Pondering Turds at New Moon

I don't understand people who hang on to their anger like it's the only thing they can trust.

When two people are intimate friends there will be occasions of conflict and anger - sometimes big conflicts. The friends might get so angry at each other they don't hang out for a while because it's too difficult.

When I've needed space from a friend or s/he from me, I always try to understand the situation to see if the rift can be repaired. True friends are so few and far between that I can't understand tossing them away as if a new one will appear like the street car that comes along in a few minutes.

Maybe what I can't understand is someone flushing me down the toilet. In my adult life, I've only done that to one person besides Buzz Kill who I would still be married to if he didn't keep pissing me off every time he gets the chance. And that's mostly about money which is serious business. If that person weren't so intent on fucking with me, I'd still be friendly with him.

He called me a lying whore on more than one occasion and never took it back.

I didn't like it when he called me a lying whore, but I can see why he felt that way at the time. We have a friend in common who says he has a blog where he's assassinated my character from time to time. I know it's there because I ran across it one day when I googled a phrase he and I both use, but I never took the time to read it. If part of his individual process for emotional growth includes blogging about what a lying whore I am - Hell, I'm happy to help.

There is another fellow who can't stand me. Let's call him Hamilton which is nearly as pretentious as his given name. The Man from San Antone met him at film school years ago and they hang out when Mr. San Antone is in town. Hamilton is a Park Avenue Trust Fund Kid who refers to me as The Cunt from Hell just because I poured ice water into has lap at dinner a few years ago. He had been tacky and sexist all night long. First he bragged about barfing in Daryl Hannah's room at the Cannes Film Festival, then when asked what kind of girls he dated by one of our dinner companions, an African American female in her mid-twenties with an undergrad from Yale, he answered "M&A." She played along and asked "Mergers and Acquisitions?"He delivered the punch line, "Models and Actresses."

I could easily have tossed the glass of lovely red wine at my finger tips right in his face, but I decided against it because that would have stained his off-white corduroys and by rights I would have had to pay for the cleaning. Much better to toss the water instead because it would dry as if it were never there. Pouring ice water on his crotch seemed ideal because that pecker needed punishment instantaneously. The Man from San Antone then required us to swear a loyalty oath on my breasts which meant I was in the middle of Sparks Steak House with two men resting their hands on my rack like it was the Bible. A scene was not avoided. That was four or five years ago, and he's still pissed.

One of the first axioms I taught Velvet was, "Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke." I stand by that judgement, but in my more reflective moments, I pity the fools with no sense of humor. Undoubtedly, Hamilton is a fool with no sense of humor. We can only hope his trust fund has survived the economic downturn.

I don't hold it against Hamilton that he's a dip shit. I don't even hold it against him that he calls me The Cunt From Hell. As a matter of fact, I kind of like it. Feels very powerful and proves that sometimes I'm a little wicked.

Tonight is the new moon, which means it's a good time to get rid of ideas that get in our way. Once the moon begins to wax, then we cultivate that which we want to grow.

I have to get used to the idea that if somebody thinks it's a good idea to flush you down the toilet, you may as well float on out to sea. You can't jump out a toilet in real life like Mr. Hankey the Christmas Poo.


I can't imagine anyone would stay angry at Mr. Hankey - but I guess some people are most comfortable being uptight and angry, defensive and suspicious. Bummer. I'd rather have the freedom to relax and be myself with a real friend who knows I can be perfectly awful sometimes but still speaks to me - even is that friend is a turd because, like Firesign Theatre said, ". . . we're all Bozos on this bus . . . "

Pink Thong Mystery Solved, and An Epiphany about Being Nice

The matter of the pink thong has been put to rest. They were Gigi's and they were, in fact, a bit pricey. The production and fabric quality was so good that the panties held their shape and elasticity throughout numerous gently hand washings. So I stand corrected on that original assessment; nevertheless, they were second string or she'd have noticed they were gone immediately.

Solving this little mystery perked me up a bit today. I was tired from the party which was lovely but started late since the actors came over after the show, and the curtain didn't go down on Corpus Christi until 10:15. I decided against instituting the Sarah Palin Free Zone - and it turned out nobody talked about the election at all what so ever. We were all too busy bursting into song because the show is such a success they added a performance since they sold out the run. Congratulations to 108 Productions of Los Angeles! The best thing is that I bought enough food so that there are plenty of leftovers to make a lovely picnic for tomorrow afternoon which is also supposed to be lovely (and I have a date with the Artist from the South of France).

Lovely, Lovely, Lovely. All this pleasantness merely enhances the gentle epiphany I had this week when I realized that I don't have to be a Nice Girl anymore.

When you've been conditioned to be a Nice Girl, you occasionally find yourself in situations when you simply don't know what to do because you're too nice. Sometimes if you weren't stuck being nice, a course of action would be clear. To illustrate, we will look at the time Houston Northwest Hospital lost my father.

Right after Hurricane Rita did not hit Houston, my father was up on a ladder taking off plywood from the upstairs windows when he had a stroke. When he passed out, he fell off the ladder. As it happened, when he landed the blockage in his carotid artery dislodged, thereby stopping the stroke. He fell abouat eight feet onto the cement around the pool so his wrist and ankle were busted all to shit. My mother had gone to the grocery store - having first told my father to wait until she got home to get on the ladder. My father's inner Clint Eastwood took over when he hit the ground and he had managed to pull himself to the back door where my mother found him lying in a puddle of blood.

