Capitalist Mecca Falls

Ok, so I thought that since Justin T. decided to bring sexy back, I ought to at least TRY to contribute to his cause. Tonight is New Years Eve and as I am actually going out for once, I should at least wear something sparkly, show a little (or a fair amount of) cleavage, or find some sick looking stilettos to wear with my jeans and a great top. (Yes, friends, this is definitely a departure from tree climbing Ginger who never realized that she had a figure... until that day at the high school swim party when she wore her first bikini... then everyone knew that something might actually be possible in that area... so she immediately hid it away (but that's a different horror story.)) Anyway, my thought process was this: "I bet there are still tons of after-Christmas sales going on at the mall. - I have a Dillard's gift card that I need to use. - With a sale and a gift card, I might be able to afford something at Dillard's for once. - - - I'm going." And I went.

As I drove toward capitalist Mecca a.k.a. The Parks Mall, I noticed that the parking lot wasn't as crowded as I thought it might be.

Cool.

I parked near Dillard's, got out of the car, walked towards the glass double doors, mindfully paused to breathe, checked that I was donning my Buddhist half-smile, and entered the first level of Dante's Inferno.

I know I'm a smart girl. At least, I work really hard at being a smart girl. I study constantly and am a reading snob. I travel as much as I can to broaden my world view. I sip Merlot, eat "shtuff" that you spread on crackers, and participate at the Dallas Institute specifically to challenge my intellect. I tried being a vegetarian for a week (and hated it, but the point is I made an informed decision). I drink coffee because it smells intelligent. So what in the HELL was I thinking?

Here's what happened:

Immediately, I went to what I consider the "Euro Chic" section: trendy, sparkly clothes - New Year's clothes that I probably won't fit into (because apparently, American department stores think that size 2 is average even though we are all grossly and piggishly overweight according to the media). I did find some cute items, but 50% off of these is still $100.00. No can do. Still, I have my zen-worthy half-smile. I'm fat and zen. Everything is OK.

I thought that maybe I should just brush off the cute top idea and stick to shoes. I went directly to the shoe department where people were turning around into each other because it was so crowded, and employees were sighing in the back room loudly enough for all of us to hear over the Keane playing on the loud speaker (and for the record, I DO NOT begrudge them their sighs!). I tried on a couple of pairs of shoes, decided that I needed to figure out what I was wearing before I bought shoes.. so I went back to the EC section upstairs.

Oh yeah. I can't afford or fit into clothes in the EC section. Damn it! OK, breathe. Quarter-smile in place... Before I left the EC section, I did run into a delightful woman who was wearing one of those earpieces that was originally intended for the Secret Service but which everyone who's anyone has (except for me because I don't want to look like I'm talking to myself). This woman was extremely animated. I picked up on the fact that she wanted to return something without a receipt - something that was purchased six months ago - and the woman, "could remember (in a very loud voice), the exact day that this article of clothing was bought, specifically as a Christmas gift!!!" The poor clerk was pleading with the woman in the most polite way she could. She was sorry, but without a receipt, there was nothing she could do, especially since she didn't recognize that article of clothing. This received the overrated and overused, "I want to speak to your manager!" from the shopper. Worried for my own well being, I left, quarter-smile fading.

I decided, against my better judgement, to try Express. From a distance, I could see the 60% off sign. I did not have a gift certificate for Express, but surely 60% off was a beacon of light. The second I entered, I realized that I wasn't actually in a clothing store but at a feeding trough for very thin barnyard animals. Seriously, there were bins marked small and medium (because, again, real American women don't wear more than a size 6(!)) and I was pushed and bumped out of the way. (sigh)

Retreat!!! Raise the white flag!!! Flee! Flee! Flee!!!

To make a very long story short: I ran away from capitalist Mecca, hands empty and with any notion of a zen-smile deflated, fighting thoughts that, at size 8, I am NOT huge, and that I will find something in my closet other than sweats to wear to our New Years party...

