This was a Monday, yes it was

Perhaps it was the specter of my boss rolling in a weekend's worth of work this morning.

Or maybe it was the roar of the ancient air conditioner looming above my head.

Perhaps it was the stack of "to dos" on my desk.

The testy town official?

The discomfort that is nylon socks and slacks with a belt?

I dunno.

But today, today I became aware that the work-a-day world is not all fun and frolic.

Pave purgatory, put up a parking lot?

That's the latest gossip on the state of the family homestead in Wisconsin. The house is beyond repair, and the owner of the bikeshop next door is going to buy the lot for customer parking.

Though my memories of my childhood in that house are not altogether warm and fuzzy (hence purgatory in lieu of paradise above), that qualifies as an "Ouch!"

Who wants their family home to be a parking lot, I ask you?

On other fronts, we're home from the cottage. It's raining like mad out there, and since I still have HTML classwork to do and would rather do it via a DSL line than dial-up (wouldn't you?), we're back.

Saw a surprisingly good play last night at the Miniature Theatre of Chester, "See Rock City." Why surprising? Being in the Berkshires, one is inundated with cultural possibilities; unfortunately, they often disappoint. Either the play's written by someone with ADD, the acting is fraught, the work on display is appealing only to masochists or depressives, the audience is wearing enough perfume/cologne to cause asthma in a corpse, or the entire premise is corrupt (am still subject to the shudders when I think of a "comedy revue" we saw last year). Happily, "See Rock City" was well written, acted, and produced. And the audience was fragranced, but not unbearably so.

Plus, we found a little restaurant around the corner that looked promising.

A successful weekend, that it was--except that I had a nightmare last night that I was late for work at the superintendent's office.

The only good part about the nightmare was that I was working with Queen Latifah, who was very cool about it all.

When isn't she?

Okay, must go face the HTML music now.

She works hard for the money

Not me--the superintendent of schools in the town where I worked today.

It's not a job, it's a 24/7 commitment.

Or so it seems.

As for my day, I spent it in a nice office with very nice people--life is good.

And today is Friday. What could be lovelier?

We're heading out to the cottage, that's what.

Where I will try to study HTML and finish my first draft of my second comedy column.

No, it's not all dog walking, kayaking and holding down deck furniture, people.

But a happy Friday anyway.

I'm working, and so's Shwea's diet!

Perhaps only a dog person will appreciate this, but my lab mix Shwea has lost seven pounds on her diet. SEVEN POUNDS.

For a lab who has had a bum paw for most of the seven weeks she's been on her diet, that's a minor miracle.

It's like losing weight when you can't exercise--I don't know about you, but I can't do that.

Shwea can!

This week is getting better and better.

Things are looking up, aren't they?

Well, I finally landed a temp job, just as I was about to go to the dogs.

It's for only three weeks, but it will be in an office in Northampton and will pay enough to keep the wolves at bay a little while longer. Oh, happy day!

Also heard back from a bidness writing job in CT today, but it sounds as though I'd be driving a lot, so may need to think hard about whether I want to make a play for that.

But the fact that I had three prospects this week, people that were actually interested in having me work for them, that does me a world of good.

Speaking of world of good, I was moved by season finale of "Brat Camp," even though I remain skeptical as to how much long-term impact the wilderness program will have on these kids. And forgive me, but I am not at all surprised that Jada, the compulsive liar in the group who can bend her daddy into any shape she wants, is in trouble with the authorities. She irritates the heck out of me, for she is so divorced from reality you know she's going to have to do something BIG to get her incredibly misshapen ego's attention. I doubt that the mishap with the motorboat would do it--her family swept her out of state so she wouldn't have to deal.

Enablers or parents? She's got a two-fer. Just hope they don't enable her to the point that she kills somebody. Or herself, you know?

Maybe you don't, but let's just say that young woman is an accident waiting to happen. Big time.

But then, I was an accident (not a compulsive liar type, but a pending accident nonetheless) at her age, and I didn't take my BIG fall until my early 30s. Speaking of pending accidents, couldn't help but put my chagrin on for the news that my alma mater, the University of Wisconsin-Madison, was (again) ranked the number-one party school in the nation by the Princeton Review.

Let's hear it for the drunken offspring of America's Dairyland! Wouldn't our hard-working farmer ancestors be proud?

Well, I must run some errands, for I will be joining the workforce tomorrow. Color me aflutter.

Is there a full moon or something?