It took a couple of days for one set of doctors to finish operating on his ankle and putting pins in his wrist and stuff during which the did a bunch of tests and discovered a 95% blockage in his carotid artery. The Stroke Theory was born. Also during this time, my sister-in-law who is occasionally Tacky, wrote on the patient dry-erase board at the foot of my dad's bed: His Wife told him not to get up on that ladder.

The day they did the roto-rooter on my dad, Mother and I hung out in the Surgical Waiting Room. The surgery itself went well. The doctor came out to tell us Dad was doing fine and would be moved to recovery shortly. About an hour later, at 4:30pm, the two volunteers who worked the reception desk and kept the coffee fresh were done for the day. Wanda Mae Bouffant and her partner Sue Sue shouted out, "Anyone want coffee? Time to wash the pot." When there were no takers, Wanda Mae said, "Okay then. Y'all answer the phone."

I was stunned. The telephone connecting the waiting room to the operating room had been left in charge of about 35 random souls, half of them watching the Astros game while they ate Barbecue from Luther's across the street. Every ten or fifteen minutes, the phone would ring. Someone would answer it and call out the family's name. Again, I was stunned. In New York City, nobody in their right mind would leave the one line of communication to the operating room in charge of unauthorized personnel. Never mind that patient and family privacy were violated every time somebody shouted out a name. After fifteen minutes with no information, at least one of the New Yorkers would have gotten impatient enough and aggressive enough to bang on the operating room door which was at the far end of the room. No one in the Operating Room would have gotten a moment's peace. In fucking credible.

Mother and I sat there for some time watching other people get phone calls. Mom started getting nervous. We each checked in the Recovery Room, but they thought Dad was in his hospital room which he had vacated prior to the surgery. Clearly, Houston Northwest Hospital had lost my dad. I looked around the recovery room for him myself, but so many old white men were laying around with tubes in their mouths that you could hardly tell one from the next. I thought I saw him, but it turned out it was a man from New Orleans who'd been laying in the recovery room with about a dozen other old white men from New Orleans since Katrina because there wasn't anywhere else to put them.

I was so alarmed and distressed by the situation that I stopped being Nice. I popped my head into the waiting room to tell my mom what I was doing, went to the main reception area, warned the clerk that I was fixing to throw a fit so she should point me in the right direction, was stopped by a middle manager who checked the computer and said my dad was in his room. That's when I hollered, "Somebody better tell me where the FUCK my father is RIGHT NOW," and stomped my foot. We made quick progress from there on out.

This story goes on for days - but the salient point here is that Down South, we take being nice very seriously. When you toss certain Christian training on top of being Nice, you can be paralysed like the two women in the waiting room we met after I pitched a fit. They'd been waiting for over four hours with no information about one of them's husband who had surgery for a brain anyuerism that morning. Maybe they were afraid he was dead and didn't want to hear it so they didn't get pushy. G*d knows we don't want to get pushy like those Yankee Feminists on the TV.

The scene in the hospital was out of character for me though. Normally I'm so worried about not offending anyone (to his/her face) that I don't mention things that bother me. That's how Gayle the Hillbilly Hustler was able to move in here last Thanksgiving. I had said she could stay with me instead of in the Hostel on Wednesday and maybe Thursday night, and when I went to pick her up Wednesday evening, she had the pecan pie from Little Pie Company as well as boxes, shopping bags and suitcases.

Everyone who knew me well took this opportunity to point out, in the most respectful way, that I was a complete dumb ass. What my friends and family hadn't recognized is that I had to be Nice when I asked Gayle to leave or else there would be problems. If I asked her to leave and then went to work - she'd take the silver. If I asked her to leave and supervised her departure, there was a very good chance she'd get drunk and kick my ass. And make no mistake, I was well aware Gayle the Hillbilly Hustler could kick my ass any time she wanted to. That's because I was a Nice Girl and she wasn't. She was very well versed in the intricacies of social exchange with Nice Girls. In almost every conversation, she milked our common Texas background with amusing personal anecdotes, and she did all the cooking.

She should have done her own damn laundry. If I hadn't seen those crusty panties, it would have been a couple more weeks before I got really suspicious. I probably would have been more sympathetic during her week long Bloody Mary Juice Fast - except it was my vodka and I was sober.

I suspect that I've been struggling against my Nice Girl conditioning for years which is why the Disney Princesses drive me crazy. Every single one of them, from Snow White to Ariel to Pocahantas, Jasmine and Belle, is a Nice Girl. I don't know about Mulan since I didn't have to see that movie.

While I was doing all this thinking, I was listening to Blondie. Deborah Harry is a good example of someone who might be girly, but isn't particularly nice. I always loved Blondie. I always loved Tinkerbell, too.

She's magic, and she isn't a bit nice.

Existentialism and Gay Jesus

Corpus Christi, 108 Productions

When you need a distraction, very few activities are as effective as inviting the cast and crew from the Gay Jesus play, roughly 18 total strangers, into your home on a Friday night along with 10 or 20 of our common acquaintances. My friend who is a playwright is managing everything because she and her life partner met these folks when they were in Dublin this past Spring. Any further details could compromise the playwright's secret identity and superpowers.

Add budgetary constraints and the whole situation is a creative challenge. Not much of one these days since I've been throwing parties as an antidepressant since my college days engaged to The Man from San Antone. It is my mother's great lament that all I care about is: Where I'm going, Who I'm going with and What am I going to wear? Ergo: Cheap parties and festive outfits go with the territory.

My life is in turmoil no matter what - so I may as well pass the time pleasantly.Therein lies the essence of Menopausal Stoners Existentialism.

