in a ceremony that is this side of exploitation. A young woman be charged as a sexual predator for posing in a bra. That same young girl can go see Saw - if she hasn't seen it or something like it on cable or the Internet - and nobody is concerned about the impact.

Am I the only one who thinks this is screwed up?

I had to go and say screwed. Now I'm thinking about sex again. See what I mean? No matter where you turn, sex is all in your face.

More later, when I'm not so hot and bothered.

UPDATE: Looks like I'm not the only one with sex on the brain and screwed up thought processes. Read this posting from the Frisky about how thinking with the wrong head just leads to trouble.

A View of the Ten - D'oh! Stories

2009-03-27T16:09:00.025-04:00

It's amazing how many ways people find to be unspeakably stupid or completely insufferable. I came across these ten examples - posted in no particular order - as I surfed the web this week and thought I'd share them. Here's hoping they either make you smarter, make you laugh, or make you forget that I'm blowing off a blog entry with ten random posts. If I'm lucky, they'll do all of the above.

1) The NCAA is looking out for those of us who are flat broke but still want a good entertainment bargain. For the first time in the history of the men's tournament, they've authorized the sale of individual suite seats for the Final Four. One ticket, including snacks, is $1,495. Where's my checkbook?

2) As long as I'm shopping, I should prepare for the day I walk down that aisle for the third time. Once I meet Mr. Third Time's the Charm, I'm going to leave this story on his pillowcase about a $2,600 proposal cake. It's covered in 24k gold leaves and 15 African diamonds. As one of the commenters to this post said, buy me Duncan Hines and give me the $2,600 cash.

3) You'd have to be high to blow that kind of dough on some dough, so I should look into dating Method Man. Then again, he was so high he forgot to pay his income taxes. And his Lincoln Navigator was repossessed. The idea of him telling me, "Baby I'm smokin' your engagement ring," lets me know I'm much better off single.

4) At least Method Man has a fondness for illegal substances to blame for his behavior. Kanye West, excuse me, I mean Martin Louis the King is just a blithering idiot on general principle. But he's a blithering idiot willing to share his idiocy with us to take our minds off the fact that he could pop for that $1,500 Final Four suite ticket. He'd need to buy two - one for him and one for his out of control ego.

5) Remember when Kanye, Martin, whatever the hell was on "American Idol" a while back? His performance was described as being quite underwhelming - kind of fitting for an underwhelming show. The ratings are beginning to slip, so the show's producers are getting desperate. They've decided to add a "judges save" to the elimination show. This means that once the person who's been eilminated is announced, they are ordered by the judges to sing again and they'll decide whether or not to keep that person. This means a performer faces two rejections in less than five minutes. How come cruelty is considered entertainment in this culture?

6) Speaking of cruel, I can't think of anything more cruel than being unnecessarily denied the chance to say goodbye to someone you love. This happened in Plano, Texas to Ryan Moats on Thursday. He was racing to his mother-in-law's bedside as she lay dying at Baylor Regional Medical Center when he had the misfortune of rolling through a red light in front of Officer Robert Powell. After a twenty minute traffic stop in the hospital parking lot - a stop that included a drawn gun, and comments like "I can screw you over," he let Moats go. It was too late - he got to her bedside mintues after she died. The Dallas Police has issued an apology to Moats and his family and are "investigating" the matter, but nothing can be done to make up for that sort of loss.

7) Officer Powell's actions seemed to indicate that he gets off on the power to control others. To paraphrase a quote from one of my favorite movies, he got all officious and that's the curse of a government job. Trying to control others because of an internal God complex is not cool. Imposing one's beliefs on others is another example of that, as you'll see in this story about people up in arms because opening day for the Detroit Tigers falls on Good Friday. If your religious beliefs trump your desire to see a baseball game, then go to church - and don't judge others who feel otherwise. Getting all officious can also be the curse of religious self righteousness.

8) Speaking of religious self righteousness, folks at Notre Dame are getting their Fighting Irish up over an invitation extended to President Obama to speak at this year's graduation - keeping with the tradition of inviting new presidents to commencement ceremonies. The problem? Alumni are offended because of Obama's recent action to change stem cell research rules, support of international family planning, and his pro-choice beliefs. The majority of the students, even those who don't agree with his stance on these issues, are supportive of the invite and look forward to hearing him. Others are calling the invite " a public act of disobedience." Really? This made me think of a line from one of my favorite rap songs. Notre Dame alumni, you believe God is the one true judge. Chill, listen to him speak, and let your father do his job. I'm sure there's no sin in words of expression and encouragement from the POTUS.

9) Another line in the song I referenced above says you only live once and you're never coming back. Unless you're a cat - they get nine lives, you know. I'm not sure about dogs, but some say that dogs are heavenly because dog spelled backwards is god. Those fuzzy little companions may be like little angels to you, but a recent study points out that they also possess a bit of the devil in them too. Did you know that pets are responsible for 86,000 falls a year? "There are many benefits to pet ownership. But they can also be a hazard," said one of the authors of a study by the CDC. About 3 in every 10,000 pet owners suffer fall related injuries caused by Fido or Mr. Mittens. This can be especially hazardous to elderly women - the injury rate was higher for senior citizens, and women were twice as likely to be hurt as men. Great. Not only am I the Crazy Cat Lady, but now I have to worry about them going all Talky Tina on me if I skimp on the Friskies.

10) That gets me back to dating again. It would be nice to have someone special in my life, so I guess that means I'm going to have to get in the game. Still, the idea of dating drains me. The small talk, the getting to know you phase, the awkward chemistry - it can take a toll. If you've read my blog, you know I've had some bad dating and relationship experiences. None of them, however, have been as bad as this story I read a couple of days ago. It's enough to make me want to embrace my Crazy Cat Ladyness and stay inside. Even if it means being taken out by the Fuzzy Bunch.

More later, once I think of something else to write. If you have some dating tips for me, let me know.

A View of the Ten - Desert Island Songs

2009-03-24T12:54:00.007-04:00

I resisted the obvious pick. Click on the picture to see what it is.

If you were stranded on an island and could only have ten songs to listen to for the rest of your days (or until you were rescued), what would they be? It's tougher than you think to pick only ten songs. I got this from Facebook and thought it was fun, so I'm posting it here.

Choose wisely. Here's my list in no particular order. I've included video links to all of my picks if you want to hear the songs in their entirety.

1. Nessun Dorma, Luciano Pavarotti - the first time I heard him sing this, it brought me to tears
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VATmgtmR5o4

2. They Reminisce Over You (T.R.O.Y.), Pete Rock & C.L. Smooth - because the imagery would help me keep memories of my family close by
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FiOcVWQY2bc

3. For All We Know, Billie Holiday (from "Lady In Satin") - the perfect farewell song, beautifully sung
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=70bQgoBbwe8

4. Watermelon Man, Herbie Hancock (1973 "Headhunters" version) - I'd need one dance song
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jo5GcYeh7XA

5. As, Stevie Wonder - every time I hear that song, I feel uplifted
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KWhMyOs0pCQ

6. Round Midnight, any version by Thelonious Monk - a masterpiece of piano playing and composition
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OMmeNsmQaFw

7. Diminuendo and Crescendo in Blue - Duke Ellington & Paul Gonsalves (the 1956 Newport recording) - to keep my spirits and energy up
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GkElnIiE4U4

8. Fine & Mellow, Billie Holiday (from "The Sound of Jazz") - because her work with Lester Young on this track is the definition of true love
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_tNSp7MaADM

9. Rhapsody in Blue, George Gershwin - I've always had a soft spot in my heart for that song
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1U40xBSz6Dc

10. I'm Every Woman, Chaka Khan - they can't all be rocket science picks, and because I'd need an anthem if I'm stranded on an island by myself
http://www.dailymotion.com/video/xvl5i_chaka-khan-im-every-woman_music

More later, and be glad I didn't put this song on the list.

A View of Diversity

2009-03-23T15:23:00.008-04:00

There is one show on TV that has been diverse and inclusive for the entire duration of its run. A show that's truly color blind and open to any person no matter the physical, mental, or emotional challenge he or she may face.

That show is Sesame Street.

The people and Muppets there are welcoming to all, no matter what race, creed, color, fur, fuzz, or feather. Everyone's welcome and everyone's accepted.

Still, there are secrets about the Muppets that had to be told. How come Count von Count no longer has the power to hypnotize and stun people? Was Elmo really just a layabout until the early '80s? What is the Swedish Chef's real name? Which Muppet can not only beatbox, but does a really good Little Richard impression? You can find out these stories and more in this article.

You can also find out the truth about Grover's shocking cosmetic surgery, but if you want to know why Grover is bitter, you have to go here.

More later, after I get through reading about the original Street Gang.

A View of an Unfortunate Situation

2009-03-23T13:44:00.014-04:00

I don't watch a lot of TV.

Let me clarify. If I'm at home, the TV's on. I use my remote so much, I'm surprised it hasn't fused to my hand. But there are only a couple of shows I watch on regular basis. Right now, I'm hopelessly addicted to "Man vs. Food" and I have to confess I have a little crush on Adam Richman. I try not to miss an episode of "CBS Sunday Morning." I feel a bit smarter and sophisticated when I watch it. When my local PBS station decides to air it (damn they do a lot of pledge drives), I love "Antiques Roadshow." The stories and history behind the pieces fascinate me more than the worth of the items. Anything else on TV, I can take or leave. I flip back and forth from this show to that, never lingering for long on anything in particular. My defaults are Turner Classic Movies and Ovation, with a dash of TLC (love me some "What Not to Wear") and the Biography Channel - when they bother to show an interesting bio.

It's a pretty eclectic mix of shows. It's also a mix of shows with little diversity, and I find that fact frustrating. I'd love to add shows from BET to this mix, but BET lost it's relevance for me when they stopped showing classic black films and unceremoniously dumped Tavis Smiley, Ed Gordon and its nightly news years ago. My satellite TV service doesn't carry TVOne, but the few times I've caught shows on that channel it just seemed like a BET rehash. The website doesn't help to dispel that feeling. I was hoping to add David Alan Grier's "Chocolate News" or "D.L. Hughley Breaks the News" to my list of favorite shows, but they've been dropped by Comedy Central and CNN respectively. Before he died, I loved Bernie Mac's show - when I could find it. I have no idea if "Everybody Hates Chris" is still on the air.

If I want to support black TV on a regular basis, it seems my only option is Tyler Perry.

Oh, my.

Here's my problem with that. While I'm happy that Mr. Perry is a successful African American entertainment figure, I cringe every time his Madea character comes on the screen. (I'm so over the black man as Jemima 2.0, but looking at the success of Madea's movies it appears I'm in the - ahem - minority. Even Mr. Perry is reluctant to let her go because of her success.) While I'm happy he's been able to put African American actors and people of color from all aspects of the entertainment industry to work, I'm disappointed that this work comes in such broad, borderline offensive material. While I'm happy he's showing Hollywood that there is an African American audience desperate for entertainment that speaks to them, I'm frustrated that he seems to be the only voice Hollywood is willing to hear. Others feel the same way, according to recent articles in Entertainment Weekly and the New York Times about Mr. Perry's work and the lack of diversity on the air.

"People feel the images (in Tyler Perry's movies) are very stereotypical, and black people are frustrated because they feel we should be more evolved," Viola Davis, an Oscar nominated actress who recently worked with Mr. Perry said in the Entertainment Weekly article. "But there are very few black images in Hollywood, so black people are going to his movies. That's the dichotomy. Tyler Perry is making money." Larry Wilmore, a contributor to "The Daily Show with Jon Stewart" and an executive producer for "The Bernie Mac Show" talked about his frustration with network TV, but said he didn't feel as though there was an orchestrated effort to keep people of color off the air.

"I don't think there is anything sinister going on. It's just an unfortunate situation," he said.

In the New York Times report, they noted Fox was "considering" a sitcom featuring Daryl "Chill" Mitchell and Michael Strahan. ABC is considering a pilot with Cedric the Entertainer. CBS is casting LL Cool J in a spinoff of "NCIS." That's three potential shows on three networks. Three. Gee, could they spare the room? It's an unfortunate situation.

The only greenlighted show it noted featuring people of color is on Fox: "The Cleveland Show," an animated spinoff of "Family Guy." It gets better. The character of Cleveland has been, and will continue to be, voiced by Mike Henry, who is white. The show will have a white, redneck neighbor voiced by Kevin Michael Richardson, who is African American. The only greenlighted new show is an animated Amos & Andy rehash. It's just an unfortunate situation.

More later, after I try to figure out why "Tyler Perry's House of Payne" isn't considered a setback and "Amos & Andy" is.

In the meantime, check out "Dhani Tackles the Globe" on the Travel Channel. Write to Comedy Central and CNN to ask them why they cancelled "Chocolate News" and "D.L. Hughley Breaks the News." Watch Tavis Smiley's show on PBS. Please watch "The #1 Ladies Detective Agency" when it premieres on HBO on March 29th. Go out and buy movies by Charles Burnett, Julie Dash, Oscar Micheaux - any positive African American writer, director, producer, or filmmaker you can find. Go see "Medicine for Melancholy" when it comes to your town - or better yet, buy it when it comes out on DVD or to your cable station's Pay Per View channels. Write NPR and ask them why they cancelled "News and Notes" - one of the only African American based shows of color on public radio - and then ask what will be the replacement. Let's try to make an unfortunate situation fortunate.

A View of Something Shocking

2009-03-16T13:45:00.015-04:00

I don't know about you, but I've been shocked, shocked by some things I've seen in the paper, on the news and posted on the Web lately.

For example, I'm shocked, shocked that the feds still haven't brought charges against any of our crooked local officials. Isn't the federal govenment usually more efficient and organized in their crime fighting efforts than they have been in these cases? Here's something that's shocking: Cops in a Texas-Louisiana border are robbing African-Americans blind simply because they can. A suit has been filed in U.S. District Court. Let's hope the courts do the right thing and not drag their feet the way fed investigators have with our local investigations.

I'm shocked, shocked that teens are being treated as dangerous criminals for "sexting." I'm also shocked that it only seems to be girls who are sending the naughty messages. Boys don't get dirty with a cell phone? Really? Making a teenager a sex offender for talking dirty or sending a picture of themselves to another teenager seems to me to be a complete misuse of sex offender registries and our criminal system's resources. You know what's shocking? That LGBT teenagers are still being forced to deny who they are simply because close-minded adults can't handle the fact that there are LGBT teenagers. Or that some girls simply may not want to wear a dress to the prom, no matter what their sexuality may be.

I'm shocked, shocked that Bristol Palin, the poster child for why abstinence only sex ed for teens is not the answer, and her boyfriend Levi Johnston broke up after a fight. Teenage pregnancy is hard enough without adding a shotgun wedding to the mix. Still, hope springs eternal and maybe those crazy kids will make it work one of these days. I'll tell you what's shocking: Hair extensions for babies. Because, you know, no fashionable baby will be caught dead in heels nowadays. What the hell....

I'm shocked, shocked that Republicans - so outraged by the earmarks in the recently passed spending bill - are getting 40% of them for their states. What's shocking is that I had to find this story on the CBC News website. How about some outrage about Republicans riding the earmark gravy train instead of falling back on the tired "flip-flop" argument, Fox News?

I'm shocked, shocked by the news that AIG got the financial hook-up - again. The company's actions were a major contributor to the current financial crisis, and their punishment is more money. See kids, sometimes crime does pay. I find it very shocking that workers who gave their lives and careers to a company like Delphi and were promised retiree benefits got screwed over. Again. The ones who need the bailout are getting buried by corporate greed and mismanagement.