Many thanks to Pat for the link (see the comment on my first entry today) to this gem of a story. Opening quote: "Anti-gay preacher Fred Phelps has caused an international royal gay flap over accusations that Sweden's King Carl Gustaf is gay."

So, we have Robertson going after Venezuela and Phelps going after Sweden: What a lovely pair of coconuts!

(Now there's a rumor worth circulating.)

Crackpot Christians in the news....

Just when you think the regressive right's mouthpieces have gone about as far down the sanity scale as they can go, they make breathtaking leaps downward. Right now, I'm thinking of Pat Robertson's call for the assassination of Venezuela's Hugo Chavez, but by the time you read this, who knows what else may be on the call-me-crazy-I'm-a-Christian agenda? I think my comedy buddy Jennifer sums things up nicely, better still than a minister whose knickers were in a knot over the same thing.

Must be a day for such things. My dear Peace Corps soulmate Ed sent me a little item, courtesy of Dr. Dobson's "Focus on Family," that speaks of the homosexual agenda regarding children. After giving lip-service to the fact that homosexuals are not all pedophiles, the site proceeds to "expose" the homosexual agenda regarding man-boy sex--by quoting from that sick pup organization NAMBLA, the National Association of Man-Boy Love (I think). NAMBLA is to queers what the KKK is to real Christians, people. (Following Dobson's logic, the KKK's agenda must represent all Christians, for what other organization makes such a fetish of the cross?)

I certainly don't take my cues from NAMBLA, and as far as I can tell, neither do the vast majority of queers. But, of course, the Dobsons of the world can't make such fine distinctions, can they? It would put a damper on their hate-mongering, not to mention their fundraising.

Truly, the only thing on the page that really got my attention is the assertion that the gays were trying to infiltrate the Boy Scouts just as the lesbians had already infiltrated the Girl Scouts. They asserted that something on the order of 30% of troop leaders were lesbian.

Do I ever feel cheated. My scout leaders were straight ladies, through and through. Perhaps I would have stuck with scouting longer if a nice lesbian were in charge. Instead of the totally lame "sewing" and "cooking" badges, maybe I could have gotten a nice "smash the patriarchy" or "boys suck" badge or something.

Just my luck!

And you know, I am not proud of this fact, but I do not think highly of Lance Armstrong. While I know he surmounted tremendous odds to become a racing giant, there's something about ditching the wife and mother of his many kids for a pop star and something about his feral face--can't really put my finger on it--that put me off. Reading this article about his bike ride with W helped put some of my discomfort in perspective. Plus, what's not to love about calling this stunt Lance Armstrong's "Texas Toady Two-Step"?

Yes, I am a sucker for alliteration. Not proud of that fact, either.

Four months and counting....

It just occurred to me that it has been OVER four months since I started my job hunt, and I am still as semi-employed as I was the day I started.

What to make of that?

Am giving up the idea that it's the Universe trying to tell me something; rather, it's the economy, sweetie--and the economy in these parts is not exactly smokin'.

Of course, the fact that I have skills (writing/editing) that are not appreciated by 99% of the population doesn't help, either.

So, I am in a quandary, really and truly. Over 75 resumes/applications served, and very little (but a few hours paid at half my hourly rate) to show for it.

It's gotten to the point where I put myself in the running for a doggy daycare job yesterday, just because I love dogs more than just about anything on this planet, really and truly. They are proof of God's existence, in my view, for they love us no matter what.

Which is a lot more likely attitude for God to take than "I Hate Fags," if you ask me.

Speaking of which, did you hear about the lesbian couple in Aruba who were unable to get married? And when the townpeople heard about what they tried to do, they threw stones and them and slashed their tires??

All because gay marriage is "against the morals" of the good people of Aruba, according to a local quoted in this weekend's Sunday Republican.

Moral stone-throwing, I get. That's in the Bible. But moral TIRE-SLASHING?

That's a new one.

This from the country that disappears teenagers on spring break, but don't get me started....

Not so fast....

Maybe news of my old house's demise was premature after all. Spoke with an elderly neighbor in my hometown this morning, and she reports that the house is still standing--and even looks pretty good, considering.

On the other hand, this same neighbor spoke to me for about 15 minutes then said, "And who are you again, dear?"

So, perhaps we need to talk to more sources before we know for certain what has transpired. Have an e-mail in to the editor of the local paper--perhaps he will have some light to shed.