When Corpus Christi (current NYT review) was first in previews about ten years ago, it received bomb threats from people just like Sarah Palin. I hate Sarah Palin because she represents the core values of Conservatives Christian Right Wing Republican Straight White American Males (Todd Snider). Since she has captured America's attention and focused it on complete bullshit just the way Karl Rove planned it when she was nominated in the first place, I think it's fair to institute a Sarah Palin free zone at the party.

When we are among like minded individuals, we can leave that ancient topic alone and think about what has to be done once we get a new president no matter who he is or she, if McCain keels over on the podium.

Imagine: Maybe Sarah Palin is all part of some Manchurian Candidate plan and we're being taken over by the Russians! Bristol can be the shooter or Todd - either one is fine for this adaptation of art to to Real Life.

The presidential choices for Nov 4 are clear. Once we all go vote, someone will be president whether or not we voted for him/her. Even if Obama gets elected, plenty of important issues that have remained in the background this presidential go-round will still need to be addressed - not the least of which is Gay Rights. We can talk all night about a million things without ever mentioning Sarah Palin.

We can toast a brighter future where people are accepting of each other - not Tolerant. Tolerance implies you are putting up with the inferiority of Other People. We tolerate the noise from the neighbors next door or the heat. That's putting up with something we don't like. Acceptance, on the other hand, says we are totally cool with each other. Big difference. Conservative Christian Right Wing Republican Straight White American Males, for example, tolerate the fact Sarah Palin is a woman much the same way they will tolerate certain blacks and gays. That she is a Bible Thumping, flirtatious, bright but ignorant white woman makes it easy for them to put up with her gender.

I don't want to hear her name at this party. I think I'll make a poster designating the Sarah Palin Free Zone where anyone who says her name out loud will have to be punished (Oo La La).

Somebody needs to make sure Sarah Palin knows there was a gathering of Oddwads, Queers and Weirdos at Menopausal Stoners temporary headquarters on Central Park West and we made it our mission to punish anyone who said her name. Most likely tequila or vodka shots will be the punishment of choice, but with the correct party mix, things party could get silly. Maybe that dominatrix who came at New Years can come. She makes her sub bring hors d'oeuvres and everything.

I love parties.

The $10 in the Bank Account Day Before Payday Blues

I finally tallied up what Buzz Kill owes me, and it's over $15,000. No fucking wonder I don't have any money. At the moment, the cast of Corpus Christi hasn't confirmed for this weekend - so maybe I won't be hosting a cocktail party for 30 which could be for the best since I'm broke. I figured that I'd serve pastrami and turkey with rye and whole wheat rolls, cold slaw, potato chips, beer, wine and assorted Dr. Brown's sodas.

Very economical and very New York-y. I've had some vodka in the freezer for months that could round out the beverages. Now that I think about it, I don't believe anyone has drank vodka in this apartment since Cousin Rhonda Gayle, the Hillbilly Hustler, spent the week between Christmas and New Years either lounging on my sofa or completely passed out depending on where she was in the Bloody Mary Juice Fast.

All this is beside the point, however. The point is that I'm pissed off at Buzz Kill. Given that I feel like I'm literally boiling inside, we can safely come to the conclusion that I've been pissed off for months and months - I've just been distracting myself with Romantic Drama. I've been in tears over one boyfriend or another since Eighth Grade. Disappointment in Love is familiar territory. Taking my ex-husband to family court for back alimony and child support is decidely unfamiliar and definitey an annoying, expensive, frustrating, energy drain. We don't call him Buzz Kill for nothing.

I learned a lot from recent heartbreak - insight into my personal MO, etc. You could even say that I've evolved a bit since I now have a working knowledge of narcissism and my own tendency to bang my head against a brick wall in order to have an emotional impact on an emotionally impervious person. All this is very illuminating and the magnitude of the experience should not be pooh-poohed

BUT

Through it all, I've been ignoring just how infuriating Buzz Kill is when it comes to money. I would take him to family court if I thought it would get me anywhere. He is slippery enough to stay just at the edge of jail time. And besides, the last thing I need is him poor mouthing to some judge and talking his way out of paying me the full amount plus 12% interest which is what I'm due in NY State. He has a documented history of being a lying sack of shit about his finances, but it would take months to go through the process.

The only real solution I can see is selling this condo as soon as it makes sense and getting the hell back to Texas. I tell you what: That Buzz Kill is such a pain in my ass that all I can think of is busting him upside the head with the butt of my great-granddaddy's 1912 Remington. It's in my bedroom propped up against the bookshelves.

It's not as pristine as the one pictured, but you get the idea. My father carved his initials on the butt when he was around 10 years old. Somebody thought this gun would go to my brother, but I said bullshit to that because I'm the first-born. For the record, I have never fired a gun. Velvet calls my Great-Granddaddy's 1912 Remington a pea shooter since, according to him, the bullets for this particular weapon are so small that you couldn't kill more than a squirrel. He gets all his information from The History Channel, so he must know what he's talking about. They have a number of shows dedicated to guns.

I am allowed to have this firearm in New York City without a license because (1) it's old, (2) it's broken and (3) I have no ammunition. This gun is no more lethal than a baseball bat - but it would make a hell of an impression if I were standing out on my terrace aiming at the fellows with the jackhammer on Columbus Avenue. So far, I have resisted the temptation.

When it comes to Buzz Kill, though, I don't know how much longer I can keep my temper. There was a lot of shouting yesterday when I presented him with my calculations and said the Child Support Collection Unit could be in his future. In the past, threatening him usually got the money flowing in my direction - but I think it's going to be more difficult now that he shut his office. Without an office and employees, Buzz Kill will have an easier time hiding money. He has been working from the apartment he shares with his mother. He lived with her in that very same apartment when I moved to New York back in 1987, and as it happens, he lived there when he was a kid. It's rent stabilized with a dead on park view.