I'm shocked, shocked that Detroit city leaders are still determined to be as divisive as ever when it comes to developing a regional plan for attracting business. I'm also shocked, shocked that they're using religion and race as their hold cards in the fight to keep Detroit as underdeveloped and irrelevant on a national scale as ever. What's shocking is that Detroit doesn't seem to have a lock on jaw-droppingly dumb political leaders as this story about work on a bestiality ban in Florida will show. The quotes from Larcenia Bullard will shock you, almost as much as the fact that 16 states still permit bestiality. What the hell....

More later, but right now I'm too shocked to continue.

A View of L-I-V-E

2009-03-12T19:46:00.010-04:00

"A lot of people enjoy being dead. But they are not dead, really. They're just backing away from life. Reach out. Take a chance. Get hurt even. But play as well as you can. Go team, go! Give me an L! Give me an I! Give me a V! Give me an E! L-I-V-E! LIVE! Otherwise, you got nothing to talk about in the locker room."

It was a circle of life sort of day for me today. One of my co-workers brought her brand new twins to work for everyone to see, and they were amazingly beautiful. A chubby cheeked boy and a rosy cheeked girl, two months old. Mom was glowing - she said she gained 40 pounds during her pregnancy and lost 45. It was a beautiful scene - people standing in our foyer admiring new life, Mom beaming proudly over her bundles of joy and talking about how her husband's fallen madly in love with his babies, everyone smiling and talking in joyous but hushed tones so as not to wake the children.

Their appearance helped cut the some of the sadness that had been lingering in the office the past few days. One of our fellow staff members who'd been battling an aggressive terminal illness died over the weekend. His memorial service was today. Just steps away from the staff members cooing over new life were other staff members preparing to pay their respects for a life tragically lost. As some smiled at a sleeping baby, others wiped away tears for a friend now in eternal rest. I went in the afternoon with a couple of friends. On the way there and back, we talked about loss, the young children our colleague left behind, and the shock of losing someone who had seemed so healthy just a few months ago.

Earlier in the morning, before the babies and well before the funeral home visit, another friend at work told me her family dog - old and sick for a long time - will have to be euthanzied tomorrow. She said she's not sad about what will happen because the dog is suffering and it's time for her hurting to end. "It'll hit me when I go to pet a shadow - when I expect her to be by my side and she's not," she said. It made me think of the cats I've loved and are no longer with me. It's amazing how much love one can have for a pet, but at the same time it's amazing how much love a pet can have for us.

Love. Life. Loss. It is the eternal story. We're here a brief time, then we're gone. It's what we do in between the start and the finish that's important. I thought about that as I watched those babies and saw that proud mom's smile. I thought about that when my friend talked about preparing to help her four legged friend, even though it means saying goodbye for good. I thought about that as I walked into the chapel this afternoon and saw loving photo montages that chronicled the life of my colleague - his family, his wife - so happy he's no longer suffering but so heartbroken that he's gone - his children, his friends. All of it spoke volumes - life is about what you do and how you do it, not what you have and how much of it.

It's also about how you prepare to go, too. My co-worker's wife is a nurse and she talked about how he fought his illness so bravely and so hard. He never gave up hope. Still, she confessed she'd been afraid of the possibility of having to see him carried away in a body bag, or the indignities that come with a final push to save a person who is in the final throes of death. "I see that so much in my line of work," she said. "I didn't want to see him have to go through that. Not after fighting so hard."

And living so fully. The chapel was full of people who loved him, just like that foyer was full of people who loved those babies and the joy they brung. Just like my friend preparing to say goodbye to her beloved dog - a lifelong companion. It's all about life, folks. Life, love and loss. Go out and live. Love everyone who comes your way. Don't be afraid of loss. As a matter of fact prepare for it - it's a true act of kindness for those you love and for those who need love. And always, always sing out and be free.

More later, after I take a breath of fire.

A View of Heartthrobs and Heartbreakers

2009-03-11T12:23:00.023-04:00

I'm aware of three famous men who made my mom squeal.

The first was Prince.

She was cuckoo for that little man. When I see Prince, I think of pancakes and late nights with camels. Not Mom. She just swooned. To this day, my sister and I joke about how, back in the late 80's, she spent the night in a line for tickets (something she'd never done before) outside the Fisher Building - sending for us in the middle of the night because of rumors of ticket purchase limits. "Go get the girls," she ordered my stepdad, "NOW." He got us alright. Out we went to wait in line sporting pajamas, fuzzy house shoes and rollers in our hair - joining him in worn out sweats and sleep in his eye. At the concert, she stood up on her seat, dancing and swaying and damn near fainting when he took off his suit jacket. "OH MY LORD, HE'S TAKING HIS CLOTHES OFF!!!!" she screamed, giggling like a schoolgirl swooning over her first crush. She now says the thrill is gone, but I bet if he were to launch into a quick split and gyration in front of her, she'd swoon again.

The second was Chuck Jackson.

Click on the picture to see a clip of him performing.

He's a wonderful R&B singer from the '60s who didn't get as much noteriety as his talent deserved. He's best known for his cover of the Bachrach & Hilliard classic, "Any Day Now." She told me once about how my grandfather introduced her to him at the old 20 Grand Theatre. She was so excited to meet him, she fell off her barstool (without the benefit of liquid courage because she was underage) when he extended his hand to shake hers. She still blushes and smiles when you say his name or play one of his songs. Looking at his picture and hearing his voice, I can't help but blush myself.

The third was Dave Bing.

I don't remember if it was the young Dave or the older Dave who made her heart skip a beat, but skip it did. I'm thinking it was the older Dave because she talked about how distinguished he looked. Distinguished was a good word. He had a sterling reputation, both on the basketball court in college with Syracuse and as a Hall of Fame stand out with the Detroit Pistons, and in the local business community as founder and head of The Bing Group.

As a matter of fact, his reputation was so outstanding that many felt he would be the perfect choice to clean up the mess that is Detroit city government. Well spoken, charming, successful businessman (how many politicians can truly say they created jobs after all), smart, above the buffoonish nonsense that defines the actions of so many of the area's leaders - he seemed to have it all. After a long deliberation, he decided to run for mayor and Detroit swooned.

Then came the morning after. Reports about safety violations at his plants and fines of up to $200 grand surfaced. Then Bing, who'd been critical of the divisive atmosphere that permeates Detroit politics, began a negative campaign against current mayor Ken Cockrel, Jr., escalating the attack when the deal to regionalize Cobo Hall fell through. Then criticism about his residency came to the forefront. Mr. Bing maintains a residence in a gated community in Franklin, a Detroit suburb. His wife still lives there - some whisper that she refuses to move to Detroit. He bought a condo in downtown Detroit shortly before filing campaign papers and announcing his run for office. Prior to that purchase, he hadn't lived in Detroit for over 30 years, prompting critics to call him a "carpetbagger" who "doesn't love the city."

His behavior and the reports disappointed my mom. She expected him to not fall into negative campaigning and remain above reproach as he ran for mayor, but wasn't surprised because campaigning is never pretty. Still, she held out hope that the Dave Bing she admired would come to the surface.

Well, this morning reports surfaced that not only did Mr. Bing lie about when he earned his bachelor's degree - which in and of itself would've been disappointing but not too surprising - he lied about earning a master's degree. "I felt I had an MBA for the work I had done in the industry I was in," Bing is quoted as saying.

Fair enough. He's worked hard and long in the automotive supply business for years. That sort of hands on experience is the equivalent of any college study. But for a man campaigning on a pledge to bring integrity back to Detroit's city government, lying about any portion of his background is not the way to establish a base of trust and honesty with the voting public. The news broke my mom's heart. Broke mine too, along with a lot of his supporters.

He was a heartthrob, and now he's breaking hearts. This morning's news was pretty depressing, and that's a heartbreaker too. Literally. A recent report in USA Today discussed a study by Washington University and the VA Medical Center in St. Louis. Researchers followed 1,200 middle aged men to see whether or not there was a genetic link between depression and heart disease. They found that depression almost doubles the risk of heart disease. More follow up study is needed, especially to see if the link is the same in women.

Until that follow up study is done, I'm keeping my mom away from any news about Dave Bing. I'll fill that time with a steady dose of "Purple Rain" and Chuck Jackson records.

More later. In the meantime, maybe I should see a wizard or something. Then again, they aren't all they're cracked up to be either.

A View of a Jaw Breaker

2009-03-10T22:39:00.012-04:00

A round of applause for Jay Leno please.

I'm not a big fan of his, but I've gained some respect for him after he announced he's coming to Detroit to give a free concert for unemployed auto workers here on April 7th.

He's no stranger to the area. He's an avid car collector. He filmed a movie here way back in the day (it wasn't the best movie, but he did it before filming in Detroit was cool - and profitable for film companies). He recently performed at Caesar's Windsor. He's doing the area a solid with a goodwill gesture to help take everyone's minds off the mounting job losses and seemingly inevitable collapse of the American auto industry as we know it. Whether or not you're a fan of his, you have to appreciate his kindness and thoughtfulness right?

Not if you're a Detroit city council member. Rather than thank Mr. Leno for trying to cheer up the area's citizens (and their constituents), Martha Reeves and Monica Conyers decided it's best to bitch and moan about him performing at the Palace of Auburn Hills - located about 30 miles north of downtown Detroit. Logistically, it makes sense. It's the largest venue in the area with easy access to freeways and parking. The Detroit Pistons are donating the use of the venue and parking will be free. And there's a small group of people who are going to be wrapping up usage of all the other Detroit facilities that week. You'd think those Final Four folks could skedaddle out of town sooner, but maybe they want to stick around for the three ring circus that is Detroit city government.

The lack of gratitude and the complete ineptitude displayed Detroit's City Council members like Ms. Conyers and Ms. Reeves is jaw dropping.

I think I know the reason he won't come into the city limits for the concert - Branford doesn't know how to play "Singin' In the Rain."

More later, but let me endorse a candidate for the council. I think he'll fit right in.

UPDATE: L. Brooks Patterson, Oakland County Executive, is a Republican. Someone needs to point out to him that his party's mascot is the elephant, not the jackass he's determined to be. It's bad enough that Detroit's city officials are an embarrassment. Must he be a slack jawed yokel too? (When you click on the link, be sure to watch the video. It's funnier than anything Leno's team could've scripted.)

A View of Old Folks, Monkeys, and Fools

2009-03-10T15:23:00.019-04:00

Monkeys as Judges of Art - Gabriel Cornelius von Max (Oil on canvas, 1889)

Click on the painting for a comparative analysis of the piece.

One of my grandmother's favorite sayings was, "God looks out for old folks, monkeys, and fools." Any time someone did something incredibly stupid or some tragic story about the elderly was reported, you were bound to hear this from her. It came to mind as I read and heard the stories that make up this post.

Let's start with the old folks, shall we? One of my favorite memories of my grandmother was how she'd watch my cousins, sister, and I dance. She'd join in, often dancing better than all of us, smiling and telling us how are dances weren't new. "Hell, we did that when I was a kid. That ain't nothin' but the mess around. Let me show you how to really do that!" Then off she'd go, grinning and bouncing to the music, hands on her hips, head thrown back, dancing with unadulterated joy. She danced until she was physically unable to dance any more, but that didn't stop her from tapping her feet in her wheelchair, or singing songs when the mood struck.

I thought about that and teared up remembering how much fun we had watching her show us how to really do that dance when I watched this clip of The Greater Travelers Rest Baptist Church's anniversary celebration that landed in my e-mail a couple of weeks ago. The dancing starts in about 2:50 into the clip, but you might want to watch this from the beginning for the full effect. If you want to see ageless joy, then pay attention to the ladies in the aisles swaying to Sam Cooke or the deacon putting it down to "My Girl."

Some of the comments on that clip's website talked about how dancing in church is a sin. Come on. There's no sin in moving your body, no matter how old you are. What is a sin is the way we assume that people are too old to dance or be physical. Old folks are just that - folks. They are folks with moods, needs, desires, and drives. If Grandma and Grandpa still feel like slow dancing and getting frisky, then put on the slow jams and light some candles for them. They are living life to the fullest. Not everyone feels this way, and it's led to the elderly sometimes feeling uncomfortable discussing their sexuality. That's leading to the real sin - a growing risk of sexually transmitted diseases like HIV in people over 50 according to a recently published World Health Organization study. This age group is more likely to engage in unprotected sex - there's no fear of pregnancy, so there's no urgency for birth control - and drugs like Viagra are extending sex lives. Screening for STDs is less common for older people because doctors assume that Grandma and Grandpa no longer get busy. Here's the truly sad part - the life expectancy of a person over age 65 with HIV is only four years.

Did you know that HIV has its origins in a strain of a Simian Immunodeficiency Virus? Some folks cling to the foolish belief that man contracted the disease after intimate contact with a monkey. That's not true. There are several theories about how SIV mutated into HIV, from possible contamination of the polio vaccine during testing in the Belgian Congo, to the hunt and consumption of primate meat, to the usual crackpot conspiracy theories. Whatever the case, the disease has its roots in primates.

Have you noticed how many stories there are about monkeys and other primates in the news lately? Primates are pissed off, y'all. Everyone knows the story about the chimp in Connecticut who mauled a woman in a sudden, vicious attack. The woman lived - barely. She lost both her hands, her nose, lips, and eyelids, lost the bone structure to her face, and may possibly be blind and suffering brain damaged. All this from a chimp who was thought to be domesticated and had been featured in TV commercials. The 200-pound chimp had to be killed and the chimp's owner may face criminal charges.

Two Monkeys Stealing Fruit From a Basket - Frans Snyders (Oil on canvas, 17th century)
Click on the painting to learn more about the work.

Many reports and the chimp's owner believed the attack was spontaneous and random. Maybe. Then again, if you believe recent news reports the attack may have been premeditated. Santino, a 30 year old chimp in Switzerland, decided to defend his territory from visitors he felt were encroaching. On a daily basis, he collects an arsenal of rocks and bits of concrete to fling at the tresspassers. He throws the weapons underhanded in rapid succession, sometimes hitting targets as far as 30 feet away. He's been doing this since he was about 16 years old.

He may not be the only one. A report in Newsweek points out evidence of capuchin monkeys sorting through rocks to find the best ones for use as tools. The report even includes a link to video of the monkeys at work. I don't have any video of Santino at work, but that may be due to the fact that while he has a good plan, he doesn't have much follow through. Santino's aim isn't so hot - for now anyway.

Ineffective follow through brings me to the fools, and if you live in Detroit, there's nothing more foolish than our city's government. Between our disgraced ex-mayor playing textual healing with at least five women (none of whom were his wife), his top staff behaving like petulant children on city owned two way pagers, a city council battling to keep control of a decaying convention center the city cannot afford to maintain - much less repair, the council president swearing recent leaks that damaged some hot rods on display at the center over the weekend is a "conspiracy," and another council member breaking into a chorus of "Onward Christian Soldiers" during a council meeting, our city's leaders are as ineffective as Santino's aim, and as embarrassing as walking in on Grandma and Grandpa doing something freaky.

On the bright side, watching a council meeting is, as my grandmother would say, more fun than a barrel of monkeys.

More later, after I rock with Dr. Zaius.

A View of Love is a Battlefield

2009-03-05T12:03:00.010-05:00

I wonder if the justices on the California Supreme Court, who are hearing arguments regarding an appeal of Proposition 8 which banned gay marriage, are fans of "The Bachelor."

