the black hole tango

The colors here …. myedol: …. and a glass of red wine by...

Thu, 17 Nov 2011 14:02:14 -0500

The colors here ….

…. and a glass of red wine by EOS1DsIII on Flickr.

comicsalliance: Post-It Note Art Destroys Productivity With...

Wed, 09 Nov 2011 10:00:44 -0500

Post-It Note Art Destroys Productivity With Awesome 8-Bit Recreations

Do you love video games? Do you hate trees so much that you want them to be chopped down as fast as possible, possibly because you were a victim of tree-based crime when you were a child? If the answer to both of those is a resounding yes, then have we got a trend for you!

Spurred on by a recent art battle between Ubisoft and the French BNP bank that played out on the windows of their respective buildings, there’s been a sudden surge of art created using post-it notes, focusing on video game characters.

See more at ComicsAlliance.

Is Lifestyle Design & Productivity Only For the Privileged, or the Needy?

Wed, 09 Nov 2011 10:00:24 -0500

creatrixtiara:

a life of fragments: About “productivity”.

bigfatphallusy:

youarenotyou:

What does it mean to be “productive”?

As someone who has struggled with life-long depression, and other problems that cause a depletion of spoons, one of the ways that I’ve shamed myself most is with this idea of productivity: feeling low when I believe I haven’t been productive enough. And I…

Respectfully, I think it’s important to acknowledge that many people, not only outside the US but within it, simply do not have the time or luxury to not be productive. In other words, they don’t have the time/ability/financial freedom to take some time to “love themselves” and give themselves “breathing room.” This piece reads as extremely privileged even as it seeks to address the privilege of the able-bodied and able-minded.

And it’s a sad world we live in when workers aren’t even given the chance to enjoy the fruits of their labour. It’s like that anecdote of the fisherman and the businessman, where the businessman suggests a long line of random work just to end up doing what the fisherman’s doing already.

Also with the current job market, ironically it can take a certain amount of privilege to get a job - being of the right race, the right class background, having mobility, having health, being able to access the education that is sometimes required for jobs, having a car (urgh all those job ads that make drivers licenses and/or cars mandatory!!), knowing the right buzzwords, knowing the right people - is it really your fault if getting a job isn’t so straightforward for you?

It reminds me of a dilemma I’ve talked about with regards to lifestyle design: some people end up taking on that path out of necessity, because the “conventional life” isn’t working out for them. Yet the biggest proponents of lifestyle design, the voices we hear from, are all very privileged people - Western White upper-middle-class men who would face very little issues travelling overseas or finding work anywhere if they wanted. For them it’s more of a choice than for someone like, say, me (with my bridging visas and 3rd-world-country passport etc); yet the end result is often the same - working outside the traditional job grid, being flexible, having an unpredictable life.

The Body Blows Keep On Coming

Mon, 05 Sep 2011 00:00:00 -0400

The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
(toll free for US calls) is:
1-800-273-8255

We just got rocked by this whole Dave/Naomi fecal matter storm(What? I’m trying to reduce the profanity.) And now comes news that Trey Pennington, a well-known and well-respected social media consultant (who lived not even one hour south of me — not that this is in any way important or germane) took a gun to his church yesterday and, after the police arrived and begged him to put the gun down, killed himself with a single shot.

He leaves behind six children and at least one grandchild that I know of, as well as other relatives and a grieving community.

The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
(toll free for US calls) is:
1-800-273-8255

For all the arrogant dismissal of the social media, consulting, and marketing worlds and their principal participants, some things must be noted now.

First and foremost, there’s this: Depression is an evil, insidious disease that prevents many of its victims from reaching out for help, even when that’s what the victims need the most.

Depression paralyzes. It silences. Not just out of the social stigma surrounding it (though that can’t be denied), but of its own initiative and accord. It will not let the sufferer reach out for help in many cases.

This, tragically, leaves those of us who survive the victim despondently wondering, “Why didn’t he TELL anyone? Why didn’t he get some help?”

Well, for starters, it would appear he did, in fact, reach out for help and got it, after an earlier attempt this year.

Depression was stronger than the treatment he received.

Let’s not forget that. In our desperate, compelling need for understanding, let’s not allow ourselves to give hurtful voice to our baser feelings — our anger, in particular. It’s perfectly normal tofeel anger after a loved one kills himself, but we don’t need to give a public voice to it. Deal with it privately, because that kind of angry dismissal and condemnation after someone commits suicide is simply not helpful. To anyone.

Instead, I’d like to suggest a radical idea. I don’t mean that as sarcasm. It is a truly radical idea, radical like Jesus was a radical (and don’t doubt that for a second):

I’d like to suggest that we all gently encourage our compassion to grow.

For every “player” in the suicide tragedy, it is possible to find and voice some compassion. If we could all do that, and not allow ourselves the quick and easy (and damaging) condemnation route, I believe we could get a real conversation going about suicide and depression. And that, I am 100% positive, is the only way to prevent suicide in the future.

Recognize and accept this one fact, if nothing else gets through:Clinical depression, resulting in suicide, is so severe that the pain is the only thing the victim is aware of. Stopping the pain is the only thought the victim is capable of holding more than a few seconds.

It isn’t a failure of ethics. It isn’t a failure of love for others or for life. It isn’t selfish and it isn’t the coward’s way out. It’s an utter and complete inability to see any other way out of the pain, a shortwire in the brain that keeps the victim from realizing the temporary nature of that overwhelming pain.

If that isn’t worthy of your compassion, then do the rest of us a solid and stay silent, please. Because we’re all hurting, too, and we must get through the already-painful process of grieving a loved one or a respected colleague and friend with the additional burden of coping with the stigma attached to a suicide.

Special note to Brandon Mendelson: Please take a deep breath, and reflect. Be quiet and still, and reflect on what you’ve written. Your thoughts are supremely unhelpful. You have no idea how the people who are writing about this feel … you are not qualified to pass judgment on the sincerity of those feelings, because no one is except the person feeling them. Mashable reported on Trey’s death because it’s news — because Trey was a highly respected member of his profession and because the fallout from his death is vast and wide.

