Rowhouse Logic - Breathtaking Inanity

Hillary, oh Hillary, must you run? Must you?

The Democratic Party (my party of choice) seems intent on putting Hillary in the driver’s seat for 2008.

Electable? Not a chance.

No, not because she’s a woman — the Republicans could put up Condi Rice and do quite well, thank you very much. It’s not because of Monica (that wasn’t her fault.) And hey, even Whitewater is old news for many.

She just doesn’t pass the Lex Street test.

On December 28, 2000, four gunmen killed seven and wounded three more in a drug-dealing dispute. The crime, dubbed the “Lex Street Massacre” is the worst shooting in modern Philadelphia history. It took place at 816 North Lex Street — not far from where I live.

The next Democrat who wins the White House will need the votes of the people on Lex Street — and of other places like it. These folks have heard politicians promise much and deliver little. They have little to gain by voting, and so much has been taken from them already that they have little to lose by foregoing the process.

Someone like Howard Dean (who was clearly responsible for his own demise) could have won their votes. Dean championed health insurance for everyone, and affirmative action based on class, not race. Kerry, on the other hand, simply brought his war record, which is singularly unimpressive to the folks who live on Lex Street — they live in a war zone, day in, day out.

What use are arguments about Social Security reform, homeland defense, and foreign policy when getting through the day is an almost impossible task? Of what use will Hillary be to the residents of Lex Street? None, I fear, and the results will speak for themselves.

I watched a very disturbing piece on Fox Philadelphia tonight. Their investigative reporter, Jeff Cole, did another expose on the Peach Bottom, Lancaster County dog breeder (and I use that term very loosely), Puppy Love Kennels.

Fox spoke with selected individuals who bought puppies from these people in the recent past. A sweet, yellow lab puppy, named Morgan, developed pneumonia shortly after she arrived at her new home. She underwent about $2000 of medical treatment, but in the end, did not survive. The owner was given a refund of the $550 that he paid for the puppy, due to legislation known as the Puppy Lemon Law, but he was shit out of luck, where the vet bills were concerned.

A Pomeranian puppy, named Cooper, developed an upper respiratory infection shortly after being purchased. In addition to the cold, he had ringworm, ear mites, and possible brain damage. He also developed pneumonia. This time, the owner of the kennel, took the dog back so that it could recuperate. When the owner called the check on the dog, she was told that the puppy was staying with a friend. The money paid for the puppy was again refunded, but the assumption is that this puppy also died.

According to this article in Lancaster Online, the PA Department of Agriculture is investigating the place, but as the date of the article, no citations had been issued and no definite wrongdoing had been established. The PA Attorney General’s office has also been called on to investigate.

This situation and the countless others similar to it break my friggen heart. I look at the beautiful faces of my dog and two cats, all rescued from somewhere, and I just don’t understand how anyone, knowing what we now know about pet overpopulation and the massive numbers of unwanted pets that are euthanized every day, could purchase a purebred dog or cat, particularly as a family pet. There are so many shelters that are worthy of support. My oldest cat, Teddy, came from the Rescue League of Pittsburgh. My dog, Zack, came from West Jersey Animal Shelter in Pennsauken. My other cat, Boo Boo, came to me as a kitten when a co-worker’s cat had more kittens than they could handle.

A great place to search for available shelter animals is here. I’ve got no hidden agenda in posting this, I’m just an animal lover who hates seeing defenseless creatures mistreated in the name of profit or status.

Thanks for listening.

Melissa, Teddy,Boo Boo, and Zack “the dog”.

Will Bunch has a new blog named Attytood. Good stuff, as always.

I’ve managed to live in Philadelphia my whole life without ever sub coming to that peculiar pronunciation. I think my mom uses it. I’ll have to give her a call and find out. She’ll deny it of course. My father-in-law, now there’s a guy who uses it. He really elongates the “e” in the middle so that it takes him upwards of something like 10 minutes just to get the whole word out. It’s usually the sign of an unhappy man when he does that.

Oh my, do they ever. 2005 is movement conservatism’s 1968, but with real power - say anything, do anything, be a total freak, and fear nothing. Nothing! This is the revolution. This is the “real” thing (nothing better than the real thing). This is the “real” America — No holds barred, fuck it all, and enjoy.