If they are, then they have to be aware of the raging controversy about Jason Mesnick's decision to dump one love match for another. On national TV. Maybe it was about love, maybe it was about ratings, maybe the two concepts were (ahem) married - albeit unhappily - in his mind and he was just confused. ABC, the network that airs the show, also feel a bit used and rejected because they swear they weren't in on or influenced his decision.

Whatever the case, he's now made his choice and is now free to live happily ever after with his new love. (For the record, happily ever after for the average "Bachelor" is less than a year.)

Love is a battlefield. If the justices on the California Supreme Court didn't know that before, then should know it now if they watched "The Bachelor" at all this week. I'm betting the roughly 1,000 people who protested in front of the San Francisco Civic Center Plaza, some who showed up as early as 5:00 a.m. , know this. I'm betting the dozens who lined up outside of the California Supreme Court building this morning to get a seat in chambers to hear the court challenge to Proposition 8 know this. I'm sure La Kia Hammond, and her former partner, who had to fight for the right to divorce all the way to New Jersey's Superior Court, and the other woman Ms. Hammond now wants to marry knows this.

If we can tolerate and accept a show that turns the concept of love and marriage into a game show; if we can view a man - with a child in tow (interesting how nobody's talking about the impact of all this on his son) - can use network television to humiliate one woman in the name of love for another; if we can encourage the humiliated woman to turn around and go on another TV show and repeat the process; and if we can accept the concept of a show with a disastrous record of matchmaking as the current standard of love, marriage, and happily ever after; then why can't we accept the fact that couples who are willing to fight as hard and as long as they can for love deserve the right to marry? What those couples do in their bedrooms is a moot point. Whether or not those relationships last is a moot point - especially in the light of the tempest in a teapot that is "The Bachelor."

Love is a battlefield. To deny a chance at a legally sanctioned happily ever after to a group of people because we don't like what they do is the equivalent of a fixed fight - and that's unfair. I hope the justices on California's Supreme Court watched the people fighting for their civil rights and do the right thing, rather than watch a fixed fight on a reality TV show.

More later, and let's keep fighting the good fight.

A View of No Brains On Drugs

2009-03-04T21:30:00.013-05:00

One more rocket scientist story for you.

I've told you all about my adventures with crazy ass seven month old kitten since he turned on the cute and got me to adopt him. Just last night he almost wrecked my bedroom (again) when he got hung up in the handle of a shopping bag and got stuck under my bed trying to get free. When I got him out, the first thing he did was try to dive back in the bag. He's hyper as hell. In one post, I even joked about getting him a catnip bong.

Well, a genius in Nebraska, fed up with the antics of his kitten fired up a homemade bong. With the cat in it. To "calm it down." Says he's done it several times because she was "high strung."

Acea Schomaker has been charged with drug possession and could be charged with animal cruelty. Shadow the kitten is in the custody of the local animal control office and is doing fine.

More later, and just say no folks. Cats too.

A View of All Head and No Brain

2009-03-04T15:47:00.016-05:00

We've got some rocket scientists among us.

Like the Detroit firefighter who learned the hard way that leaving a towel over a lamp and incense lit unsupervised while out on a call was not smart. He and his unit came back from putting out a fire to find their station on fire. They would've put out the fire themselves, but they did not have an engine - it had been decommissioned due to budget cuts. The station - including our rocket scientist's bible, incense, and lamp - was a total loss.

Or the bus driver in D.C. who thought it would be "funny" to beat up McGruff the Crime Dog. D.C. Police officer Tyrone Hardy (who undoubtedly drew the short straw during morning report) was in the McGruff costume passing out fliers to children on a northwest Washington street corner last Saturday afternoon when bus driver Shawn Brim, 38, rolled up on the scene. He stepped out of his bus, adjusted his sideview mirrors, then punched McGruff in the face. Officer Hardy never saw the punch coming because the costume's head blocked a clear view. As Officer Hardy reeled from the sucker punch, and the children on the scene and the passengers on his bus screamed and yelled at him (oh yeah, forgot to mention he was on the city clock - just like Officer Hardy), he hopped back into the driver's seat and drove off. Officer Hardy was fine, only suffering a swollen right cheek. Brim, who's been arrested in the past for PCP possession, prostitution, and gun possession was later arrested and charged with simple assault.

What about Jeff Eldridge of West Virginia's Lincoln County? He's decided that his state should celebrate Barbie's 50th anniversary on March 9th by kicking her out of town. Mr. Eldridge's bass ackwardness has a basis in logic. He feels toys like Barbie dolls influence girls to place too much of an emphasis on physical beauty at the expense of their intellectual and emotional development. "I knew a lot of people were going to joke about it and poke fun at me," he said. None of his fellow delegates would sign on the bill with him, but he pledged to go forward with the bill. Good luck with that. I'm sure the citizens of West Virginia are grateful he's concentrating on a parent's right to buy a toy and not frivolous nonsense like crime, economy, or court reform in the state. I'm just sayin'....

More later, but not before I leave the last word to someone who can sum up my thoughts on all of this a lot better than I ever could.

UPDATE: Barbie's going to rock a tramp stamp this spring, y'all. Now I understand why they don't want her in West Virginia. Nobody gets inked up there because it cuts in on precious tanning booth time.

ANOTHER UPDATE: Detroit City Council is working overtime to show the world that they are without a doubt the dumbest, most embarassing governing body in the world with their antics at their meeting this evening. The previous title holder has some work to do to catch up.

A View of the Devil

2009-03-02T16:12:00.010-05:00

Mornings are evil. They start too early and always right at the moment where sleep is getting really good.

I try and delay the start of my mornings by playing the snooze alarm game, but it's a futile effort. Plus my kitten Muffin is determined to wake me up at the crack of dawn. Once I'm up mind you, he wants nothing to do with me. The fun for him is trying to wake me up.

Muffin and the alarm clock are the tools of the Devil.

So I'm up this morning earlier than I want to be, getting dressed and watching my furry little spawn of Satan play with a pop bottle top when I hear the weekly exercise segment wrap up on the morning news show I watch as I get ready for work. A much too perky reporter whose name reminds me of hair spray spent about three minutes flinging around some sort of torture device called a kettlebell, gleeful about how it stretched her obliques. The segment is followed by a commercial for Dunkin Donuts.

Who else but Satan would follow up an exercise segment with an appeal for you to consume sugary fried dough?

I kept getting dressed, still cranky about it being morning, still cranky about my crazy early riser cat, and now cranky because I didn't have donut. Then the next story confirmed my suspicions - the Devil is taking over. As a matter of fact, the eyes of Devil are watching over Detroit's freeways.

If you click on the eyes, you can see footage of the Devil!

Behold the eyes of EVIL. They are creeping out the Motor City's drivers. A local minister is threatening to start a petition drive to get MGM to take down the billboards. One of our City Council members, Alberta Tinsley-Talabi, is also ready to take on this crusade to save Detroit from this EVIL, declaring them "sinister."

I wonder if these "sinister" billboards with the demon eyes are what made Ms. Tinsley-Talabi flip her vote on a deal to transfer Cobo Hall to a regional authority. This deal would have taken a long standing financial liability off Detroit's books, led to a much needed renovation of the downtown Detroit convention center, generated much needed revenue for the region, helped ensure that the annual North American International Auto Show would remain in Detroit, and helped foster much needed goodwill and cooperation between Detroit and the rest of southeastern Michigan. Instead of backing the deal as she originally did, Ms. Tinsley-Talabi fell in with fellow City Council hell raisers Barbara-Rose Collins, Martha Reeves, JoAnn Watson and the Motor City's own personal Devil, Monica Conyers in killing the deal. The reason? They wanted to protect Cobo from the "white devils" who want to take over Detroit.

Throwing away three years of hard work trying to develop the region in the stroke of a pen? If that's not pure hell, then I don't know what is. Making the city look like a national joke? Again? Over a yellow eyed billboard? That's so insane it's demonic.

Here's hoping our current mayor will veto the council's actions, sending their backwards thinking back to the hell to which it belongs. Some folks fear the Devil. Here in Detroit, we have at least five devils to fear. That's pure evil.

More later, after I say to hell with the kettlebell and get me a cruller from Dunkin' Donuts. Outside of Detroit of course, because while America runs on Dunkin', Detroiter have to run across Eight Mile - there are no Dunkin' Donuts stores in the city. What kind of hell is that?

A View of "Is That All There Is"

2009-02-27T09:56:00.006-05:00

In my last post, I told you about my almost first time and how it led to my aversion to Batman. When I finally did lose my virginity at age 19, it was okay but nothing to write Penthouse Forum about. Over time, I learned to enjoy myself and the moment more and ended up with a relatively healthy sex life.

I also learned that sometimes, one should be careful of what one asks for. Sometimes the moment, or person, or fantasy, or urge is mind blowing. Other times, it's distinctly underwhelming. I've learned that maple syrup is not a good marital aid (and no, I'm not telling that story except to say that it almost never washes completely out of your bed linens), that the old adage "all talk and no action" is especially true when it comes to someone bragging about one's sexual prowess, and that nothing kills a mood faster than rolling over and landing on a startled (and not declawed) cat.

The good folks at Slate talked about what they learned and compiled a list of the 16 Most Overrated Sexual Experiences. Some I can relate to, and I bet you can too. Others, not so much. Whatever the case, this list will not lead to an awkward moment or worries about monthly visitors being late. Read. Laugh. Share.

More later. Hope it's good for you, too.

A View Of If It Don't Fit, Don't Force It

2009-02-26T21:03:00.009-05:00

When I was 16, I was dating my first serious boyfriend. I'll call him "Stanley." One day, when I had a half day of school and his school was off for the day, I skipped school to spend the day with him at his house. We were going to have sex for the first time. Now Stanley and I were both virgins, plus, he was afraid of one of his parents coming home early from work, so awkward moment potential was pretty high.

First, Stanley chickened out on using the condoms his dad kept in the house ("Boy, if you gon' have sex, you better protect yourself 'cause your mama and I don't want no grandbabies!") because if he did, his dad would know something happened because two would be missing. (Oh yeah, he planned on wearing two condoms at once "to be extra safe." It was going to be a "one and done" sort of day.) Instead, we fooled around a bit. Then he decided he wanted to (as he put it) "have a taste." This would be a first for me and the way he said it, so confident (for a 16 year old virgin), I figured he knew what he was doing.

He worked his way to where he needed to be, and...

Remember that Tootsie Pop commercial? One! Two! Three! I scarcely felt a thing except a sudden whoosh of air as he suddenly stood bolt upright with a panicked look on his face, wiped his mouth as though he'd ingested the most toxic, bitter substance on Earth, and ran to the bathroom where he proceeded to wash his face and brush his teeth for almost 10 minutes. The entire time, he was muttering about how he thought he heard someone come in (he heard the mailman drop a letter through the mail slot), and he was afraid that "they might smell you on me."

I felt like a freak in the bedroom - and not in the good way.

The most vivid thing for me about the entire experience was that the old "Batman" movie was playing on his bedroom TV the entire time. I can never hear that damn theme music without thinking of Stanley fleeing for the bathroom, frantically gargling or, as he drove me home, breathing in my face asking, "Can you smell anything? I mean can you smell, you know, you?" It was like a pornographic "out damned spot" soliloquy.

We broke up after about a month of very chaste dates later. It was hard to be romantic with a guy who was so freaked out by my lady parts.

It's been years since I've heard from Stanley, but I couldn't help but think of him after I read a post on one of my favorite websites, The Frisky today. These eight stories of sex gone wrong made my experience seem very quaint. My favorite was #4. Haven't baked goods suffered enough?

Or our naughty bits? A Saginaw County man pled no contest in court today to charges related to his performing a sex act on himself with a vacuum cleaner. At a car wash. Don't even get me started on the nurses in Wisconsin who are facing federal charges for taking pictures of an x-ray from a patient in their hospital seeking the removal of a "sexual device" lodged in his rectum with their cell phones and circulating them for their entertainment. One of the nurses even posted the pictures on her Facebook page. The nurses were fired for being such insensitive screw ups.

More later, because I've skeeved myself out with this post.

A View of Try, Try Again

2009-02-24T16:00:00.006-05:00

I married twice and divorced twice. It's nothing that I'm proud of, but it is what it is. I also know that it's an experience I have no desire to go through again. Emotionally drain me once, shame on you. Emotionally drain me twice, shame on me.

At least I think that's how that saying goes.

Anyway, I came across a story about a woman who has a different viewpoint on marriage. Linda Lou Wolfe first married in 1957 when she was 16 years old. Her husband was 31 years old. They stayed married for seven years. She picked herself up after her divorce, dusted herself off, and started all over again.

Twenty-two more times.

That's not a typo. The former Linda Lou Taylor has been married 23 times, making her the most married woman in history. Her first marriage lasted the longest. Her shortest marriage lasted 36 hours. Her last marriage was a publicity stunt. She married Glynn "Scotty" Wolfe in 1996. He was the the most married man in the world at the time. She was his 29th bride. Their marriage lasted just under a year. They didn't divorce, though. He died a few days before their anniversary.

She's been married to a convict, a preacher, homeless men (yes, men - plural), you name it. She's been abused by one husband and cheated on and deserted by others. She says she doesn't even remember the order of her marriages. Still she says she wouldn't hesitate to marry again "because, you know, (life) gets lonely."

I understand being lonely, but after a while I'd think it's easier to just get a cat (or three) and a hobby. Reading about her made me a bit curious about marriages. Are there any couples out there who not only stay together, but are willing to marry each other again if given the chance?

Turns out there's one couple who love each other so much, they've remarried each other 83 times. Lauren and David Blair have renewed their vows all over the world. Their last renewal was in 2004 in Las Vegas. "We love telling each other we love each other and looking into each other's eyes and saying our vows," David is quoted as saying.

Something about all that love makes my tummy hurt. Still, I give them credit for wanting to be together as much as they seem to. I came across a story about how some divorced couples have no other choice in the current economic climate but stay together. They don't like it, but they make it work.

Talk about life getting lonely. Somehow they persevere. If at first you don't succeed in getting by, try, try again I suppose.

More later after being thankful for three cats, my sanity, and not having to live like the Roses.

A View of a Potty Blog

2009-02-19T13:06:00.013-05:00

It's all about the precious bodily fluids today because that's all I've been seeing on the news and reading about in the news. When you've gotta go there, you've gotta go. Let's not hold back on it much longer, shall we?

It all started this morning when, while I was in the bathroom coincidentally, I heard a story on the news about something the reporter said, "...will boldly let ladies go in way they've never gone before." I put down my makeup brush to take a peek at what they were talking about, and was treated to the "Go-Girl." Originally designed for women with hip or knee replacements who have trouble sitting or kneeling, the "small pink canister" is now being marketed to women who are (and this is a direct quote) "on-the-go" with no time to "waste in the bathroom." The newscasters suggested using the product in places like not so clean public restrooms or the Port-A-Potty at outdoor events. The weatherman noted that it was "basically a funnel" then asked where one would store it when done taking care of business. The reporter delivering the story looked caught off guard. "That might be a flaw with it," she said, but noted that the creator of the product encourages all women to "have fun" using the product and that it's only $4.99. That was enough to drive me back to my bathroom. Here's a link to a story about it recommending it as a "romantic" post-Valentine's Day gift.

