Dear Governor Palin,
I just watched your conversation with Sean Hannity, and I want to tell you as one mother to another that I, as one of the wee-wee liberals you disdain, am not telling you to shut up. I am asking you to turn down the volume.
I've noticed that you and I have something in common--a love of referencing folksy, personal stories. So let's pretend we're neighbors, and not neighbors like that creepy so-called journalist who rented that house next door to yours last summer and then pretended like he didn't do it to irritate you. What if you and your family were playing your music too loud after midnight, and I called to ask you to turn it down? How would you respond?
I hope you wouldn't respond by telling me that's too bad, but you have the right to play your music as loud as you want, any time of the day or night, and that as a matter of fact, you're going to turn it up louder, because darn it, this is America, where people have gone to war and died to earn the right for the rest of us to do what we want when we want to. Because I actually had a neighbor tell me that when I so rudely interrupted his loud hot-tub party at one a.m. to ask him to quiet down. No matter that he and his friends had so rudely interrupted my sleep during my sixth month of pregnancy. Somehow he turned it into that I was raining on his parade.
"Tell that to the police when they arrive," I said, turning toward my house to make good on my promise.
Here's another story I think you'll relate to, as a hockey mom: At a soccer match for second-grade boys, I asked a parent who kept walking in front of me as I sat on the sidelines to please not walk in front of me during the game. Of course this begged the question, why wasn't he sitting in a chair like all the other spectating parents were?
He got so angry so instantly I was afraid he was going to hit me. His responses are in quotes, mine (real and imagined, I'll let you make the call) in parentheses. "Who are you to ask me to stop?" (Uh, another parent watching my son's match.) And "Everyone knows our team always sits on this side of the field." (How would I know that? I've never laid eyes on you before in my life.) And my personal favorite: "You could have asked nicely." (I did. I was very direct, and as polite as I could manage, given that your pacing was ruining my view of my son's game. Maybe next time I'll say, "Can you please sit down and shut up, asshole?")
But wait, that would just be throwing fat on the flame. I wouldn't want to be irresponsible or anything with that hard-won right to free speech.
I've learned when people are determined to be aggressive, they will resist all efforts to restrain them in any way. It sounds to me like that's where you're coming from, Governor.
No one knows better than me how tough it is to practice what you preach. But if you want the right to express yourself freely, it works both ways. You'll have to expect some sassy responses from wee wee liberals, the lamestream media and anyone whose opinions differ from yours. That's how I understand America's commitment to free speech.
So are we going to be happy neighbors, or are we going to be at odds?
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Monday, January 10, 2011
Adults, please
Just listened to Neal Conan's program, Talk of the Nation, on National Public Radio. Neal devoted the first part of the show to the Tucson shootings. One of his guests was Randy Graf, a former Arizona state house rep and Giffords' Republican opponent in 2006. Mr. Graf spoke of how politics is a tough business; how Sheriff Clarence Dupnik stepped over the line when he described Arizona as a focal point for overheated rhetoric and bigotry; and the NRA platitude, "Guns don't kill people, people kill people."
Yes, politics is a tough business. Things are said. Policies are going to offend at least half the electorate. I hope Mr. Graf isn't lumping the toughness of politics in with assassination, attempted or otherwise. 'Cause it sure sounds like it.
Again, at least half the electorate agrees that political rhetoric is overheated. Sheriff Dupnik is a law enforcement officer. That he made these remarks after a shooting rampage seems perfectly appropriate to me. And it's not like overblown rhetoric creating a hostile environment is a new idea--people have been talking about cooling it down for a long, long while. Why is it so outrageous to say it after a shooting? Does it mean that Mr. Graf and others want to keep open the option of throwing rhetorical flames? Is what Sheriff Dupnik said more outrageous than the conditions leading up to the shootings, or the shootings themselves? As in when the governor of Arizona makes the statement that many headless bodies have been found in the Arizona desert and which she later has to retract?
And as for guns killing people--ay, yay, yay. I'll quote a caller to TOTN, who said in response to Mr. Graf's recitation, "Try telling that to the mother of the nine-year-old girl."