The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
(toll free for US calls) is:
1-800-273-8255

Second, there’s this: If you find yourself wondering about a friend, a colleague, or a loved one … thinking to yourself “I wonder if everything’s really OK with her…” or “I hope he’s doing OK …”, then please take a deep breath and gently ask. Ask as often as you need to. Don’t take anything at face value. At the start of a suicidal slide, many people struggling with depression arereachable. Many will answer honestly and be open to getting help.

The truth is, I don’t know what will help those who feel that much pain — pain so overwhelming that it overcomes the hard-wired need to keep living, to keep breathing.

I do know we can’t ignore it. I do know we need to keep talking about it, and stop sweeping it under the rug. I do know we need to treat clinical depression for what it is (a neurochemical disease) and not for what we’d like it to be — a failure of willpower, a failure of thinking, a failure of perspective, a failure of religious faith.

If you are the one feeling this way, please try to open your heart to the possibility that this overwhelming pain is only temporary and there is a way through it other than ending your life.

It’s often easier to talk to strangers instead of loved ones, whom we’re fearful of disappointing or worrying. So, one more time, then:

The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
(toll free for US calls) is:
1-800-273-8255

Web 3.0: Bullies, Death Threats, and Slut-Shaming

Thu, 01 Sep 2011 00:00:00 -0400

I stumbled across this story … God, was it only a day ago?

And ever since, I cannot get it out of my head. I tried. I really, really tried. I tried to blog, I tried to engage in new conversations on Twitter and Facebook, I tried working.

But this story will not stop buzzing inside my brain. So I’m hoping by writing about it here I can let it go a little bit.(NB: I’m writing it here because, although it does revolve around the world of internet marketing, my thoughts are way too scattered for me to write about it intelligently at Pajama Productivity.)

It’s not a pretty story or one with a happy ending. It doesn’t have an ending of any kind yet. And maybe that’s what’s driving me crazy.

Here’s the story, to the extent I know it:

Last year sometime, Dave Navarro of Rock Your Day (the internet marketer, not the guitarist) left his family — no, he left his wife and his children. That’s an important distinction, as you’ll see. He didn’t update his blog for a long time, he was silent-ish on Twitter, and no one really knew what was up.

Then, apparently, his brother set up a website. I’m not linking to it. You can find it. It’s called Letters to Dave Navarro. And its soleraison d’etre appears to be publicly shaming Dave to return to his wife.

Dave was successful at what he did. (And yes, I use the past tense because I don’t see any way he’s ever going to resume the career he’d so carefully built up online, thanks to his brother’s actions.) And as will happen with successful people, others really wanted to tear him down.

So a lot of folks started interacting with the brother’s site, leaving letters of their own ostensibly to Dave and complaining of various business misdeeds they alleged Dave had committed.

Then someone apparently told the brother that Dave had been seen with Naomi Dunford of IttyBiz at a recent convention. Somehow, it went from there to “Dave left his wife for Naomi. Naomi left her husband for Dave.”

And then another website (again, I won’t link to it – it’s Salty Droid) jumped in for reasons of their own.

At some point, Naomi decided to push back. She wrote this. Salty Droid rebutted her assertions of death threats on that site.

Then yesterday Naomi posted this. And reading that post — all about how Dave and his brother had lost their mom when they were kids when their father hired hitmen to kill her (theysucceeded, eventually) and how Senior was now spending the rest of his life in prison — made me go back to the brother’s website and look again at some things he’d written in a very new, very chilling light:

We have seen the destructive results of adultery and the pursuit of illicit passions first hand, brother, when our mother left our family to pursue her own interests. Her pursuit was to be in another man’s bed and to give up her family and leave her first love.
When I spent those several years raising you when our mother had left our family, I had the authority to discipline you when you committed wrong. A father (or brother) who does not discipline those he loves, does not love them at all, and lets them proceed freely down toward their destruction.
I can totally associate with him (NB: he’s referring to Dave’s son who apparently sent Dave an email) as I have been in his very position when our mother did the same deed walking out on us, and our father was accused of the same thing you are accusing me of.

There may be other examples but frankly, I feel ill just copying those three.

Reading them outside the context of what we know now from Naomi’s post yesterday — that the “mother” Dave’s brother keeps excoriating and reminding Dave of was actually fleeing a man who ultimately hired people to KILL HER — reading themwithout that knowledge, you might be tempted (as I initially was) to sympathize, if not completely, at least a little with the brother and surely with Dave’s wife and sons.

But in the cold light of historical fact, knowing that this “jezebel,” this “adulterous whore” Dave’s brother keeps bringing up and dismissing, was murdered for the simple act of trying to gain her freedom from a marriage that was, quite obviously, a bad one — these references, in that light, make my blood run ice cold. They make me fear — actually, honestly fear – for Naomi and Dave’s safety.

Knowing, also, that Junior tried to get his little brother committed — why? Because Dave did something he didn’t approve of, and when Dave (quite rightly, I’m thinking) declined to engage him any further, he decided “well, he must be on drugs, then”???

Is there some other conclusion I could draw on these facts? I’m not being facetious here. I honestly want to know. I don’t enjoythis growing, climbing, expanding sense of WTFOMG. I don’t likeknowing that there are unhinged people out there masquerading as caring, loving big brothers. (Especially seeing as I have a caring, loving big brother of my own. But that’s my thing, totally.)

Tell me what I’m supposed to think about Salty Droid & his users/readers who write shit like:

… that’s the insane beginning of an insane post by chubby-spider Naomi Dunford.
Dave Navarro walked out on his wife and three kids to go live the Internet lifestyle with fat turd Naomi Dunford.
So why don’t you shut your cow mouth?
Your face has always been very ugly … personally I think it’s the soulless eyes.
This is about Naomi Dunford being a ruinous liar who is part of a circle of ruinous liars.
This blog reminds of the good old days when a public shaming meant something. It’s the online equivalent of putting the putzette in stocks in the town square so the villagers can throw rotten vegetables at her. Playing the victim just doesn’t cut it when caught lying, cheating, etc. Makes you want to look for the cyber version of tar and feathers.

