Different day, same sh....

Michael Jackson: f..... up in court again today.
What words could describe?

Martha Libre!

So I've been taken to task for not actually mentioning Lil Kim last time out. I love hecklers!
Even though it's morally suspect on my part I have a huge problem with the government prosecuting either Lil Kim or Martha Stewart.
In fact, I had an ongoing dialogue going with a member of the bar about the whole Martha Stewart situation. I feel sorry for her. She's a mean-spirited, obsessive-compulsive, tart baking dingbat. When I was in grad school I'd sit in my shabby apartment reading that glossy rag of hers wondering why couldn't I find just the right shade of fondant for my homemade pastries. It is OK to care about the details, dammit.
So she catches a case--as the kids say. And what is she charged with? Insider trading. Excuse my french, but what the fuck...I mean I think it is totally appropriate to use that charge for corporate executives and high level employees. But I'll tell you if my broker calls me and tells me I could lose my tank top on a deal, I'm selling. I can't see how that could possibly be considered a crime in a free market economy. Martha was an investor--a pretty minor one at that-- not a principal. And though she knew the bio-tech guy--dated her daughter, ewww--by all accounts she got her info from her broker, Bogdanovich. Good broker. If I heard after the fact that my broker could have prevented me from losing my tank top...clutch the pearls!
So Martha sold her stocks. The feds couldn't get her on that so they took her down for lying to the government and ostensibly obstructing justice. Now the lying to the government thing rested on different colored ink notes on the broker's files...I have three different pens on my desk right now. Just because the notes were written in different colored ink doesn't mean the notes were doctored is a foregone conclusion.
And in fact, the government could not make a compelling, iron-tight case on the insider trading so they charge her with lying. Again WTF! I know it is morally wrong to lie. I avoid doing it as much as possible. But really. Lying? Don't you have a Fifth amendment right against self-incrimination? And if the feds can get you on lying to them to stay out of trouble, aren't they going to need a whole lot of jail cells?
Imagine you're Martha...Ms. Stewart, did you commit a federal offense by falsifying the chronology of events that led up to your stock exchange? Ms. Stewart's reply: "Um, no."
Of course she lied. Who's gonna tell the feds they're guilty? I watch L&O. First, you get lawyered up then you deny, deny, deny. That's the American way, baby.
Meanwhile across town..."No I did not kill my wife. I was fishing that night." OK, maybe that isn't a good example. How about this. "No I did not kill my wife. I went back to the restaurant to get my gun and when I came back she had already been shot." Ok, yeah, that one will work.
So Martha ends up wearing a commissary-knit poncho and an ankle bracelet cause she lawyered up and denied? That seems like a waste of my tax dollars.
And what the hell does that have to do with Lil Kim. She raised her right hand and swore she didn't know those gun-toting knuckleheads who shot up Hot 97. And the government pulled out photographs, letters and DNA to prove she lied. So fuckin' what.
Every person in America has denied someone they know out of embarassment at some point. "Hey Chuckie, your mom's outside in rollers and hot pants..." Chuckie: "Nah-uh...that's not my mom." Get the cuffs, Danno. What would you expect Kim to say. Yeah, I know those mofos...they my homies. Get real. Another waste of my tax dollars.
Meanwhile, the government can't find the money I put into Social Security and I don't have enough money for lunch and gasoline. Gimme a break.
You know who should be prosecuted?...Justin Timberlake. I didn't know Janet's breast was gonna come out. My ass, he didn't. The stiffest penalty he's gotten is a revocation of his temporary ghetto pass. Now he's ass out in Cameron Diaz's house. That's crime people. That's crime.
I have to go on without Lil Kim's fashion debacles and inappropriate rhymes...That's like a day without sunshine. The government is out to get us.

Dial-up Sux

Yes...It's true. Dial up is the bane of technological progress. It's like taking your fancy convertible down an unpaved dirt path. But dial-up is what I have and dial-up is what I must use.
I am most excited to have a 'new' computer. And as soon as I figure out how to install the new driver, I should be able to edit video footage from my camcorder and create all kinds of havoc. Whoo-hoo.
So maybe I'll put my picture up later. Kisses!