Lotto - Venus and Cupid, 1540, Oil on canvas, Metropolitan Museum of Art

That Valentine's Day line made me think of this painting by Lotto. This painting would've been completely different had Cupid, or Lotto for that matter, had access to a device like the Go-Girl (Go-Cherub?). In this piece, Cupid's bestowing a blessing of fertility on Venus, not because he's a fan of R. Kelly. His public urination is a good and happy thing. It doesn't always work out that way.

"Peeing on the side of a building isn't going to make someone that mad." David Short, the owner of an auto parts shop on Detroit's east side is quoted as saying that in reaction to a shooting behind his building. Well, actually it did make someone that mad. (And I'm going to pass on the obvious joke here.) The victim was shot because he relieved himself on wall of that building. The alleged shooter is Leroy Moon, a 69-year-old fish shop proprietor. The victim was Shawn Johnson, a 36-year old janitor for Detroit Public Schools. He got a flat tire on the way home from work, got pulled over by the police for driving infractions (including driving without a valid license) which led to his car being towed, and was just trying to make it home when he had to go. He was shot dead in front of his wife. Who knows why Mr. Moon went too far over Mr. Johnson's going one step too far. Public urination is inappropriate, but so is shooting a man to death over it. People in the neighborhood that Mr. Moon was known for his willingness to help out those in need. Mr. Short, told reporters about how Mr. Moon, a Detroit resident, would give food to the hungry. "The man would give anybody the shirt off his back," he said.

Had his fish shop been in Toledo, maybe he could've given that shirt off his back to Shykea Boykin. She needed it after escaping from being held captive in the apartment of Troy Brisport. According to news reports, he picked up Ms. Boykin, a homeless woman, off a Detroit street and offered to let her stay the night at his place. He then handcuffed her wrists and ankles, gagged her, undressed her, put her in an adult diaper and held her captive for three days. While he gave her little to eat or drink, and did not try to sexually assault her, he did read Bible verses to her - when he wasn't trying to choke her. Somehow, she managed to escape, banging on neighboring apartment doors pleading for help. The Toledo Police called the case a "mixed bag." "Maybe it was a saving her kind of thing," said Capt. Ray Carroll. "We don't know what the diapers are about."

Maybe he couldn't find a Go-Girl. Judging by his actions, it's clear he was able to find a copy of "Black Snake Moan." Have you seen that movie? Talk about something that you'd find in the water closet.

More later because now I can't help but wonder what Jack Paar would make of all this.

A View of Another Empty Vessel

2009-02-17T16:36:00.006-05:00

So this morning, I did something rare - I got out the door early enough to guarantee I'd get to work before 9:00. The drive into work was very smooth - no traffic, hit almost all green lights, I even gained time as I made my normally 30 minute commute. When I pulled into the garage, I got a really good parking spot. This day is going to be good, I thought.

I made my toast, poured a cup of coffee, made some somewhat clever small talk with my co-workers, and walked into my office. Hanging up my coat, I started to get out my keys so I could unlock my desk and get out my laptop, but got distracted for a brief second when one of my co-workers stopped to say hello. The sun was shining, the coffee smelled good, the toast was warm and had just the right amount of butter. This day is going to be great, I thought.

I pulled out my keys to unlock my desk and...

"Well this is just great."

I put on my coat, put my toast in a napkin, left the coffee behind because the cup was too big to fit in my car's cupholder, and hoped the drive back home would be as smooth as the drive into the office.

Lesson of the day: Either double check to make sure you aren't taking your spare keys to work with you, or make copies of every key you have.

More later, after I remember what it was I was going to write about next.

A View of Empty Vessels

2009-02-17T15:20:00.014-05:00

The good news was that my cat's paws smelled fantastic - like Kenzo Flower with a hint of Jo Malone. The practical news was that I was able to get rid of some old junk I'd never use and sweep out months of dustbunnies from under my bed.

The infuriating news was that the kitten I rescued was illustrating the old adage that no good deed goes unpunished. Again.

It began Sunday morning with a very loud, heavy crash. The crash was loud enough to wake my family upstairs. It was heavy enough to shake the floors. It was intense enough to shake the floors in my flat. A Sunday morning that should've began with coffee, waffles, and Charles Osgood instead began with me cleaning up potting soil and broken clay. My sweet little seven month old tabby managed to come this close to taking himself and my picture window out with a two foot tall Yucca plant. He's been fascinated with the plant, not because he wanted to chew the leaves, but because he likes to sleep in dirt. He's managed to take out a corn plant and a rubber plant, and Yucca was the last plant standing in my (now barren) living room. Until Sunday, when a mistimed jump led to me having to get it out of my home and to a safe haven. Fortunately, the clay planter didn't break (the saucer the plant sat on took the brunt of the fall) and the plant survived in one piece. Yucca is now living a stress and cat free life in my office.

This was the second Sunday where the little fuzzbucket has wreaked havoc. On Super Bowl Sunday, right around the time that big guy on the Steelers was making his record breaking interception, Muffin was running a Hail Mary of his own by taking a dive down my clothes chute. I was running a bath and opened the chute long enough to toss down old pajamas and towels. In the blink of an eye, I saw him hop into the chute opening, lose his balance, and disappear. My sister was in the basement and had fortunately closed the other end which allowed Muffin to land on dirty clothes instead of an unfinished basement floor. He then, just as quickly, clawed his way up the chute, out the door and proceeded to run through my house at top speed for almost a half hour before I could catch him and make sure he was okay. Not a scratch on him, though it did take almost a day for him to calm down. And me. I saw him fall and just knew he was going to be hurt...or worse. My sister told me all she heard was a muffled thump, my scream, some frantic clawing, then the sound of a crazed stampede.

I highly recommend "9 Chickweed Lane "- it's funny, sweet, and always well drawn.

After flirting with losing at least one of his nine lives, I just knew he'd reached his peak. Wrong.

The first clue that he'd run amok again hit me when I walked in the door after work yesterday. My house smelled good. Too good. Perfume counter around Mother's Day good. The second clue was that there wasn't a cat in sight. Not one member of the Fuzzy Bunch was in his or her usual spot. The third clue was when I tried to push open my almost closed bedroom door and it got stuck on a weird plastic doohickey that turned out to be the atomizer on a little perfume sample. Oh yeah, and my bedroom smelled like Perfumania had exploded. I opened up the door, and here's what I saw:

I know this isn't very clear, but that's how I saw it because I was so damn furious. There was makeup all over the floor. Broken jewelry. The tiniest shards of glass I've ever seen from countless samples I'd collected over the years (For whatever reason, perfume samples come in very thin glass vials. Why is that?) The case my father's childhood rosary came in was in little pieces. (Thank goodness the rosary was in one piece. It's one of the only personal items of his I have.) There was stuff under the bed, stuff under the dresser, stuff mingled in with dustballs as big as that damn kitten who had waylayed the storage bins I keep on my dresser. My only guess is that he was trying to jump from my bedroom chair onto the dresser - for what reason, I'll never know - and missed. Badly. If anyone tells you cats are naturally graceful and coordinated, they've either never owned a cat or have no sense of grace and coordination.

It took over an hour to clean everything up. It would've taken half that amount of time had Muffin not strolled in right as I was beginning to pick things up and decided that this was the perfect time to play "Bat the Broken Lipstick Tube." When I tried to grab him, he made a break for it - right towards the tiny shards of glass. Somehow, both of us managed to avoid getting cut.

My sister came down to visit later that evening. The first thing she did was pick up Muffin and cradle him like a baby. The first thing he did was plop one of his paws over her nose.

"Tracey, you've got to smell his paws," she said, laughing so hard she turned red. They smelled good. Too good. Perfume counter at Mother's Day good. I had to laugh too. All was forgiven.

But not forgotten. This morning, I started closing my bedroom door.

More later, after I build up the courage to go home and see what hell hath Muffin wrought today.

A View of the Tracks of Non-Tears

2009-02-11T13:58:00.007-05:00

This is my favorite song about crying. Ironic that the way Amy's squandered her talent is enough to bring a person to tears, isn't it?

I hate crying and I rarely do it. To me, crying is what happens when you can't think of anything else to do. I don't deal with not being able to think of anything else to do, running out of options, not having any other steps to take.

When I've told people this, they've inevitably said some variation of one basic idea - you feel better after a good cry. Maybe for them, but not so much for me unless it's a case where I've laughed so hard it produced tears. But that's not really crying, is it? When I cry, I'm usually angry. Or scared. Or frustrated. Or have suffered a loss. Or a combination of some uncomfortable and negative emotions. After I'm done, I'm headachy, tired, and drained - plus the initial emotions that produced the tears are still there in some form. On top of feeling drained, I still have the task of thinking of some sort of solution to the initial problem ahead of me.

It's almost enough to make you cry again when you think about it. The only people who benefit from a good cry, at least from my viewpoint, are the folks at Kimberly-Clark and Proctor & Gamble. People have told me that I'm just trying to be tough and strong, and that I might be afraid to cry. The belief people project on the healing powers of tears is very strong, and I've never had a reliable comeback to argue against it.

Until now. I read a report on the New York Times website about research into the cathartic power of crying published in the journal "Current Directions in Psychological Science." Turns out that, for some people, having a "good cry" allows for a recovery of mental balance. In others, it just leads to emotional confusion. They found that crying is infectious, much like laughing or yawning. When we cry and how we cry is a combination of biochemical and cultural factors - women (surprise, surprise) tend to cry more easily and more often them men. As for that feeling that you feel better after a cry? Well, that may be a matter of selective memory - the catharsis comes after the episode has passed. The study also found that crying varies from person to person, and that the more people who are around when a person cries, the more cathartic the cry is to the person doing it. In other words, people cry socially for attention.

The article also mentioned a book called "Seeing Through Tears: Crying and Attachment," by Judith Kay Nelson. She argues that crying has its roots in childhood. Children, especially the very young with limited use of language, use crying to get attention from their parents and regulate mood. If you had a soothing, attentive parent as a kid, chances are you love a good cry. If your parent believed in staying strong or became upset when you cried, you are probably don't find crying all that comforting.

My sister and I had a very loving mom, a dad whose personality was like a cross between Samuel Jackson and Dave Chappelle. My sister will cry over anything - I still tease her about how she cries every year when she watches "Frosty the Snowman," especially when he melts at the end. I rarely cry and if I feel the urge, I'll fight it tougher than Ali beating down Frazier. I don't know why we have this difference, but it felt so good when I read this article that I almost cried.

Then, thinking of something else to do, I decided to post this entry instead. More later, after I get this dust out of my eye.

A View of Them Taking Over

2009-02-09T21:17:00.011-05:00

Remember when I told you about how I officially became the Crazy Cat Lady? Well, I thought it would be nice if I gave you an update. This video sums it up without me having to vacuum up all the damn cat fur. Enjoy.

More later, after I fill up the food dish and a catnip bong to calm these fuzzy little bastards down.

A View of Spinning Wheels

2009-02-04T11:25:00.006-05:00

I could not get any traction this morning. As hard as I tried, I couldn't go forward or back. I just could not move.

This was happening, of course, at the worst possible time. I was running late. The alarm clock went off several times this morning, but I just could not move and kept hitting the snooze alarm. Last night I had company. I tried to spark up a romantic moment, but something along the way triggered memories of my recent divorce. I ended up in tears, frustrated that after almost a year I still can't go forward and am unable to go back. This morning, my friend tried to turn on my computer as I was getting dressed for work but was unable to get it started. The computer crashed, unable to start and the fix would not let me shut it off. I sent him outside to start the car in a manner that, he observed, was aimed at keeping him busy somewhere else. By the time I got to my car, I was so frazzled and angry I could barely see straight.

Then I ended up spinning my wheels. If I hadn't been so uptight, it would've been funny.

It took a little time, but with the help of my friend and my sister's boyfriend and some work on my part, I got out of the rut and everyone was on their way.

Last night, all I could think about was how I'm still spinning my wheels after the end of my marriage. My friend noted that I must have really loved my ex for the whole situation to still be upsetting me. That's true to a point. The thing that bothers me the most was that I gave myself over to someone and got betrayed in such a complete way. When I married, I was hoping that I'd found a partner with whom I could move forward. We'd work together toward a promising life ahead of us. Instead, I got pulled back into another round of drama and hurt.

I'm trying to get out of my rut, but right now I just feel like I'm not gaining any traction. As hard as I try to move forward, I'm unable to move. If I weren't so upset about it all, it would be funny.

A View of Not Wanting to Write

2009-02-03T13:42:00.015-05:00

It's been a while since I've written anything. It's been a while since I've felt like writing. An idea or two would peek out of the shadows for a quick second, just long enough for me to see a glimpse of a post only to disappear just as quickly. I'd scan websites, read all sorts of newspapers or magazines, watch TV or half-heartedly listen to podcasts, but not one particular topic would linger in my head long enough for me to log on and begin to type.

Some of the ideas were provocative, like an article I read just after the holidays about advertisements posted on the sides of 800 British buses by the Atheist Bus Campaign in an effort to provide a secular counterpoint to a promotion by a Christian group that warned non-believers they were doomed to an eternity of torment in Hell. Here in America, the Atheist Bus Campaign would have never gotten (for lack of a better phrase) any traction because of fears of protest by fundamentalists. In London, however, the campaign barely caused a stir. In fact, some religious leaders welcomed the secularist messages because it spurred conversation about God. I thought about writing at length about this, but let it go. I've talked several times on this blog about my atheism. Going on about it might come across (again, for lack of a better phrase) preachy. I let it go.

Some of the ideas were silly - random jokes sent to me from friends and co-workers like this one:

A Short Love Story

A man and a woman, who had never met before and who were both married to other people,
found themselves assigned to the same sleeping room on a trans-continental train. Though initially embarrassed and uneasy over sharing a room, they were both very tired and fell asleep quickly, he in the upper berth and she in the lower. At 1:00 AM, the man leaned down and gently woke the woman.

"Ma'am," he said, "I'm sorry to bother you, but would you be willing to reach into the closet to get me a second blanket? I'm awfully cold."

"I have a better idea," she replied. "Just for tonight, let's pretend we're married."

"Wow! That's a great idea!" he exclaimed.

"Good," she replied. "Get your own damn blanket."

After a moment of silence, he farted.

The End.

Or this one, which came with its own illustration:

Always Check Your Child's Homework

Dear Mrs. Jones,

I wish to clarify that I am not now, nor have I ever been, an exotic dancer. I work at Home Depot and I told my daughter how hectic it was last week before the blizzard hit. I told her we sold out every single shovel we had, and then I found one more in the back room, and that several people were fighting over who would get it. Her picture doesn't show me dancing around a pole. It's supposed to depict me selling the last snow shovel we had at Home Depot. From now on, I will remember to check her homework more thoroughly before she turns it in.

Sincerely, Mrs. Smith

Both were funny but hard to follow-up, so I didn't write.

Others were uplifting and close to home, like a story my mom sent me about the recycling center my family and I use. Sadly, the city of Detroit does not offer curbside recycling with trash pick up like many other municipalities. Instead, practically all of our trash goes to an incinerator in the heart of the city. Recently, the city decided not to renew its contract to keep the incinerator running, but no firm replacement plan has been established. Plans toward more earth friendly waste disposal have been mired in red tape, held back by our ever shrinking tax revenues, and by flat out criminal behavior. Recycle Here is a glimmer of hope and progress in the city, and it as good to read about it thriving.

Good to read about, but I could not get inspired enough to write about it. Or much anything else. I knew I should write something, but I just didn't care enough to do anything.