I don’t know whether Naomi really received death threats but after reading the entire page the above quotes (which — trust — are not the worst of the bunch) were pulled from, I don’t doubt it, either.

So.

There’s that.

I feel like throwing up. I feel like doing some public shaming of my own. Then I feel horrible for feeling public shaming is appropriate in ANY circumstance. I feel scared. I feel angry. I feel … UGH.

I feel like I want to scream.

Because here’s the thing we cannot get around, no matter how much we might want to: It doesn’t matter whether every single word on the brother’s site is 100% true. Death threats are NOT OK. EVER.

This is so ugly. So wrong, on so many levels. Putting aside the questions of “who’s telling the truth,” it seems to have escaped dear brother’s attention that what he’s doing SIMPLY WILL NOT EVER ACHIEVE HIS STATED GOAL.I won’t even touch the whole “how in God’s name could someone do that to his own brother?!” thing.

Don’t be fooled. This has everything to do with misogyny, of the most frightening and dangerous kind. Against Naomi. Against a murdered mother. Against women in general.

I am painfully aware of the inadequacy of my own words.

I guess that’s about all I can say on the subject, at least for now.

The Holy Grail of the Anti-Death-Penalty Crowd

Wed, 24 Aug 2011 00:00:00 -0400

UPDATE: there’s a petition I support and have signed here, and would like to encourage you all to do your own research, and if you agree with the many of us who think this is an ongoing travesty, not to mention official cover-up of same, to do the same.

Let’s get this out of the way with right off the bat: I believe Texas executed an innocent person seven years ago.

The man who was killed — Cameron Todd Willingham — was charged with three counts of capital murder in the deaths of his three small children in a raging house fire. I won’t go over the complex science behind the charges — you can read about ithere at The New Yorker — but suffice to say that three weeks before his execution, one of the nation’s top experts in arson investigation raised major concerns with the prosecution’s theory and evidence. Earlier this year, a commission established by the Texas legislature to investigate the use of forensic science in the criminal justice system in that state looked ready to agree that the prosecution’s investigator used flawed methods and came to improbable conclusions.

And then, predictably, the Texas Attorney General (who is a politician first and foremost — they all are) stopped the bandwagon from rolling down the “innocent” road. How? By concluding that the Commission — which was formed in 2005 — could not investigate cases that took place before it was formed.

A technicality that’s stunning in its razor-thin sharpness, that ruling is seen by many as pure political cover for the AG’s “guy” — Texas Governor Rick Perry, who’s running for President. Perry was instrumental in this derailment of justice:

What does this have to do with Rick Perry? In 2009, the Texas Forensic Science Commission was set to hear a scathing repudiation of the science behind the arson investigation that sent Willingham to the death chamber:

The finding comes in the first state-sanctioned review of an execution in Texas, home to the country’s busiest death chamber. If the commission reaches the same conclusion, it could lead to the first-ever declaration by an official state body that an inmate was wrongly executed.

Shortly before the commission was to hear the report, Perry (who declined to grant a last minute stay-of-execution to Willingham in 2004) replaced three of its members, and installed a close ally on the panel. In spring 2011, the commission released a draft report acknowledging that fire science has changed, but abstaining from issuing an opinion on the Willingham case. Perry continued to maintain that “clear and compelling, overwhelming evidence” made the case against Willingham; he called critics of the investigation“latter-day supposed experts.”

(From The Chicago Reader website.)

Make no mistake: that “clear and compelling” evidence has been viewed as fatally flawed by the top expert on arson investigation, who don’t just call into question the methods used by the investigators in the case — they conclude that the fire wasn’t even caused by arson in the first place.

In other words, it’s not a question of “did they get the right guy for the crime?” but rather of “was there a crime at ALL?”

In the wake of Damien Echol’s reprieve from death row last week (which many — including me — believe will eventually be proven yet another case of an innocent person condemned to die), it’s worth a moment of our time to sit and reflect on the death penalty, the total lack of evidence supporting its effectiveness as a crime deterrent, the jaw-dropping racial disparities in its imposition, and, yes, the unthinkable risk we take that an innocent person may be murdered by the state.

Has it already happened? Texas certainly doesn’t want to find out. While criminal justice may play out in shades of grey, this one’s black-and-white: that’s just wrong.

Living In the Rain. Also: Sunglasses.

Sun, 21 Aug 2011 00:00:00 -0400

This past Friday morning saw a fascinating collision of my three past lives with the release of the West Memphis 3.

Back in ’94, I was a law student, closely following this (and other, to be sure) major trials across the country. But something about this one nipped at my core in ways OJ and Susan Smith just didn’t. Probably because I, like the defendants, had listened to Metallica (hell, I got backstage at one of their concerts) and had read everything I could get my hands on regarding a variety of religions, including Buddhism, Wicca, and Judaism.

Through the years, I went from “skeptical of their innocence” to “rationally certain the verdict was against the weight of the evidence” to “absolutely convinced of their innocence,” and there I stayed for the last several years, particularly after the DNA evidence was tested and failed to connect any of them with the crime scene or the victims. (But did link one of the boys’ stepfather, a strange man named Terry Hobbs, to the scene.)

So when I first saw the web rumblings of a “mystery hearing” scheduled for Friday morning in this case, I was immediately intrigued. The rumors from an unnamed source “closely linked” to the case seemed to be suggesting something called an Alford plea was in the works, but damned if I could figure out how that would be the case.

Here’s a little legal tidbit for you: Alford pleas are a weird little hybrid in American criminal law. What a defendant who takes an Alford plea is saying, essentially, is “I am 100% NOT GUILTY, however I recognize that the state has enough evidence that a jury might find me guilty, and I’m not willing to risk that.”

In my view, this is not a guilty plea. A guilty plea has a common requisite across state lines: that the defendant allocute in court to how he committed the crime. That’s not possible in an Alford plea.

