Because her lips are moving

So, deep in the heart of media navel gazing, I’ve seen several headlines that boil down to, “Why are we so fascinated with the Casey Anthony story?” I can’t tell you how much I’d like to say “Who’s ‘we’, pale face?” And that the media is asking themselves why they can’t stop tracking every sordid moment of this case. But the truth is, I’m fascinated too. And I’ve done some thinking about why we (me, the median and millions of people around the country) are so hooked on this story.

The one thing I’ve come down to is – just about everybody has a Casey Anthony in their lives. She’s that person who will lie and lie, sometimes apparently just for the sake of lying, until she is absolutely cornered with bare, dead facts staring her in the face. They just seem to have little to know association with the truth or even reality, just sowing seeds of half-truths and bald-ass lies until they just can’t get away with it any more. Whether it’s to make themselves looks better, feel better, save someone else’s feelings, manipulate a situation, or it’s just how they’d like things to be and if I say it it’s true, the result is the same. They make the people around them nuts.

And I’m sure there are all sorts of psychological reasons: borderline personality disorder, magical ideation, psychotic break. Or maybe they’re just kind of fanciful. Or an asshole. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a way to fix them. No matter what they are nearly impossible to deal with on a routine basis. And the only sure cure for the effect on your life is to stay as far away from them as humanly possible. And that’s hoping they aren’t tied to you by blood.

But if you’ve ever felt the bizarre world that your life turns into when you have one of these people stringing a non-stop line of bull around every lamp post, then watching Casey Anthony’s load of crap get pulled apart, lie by lie, by a trial lawyer is incredibly . . . cathartic? Satisfying? Like cosmic justice. How many times have you wished you could line up a jury of peers and just present the case in a court of law of why you don’t believe a word that some fabricator says? To be able to tear down the house of cards like Perry Mason and have someone (other than you) say “Guilty!”

Most of us never get that satisfaction with a pathological liar that has firebombed our lives. And, actually, I think even if Casey Anthony is presented with irrefutable truth, she’s never going to admit what she did. But even so, there’s a feeling (shared by the cops, the prosecutors office, some of Casey’s family and former friends) of “get her!” Just for once. Just to have the truth revealed to the rest of the world.

Tin Cup

I hate paying bills. And it’s not the handing over the money. I’m cheap, but I’m okay with paying my way. It’s just the whole act of writing the check and sticking it in the envelope. Or first remembering that I have to pay a bill, then finding my check book, then finding a pen. Then writing it out. Then finding a stamp. Paying bills on-line is marginally better. And god bless whoever invented automatic payment. Why everyone can’t just do that, I don’t know. I have one bill that charges an extra (get this) $25 a bill to do it one line. Pirates! Stupid pirates too, since having on-line bill pay like quadruples your chances of getting your money on-time and with a hint of a smile.

I remember when I was a kid, and this shows what happy, innocent times the 60s were in suburban Texas, my Mom just had this little cup in the mailbox with change in it. Any time an envelope came with postage due or COD, the mailman would just take it out of the cup. Easy. He never took more than he needed. He never had to walk up to the door to get money from her. And nobody stole the cup out of the mailbox.

You know, life was a lot easier before they went and started to make things easier.

The Man in the Mirror

Okay, now that I’ve seen Rep. Weiner’s wife (and let’s face it, he can kiss his first name goodbye along with his reputation) the mystery deepens. She’s stunning. And evidently really smart. And kinda rich. He married up. Waaaayyyy up. A year ago. Evidently he got the 7 month itch. What a schmuck.

A friend was talking about the Wal-Mart mirror yesterday. She says Wal-Mart must sell a special mirror that every time you look in it you think you look fantastic. It explains the “People of Wal-Mart” website. I also think it explains Britney Spears, uhm, fashion sense. Evidently Rep. Weiner has been looking in a Wal-Mart mirror and thinking that he’s too much man to waste on just one gorgeous, glamorous, smart and well-connected woman. He needs to spread a little of that jelly around. Welcome to Wal-Mart.

Too late for him

http://www.cnn.com/2011/US/06/08/rekers.sissy.boy.experiment/index.html?hpt=hp_c2

I’ve been watching this story develop on CNN. Basically, they’ve located a young man who underwent gender realignment therapy in the ‘60s at UCLA. Or, more to the point, his siblings. Because he committed suicide at age 38. Gender realignment therapy in those days was beating the sissy (or tomboy) out of you, and withholding affection until you conform to some artificial concept of gender identity.

I keep looking at the pictures of this small child, knowing what he’ll endure, wishing I could reach in there, grab him up and protect him.

I also know that though many things have changed, somewhere right now some little boy is getting smacked for acting like a girl. Or some little girl is getting taunted for acting like a boy.

And gay and gender non-conformant people can protest and stand up for their rights, but really this isn’t going to truly stop until straight people clean our own house. Until we call each other on bashing. Until we’re willing to stand up and say just because we’re both straight, you don’t speak for me. You can’t say it’s not right in society for someone to be sissy or butch. Because I am part of society to. And you don’t have any right to beat or intimidate someone so that they conform to some idea of masculinity or femininity you have in your head. Not on my account. Not ever.

It’s too late for this little boy who grew up with too much pain to bear. But there are other children who can be saved from a life of pain and fear. It’s not “none of our business” because we’re in the majority and not vulnerable. We’re human. And we have an obligation to one another to stop cruelty when we see it. If you see it, say something. Staying silent implies your approval. Say something.

You kids disappoint me.

The pictures from Edward & Bella’s Twilight wedding just really guh-rossed me out. Vampires. Getting married. Ugh. Double ugh.

Seriously, I may be old school, but to me there are only two kinds of vampires: evil, undead monsters who want to suck your blood and leave you a withered husk and who need to be staked straight through the heart in the firmest manner possible OR evil undead monsters who want to have sex with anything that moves and leave you a withered husk in severe need of Gatorade. It’s either “Find ‘em, feed on ‘em, forget ‘em” or “Find ‘em, f*** ‘em, forget ‘em.” That’s it. There are no other options. Fanged freak or freak in bed.

Have we come to this? Even vampires are non-threatening Justin Biebers? The sparkly, vegetarian vampires were bad enough (pardon me while my stomach heaves), but a vampire with a china pattern???? This I cannot forgive. Blech.

What's new, pussycat?

Okay, the Anthony Weiner thing. Here’s the part I don’t understand: why do men take pictures of their junk in the first place? Why, why, why? Let alone e-mail it to ANYONE. Even if you’re sending it to your dermy with a tagline of “suspicious mole”. But no, at this very moment, somebody’s aiming their iPhone at their privates and getting ready to hit send.

But really, you’d think that the only reason that the internet was invented would be so that guys could get pictures of their bait and tackle shops out there. It’s really second only to pictures of kittens in over all popularity.

Wait. There’s an idea. Combine pictures of cute kitties with the plethora of d*** pics on the interwebs. Now there’s a “hang in there” picture that you’d never forget. Brings a whole new meaning to stuff on my cat. There’s also the other joke here that I’m just going to let hang there . . . you know what I’m not saying. Even I have my limits. Yes, I do. Don't look at me like that.