Yes, politics is a tough business. Things are said. Policies are going to offend at least half the electorate. I hope Mr. Graf isn't lumping the toughness of politics in with assassination, attempted or otherwise. 'Cause it sure sounds like it.
Again, at least half the electorate agrees that political rhetoric is overheated. Sheriff Dupnik is a law enforcement officer. That he made these remarks after a shooting rampage seems perfectly appropriate to me. And it's not like overblown rhetoric creating a hostile environment is a new idea--people have been talking about cooling it down for a long, long while. Why is it so outrageous to say it after a shooting? Does it mean that Mr. Graf and others want to keep open the option of throwing rhetorical flames? Is what Sheriff Dupnik said more outrageous than the conditions leading up to the shootings, or the shootings themselves? As in when the governor of Arizona makes the statement that many headless bodies have been found in the Arizona desert and which she later has to retract?
And as for guns killing people--ay, yay, yay. I'll quote a caller to TOTN, who said in response to Mr. Graf's recitation, "Try telling that to the mother of the nine-year-old girl."
Music Man
I'm almost finished reading Keith Richards' autobiography Life. It confirms almost everything that I knew about him--that he's talented, funny, pugnacious, curious, generous, chock full of joie de vivre, and intelligent. This last trait cuts both ways. As he writes, "Like all geniuses, [the producer Rob Fraboni] can be a pain in the arse, but it goes with badge."
Right back atcha, Keith.
I love this man enough to hang in even when he gives what I expect will be a geeky Keef guitar clinic early in the book. I was tempted to skip it altogether and get to the juicy bits about Anita and Brian and Mick and the drugs. But I'll be damned if I didn't keep reading because he explained it in a way I could understood, that I cared about, and that gave me insight into his skill as a maker of music. The guy hears sounds in his head--it might be harpsichord or taiko drums--and translates those sounds onto the strings of his guitars.
When he wrote that feminists hate the Stones, adding "Where would they be without us?" I got defensive. I consider myself a feminist who is also a big fan of the Stones, and Keith in particular. What's wrong with supporting equal rights for women? I sat with his question for a little while. Of course he's sort of pulling our leg--sort of. But he's also right. Where would the women's movement be without fighting against the sentiments expressed in "Under My Thumb"? While I'm not gonna thank the Stones for that, I'm also not going to pretend that the Stones invented it. Or that we'd all be in Paradise if sexism never existed.
In almost all cases, Keith is characteristically direct about his memories and his feelings. Though the journalist James Fox co-wrote Life, it is Keith's voice that blazes forth. Except in one instance, when he recalls his infant son Tara's death. It felt to me that Keith hid behind a curtain (for one of the few times in his life) and let Fox or someone else write it. Check it out for yourself. It's on page 386.
I didn't buy his rationalization about driving under the influence, about the time he crashed his Bentley with eight people inside, including his seven-year-old son. It was along the lines of what the Rain Man said, "I'm an excellent driver." And "Nobody got hurt." Except that his son recalls a bloody handprint he'd left on the dashboard that remained there for decades after. The best you can say about Keith's recollection of the crash, or his recounting of the obsession for arranging fixes, is that he didn't try to hide anything. Keith's addictions were clearly in control.
That's really no surprise. When you're as gifted a person as Keith Richards is, it's easy to believe you're in control. Maybe even that you're a god, or a damned good rival for God Himself. After all, Keith makes sounds people haven't heard before. He can go into a studio and make recordings that millions of people will pay good money to listen to
I'm one fan who's glad he kicked the most lethal addiction and has lived to pursue the real fascination of his life.
Right back atcha, Keith.
I love this man enough to hang in even when he gives what I expect will be a geeky Keef guitar clinic early in the book. I was tempted to skip it altogether and get to the juicy bits about Anita and Brian and Mick and the drugs. But I'll be damned if I didn't keep reading because he explained it in a way I could understood, that I cared about, and that gave me insight into his skill as a maker of music. The guy hears sounds in his head--it might be harpsichord or taiko drums--and translates those sounds onto the strings of his guitars.