However — and this is where it gets truly weird — the Alford plea istreated like a guilty plea for sentencing purposes.

So my inner ex-lawyer was trying to puzzle all this out Friday morning, seated at an imaginary table, surrounded by imaginary law books, pounding back the Peets Dark French Roast, sorting out what the ramifications of this kind of resolution might be, and where (if anywhere) there was any precedent for it.

(Answer: to my knowledge, none. Certainly folks have been released from death row — usually due to DNA evidence, often pending retrial. But that’s not what happened here — there was no finding of innocence or a grant of a new trial. Arkansas corrections officials have verified this hasn’t happened in that state before. I’m still looking at other states. I can’t help it. You can take the girl out of the law…)

So that was my inner ex-lawyer, and we’ll leave her there, surrounded by books and notes and a half-empty coffee cup.

My inner writer, on the other hand, was just captivated by the circumstances these three guys found themselves in. Four days before, one was on death row, having been there for over 17 years and thus almost certainly facing the needle sooner rather than later. The other two were serving life sentences, and had been in prison half of their lives.

Now, they were facing release. Into this world, this world that had changed so dramatically since they last saw a sunrise. This world has smart phones, iPods, an internet that would have dropped jaws back in 1994 … One (Damien Echols) was married in the intervening time, and the others have families whose lives revolved around freeing their sons and brothers, but otherwise continued after their incarceration.

Damien, when asked for one televised interview what he missed the most, said, “Rain. I miss the feel of rain on my face.” Fitting, then, I suppose, that it was threatening to storm all Friday morning while they were going through the legal two-step that would let them walk free.

People are different. Everything’s different.

My inner writer found herself wondering, “What happens when the camera crews leave? What happens tomorrow morning? The morning after that?”

We’ll leave the inner writer-me sitting in an imaginary hammock, enjoying the mountain breeze with her pen and her comp book, furiously scribbling thoughts and impressions and character studies.

Now, meet my inner ex-actress. She was wondering one thing: “Who’s gonna play Echols’ wife, Lorri, in the movie?”

Yeah, my inner ex-actress is a shallow little bitch.

Moving back to the bird’s-eye view for a moment: all of these competing lines of mental inquiry converged in my head Friday morning and bounced off each other like some random game of laser tag was going on up there, when one thing above all others jumped up, leaping out of the fray, hovering up there like the sun.

And it was this: “Jessie Misskelley needs some help, fast.”

What I saw that prompted that thought: At the press conference following the hearing, the focus jumped from Echols to Baldwin to the lawyers back to Echols back to Baldwin back to Echols hugging Baldwin … skipping right over Misskelley, who sat huddled in the middle, in between Echols and Baldwin, hugging himself, his head bowed.

Then reports of what-happened-next came filtering in. Apparently Baldwin and Echols and their families/friends/lawyers spent the night in a posh hotel over the weekend.

Misskelley? Went … shopping for sunglasses.

If you know anything about the case, you’re probably aware that it was Misskelley’s “confession” that led to their convictions (completely improperly but that’s another post). He was interrogated for 12 hours, he had an IQ of 75, he had the equivalent mental functioning of a five-year-old, according to this current lawyer. What he said in that “confession” at least initially was so far afield from the facts known at the time that the judge refused to issue a warrant on its basis — it was that off the mark. Only after the police plied him with the answers they were seeking did he eventually (after two more tries) get it “right.”

OK, that much we know. Now, eighteen years later, what I want to know is: Does he blame himself?

Do the others blame him?

Is that why he was so silent at that press conference? Why he looks like he’s about to cry every time the camera panned to him? Why he wasn’t at the hotel with the others?

As for the way my brain worked on Friday, I guess, ultimately, that’s the way it should be — that people should matter more than issues or intellectual debates or creative projects, even, and that’s why this thought jumped over all the others.

On a more basic level, though, I hope I’m wrong in my suspicions. I hope he enjoys all the support the other two do. I hope they allget whatever help they need to readjust themselves to living in the rain and shopping for sunglasses.

(I’d have gone with the mirrored aviators, personally, but maybe that’s too close to “prison guard” for his comfort.)

At Least I Didn't Steal the Towels

Thu, 18 Aug 2011 00:00:00 -0400

So I had this dream last night. (Right here, I should confess I toyed with the idea of presenting this as a real thing that happened, just to mess with your minds, but then it occurred to me that in written form, in the light of day, it doesn’t seem nearly as realistic as it did while I was dreaming it, and you’d never buy it. So — yeah, a dream.)

I was living in a motel with the Princess. (Been there, done that.)

And I was trying to steal $100,000 or $50,000 (the amount kept changing) from said motel. I’d gone to the front desk clerk, a pretty girl with long dark hair who kind of looked like a cross between Sarah Silverman and Demi Lovato, and asked her all these questions about the money — where it was, how someone could get at it, what the security was like.

And then the police came and arrested me.

Here’s where it all went way too real for me. I felt the handcuffs going on, the hand on the top of my head as they put me in the back of the blue Crown Vic, the whole shebang.

And I remember thinking, “ZOMG, whatthehellamIgonnadomykidmykidmykid…”

And I was panicky, and talking probably way too fast.

See, I knew that somehow, they’d taped that conversation with Sarah-Demi, and how in the world was I gonna explain THAT?

Then — aha! — it occurred to me. I am a writer. I am also an actress. I can pull this off, totes.

So I started talking. “Oh,” I said, blinking, furrowing my brow. “Are you talking about that interview I did with Sarah-Demi? That? That was just research! I’m a writer, and I’m working on a novel about this homeless guy who steals money from a motel and …”

They weren’t buying it, either.

I woke up with the sound of my own voice echoing in my ears, protesting that I was innocent, pointing out there wasn’t any money actually GONE from the motel, was there, so how could I have actually done it and just having a PLAN to rob someone wasn’t illegal, was it, if nothing was actually taken and I didn’t actually take any steps to steal it? I mean if it WAS illegal to have a plan, then wouldn’t you have to arrest every TV and movie writer in the history of the modern world who’d written a script about stealing from a real place? Wouldn’t George Clooney and Brad Pitt be in jail for that whole casino heist thing?