Then a couple of days ago, the story of a local man's very tragic death made the front page of the Detroit News. Some kids were playing hockey in the basement of an abandoned warehouse and came across legs protruding from the ice. They thought it was a mannequin at first, but they soon realized it was a person. Instead of doing what should've been done and calling for help, they left the building. They didn't want to get in trouble and they didn't think anyone would believe them. The empty and neglected building is a haven for scavengers and homeless persons, some of whom had seen the body in the ice for weeks. Instead of doing what should've been done and calling for help, they ignored the body. None of them tried to get help. They didn't want to lose their shelter and besides, as one of the men in the article was quoted as saying, they didn't recognize the person's clothes or shoes so they didn't feel the need to try and get help. One of the kids that found the body finally decided to call a friend, who called a friend that worked for the Detroit News. The reporter went to the scene to make sure the story wasn't a hoax, then called police for help. The first call was brushed off with a suggestion to "call 911" instead. The next call got a promise to send out a squad car. The reporter says he waited outside the building with his photographer, but no one showed. A spokesperson for the police said a car was dispatched and officers searched the building, but left after failing to find anything. A third call the next day was disconnected. A fourth call finally led to the discovery and recovery of the man's frozen body.

The reporter decided to write about the experience. The photographer took a photo of the dead man's legs protruding from the ice. The newspaper's editor decided to run the photo and story on the front page. The story quickly spread around the world via wire reports. Some criticized the use of the photo saying that it disrespected the dead - a charge the editor of Detroit News denied. A police department spokesman took offense to the notion that his officers were lax in their duties. Few chose to take the building's owner, one of the richest businessmen in metro Detroit, to task for neglecting to secure his property.

It took a couple of days for the man to be identified. His name was Johnny Redding.

He was 56 years old from River Rouge, a Detroit suburb. It was initially thought that he was homeless and alone. He was not. He was a son, a father, a brother, and a man coping with the loss of a loved one. As I read his story, I thought of my father's death. He died alone in freezing cold water. When he was found, it was thought he was homeless and alone. Like my father, Mr. Redding's body was so frozen it took a couple of days for an initial identification. The autopsy had to wait until his body was able to thaw enough for the medical examiner to be able to run the procedure. As of today, the official cause of death is not known. Homicide has been ruled out. The family is working on funeral arrangements, and there's word that a "prominent musician" has offered to pay for the funeral.

I find myself going back and reading the story and looking at the picture. I wonder about the family and what they must be going through. I wonder about the reporter who had to bring the story to the forefront and how he's coping. I think about Mr. Redding's final moments - whether he was scared, or aware of what was happening. If he tried to call for help and if anyone heard him if he did. The thoughts inevitably make me think of my father and his final moments. They're thoughts I don't want to have, but I can't stop them so I write. It's one time I'm writing because I have to, not because I want to.

More later, after sending my deepest sympathies out to the family of Johnny Redding and anyone who's alone when they don't want to be.

A View of a Hearts A Little Lighter

2008-12-24T12:11:00.003-05:00

As I was driving home last night, this song came on my iPod. I really listened to the lyrics and they seemed to fit the current state of mind. We may have to muddle through right now, but I believe next year all our troubles will be miles away.

More later, after I wish you a very happy holiday.

A View of "Bah Humbug!"

2008-12-18T13:58:00.003-05:00

Check out "Mutts," a comic strip with humor and heart, by clicking on the picture.

I want to be in the Christmas spirit this year, but it's just not happening for me. Having a new hyperactive kitten means no Christmas tree this time around, so I didn't decorate. I bought a baby live tree for my desk at work, but I forgot to water it regularly so it died. I've bought presents for the family and am technically done, but I haven't wrapped anything. I didn't even send out Christmas cards this year. Maybe I'll be more festive next year.

If I had sent out a card, this would've been in it. I'm betting a lot of people will relate with the sentiment. Here's hoping it makes you smile this holiday season.

A Christmas Story for People Having a Bad Day

When four of Santa's elves got sick, the trainee elves did not produce toys as fast as the regular ones, and Santa began to feel the pre-Christmas pressure.

Then Mrs. Claus told Santa her Mother was coming to visit, which stressed Santa even more.

When he went to harness the reindeer, he found that three of them were about to give birth and two others had jumped the fence and were out, Heaven knows where.

Then when he began to load the sleigh, one of the floorboards cracked, the toy bag fell to the ground and all the toys were scattered.

Frustrated, Santa went in the house for a cup of apple cider and a shot of rum. When he went to the cupboard, he discovered the elves had drank all the cider and hidden the liquor. In his frustration, he accidentally dropped the cider jug, and it broke into hundreds of little glass pieces all over the kitchen floor. He went to get the broom and found the mice had eaten all the straw off the end of the broom.

Just then the doorbell rang, and irritated Santa marched to the door, yanked it open, and there stood a little angel with a great big Christmas tree.

The angel said very cheerfully, 'Merry Christmas, Santa. Isn't this a lovely day? I have a beautiful tree for you. Where would you like me to stick it?'

And so began the tradition of the little angel on top of the Christmas tree.

More later, after I watch the Grinch. (Hold up - Mr. Shorofsky wrote the Grinch's music? Cool!)

A View of a Home Invasion

2008-12-16T15:23:00.013-05:00

So I'm coming home from work about a week ago, and I'm exhausted. All I want to do is get in my house, stretch out and get some rest. Turns out, I wasn't the only one.

As I'm walking up the steps to my front door, I hear a very insistent sound behind me.

"Meow!"

I turn around and there's a grey and black tiger striped kitten running up stairs behind me. He's about six months old, nothing but tummy, and strolling up to my door like he forgot his door key.

"No, no!" I try in vain to shoo the little guy away. He just frowns and maneuvers around my ankles.

"Meow!" He then tries to stroll across the threshold. My two cats inside are watching our every move.

Cal, a seven year old black cat I adopted from the Michigan Humane Society last year, watches from the front picture window. If I didn't know better, I'd swear he was laughing.

Bucky, a Siamese mix whose terrified of everything and everyone gets all wide eyed and runs to hide. More about Bucky in a minute.

I manage to get the interloper out the door and on the porch before he makes it into my living room.

"Wait right there, little guy," I say, then I shake my head because I'm trying to hold a rational conversation with a cat well versed in home invasion. As I walk in the door, Cal hops down from the window and follows me into the den. He never makes a sound, but his eyes are huge. The not making a sound thing is very intriguing because he's been known to howl loudly and fling himself against the living room window if another cat comes up onto the porch. For some reason, this little cat inviting himself in to his house doesn't rattle him.

Cal takes off when I open the den closet and pull out the dreaded cat carrier. Instead of running to the bedroom or some other unseen hiding place, he runs back up front to the door, where he sits to look out the window. Again, no kitty freak out takes place. Bucky is nowhere to be found, but I hear her meowing from the back of the house. This is par for the course with her.

I go back out on the porch, and the kitten is in my front yard at the foot of the steps. I put the carrier on the bannister and open the door.

"Meow?" How interesting that this sounds like a question. The little tiger striped kitten bounds up the steps, hops up on the bannister, gets to the edge of the carrier and looks up at me.

"Meow?"

"It's okay. Go on in." I am not making any of this up, by the way.

The little guy sniffs a bit, then walks right in. I close the door and head back in the house. Once the front door closes, the little guy gets nervous and unleashes a torrent of meowing. He doesn't try to get out of the carrier, mind you. He doesn't paw at the door, or claw at the floor, or try to make an escape. He just meows. And purrs. Loudly.

Bucky, who came into my house in a similar fashion and at almost the exact same age six years earlier, slowing creeps toward the carrier, which I have on a small bookshelf. She walks over, stands up on her hind paws and sniffs the carrier. The kitten, still meowing, sniffs back. Bucky then gets down and walks away with no further drama. The kitten continues to meow while sitting in the carrier. Cal, who was curled up in the living room window, hops down to go eat.

I try to get in touch with the Michigan Humane Society to get info about surrendering a stray.

"I cannot have a third cat," I keep telling myself. I try not to look at the kitten in the carrier in a failing attempt to not notice how cute the little guy is.

I can't get through to the Michigan Humane Society. The one number I can find keeps going to voice mail. I try to look up their hours online. The website seems to say surrenders are only done until 5:00, but animal rescue is available until 7:00. I call my family, who had been talking about this crazy, ultra friendly stray cat in the neighborhood, to see if they can help. They have only one suggestion.

"You have to keep it! It's so cute! It's meant to be! We'll help take care of it!"

Remember Bucky, the scary Siamese? They said the same thing about her. I'm still waiting for them to give me their share of her sterilization costs.

"I cannot have a third cat," I tell them. They counter with a question that I find difficult to answer.

"Why not?"

I say the cost of food and litter, and that it's just silly to have three cats but I know that unless I get that kitten to the pound that evening, I'm going to end up having three cats.

I get my coat on, ask them to ride with me, and head over to MHS. When we get there, it's been closed since 5:00. The doors are locked and gated shut. This little kitty has to go back home.

We get back home, and I get my sewing room set up for what I say is a temporary boarder. I put in some food, fresh water, a litter box, and some toys. As I'm setting up the room, I leave the carrier on that bookshelf in the living room. Cal wandered up and stretched out to see what was inside. The kitten stretched out his paw through the door, and Cal reached up to the door. I swear they did a little kitty fist bump, then Cal walked away. No hissing, no growling, no drama.

Did I mention that the kitten never stopped meowing or purring?

Anyway, I bring the carrier in the room and close the door. Then I let the kitten out to explore and eat. What's the first thing he does? He walks right up to me and, purring loudly, let's me rub his belly. Then he hops onto my lap, stretches out and nuzzles my neck. Bucky and Cal sat outside the door and never made a peep. They took turns over the next couple of days sitting outside the door, purring, meowing, trying to fit their paws under the door to touch the mystery kitten on the other side, and making noise or running if they heard something that raised some sort of concern.

That next day, I bought the third cat I absolutely couldn't have a collar, some more toys and a name tag. I also made an appointment for him at the vet. When I got home, I gave Cal a tummy rub, said hello to Bucky who was hiding under the living room couch, and went to visit the third cat I absolutely couldn't have. When I opened the door to walk in, he marched right up to me and wrapped himself around my ankles.

"Meow!"

"It's good to see you, little guy," I said as I reached down to pick up the third cat I absolutely had to keep. He started to purr as if he knew he was home.

That's also how I ended up with Muffin, the third member of the TEM's Fuzzy Bunch. It's also the probable start of my transmogrification into the Eleanor Abernathy of Detroit's New Center.

More later, after making this vow - I cannot have a fourth cat.

A View Of Insanity

2008-12-01T15:13:00.007-05:00

Real Life Adventures - Real life, only funnier. Click on the picture to check out the website.

Over this weekend, it occurred to me that maybe it's time to start thinking about dating again.

It wasn't a pleasant thought, but it did come from a pleasant experience. I was out getting some Christmas shopping done over the weekend and ran into an old friend from high school. We haven't seen each other in many, many years and did a quick catch up. That, of course, means the inevitable question came up:

"So, are you married?"

That question still stings.

For the record, the question was asked not out of attraction, but as part of the "long time, no see" checklist a person runs through when encountering someone from the past. I just shook my head, said no, and was thankful that my former classmate was working and had to take a customer. We hurriedly said goodbye, made vows to keep in touch (which probably won't be kept), and went back to our normal routines.

That night at home, I went to Classmates to check out some of my former friends and walk down memory lane. As I did, I came across my first husband's profile. We met back in high school and were high school sweethearts. When his profile came up, I went to another site.

The memory of that romance - happy beginning and failed ending - still stings and we've been apart since 1995.

How long does it take to get over a failed relationship? I wish I knew.

On Sunday, I read an advice column by Carolyn Hax in the paper where she addressed this very subject. The man who wrote in for advice had been divorced for two years, but his ex-wife was still in his thoughts and dreams. "I'm eager to start dating," he wrote, "but would it be fair to a potential partner if I'm still a little hung up?"

Change a pronoun here or there, and it's like I could've wrote that letter. Her answer was you're ready to date when "you meet someone you're sure you'd like to date" and to let the process work itself out.

Easier said than done, at least in my case. When my divorce was finalized this July, I impulsively signed up on a couple of dating sites. I went on one date and never heard from the guy I met again. I went on another date, and have been kinda, sorta seeing that guy since. I say kinda, sorta because I hear from him for a while, we spend a couple of days together, then he's persona non grata for a while.

In a way, this is a good thing. I'm still quite bitter from my past experiences, and I don't know if I'm ready for something serious. On the other hand, it's not so good because every gut instinct I have tells me that the reason this guy comes and goes is because he's involved with someone else (or elses, to coin a new phrase), and comes around when it's convenient for him.

Which would be cool if he's only seeing someone else, and the other(s) are cool with this arrangement too. It would not be cool if he's married and I'm the other woman. I have no desire to be a living example of a Lifetime movie. Been there, done that with my last marriage and it hurt like hell. I don't want to do that to another woman.

The problem here is that my sense of trust is all off whack. Did I mention I'm still very bitter? The guy in question has been up front about everything else in his life. He keeps telling me that he's not hiding anything and I want to believe, but still there's that doubt. That nagging shadow of doubt that hangs around, tapping me on the shoulder and whispering, "You know something's up, don't you? Something about this just ain't right...." And that shadow will not shut up.

The comic strip I posted compares dating to riding a bike. Carolyn makes a reference to getting "back in the saddle." To me, dating is like an often quoted (but often misattributed) definition of insanity, it's doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.

I suppose this means I shouldn't be thinking about whether or not I want to date again, but whether or not I want to be sane.

More later, once I find out whether or not Victoria's Secret sells lace push up straitjackets.

A View of a Three Hour Tour

2008-11-04T16:49:00.005-05:00

I got up at 6:10 this morning so I could get to the polls early. I figured I'd leave the house around 7:00, go in to vote about 7:15, be done by 7:30 (no later than 8:00 if those stories about long waits were true), and get to work no later than 9:00.

You know what they say about the best laid plans. I left the house about 7:00, got to the polling place about five minutes later. The fun began when I turned onto the street where the school that houses my voting precinct was and I saw nothing but a sea of parked cars.

It took about ten minutes to find a parking place. Then I went inside and I saw nothing but people.

This picture doesn't do the line justice. The line wrapped the entire length of the elementary school where I vote. Up one set of stairs, down the hall, around a corner, back down the hall and the stairs to the gym/lunchroom. Some folks brought a book. Others kept scanning their endorsement lists and voter info. Some weren't sure where they needed to go, but there was a steady stream of line captains and voting officials to make sure everyone was in the right line and was registered to vote.

There were three precincts assigned to the school. In two of the precincts, a voter could get in and out relatively quickly - a half hour to an hour tops. In the third precinct - my precinct - it was a bit longer.

After an hour, I called home to let the family know they were going to have quite the experience and to suggest they walk to the polls instead of driving. I called my job to let my boss know that I may be a bit late. I wished I'd grabbed a cup of coffee before I walked out the door. That's when I noticed something.

Nobody was complaining. Nobody was in a bad mood. Nobody was leaving.

The line was full of people, young and old, working and jobless, long time voter and first time at the polls. Everyone was saying good morning to each other. People were getting seats for elderly voters who needed to rest their legs.

By now, two hours had gone by.