My mother told me not to marry Buzz Kill right after the invitations to our wedding had been put in the mail. He made some snarky comment that led her to believe his mother would always come first. I wouldn't believe it at the time, but of course, my mother was right. Buzz Kill and his mother always made a lovely couple. She even wore white to our wedding. It was awful, but I simply drank too much and didn't pay attention as I learned from the alcoholics on my father's side of the family.

Despite all the marital dysfunction, Velvet is an outstanding young man and Buzz Kill did have something to do with that. Last night we went to a "Tulane Comes to You" information session at a hotel in White Plains. Velvet likes the idea of Tulane, and if my baby has to grow up and move away, New Orleans is a great place for him to begin life's journey - especially if I am back home in Austin. The best part is that by then, we'll have sold this condo and I'll have not only made Buzz Kill pay me back - he'll also have to give me all the money due me until 2012 from his half of the proceeds.

By then, life should be good. If I can just manage to keep the lights on in the meantime - and have plenty of beans and rice for me and Velvet - every little thing will be all right.

Foaming at the Mouth about Sarah Palin

Fox News reports that Sarah Palin will appear on SNL this Saturday night.

Now, I'm as much in favor of a good joke as anyone else and Tina Fey is supposed to be hilarious. I'm sorry to say that I haven't seen her myself because the speakers on my computer have been busted for a while so I haven't been able to hear the You Tube clips my friends have emailed around and/or posted on myface. And as it happens, I haven't watched Saturday Night Live since Eddie Murphy and Steve Martin were on it. I saw some reruns with old buddies from Girl Scouts in the Midwest who sat around drinking beer and watching episode after episode on the VCR. They were so boring (the people and SNL), that I never watched SNL again. Ergo: I have no personal experience with Tina Fey's portrayal of Sarah Palin. For the purposes of this post, I will assume she is as funny as everyone says.

The trouble I have with Sarah Palin going on SNL is that it's a PR coup for McCain-Palin. Appearing on Saturday Night Live with Tina Fey is just the sort of thing that could convince a ton of undecided voters that NRA Barbie is a great sport, cute as a button and worth voting for just because she can take a joke.

I'm sure her friends in the Alaska Independence Party will agree she's a lot of fun after a couple of drinks. Maybe she was with some of them when she called Obama "Sambo."

Given that NBC is owned by notorious arms manufacturer GE, it only makes sense that they would do their bit to help The Party and simultaneously rake in a few million extra advertising bucks. The joke won't be very funny anymore if McCain-Palin win on Nov 4. Tina Fey can share in the blame when Roe v Wade is overturned and when, if the conservative Christians get their way, we can't even get birth control pills anymore. Conservative Christian, Right Wing Republican Straight White American Males (a very funny song by Todd Snider) with the help of Plucky Little Sarah, will make sure the Ten Commandments and Jesus himself are in every court room in the land. Creationism in the classroom will be a moot point because most of the white people will send their children to private Baptist academies using vouchers which will assure the public schools have no money to survive. And there will be lots of extra little people running around because schools will advocate for abstinence when discussing sex in health class.

We see how well that lesson plan worked in the Palin household.

Just because Obama was on SNL doesn't mean that SNL is giving equal time to all candidates. This thing with Tina Fey is larger than a simple skit or an opening bit like Rudy Guiliani used to do. Those kinds of obligatory appearance for political candidates may increase ratings a little, but they aren't particulary interesting because those bits are so familiar and expected.

Sarah Palin with Tina Fey is different because Tina Fey's impersonation of Sarah Palin has already gotten a lot of media and You Tube coverage. Tina Fey's skits may have been a good joke in the beginning, but there is a distinct danger now that undecided voters will be pulled in the direction of the plucky beauty queen.

Bill Clinton was trailing in the polls when he went on Arsenio Hall and captured America's imagination by playing "Heartbreak Hotel" on his saxophone in shades. Good PR at the right moment can change the political landscape, and as those cronies of Tom Delay showed when they invited Stephen Colbert to speak - we're not always dealing with a bunch of geniuses with the TV viewing public. They're just some of the folks who believed The Colbert Report was serious.

It makes sense that an arms manufacturer would have a vested interest in having someone in the White House aiming her personal shotgun at Iraq and Iran thereby assuring weapons for everyone for who knows how long. If I were a giant, greedy arms manufacturer, I'd put Sarah Palin on SNL, too. Business is Business.

We can always let NBC know that we're not buying into this bullshit. Boycotting SNL works for me because I never watch it anyway. Or simply call Rebecca Marks, NBC's Executive VP for Publicity, and tell her what you think of Sarah Palin in Real Life. She might even agree.

Rebecca Marks
Executive Vice President, NBC Universal Television Group Publicity
818/840-3914
Rebecca.Marks@nbcuni.com
(info good as of 2/08)

"I'm voting Republican just so Tina Fey will keep impersonating Sarah Palin," New Yorker, October 13, 2008

Are These Your Panties? or What is it with Underwear in this House?

This morning my mother is wondering why mainstream media isn't making a bigger deal about John McCain's transition chief being a lobbyist for Saddam Hussein. This good ol' boy worked with two men were working as unregistered agents of Saddam's government, and at the time Iraq was considered a rogue enemy of the state and supporter of terrorist. If the oil deal had gone through, Timmons would have shared in $45 million. I am surprised Mother even asks the question because, living in Houston, she's constantly dodging limos filled with George Herbert Walker's Saudi friends. That Well-Known Patriot John McCain, who wouldn't talk to Imadinnerjacket, would cheerfully support doing business with Saddam Hussein sounds par for the course to me. Having a dialogue with people who hate us is one thing; making money off them is quite another. It's just business.