Then again, the paper is mostly off the wire, so the editor may or may not know anything about what's happening. We shall see....

Must say, I'm almost tempted to jump in the car and start driving west--isn't that INSANE? (So is my level of curiosity, what can I tell you!)

It's TOAST!

Just found out that my family homestead, the house my grandfather bought in 1905 for himself and his new bride, the house I was brought to from the hospital and spent my entire childhood in, burned to the ground last week. At first, I was upset--I mean, my mother was born in that house, and grandfather breathed his last there, too, for heaven's sake--but then I remembered.

The place was quickly becoming an eyesore. In other words: It's really a blessing in disguise.

Every time I went home, I would drive by the place to see how it was doing, and every time I'd see new evidence that the house was not being maintained. In the least. Peeling paint, sagging porches, cardboard in the windows--you name it. It broke my heart, seeing how the place had been let go.

And now, a fire in a dryer has leveled it. It's almost funny--my father was convinced that installing a washer and dryer was going to be the ruination of the house. Mother, she who had done untold tons of laundry at the local Laundromat until she couldn't take it any more, wasn't having it and had them installed anyway. It was one of the rare times I remember them disagreeing publicly, but I guess Dad didn't have anyone else in the wings willing to wash his disgusting handkerchiefs, so he backed down.

Turns out he was right. About 30 years after the fact, but still.

Wonder if he and mother have already discussed this. Or do arguments die with their participants? One would hope so!

Anyway, the best part is that I found out about this because of this blog. A classmate/friend from the old sod saw this site and decided to let me know the latest, even though we probably haven't seen each other since we were fresh out of high school ourselves.

Isn't that cool?

Speaking of cool, Linda and I watched "To Sir With Love" over the weekend, and watching Sidney Poitier was the usual slice of heaven. If there ever was a man who made me wonder if I was really and truly gay, it is the Sidney Poitier of this classic and "Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?" Oh my, what a beautiful man.

He is what cool aspires to be.

But since I aspire to be employed, I had better tackle the two interesting prospects I found this weekend and quit prattling on--for now.

I think we have a winner!

Well, (most of) the votes are in, and it appears the winner of the "Pick Ann's Headshot" contest is this variation of the "You must be sh**ing me" look. For The Comedy, I must agree, this look makes the most sense, even if it offers ample evidence that I missed the line marked "cheekbones" while in the human assembly plant oh-so-many years ago.

It also highlights the wide array of RAVINES on my face, starting with the horizontal rows on my forehead and ending with a deep crevasse on each cheek.

But if a person hasn't picked up a few lines by the age of 46, she's probably picked up a lot of Botox and/or Paxil instead, so I'm choosing not to worry about it. Too much.

The irony is that back in 1977 I was terribly jealous of my high school classmate Richey E., for she had a highly-developed lines running across her forehead (thought it made her look thoughtful and mature). I, on the other hand, had a vast expanse of unsullied flesh (which I thought made me look impossibly young, not to mention vacant).

Well, we're not "impossibly young" or "vacant" any more, are we? No, sir-eee!

And after this morning, I've picked up a few more lines--Oatmeal went missing. First, he didn't show up for the pre-breakfast harassment phase. I didn't really think much of it, for that's really Butler's specialty--he stands in the middle of the hallway and screams the cat equivalent of "Wench, fetch my breakfast!" until I get out of bed. But when I had filled their food dishes and returned them to the basement and there still was no sign of Oatmeal, I sent out the alarm.

Linda and I looked all over the house, in the basement, in the garage, even in cupboards. Finally, while I was putting the finishing touches on the dogs' breakfast, Linda took a stroll around the house, calling Oatmeal's name. Just as I fed the canines, I saw Linda carrying him into the house via the back porch. Boy, did he look pathetic. And to my surprise, I was very glad to see him.

For all my lack of deep abiding love for the cats in my life, I would have missed the little knucklehead. And I know Linda would have felt terrible if something had happened to her Oatie Boy, even if Linus is #1 in her animal Hit Parade these days.

So that's my day so far--a headshot and an MIA feline. Now I get to go clean the house.

Don't be too jealous, now.

Forget Flickr, folks--it's beyond me

I thought I could somehow link my photo array on Flickr to my blog, but I have been thoroughly thwarted in my attempts. As a result, I sent the photo array to members of my family and some friends instead. If you weren't among the people tagged for this dubious honor and would like to be, let me know.