When he wrote that feminists hate the Stones, adding "Where would they be without us?" I got defensive. I consider myself a feminist who is also a big fan of the Stones, and Keith in particular. What's wrong with supporting equal rights for women? I sat with his question for a little while. Of course he's sort of pulling our leg--sort of. But he's also right. Where would the women's movement be without fighting against the sentiments expressed in "Under My Thumb"? While I'm not gonna thank the Stones for that, I'm also not going to pretend that the Stones invented it. Or that we'd all be in Paradise if sexism never existed.
In almost all cases, Keith is characteristically direct about his memories and his feelings. Though the journalist James Fox co-wrote Life, it is Keith's voice that blazes forth. Except in one instance, when he recalls his infant son Tara's death. It felt to me that Keith hid behind a curtain (for one of the few times in his life) and let Fox or someone else write it. Check it out for yourself. It's on page 386.
I didn't buy his rationalization about driving under the influence, about the time he crashed his Bentley with eight people inside, including his seven-year-old son. It was along the lines of what the Rain Man said, "I'm an excellent driver." And "Nobody got hurt." Except that his son recalls a bloody handprint he'd left on the dashboard that remained there for decades after. The best you can say about Keith's recollection of the crash, or his recounting of the obsession for arranging fixes, is that he didn't try to hide anything. Keith's addictions were clearly in control.
That's really no surprise. When you're as gifted a person as Keith Richards is, it's easy to believe you're in control. Maybe even that you're a god, or a damned good rival for God Himself. After all, Keith makes sounds people haven't heard before. He can go into a studio and make recordings that millions of people will pay good money to listen to
I'm one fan who's glad he kicked the most lethal addiction and has lived to pursue the real fascination of his life.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Definitely NOT a Witchhunt
Just when I thought I'd heard the last from perennial candidate Christine O'Donnell after her defeat last month, the Justice Department is looking into how she spent the $7 million her Senate campaign raised.
I don't admire her. But for God's sake, the biggest part of me would rather let her abscond with money people were foolish enough to give her campaign than to hear her screechy voice complaining about how the world, and Joe Biden, are against her. She's going to use this investigation as fodder for her false sense of importance, while adding to the Delaware-sized chip on her shoulder.
O'Donnell has never explained how she earns a living. So I'll take a guess--she's a professional candidate. As long as she keeps running for office, she'll be able to pay the bills. She may well be running the biggest scam ever in the country's second smallest state.
I don't admire her. But for God's sake, the biggest part of me would rather let her abscond with money people were foolish enough to give her campaign than to hear her screechy voice complaining about how the world, and Joe Biden, are against her. She's going to use this investigation as fodder for her false sense of importance, while adding to the Delaware-sized chip on her shoulder.
O'Donnell has never explained how she earns a living. So I'll take a guess--she's a professional candidate. As long as she keeps running for office, she'll be able to pay the bills. She may well be running the biggest scam ever in the country's second smallest state.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Legs, not Wings
I've written about my grandmother in other posts. She was a salty gal, as at home wearing hip waders in a flooded basement and using choice profanities as she was powdering her nose before going to 7 a.m Mass. What a woman. Think Annie Oakley with painted toenails. I wouldn't mind being remembered this way.
In other ways, Grandma was surprisingly conventional. The woman was wild for chicken wings. Now bear with me. Loving chicken wings seems like a non-sequitur, but I'm making a Point. No one could understand her wingomania. Why not go for a breast with its large expanse of crispy skin, leaving the dry, tacky stuff for the dog, or a juicy leg? Who in their right mind would choose a wing? There's virtually no meat on them, and they're a pain in the ass to eat.
My mother's theory was that Grandma, who grew up in a big family, got whatever was left over. And learned to love it.
When I lived with her, she did most of the cooking, because her kitchen was her palace. She claimed I was too busy with my studies to muss my hands with cooking. But about once a month, she'd beg me to make these Asian-spiced chicken wings I got from an old Craig-Claiborne-does-Chinese-cooking. They're made with star anise and stick cinnamon, and they are pretty damned good, for chicken wings. I haven't made this recipe in years, as my husband and kids think anise tastes terrible. Maybe instead of those wretched deep fried wings with bleu cheese dressing people serve at Super Bowl parties, I'll invite over some people who would appreciate wings stewed with star anise and stick cinnamon.