Since I’m on a mydd thing, did you know that “hey-hey, ho-ho, Social Security has got to go!”? Brutal stuff.

Maybe that’s just the new subtle. I must remember that if I’m ever to amount to anything that I’ve gotta keep up with the trends…Gotta keep up with the trends…Gotta keep up with the trends…”Social Security has got to go!”

Hi, my name’s Melissa and I’m a clutterer.

Can I get an Amen?

In recent years, I’ve put a good bit of thought into downsizing my life. I don’t plan much, but I always have a bunch of ideas bouncing around my brain, waiting for the time that they become priorities and I start working on them. This downsizing project hit me a couple of years ago, but now I feel like I have the motivation and more importantly, the inclination to begin making changes.

I’ll tell you my dirty little secret, well actually I have two. I’m a pack rat and, even worse, I hate cleaning. In fact, I’ll do just about anything to avoid it. I’ve seen lots of independent films that I might not otherwise have seen had I not been searching desperately for an alternate activity. I’m pretty sure I’m not unusual. In fact, I’ve known lots of women who were very poor housekeepers. As a child, I remember going to a well-loved relative’s house, which was in a chronic state of disarray. This woman lived an incredibly interesting life. She taught weaving classes, went to auctions, collected antiques, raised chickens, tended a garden, parented three children, and somehow kept a husband, but her house looked like a bomb hit it. The mother of one of my childhood friends had clutter and random stuff strewn everywhere. She also managed to remain married and raise two children successfully. To me, it seemed like a woman could live a good life and be surrounded with happiness, even if she fell a bit short on the domestic goddess scale.

Unfortunately for me, I think things have changed. Having junk strewn about just doesn’t have the cache´ that it once did. Well, alright, maybe cache´ is the wrong word, but junk doesn’t seem to be quite so acceptable. We live in a society of consumption, people always wanting more technology, more jewelry, more gadgets, more car, and of course, more house; but still it seems like we place even more of a premium on a very well put-together home. I have a question. If I have all the shit that I’m supposed to have in this life, where the hell am I supposed to put all of it?

My ex-boyfriend contributed greatly to my clutter. He bought me new gadgets, particularly kitchen stuff, at any given opportunity. Oh well, it’s Missy’s birthday, let’s get her the nice chef’s knife from Fante’s. OK, I can’t argue with the chef’s knife, I love it and it has found a happy home in my kitchen drawer. But wait, she needs a knife sharpener for the new knife. Oh yes, and what about the two sets of measuring spoons she already has? Let’s buy her a new beautiful stainless steel set, just because. And let’s see, did I really need the little metal stovetop percolator that he brought over. The answer (say it with me people!!) was no, I already had two coffee makers that I didn’t use. I like other people to make me coffee; that’s why God invented cafes.

Look, I can’t place all the blame on others. For a while, I went to flea markets on a weekly basis, buying stuff to sell on eBay. While it held my interest, eBay was a fun hobby. Sooner or later, most hobbies lose my interest and eBay was no exception, so when I cut back on the selling, the junk started piling.

Now that the gift-bestowing boyfriend is out of the picture, I figure that I’ve hit a crossroads in my life. I can either maintain the status quo and never really feel good about my house or I can make some changes, get rid of stuff, take better care of the stuff I already have, and try to make my home a place I feel comfortable inviting people.

I went to my first Clutterer’s Anonymous meeting two weeks ago. I’m going to go back because I know it took me a life time to get here and I know change may be slow, but for the first time in a long time, I really want to make a difference in my own life.

“Huh. Weird.”

That was my reaction when my wife told me that Hunter S. Thompson had committed suicide on Sunday. That’s been my reaction to nearly every suicide I’ve ever learned of, regardless of whether or not I had personal connection to the deceased. Suicide is an odd one. The reaction to it has a perplexing hollow characteristic to it - a vacant feeling that lingers in the brain. Surprise! Suicide is always a surprise - always - regardless of how unsurprising it nearly always is. The man had a well-documented passion for pharmaceuticals, firearms, and Hemingway and we’re still surprised. Surprised and perplexed - searching for reasons or explanations that involve something, anything, other than the violent act of a man who decided to die.

If you’ve ever suffered the experience of being close to a person who killed themselves, or at least close to the event itself, then you know that the search for something, anything other than the violent act of a person who wanted to die, is all the more peculiar, and awful, obviously. Obviously.