But the worst — the worst — was the desperate line of thought running through my dream-head the whole time: “What am I gonna do about Princess? She’s going to be so scared…what do I DO?!”

But at least I didn’t steal the towels.

(Speaking of towels, you really need to read this.)

And It's So LIGHT ...

Thu, 18 Aug 2011 00:00:00 -0400

Soooo….. I had a birthday last weekend. (Forty-five, if you must know.)

In the midst of this insane day — long story, brother and sister in law in town, Princess getting ready to go back with them for a visit for a week, lots to do — this package from Amazon gets dropped off outside my door.

Now, I’d ordered a few books for HRH a few days ago, so I assumed this package was for me. Also, it’s right outside MY door, not the landlady-who-lives-upstairs door. Kinda big for 2 little books, I thought, as I carried this box inside. But it is lightweight.

So, I opened it. As soon as I saw another box inside, and realized what it was, I cringed, and started to carry the whole thing upstairs to my landlady, ready to apologize profusely for opening her package by accident.

Because, of course, it had to be hers.

Because, of course, it certainly wasn’t mine.

Because it was a brand new one of these.

And then this little slip of paper wedged in between the inner box and the outer box caught my eye.

I pulled it out, and read it. And that’s when I realized it was, in fact, for me. From … hm. I need a new pseudonym for this one. Let’s call this friend “Z.”

Now, Z and I have known each other for over 20 years now, making our friendship one of the longer lasting ones I currently enjoy. (This stuff becomes important to you, I find, once you start creeping past the four-decade mark.) And Z had shot me a little email a while back informing me that a birthday present — “a small token” — was on its way.

That Z, such a sneaky one, with her little word games. Because “small”? CLEVER, Z. Verrry clever.

I was thinking “Basque-to-English dictionary.”

I was maybe thinking “Kindle??!! ZOMG!!”

I was categorically not thinking “most awesome laptop on the face of the planet.”

So, I kinda stood there in the laundry room connecting my downstairs apartment from the rest of the house upstairs for several minutes, looking at the box, looking at the paper. Part of me starts yelling at me (kinda rudely, to be honest) that there’s no way I can accept this … that I have to be kidding … that this istoo much …

Fortunately, I was able to wrestle a sock into the bitch’s mouth, slap some duct tape on her, and stuff her in a closet.

I have named her Alice. (The laptop. Not the sanctimonious, pearl-clutching inner-bitch-stuffed-in-the-closet.)

And Alice is fabulous. After a twelve-month desert-trek, I have found the bountiful oasis of working video and quick start-ups and “no, I DON’T care if you have Word plus fifteen tabs in Firefox open, I can handle it just fine, thanks.”

Oh. And SOUND. I have sound. I have good sound.

And it’s so light!

Thank you, Z.

A Smallish Little Prayer

Mon, 15 Aug 2011 00:00:00 -0400

Dear God:

So.

Whassup?

This one’s just a quicky little one-off, if You will. Nothing huge. Promise. (Not like last month’s ill-advised if fervent requests for Michele Bachmann to make more batshit-crazy remarks. I kinda regret that one, though I appreciate You coming through for us humor-lovers and all.)

So, I hear through the digital grapevine that Kate Plus 8 got the axe from TLC. Praise You for mercies big and small. No, seriously, that was a solid.

Now, do You suppose You could make that whole Quiverful crapfest juggernaut follow Kate and her You-awful ‘do into oblivion? I mean the Wannabes and the Majors. All those “yay, we’re FERTILE and we’re gonna keep poppin’ these puppies out ’til we make SERIOUS bank!” shows, AND all the quieter, behind the scenes types who took that whole “be fruitful and multiply” thing of Yours waaaaay too far. Just dropkick their butts through the goalpost of syndication, ‘kay?

Thanks ever so.

Annie

Finale Fiesta Part 2

Thu, 26 May 2011 00:00:00 -0400

Does anyone else feel like this past season’s TV offerings have been somewhat … schizophrenic?

Shows with well-established characters have routinely put those characters into situations that just make no sense, at least to my addled brain. It’s like a theme or something.

And unfortunately, I think the common thread is that all these problems are rooted in the writing. I hate to hate on writers.

Here’s my proffered evidence (gee, you can take the girl out of the law …):

House

I don’t think I’ve ever been this disgusted with a TV show in my life. And folks, I am old enough to actually remember the wholeDallas-Bobby in the shower fiasco, so that’s saying something.

It seems pretty clear to me, after watching Cuddy keep picking at the scab of a failed relationship with the title character and then watching House actually drive a car into her house, that there are some fairly serious Issues at play here — those of the show runners, the writers, the producers, whatever. (I cannot and will not subscribe to any interpretation of these events which places the blame at the feet of Hugh Laurie. So y’know, don’t even go there.)

There were so many problems with this episode that I don’t even know where to begin.

The POTW plot was just stupid. Now, I love Shohreh Agdashloo. She’s the sole reason I quit acting – ’cause no way I was ever THAT good. (OK, no, not her specifically. Still.)

But the plot — I mean, we’re supposed to believe a performance artist would fake symptoms, while she was fatally ill to begin with, all to lay out a game for a guy she’s never met? So which was it — was she after an art piece for herself, one last shot at glory, or was she trying to do a solid for the out-of-sorts House?

However, the POTW plot problems pale in comparison (how’s that for alliteration?) to the established character issues.

House as a character has steadily grown less “complex and interesting” and more “raging asshole and one-note jerk” over the last few years. But Monday night’s “shocker” was miles away even from the jerkiest behavior we’ve seen to date. He deliberately ran a car into Cuddy’s house. There was no way he could have known that no one was in that room — someone like Cuddy’s kid, for Pete’s sake — no matter what kind of day-after spin David Shore wants to put on it.

So we’re left with one of two conclusions: Either House has become a homicidal monster, which is light-years away from the “tragic anti-hero” he used to be, or … OK, so there’s only oneconclusion.