As for that Point I promised to make--sometimes eating what's left over is good discipline. Like so much in her life, Grandma made the best of her circumstances. She knew how to put aside her desires and share, and that's a good thing.
What she wasn't so great at was communicating what she wanted. A lot of us, especially females, lack this skill. Sometimes it's somebody else's turn to share, especially in the daily give-and-take of family life.
So go ahead--tell your familiars you're taking the pick of the litter tonight, whether it's from a platter of chicken or the thickest steak. Eat slowly and enjoy every bite. Don't worry, you're not going to forget how to share. It's like riding a bicycle. Where you need practice most is in putting yourself first.
In other ways, Grandma was surprisingly conventional. The woman was wild for chicken wings. Now bear with me. Loving chicken wings seems like a non-sequitur, but I'm making a Point. No one could understand her wingomania. Why not go for a breast with its large expanse of crispy skin, leaving the dry, tacky stuff for the dog, or a juicy leg? Who in their right mind would choose a wing? There's virtually no meat on them, and they're a pain in the ass to eat.
My mother's theory was that Grandma, who grew up in a big family, got whatever was left over. And learned to love it.
When I lived with her, she did most of the cooking, because her kitchen was her palace. She claimed I was too busy with my studies to muss my hands with cooking. But about once a month, she'd beg me to make these Asian-spiced chicken wings I got from an old Craig-Claiborne-does-Chinese-cooking. They're made with star anise and stick cinnamon, and they are pretty damned good, for chicken wings. I haven't made this recipe in years, as my husband and kids think anise tastes terrible. Maybe instead of those wretched deep fried wings with bleu cheese dressing people serve at Super Bowl parties, I'll invite over some people who would appreciate wings stewed with star anise and stick cinnamon.
As for that Point I promised to make--sometimes eating what's left over is good discipline. Like so much in her life, Grandma made the best of her circumstances. She knew how to put aside her desires and share, and that's a good thing.
What she wasn't so great at was communicating what she wanted. A lot of us, especially females, lack this skill. Sometimes it's somebody else's turn to share, especially in the daily give-and-take of family life.
So go ahead--tell your familiars you're taking the pick of the litter tonight, whether it's from a platter of chicken or the thickest steak. Eat slowly and enjoy every bite. Don't worry, you're not going to forget how to share. It's like riding a bicycle. Where you need practice most is in putting yourself first.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Of Sound Mind and Body
 |
| In the University of Colorado fieldhouse before my race, with Patrick and Phil, Don's co-worker. |
Sure enough, running was as uncomfortable as I remembered it, if not exactly painful. My right knee was particularly rebellious. It squeaked and groaned like an old house wondering if it could stay on its foundations. But beyond a slight twinge and some strange creaking sounds, my knee didn't hurt. I was still running a month or two later when I noticed that it was no longer protesting. I can't say I loved the experience, especially during it, but there was no quitting now, especially since nothing really hurt. Besides, I felt great afterward, endorphins soaring, and the weight already slowly dropping off.
This was good enough to keep at, I decided. I started entering local 5- and 10K races and delighted in their carnival atmosphere. I wasn't in it to win it. I just didn't want to embarrass myself. I researched training programs and starting running hills and intervals to increase my stamina and speed. These strategies worked. I became a faster, if not award-winning runner. That was, and still is, good enough for me.
The trouble is, I still live in American society, where progress is a foregone conclusion. The next logical step would be for me to run a half-marathon, or even start training for a marathon. Don't get me wrong--I revere anyone who trains for and competes in a marathon. Just ask my family--I'm one of those dorks who sits around on a Saturday afternoon watching NBC Universal repeats of the running portions of triathlons. I love to watch how people run. Each person's style is as unique as their face. A running fingerprint of sorts.
But why in the hell would a big gal like me, 5'10" and who weighs, well, a lot more than I'm ever going to confess publicly, ever run a marathon? Marathon runners are thin and wiry, not strong and bulky like me. And besides, I'm perfectly content running 10K. It's a great distance for me. I've lost twenty pounds running consistently, if not breaking any records for speed and distance. A couple of running buddies have pointed out that the weight would come off if I stepped up my training. But I'm not in this to lose any more weight. I like to think of myself as kind of a throwback to actresses of the 1950s, like Jane Russell or Ava Gardner or Marilyn Monroe. I actually don't mind having breasts and hips. Running off my belly fat and thunder thighs was one thing. Why would I want to run off the good jiggly parts?