She didn’t see the car. Why one earth would you run in front of a car doing 70 on the PA Turnpike if you could see the car? She didn’t see the car. Why would you do something like that if your life was so…um…She didn’t see the car. We all saw that wasn’t the case but we still told ourselves she didn’t see the car. Sometimes we still do.

…

She was just trying to get high. She loved getting high. Getting high was her thing. She spent a whole night locked in the bathroom filling her stomach with pills, passing out, vomiting, filling her stomach with pills, passing out, vomiting, and filling her stomach with pills, all the day after she declared her intention to die. Again. She just wanted to get high. Really high.

…

I was going to do a few more of these vague little stories, but that one still hurts, so I’ll stop. You get the idea… Just something to keep in mind when you read or hear the highly improbable, but inevitable series of crazed explanations and rationalizations for celebrity suicides. If you don’t hear or read them this time, you will the next. Suicide is like murder and war, there is no end.

Suicide, or the threat thereof, used as an emotional weapon is something I despise (I’m not talking about Hunter here). A clear and obvious cry for help or support is nothing to ever be ashamed of, but emotionally blackmailing somebody who cares for you deeply with empty threats of self harm is, well, there are no words to describe such a contemptible shitstorm. I’ve always been terribly cruel about the whole thing whenever confronted; generally suggesting the very most effective means of committing the act and discouraging half measures. This is awful of me and I am, to some degree, ashamed, but I’ve found it to be a brutal and effective way of getting a babbling fool to snap out of whatever shitty, self indulgent dreamworld they have locked themselves into. Fuck that. I’ve dealt with the real thing too often.

I don’t recommend this strategy.

Women attempt suicide at a far greater rate than do men, but men kill themselves at a far greater rate than do women, because men generally choose quicker, easier, more violent means. Handguns, rather than pills. It’s tough to kill yourself with pills, usually taking many hours and multiple overdoses. Fifteen hundred feet per second leaves little chance for second thoughts or immune reactions. I’ve always found that statistic interesting because, in part, it’s the opposite of my own life’s experience. I’ve only known one man who killed himself, but I’ve known many, many women. I say “in part” because he, like Hunter, did it with a gunshot to the head. Brutal stuff.

I’ll stop now.

I suppose the right thing to do would be to memorialize Dr. Hunter S. Thompson with some poignant words, but he was a writer and an artist and I am anything but that. I won’t even try. He did it well enough on his own. If you haven’t read at least one of his books or articles or rants, now is as good a time as any to do so. Get to work.

Some quotes:

“But on my way into Manchester, driving like a werewolf, it never occurred to me that maybe I was not quite as sane as I’d always thought I was. There is some is something seriously bent, when you think on it, in the notion that a man with good sense would race out of his peaceful mountain home in Colorado and fly off in a frenzy like some kind of electrified turkey buzzard to spend three or four days being carried around the foulest sections of New England like a piece of meat, to watch another man, who says he wants to be President, embarrassing a lot of people by making them shake his hand outside a factory gates at sunrise�

-Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail ‘72

“The towers are gone now, reduced to bloody rubble, along with all hopes for Peace in Our Time, in the United States or any other country. Make no mistake about it: We are At War now — with somebody — and we will stay At War with that mysterious Enemy for the rest of our lives.

It will be a Religious War, a sort of Christian Jihad, fueled by religious hatred and led by merciless fanatics on both sides. It will be guerilla warfare on a global scale, with no front lines and no identifiable enemy. Osama bin Laden may be a primitive “figurehead” — or even dead, for all we know — but whoever put those All-American jet planes loaded with All-American fuel into the Twin Towers and the Pentagon did it with chilling precision and accuracy. The second one was a dead-on bullseye. Straight into the middle of the skyscraper.

Nothing — even George Bush’s $350 billion “Star Wars” missile defense system — could have prevented Tuesday’s attack, and it cost next to nothing to pull off. Fewer than 20 unarmed Suicide soldiers from some apparently primitive country somewhere on the other side of the world took out the World Trade Center and half the Pentagon with three quick and costless strikes on one day. The efficiency of it was terrifying.

We are going to punish somebody for this attack, but just who or what will be blown to smithereens for it is hard to say. Maybe Afghanistan, maybe Pakistan or Iraq, or possibly all three at once. Who knows? Not even the Generals in what remains of the Pentagon or the New York papers calling for WAR seem to know who did it or where to look for them.