Mother gets up and reads the political blogs, mostly Huffington Post which must be where she saw about William Timmons, the aforementioned transition chief. Mother likes Mahablog and the Burnt Orange Report, too. I must admit that most of my political information comes from my mother. This morning she also told me that in the comments on Huffington, a nun from San Francisco begged everyone's pardon for interrupting the tirades about Sarah Palin and shit to point out that the food banks don't have any food. The nun has the right idea. Everybody from coast to coast can yammer on about the candidates and all the big issues, but local issues and other groups still need attention.

Furthermore, I can't understand how ANYONE could still be undecided at this point. I hear there are plenty of undecided voters, and both candidates are hoping that some people will change their minds. Mother personally knows two individuals - both rich white men - who have said out loud that they can't see their way clear to vote for a black man. One wonders just how many people are thinking the same thing but won't say it out loud.

The good thing about Texas is that plenty of people think it's fine to say all manner of things out loud, so we all know where we stand. The other good thing is that often these individuals are some variety of Conservative Christian (although one of Mother's racist friends is Jewish) so they are generally part of the solid Republican base which would have voted for McCain even if Barak Obama happened to be as white as Biden's overwhelmingly blond family.

All this political stuff is very important - and I hope people across the nation will get their butts out to vote for Obama on Nov 4. But we can't lose sight of every day concerns like the nun and her food bank.

At the moment, I'd like to know whose pink thong was in Velvet's laundry hamper.

He said he had no idea who the panties belonged to or how they got there. In his defense, it is possible that when Gigi was staying here in August, a pair of her panties might have gone missing and wound up in Velvet's dirty clothes hamper. There was an old set of sheets that had been in the hamper since August because I've only been dealing with the top layer of dirty clothes for a while. Sunday night, I decided to wash all the damn clothes and when I pulled out that old set of sheets, I got a pantie surprise.

Frankly, I have never been able to understand how someone could come into a place wearing his/her underwear and leave without that underwear without noticing. I suppose the drunk girl in the bathroom (Stoner Date 08.19.08) might have lost her drawers - but these look too small for her and they are Gigi's style and size. Either way, Velvet didn't know about the Drunk Girl in the Bathroom either. And I don't think that Velvet has been playing dress up. He's not a bit like his uncle Jenifer was at that age. Velvet might keep panties for a souvenir, but he wouldn't be wearing them - and I hope he has enough sentimentality to keep souvenirs somewhere more suitable than the laundry hamper.

As it happens, about one year ago this month that I got a pantie surprise from Rhonda Gayle. I'm very grateful that no matter whose pink panties these are, they are perfectly presentable. I may have gone overboard with the lecture I delivered to Velvet and his friends about NEVER having any kind of sexual contact with ANYONE who wears awful, nasty, skanky panties. You never know what other issues are going to go along with that kind of conduct. I'm not saying it's immoral to wear skanky panties - I'm just saying people with that kind of hygiene issue may be mentally ill in a way that lead to all kinds of trouble.

I'm still hoping the pink panties are Gigi's. She was in Chicago for the weekend when I called to find out if she was missing a hot pink thong. She couldn't recall, but even though the panties are in good shape, they are clearly second string panties because it's easy to see they are kind of old and weren't expensive in the first place. It's entirely possible that she wouldn't notice that they'd gone missing especially since she was in the middle of moving back to New York at the time and her stuff was scattered far and wide.

The most ridiculous moment so far occurred when Velvet suggested that they could be my own panties. Like (1) I wouldn't recognize my own drawers and (2) I'd ever wear a thong. If I were a thin woman, I might consider wearing panties that tiny, but the fact is that I'd look like a sumo wrestler. I may be guilty of spending over $30 for a single pair of underpants, but when a woman is of a certain age, she might want to consider saying goodbye to flimsy lingerie and hello to foundation garments. At the right shop with a decent budget, you can look more like a Vargas girl than the Sears Catalogue.

What about Weed?

Muddy says, "There shouldn't be no law against people want to smoke a little dope." I wish to high hell somebody would talk more about that during the presidential debates. The economic crisis is all very important - but I've been broke for years. When you've got The $15 in the Bank Account Day Before Payday Blues, what matters is that shit trickles down hill and when it hits, it's going to suck. That's life. So why can't smoking weed be the same as drinking beer?

The War in Vietnam - ooops, I meant Iraq - is a critical issue. If we have to be there, the Iraquis need to fork over some bucks. Surely there is an equitable arrangement. Either way, smoking weed should be the same legally as drinking beer (Of course I'm high. Was there really a doubt?)
Plenty of people have been making this point and others along the same lines for years. I merely lend another voice to the chorus of "Legalize Marijuana." No one has to smoke it if s/he doesn't want to - just like you don't have to have a cocktail from time to time.

In case my mother is looking - and she might be - I am not contributing to the delinquincy of a minor because Velvet is with Buzz Kill for the night. It's wise for me to know my mother might look at the blog because then I won't write anything that my mother shouldn't read. If I didn't have that hanging over me, there's no telling what I might say especially since now I know somebody's paying attention.