Free Lil Kim

I’m in one of the moods where I might say or do anything. A funky mood. A positive influence might inspire jokes and a little unexpected fun. A cross word and it’s on and cracking.
Yeah, baby. I’m walking the line. I’m edgy. And I like it. It’s the time of year where every time you leave the house you risk being dressed inappropriately for the weather. My choice this morning is just all wrong. In the mornings I loathe feeling the cold, so I overcompensated by putting on a heavy sweater. Just in case that wasn’t bad enough, I put on my leather car coat. Now I’m sweating and fighting to keep my eyelids propped open.
As much I as I am enjoying how I’m feeling, it’s probably best I lay low. I mean it really could go either way. And it’s like my little secret. I’m feeling all Sade inside—you know what I mean—but nobody knows.
I don’t even know what going on in the world that I could comment on. Baretta got off, Peterson didn’t. Michael Jackson’s still wearing his pajamas to court. When I first heard about these things, I had strong opinions. Now I could give a rat’s ass. Baretta probably wanted his wife dead; Peterson had no business fishing on Xmas eve and telling he was at the Eiffel Tower while he was attending a candlelight vigil. Both of them are off their marks. But I guess insofar as Baretta only was a threat to the dearly departed, I’m not worried about him walking the streets. On the other hand, Scott Peterson is a crazy mofo and solitary might be just the trick to curtail his comings and goings.
I see Michael Jackson like I see Bush on the WTC- he hit before, he probably will hit again so how can you plausibly claim you couldn’t see it coming? How can you claim this fool is completely innocent when he’s been ‘under a cloud of suspicion’ since Kriss Kross were kids. On the other hand, I’m not saying it justifies MJ’s actions, but who sends their kids to sleepovers at the kid-friendly compound of a wacky, 47-year old, drug addled, wig and pancake makeup wearing…dude. Even weirder he’s a former pop star. Now that he’s wearing his pajama pants and a jacket to court, I find it hard to believe he’s been containing the crazy in other contexts. What could probably be the motive for a woman to send her kids to hang out with that ninny? And on the opposite side of my WTC imagery, what the hell was MJ thinking? It’s beautiful to share your bed? He’s craaaaaazzzzy! And I say that with all the residual affection I ever had for Michael Jackson intact. Off the Wall was my jam—as they say. I even had a Michael Jackson poster …until I discovered Prince and Mike started getting those nose jobs, then it was a wrap. I turned in my MJ fan interest at the Wiz….But he’s talented. He’s weird for anybody to see, but that in and of itself is not a crime. While I suspect otherwise, let’s say for argument’s sake that MJ is telling the truth and he didn’t lay a hand on those boys. OK…well what’s with the porn parties and Jesus juice. That’s the goofiest shit I ever heard.
I have trouble understanding the porn stash right off the bat. Why was MJ stockpiling porn magazines like they were government bonds? Why not just go to Scores? Heck, Luke would probably make him king of Club Rolexx every night of the week. Why drink wine out of soda can? He can swig his from the bottle or a brown paper bag. Nobody would raise an eyebrow.
Unless it did have something to do with isolating little boys from their families…If that happened, MJ gets no love from me. And if it did, he’s craftier than a set of Lego’s because he was dastardly enough to victimize the child of a wholly unsympathetic, amoral mother who by credible account has been trying to pimp this boy for years. It would not surprise me if MJ moonwalks right out the courtroom. You can accuse a man of molesting you in one breath and concede you lied under oath in court on previous occasions. It’s called reasonable doubt. If he does get off, I hope for everyone involved’s sake someone checks MJ into some sort of treatment facility. He is a menace to himself and others. He looks high everyday in court and the whole situation is a five alarm cry. If MJ is innocent, he has got to be the craziest mofo on the planet for getting himself into this situation.

Swaddled--continued

She breezed right into work. The tension crackled in the air. When she got to her seat, there was a note in it. I hate it when people put notes on your damn chair, she thought. Next thing she knew she was in her boss' office. Drone, drone, drone. All of sudden a voice that sounded like hers spoke up. She heard it say that today was her last day. Her boss rose to protest. But as her mind processed the words, she felt her hand gesture him to stop. Today was her last day. Notice, schotice. If she hurried, she could be sipping cafe au lait within the hour...

Author's break: I don't know how this is going to work without a workplace. I had all these Hawthorne-like references to Bartleby the Scrivener in mind. But now, no little nitwit can make the case that I'm writing about work. Satisfied?