This is going to be a very expensive war, and Victory is not guaranteed — for anyone, and certainly not for anyone as baffled as George W. Bush. All he knows is that his father started the war a long time ago, and that he, the goofy child-President, has been chosen by Fate and the global Oil industry to finish it Now. He will declare a National Security Emergency and clamp down Hard on Everybody, no matter where they live or why. If the guilty won’t hold up their hands and confess, he and the Generals will ferret them out by force.â€?

-Fear & Loathing in America - Published 9/12/2001 by ESPN.com

“How many more of these goddam elections are we going to have to write off as lame but ‘regrettably necessary’ holding actions? And how many more of these stinking double-downer sideshows will we have to go through before we can get ourselves straight enough to put together some kind of national election that will give me at the at least 20 million people I tend to agree with a chance to vote for something, instead of always being faced with that old familiar choice between the lesser of two evils? I understand, along with a lot of other people, that the big thing, this year, is Beating Nixon. But that was also the big thing, as I recall, twelve years ago in 1960 - and as far as I can tell, we’ve gone from bad to worse to rotten since then, and the outlook is for more of the same.”

-Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail ‘72

“Some people will say that words like scum and rotten are wrong for Objective Journalism–which is true, but they miss the point. It was the built-in blind spots of the Objective rules and dogma that allowed Nixon to slither into the White House in the first place. He looked so good on paper that you could almost vote for him sight unseen. He seemed so all-American, so much like Horatio Alger, that he was able to slip through the cracks of Objective Journalism. You had to get Subjective to see Nixon clearly, and the shock of recognition was often painful.â€?

He was a crook - Published 6/16/1994 by Rolling Stone

“And that, I think, was the handle—that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn’t need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting—on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark—the place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.”

-Fear and Loathing in Los Vegas

“But I was still curious. So I set the blinker lights flashing on the Volvo and started walking back up the road, in pitch darkness with a big flashlight in one hand and a .357 magnum in the other. No point in getting stomped & fucked over. I thought – by wild beasts or anything else. My instincts were purely humanitarian – but what about That thing I was going back to look for? You read about these people in Reader’s Digest: blood-crazy dope fiends who crouch beside the highway and prey on innocent travelers.�

-Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail ‘72

“This may be the year when we finally come face to face with ourselves; finally just lay back and say it — that we are really just a nation of 220 million used car salesmen with all the money we need to buy guns, and no qualms at all about killing anybody else in the world who tries to make us uncomfortable.”

-Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail ‘72

The last few months haven’t been easy ones for me. Without giving away any secrets or betraying anything that probably shouldn’t be shared, suffice it to say that I’m having a tough time.

You might be asking, “Why should I care”. Well, maybe you don’t and maybe you shouldn’t. If you’re looking for political stuff, this is not the post for you. Scratch that, if you’re looking for politics, I’m probably not the poster for you. But if you sometimes want to bear witness to someone else’s ruminations on the human condition, you might want to stay tuned.

I don’t think I’ve felt truly and consistently happy in about 13 years. I know that sounds crazy, and I’m sure there were times in recent years when I’ve felt euphorically giddy or at least reasonably happy, maybe for as long as days, weeks, and months at a time. I guess those times are just difficult to remember when the light at the end of the tunnel has dimmed to a distant flicker.

I guess the feelings I’ve been having relate to a sense of disconnectedness from other people (I know, could I possibly sound more cliche?) and I know I’m at least partly to blame. I’ve isolated myself in the past few years. My relationship of 4 1/2 years was dissatisfying and left me feeling trapped. I didn’t want to talk to anyone about the relationship, because I didn’t want to complain. I guess at the same time, I wasn’t ready (for whatever insane reasons I might have had) to end the relationship. Shortly before my father’s illness, I managed to end this relationship. I wish it could have been cleaner and I wish I’d been able to salvage the friendship. Although I’m grieving over the loss of this person at this moment in my life, I hope that somewhere down the road, we’ll be able to talk again.

Around the time that my father got sick, I emerged from my self-imposed isolation chamber and allowed myself an unexpected emotional connection to another person. I’d been shielding myself from emotions for a long time, so letting myself feel something and not being scared to do so was pretty significant. Recently, this relationship too has changed and the sadness I feel is another loss for which I’m grieving.

