Book of the Night Club

Speechless

Creepy. Just...creepy. And wrong. Feels wrong. And icky.

Now, I realize these people probably ran up huge legal bills and I suppose this is one way to pay off some debts, but...I mean, something is just SO WRONG with this.

And as a bonus, did you know that Shiavo's parents are named Schindler? I can hardly wait for the tabloid headlines. Shudder...

I really with I knew the back story on this whole thing. I just can't begin to imagine what is really up with all of these people.

Book of the Night Club: Olga's Story (review copy), by Stephanie Williams.

Gone, Baby, Gone

The While Shark who lived for several months in captivity at the Monterey Bay Aquarium was released back into the ocean earlier today. Basically she was getting too big to handle, which they said would happen eventually. I'm glad for her, but the news makes me incredibly sad for some reason.

They say they might look around for another one to exhibit, but I'm not sure that's a good idea. I feel like the opportunity to study her so closely for so long and to allow the public to see her, which was a dream come true for me, was an amazing thing that may never work the same way again. I know they've learned a lot about keeping them healthy in captivity from working with her, but I also can't help but think of all of the money they made while displaying her as well. I like to think they'll still put the animals well being first, and I hope they will.

I hope she has fun in the wide, oceanic world. I'll miss her.

Jesus rose or Fester was born: take your pick

I like it when holidays have dual opportunities for celebration. A little something for everyone, as it were. Today, for example, the religious (or Christian holiday-only religious posers) can celebrate Easter, while those of us who aren't so inclined may instead raise a glass to our dog's third birthday. Yes, Fes is three today, which makes him 21 in human years. Old enough for beer, old enough to vote. Where does the time go?

Later, naturally, there will be a celebration, with a cake and a bit of singing. Yes, we are freaks like that; we don’t have kids, okay? It's nice that Fester will be able to think that all of the well-dressed people (some in fabulous hats) are partying just for him. Happy birthday, Snuffle Pup!

Book of the Night: Mortal Memory (read Saturday) and Places in the Dark (began Friday, finished Saturday), both by Thomas H. Cook.

I read these for work, because he's a friend of the store. They did nothing for me.

Saddened

Anyone who wonders why public education is languishing in the United States need look no further for examples than this article. I am deeply ashamed that an article like this is able to be written in regard to what goes on in public education in my country. And that is seems to be acceptable makes it that much worse.

I realize that textbooks never tell the whole story, and sometimes even don't tell half of the story particularly well. That is why I dislike them. But this...

I am sorry that the parents in these religious organizations are so threatened by their children's sexuality, and that their boundaries are so blurred that can't see that their children need to be allowed to grow up and make their own choices. They obviously don't feel that they are able to communicate to their children adequately, and that they have to create the illusion that their ideas are the only possible way to live.

Sounds like they don't have a lot of faith in their faith, doesn't it?

Another reason to love the ocean

The oceans never cease to amaze me. Just when I think I've seen all of their cool secrets, it throws me another one.

This is sooooo incredible. And yes, I know that it could be the result of some hideous chemical that we thoughtlessly poured into the ocean, but I chose to think it's some kind of amazing evolutionary thing. Please humor me and join in my awe.

Things I know and Don't

You asked, so I'm telling...

I do not know Terri Schiavo, and I can't pretend to despite the copious amounts of information that has kept us abreast of her situation throughout the years. The whole thing seems creepy, and I feel that there are large parts of the puzzle missing that might not come to light until long after the whole thing is resolved.

I do know that she put herself in this " persistent vegetative state" by taking diet drugs; this tells me that her appearance was paramount to her, and helps me to believe that she did tell her husband that she would not want to live as she has been.

I do not know her husband's true motivations for wanting to end her life, and I can't pretend to. Again, we don't know the whole story there, and never will because one of the parties involved can't tell us her side.

I do know that I would not like to "live" this way, and neither would my husband; we have discussed it extensively and will be updating our living wills. Still, I think the only way she can pass away is cruel; surely there must be a better way to humanely end her life than starving her to death.

I know that Jeb Bush should not be granted custody of Terri Schiavo, because that would be wrong. If anything, that is something her parents should have tried if they already haven't. I feel that the Republicans see this more as a religious issue than one about Terri; I don't think they're really thinking of her at all. Congress can't get together to balance the budget or find enough money to fund educational programs, but they can all roll in off the Golf Course on a Sunday for Terri Schiavo. Not that she isn't important; but as I said, I don't feel that it's really about her.

I know that her parents love her, and that they genuinely do want what is best for their child. They love her, and for some reason feel that she can improve (although it's been made pretty clear that Mrs. Schiavo won't ever be able to be "present" and aware). But I wonder if their hatred for her husband is guiding their moves to some extent.

I want to believe in miracles, but I can't. I think Terri Schiavo should be allowed to die.

Book of the Night: If You Lived Here, I'd Know Your Name: News from Small-Town Alaska, by Heather Lende.

INS Interview

Today we drove up to Sacramento for the big INS interview. This is the one where we basically have to prove, by a preponderance of documents, that we are an actual married couple and not just some random freaks that got hitched to get somebody a Green Card.