Reality Check

Let me state the obvious. First, my name is on the blog address. So anyone who knows who I am or wants to know who I am can figure out additional information about me. I used my name in the address because I want people to know I am writing again...all kinds of writing. Which gets to the second point. "Swaddled" is fiction. Like many stories some elements paralled things about me. But it is entirely fiction. Some dim bulb at my job is complaining that I am posting things about where I work on my blog. Remember 'dooced?' I am not posting things about my job or where I work. Check if you don't believe me. I said some things about me--which I will continue to do--but nothing about where I work.
I was pretty pissed to get this report, but it makes no sense to defend the indefensible. I will say this, especially for the benefit of the little coward at my job who reports that I spend 'all my time' at the computer. There is a computer at my desk. If you are looking over my shoulder looking for something to complain about, it definitely looks like I spend 'all my time' at the computer. Many people here have a computer at their desk, and it looks like they spend 'all their time' at the computer too. It was pretty obvious from the time stamps when I posted. All the time it took to cut, paste, and post to the blog was done at my job. I am a bad person. From now on, I will do all my cutting, pasting, and posting somewhere else. That means it will be even longer between blogs. Which gets to my next gripe, posts every week= all the time? Whatever!
My last point is that whoever reported that I spend "all my time" at the computer and some of it on this blog apparently spends a lot of their time watching me. Way to be productive. So now I know what you did and you can wonder if I know who you are and what I reported about you...
For my friends, whom I invited to read my blog..."Swaddled" will continue. If you know me, you can already tell that the narrator is not me. You can also tell what overlaps and what doesn't with me-the author. I really want to explore fictive writing and I won't be stopped by someone who is too dim-witted to tell the difference between expository writing and fiction. Too bad. I will also continue--when I have time- to write and post esoteric essays. I won't bother to label which is which, because for those whom these posts are directed it neither makes a difference nor is hard to distinguish.
I really hate it when some gremlin tries to squeeze the joy out of my party orange, so I'm not having it... I will post again.

Swaddled ---continued

I scooped the cell phone from my bag and sat back up in the driver's seat in one smooth motion. It was D...... Well, what the fuck did he want? Anything we had in the past had dried up and blown away. But I hardly had the heart or the courage to stick a fork in it. Though he grated my nerves, sometimes insulted my sensibilities and just plain got on my nerves, I had a soft spot for the guy. I really didn't see the point of taking his call. There was always the chance that whatever he had to say would completely wreck my mood and I was glum enough about work. I dropped the phone on the passenger seat. I'll call him back later, I promised to no one.
Leaving the parkway, I turned onto St. Charles Avenue. I loved the oak lined horizon. Once again, I conjured alternatives to work. I could ride the streetcar all morning smelling the smoky vapors as the electric car clattered down the track. From there I could walk the side streets of the Garden District, looking at houses, browsing little boutiques.
In the distance, I saw the campus. I focused to find a parking space. The two adjacent colleges meant that it was nearly impossible to find a space after 8:15 and it was almost 8:45. Finally I saw a spot about five blocks away from campus. It would be nine am before I made it to my desk. So what. At least I bothered to come.
All day long I processed medical records. At first, it was a relief. Such a change from my last job. The work only engaged maybe a third of my attention. The rest I could set free. Sometimes I'd listen to talk radio, sometimes I'd find an internet article I could read over my busy hands...other days I'd talk on the telephone, receiver cradled against my shoulder as I shuffled papers and filled in logs. If I wanted a change of pace, I could go to the front desk and help the harried med students or answer the phones. People had strange ideas about what a medical research center was and sometimes we got the wackiest calls. A woman called claiming to have proof her great grandfather had discovered the polio vaccine before Salk; parents would call asking how to tell if their kids had the flu or a cold. Random people would walk in looking for information about health insurance. All the medical records from the university hospital were closed; only medical personnel can access them. There were shelves and shelves of journals, these, textbooks, and other documents. The med students always wanted course materials. Trawling for old exams, I bet. They'd pore through the boxes in teams of three, looking bleary eyed and desperate. A few would come in to study and end up asleep, face flat on a cool table in the quiet reading room. Every once in a while a faculty member would host an event, but soon enough all the activity would stop. Some days would be pretty hectic, but more often than not, things were pretty quiet.
As soon as I arrive, I log on to my computer and check my email. If no one's around I read the paper online too. Then I 'll look up and see it's only ten minutes after nine. I still have seven hours to kill.