Some said they wished they'd brought in some water, or candy, or a book they'd left in their cars. No problem. People were more than willing to hold places in line, share a pack of gum, let someone use a cell phone to call work to let the boss know they'd be late. People told jokes, gave each other high fives when they admitted this was the first time they'd ever voted, and were kind to each other.

One of the poll workers came through and thanked everyone for voting, giving a running pep talk to people in line and as they left the voting booth. Another went through and took all the elderly and disabled people to the front of the line so they could vote without the wait. They gave her a round of applause. One of the election workers said she'd never seen so many people in line to vote in all her years of working at the polls. "Damn this makes me feel good," she said as she watched the line grow.

There was only one hint of possible conflict at about hour number three. One man accused another of trying to cut in line and a small shouting match broke out between the two of them. Then people began to speak up.

"Hey! Watch the language! There are kids in here!"

"Come on, now! That's not what today's all about! We're here to vote!"

"Calm down, you two! We need you to get along and do the right thing!"

And just like that, a possible situation dissipated because, as one person put it:

"Man, we're here to vote, not act a fool! Today is about history! You better come together and recognize!"

Indeed. No matter what you believe, no matter who you back, today was - and is - all about coming together and recognizing. It's all about history.

It took me three hours to cast my vote, and it was the best three hours I've ever spent in line.

More later. And if you haven't voted yet, what are you waiting for? You better recognize, and get your butt to the polls.

A View Of "Are We Done Yet?"

2008-11-03T12:03:00.010-05:00

All hail the Queen - arguably the funniest comic strip being published today. Click the picture for more.

This election has exhausted me. I've reached my fill of negative campaign ads, pre-packaged sound bites, debates designed to deliver pre-packaged sound bites instead of true interactive dialogue, stories about potential voter fraud, and endless poll numbers that seem to exist only to promote the next poll.

It seems to me that the current electoral process is designed to do one thing effectively, and that's promote bickering and gridlock. This cartoon lays it out perfectly:

And this strip is a close runner-up for that funniest strip title. Click on the picture for more.

And don't even get me started on the campaign ads. I thought we had some over the top ads on the air here in Michigan, but this intentionally tacky one from Kansas is simply out of control:

Click on this link for a list of the 10 worst ads of the 2008 political season.

It's nonsense like that ad that makes me complete cynic when it comes to government, elected officials and the whole electoral process. I vote, but I always feel like I'm picking between the lesser of two evils rather than a candidate I truly believe in. Tomorrow is no exception. I've already told you who gets my vote for president, but it's not without some trepidation. I'm still miffed with Obama for ignoring Michigan during the primary. (If you're all about change, then why not help revamp the primary process? I'm just saying....) And I was totally turned off by McCain turning his back on the state - and his fellow constituents here in the state - last month. (Even more interesting was that he did it without telling his VP pick, Sarah Palin. How will they work together in the Oval Office if she isn't even kept up to date on campaign strategy decisions?) It makes me wonder what, if any, assistance either one will give my state in the new administration - especially after it's become clear that there won't be any government aid coming for GM and Chrysler any time soon.

Despite my cynicism, I'm still going to go. No amount of mud flung, no endless number of facts distorted, no seemingly random poll numbers, or restrictions on what can be worn at my polling place (and probably yours, so don't wear your Obama hookup until after you vote) can keep me away from the voting booth. Our process is flawed here in the US of A, but it's ours and we have to take part. I'm a cynic, but I'm not cynical enough to not vote. Too many people gave too much for this acerbic African American woman to have the right to go into a polling place and have my voice heard - bitching before I vote and moaning about the choices made after I and the rest of my fellow citizens cast our ballots each election cycle.

To give myself a bit of a boost, I'm going to watch this video as I'm getting ready tomorrow morning. These kids from the Ron Clark Academy are amazing. Check out this clip, then check out the school's website. Their energy and enthusiasm about voting and taking part in the electoral process can energize even the most disenchanted undecided voter.

Don't forget to vote tomorrow. Cynic or true believer, it's your responsibility to take part in the process. And there's nothing lower that a person who doesn't vote, but bitches about the outcome of the election. Not even the person who came up with that Slattery ad.

More later, after I come home from the polls. For the record, if anyone asks why I voted, I'm telling them Joe made me do it.

A View Of The Choice Is Yours

2008-10-24T15:26:00.009-04:00

A wise man once said, "You can get with this or you can get with that."

Guess which one I'm getting with?

Click here to learn more about "that one."

That's right. I'm voting for that one. You may make a different choice and that's cool. One of the wonderful things about living here in the US of A is the freedom of choice - even ones that aren't necessarily the best.

Anyway, I got an e-mail today that talked about how to maintain composure on November 5th if the rest of the country chooses to go with "That One." No matter what your choice may be, you have to admit this "November 5th Etiquette" list is funny as hell.

Good Morning My People.

After watching the final debate the other night, it dawned on me that Obama could actually win this thing. If that happens, there will be a lot of people (some of our co-workers included) who will be afraid that an Obama presidency will usher in the end of days. They'll be watching us on November 5th (the day after the election) for signs of the end times. To keep the peace and keep a lot of folks from getting nervous, I think we should develop a list of acceptable celebrations and behaviors we should probably avoid - at least for the first few days:

1. No crying, hugging or shouting, "Thank you, Lord!" - at least not in public.
2. No high-fives - at least not unless the area is clear and there are no witnesses.
3. No laughing at the McCain/Palin supporters.
4. No calling in sick on November 5th. They'll get nervous if too many of us don't show up.
5. We're allowed to give each other knowing winks or nods in passing. Just try to keep from grinning too hard.
6. No singing loudly, "We've Come This Far By Faith." It will be acceptable to hum softly.
7. No bringing of barbeque ribs or fried chicken for lunch in the company lunchroom for at least a week. (No chitterlings at all - this may make us seem too ethnic.)
8. No leaving Kool-Aid packages at the water fountain. (This might be a sign that poor folks might be getting a breakthrough.)
9. No "Cupid Shuffle" during breaks. (This could indicate a little too much excitement.)
VFTT Note: There's no official word on whether the "Obama Shuffle" is acceptable.
10. Please, no "Moving On Up" music - we are going to try to remain humble.
VFTT Note: There's no official word on whether "We're A Winner" is acceptable.
11. No doing the George Jefferson dance - unless you're in your office with the door closed.
12. Please try not to yell----BOOOO YAH!
13. Just in case you're wondering, doing the Running Man, Cabbage Patch, or a backhand spring on the highway is 100% ok.*

If I've missed anything feel free to add to the list. I just want to make sure we're all on the same page when Obama brings this thing home on November 5th. Please add to the list and forward if you like.

14. Everybody, just act like you did after O.J. was acquitted.
VFTT Note: You know, maybe we should just leave any O.J. references out of the Obama campaign. Let's just pretend that O.J. doesn't even exist.
15. Everyone, don't breakout with the Electric Slide in the middle of the office....*
VFTT Note: The Electric Slide is over 30 years old? And under U.S. copyright? And registered with the Library of Congress? Really?
16. It will be acceptable to play, “Head of State” in the office break room as long as you don’t hunch a McCain supporter and say, “Bet that brings back memories, huh?” during this scene.
17. It is acceptable to give people copies of “Head of State” as an Election Day gift. It is not acceptable to use or give people a bootleg copy of “Head of State” that you bought from Pookie or Ne-Ne down the street.
18. In reference to #13, you may do the Running Man, Cabbage Patch or even Raise the Roof. You may not, however, do any of them in combination. It’s okay to be joyful, but even Hammer doesn’t do all these moves in combination any more.

*VFTT Note: Give the links in #13 and #15 about a minute to get to the good stuff. Trust me, it's worth it.

I added #16-18 to the list. Feel free to put any additions you have in the comments section, but behave. Any comment that's rude, vulgar or has me saying, "Oh hell no!" won't get posted.

More later, after you get with this, or better yet get with that.

A View Of Prevention

2008-10-22T11:58:00.010-04:00

In November 1982, my father committed suicide.

Click on the picture for a link to a previous post about my dad's death.

The exact date is a mystery, but it's believed it would've been the beginning of the month. He was found about three weeks after he died in the Detroit River behind Cobo Hall. My family was notified by the police the day after Thanksgiving. In one form or another, we've been mourning his death ever since.

The exact reason he decided to take his life is also a mystery. We don't know why he chose to take his life the way he did. We don't know what drove him to suicide. He didn't leave behind a note. He said goodbye to his friends and family in his own way, with visits and calls just before he disappeared but nothing set off any alarms or made anyone think that he was considering such a drastic act.

All we know is that he decided life was no longer worth living and that he took his life. What we don't know about what he did and why he did it has taken on a life of his own.

I can't speak for my family, but I can tell you that not a day goes by when that November in 1982 doesn't cross my mind in one form or another. I wonder what he would be like now - what my family's life would've been like had he not committed suicide. I wonder what sort of pain must he have felt - and why he decided the only way to ease that pain was to end his life. I wonder how come he felt he couldn't talk to someone about what was bothering him - then I wonder if he did and just picked the wrong person or couldn't find the relief he needed.

Those questions came to mind today as I read two articles about suicide and the impact it has on people. The first was a tragedy on many levels. It was about the families of David and Rose Cobb. On December 26, 2007, Rose was murdered in the parking lot of a local drugstore in a brutal fashion - shot in the head four times by a lone gunman. Evidence seemed to indicate that her husband David had her killed because she was contemplating divorce. She believed he was having an affair. There had also been accusations of him soliciting sex from a minor - accusations that led to a trial, where he was acquitted. Still, it was enough for Rose to wonder if was hiding any other things from her.

David denied having sex with the girl who brought the charges of solicitation, denied having an affair with any woman, and denied having anything to do with his wife's death. The Wayne County Prosecutor also declined to bring charges against him for his wife's murder. Despite all of this, there were still accusations, evidence that seemed to indicate he was involved with the shooting according to the Detroit Police, and rumblings that a plea deal was being negotiated that would've led to charges being filed against him.

On September 26th, David Cobb drove to a park in Sterling Heights and hung himself. Like my father, the report said he went to visit family and friends before he took his life and now they realize it was his way of saying goodbye. Unlike my father, he did leave letters to his family that gave some insight as to why he took his life. According to David's father, he didn't feel like life would be worth living without Rose. The letters, however, seemed to do little to ease the pain that the families of David and Rose Cobb are feeling. Her family sees his suicide as an admission of guilt, and are angry that they had no part in any of Rose's funeral plans. His family believes he never would've been charged in her death, and believe he was consumed by the loss of his wife.

Whatever may have happened, nobody will have any definitive answers because both David and Rose are gone. Their families are left behind with hurt, confusion, and an endless list of unanswered questions. They also do not seem to be eager to reach out to each other to try and heal their pain, to try and answer the questions that they'll think about in one form or another everyday for the rest of their lives. I can understand their pain, their need to know why. I can also understand how frustrating it must be for them to know they will never get all the answers they need about what happened to David and Rose, or why it happened.

I can only hope they try to work out the complicated mass of feelings the deaths of their loved ones have left on their lives. I hope they realize that what happened to them is not their fault, and they don't give in to the temptation to let the anger, mourning, and helplessness they feel consume them. One tiny bit of good that came from my father's suicide was learning the importance of talking, especially about talking about the dark and ugly things many people don't want to talk about. Expressing one's feelings, one's fears, one's weaknesses can only help make a person stronger in the long run because talking about the dark, the ugly, or the scary sets those toxic feelings free. Holding in the negative is like trying to keep acid in a paper bag. We can't be afraid to talk or to reach out for help.

Another article I read today seems to indicate this isn't happening. According to a study by the American Journal of Preventative Medicine, the suicide rate in the United States has been increasing since 1999. The largest increase appears to be among middle aged adults between the ages of 40 and 64. The rate for this age group rose almost 16% between 1999 and 2005. The scariest part of this increase is not that it's happening, is that the cause of the increase is unclear. According to experts quoted in the article, it could be because of an increase in the abuse of prescription pain pills, more stress in people's lives, it could be anxiety that's heightened in our post 9/11 environment - no one knows for sure.

All the authors of the study know for sure is that the leading cause of suicide is untreated depression. Depression is one of the easiest mental illnesses to treat - according to the All About Depression website, up to 80-90% of persons who seek treatment for depression can feel better within a few weeks. Depression may feel like a tidal wave when it hits, but if treated, it can be nothing more than a tiny puddle.

I've had my own battles with depression - click the picture for a previous post.

Suicide, however, is like a tsunami and just as devastating to those left behind in its wake. Knowing that many of its victims could be saved simply by seeking someone to talk to makes the impact even more corrosive. It doesn't have to be this way. If you click this link, you'll see the warning signs to look for in a person who may be comtemplating suicide. This link will take you to a depression screening test to see if you or a loved one may need help.

Don't be afraid to talk about depression or suicide. I can't tell you how many times people have told me that it's wrong or inappropriate to talk openly about my father's suicide. I can't tell you how many times I've responded by saying that the only thing inappropriate about talking about it was that the talk came too late to save him, or that the only thing wrong about talking about it is that keeping silent keeps in the shame and the hurt and that prevents healing. Not talking allows fear and shame to grow. Talking banishes the fear and shame, and clears the way for one to move on.

David Cobb committed suicide - possibly to escape some horrible truths in his life, possibly because he was so consumed by grief he couldn't figure out how to keep living. My father committed suicide for reasons my family and I can speculate but will never fully know. Whatever the case, their deaths - just like the deaths of suicide victims everywhere - were an unnecessary and avoidable waste of life. If reading this post impacts one person, leads to one person seeing a warning sign in themselves or a loved one, then perhaps some good can come from their losses.

More later. Go talk to someone now.

A View of the Passing

2008-10-17T21:30:00.006-04:00

Almost a decade ago, my mother and I went on a trip to Las Vegas. My cousins were on a traveling bowling league team just to go on the annual year end trip to Vegas. It was a lot of fun. We did a little gambling, a little shopping, a little sightseeing, and a lot of people watching. We stayed in the old Maxim casino - forever infamous as the location where Tupac Shakur was fatally shot in 1996 - but didn't spend much time in there. It was simply a place to hold our clothes and grab a nap between adventures.

The most memorable part of our time together in Vegas was the day we went to lunch at the old Motown Cafe inside New York, New York Casino. It was one of those theme restaurants that served so-so food and overpriced drinks, but people went for it because who can resist a "Baby Love Burger" or a "Sugar Pie, Honey Bun"? My mom often said the world fell into two distinct groups - the good people who loved the Temptations (her all time favorite singing group), and the hopeless people who loved the Four Tops - a group who, in her eyes, could never equal the Tempts.

The restaurant featured a show from "your favorite Motown artists" every hour or so, and my mom was hoping to see a Temptations revue. She asked the hostess for a seat close to the stage so she could see and hear everything. Just after we placed our orders and began sipping the most expensive Coca-Cola we ever had, the lights dimmed in the house and a spotlight was trained on the stage.

"Ladies and gentlemem," a deep voiced announcer boomed on the overhead speakers, "the Motown Cafe is proud to bring to you...."

My mom held her breath and closed her eyes in anticipation.

"The Four Tops!"

Everyone cheered and applauded - except Mom and I.

"I hate the goddamn Four Tops!" she exclaimed as four young men came bounding onto the stage dressed in tuxedos that were just a touch too big, shiny white patent leather shoes that were just a touch too small, and a remarkable ability to hear her exclamation over my laughter and the opening strains of "I Can't Help Myself." One of the young men looked over at our table upon hearing her, made a quick turn to his fellow Tops and gave a quick wink. They found the perfect foil to play to for the duration of their enthusiastically danced, partially lip synched, partially sung show. For the next 20 minutes or so, they danced around our table, sung to Mom, dedicated songs to her ("This one is for our number one fan - what's your name, dear?"), and had the time of their lives at her expense. After a while, she kind of got into it and began singing and dancing along.

