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Friday, March 12, 2010
Hey, there Persephone, where you been so long?
I have always maintained that the secret to time travel is the difference between the perception of time when you’re doing something fun, like watching a really intense movie and look up and go “Wow, that was 2 hours?”, and the way time passes when you’re doing something NOT fun, like waiting for a bus, and look your watch to realize the half hour you’ve been standing there is only 5 minutes, and you have 10 more to go. Harness that slip differential, and we could all go back and watch the moon landing.
There’s also a fundamental difference in the perception of cold. On a day when it is 40 degrees and will only get up to 42, I walk to the train shivering and turtling down in to my heaviest jacket, muttering through blue lips things like “cold, so cccold, will this ever end?” But on a day when it’s 40 in the morning, and I know it will be getting up to 67, I throw on my jean jacket and go hippity-hopping off down the bunny trail, singing happy songs about birds and flowers and sunshine. 40 is still 40. But not all 40s are created equal.
All of this to say, spring has sprung and, like the boids, my heart is on the wing. March came in roaring like a Cowardly Lion, and is lamby-pie sweet all over. Not to say that there won’t be another cold snap. This is Texas, y’all. We’re not safe from one last winter freeze to come along and pinch our fannies on the way out the door. But TODAY the sun is shining, and all is forgiven. The penance of winter is over, and spring is doling out warm embraces again.
There’s also a fundamental difference in the perception of cold. On a day when it is 40 degrees and will only get up to 42, I walk to the train shivering and turtling down in to my heaviest jacket, muttering through blue lips things like “cold, so cccold, will this ever end?” But on a day when it’s 40 in the morning, and I know it will be getting up to 67, I throw on my jean jacket and go hippity-hopping off down the bunny trail, singing happy songs about birds and flowers and sunshine. 40 is still 40. But not all 40s are created equal.
All of this to say, spring has sprung and, like the boids, my heart is on the wing. March came in roaring like a Cowardly Lion, and is lamby-pie sweet all over. Not to say that there won’t be another cold snap. This is Texas, y’all. We’re not safe from one last winter freeze to come along and pinch our fannies on the way out the door. But TODAY the sun is shining, and all is forgiven. The penance of winter is over, and spring is doling out warm embraces again.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
It takes all sorts
Well, there’s something on Yahoo about the capture of JihadJane is causing terrorism experts to “rethink” how they profile terrorists.
Really? Ya think?
So evidently because a 5 foot nothin’, middle-aged blond from Fort Worth (and by the way, thanks, toots, that’s just the kind of image boost the Dallas-Ft. Worth area needed – Crazy Crackers ‘R’ Us) was raising money and plotting murder in the name of Islam, that is a game changer. We’ll have to profile all sorts of different (and next time I fly out of DFW and get stripped searched because I might have a bomb in my brassiere, I’ll think kindly of you, Janie, old girl).
Why is it that any time anyone who’s not a white guy does this stuff, they add that to the possible profile? Blacks, eastern Europeans and southeast Asians may by converts. Second or third generation middle eastern men could be hatching a train-bomber plot. Now white women might have gone all Jihad Jane. It all gets into the profile. Except if you’re a white guy.
Prior to September 11, the biggest domestic terror attack in this country was the Oklahoma City bombing – 2 white guys. The guy who took a gun to shoot up the Pentagon – white guy. The guy who flew into the IRS building – white guy.
You know why they don’t add in white guys? Because then everyone would be on the list.
To which I say – ah ha! The whole profiling thing just gives law enforcement a false sense of security that they can predict who is a threat. They can’t. You can’t tell a person’s history by looking at them. The dark-skinned young man in front of you could be a second-generation American who is funding terrorism. Or he could be a recent immigrant who is looking forward to nothing more than living the American dream. If you take away profiling that means everybody is a suspect. Well, yeah. It would also be easier if liars all had shifty eyes, blonds were all stupid and the bad guy always wore a black hat.
The truth is that crazy doesn’t have a race, gender, creed, age or nationality. And if you think violence will solve anything, you really are crazy.
Really? Ya think?
So evidently because a 5 foot nothin’, middle-aged blond from Fort Worth (and by the way, thanks, toots, that’s just the kind of image boost the Dallas-Ft. Worth area needed – Crazy Crackers ‘R’ Us) was raising money and plotting murder in the name of Islam, that is a game changer. We’ll have to profile all sorts of different (and next time I fly out of DFW and get stripped searched because I might have a bomb in my brassiere, I’ll think kindly of you, Janie, old girl).
Why is it that any time anyone who’s not a white guy does this stuff, they add that to the possible profile? Blacks, eastern Europeans and southeast Asians may by converts. Second or third generation middle eastern men could be hatching a train-bomber plot. Now white women might have gone all Jihad Jane. It all gets into the profile. Except if you’re a white guy.
Prior to September 11, the biggest domestic terror attack in this country was the Oklahoma City bombing – 2 white guys. The guy who took a gun to shoot up the Pentagon – white guy. The guy who flew into the IRS building – white guy.