Compounding all of this was the death of my father. Something inside me, I can’t figure out if it’s my heart or my brain or maybe it’s my own inner Joan of Arc, tells me that my father’s death is all I should have to deal with right now. When I’m walking around the neighborhood with my dog (”the dog” tm David) and the tears come, I don’t even know which situation is causing the trouble. I just know that lately, I’m hurting too damn much. I know I’m strong, I know I can handle it, but right now all I can really say is why me?

Maybe one of my favorite songwriters, Paul Simon, had the right idea. “I am a rock, I am an island. And a rock feels no pain, and an island never cries.”

So, have you noticed that dog rhymes with blog?

I wonder about this whole internet thing. It’s like, you can get out of jail or a mental institution, and within an hour have a new screen persona, blog, and personal ad — just like that.

I mean, I KNOW that my friend Melissa, who wrote the review of Grace on Grays Ferry, is a real person. She has not recently been in jail, nor has she recently been institutionalized.

She does, however, have a dog. And dog still rhymes with blog.

Melissa makes no mention of dogs in her review (save for use as a food — “hot dogs”) but she does mention how pleased she is to have rights to post on a blog.

I can’t help but wonder — what if I started a blog, and everyday posted the same thing?

“The Blog.”

“The Blog.”

Or should I not capitalize the “B”?

Maybe I should buy blog.com and do this. I mean, that would be pretty minimalist, wouldn’t it?

Or would it be post-modern minimalism?

Something else, perhaps?

“The Blog.”

Are there any great (or not so great, but even mildly good) intellectual/artist movements going on right now?

This sorta illuminates one of the challenges of the modern age — none of us know where we fit in any more. Without the challenge of a great movement, what good is a minimalist, post-modern minimalist, or even retro-type blog?

“The Blog.”

“The Blog.”

The thought has occurred to me that using “The Dog” as a metaphor for “The Blog” might constitute a new movement, similar to dada-ism, but do I really want it written on my tombstone that my greatest contribution to this life was that I came up with post-modern minimalist dada-ism?

There would be no life at the end of the vine for that (how does nonsense evolve further? Into more nonsense? Less?) So I would be stuck out there, a footnote in textbooks about post-modern minimalism.

“The Blog.”

Since we’ve been speaking of dogs and the postmodern implications of “the dog”, it’s high time we threw a bone to everybody’s favorite dog lover, my senator Rick “Whenever I think of you I think of dogs” Santorum. According to Rick, the president is “like a pit bull and he’s got a pair of trousers in his mouth and he’s not going to let go.” Groovy thought Rick. Now I’m stuck with the mental picture of our Dear Leader with a pair of dress slacks in his mouth, shaking them like some poor dying animal. Thanks for the image Rick but, most of all, thanks for the love.

(Via Will Bunch)

David Lynn, an occasional Rowhouse Logic contributor, and his website, Justice for Philadelphia, got a nice little write up in The Philadelphia Public Record. David is working on kicking Lynne Abraham to the curb and his site has lots of ideas for how everybody can get involved in that worthy cause. Don’t forget, one of the best ways to help get rid on Lynne is to contribute to the campaign of her opponent, Seth Williams.

The area around 23 and South Streets, long a relatively inexpensive part of Center City appears to be gentrifying rapidly. A new development called Naval Square, sponsored by Toll Brothers (yes, an early proponent of the McMansion), will surely increase the existing property values and bring a demand for new eating and drinking establishments to that section of the city.

With that thought in mind, well OK, it was only a glimmer in the very back of my already information-packed brain, I met a friend for dinner at Grace Tavern. I’d heard about the place, particularly about the homemade sausages, and I’m always up for a new place to hang. And ever since my early drinking days, my love of cheap bars with decent food has been abiding. Witness the cheapolicious steak and a half sandwich deals at Oscars and the $.25 hot dogs at McGlinchey’s. Dirty Frank’s also used to have food, I think, but that was long before my time.