I couldn't applaud because I was laughing. I laughed so hard through the whole show my sides hurt, especially when the group had her sing along to "Bernadette" - her least favorite Four Tops song.

Over time, she revealed her theory about the world being either a Temptations or a Four Tops fan wasn't as carved in stone as she wanted us to believe. While she absolutely loves the Temptations, my sister and I would occasionally catch her singing along to a Four Tops song. One day as I was driving her to work, "Still Water (Love)" began to play on my iPod and she admitted that it was pretty good, "you know, for a Four Tops song." Coming from my Mom, this was high praise for that "other Motown group."

The tide completely turned when Levi Stubbs, the lead singer for the Four Tops, made an appearance on a tribute show and tearfully sang as a thank you to everyone who came to salute him. It was one of his last public appearances. He was in a wheelchair, suffering from the effects of a stroke and cancer. His appearance and sincere appreciation of the love everyone sent his way brought her to tears just as it did with everyone at the event. Just as it will probably bring you to tears if you watch the clip.

Today when I read the news about Levi Stubbs's passing, I called her to see if she'd heard. When I told her, she quietly gasped and then was quiet for a few moments.

"Wow," she finally said. "I'm really sorry to hear that. He went through so much."

I thought about that day at the Motown Cafe after I hung up the phone. So much has changed since that trip. The Las Vegas Motown Cafe is gone. I just read that it closed permanently not too long after our visit. In fact, it looks like the entire chain is gone. The Maxim Casino is gone. It closed in 2001, and is now a Westin hotel and casino. Three of the original Four Tops are gone. Renaldo "Obie" Benson and Lawrence Payton preceded Levi Stubbs in death. Abdul "Duke" Fakir is the only original member of the group still with us. Even Motown Records as it once existed and dominated the airwaves is gone. Berry Gordy sold Motown to Polygram, and (there's no other way to put it) stands in the shadow of its former glory.

The memories are still there, though, alive and thriving. The music is still there and still lives. The power of strong clear voices singing in harmony still lives and thrives. And the impact groups like the Four Tops had on the world will always live. Like them or loathe them, you cannot deny the impact their songs, their performance, their love of music had on everyone who came in contact with them.

Rest in peace, Levi Stubbs. You will be missed.

A View of the Recoil

2008-10-13T23:12:00.007-04:00

Last October, I bought a new car. Nothing fancy - just your average family sedan with four doors, a four cylinder engine, and what I thought were basic aluminum wheels. One morning last March, I was awakened by my sister calling me to let me know that all four tires had been stolen off my car. The thieves were kind enough to leave the car on two cinder blocks and all the bolts behind. When I called the police to report the theft I found out they won't send a squad car out on car theft calls (they only show if someone's life is in danger according to the dispatcher), the office that took the reports doesn't open until 8:00 a.m., and if you want a hard copy of your report - not just a report number to give to your insurance company - you have to go to police headquarters during normal business hours and pay $10 for it.

Nothing like being victimized twice, especially by those in authority.

The insurance company covered - after a $500 deductible - the cost of replacing the wheels and the body damage done when a car rests on a cinder block for a couple of hours. They even threw in a set of wheel locks to help prevent another theft in the future.

Last Sunday morning, I was awakened by my doorbell ringing. My neighbor was at the door, and as I was trying to find my keys, all I could hear through the door was, "They got one of your tires...."

Not again.

This time, they only got the bolts off one of the wheels, loosened the rest (taking one), but they couldn't get past the wheel locks. Fortunately, the missing bolt was the only damage done - this time around.

I wanted to get different wheels - some basic, hubcap needing junk wheels. No can do - my car has a tire pressure monitoring system, and the cost would be crazy. My sister now insists I park in our driveway instead of on the street to help discourage a thief, but means we have to play the "hey, can you let me out" game if one of us is blocked in. Someone suggested getting more wheel locks to make it even more difficult to get the wheels off.

Another person suggested I buy a gun.

This is either really brilliant or really sick. I haven't figured out which one yet.

"You need to protect yourself. People are crazy out here. You need a gun. What are you going to do if someone tries to get in your house?"

I've been resisting this idea for years. It's not the first time I've been told I need a gun. When the suggestion's been raised before, I've dismissed it because I don't believe in guns. I'm terrified of them and the damage they can do. I don't want to think that the only way I can be safe is to arm myself.

Still, lately it's been harder to resist the idea of gun ownership. My city is becoming more dangerous. There are more empty homes in my neighborhood, more faces I don't recognize, more sirens and random shots in the middle of the night. The streetlights on my block have been out for months at a time. When my sister leaves out for work, it's dark. Pretty soon, it will be dark when I leave for work and dark when I come home. As much as I try to vary it, anyone in my neighborhood paying a bit of attention knows my routine.

Some may know more than that. As I was leaving out this morning, one of my neighbors made a very odd comment.

"Hey, I see you still have your tires and rims," he said as I was walking up to my car. It rattled me, and I had no idea how to respond.

"Yes," I said, unlocking the door to get in, "but not for a lack of someone trying." I couldn't help but think, "Was it you who was trying?"

"Have you thought about getting wheel locks? he asked. I nodded yes.

"That's why they're still on the car. Someone just tried again last week." "Was it you? Did you see something? Would you tell me if you did? Or if you knew who it was?"

"That's good," he said as his ride pulled up. I got in my car and sat there for a minute to compose myself.

A couple of weeks ago, I stopped by a gun shop near my job to ask about how I would go about getting a gun permit. Just walking in the door made me a bit queasy. Everyone working in the store was armed. There were weapons everywhere - revolvers and semi-automatic handguns in display cases, rifles hanging on wall displays, paper targets shaped like armed intruders hanging behind the counter. The man I spoke to told me about how he carries a handgun, a knife and pepper spray on him at all times because "you can't be too careful." He also offered to give me a discount on a CCW permit class if I bought a weapon from his store. He had a guy who gives one-on-one target and gun safety training show me a couple of semi-automatic handguns to "see which one fits your hand."

I told the man I didn't realize I'd ever come to a day when I'd need to know my ring, glove, and gun size. He had me handle a couple of guns ("we even rent some of them - you know, for target practice"), showing me how the grips on one could be changed out for more comfortable handling, and talking about how many bullets each one held. He gave me a card with his phone number on it and said to call once I got my permit to schedule my private shooting class. As I walked out of the shop, I swore I'd throw away the card and never again think about getting a gun.

This morning, as I sat in my car trembling after a chance encounter with a neighbor, I found myself thinking that maybe it's time to get a gun and never again think of being without one. That made me tremble even more.

More later.

A View of Being a Big Sis

2008-10-08T20:21:00.010-04:00

One of my co-workers is about to have her second child. She's due next month. We had a baby shower for her today. There was the requisite pink frosted cake, frothy, ultra sweet punch mixed with sherbet and scooped with a ladle into paper cups, a fruit tray that everyone pretended they wanted as they devoured a second slice of the cake, and a "welcome baby" banner draped over a window. There were presents in glossy gift bags adorned with paper rattles, storks, and sleeping baby princesses. Mother-To-Be was glowing. She hugged everyone who came and shared a bunch of fun pregnancy stories with everyone.

The one that stood out to me was about her daughter's lack of enthusiasm over the new baby. Big Sis is about two years old and just getting used to being the center of attention, and she's not to thrilled about becoming Big Sis. Over the weekend, as Mom & Dad watched TV and Big Sis was lying on the living room floor playing with a coloring book, she said out of the blue, "That baby no share my crayons."

Mom & Dad tried to stifle a laugh, and asked her to repeat what she said.

"That baby no share my crayons," Big Sis repeated, never missing a beat with her coloring.

"What baby?" Mom asked. This was the first time Big Sis even acknowledged a baby coming. Big Sis put down her crayons, stood up, and walked over to Mom.

"That baby," she said, pointing at Mom's belly for emphasis, "no share my crayons." She then turned around and went back to her coloring.

Wow.

The story took me back to when I was a child and my baby sister came along. We had the same sibling rivalry, evolving over the years into a relationship where it was clear to everyone who knew us that we could pick on each other at a level that would make Itchy & Scratchy look like amateur hour, but nobody else had better dare think of picking on one of us. It brought to mind our own crayon story, too.

It would've been around the time of this picture. I was about nine, my sister about four. I told her that crayons tasted just like food.

"In fact," I said, "The green one tastes just like green beans." Green beans, or bean beans as she called them, were one of her favorite foods.

"Really?" she asked. I assured her they did. How I kept a straight face until she bit into that crayon, I'll never know. Who knew she could yell so loud, run so fast, and hit so hard?

We still joke about that crayon prank to this day. I wonder what crayon prank Big Sis and her new baby sister will share - or if they'll share one. Big Sis has to be willing to let that baby near her crayons first. Over time, I know they'll become close. They'll share secrets, borrow each other's clothes, play with each other, and learn to become each other's best friend, just like my sister and I are today.

Then, my thoughts turned to a little girl who may not get the chance to run, play or be a Big Sis.

Tangena Hussain has been on my mind a lot since the news of her disappearance broke and an Amber Alert was issued last week. According to reports, she was with her mother's boyfriend, Jamrul Hussain (no relation to Tangena) that night. He told police he took Tangena with him to pick her mother, Nilufa Begum, up from work at Northland Mall and stopped at a gas station on the Detroit-Southfield border to buy a pack of gum. He left the little girl in his car while he went inside. When he returned to the car a couple of minutes later, she was gone.

As the case has progressed, Mr. Hussain has since been charged with the kidnapping and rape of a 15-year old girl. He's taken a polygraph test, and there are conflicting reports about the results of the test. Some reports have his lawyer saying he failed the test. In other reports this is a claim denied by his lawyer. Today, the FBI raided Tangena's home and the home of two neighbors, Mamunur Rahman Khan and his wife, Hena Begum (no relation to Tangena's mother). Mr. Khan and Mrs. Begum have been charged as accessories in the kidnapping and rape case. Crime scene investigators and the FBI seized items from the Khan residence, even going so far as doing some excavating in their backyard.

Nilufa Begum is scheduled to take a polygraph test tomorrow.

It's almost been a week since anyone has seen Tangena Hussain alive. Her mother pleaded with the public to help her and her daughter in a report published today.

"I'm still hoping that my daughter's still alive somewhere. Please, go out there and look for my daughter," she pleaded with reporters. Let's help bring Tangena home.

Tangena was last seen at approximately 9:00 p.m. on October 2, 2008 at the Marathon Gas Station on the corner of Greenfield Road and 8 Mile Road. She has a scar on her upper lip and chin. She was last seen wearing a brown long sleeved shirt with a cartoon character on the front, white cargo pants, and gold sandals.

If you know anything about the disappearance of Tangena Hussain or have seen her, please call your local police department, or call the Detroit Police at 313-596-1240.

Let's be a Big Sis for Tangena. Here's hoping she's safe wherever she may be.

More later.

A View of the Sacred and Profane

2008-10-06T17:43:00.004-04:00

Put those idle hands to use - click on the picture and check out "Lio"

This post is all about heaven, hell and temptation.

After work today, I decided to make a quick stop at one of my favorite stores before going home to browse a bit and possibly use a coupon I got in the mail. (Temptation got the best of me even thought I know I didn't need to buy anything.) When I got to the store, it was closed - the strip mall was experiencing a power outage, so I was saved from the urge to do a bad but stylish thing. I decided it was best to do the right thing and head home. I hopped on the freeway and as I was speeding along (giving in to the temptation of speed - I had to keep up with the flow of traffic), an unusual sight caught my eye.

At the foot of a very busy entrance ramp, at a very busy junction of a local freeway, there was a man working on making sure all the afternoon's commuters made it into heaven. From what I could tell he was a younger man, wearing dark slouchy pants, an oversized polo shirt layered over an equally oversized t-shirt, a baseball cap tilted to the side, and a very large dark jacket of some sort. He was also holding a very large handmade picket sign that read, "JESUS IS LORD."

"What the hell....?" I said out loud, trying not to cause an accident as I strained to reach for my purse to get my cell phone.

The cars speeding by didn't seem to faze him. He rocked slightly back and forth, as though he were trying to keep himself warm in the cool air. He clutched the wooden handle of his sign close to his chest, looking straight ahead facing the cars coming onto the freeway. I couldn't make out his facial features or what expression he had on his face, but judging by the way he stood without flinching, I'd imagine he was pretty content and stoic. I was the exact opposite. As I sped past, I couldn't believe what I was seeing.

All I could think was I hope some careless or speeding driver doesn't send that young man to his maker. Reaching for my cell phone, I decided to play guardian angel to the young evangelist and placed a call to 911. I got right through to a Detroit Police dispatcher and told her what I saw.

"Hold on, I'll put you through to Michigan State Police," she said. I thought I'd go right to another operator. Not so much.

"Thank you for calling the Michigan State Police. If this is an emergency, please remain on the line and an operator will be with you shortly." That's right. I was in voice mail hell. One minute passed. "Thank you for holding. Someone will be with you shortly." Two minutes passed. By now, I'm more than two miles away from the man trying to save souls. What if this were a life or death emergency? Finally, someone answered and I made my report. "Okay. We'll send someone out," the officer said once I was done, then he hung up.

With that, all I could do was shake my head and hope that the young man wasn't hurt. Then I wondered what would happen to him and his sign. Would the officers dispatched to the scene treat him with respect? What would they do to the sign? It was much too big to fit into a squad car? Would they try to fold it and put it in their trunk? Hell, would an officer show up at all? Did anyone else see him? Did they think of his safety and call the police, or did they just look at his message and take it at face value?

It was one of the few times I wished I believed in heaven, salvation, or prayer. My grandmother used to say God watches over old folks, monkeys, and fools. Who looks over those saving souls at the foot of a freeway entrance ramp? Or the nonbeliever who, speeding past and minding her business, sees that person and can only think of saving the prosthelytizer from himself?

I wish I knew the answer to that question. More later.

A View I Dare You To Take

2008-10-06T14:46:00.003-04:00

Damn, I depressed myself with that last post. It made me feel like crying when I was done. Here's a video that may make you laugh until you cry. View if you dare, but if you end up with this song stuck in your head, don't blame me.

A View Of Handling the Truth, Ready or Not

2008-10-06T12:02:00.011-04:00

Need to learn basic instructions for daily life? Click on the picture for a healthy dose of knowledge.

I married for the second time back in September 2007. After my first marriage failed, I vowed I'd never remarry because the first failure was emotionally and financially catastrophic. Why go through that pain again if I didn't have to, right?

Well, I ended up meeting a man who I thought was worth the risk. It seemed like a good investment at the time - he was kind, we had a lot in common, he seemed to genuinely care for me, and I fell head over heels for him. He assured me time and time again that he wanted to be with me for the rest of our lives and pledged his fidelity to me. After thinking it over, I decided to make the investment and give marriage another shot.

Roughly six months later, my emotional investment crashed. Turns out he was, to keep with the theme, was investing with me and at least two other women. He thought he was keeping his, ahem, assets safe by making sure the women were in other states. What harm could come from diversification, I imagine he thought. One was long term - he'd been seeing her almost as long as he'd been seeing me. They even began talking about marrying in 2010. The other(s) just offered, shall we say, short term liquidity. I chose to divest and get out of his market. I can't begin to tell you how angry, embarrassed, and confused I was as I went through my separation and divorce.