Last thought: Don't be an ass. Be nice to store clerks and STOP (for Christ's sake) pushing folks out of the way. You'll want the new spring line (that stores will put out tomorrow) more than anything you bought today anyway.

Naomi Shihab-Nye

I love this poet and am extremely lucky in that she is coming to speak at our school next semester. Naomi Shihab-Nye is an Arab-American; her father is Palestinian and her mother is American. She is probably most known for her "Open Letter to Any Would-be Terrorists". Shihab-Nye is so gentle and lovely in her writing. I highly recommend her to anyone interested in peace and eloquence.

Making a Fist
For the first time, on the road north of Tampico,
I felt the life sliding out of me,
a drum in the desert, harder and harder to hear.
I was seven, I lay in the car
watching palm trees swirl a sickening pattern past the glass.
My stomach was a melon split wide inside my skin.

"How do you know if you are going to die?"
I begged my mother.
We had been traveling for days.
With strange confidence she answered,
"When you can no longer make a fist."

Years later I smile to think of that journey,
the borders we must cross separately,
stamped with our unanswerable woes.
I who did not die, who am still living,
still lying in the backseat behind all my questions,
clenching and opening one small hand.



Naomi Shihab Nye

Ladies and Gentlemen: A Monkey Washing a Cat.

This fits with the theme lately...

"Hey, do you like cats?"

So, I'm standing outside of the car which is parked in a much coveted parking spot right out in front of the QT or Racetrack or Love's or one of the other many truck stops/gas stations somewhere in the middle of nowhere (in one of the states between the lone star and an other) in the middle of the night, probably around 2:00 am. As I yawn, stretch, and think about how to make my nest in the back seat more sleep-friendly, a lady in the car next to me cracks her car window a smidge and whispers to me, "Hey, do you like cats?" As I am fumbling for a response, the lady gets out of the car (stranger danger!) and stands before me.

OK, I am by no means gorgeous, so when I say this, it is not meant to be anything other than an observation - but this is the type of woman one might see on a 60 Minutes segment, an exclusive called "Truck Stop Bambi: Working for Love." I can say that she definitely has impressive, abundant cleavage; it is such that even when I look away, it still leaves an impression. The corner of her mouth is home to a cigarette that needed to be ashed 5 minutes ago, the grey residue balancing precariously on the tip of the filter, and I want very desperately to call her Lurleen. I do notice (as time, in my mind, is standing still for this observation and I am not at all awkwardly displaying my thoughts through my poker faced countenance) that she is sincere in the question, and thus repeats it to me as if I were autistic.

I manage to squeak out "Yes, I do like cats, but I am a long way from home..."(Lurleen is already opening her backseat, driver's side car door.) She pulls out a tiny, grey, adorably smush-faced kitten and begins telling me a story - something about finding him on a shelf at Home Depot... he reminded her of Batman... name is Brucee.. and something about a make-shift litter box...

I am half-listening as she holds the cat out for me to pet, her cigarette ash flaking a little onto the cat's head (a little red-neck dandruff). I am thinking, "What sort of scam is this? Is someone stealing our car as she has me distracted? If I pet the cat, will I get a disease? Am I ready to work for love? or was it love for work? I still haven't finished the grading for last semester..."

About that time my mom and husband walk up, freshley powdered and coffeed. They get the same scoop, as if the spiel was rewound and replayed (like some sort of rip in space-time). In conjunction, Lurleen prepares a make-shift litter box for Brucee, right behind the wheel of our back tire. Relax - don't be gory -It just means that we knew we would be there a while.

Fortunately for us, Lurleen apparently does not receive the desired response from us about her Home Depot, surrogate mother, breast suffocating cat story. She decides she needs something from inside the convenient store and puts Brucee and the litter back into her car. As we finally back out of our parking space at 2:30 (!) am, we see Lurleen dragging two tired, befuddled people out of the convenient store (by the hands) to her backseat, driver's side car door.

I can't be certain, and I am not a lip reader, but I am pretty sure she was asking them, "Hey, do you like cats?"