Things went fine. Initially the interviewer was very cold, disappointed that we didn't bring Richard's tax returns and surprised that our attorney hadn't accompanied us (most of the people there had attorneys, actually). But within a few questions it was easy enough to see that we were what we'd been, pretty much from the moment we met: two people who adore and complete one another.

Once his FBI clearance is complete, his Green Card will be issued. Yay!

Shark Migration

Here is the Today Show piece about the shark migration taking place in Florida right now (if have Mozilla the link won't work; MSN loathes Mozilla). It happens every year about this time, but for some reason this year they can see them better and they're a bit closer to shore. NBC5.com also has some great shots of them as well.

Creatures swimming under the ocean are so beautiful. Sharks, rays, turtles, seals, they all seem to have this incredible grace and sense of peace as they lope around. If I could, I think I'd have a giant wall-sized aquarium in my bedroom, so I could fall asleep each night watching the creatures of the sea. Corny I know, but there you are.

Book of the Night: With No One As Witness, by Elizabeth George.

Just paint a giant L on my head

Today, for the first time in my life, I wore two entirely different shoes. Had I not happened to look down at my feet while talking about how comfortable Birkenstocks were, I may never have noticed.

While they were the same color and even from the same shoe family, they were pretty obviously not a pair. One was an Arizona, one was a Boston.

I pretty much hid at my desk all day, answering inter-office calls by the few people who knew about my dysfunction and wanted me to come to their offices so they could laugh at me when I said no.

The husband tried to make me feel better by telling me that he'd once worn fuzzy slippers on an outing around Colwyn Bay. But he was nine years old; it just isn't the same thing.

When bad things happen to good breeds

Well, maybe not good per se, since I'm not a huge fan of Chihuahuas. But still..

This is LuAnn. As a Chihuahua/Dachsund hybrid, I refer to her as a Dachuahua. The ears; I know. They kill me, too. Although I am sure she's a lovely companion, she also looks like a refugee from a Harry Potter film. She's available for adoption through ARF, which is another great organization that helps homeless animals. We talked about going to see her, but quite frankly we both decided that we couldn't adopt something that made us collapse in hysterical laughter when we looked at it. Ruins the whole Mommy and Daddy are the Alpha Dogs idea.

Book of the Night: American Massacre: The Tragedy at Mountain Meadows, September 1857, by Sally Denton.

YAY!

California's ban on same-sex marriage has been ruled unconstitutional!

Thank you, Judge Kramer.

This just makes me feel all warm inside. I know so many couples who have been together seemingly forever, and just want some legal recognition of their commitment. I know that not all gays and lesbians believe in or support gay marriage, but I think that couples should at least have the option. And it's also nice to see a little nick in the conservative wall (you know George Bush is in the chapel right now praying that California falls into the sea so he can try to pretend it never existed, just like reproductive rights).

Try to look at it this way, homophobes: even if your son turns out to be gay or your daughter turns out to be a lesbian, you can *still* look forward to planning a big, beautiful wedding.

All this AND it looks like I'm gonna be able to ask for a Kolchack the Night Stalker DVD set for my birthday with a high likelihood of getting it!

Hurrah!

Book of the Night: Fierce Attachments: A Memoir, by Vivian Gornick

Second Time's the Charm?

Good. Bernie Sanders (I-VT), Barbara Lee (D-CA), and Tom Udall (D-CO) have reintroduced the Freedom to Read Protection Act. I hope it goes through this time; the government is getting a little too interested in people's personal lives since 9/11. Those interested in reading more about this legislation can visit the Campaign for Reader Privacy.

Got Unruly Children?

Don't wait for them to run off and join the circus, be proactive and sign them up!

A conversation with my mother today led me to the link above. It seems that her neighbor's teenage daughter, who has always been an extremely shy child, was being heavily bullied at school and as a result had "fallen in with a bad crowd" (per her father). Their solution? For father and daughter to relocate to Minneapolis, where the girl could enroll in high school and attend Circus School about 16-20 hours per week. Dr. Mom, a Psychiatrist and the family breadwinner, remains behind in Omaha, continuing to support the family and visiting occasionally.

I think that a school like that will teach her self-discipline, build her self-esteem and give her a sense of power; it sounds like a great thing for someone who feels powerless. But is this the only place where she can get that? Seems strange to me.

Vote for my old DJ

kinda. Actually, I didn't listen to him when he was at his "pinnacle" station, which played a bit too much metal for my taste, as I did later on. But he's a finalist in a pretty cool Internationsl writing contest, so as a Nebraskan who does not find him as offensive as I find many other Nebraskans, I feel obligated to solicit votes on his behalf.

I'm suprised that I didn't know about Lit Idol, since I tend to follow British publishing pretty closely. But then again, I never tried to write a mystery, so that might explain it.

Book of the Night: Towelhead, by Alicia Erian.

Oh the shark babe, has such teeth dear

Crap.

Looks like we might be nearing the end of the white shark's tenure at the Monterey Bay Aquarium. For the second time in ten days she's gnawed on another shark in the Outer Bay exhibit where she's staying. At least this one lived, so that's a plus.