Through it all, one question kept coming to mind: Why? I wondered how I let myself get taken in by someone who was not the best choice for me. I wondered how much of what he said, did, and vowed was true and how much was pure junk. I wondered if he'd said the same things, made the same vows, and pledged to love the other women the same way he'd done with me. What I've tried not to do, however, was blame the other women. It was (and still is) hard, but in the end I had to remind myself that in the end it was his actions that were wrong. (In fact, I found out the one he was involved with the longest didn't even know he was married.) The women may have had some culpability, but not as much as him. They didn't take a vow before all creation and the state to love, honor, and foresake all others with me 'til death.

I also had to remind myself that I had some culpability in this situation. There were several times when I had the nagging feeling that something wasn't right. Instead of paying attention to that gut feeling and exploring it, I chose to move forward without seriously thinking of the future. I didn't question the long term and chose to focus on the immediate moment. That was a bad emotional investment, but I went forward and ended up paying a high cost in the end. I also had to accept the fact that I may never truly know why he did what he did. I didn't (and don't) like the idea of not knowing the full truth, but in the end it's more important to learn from the mistake and move on than dwell on what may have happened to the point of emotional paralysis.

My marriage and the way it ended came to mind as I watched the news this weekend. It's funny how the financial crisis and bailout parallels my personal situation. There's so much anger, resentment, hurt, and fear in the country today based on the ongoing failures of the financial system. There's a ton of mistrust about how the bailout package will work. The panic that's setting in seems to be taking us to the point of economic paralysis. There's so much fear that things are going to get worse that things are getting worse. Just today the Dow took another tumble, falling below 10,000 because fear that the credit crisis is spreading globally. People are afraid of failing and don't trust the solution they pushed so hard to put in place, so they're pulling out of a perceived failing market - leading to more failure and mistrust. It's an ugly, downward spiral.

What's even uglier is that there doesn't seem to be is a willingness for everyone involved to accept their share of the blame. One example of this can be found in today's Washington Post. The National Urban League sent a letter to Treasury Secretary Henry Paulson asking him to refute claims by conservative pundits that subprime mortgages to minorities led to the current financial crisis and needed bailout. According to the report, Mr. Paulson received an electronic copy but did not respond.

This is sad on several levels. First, it seems to me that it would be an unfair overstatement to lay the entire blame for the current financial mess on minority home ownership opportunities. Many people took advantage of too good to be true financing and mortgage opportunities, buying homes they couldn't afford based on the allure of easy financing and ARMs that seemed like they'd never adjust up.

Next, it seems to me that the man who now controls the purse strings for the proposed bailout should, at the very least, make some sort of public response to the letter. I'm not saying that he has to agree with the charges or disagree with them. What I am saying is that he should be willing to sit down with the National Urban League and hear them out. Their concerns have some legitimacy, and any solution to the credit and financial problems need to include open discussion about how to make sure the housing market is accessible by everyone in this country. To not respond sends a message that the Treasury Department - an arm of the federal government - either doesn't care or doesn't know how to respond to the letter. Whatever the case, that doesn't help to instill trust that our government is willing to do any and everything to resolve the ever growing problem.

Finally, it seems to me that all of us need to step up and take some ownership of this problem. My ex-husband, for whatever reason, wanted to be unfaithful. His ability to act on that want was made easier by my willingness to look past my feeling that something was wrong, and his ability to find other willing partners. Similarly, the financial system was allowed to create an unchecked, lightly regulated loan market with little regard to future cost. People were willing to buy a home that under different circumstances they would be scarcely able to afford because there was easy "buy now, pay later" credit. When the market could no longer support that model of financing, bills came due and it was time to pay the consequences.

It's time to acknowledge that we (and I mean the collective "we") helped create this situation by not being fiscally responsible ourselves, then work individually to make sure we never give into financial temptation like this again. I'm just as guilty of financial irresponsibility as the next person, indulging my urge to buy something pretty by whipping out the credit card instead of truly determining the difference between want and need. I'm not as bad off as some, but I could be a lot better financially. I also could've followed my head instead of my heart when it came to remarrying, but I didn't and ended up having to deal with the emotional fallout. The good thing about this is learning from the situation and it's aftermath, making the pledge to improve instead of lashing out and looking for a scapegoat. Improvement and growth starts with each of us individually, then working together to make all of us better. Nothing worthwhile is ever easy folks. Here's hoping we're brave enough to accept that.

The truth is right there in front of us all the time, waiting to be acknowledged. Are we ready to face it and do the right thing, or will we keep looking for the easy way in the short term with no regard for long term effects? In other words, why go through that pain again if we don't have to?

More later.

A View of A Little Bit of Sugar

2008-10-02T19:27:00.013-04:00

In my old, worn out pantry, next to the boxes of Gevalia coffee I've had for at least two years and still haven't finished, is an even older amber colored plastic jar.

It's dusty, sticky and hasn't been opened in years. Inside it holds a plastic bag - I think it held coffee filters or some other food item that I can't remember. The bag is crammed full of packets of Equal and Sweet & Low pilfered long ago from restaurant tables, purchased from grocery stores, brought home from hospital cafeterias and office kitchens. I don't know if the contents of the packets can safely be consumed, or even if the lid of the jar will come off. Anyone who sees the jar would either toss it out, or pitch the contents and give the jar a good scrubbing in a hot water & bleach mixture in order to use the jar for something else. Anyone except me. That jar is priceless and will remain sticky, sealed, untampered and in my pantry. It's one of the last items I have that my grandmother used on a daily basis.

The jar originally held powdered coffee creamer. When it ran out, my grandmother washed the jar and began keeping packets of artificial sweetener in it. Whenever we went somewhere that served coffee, she'd put a packet or two in her cup and put several more packets in her purse, which she always called her "pocketbook." Once we got home, those packets would go right into the container. It never seemed to run low.

My grandmother was the one who taught me how to drink coffee and eat toast. Every morning, she'd have breakfast at the kitchen table. She made toast so dark, it was almost burnt. She'd spread on a generous smear of margarine (which she called butter or "Oleo"), and she'd boil water in an old saucepan that didn't have a handle (why have a handle when you can use an oven mitt) for her instant coffee - always Taster's Choice, regular. She'd scoop one heaping tablespoon into her cup, then one teaspoon of sugar and creamer. Then, she'd sit at the table sipping her coffee, dunking her toast into her cup then taking a bite. One hand would hold the toast, the other usually had a pen in it as she worked on the crossword puzzle in the paper. There was always an ashtray nearby with a lit, unfiltered Pall Mall cigarette that she smoked while she worked on the puzzle. There were also at least two dog eared, well worn crossword puzzle dictionaries nearby to help her with the particularly tough clues. One day, I don't remember how or why it came to be, she made me a cup of coffee and two pieces of toast, just like hers. This became our daily ritual as I got ready for school in the morning, on Sundays before going to church, during the summer when it was easier to linger over a cup and not worry about the time.

We'd sit and talk about all sorts of things - school, church, how to be a lady, current events, what she was making for dinner that night. Sometimes, she did all the talking and I listened - especially when she talked about what it was like for her growing up in Alabama, or how she worked as a cook at an Italian restaurant and how she wanted me to study hard so I didn't have to do the same. Sometimes I did all the talking and she listened - especially when I'd tell her about what I'd learned in school the day before, or what I wanted to be when I grew up. Sometimes neither of us talked. She worked on her puzzles, or nodded off to sleep at the table, or paid the monthly bills. I watched her every move as I ate my toast, dipping it into my coffee just like she did.

Over time, I became a teenager who was too cool for old fashioned things like instant coffee and dunking my toast. She grew older and her health began to suffer. The sugar had long been traded in for sacchrine because of heart problems and blood sugar issues, her crossword puzzles and dictionaries put aside because of her failing eyesight. She moved slower because of arthritis and circulation problems - eventually becoming so bad that she soon needed a wheelchair. We didn't talk as often - sometimes we argued more than we talked. Whatever the exchange, it was always heartfelt, warm, and full of love.

I can't remember the last time we sat down to have coffee and toast at the kitchen table. I can't remember when she stopped collecting packets of Equal or boiling water in that old saucepan with no handle for instant coffee. What I do remember is her wisdom. Her strength in the face of adversity and illness. Her ability to make you laugh when you felt as though you'd never be able to feel joy ever again. The way she'd listen to you, take your hand and say, "Baby, everything is going to be alright." The way she'd smile as she cooked because the food she made was filled the love she felt for anyone she invited into her home.

When I look at that old, sticky, sealed jar full of sugar substitute, decades old and stashed away in my pantry, I hear her saying, "Come here and give Dear some sugar," turning her cheek toward me, and smiling in a way that showed off her dimples. She's been gone since 1991. Today would've been her 94th birthday. If she were here, I'd make her a cup of instant coffee with water boiled in an old saucepan on the stove, light up one of her Pall Mall cigarettes, spread the crossword puzzle and her dictionaries out on the kitchen table, and make her some dark toast smeared with Oleo. We wouldn't say anything to each other - we wouldn't have to. We'd just dip the toast in our coffee, take a bite and enjoy each other's company sitting at the kitchen table.

Happy birthday, Dear. Here's a little sugar from me to you.

A View Of Over and Under Reactions

2008-10-02T14:18:00.017-04:00

When Sherman overreacts, it's hilarious.

Check out "Sherman's Lagoon" by clicking on the picture. You'll enjoy the trip.

I'll admit it - when I first stopped writing updates to my blog a couple of years ago (time flies when you're procrastinating), I overreacted. I let a temporary case of writer's block keep me from something I enjoyed and that was a silly.

I take comfort in the fact that I'm not the only one who falls victim to overreacting under duress, no matter how minor. Like, for example, the Westland Police Department employee who cited a woman for contributing to the delinquency of a minor because her son urinated in a strip mall parking lot. Her 3-year old son.

This picture may get me cited in Westland. (File photo, not an actual photo of the incident.)

According to the mom, the man (later revealed to be an undercover police officer for the city) refused to show a badge to the woman and threatened to call Child Protective Services on her because she was "making excuses" to "justify" her son's actions. A 3-year old boy. Who announces he has to go potty and before mom can get his (not much older) sister out of her car and into a restroom, he takes matters into his own hands and relieves himself on her tire. I think this sounds like someone who just loves using the power of a badge on someone he can bully. Don't you think so too?

Sometimes an overreaction can be met with an equal and opposite overreaction. Take, for example, the situation with reporter Karen Dinkins. Ms. Dinkins, a reporter for local news radio station WWJ 950-AM, covered the recent Obama rally in Detroit last Sunday. Her overreaction was showing up to cover the rally wearing an Obama t-shirt. Not the smartest move - reporters are always supposed to present an impartial demeanor when covering a story. Her employer's reaction, however, was not the smartest either. They chose to fire Ms. Dinkins, a 13 year employee of the station. She expressed surprise about the firing, and journalism experts expressed surprise at both her actions and those of WWJ. None of the reports mentioned whether Ms. Dinkins had had any other performance issues or problems during her employment at the station, so I have to assume she had a favorable work record up to this incident. I understand WWJ not wanting to compromise its credibility, but I can't help but wonder if firing her was over the top. I understand that Ms. Dinkins may have wanted to capture the spirit of the rally and create a rapport with the attendees by wearing an Obama shirt. Maybe she thought that her attire didn't matter because, after all, she's a radio reporter. Who would see one little shirt? I also wonder if maybe her personal zeal got in the way of her professional judgment. It's hard to say because Ms. Dinkins and WWJ are refusing further comment.

Refusing comment, while legally sound, may come across as an underreaction by both parties - an action to which I can relate. After I realized I missed writing my blog, I underreacted by not putting fingers to keyboard as soon as acknowledged those feelings. Every once in a while, someone would ask if I planned to come back to the blog and I'd brush off the question with a smart alecky comment or a vague "maybe" or "soon." I guess I did it to underplay my embarrassment that I let something that I enjoyed go and didn't think that maybe others missed the blog as much as I did.

Again, I take comfort that I'm not the only one who falls victim to this line of thinking. Right now, for example, the news media is holding its collective breath in anticipation of tonight's Vice Presidential debate between Sen. Joseph Biden and Gov. Sarah Palin. The focus is on the intense work Sen. McCain's camp is doing to get Ms. Palin ready for the debate and the inevitable "who will win" question. There hasn't been as much of a focus, however, on her recent interviews from what I can tell. I knew that she was interviewed by Katie Couric on the CBS Evening News recently, but I just found out that it was - for lack of a better word - underwhelming. Take a look at this post on the Reuters website to see for yourself.

It makes me wonder if, in an attempt to address the issue, advisors to Ms. Palin will overreact and over prepare her for the debate. Whatever happens, I just hope the preparations don't include lip or pork products. That will start the overreaction cycle over again and lead to an underreaction we don't need - like a lack of focus on the issues voters care about.

That reminds me: The deadline to register to vote in the November presidential election is next week for many states. Here in Michigan, the deadline is October 6th. If you haven't done so, please register to vote then go to the polls on November 2nd and vote. The only way change can happen, no matter what change means to you, is to let your voice be heard and have your vote counted. Rock the Vote has a pretty cool Election Center with all sorts of information about registering, voting and the candidates, including links to all sorts of campaign and voter information sites.

Here's a fact I found on Rock the Vote I didn't know: Eight states allow voters to register on Election Day? Some even let you do it at the polling site. Here's a big VFTT shout out to Idaho, Iowa, Maine, Minnesota, Montana, New Hampshire, Wisconsin, and Wyoming - states that neither over or underreact when it comes to voter registration. They get the balance just right.

More later. TTFN, y'all - and keep an even keel.

A View of the Reboot

2008-10-01T14:42:00.011-04:00

If you aren't down with Pearls Before Swine, you should be. It's comedy gold.

It's been a while. Over two years as a matter of fact. I hadn't planned on abandoning my blog, but it happened. Why?

At first, I just ran short of time to post entries. Then I got embarrassed because it had been so long since I posted. Then I got involved with a man - ended up getting married, something I vowed I'd never do. Big mistake - making a long story very short, I picked the wrong man and got divorced about six months later. (Long story coming later - trust me.)

I never gave up on returning to the blog, I just didn't know where to begin. After letting it go for years, there just seemed so much to say. I had no idea how to start over. Well today, I got my way to start over.

One of the sites I enjoy visiting is USAToday's Pop Candy blog by Whitney Matheson. Everyday, she picks a reader to feature - her Reader of the Day. Today, she picked me - quite the honor, don't you think? Being featured in a national publication is more than the catalyst I need to restart my blog and start writing again. So here we go again. I've freshened up the e-mail address and will clean up the place as the days go on. I'm sure there are dead links and old references all through this site that need to be cleaned up.

Let's start with two links that will give you an idea of what's been up with me in the absence. The first is a link to an article that ran about my mom and I in the Detroit Free Press last year about life in Detroit during and after the 1967 riots. (Yes, my living room is crazy orange too.) The other is a link to DRIS, the Detroit Radio Information Service, where I work as a volunteer reader for the blind. The service and my work there helped keep me sane when things got ugly over the past couple of years. Check them out, and make a donation if you feel inclined. Better yet, consider volunteering time to a local service or group to which you or your family feel a connection. It will help others and help you at the same time.

Peace to all the readers. It's good to be back.