So what AM i in it for? Given my disposition, which alternates between biliousness and anxiety with occasional, very occasional bonhomie, I might well be a lifetime candidate for Prozac. But I'm also into yoga and alternative medicine. Running is my alternative to Prozac. In the process of pursuing a sounder body, I've also stumbled onto my key to a sounder mind. Certainly the yoga asana and meditation play a huge part in cultivating peace of mind, besides being excellent physical and emotional exercise. For one thing, I've stopped giving the people around me so many pieces of my mind since I added running to my routine. Yes, I still write letters to the editor in response to some blowhard who really needs another blowhard to put him in his place. But I'm kinder and gentler about it.
 |
| At the two-mile mark at Saturday's race |
This is what works for me. I'll just keep plodding along. If the weight starts creeping up again, or Don starts telling me my Bitchiness Quotient has increased to intolerable levels, then I'll consider my next steps. By that time I'll be over 50. Call me a fuddy-duddy, but I just don't think it's a good for me to start running marathons after 50. I'm more likely to bungee jump.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
My Kind of Veteran's Aid
Don, the boys and I were walking on Main Street in Bozeman, Montana on a snowy June evening. Yes, folks, it snows in Montana in June. And every other month, too. But that's another story. We were taking in a little after-dinner window shopping, when a man walking in front of us careened around and fell backwards smack on his head. Our first thought was that he was having a seizure. But almost immediately, he bounced back up.
One whiff of his breath made it clear his fall was alcohol-induced. He didn't seem to know where he was or what had just happened, but he was walking and talking. We offered to call the paramedics, but he waved us off. We kept walking with him, because we were pretty sure he wasn't in any condition to cross streets safely. He was coherent enough to mention he'd been in Iraq. But the conversation quickly devolved into him insulting us for judging him for his drunkenness and not appreciating his service. He was clearly looking for a fight.
I didn't think our boys needed to witness any more of this, so Don and I quickly agreed I'd take them back to the hotel and he'd deliver him to the VFW, which was another block and a half up the street. We were hoping the other vets would know better how to handle him than we did.
It probably wasn't the first time this young soldier had picked a fight with someone. And he may have landed in jail for it more than once.
In a small way, Judge Ronald Croder has begun to address the issue of veterans with post traumatic stress disorder who run into trouble with the law, often for alcohol-related offenses. The retired two-star general has started a Veteran Trauma Court that is more interested in helping traumatized vets deal with life than in punishing them.
Bravo, Judge Crowder, for using your expertise and life experience to help other people. The judge, a prosecutor and a public defender are actually working together instead of being adversarial. Let's hope their good work becomes a model for other courts in Colorado and across the country to emulate.
One whiff of his breath made it clear his fall was alcohol-induced. He didn't seem to know where he was or what had just happened, but he was walking and talking. We offered to call the paramedics, but he waved us off. We kept walking with him, because we were pretty sure he wasn't in any condition to cross streets safely. He was coherent enough to mention he'd been in Iraq. But the conversation quickly devolved into him insulting us for judging him for his drunkenness and not appreciating his service. He was clearly looking for a fight.
I didn't think our boys needed to witness any more of this, so Don and I quickly agreed I'd take them back to the hotel and he'd deliver him to the VFW, which was another block and a half up the street. We were hoping the other vets would know better how to handle him than we did.
It probably wasn't the first time this young soldier had picked a fight with someone. And he may have landed in jail for it more than once.
In a small way, Judge Ronald Croder has begun to address the issue of veterans with post traumatic stress disorder who run into trouble with the law, often for alcohol-related offenses. The retired two-star general has started a Veteran Trauma Court that is more interested in helping traumatized vets deal with life than in punishing them.
Bravo, Judge Crowder, for using your expertise and life experience to help other people. The judge, a prosecutor and a public defender are actually working together instead of being adversarial. Let's hope their good work becomes a model for other courts in Colorado and across the country to emulate.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