The menu is basic bar food, burgers and fries, with a Cajun twist and an occasional food oddity. I ordered the Blackened Green Bean appetizer. Yes, you read me correctly, I said Blackened Green Beans. If you haven’t tried such a thing, they’re spicy and wonderful, sautéed in a hot, blackening seasoning and served with a remoulade dipping sauce. My meal was an oyster po’boy. I’ve been eating lots of oysters lately, not sure if it’s the aphrodisiac properties or the fact that we’re in a month with an “r”, but they’ve really been hitting the spot. The only catch being that quality varies considerably. Usually when I order fried oysters, I say a few Hail Mary’s and rub my lucky Buddha’s tummy in hopes that the tender morsel has not been flattened into something unrecognizable. Tonight, my fears were without basis, the breading was light, maybe a mix of flour and cornmeal, and they were served, perfectly fried, plump, and juicy on a long roll, again with a remoulade sauce, lettuce, and capers. My friend had a basic burger, cooked medium well and seemed to enjoy it. (I know, I like ‘em still mooing too) Monk’s famous bourbon mayonnaise was served with the fries and both my friend and I enjoyed them tremendously.

We sampled a couple of local beers with the food. The chocolate stout by Nodding Head was pretty tasty, if you like stout. I didn’t really catch the chocolate flavor, but my friend said she could taste if on the roof of her mouth. I like the mouth feel of a dark beer, so I enjoyed it, chocolate or not. We also sampled an apricot lambic. As I lifted the glass to my mouth, the fruity smell rose to meet me. The smell was fabulous; I think I could have bathed in the stuff. I’m not always a fan of fruit beers, but the taste, for me, was only slightly less appealing than the smell. For fans of lambic, I’d definitely recommend this beer. Since I wasn’t taking notes, I have no idea who made the lambic or the name of my last beer, a bitter stout, which was only alright.

Maybe I’ll go back and sample the sausages next time, but I can promise you there will be a next time. I give Grace Tavern 4 flirtatious waiters out of 5, a glowing recommendation.

Thanks to my friend Chris, who has bravely provided me with posting rights on his blog.

I planned to begin my new blogging journey with a somewhat controversial piece on abortion rights and new rhetoric that appears to be developing around that discussion. I think we’ll save that for the second post.

I lost my father a month ago. What a weird way to say that someone died. “I lost my father”. “Well, where did you put him?” It just sounds like a bad punch line to a worse joke. The vocabulary around death in our society is very weird indeed. I never quite understood what it meant to “pass on”. I probably feel most comfortable with the most simple and honest terminology, my dad died.

The diagnosis of metastatic lung cancer was made only one short month before he died. He’d been having some muscle pain in the area under his ribs for a few months, but the family doctor was treating him with physical therapy. The doctor probably should have suspected something more harmful, but knowing my father, I’m certain the doctor heard few complaints. I don’t blame him for not diagnosing the cancer sooner.

By the time we got a diagnosis, there was a 4 cm inoperable mass in his lung, a number of lesions on his liver, and a spot of cancer obstructing his vision. My very ill father was put on a rigorous schedule of medical tests and doctor’s appointments that would exhaust a healthy person. He did not see an oncologist until less than two weeks before he died. The cancer couldn’t be treated, and for that I’m glad. He suffered significantly for a short time, but he didn’t have to live through the misery of radiation, chemotherapy, and all the resultant problems.

I last saw my dad alive on New Year’s weekend. He wasn’t himself, he was sick, weak, irritable, tired, but he had just enough energy to scold me for not offering my boyfriend a piece of the kiwi that I was eating. I’m 38 years old and I guess it’s comforting to know that to him, I’d always be his little girl and would never grow too old to be treated like one. My boyfriend told me that he and my dad had a discussion about dying. Maybe he found it easier to talk about it with someone he barely knew. I tried to be there for him and I think he felt more comfortable talking to me about his illness than my mother. When I first heard the words, “mass on the liver”, I knew my dad wasn’t long for this world. My mom, on the other hand, was holding out for a miracle. I don’t think he talked much about dying with my mother. But in his final weeks, he taught her how to clean her CPAP machine, how to fill it, and in his own way, he prepared her for the eventuality.

I’d planned to go home the weekend of January 14th. I always left the city around 8:00PM to avoid the remnants of rush hour traffic. That day, my boyfriend and I grabbed a quick bite to eat at a taqueria around the corner from my house. We were probably 1/2 hour later than usual. My cell phone rang about 9:15 PM and it’s my mom, telling me that my dad is in bad shape. He hadn’t opened his eyes all day and hadn’t said a word either.