This was, simply put, completely inconsistent with what seven years’ worth of episodes have built. It was a hot mess, and I’d like to unwatch it. Since I can’t, I will simply point out the obvious and be done with it.

There was one single interesting moment in the entire episode, and it belonged to Wilson. When he’s questioned by the police officer, he asks if House is going to be arrested, and is basically told, “Duh” (in a few more words than that). Wilson’s face is inscrutable (I rewatched this moment many times to make sure), and then he says something like “You’re going to find him in a place that matches his mood” — which turns out to be true — and “look for the darkest, most miserable hole in New Jersey” — which turns out to be wrong, in every single respect.

House, as we see in the final scene, ends up smiling broadly on the other side of the world from New Jersey, at a beach bar. The “bar” and “drinking” and “matches his mood” parts were right, but everything else was wrong.

So, my question is: Did Wilson know? If he did, and purposely misdirected the cops, that’s interesting. Otherwise, it’s just one more example of how the relatively sane, relatively healthy characters who are closest to House know absolutely nothing about him and are, in the end, proven Epicly Wrong and House is Ever In The Right.

That’s boring. That’s stupid, and offensive, and boring.

My Grade: A big fat F.

Glee

Another disappointing outing from a show that used to delight me on a weekly basis.

C’mon. I’m really supposed to believe that Rachel Berry doesn’t know Cats went dark on Broadway eons ago?

And this whole “scrappy kids full of pure talent and pluck never rehearse, never pick their material in advance, and still perform beautifully” thing? It stopped being cute and funny a long, long time ago. Now, it’s just completely incredible. As in UN-credible. As in “I don’t buy it for a second and it’s stupid so cut it out, already.”

At least there were a few redemptive moments. I loved the Sam and Mercedes development, and any episode with Cheyenne Jackson is already miles ahead of ones without him, so there’s that. Minus points for no Sue, although after the bizarre-o character reboot she suffered in the previous episode, that might be a good thing.

My Grade: C-

Fringe

Wow.

It was awesome and I cannot wait to find out how this “Peter never existed” thing plays out next year. Really, I have nothing more to say. Well done.

My Grade: A

Finale Fiesta Part 1

Tue, 24 May 2011 00:00:00 -0400

It’s that time again, boys and girls.

The azaleas are browning around the edges. The temperatures are creeping up to the swimsuit range. The kids are getting reallyantsy at their school desks …

Yep, it’s finale time! Let’s go to the tape!

Grey’s Anatomy

Last year’s GA finale was a Super Bowl of superlatives. Fabulous, tightly-paced script, an emotional roller-coaster, no cliffhangers but a simultaneous sense of completion and “can’t wait to see how THIS affects things” all wrapped up in a big shiny bow! With FIREWORKS!

In short: Last year, GA rocked the finale house.

This year: No, not so much.

Our 2011 finale plot, such as it was, was more an examination of the fall-out from earlier plot arcs. I was hoping we were about to see one of the doctors facing the full brunt of consequence from a really bad medical decision — Meredith was on the verge of getting canned for switching the control patient with the Chief’s wife, Adele, in Derek’s Alzheimers drug trial.

I was sadly disappointed. As soon as the Chief realized what Meredith’s motivation had been, all of a sudden, Miss Thang is off the hook. Once again, no more than a slap on the wrist will be administered.

Sorry, but no. In the real world, Meredith would be unceremoniously kicked to the curb. So there was that.

And there was also the very awkward and highly uncomfortable Christina/Owen conflict. Christina found out she was pregnant, and Owen wanted her to keep the baby. Sure he couched it in terms of “let’s talk about it” and “let me be part of this decision” but c’mon, in reality, we know what’s going on here: Owen wants the kid, while Christina clearly does not.

So when he kicks her out of their HOME, after she announces she’s made an appointment for an abortion … wow. All of a sudden, it’s like we’re in this whole other drama with these completely different characters. Who is this red-head calling himself Owen? ‘Cause he’s certainly not MY Dr. Hunt.

Nah. Don’t buy it.

But this has been a common complaint for me this past season. Here it was Grey’s, but all along, I’ve been grousing about Gleein the same terms.

Overall, the finale left me feeling breathless, like last year, but not in a good way. It was depressing. I felt drained and icky, as if I’d just witnessed an intimate marital fight get violent. That’s just bad, on many levels.

My grade: C-

Chuck

A tightly-paced, action-packed hour in which poor Sarah lay there dying, Volkov turned out to be somebody named Hartley Winterbottom (really), and Chuck had the intersect sucked out of his brain (!!!) by the new bad guy, Decker, was capped off with a killer of a twist:

Winterbottom/Volkov gave Chuck and Sarah his entire fortune as he and daughter Viv disappeared into a new life, which Chuck and Sarah, the newlyweds (awwww), used to buy the BuyMore and go into the spy game for themselves. Their first hires: Casey and Morgan. And Morgan’s first screw-up? Happened within 10 seconds of being hired – when he put on a pair of sunglasses meant for Chuck from the General and promptly FLASHED.

That’s right: Morgan’s the new Intersect.

Now, I was stunned when the general consensus of internet commenters was negative on this development. Personally, I think it’s a freaking AWESOME idea. I cannot wait to see the last thirteen episodes of this show now. Before the finale aired, I was wondering how and/or if they could top the Chuck/Sarah wedding. I mean, really, what else is left? SpyBabies? (Please. No.)

And now, they have hooked me back in. I. Cannot. Wait.

My Grade: A-

Castle

Oh. My. Word.

Yes, it was formulaic. (Major mythology resolution? Check. Advancement of key characters’ romantic relationship? Check. Major character death? Check. Cliffhanger? Check, you bastards.)

But it’s Nathan Fillion, and how can you hate on Nathan Fillion? He’s just so … so … charming!

Yeah, I totally called the Captain’s death, but I didn’t see his participation in the kidnap-the-bad-guys scheme that triggered Beckett’s mother’s murder, so that was cool. And that whole scene in the airport, Castle trying to keep Beckett quiet, theanguish — holy cow but that worked big time.