While the aquarists try to maintain that it's a personal space issue (the soupfins are merely violating the white's "space", and she got all pissy about it), I think it's in indicator that she may need to be released and they're in a bit of denial. I mean she is a wild animal, so technically she belongs in the wild. Either that, or get rid of the soupfins until she IS ready to be released. From a financial standpoint (the Aquarium has realized unprecedented income since she joined them), that's the more prudent option, and I hope they consider it as an option if it means the white can stay. As long as her welfare continues to be their greatest concern, which I believe it is.

As a White shark freak from way back I'd hate to see her go, but I have always known it would be necessary at some point. She does not belong in a fish bowl, no matter how large. It's been great having the opportunity to see her (we spent a huge amount of time at the Aquarium on our wedding anniversary weekend back in October), and I hope we get to see her before she is released back into the ocean. I'm too much of a chicken to actually dive with them (my fantasy 40th birthday present to myself), so getting to see one this close up has been a dream come true.

In Search of Pink Naugahyde

We went to the White Elephant Sale today, in search of random things like area rugs, a bike (him), and a rocking chair (me). I found one, but three minutes too late; some other guy had already snagged it. This was due entirely to my inability to see white furniture; because I loathe white furniture; I seem unable to process it when I encounter it out in the world. If I did not have this disability, I would have seen that the exquisite rocking chair (not Mission style, but almost as good) swathed in heavy white paint could have easily been stripped and become the perfect rocker. Sigh! I know I'll find one at some point, I'd just rather it be sooner than later.

As for books, of which there were thousands, I did really well and only bought five. Considering that they were 1/2 off the marked price (about $.50 - $3.00 per book), this is a huge thing for me. I really need to weed through the books we have again and take the non-essentials up to Powells, where we could sell them and purchase still more books. We're talking about venturing North for the Memorial Day, but I don't know if I can do the drive.

As much as I wanted to enjoy the sale, I knew that I would not find what I ultimately wanted, so the whole thing was a bit tainted. No matter how long I look I don't think I will ever again recapture the sheer kitchiness that was my pink naugahyde loveseat.

Back when I lived in Portland, shortly before creatures emerged from the sea, I had a pink naugahyde loveseat. Charlotte and I found it in a thrift store off Burnside, and it was one of the most hideous things I had ever seen. An affront to proper furniture really, and I knew then that I must have it. Did I mention that it was a faded, bubble-gum pink? That pretty much sealed the deal, despite the fact that I hate pink furniture nearly as much as I hate white.

I think it was made in the sixties, although aside from the slightly faded look it was in great shape. Design-wise it looked like this except that it could be split in two so that you could separate them if needed. I put a phone table between them, and it was the most comfortable place in the world to take calls. This was before e-mail or the proliferation of cell phones, when communication took place mainly through telephones that restricted your movement by virtue of being very heavy and having cords that reminded one of childbirth. You could sit back and have a nice cup of tea and a long chat in the loveseat, which I often did. Eric and I used to spend hours on the phone, chatting about men and trying to understand them, helping each other through life. He envied the loveseat, although he had some wonderfully eclectic bits of furniture himself. It was nice to be envied for something by him, even pale pink pieces of naugehyde. He had so much compared to me.

When I moved from Portland to Madison I made sure the loveseat accompanied me. I left books behind to ensure that there was space for the loveseat, which should make it pretty clear how I felt about it. While searching for an apartment I left it in the care of my mother in her basement, eliciting her promise that the loveseat could remain there until I could come and get it. Thirty days later, when I returned, the loveseat was gone. My mother had found it an affront to numerous things apparently, and donated it to the Salvation Army. Or St. Vincent de Paul; maybe to the Junior League, she really couldn't remember. She did, however, know that it was not proper furniture for an adult, which is something she hoped I would one day be. The loveseat mocked her somehow, and once this barrier was removed I would surely be able to find a husband, an "adult" job, and settle down. Instead, I spent three days searching every thrift store, charity boutique and antique store in hopes of finding my treasure to no avail. The loveseat was gone.

I miss my loveseat. As silly as it is to attach importance to possessions, it meant a lot to me. The loveseat reminded me of a time when I was happy, perhaps for the first time in my life. A time when my friends and I were never closer and things were never more possible. There was all the time in the world, and Eric was alive. So every place I go, every thrift store or sale I pass, I look for the loveseat. Sometimes I even start calling places randomly, sure that a description would be enough to determine if the loveseat was there. But it never is. I guess in some strange way I think it's looking for me, too, and that one day we'll find one another.

Just not today.

Book of the Night: The Female Malady: Women, Madness and English Culture 1830-1980, by Elaine Showalter. And it only cost $.50.

Sorry I missed this

I wish I had checked out this exhibit when it was up in SF, but I'm glad it' available online. It's art created from vandalised books with gay, lesbian, transgendersed, and HIV/AIDS among other subject matter.

The level of fear and ignorance of people continues to stun me. Do you think that if you destroy a book, you have destroyed the idea? Actually that gives books a lot of power, which is nice, but this type of censorship sickens me.

Book of the Night: The Miracle Life of Edgar Mint, by Brady Udall.