About two weeks ago, I installed Analytics on my account so now I know that 400 people from 21 countries have looked at this blog since October 1. Every single day, somebody lands on Gayle's Panties (Stoner Date 2.16.08) because they are googling for fetish sites, I guess. They bounce right off. They would bounce off those nasty panties if they landed on them in real life too. Several people have wound up here for one reason or another, mentioned Menopausal Stoners on their own blogs and which in turn sent even more people - which is so surprising to me that I'm still trying to wrap my head around the idea. I like it, naturally, it's just that I don't quite know what to make of it.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I told the Artist from the South of France about the blog. He's been on the periphery for the last couple of weeks on account of he's moving to a different apartment in his building. Since I've decided that he's allowed to cross the perimeter into home territory, I figured he better know about the blog. Two men's heads have already exploded from reading about themselves on the blog - he could be next. It's only fair he should be forewarned.

With Velvet at Buzz Kill's, I have a wonderful opportunity to celebrate the moon which is practically full. I like to throw candle stumps into the construction site next door. That I can hear the stump plopping three stories or more deep into a hole that will be a 15 story building next year shows how close the building will be. Tonight, I had six or seven half-burned votives that needed to go flying tonight because the colors were inferior and because they were associated with a past that needs to be gone. As they were sailing through the air, I directed a thought at the Goddess: Everything changes, let me find what I need to evolve. It helps me to make abstract thinking concrete. To some people (like Velvet), it looks Wiccan but it's no more Wiccan than lighting the Our Lady of Guadeloupe candle and thanking G*d for the woman from Brazil who cleans my apartment.

Frankly, this activity seems all together harmless to me. Smoke a little weed, listen to my favorite music, ask for a blessing from above and chuck some stuff off the terrace into the construction site (although sometimes I toss flowers into the garden below or throw the salt that's been collecting negativity in each room to the wind).

Weed is not for everyone. I'm not recommending that everyone everywhere should get high as much as possible - even though it might do some people a world of good.

Scarlett Knows Best

My status as a budding political pundit is doomed to be short lived because I can't stand to listen to all these people saying the same shit over and over and over again. I'm not saying that no one knows what s/he is talking about because plenty of people are very well informed and justifiably outraged.

I maintain, however, that when it comes to presidential campaigning, the details may be different today but the main ideas are the same as they ever were. Republicans say Democrats will Tax and Spend; Democrats say Republicans only care about Rich People. The rhetoric about Iraq is Vietnam all over again too.

This Saturday morning, Velvet is eating Oreos and watching a repeat of Real Time with Bill Maher. All the argufying is giving me as much of a headache as any round table shouting match on CNN.

I also maintain that too much in this world happens behind closed doors for anyone on TV to actually know the real story. Charlie Wilson's War is an example of how the real story doesn't come to light for years - if ever.

Now that Bill Maher has sent the panel away, his monologue is pretty funny. Velvet has only been able to watch it since sprung for HBO a couple of weeks ago. I cut off HBO when Velvet was in about fifth grade because I couldn't watch The Sopranos while Velvet was awake, and since Velvet has always stayed up late - unless dosed with Melatonin - I was too sleepy to watch The Sopranos when I could finally watch the show. This must have been before TiVo and HBO on Demand. I never liked The Sopranos well enough to get the disc from Netflix. Six Feet Under, maybe. Now, of course, we have HBO because of True Blood which means Velvet can look at Bill Maher.

Even with good jokes, however, this political stuff is getting old and tiresome. I enjoyed the picture msn.com displayed briefly last night of a very pissed off Sarah Palin when the news came out that the Alaska legislature concluded that Gov. Palin did abuse her power when she tried to pressure some guy into firing her brother-in-law the state trooper. The troopergate story itself, though, is going to deteriorate predictably into the same old shit.

We're going to have to have a moratorium on political shows here at Menopausal Stoners Headquarters on Central Park West.

Scarlett O'Hara understood this feeling perfectly. Here's a bit of dialogue from Gone with the Wind. Simply change the topic and you'll know how I feel:

Scarlett: Fiddle-dee-dee.
War, war, war; this war talk's spoiling all the fun at every party this spring.
I get so bored I could scream. Besides... there isn't going to be any war.
Brent Tarleton: Not going to be any war?
Stuart Tarleton: Why, honey, of course there's gonna be a war.
Scarlett: If either of you boys says "war" just once again, I'll go in the house and slam the door.

Giving Birth on a Commercial Airliner = Woman's Right to Choose

Today, I was surprised to find that someone evidently considers Menopausal Stoners to be DC related. As in Washington, DC. As in Political.

I orginally though this idea was patently ridiculous - then I remembered I did say some shit about the debates and Bill Ayers which must have triggered a flag somewhere that indicated political discussions were taking place here on the blog. It must have happened more than once since some Palinite posted links to some Republican Bullshit in the comments the other day which was funny to me since the links don't work in the comments. Complete waste of time to post them especially on a site called Menopausal Stoners.

My mother and I were talking about this phenomenon, and she is of the opinion that the FBI is probably watching me now. I had to remind her that she has been saying that since I was a Russian major with a Philosophy minor at North Texas State University back in 1977 - 78. NTSU was a fun place to go to school because that year it made Playboy's list of top 10 party schools. NTSU had also produced more Miss Texases than any other college. As it happens, NTSU was a big music school back then (could be still, I haven't checked) with a large Jazz component, and for some reason that year somebody somewhere cooked up a bunch of acid which led to a couple of thousand music majors and their friends tripping all over Denton, Texas. Can it be an accident that Rocky Horror Picture Show is set in Denton? I think not.