What do you make of that? (There is a circus in my brain.)

The Scholastic Press Association at Columbia University just announced the Crown Award finalists for this year. I'm thrilled (and proud) to say that In The Margins made the final cut in the competition and we are guaranteed either a silver or a gold crown award. This is an amazing accomplishment for my staff! What a brilliant recognition! (And we are the only public school in Texas to receive this nod.)

Yay, you stealthy pirate ninjas, what with all of your amazing litmagination!!! Now. How do we get to NYC to pick up our award....(?) Suggestions?

Here's a glimpse of the winning mag :

cover design Patrick H. (design editor 2005-06)

design by Parker J. (design editor /co-editor-in-chief 2006-07)

design by Ian M.

design by Julia C. (editor-in-chief 2005-06)

design by (I can't remember, but I LOVE this spread!)

design by Neal M.

design by Patrick H.

(sorry about the poor picture quality... it doesn't do the mag justice!)

Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net

Another instance that demonstrates the fact that incompetence gets the promotion

A response to Time Magazine for picking us, the American people, for person of the year:

"American people, you should be ashamed! The president went and bit off a big piece of the Middle East and, like an eagle, brought it back to the nest and he's regurgitating it back into your mouths! Why won’t you swallow?!!
When history looks back at the actions of this president and the decisions he made regarding this war, you will go down as the most incompetent American people of all time. Deal with it!" ---Stephen Colbert

Lifted from The Daily Kos

And also, go here for an interesting debate in the same thread.

Caulking a Habitat

So, I'm tired of constantly bitching about the state of the world, playing at philosophy, and fencing over politics ("No Dartanian. This is completely unacceptable. If you say one more thing about the bullies of the West, then I'll... Well, I'll just lightly slap your cheek with my glove,...you!" and something about an impotent epee).
(sigh)
I am constantly preaching about acting - actually getting my hands dirty-instead of talking, but that's it. I preach it and then beat the hell out of myself for not actually going out and doing. In Candide, Voltaire says that we, all mankind, should go and WORK in the garden -a metaphor for our world- in order to cure humanity's greatest vices and in order to live fruitful, fulfilling lives. (oops philosophy!)

I actually and finally(!) listened to myself and to Voltaire (or at least I found time during the holiday break to listen) and signed up for Habitat for Humanity with some of my co-workers/friends. Unbeknownst to me, my sister twin also signed-up, so we decided to bring our significant others and make an event of it.

Here's how it went down:

The morning arrived sooner than we anticipated (at exactly 5 freaking o'clock), but we got-up and got dressed in our clever, clever t-shirts:

(Believe me, this was the most PG idea we had for our slogan. You try using the word caulk in a clever way, and you'll quickly see the dilemma)

Then we went for a Burger King breakfast and headed to the habitat. There we met some sincerely genuine people - ones who make it their life goal to act instead of talk. I learned a lot of practical tidbits today: Sodding is harder than it looks (another slew of clever t- shirt slogans come to mind);

painting while balancing on a roof is not as difficult as painting with the back of your head, using your fine, baby soft hair as a paint brush; window cleaning when the wind is blowing can create a unique art medium, full wheelbarrows work better if you run with them in a chaotic, serpentine/zig -zag manner; machetes - well, you should just get out of the way of a person wielding one; etc.

Mostly, though, I was reminded about doing good deeds outside of my comfort zone. Also, people are good, people are good, people are good, and the world is made up of good people.

I have to do this more often. And so should you...


Bonus pics:

Here's Fougs working in the the garden, literally and figuratively

The cocky caulky bastards

Me, tired, but in a good way.

What's a cair paravel?