I arrive at home around 10:15 and my father was already dead. Mom didn’t let the undertakers come for the body. She knew I would want to see him. Hospice had set him up with a hospital bed in the living room, so that’s where he was when I arrived. My neighbors were there, as was the minister from my parent’s church and another close family friend.

My emotions were sort of on hold as the surrealness of the situation struck me. My father is lying there, looking not only like the angel of death had taken him, but also looking like the barber of death had paid a visit. I guess his barber had been kind enough to make a house call that week, but my dad’s normally lush, white hair had been chopped off by what appeared to be hedge clippers. And then I touched him. His hand still felt warm, but his chest was so cool. I laid my head on him and cried for the first time that night. And then it occurred to me. I’d been thinking all day about what I wanted to tell my dad before he died, and because I was hungry and maybe a little selfish, I missed my chance. I can’t beat myself up over this and I also know that I’m better off to have seen my dad when he was still a little bit of his former self, but I can’t control the periodic pangs of guilt that bothered me that night and will probably haunt me for a very long time.

I don’t know if he can hear me when I cry for him or if he goes to the great internet café in the sky and reads this blog, but I just wanted to tell him that he’s my hero and my role model.

I love you, Dad.

Always, your little girl,

Missy

I used to have this girlfriend. She had a dog. I used to call it the dog.

The dog.

The question I used to have (and I never got answered, at least not satisfactorily) was whether or not I was engaging in minimalism or post-modern minimalism when I said “The dog” over and over again.

“The dog.”

“The dog.”

Not in an elongated way, nor in a short, truncated manner, but in a flat utterance that barely passed for speech.

“The dog.”

“The dog.”

Over and over and over.

Interestingly enough, my girlfriend never saw fit to engage me in conversation about pure minimalism vs. post-modern minimalism, but instead asked me over and over why I insisted on talking about the dog, which, as I have previously stated, I referred to simply as “The dog.” As a result, we failed miserably to communicate in a manner that satisfied either of us, and as a result, the dog issue was left unresolved.

I’m sure you have noticed the lack of consistent posts on this site since probably the end of December. It’s not that I’ve meant to slow down; it’s just that I’ve very much needed to slow down, for my own personal reasons. While I do fully intend to keep the site up and running and, to whatever extent, updated and will hopefully get back to writing five or six posts a day, of which at least one might be interesting, now seems less and less like the time. In the interim I’m trying to find some interesting voices to take up some space on the site on a temporary or permanent basis. If anybody is interested in trying this blogging business out drop me a line, I’ll buy you the beverage of your choice and get set you up.

A great Bob Herbert piece this morning. I think this one paragraph says it all:

Any government that commits, condones, promotes or fosters torture is a malignant force in the world. And those who refuse to raise their voices against something as clearly evil as torture are enablers, if not collaborators.

It really is that simple.

Some time ago I used
to run a parody
site named
ProjectGastro which, despite
the name, generally didn’t
deal
in flatulence humor. Anyway, it was while I was running that site that I decided
that it would
be a great idea
to put a hidden
hyperlink on every letter “D”
which would
open different
pictures of dogs
or, preferably, a variety of pictures of women walking dogs
in the park. I never did
get around
to it on my own, now defunct,
site and
I’ve never managed
to convince anybody
else that they should
take up the mantle. I wonder
why? Is there a man, woman, or child alive who doesn’t, on occasion, enjoy a picture of a dog?

If you are curious about the name “ProjectGastro”, my friend
Brian came up with it as a tribute to Mark Leyner’s delightful
book My Cousin My Gastroenterologist. The site itself was actually
pretty successful and
even got featured
on the Ripley’s Believe It Or Not television show as well as a few of those
cheesy, British Men’s Magazines like FHM or Maxim. The producer
of the Ripley’s show told
me she would
call me before it aired
but didn’t,
so I never actually saw the episode.
Perhaps if I’d
done
the dog
link thing they would
have been more responsive to my desires.
Who knows? You can still see the episode
summary here
but they seem to have taken down
the actual picture of the featured
item, which was a home parasite removal kit. If you could
see the kit picture it was, in reality, a Civil War field
amputation kit with all of the requisite nasty looking wood
saws and
clamps. Now I no longer even own the name as it was purchased
by one of those domain
squatting companies that provide
a crappy search engine and
download
all sorts of spyware on to your computer. I’ll buy it back one day
I suppose.

