Michael Vicks apologized for bad judgement and immaturity. Really? You kill dogs with your bare hands and call it immaturity. You torment dogs till they become so crazed they want to kill each other and call it bad judgement? May you go to hell forever. And be tormented by people with bad judgement and immaturity till all you want to do is fight and kill the people who ran this dog ring with you.
I believe it was King Louis the 15th of France who once famously said, “L’etat, c’est moi.” For those of you not forced to take high school French with Sister Josephine, that translates as “The state is me.” Am I the only Alaskan who thinks that both Ted Stevens and Don Young are starting to believe this about themselves? They cut off Louis’ son Louis the 16th’s head. Ben, beware!
My sister turns...well, very, very, old today. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DEAR JUDY. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU.
And neither of us will ever let the other see how much gray hair there is on our heads. On any given birthday from now till we both die, we send out our special love to those people who help us keep our secret...the hairdressers who dye that gray away.
When I walked Mr. T, I had a free hand to hold an umbrella in the rain. Now I walk two dogs and have no free hand for an umbrella. I get very wet. So do they. But they seem to enjoy it anyway. Maybe I need to rediscover that part of the joy of my childhood....running through the rain and laughing. Or maybe not. Maybe I’ll just be content with bitching and moaning about how wet and cold and miserable I am when I get back from these walks and how happy the dogs should be that I love them so much.
I am traveling to another family wedding in October. I will get to wear the same outfit I wore to the past two. My sister approves so far. Since the next generation has reached the age where these events will happen more often than not for the foreseeable future, I find myself wondering how long I can get away with wearing the same outfit before my sister sneaks it out of my suitcase and burns it.
PBS recently ran a special on The Sixties. For my generation at this point, that could refer to age as well as a specific time period. So I should clarify that in this case, it had nothing to do with the need for calcium supplements. It was about the decade that will forever define my generation, no matter what else we may accomplish.
Being a typical, self-absorbed, over indulged member of that generation, I settled into my recliner, unwrapped my calcium chews, and settled in for what I thought would be a pleasant romp down memory lane. Yes, I was actually one of those hippies who surrounded the Pentagon in the fall of ‘67, chanting “Ohm” in the belief that it would cause the building to levitate and all the bad spirits would fall out. Ah youth!
But the journey turned out to not be as much fun as expected because every time music started playing that caused me to sway to its beat, a tragedy would intervene. When we remember the sixties, we tend to remember the dancing, free love and belief we could change the world by wearing serapes with bellbottoms and wishing everyone peace and love. We try to forget the part where Martin Luther King, Jr. and Bobby Kennedy get killed; where entire city centers go up in flames; where Mayor Daley showed how close to fascism this country could get when frightened about losing control. We don’t want to remember when our classmates and friends came back from war broken in mind and spirit, or just came back in boxes. Those are things we’d prefer to forget. In our memories, we are forever wearing flowers on our heads and beads around our necks with pot smoke swirling in the air while we shout, “Hey! Hey, LBJ! How many kids did you kill today?”
I found tears uncontrollably streaming down my face as I listened to Martin Luther King, Jr. give an extemporaneous speech the night before he died. The tears continued as the scene in California unfolded and Bobby Kennedy once more lay on the floor with blood streaming from his head. It took me a moment to realize that I wasn’t so much crying over their deaths as I was over what those deaths meant.
These were leaders who dreamed big dreams and then pulled us into their vision through the sheer force of their personality and passion. These were not the political leaders of today who first take a poll to find out what Americans want and then craft a message that purports to give it to us. These were people who did not feel it was as important to give America what it wanted as it was to show us their vision of a better America and then make us want it too. They didn’t kiss our butts. Instead, they challenged us to get off of them and make our country a better place.
I miss having a leader who makes me want to be a better person than I am. I’m tired of leaders who cater to the lowest possible denominator. Has someone blown up towers in New York? Don’t worry. Be happy. Go shopping. Spend money. That’ll show them they haven’t defeated us.
Leaders who only give us what the polls say we want scare me. We are the people who made pet rocks and monster truck rallies popular. We are the people who watch programs like “Bridezillas” and “The Jerry Springer Show” in large enough numbers to bring them back for multiple seasons. For god’s sake, we tuned in to Paris Hilton’s court proceedings! Who in their right mind would try to lead us where we claimed we wanted to go in view of this stark evidence of regular national insanity?
Yes, we want leaders who hear what we have to say. But don’t we also want leaders who will appeal to our better selves? Leaders who will challenge us to look outside our comfort zone in an effort to make our world a better place? Is it easier, in the end, to honor Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King, Jr. as martyrs than it would have been to work with them to achieve their vision?
Maybe those tears I was shedding were not only for the lost promise of those great leaders, but also for the void that still exists in the leadership of this nation. We need heroes. We need visionary leaders. We’ve got politicians.
If I die and get reincarnated into a really hot body, will I know what to do with it?
While I will grant you that as a fairy great-godmother I might be prejudiced in thinking that Rhodes is absolutely the handsomest, most wonderful child ever born this millenium, I must also confess that as I look at one of these pictures, I question whether or not his future will entail a tool belt around his waist. He is, I fear, channeling the spirit of Dan Akroyd.
I know I’ve asked this before but I must screamingly ask it again...how is it possible for my dogs to shed so much hair and have any left on their bodies? Thank god Blondie has those big brown eyes and Blue has....well, whatever it is that Blue has besides diabetes that makes her so irresistible...because I spent a good deal of yesterday picking up gobs of dog hair over every surface of this house. And today...I don’t want to scare anyone so let’s just say it looks as though dog hair, once shed, can reproduce on its own.
It’s a fight to the finish between me and my dogs over who will get to the raspberries first. They go out, grab the branches they can reach and pull them till they break. Then they sit there and munch on the raspberries they’ve pulled down with the branch. Apparently no one has told these dogs they are carnivores.
There should be some sort of federal law that says no matter what the date stamped on the jar might read, all condiments in the refrigerator door need to be recycled through the trash when they become seven years old...even mustard. Apparently old mustard can make you sick. Who knew?!
Am I the only one who considers pretzels merely the most efficient conveyance system to get mustard from the jar to my mouth?
There are probably few Alaskans left by now who have not heard the best lines from The Simpsons Movie repeated again and again, often by relatives living elsewhere who call specifically to quote them to us. For those of you who have been living in a salmon creek since the movie debuted, those lines are as follows: “Alaska, where you can’t be too drunk or too fat.” And, spoken by an official handing them money as the family crosses into Alaska, “Welcome to Alaska. Here’s a thousand dollars.” Finally, “We pay everyone in Alaska to let us destroy the environment.”
Since Congress seems to be in the mood to pass laws that take away our constitutional rights without much of a fuss, I’d like to propose a new law for them to pass. It would simply state that anyone whose name has been in People or Us magazine more than twice in one year cannot reproduce EVER!
The bra my friend Jodie bought me as a joke gift for my joke 50th birthday this year fits me better than the bras I buy myself. What am I doing wrong?