I totally stole this from this one girl's myspace... Fortunately, this girl is a 53 year old cair paravel from Norfolk Island who listens to Regina Spektor (...but it breaks my heart), so she'll forgive me for intruding (stealing), I'm sure. If not, I'll tell her friend - the 77 year old matron, "I got your who and whom," grammar shark from Uzbekistan! That'll set the island girl straight...or will at least correct her angry, exclamatory declarations, as the Uzbek does mine.

ok go

Ok Go is one of those bands that I think is hilarious and exceedingly entertaining, yet I don't have any of their stuff. I think this video alone (re-introduced to me by Happy Fun Pants) is worth buying the CD. Also check out the Dancing in the Backyard video. I couldn't have choreographed anything more beautiful...

The Grocery Store KOD

Has this ever happened to you?:

You go to the grocery store right after work. All you need is milk, stamps, cat food, hair mousse, and coffee (for the love of God!). You go in, you get a basket, you walk right past the fresh veggies, mentally bashing yourself for not eating more fresh veggies and fruit, and then without realizing it, you get the grocery store kod, or Kiss Of Death?

Having the kod in the grocery store is a condition that has the following symptoms:

* All of a sudden you realize that you've been staring at Saltines for 10 minutes.

* You're too lazy to go to the meat counter since there is one guy already at the counter. You think, "I don't need red meat anyway-I'll just buy frozen corn dogs instead."

* You look in your cart and all you have is chocolate and alcohol (beer, wine, or in my case, both).

* You've decided that you absolutely must have cubed cheese because cubing your own is hysterically funny to you. "No one cubes her own cheese anymore," you intelligently and amusingly quip to yourself in the form of a whisper.. that apparently is audible enough that the lady next to you puts down her cheese block.

* You hear over the PA system, "Attention: Ginger at the meat counter pick up line one. Ginger at the meat counter, line one," and you think that means you because your name is Ginger which is not a common name, even in Texas. Then you feel a little bit of relief when you realize that they don't mean you - you hate the phone - but then again, you're a high school English teacher. Maybe the meat counter is a step up? You hold your breath.

* You want to buy vitamins and you've heard that prenatal vitamins are excellent even when you are NOT pregnant (nor do you intend to be anytime soon), but you have a moral argument with yourself because, my god, your cart is full of chocolate and alcohol! What would the cashier think!?

* The bag boy inevitably says, "Hey, don't you teach 7th grade at ______ junior high?" and you search his face for recognition. Finding none, you say, "Yes, um.. actually, I teach high school now (at an opposing school - we beat you at football... HA!)... (shy glance)...What's your name?" and he says, "H____ - you taught me in 7th grade!" and you say, "Yes! I remember you (little shit-head - I remember you - you made my life hell for a year - I certainly have some things to say to you... wait until the day after I retire when I start making phone calls... ) So, hi! how are you? Wow! You're graduating this year? (please don't notice the alcohol and the tampons) Amazing! Yeah... so good luck! Fantastic. Right.." After all, he has grown-up a bit and he does seem respectable now. You chastise yourself for having negative thoughts towards this, a person who represents our future.

* You check-out and praise yourself for remembering to buy stamps, then you get to the car and realize that you forgot to buy everything else on your list. You've spent $100.00+ and you forgot the essentials on your list (MAJOR CURSE WORD!!!). Still, there is no way in hell that you are going back in. You make a mental note to send a thank you letter to all of those dear, dear people who voted to allow alcohol sales in your grocery store and you say to yourself, "I'll just have wine, chocolate, and Saltines for dinner - it's covered."


OK. Note to self: STOP going grocery shopping when you're tired! At least have a glass of wine first...

Getting the kod is only slightly different than the "line disease" that one is prone to in such mind numbing, soul slaying institutions such as Wal-Mart - but that is for another entry...

Jim the Sensitive Reindeer etc.

We did our Christmas decorating today which is always way fun! I realized, as I do every year, that there is such sentimentality associated with several of our decorations. For example:

This is Jim the Sensitive Reindeer. I think I got Jim in high school and I named him after Jen's dad, though I can't remember why exactly. I do remember someone making fun of Jim's scarf. "Reindeer do not wear scarves. How dumb!" To which I replied, "Shhh. Jim is very sensitive, especially about his scarf." Somehow, this reminds me of you, Jen, your family, and how vitally important you all are to me.