Riff Raff, Doctor Frank-N-Furter and Magenta

I am compelled to mention here that when most of my political views were developed - back at Spring High School outside of Houston - my friends and I hung out at the same park getting high as Richard Linklater who made Dazed and Confused. He went to a high school down the road. Dazed and Confused was made in Austin, and if you watch that movie, you will see the hamburger joint at the near my house in Austin where my friends and I would go whenever we had taken back the soda bottles to get enough money for a chicken fried steak sandwich:

Top Notch Hamburgers, 7527 Burnett Rd, Austin, Texas

The only time I actually thought the FBI might be listening into my phone calls was in the early 1980's when my best buddy Tish was carrying on with the Cocaine Dealer who was her downstairs neighbor in Dallas. He was a black man with a Jheri curl. When he borrowed her car and returned it some days and many, many miles later, she found out he had gone to California to get cocaine. She had no idea he was transporting contraband across state lines. She was much more concerned that he had made a secret video sex tape of her having sex with his brother and wanted me to go to every blue movie in Dallas in case her shiny white hiney was blazing on the screen. I thought it was a cocaine delusion, but stranger things have happened. She found The Lord shortly thereafter which was probably all for the best.

The point of all this reminiscing is that I am damn surprised to find that anyone has referenced this blog on a site called "DC Blogs Noted." But like I say, stranger things have happened.

What mother and I are more interested in, however, is: Why in creation did Sarah Palin get on a six-hour flight to Alaska after her water broke in Dallas? According to a report on KTUU NBC channel 2 in Alaska, Sarah Palin's water broke in Dallas, then she gave a 30 minute speech, then she got on a commercial flight home to Alaska where she finally gave birth.

Jesus H. Christ. What airline lets a woman on an airplane after her water broke already? Half the airlines make you get a doctor's release if you're traveling after 32 weeks or so. Did she hide the facts from the airline? More to the point: Who the hell gets on a LONG flight - even when nothing unexpected happens it's a long damn way from Texas to Alaska - when your water already broke? Were they simply going to ground the plane if labor progressed more rapidly than Sarah had planned?

Any way you look at it, Sarah Palin knew damn good and well the bun was fixing to pop out of the oven, and she still got on that airplane.

Under the circumstances, I would want a refund AND two round trip, first class tickets from the airline if I had to watch Sarah Palin giving birth that instead of the movie. Even if she wasn't spread eagled in the aisle, she still must have made some noise. She is not such a hard core frontierswoman that she bit a bullet without a whimper. She is NRA Barbie, for chrissakes, and she did not have anyone's best interests in mind when she made the decision to get on that airplane.

"Who the hell acts like that?" my mother asks. The only conclusion one can reasonably reach is that Sarah Palin is a Self-Centered, Arrogant woman who Thinks She Knows Better than Anyone and Doesn't Give a Flying Fuck (literally) if She gives Birth on a Commercial Flight in front of God and Everyone at Who Knows What Risk to the Baby. I believe there is a Librarian in Wasilla who will support this conclusion.

Maybe Sarah Palin was traveling with her personal Ob/Gyn and her own blood and oxygen. What do I know? I do know that you can't trust the oxygen tanks on the airplane. Ask Antonio Oliver whose cousin Carine Desir died on an American Airlines flight from Haiti to JFK (Questions Persist After NY Woman Dies On AA Flight 2/26/08).

If anyone has questions about Sarah Palin's judgement, they should take a long look at this incident.

I wonder if Tina Fey will do a skit about that. My friend Rhet can't stand it that Tina Fey is laughing all the way to the bank with the Sarah Palin impersonation. I don't blame him because satire doesn't lead to holding public official accountable like it used to. Back in Jonathan Swift's day, people would be outraged at the government after reading a satire. Now people laugh and relax into complacency thinking that if somebody's making a joke, no one takes the butt of that joke seriously. People joked about George W. Bush all the time, and look where that got us.

It would be nice if Tina Fey would go on record saying that the possibility of Sarah Palin in the White House is no laughing matter. Steven Spielberg and George Lucas raping Indiana Jones on South Park -- now THAT was a laughing matter, although Tom Cruise in the Closet was funnier. Dave Chappelle as Rick James - brilliant.

Post-Debate Malaise

Velvet and I watched the debate together last night.
Over all, I have to say I'd rather have watched something else - like tonight's South Park premier, but it wasn't on. We agreed that any undecided voter would have come away with this information:

McCain = Old
Obama = Young

I stopped listening to both of them because they are repeating themselves. Most likely, this repetition is the same reason I quit paying attention to politics years ago. For me, this year is sort of like tuning in on a few games of the World Series.

The Artist from the South of France has worked in advertising for many years and says that the Republicans are generally stronger in the marketing department because they stick to a very simple message.

McCain looked like an old grouch when he said that most people in that room hadn't heard of Fannie or Freddie until the last week. That was bullshit because anyone who has ever bought a home knows about Fannie and Freddie. We may not know all the details - but that was a very tacky thing to say.

He's always been grumpy and tacky, and I'm sorry about the POW camp and everything, but he walks like he's got a stick up his ass. It's very unattractive. That Pat Robertson said Obama looked presidential and McCain didn't is reason to be hopeful. Somebody said Obama was blessed with a great smile so that he looked debonair under attack. We all know appearances count for a lot in American politics. I wish Cary Grant were president. Hell, I wish Cary Grant were my house boy.

I probably will see The Artist from the South of France again after all, though. I'm running out of weed, and this is no time in America's history to be without weed. Waiting to see just who turns out at the polls on Nov. 4 is going a high anxiety activity.

That Damn Man in the Yellow Hat

It has come to my attention that a number of people find their way to this blog because they have searched the keywords "Man in the Yellow Hat." So far, I suppose they have been directed to the posts from months and months ago.