You know why they don’t add in white guys? Because then everyone would be on the list.
To which I say – ah ha! The whole profiling thing just gives law enforcement a false sense of security that they can predict who is a threat. They can’t. You can’t tell a person’s history by looking at them. The dark-skinned young man in front of you could be a second-generation American who is funding terrorism. Or he could be a recent immigrant who is looking forward to nothing more than living the American dream. If you take away profiling that means everybody is a suspect. Well, yeah. It would also be easier if liars all had shifty eyes, blonds were all stupid and the bad guy always wore a black hat.
The truth is that crazy doesn’t have a race, gender, creed, age or nationality. And if you think violence will solve anything, you really are crazy.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Wild, wild dressed
Maybe I’m going through a Lady GaGa phase. But suddenly, I’m loving bad fashion far more than I’m loving good fashion. Or “good” fashion. Because, what is fashion for if not to catch the eye? And frankly, if I see one more immaculately fitted, strapless, solid-color gown, I’ll just fall asleep right here. Yawn, yawn, yawn.
It’s the crazy-ass stuff I’m loving. Like Charlize Theron at the Oscars, with her folded-napkin-rose boobs. Or anything Tilda Swinton puts on. I want Helena Bonham Carter looking like she might have forgotten to change out of the costume on the way from a Tim Burton set. And, bien sur, La GaGa.
Or this!
It’s the crazy-ass stuff I’m loving. Like Charlize Theron at the Oscars, with her folded-napkin-rose boobs. Or anything Tilda Swinton puts on. I want Helena Bonham Carter looking like she might have forgotten to change out of the costume on the way from a Tim Burton set. And, bien sur, La GaGa.
Or this!
From Rhianna. She looks like a superhero. Plantasma! It’s big. It’s jade green. It’s jersey knit. It’s got wings. It’s weird. I love it.
I’m tired of tasteful. I’m tired of “pretty”. I’m tired of right. I want wrong. I want so, so wrong. So wrong, that yeah, it's right.
I’m tired of tasteful. I’m tired of “pretty”. I’m tired of right. I want wrong. I want so, so wrong. So wrong, that yeah, it's right.
How much do you suppose a body double would cost?
So, while the whole fam-damily is in town, we’re going to do a big family picture. Great! We should do a family picture. It’s been a long time. The last picture didn’t include the sibs’ spouses. And none of the kids were around yet. This is a moment in time. It should be documented.
But lord-love-a-duck, I hate having my picture taken. And this is my own personal sort of vanity, in which, in my head I’m perfectly presentable. Neither a great beauty, nor a complete hag, yet with a certain plain-Jane charm. And on my good-self-esteem days, I can maintain that idea, even when looking in a mirror. But then somebody takes my picture. Well, there goes that soap bubble of optimism. Great googly moogly! Is that what I look like?
And enough people have told me that no, no, the camera is a two-dimensional representation of a 3-dimensional object. And either you are flattered by the flattening, or you are not. I am not. The camera he, don’t love me.
And I don’t take enough pleasure in my own face that I want to work on it. I could stare into the mirror. This angle or that? Half-smile, three-quarter-smile, full smile? Chin up, chin down? Bore me to death.
And even given all that prep work, I’m bound to have a blob of foundation, a lick of hair that sticks straight out from my head, or be the only one in the picture with their eyes closed – “We tried, but this was the best one of the bunch! You were the only one who looked funny.”
So, since there just aren’t that many pics of me floating around, this will be the one that everyone has. Especially the Grandma who keeps saying, “The last picture I have of you is from your graduation. That was a long time ago.” And it will be staring at me from my parents wall every time I go over. Yep. No pressure there. Let the anxiety commence.
But lord-love-a-duck, I hate having my picture taken. And this is my own personal sort of vanity, in which, in my head I’m perfectly presentable. Neither a great beauty, nor a complete hag, yet with a certain plain-Jane charm. And on my good-self-esteem days, I can maintain that idea, even when looking in a mirror. But then somebody takes my picture. Well, there goes that soap bubble of optimism. Great googly moogly! Is that what I look like?
And enough people have told me that no, no, the camera is a two-dimensional representation of a 3-dimensional object. And either you are flattered by the flattening, or you are not. I am not. The camera he, don’t love me.
And I don’t take enough pleasure in my own face that I want to work on it. I could stare into the mirror. This angle or that? Half-smile, three-quarter-smile, full smile? Chin up, chin down? Bore me to death.
And even given all that prep work, I’m bound to have a blob of foundation, a lick of hair that sticks straight out from my head, or be the only one in the picture with their eyes closed – “We tried, but this was the best one of the bunch! You were the only one who looked funny.”
So, since there just aren’t that many pics of me floating around, this will be the one that everyone has. Especially the Grandma who keeps saying, “The last picture I have of you is from your graduation. That was a long time ago.” And it will be staring at me from my parents wall every time I go over. Yep. No pressure there. Let the anxiety commence.
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