My Grade: B+

Bones

Sigh. And then there was Bones.

Can I just go back a week for a second and praise “The Hole in the Heart”? RIP, Mr. Nigel-Murray. That was one hell of a death scene you got there. And the whole T-rex vs. Human arm wrestling match? I totally would have paid to see that live and in person.

Which just makes the hot mess that was the finale all the more infuriating. See, we know they can do a good episode now. So the bad ones stick out like that mullet wig on Booth’s head. (Seriously? I mean … seriously?!)

Bones doesn’t have a good track record when it comes to finales, to be sure. There was that awful “it’s all a coma-induced dream” crap. And then the whole “Zach is the Apprentice” crap. (Actually, that does a disservice to crap. That whole plot line was just … I’m trying to think of a word stronger than “loathsome” …)

And yet, I keep on watching, year after year, hoping that this time they’ll come up with something slightly fresh, just a smidge original, the merest bit entertaining.

No, sorry, even the Brennan revelation that she’s pregnant and Booth’s the baby-daddy didn’t make up for it. In fact, that’s just one more indication of the mediocrity of this show: the ‘shippers for Bones-n-Booth are some of the most passionate and vociferous on the ‘net, and cheating them out of the development of that romantic relationship is a low blow, a real cop-out. (Hee. I punned.)

My Grade: D.

I Support Kenlie Tiggeman

Sun, 22 May 2011 00:00:00 -0400

I’ve struggled with my weight my whole life. As a very small child, I was what you’d call “normal sized” but as soon as I hit the upper elementary grades, I started getting bigger. I was always tall, to boot, so adults always told me I “carried it well.” They meant well, I know, but that didn’t stop the merciless teasing or shore up my plummeting self-confidence. I weighed around 150 at 5’10” in high school — not obese, but noticeably heavy. Certainly heavier than I wanted to be. I look back at that time now and think “What the hell was I thinking?! I looked AWESOME!” ::::banging head against desk:::: Now, I’m a good bit heavier. Also a few inches shorter, thanks to my scoliosis.

And I guess I’m probably a bit more sensitive to the issue of fat prejudice than most as a result, but the recent news story of Kenlie Tiggeman deserves a closer look than most outlets and most individuals are willing to give it. Kenlie, in case you don’t recognize the name, is a political strategist from New York. She also runs a weight loss blog called All the Weigh. Kenlie and her mom were told by Southwest Airlines recently that they were too fat to fly on Southwest planes.

That’s the soundbite most of us heard, if we heard it at all, over the past several days when Kenlie’s story made the rounds on the tube and the internet. The real story — the full story — is a good bit more complex, and a whole lot uglier. You can read the full story at Kenlie’s blog here. I don’t want to rehash it here.

Instead, I want to talk about public reaction to this story. I’ve read so many comments on this story at MSNBC.com and CNN.com (and other sites, to be sure — not singling out those sites’ readers) that anger and sadden me even more than the treatment Kenlie received.

So I want to discuss what ought to be obvious by now: There are two sides to every story.

Yet inevitably what we get in this 24-hour news cycle world is not one side or the other, but a boiled-down, heavily-edited, so-hacked-up-it’s-not-even-accurate-anymore logline. “Kenlie Tiggeman is the woman who was told by Southwest Airlines she was too fat to fly, and she demands an apology.”

That’s what we read and heard about this story, for the most part. Unless you did what I did — actively search for her blog, read her blog post about this, and search for other, more substantive copy on this incident and the larger issues surrounding it — that’s all you know. A fat woman complained about being told she couldn’t fly in a single seat.

Except that’s not what happened at all. Here’s what you and almost everyone missed, unless they went looking for more information the way I did:

Kenlie has lost over 100 pounds in the last several months.
Kenlie used to buy two seats when she flew. After she lost the 100 pounds, she offered to buy two seats initially but was told it wasn’t necessary by some airlines.
Kenlie could comfortably sit in a Southwest seat, properly buckled, with the armrests down, without spilling over into the next seat’s space.
We know that’s true — that she didn’t spill over — because this incident took place on a return flight — after she’d already successfully flown on Southwest planes during the first part of her trip.
The Southwest employees who “discussed” this with Kenlie actually were speaking loudly and publicly (in front of other passengers) to another woman entirely, at least at first. After humiliating her, she pointed out Kenlie and her mom, asking “What about them?” That’s when the employees targeted her.
There was a college football player on the flight who, according to publicly available stats, was one foot taller and fifty pounds heavier than Kenlie. He wasn’t asked to buy two seats or take another flight. He wasn’t singled out at all.

So, yeah, I support Kenlie Tiggeman.

The issues here aren’t even really that difficult to grasp. Corporations with policies that exclude or place a higher burden on one segment of the population ought to apply those policies consistently — from one airport to another, in the case of airlines, and from one consumer to another.

And any policy regarding overweight passengers should be enforced and discussed privately with the affected passenger.

It’s frowned-upon in polite society to make fun of other people for almost any characteristic or feature. Most of us grow up in this country having learned to look away, pass over physical oddities in silence, and refrain from mocking others publicly.

Except, it seems, when it comes to being overweight. Fat people are fair game. Witness the ticket agent who audibly called Kenlie “stupid” for not knowing right off the top of her head what her originating flight number was — a flight she’d already taken. (How many of us would be able to retain that information right off the bat?) Witness several episodes of the Style network’s show Ruby, in which an obese woman frequently experiences public mocking and humiliation.

Really, Southwest. It’s not that hard. And it’s not incumbent on the flying public to make sure you enforce your own policies evenly. It’s incumbent on YOU to make sure your employees get the memo and follow it appropriately. Since it’s not the first time this has happened, we can all draw our own conclusions.

By the way, Kenlie says Jet Blue is awesome.

#NovPAD 22: Take a Stand

Sun, 28 Nov 2010 13:48:00 -0500

From the prompt:

… the prompt today is to write a poem that takes a stand. This could be a political stand, religious stand, personal stand, or I guess a poem about the ability to stand—or setting up a stand (think vegetable stand or newspaper stand, etc.).