If I knew then what I know now, I would have immediately hollered "Egoiste!"
Does anyone remember that old commercial for the men's cologne Egoiste by Chanel?

Imagine if a plump, aging female spat out "Egoiste!" instead of several beautifully gowned and coiffed women. You can also imagine the old broad throwing a plate while you're at it.

One thing about both Leos and Narcissists - and I have come to believe that if you multiplied the typical Leo personality traits by a thousand, you'd get a narcissist (Leo x 1,000 = Narcissist) - is that they quickly assume they deserve to be in the control.

In Reality, however, the Man in the Yellow Hat is such a lackadaisical parent that it's all his fault George ever gets in trouble. If the Man in the Yellow Hat would stop leaving a monkey to his own devices, ice cream stores, circuses and movie theatres throughout time would be perfectly safe from George's antics. What's a young monkey to do?

Back in 2002, when I first started teaching the class of two year-olds, one of the Moms said that anyone can see that the Man in the Yellow Hat is obviously gay. Could be. Interesting to think about, anyway. This mother based her claim on his swishy walk and his outfit. On the Upper West Side of New York City, speculating on each other's sexuality is a time honored way to pass the time -- and no one is exempt. Not even the fictional characters from classic children's literature like The Man in the Yellow Hat. That particular year, we had one male same-sex family and two female same-sex families between the two classes of 12 kids. The next year, one of the dads in a same-sex family made up a verse to The Wheels on the Bus that went, "The daddies on the bus go swish, swish, swish."

These are the things that can happen when a two year old dominates your life. As it happened, that fellow had been among the original employees of Google and made a staggering amount of money a couple of years ago.

No matter what anyone thinks of The Man in the Yellow Hat, we can be sure of one thing: If he had kept George out of trouble, there would be no story. And kids like these stories because they can relate to George. Little kids like to imagine what would happen if they were left to their own devices - and the Man in the Yellow Hat always comes back which is the behavior children expect from parents and care givers even when those care givers are grievously irresponsible.

What I have to wonder is:
Why are a number of people searching for The Man in the Yellow Hat and clicking on Menopausal Stoners? They stay here about a nanosecond, so it's clearly all a mistake.

Some people search for Crusty Panties and wind up here too because of Gayle's Panties (Stonerdate February 16, 2008). Those people tend to hang out for a while longer undoubtedly because Gayle's panties are a lot funnier than that old boyfriend and the Man in the Yellow Hat ever were.

Contemporary American Non-Thinkers or Hell in a Handbasket

This morning, I'm bummed about the future of our country on account of the debate last night. In the afterword on MSNBC, Pat Robertson (I know: consider the source. But I'm considering how many people believe him) said that Joe Biden was boring and Sarah Palin was sensational. Rachel Maddow said something along the lines of "Boring and Right. Sensational and Wrong," as well as saying that she might croak if somebody else winks at her today (paraphrase).

Rachel Maddow

Since I rarely watch the news because I think those people are full of shit, I had never seen Rachel Maddow before last night. She may not be full of shit, but I suspect it's going to come down to people voting for Sarah Palin simply because she's not boring. So we find another reason why I don't watch the news. It's damn depressing.

When Sarah Palin started talking about what it would be like to have her in the White House, it sounded a lot like the premise of the movie Bruce Almighty. Take some ordinary dumb ass and make him God. Then she said Dick Cheney had the right idea about the VP being more than just an executive and that she had lots of executive experience. She said she was demonstrably independent due to her choices for state wide jobs. As I recall she had a history of choosing her High School buddies for state offices like some broad who said she was qualified for Alaska's secretary of agriculture because she likes cows. What more can you expect from someone's who is well versed in foreign policy because she has seen Russia?

It is my considered opinion that these debates only reinforce our existing biases. They never change anyone's mind - although it's possible that undecided voters could be influenced by what they see and hear. I can't imagine that anyone watching the debate would be undecided, however. If they are undecided now - most likely they don't read the papers, etc. so why turn on the debates at this late date?

The trouble with Sarah Palin is that all those Bible Thumpers who may not have voted for McCain or Obama because they would have gone for some independent candidate if they voted at all are impressed with that winking control freak. McCain was sucking up to the conservatives when he picked Sarah Palin in the first place. They come out to vote.

Lots of people who may prefer Obama don't vote because they make up the great disenfranchised electorate.

Watching Obama-McCain, I had to shake my head in fear and sadness because McCain will lead us into another Vietnam as sure as the sun still rises in the morning. Now we have Sarah Palin as his Number 1 fan. Chairwoman of the Pep Club. There she is with her pom-poms and everything.

If this development could lead us into a revolution due to the economic bullshit, I might be excited. But they will not be the first bastards with their backs against the wall when the revolution came - like the elevator manufacturers in Hitchhiker's Guide.

The western world will simply go to hell in a handbasket with the Bushes, James A. Baker III and their buddies in the Carlyle Group counting their money while we drown in our own stupidity and/or hopelessness. I maintain that high stakes standardized testing has been perpetrated on America by these same megalomaniacs in order to assure that the general public has absolutely no capacity for analytical, creative or critical thinking. There is plenty of documentation to support this idea, but no one pays attention to that either because - since things are going according to plan - it's a rare human these days who can recognize connections. As soon as you start separating the disciplines so that Science has nothing to do with History and teaching to the test - BINGO - we have a couple of generations of Contemporary American Nonthinkers.

They're going for the Sarah Palin trick Hook, Line and Sinker.

For the record, I'm blowing off Existentialism and going back to Bokonism. Bokonism is much more personally relevant.