This is Christmas Kermit. A student gave him to me and Kermit always reminds me of you, Lisa! Then my mind wanders to sneaking in a former boyfriend during a sleepover, followed by something to do with Fred Savage...

Here is my Holzknoddl smoker from the Medieval German town, Rothenburg, which reminds me of the most beautiful German Christmas store I've ever seen. Also, though, it reminds me of this fantastic trip to Europe, meeting my good friend, Mark, who I miss terribly, and both of us petting Herr Cat there in the cobblestone street.

Also in this pic are the two elves. They have been in my house as long as I have. These are very dear to me and they remind me of El Paso, of my mom, her contagious enthusiasm surrounding EVERY holiday (fireplace decorations and sparklers!), and the piano room.

The Silent Night church is from Salzburg. This reminds me of my adorable, energetic Aunt Gagi and our summer adventures in Italy, Germany, and Austria. Other things that remind me of Aunt Gagi are the Momo ornaments, spicy wassail, decorative Christmas pillows, and light-up poinsettias.

This is the nativity Rich and I bought in a small town outside of Playa Car, Mexico. Everywhere we travel, we buy a Christmas something. I love this one because it reminds me of Rich and how much fun we always have, no matter where we end up or how absurd the adventure (the alien landing in Roswell, Mexico City, anything to do with Hobbs, San Francisco, or donkeys...). Our Christmas tree is full of our travel memories.

Here is gorgeous Rich...

and me and our red feathered tree - red for Mimi and feathered for Mom.

Here is a most interesting column from The New Yorker:

IT’S HIS BIPARTY

Issue of 2006-12-04Posted 2006-11-27

According to the “Backwards Bush” countdown clock, available on the Web and in key-chain and desk-accessory form at selected novelty and toy stores around the nation, the sitting Administration in Washington will, as of this writing, be in office for another seven hundred and eighty-nine days, five hours, twenty-three minutes, and 36.2 seconds. But, if present trends continue, it’s going to feel like forever. On November 8th, the day after the midterm election, President Bush vowed to “find common ground,” “work with the new Congress in a bipartisan way,” and “overcome the temptation to divide this country between red and blue.” By way of launching “a new era of coöperation,” he announced a personnel change: Donald Rumsfeld was out as Secretary of Defense, to be replaced by Robert Gates, widely viewed as a member of the reality-based community. A day later, on November 9th, Bush had Nancy Pelosi, the incoming Speaker of the House, over for a nice lunch and an Oval Office photo op. “We’ve had a—I would call it a very constructive and very friendly conversation,” the President said, graciously. “We both extended the hand of friendship,” the Speaker-designate replied, graciously. “Thank you all,” the President concluded. Graciously.
While they were having lunch, the White House Press Office dropped the news that the nomination of John R. Bolton “to be the Representative of the United States of America to the United Nations, with the rank and status of Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary,” had been resubmitted to the Senate. The new era of coöperation may or may not be definitively dead, but at the moment it appears to have been not so much an era as a news cycle.
The first time that John R. Bolton’s name was sent up to Capitol Hill, in March of last year, the nomination got nowhere, even though the Senate was in Republican hands. The Administration waited till Congress adjourned and then gave him a recess appointment, which will expire in January. Bolton is by all accounts a clever and energetic fellow, but cleverness is not competence, and energy can amplify vice as readily as virtue. At the U.N., Bolton has earned a reputation—in the not very diplomatic words of sixty-four former American Ambassadors and diplomats who recently signed a letter opposing him—for “egotistical intolerance,” “arrogant actions,” and a “hard-core, go-it-alone posture” that “has alienated the bulk of the diplomatic community and cost the United States its leadership role.” (“With so much at stake, our country cannot afford to permit John Bolton to continue his destructive course during the next two years,” the diplomats wrote.) “He has succeeded in putting almost everyone’s backs up, even among some of America’s closest allies,” last week’s issue of The Economist quotes a “senior Western diplomat” as saying. To put it another way, the man’s resemblance to Yosemite Sam does not end with the mustache.
There is little chance that the lame-duck Senate will confirm Bolton and no chance that the new one will. So the Administration is toying with the idea of giving him another recess appointment (which would enable him to keep the job without drawing the salary) or naming him to a deputy position without filling the top spot (which would enable him to stay on as “acting” Ambassador without the extraordinary and plenipotentiary title). Nor is the renomination of Bolton the only personnel-related sign that Bush’s commitment to comity may have already peaked. On November 14th, the President renominated Kenneth Y. Tomlinson, a former editor-in-chief of Reader’s Digest and a close friend of Karl Rove, to be chairman of the Broadcasting Board of Governors, which supervises the Voice of America and other government radio and television operations aimed at overseas audiences. Never mind that last summer the State Department’s inspector general found that, among other antics, Tomlinson used his office to support a “horse racing operation” (he owns thoroughbreds), or that a year ago he had to resign from the board of the Corporation for Public Broadcasting after that agency’s inspector general caught him violating rules meant to protect public broadcasting from political meddling. On November 15th, the President renominated four of his hardest-right candidates for the federal courts of appeals: a Defense Department lawyer who has been denounced by a score of retired generals and admirals for his role as an architect of the Administration’s infamous interrogation regime; a former Interior Department attorney and mining and ranching lobbyist who sees the Clean Water Act as “regulatory excess”; a district-court judge whose decisions have been reversed or vacated more than a hundred and fifty times, an astounding record that includes two reversals from the Supreme Court—one of them in a unanimous opinion written by Justice Clarence Thomas—in voting-rights cases; and a former aide to Senator Trent Lott who is the first federal-appeals-court nominee in a quarter of a century to be unanimously rated “not qualified” by the American Bar Association.
Finally (or maybe not so finally), on November 16th, Bush appointed one Eric Keroack to be the new chief of “population affairs” at the Department of Health and Human Services. In this post, Dr. Keroack, a gynecologist, will oversee what is called Title X, a Nixon-era program that distributes contraceptives to poor or uninsured women. Until recently, he was the medical director of a Christianist pregnancy-counselling organization that regards the distribution of contraceptives as “demeaning to women.” One of his odder theories makes him a sort of family-friendly version of General Jack D. Ripper. In Keroack’s case, the precious bodily fluid of concern is the hormone oxytocin, a.k.a. “God’s Super Glue.” Apparently, oxytocin is released during certain enjoyable activities, including hugging, massage, and, of course, sex. It is also, according to Keroack, the fluid that keeps married couples bound to each other. Therefore, if a young woman squanders her supply on too much fooling around, she can forget about ever becoming a committed wife. Keroack’s appointment, unlike the others, does not, alas, require Senate confirmation.
Perhaps what we are seeing is one last White House attempt to reënergize the legendary “base,” after which the new era of coöperation will resume. Or perhaps the President has simply reverted to type. Last week, he found himself in Vietnam, where the United States once fought a big, bloody, disastrous war of choice. In Hanoi, which under its nominally Communist rulers is more vibrantly capitalist than Ho Chi Minh City ever was when it was called Saigon, he was asked if the American experience in Vietnam offered any guidance about Iraq. “One lesson is that we tend to want there to be instant success in the world, and the task in Iraq is going to take a while,” he replied, and added, “We’ll succeed unless we quit.” What did he mean? That the peaceable, bustling, unthreatening (if unfree) Vietnam of today represents an American success, made possible by the fact that we didn’t quit until fifty-eight thousand Americans and three million Vietnamese were dead? Or that it represents an American failure, which would have been averted by another decade of war, another fifty-eight thousand, another three million? Who knows? And who knows, really, what this President has been taught by this month’s election? The present President Bush, after all, is a decider of decisions, not a learner of lessons. And he likes to decide that he was right all along.
— Hendrik Hertzberg

German Jose and Cultural Identity

Last night was the last salon of the year and the mood was very light and cordial. There was more mingling than usual and people were more familial with each other than ever during the wine and cheese time that happens before the formal discussion circle.