My draft:

“Apple Stand”

He sits by the side of 191, in a
lawn chair, striped blue and white
faded by years in the shifting suns
and watches the traffic pass him by.

Two worn brown baskets piled high with
fruits from his labors are his merchandise display
the sum total of his advertising budget spent on
white posterboard and thick green markers at Walmart.

As the sun slides down the mountains behind him
he’ll shiver once, then pull on a puffy coat
that was draped behind him, a pillow of sorts
to ease his sciatica, and sighing once, resume his watch.

— Annie Sisk

11/28/2010

#NovPAD 21: Permission

Sun, 28 Nov 2010 13:42:00 -0500

From the prompt:

… it should somehow involve the concept of giving, refusing, asking, etc. permission.

Here’s my draft—my first prose poem attempt:

“To Whom It May Concern”

Please excuse Annie Sisk from having to write this poem today. She has my permission to sit this one out. She has not been feeling well lately, more to do with the vagaries of poverty and keeping the wolves at bay than any physical pain she might be experiencing—although there’s plenty of that, too—and finds the prospect of writing a poem about being permitted to do something or forbidden to do something frankly overwhelming, as it hits a little too close to home right now. You know how it is, when you’re cartwheeling over the rapids and the boat is leaking, you’re not really thinking about things like “who gave me permission to be on the river in the first place?”

— Annie Sisk

11/28/2010

#NovPAD 20: Right or Wrong

Thu, 25 Nov 2010 19:12:30 -0500

The prompt, which isn’t very helpful, honestly; my draft follows:

I never gave much thought before
To telling right from wrong;
It seemed to me an easy thing,
like singing a well-known song.
In autumn now, I find it’s not
So simple as once I thought.
My wrongs and rights got jumbled up,
With ghastly angels I fought
For dominance, or for control
and just one simple sign—
just tell me what to do, I prayed—
no answer. Mistakes are mine.

—Annie Sisk

11/23/2010

#NovPAD 19: A Hole in It

Thu, 25 Nov 2010 19:01:37 -0500

Odd prompt for this day’s poem: write a poem with a hole in it. My draft:

On this lavender day
I find my thoughts drifting
To all the boys and men who
Paraded, strutted, strolled, and otherwise
Moved through the streets of my heart
And took a little piece with them, each in turn:
The resulting hole is the sweetest part.

—Annie Sisk

11/23/2010

#NovPAD 18: Lost and Found

Thu, 25 Nov 2010 18:56:57 -0500

The prompt … my poem:

Two parents
One brother
More than one home
My heart, on occasion
My mind, to be sure
My train of thought, daily
Patience, too often
Most of my possessions (my books)
A business
A belief in magic
Most of my pride
Most of my fear
A childlike faith in God
Skittishness, reluctance
Excuses
The chains that tied me down

— Annie Sisk

11/23/2010

#NovPAD 17: "Tell me why___"

Thu, 25 Nov 2010 18:50:06 -0500

From the prompt:

For today’s prompt, take the phrase “Tell me why (blank),” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write the poem.

My draft:

“Tell Me Why Not”

The magnet in you pulls me closer
reels me in, pitches me
forward and
back again
you pull back even as
you pull me in
and push a stray curl
off my cheek
there is talk—
soft words—
of the years
between us,
the vastly different oceans
in which we each swim and the
sweet tang of regret
that washes you clean
and washes me away—
but none of this
tells me
why not.

— Annie Sisk

11/23/2010

#NovPAD 16: Stacking/unstacking

Tue, 23 Nov 2010 14:22:00 -0500

Today’s prompt is about stacking (anything), or unstacking (anything). Kind of broad, which I hated at first but now think I prefer. Here’s my crappy draft!

Sweep away the things undone,
forgetting the sad terms of the day,
and leave the pile by the garbage bag
where someone else will take it out—
another black mark by my name.
Mom asks for another pillow.
I can’t see how she could possibly be comfortable
Sitting, half-lying at such an angle
but she sighs back into the down
and smiles that closed-lip weak smile she’s developed lately.
She asks if her sister is here.
Which one, I ask. But she can’t remember—
where was she going with that?
In an hour she’ll ask again
as if she never did
and on my way out of her room she’ll say
“While you’re up, pet, how about another pillow?”
And I’ll bring her mine.

— Annie Sisk

11/23/2010

the black hole tango

The colors here …. myedol: …. and a glass of red wine by...

comicsalliance: Post-It Note Art Destroys Productivity With...

Post-It Note Art Destroys Productivity With Awesome 8-Bit Recreations

Is Lifestyle Design & Productivity Only For the Privileged, or the Needy?

The Body Blows Keep On Coming

The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline(toll free for US calls) is:1-800-273-8255

The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline(toll free for US calls) is:1-800-273-8255

I’d like to suggest that we all gently encourage our compassion to grow.

The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline(toll free for US calls) is:1-800-273-8255

The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline(toll free for US calls) is:1-800-273-8255

Web 3.0: Bullies, Death Threats, and Slut-Shaming

The Holy Grail of the Anti-Death-Penalty Crowd

Living In the Rain. Also: Sunglasses.

At Least I Didn't Steal the Towels

And It's So LIGHT ...

A Smallish Little Prayer

Finale Fiesta Part 2

House

Glee

Fringe

Finale Fiesta Part 1

Grey’s Anatomy

Chuck

Castle

Bones

I Support Kenlie Tiggeman

#NovPAD 22: Take a Stand

#NovPAD 21: Permission

#NovPAD 20: Right or Wrong

#NovPAD 19: A Hole in It

#NovPAD 18: Lost and Found

#NovPAD 17: "Tell me why___"

#NovPAD 16: Stacking/unstacking

The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
(toll free for US calls) is:
1-800-273-8255

The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
(toll free for US calls) is:
1-800-273-8255

The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
(toll free for US calls) is:
1-800-273-8255

The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
(toll free for US calls) is:
1-800-273-8255