Swaddled- A Fictional Tale

I vaguely heard the beeping from my alarm. It was five am. Another day. Great, I thought dryly. The alarm was set early so I could get out for a walk.
Every night I pulled the covers over my head vowing that the next morning would be the one I got up and exercised. Got moving. Greeted the day. So far, when the morning came despite my sincere desire to go walking, I was overwhelmed with resentment. The day was not my own. I had to go to work. I had to be there by a certain time. I had to stay there all day. When I realized it was a new day, I would have a bright idea. Maybe get some cafe au lait and beignets down by the river. Maybe read a new book. Nope. Got to go to work...
This morning I toyed with rolling over, pulling the down back over my head. The morning chill made the sheets feel even warmer. Even though they're only cotton, my body rubbed against the mattress like it was covered in cashmere. Instead of stretching out, I roll into a tight ball. And drift back to twilight.
When I come to consciousness again, I don't move right away. First I try and guess what time it is. Six-thirty, seven? I reach between the pillows and grab the remote control. Finally shifting my weight, I aim the control to turn on the television. When I hear Matt and Katie, more calculations in my brain. If I get moving right now, I could still leave for work 'on time.' Sometimes I take the challenge. Sometimes I say, fuck it, I'm already late, why bother.
This morning I split the difference. Instead of seven-thirty, I leave the house at eight. I figure I won't get to work by eight-thirty. So what. Maybe I should stop for breakfast. If I'm going to be late, there's no need to be hungry too. I think about it all through rush hour traffic on the parkway. McDonald's? Wendy's? Starbuck's? Who gives a ? I can't believe I am still dragging my ass to this joke of a job anyway. When I got fired from my last job, I took it really hard. My self-esteem was lagging and my mother swooped in and convinced me to move back home. It's not that I hate it here, but it's pretty close. I'm in my mid-thirties, up to my ass in debt. And now I'm back at home with a crap-tastic job. Excellent. I realize my cell phone is ringing. How the hell am I going to reach the phone and steer at the same time? And who the hell calls during commute time? I hold the wheel with my left hand and lean over to fish the cell phone out of my purse. When I check the caller id, I wonder if this is a call I want to take...

Awaiting Spring

There are so many ways that we hold ourselves back from our greatest possibilities: self-doubt, self- sabotage...We bog ourselves down with the everyday, we surround ourselves with negativity, we create failure. Often we aren't even aware that we are stacking the deck against ourselves.
Rather than radical changes sometimes it is very small adjustments in behavior that can make huge differences in outcomes. This morning I chose to have an Egg McMuffin for breakfast. Even though I had just watched SuperSize Me. Even though I could have had a more healthy option--grits--when I got to campus. Even though I could prepare for morning breakfasts on the weekends. My alarm is now set for five AM. I still get up at around quarter of six though. On the positive side, though the weather took a cooler turn, I have been getting my midday walks in this week. I have been taking care of my skin. I've been taking my vitamin supplement and the two tablespoons of flaxseed oil everyday.
With the eminent rise in gasoline price, I am thinking again of getting a bus pass. Riding while my car was in the shop was hellish. It was time consuming and sometimes uncomfortable. But a bus pass would save me gas money, would guarantee an additional thirty minutes a day of walking, and a chance to enjoy the outdoors. I have revamped my desire to relocate. By month's end, I'd like to have my resume ready to go--finally--and get started on networking.
I'm getting rid of the clutter in my surroundings--I shredded so much stuff that I filled two big garbage bags.
The whole process feels like learning to juggle. I have to keep up what I am doing to improve every single aspect of my life at the same time. I am trying to be in the moment and making decisions that will accumulate into a a positive day. I am being mindful without worrying.

What moves me

Whenever I've come to post, I've managed to churn out some body-obsessed rant. I was laying awake last night tries to figure out what holds me back, physically. I literally find myself not moving and it is a metaphor, I believe, for my life.

I have a great thrist for stillness, serenity, peace. That has driven some of my inactivity. When my body is still, my mind and imagination soar. I can go to faraway places and contemplate unreachable extremes. I can approach the limits of sensory inquiry. But without the benefit of experience. In many ways, this has been helpful. When I am still, I can think and reason to conclusion. I can sort what is good and bad. And I can move without obstacle.

But then, at the same time, there is no escaping the fact that my stillness does not produce tangible evidence of progress. There is no movement.

I made a move this morning. I intend to follow it with another...