So why am I writing about this? This is just another one of those “sorry I
can’t think of anything meaningful to write” posts I’ve been doing
so many of lately. Well that and
I wanted
to try out that dog
thing.

Aside from the unveiling of the first ever six minute offense, that was a fun game to watch. Well, except for the losing bit of course. And the interceptions. And the uneven, defensive play. And the brutal, scull crushing hangover that still hasn’t worn off some 24 hours later, all for no reason at all. And the..arrrhhhhgggg….screw it.

Sometime, early last spring, I said that this would be the year that the Phillies made the playoffs, the Eagles won the Superbowl, and George Bush lost the Presidency in a bone crushing landslide. Well that didn’t work out the way I thought it would did it? No sir. No sir, not at all.

Anyway, this is just another one of those lame, “sorry I’m not posting more” posts that I’ve gotten so good at of late.

Only 36 Senators could bring themselves to cast a vote against confirming Alberto Gonzales as Attorney General of the United States of America. Only 36 United States Senators could find it in their hearts to oppose the confirmation a man who will be remembered for the idea the it is an acceptable interrogation technique to cause pain akin to that of organ failure. Only 36 had the moral clarity to cast a vote against one of the primary proponents of an evil policy. We should all be ashamed. We are now, unabashedly, a nation that tortures.

Here are the six Democrats that voted to confirm Gonzales:

• Senator Mary Landrieu
• Senator Mark Pryor
• Senator Ben Nelson
• Senator Bill Nelson
• Senator Ken Salazar
• Senator Joseph Lieberman

There is a special place in hell for all of them.

I wonder if they believe that this was the politically expedient thing to do. If so, they are all the more disgusting. If they believe that their constituents would hold them in contempt for voting against this man, are their constituents even worthy of their representation? What divide is too deep to cross? What act to ghastly?

All Senate Republicans present voted to confirm. I’d like to reiterate something that Atrios wrote a few days ago. Voting against Gonzales if you are a Democrat who opposes torture is not a partisan act. Voting for Gonzales if you are a Republican who opposes torture is a partisan act. Senator Lindsey Graham, I’m thinking of you right now.

Our nation’s record on human rights is everything but perfect, but its history is marked by a steady, if staccato and sometimes violent, march forward in this regard. What the hell happened to us? What the hell are we so scared of that we feel it necessary to abandon what we are and what we should be as a people? Why did it become okay to cower in fear like school children while our government commits acts of torture in our name? Our name. This is on all of us.

I’ve put Minority Leader Reid’s comments prior to the vote in the extended entry. They are well worth a read.
Read the rest of this entry »

“If we fail to oppose an evil as obvious as torture — it is an evil and it is obvious it is wrong–then as President Thomas Jefferson said, I will “tremble for my country when I reflect that God is just.”

- Senate Minority Leader Harry Reid prior to the vote confirming Alberto Gonzales as Attorney General of the United States of America.

Contact: David A. Lynn
Email: Webmaster@JusticeForPhiladelphia.Com

Who: David A. Lynn, Webmaster, JusticeForPhiladelphia.Com

What: Radio appearance,

When: Sunday, February 6, 2005, 7:00 AM

Where: “The Ninety Forum”, WYSP Radio, 94.1 FM with former City Councilman James Tayoun

Why: Mr. Lynn will discuss the “Do-It-Yourself Activism Kit” he recently launched on JusticeForPhiladelphia.Com. Also, Mr. Lynn will be discussing ways progressive groups can combine the Internet with decentralized participation to create effective activist campaigns that will garner broad support from wide audiences.

http://JusticeForPhiladelphia.Com is a web site that examines the record of Lynne Abraham, current District Attorney of Philadelphia, and her fitness for office. The site is owned by David A. Lynn, who recently achieved national attention as founder of the Shadow Protest, http://www.shadowprotest.org.

“The Ninety Forum” is a talk-radio call-in show hosted by former Philadelphia City Councilman James Tayoun, Sr. It can be heard regularly on Sundays at 7:00 AM on WYSP Radio, 94.1 FM. Topics of discussion include politics and city government. For more information, call 215-263-ROCK or 609-590-9494.