On other fronts, I had a lengthy phone interview with the CEO of a company this afternoon and only a few things that came out of my mouth left me kicking myself (the upside of phone interviews is one can wince and/or kick oneself silly and no one needs to know). The job ostensibly was based two hours away, but it seems that the CEO is open to the possibility of an off-site person after all, so perhaps there's hope.

A person who can do the job to her approval, that is. She's going to send me a test assignment and we'll take it from there. Sound familiar? T'is the season, apparently.

That I expected this interview to be an absolute bust has made this turn of events quite delightful. It's lovely to not have one's worse suspicions confirmed, know what I mean?

We shall see....

Humility, thy name is headshot

Two strolls down memory lane.....

A friend's mother is fighting cancer, and the latest word is a new series of tumors has been found.

Deju vu all over again? You betcha. One of the last "findings" of my mother's oncologist after a debilitating round of chemo and radiation was something almost exactly along these lines.

This friend called to talk about her mother, but kept drifting off--and no, it wasn't because she was on her cell phone. I remember it well--the absolute fog that settled between my ears when the news got really bad where my mother was concerned. The same fog that settled in after my father died and didn't lift for a year.

Now, I know enough not to tell my friend about my timeline (a year in a fog?!), but I was able to tell her that it's perfectly normal to find oneself unable to focus after getting such terrible news.

Sigh.

On happier fronts, I spoke to an old art school friend last night, as she had received the two DVDs of my The Comedy Studio performances as requested and was waiting for her husband to come home to watch them. Talking to her was a hoot, for she has the same loopy laugh she had in college, and it's always great to hear it (especially since it's not attached to some major beer-induced mistook I made, as had been oh-so-often the case back in those bad old days).

She and her husband both enjoyed the DVDs (altogether now: Whew!) and were very encouraging about my material and what-all in his-and-hers e-mails.

That's so sweet, when both parties in a couple are moved to write individually--means a lot, but please don't ask me to explain why.

Now, I promised myself I was going to exercise officially today, so off I go (yesterday's exercise was going to the dump, which entails a lot of lifting, but isn't exactly aerobics, if you know what I mean).

Powerless? You have no idea!

Had a tough time getting to sleep last night, for Linda and I have become avid nappers during the weekend. Part of the napping was brought on by the fact that on Saturday night, anyway, it was too darn hot to sleep out at the cottage (we don't have AC or a fan out there). And while a beautifully cool breeze was coming in the bedroom window for a while, it soon was carrying heavy, choking levels of woodsmoke, courtesy of some "neighbors" who were likely sittin' round the campfire with a case of beer. Or two.

How do I know this? Three guesses. (Ah, Karma, you are a boomerang!)

The other naps were brought on by exhaustion, which in turn was brought on by trying to placate Linus, our 95-pound German shepherd who is convinced the WORLD IS COMING TO AN END every time he hears a rumble of thunder. As it has been thundering and lightening around here like mad lately, the poor mutt is just about at his wit's end.

As are we.

Yesterday, the storm not only sent Linus into spasms, but cut our power. Linda had some pork marinating in the fridge, so it was clearly grill time. Unfortunately, it was also monsoon time, and our backyard has no protection from the rain, so Linda had the ingenious idea of dragging our little Webber to the front of the house, where our garage roof overhangs just far enough to protect it from the deluge. She fired up the grill and made a delicious feast of grilled pork and a spinach/chick pea mixture that was sheer heaven. Even though the power came on just before the food was ready, we stayed outside and sat in plastic chairs under the overhang and had a little picnic while the sky flashed, rumbled, and poured before us. A little scary, but a lot of fun.

Our neighbors two doors over had the same idea, and it reminded me of going to the drive-in, for some reason. Instead of sitting in our cars watching a movie, we sat outdoors watching the storm. Something sweet about it, dunno what. (No, I haven't been getting a lot of sleep lately, why do you ask?)

In my insomnia last night, I found myself thinking about my parents. Specifically, how they kept up to date on current events where politics, government, and world affairs were concerned, they didn't really keep up with a lot of cultural events. In fact, I am pretty sure my father stopped noticing trends in his 30s--which means his culture was stuck pretty much in the 1940s.

While I have no qualms with his taste in music (he, too, was a big fan of Ella Fitzgerald), he was stuck in ways that perplexed me. For instance, he never adopted any foods that weren't around when he was a young man. Pizza, for one prime example, was "cardboard." For another example, poor Mother tried serving him a rice pilaf with dinner (instead of potatoes) one night, and he left the house. Just left.