During this time, Rich and I chatted with a most interesting, dear German man named Jose (Jo-ZAY) and we were fortunate enough to get to hear his story in his gorgeously thick German accent. Jose told us that his father was an American soldier and his mother was a German. He said that according to German law, the paternal side determines the nationality of the child which means that though born in Germany, Jose was considered a US citizen. According to America, Jose was born in Germany and therefore was a German citizen. Jose talked about that it was interesting and somewhat uncomfortable growing up with a confused cultural identity, but that the benefit was that he grew up in a place where he felt comfortable around others who were culturally different than the majority. Later, his wife even pointed out to Jose that his mannerisms, tone, and posture changed according to the nationality of the person to whom Jose was speaking. If speaking to an American, Jose was more relaxed and less precise in his language. If speaking to a German, Jose was more stern in facial expression and tone. Very interesting.

Jose eventually moved to the US in 1952, applied and received (after a horribly rigorous process) his green card, and graduated from Columbia University. We talked about the importance of preserving cultural identities and what a loss it would be if we lost our differences (especially food-wise!), but we also talked about the persecution associated with the reactionary, unfortunate human belief that "different is bad". We touched on the fact that the West is a most forgetful region and that we do not learn from our mistakes, especially when it comes to engaging in losing battles. The US is the worst in this regard, as seen in our current conflicts.

This topic has certainly weighed heavily on my mind lately, but also, what solution is feasible, ideal, and right? How are we (people) so stupidly forgetful?

Also, is it a losing battle to work at preserving cultural identity, especially when our differences are what cause us to hate, ignore, and even kill each other? or Should we promote globalization, hoping for unification and peace, but losing, then, the beautiful qualities that make us unique?

Anyway, one thing Jose did say regarding his cultural education is that we are all connected at least in one area. No matter your religious affiliation, your socio-economic status, or the continent you call home, one thing remains the same for all: Your children will inevitably drive you nuts!

What a lovely, brilliant man!

...because there is more yet to come

This is absolutely GORGEOUS prose poetry:

"In Shadow's windowless little room, the clock is the only way to
tell day from night. It is always early morning. Shadow now prepares
to return to the shadows who gave birth to him and who sustains him.
He takes stock and recounts. His broken heart, covered in scars and
patches, repositions itself. He casts out anchors and unfurls the
sails. He carries another country stuck to his feet, his skin, his
ears and his gaze. He carries a pain and a rage that do not fit into
the words of every language. In the mountains of the Mexican
southwest, the collective brown heart who leads is waiting to receive
a response that it has known for centuries: it is time for dawn to
break, as it does naturally, meaning with pain and with rage. Shadow
knows what he will hear from the brown mountain who guides him.
Soothing the pain and giving hope to the rage, the mountain will say,
in an ancestral tongue: 'Do not worry too much, do not be afraid; the
heart of our Patria is not sad, because there is more yet to come.'"

The hour has arrived. We will be who we are, but also better.

It is time to wake up.


Subcomandante Insurgente Marcos
Sixth Commission of the EZLN, Delegate Zero
Mexico, December, 2006

Full article with picture at http://www.marxsite.com/Dzero1.html
(thanks to friend, Mark, for this)

The event is coming

Here's an interesting idea:
http://globalorgasm.org/
The event is coming...(Winter Solstice, December 22nd) :)

Fall Temp U 2006

Fall Temporary Utopia (or Temp U) was a blast! It was held at the Firehouse Gallery in Fort Worth. The evening consisted of food eating, poetry reading, art gazing, and magazine promoting. What a lovely evening! My staff rocks! Here's evidence of the frivolity:

Surreal Mile High Club

Right, so we had our IB conference in Denver last week-end. I had not previously been to Denver and had only been to Colorado for the occasional youth ski trip. I found Mile High City to be an interesting place, surreal even. The following is why my trip to Denver was oddly surrealistic:

1. We (11 of us from AHS) tried to travel on the one day a year that winter weather is an issue. There is only one day every year.We don't usually get snow; it's mostly sleet. Sleet was, in fact, what was happening on the day we flew. Our flight was delayed a couple of hours then we got to spend 3 hours sitting on the plane on the tarmac waiting to de-ice. The flight was 2 hours long, so added together and on a normal day, with the amount of flying and waiting, I should've landed in London, not Denver. (sigh...London...) All of our plans were hosed up because of the delays which meant that we had more delays when we landed. It took 1 hour (at least) to get a ride to the hotel. In the mean time, we saw:

-A man who looked like Kid Rock in 10 years

- A man with an extraordinary handlebar mustache. Here is a picture of Christine and me acknowledging this mustache. Well done, sir. Well done.

2. The airport (which is supposed to look like the Rocky Mountains) has this mural in it:

There was much discussion about what this mural represents. I can say that it is a bit unsettling to see a soldier in a gas-mask with a scimitar slaying a dove over children sleeping in rubble. Mr. A looked this up and found out that this mural is formally known as "The Weird Ass Mural in the Denver Airport."


3. Delirium set in after the long day of travel. Here is a picture of my professional colleagues pretending like the shuttle from the airport to the hotel is a roller coaster (and yes, this is a most unflattering pic of me, but in my defense I was also the photographer...):

4. Day 2: We were going to breakfast via the hotel elevator when we came upon this:

Again, unsettling. What you don't know is that prior to this photo, the fireman was looking down an empty elevator shaft. He told us that yes, people were stuck in the elevator; yes, they were out now; and yes, this does happen often with these particular elevators.

5. All was fairly normal the rest of the day: eat, conference, eat, conference. We got to go into the city and see the lights and that was fun. Mr. A and I bonded over beer and a conversation about the validity of war, what it truely means to be free, and whether or not Charro counts as an entertainer since all she does is wiggle and speak in broken English. (OK I made-up the last one, but the point is that it wasn't all serious.)

6. Food poisoning OR airborne virus? Christine is hit first, followed by Frau West, followed by Mandy, followed by 1/2 of the conference. The symptoms? vomiting, diarrhea, fever, and overall ickyness. I managed to get away unscathed, but that meant that I attended the rest of the conference without my partner in crime, Christine. It might have been BORING, but my boss, Mr. A was well and was stuck in my conference, so we were smart asses together. We did productive things like count how many times people got up to "go to the restroom" and we determined that the leader of English A1 IB from Wales looks like the mascot from Notre Dame University. (Secretly, though, I thought this man was nice to look at, and even nicer to hear.) At least it snowed this day. There was some redemption.

7. More conference, yadda yadda, we returned home with sick people. Blech! This time the flight back was smooth, though delayed an hour due to weather in the East. We did, however, see a person whom we deemed Charlie Manson's grandson.

8. Bonus pics: Here's me in long, long underwear. Sexy! (seriously, who makes this?)

Here's Natasha on how to be a proper spy (who likes Fullam):

***For more pics, visit the flicker.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY
CHRISTINE!!!

I am so lucky to have you for a friend!
Love you!

Under Pressure!

Here are the Dallas Institute for Humanities and Culture salon discussion topics for Friday:

1. Do the Liberal Arts still matter? If so, how?
2. What primarily shapes the individual self: the mind, the body, society and culture, or natural environment?
3. Is memory moral? Do we have an obligation to remember some things--and to forget others?

I will write more soon, especially about the surreal trip I took to Denver. As usual, however, I have a billion things to do this week: Temporary Utopia tonight, Medieval Feast on Thursday and Friday, Individual Oral Presentations for IB... Oh, and grades due since this is the end of the six weeks! This would be in addition to my normal responsibilities at my job. Why did I choose this again??? Stress!