My mother, bless her heart, tried much harder to keep up, if only to understand what her children were nattering on about. She often succeeded, but sometimes she just couldn't keep up. My favorite example, one I will cherish always, is that to the day she died she thought I slept on a tofu and ate futon. She also enjoyed using the term "Happening" long, long after the 60s coinage was in vogue.

My 12-years-older brother has shown some signs of this phenomenon, as he is one of those people who believe no decent music was made after 1969. (He also left the house when my mother served the pilaf: Surprised?)

Which, of course, leads me to worry that parts of my cultural currency may be lapsing into irrelevancy. Not that I think it's seemly for an older person to embrace younger culture just because it's young--that verges on the pathetic. But I would like to think I would be open to new cultural developments that are better than those of my generation or those before--say, the young culture's equivalent of pizza, whatever that may be.

And no, it's not rap.

Department of Public Shirks, if you ask me

Well, I thought the bear would be my excitement for the day, but I was wrong. Got a letter from the City of Northampton explaining why I am not eligible for reimbursement for the flat tire I got because the Department of Public Works (DPW) left concrete fragments on the street. (For the blog entry detailing this happy episode, click here.)

The main reason they're off the responsibility hook: They had signs up warning that there were workers ahead.

So if we see such signs and make the assumption that the men of the DPW might actually be careful as they work, conscious of their role as public servants, thinking of the wellbeing and safety of the citizens using the roadways they are paid (by said citizens) to make safe, we are such idiots we get what we deserve. In my case, a bill for about $120.00.

The fact that I drove over debris they left on the road (to avoid hitting said "Workers") is my fault, when in reality I should have seen the "Men Working" sign, turned around, and drove as far in the opposite direction as I could go (and that's my plan for here on in--I suggest you do the same).

Thanks, guys! You are upholding the stereotype of straight guys as slobs, no question. Keep up the good work!

One more thing bothers me: A few hours after I called in to complain about hitting the debris, I drove over to the site of the concrete catastrophe with a camera in the hopes of getting a picture or two of the mess the guys left. Wouldn't you know it, it was clean as a whistle. So these men have the technology to clean up after themselves, but only when they have to--my goddess, how infantile can you be? (Oh, I am so understanding of the dyke separatists right now, I can't tell you.)

Anyway, what also gets my knickers in a knot is that the City is protected by a sign, whereas me, a homo-owner, is not. We have "Beware of Dog" signs at each door and gate on our wee property, but if a burglar were to enter our home and get bit, said burglar could sue us for damages, signs or no signs.

So, the City's DPW lazybones are protected from injured citizens by a sign, whereas a sign does nothing to protect citizens from a robber who breaks into their homes and gets what's coming to him/her.

Lest you think I'm anti-civil servant, relax. I am the only member of my family not in civil service of some sort: My sister is an attorney for a major Midwestern city and my brother is a bureaucrat with a major federal agency in our nation's capital. Further, my dear departed mother was a state employee, so I know and love civil servants and appreciate the work they do.

Unless they do their work badly, without pride, or in order to gain the spotlight/power. That I have trouble with.

Ah, life indeed is not fair, this I know. And true, I am not a penguin. But still.

I have the option to contest this decision/evasion; if I'm not gainfully employed by then, I may just do it. But if I am gainfully employed by then, it won't be worth it--though I may need to send in a letter of protest.

Cause that's the kind of gal I am.

One last thing: Spellcheck suggested I change DPW to dope. What to do, what to do?

Wow--at least it wasn't a grizzly!

Today was panning out to be another marginally useful day for yours truly. First, I took the dogs for a walk (Shwea has been to Dog Heaven twice--twice!--this week without bleeding, I am very happy to report); next, I went to the "new" mechanic to get the tire pressure gauge fixed; then I walked into town to meet a friend for lunch; and then I walked home to get ready to go to the cottage (or is it camp? Linda and I seem to be calling it different things for some reason).

Anyway, all went according to schedule until I walked home after lunch. I had a silly large burrito for lunch (fast becoming my second-favorite food group, after pizza--yes, we Midwestern types are suckers for lean cuisine) and it was silly hot, so by the time I got to a park near my neighborhood (Childs Park, for those of you in the know about Northampton), I got a side stitch and needed to sit down. Since I knew I was probably going to sit for a while (I found a bench in the shade and had a cool beverage to sip, lucky me), I checked my messages in the off chance one of the 60+ resumes/cover letters/pleas I'd sent out hit paydirt.

I didn't get any calls from prospective employers, of course, but I did have one message, and it was a good one. My friend Hilary had called to check in, so I called her back. From a park bench. In a park.

Perhaps there is an upside (or two) to this semi-employment business?

Anyway, I was chatting with her and heard a commotion on the street behind me (Elm); I didn't see anything but a bunch of cars stopped for no apparent reason, then I thought I saw an enormous black dog running towards me. Then, in a heartbeat, I realized the enormous black dog was not a dog at all, but a big black bear. And he/she was heading my way.

Yikes!

I jumped up and faced the bear, who I don't think saw me until that moment, for he put on the brakes a bit and changed directions, so he was no longer heading at me, but off to my left. Now, I have read more times than I care to admit the rules of bear "engagement," and know in my brain that running is not the thing to do, but I couldn't help myself. That story about the grizzlies eating that bear nut and his girlfriend was fresh in my mind, so I sort of jogged backwards a bit, facing the bear as he ran away into the open field, where he proceeded to let loose a cascade of bear droppings the likes of which I've never seen. (Well, to be honest, I've never seen a bear do his business before--it reminded me of horse droppings, if you need a visual, no need to thank me). He then ran into a thin strip of woods on the other side of the park, and I don't know where he went after that.

What a commotion!

Which leads me to ask the immortal question: Do bears shit in the woods? I can't say for sure, but they definitely shit in Childs Park.

Poor thing must have been scared out of his wits.

The entire time, I was narrating this tale to my friend, who laughed and said, "You're making this up."

Now really, I may be semi-employed and a fan of The Comedy and all, but I do have better things to do than to call friends with imaginary animal sightings.

At least so far.

Otherwise, not much is going on--did "apply" to two more temp agencies today on the Internet, in the hopes they will call me in for tests next week. We shall see...

What are our options?

These are the times that try....

Well, it's official--I didn't get the job with the metals people I thought I was going to get. Just found out today.

And, to add a little je ne sais quoi, I also got a rejection letter from a job I thought I would at least get an interview for--as I had a person inside the company shepherd my resume through the ranks.

So much for that. Is it me, or am I being DRIVEN to a life of Comedy and temp work?

What are my options here?

The good news for today? Certainly there's something good to report, you cry!

Hmmm, let's see. For starters, my oral surgery is healing okay, and the dear Dr. took out what was left of my stitches. Freedom!

And "my" rep at the temp agency returned my call. Interesting aside: She called after I called her colleague in town, who suggested--and does this strike anyone else as bizarre?--that I sign up with other agencies.

I think I have my marching orders, just as soon as I can trust my car. (Please goddess, let it be after tomorrow's appointment!)

Gratitude via a G-rated film

Oh. My. God. Finally saw "The March of the Penguins" last night, and it was a lot more intense than I expected. In fact, it was one hell of a rollercoaster ride. One moment I was exposed to almost unbearable sweetness, the next truly unbearable savagery--rather like Mutual of Omaha's "Wild Kingdom," but on steroids.

All I can say is, "Thank goddess I'm not a penguin."

And if I die and come back as a penguin, I will know for sure that despite my best efforts to do God's will and all that rot, those religious right-wing nutjobs did know what they were talking about. And man, will that ever be a bummer.

It's kind of a drag having to wait until I die to find this out, but I'm glad there's at least one upside to death. No more wondering. Maybe that would look good on my grave marker (which I won't have, since I plan to be toasted one final time): "No longer wondering."

Still, I can't help but think that the God of my understanding, the God of "we are all God's children," "love thy neighbor" and "judge not lest ye be judged" is the Genuine Article, and the "God hates fags" deity is just someone a bunch of bigots put together to make themselves feel better.

The "I may be po' white trash, but at least I'm not a faggot!" school, if you will.

What is my school? Hmmmmm. "Well, I may be a middle-class, middle-aged, semi-employed dykesaurus, but at least I'm not a penguin."

That is more than enough philosophy for one day, don't you think?

Who else but Molly Ivins....

Could use "ring-tailed tooter" in a sentence? She has a way with words I adore, and if you need a little lift, I recommend you read her review of Thomas Frank's "One Market, Under God."

Did this Lefty a lot o' good, indeed.