Senator Stuart Smalley

Because I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and...oh, you know the rest.
Because I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and...oh, you know the rest.

I know that our government is backward and slow 5,000 different ways or more, but this was a bit ridiculous. The Minnesota State Supreme Court has just issued a unanimous ruling in favor of Al Franken being the winner of November’s Senate race. Yeah. November 2008. This would be the last day of June 2009.

Franken’s opponent, Norm Coleman, has been the spanner in the works ever since the November election, claiming “inconsistent practices by local elections officials and wrong decisions by a lower court had denied him victory.” There’s still a possibility that he will take this to the U.S. Supreme Court.

Remember when Al Gore wanted to protest the Florida bullshiggidy regarding miscounted votes for the 2000 presidential election and Republicans mouthed off about how he was a sore loser and he needed to just step aside and let the winner spoil the take…er, take the spoils? I guess Republicans are of the “do as I say and not as I do” generation.

(Not that I’m in any way insinuating that this is the same situation in reverse; truth be told, I haven’t really been following the meat and potatoes of this race. I just know that it’s been dragging on for forever. I’m sure, though, that Rush and Ann and Sean will all be able to update me on how “the fix is in.”)

Personally, I don’t really know how I would feel about having a former Saturday Night Live writer/performer as my new U.S. Senator. Then again, Minnesota did vote for a former WWE wrestler for their governor. And, hell, we as a nation did vote for a former actor to be U.S. President for 8 years. Well, “we” not meaning me. If I hadn’t been only 3 years old the year Reagan first ran for president, you can be sure I wouldn’t have voted for him.

I’ll be interested to see what Mr. Franken does now that he is theoretically heading to Washington, D.C. And I’ll be sure to take him a nice Bundt cake as a housewarming gift.

50BC09: Book Number 20

goodomens

The irony of my final statement from my Book 19 review about how my next book had better be “good” is that I honestly hadn’t made my next choice at that point. Just made this selection all the more serendipitous, I suppose.

Whatever the universal alignment that led to my latest selection (which really boils down to the fact that this was at the top of the closest stack of my unread books), Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett’s joint effort, Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch, was more than simply “good”; it was astonishingly enjoyable.

What would happen if the Antichrist is born but then accidentally misplaced by Satanic Nurses (who are not quite as awesome as Satanic Mechanics, but who would rock the soft-core porn parody of Satanic Verses)? How would he grow up to be a right proper universe-ending bad ass without guidance from his netherworld family? How can Aziraphale the Angel and Crowley the Demon battle over the instruction of the young Bringer of Armageddon if they don’t know where he is? Even better, how can they stop it all from happening anyway since they do fancy living among the mortals? Would it surprise anyone to know that the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse aren’t all men…and have traded in their horses for Harleys? How did Agnes Nutter end up predicting that all this would eventually happen even though she died (rather spectacularly) centuries prior? Are there really people named Nutter? Can I please shake one loose from my family tree?

For the answers to all these questions and more, you simply must read Good Omens! (Well, okay, they won’t answer the last two questions…but you’re good on all the others.)

If you’re familiar with Gaiman or Pratchett, then this book will be a delightful pairing of two grand talents of the sci-fi/fantasy literary world. If you’re not familiar with either of them, then this is a wonderful introduction. It’s witty, funny, and cheeky in equal doses, and once you start it, you really won’t want to put it down (except maybe you should try to put it down when doing things like driving, chopping vegetables, or mowing your lawn, especially if you own a cat or a small dog).

Also, the most recent printing of the paperback came with two different covers, as you can see in my accompanying photo. I am pleased to say that my parents, when they purchased this book for me for Christmas, chose the white cover with the Demon Crowley on the cover. They know me well, little devil that I am.

Final score: 4.5/5. Like Mary Poppins, this book was practically perfect in every way, but did begin to drag on a bit too long toward the end.

I was thinking about doing a quick listing of all the books I’ve read so far and their scores now that I’m at the 20 mark, but I think I’ll hold off until the halfway mark. Sound good? Good. And I’m once again loaded up with library selections and have already chosen my next read (and it really is going to be my next read; I’m not going to wimp out like I did with the Saramago book I had a while ago). It’s a shock rocker autobiography of sorts. I shan’t say more than this: Think “Fairway to Heaven.”

‘Nuff said.

Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough

mj_sparkle

People always told me be careful of what you do
And don’t go around breaking young girl’s hearts
And mother always told me be careful of who you love
And be careful of what you do cause the lie becomes the truth

I fell off the grid for a while this weekend. Got off the plane on Thursday evening and every television screen throughout the terminal was ablaze with images of Michael Jackson.

Dead? At 50?

No, scratch that. At any age, it just sounds wrong.

Truth be told, this has been a really bad week for a lot of our beloved media icons. How would Johnny Carson have ever found the stage without Ed McMahon to herald his way? Farrah Fawcett? How can an Angel die? Say it ain’t so, Charlie.

But Michael Jackson?

I said you wanna be startin’ somethin’
You got to be startin’ somethin’
I said you wanna be startin’ somethin’
You got to be startin’ somethin’

Pop music wasn’t part of my childhood. But Michael Jackson wasn’t pop music. Michael Jackson was…Michael Jackson. MJ. The Gloved One. The King of Pop. It was an accolade that no one dared question, because it was fact. Was any artist more pervasive, more talented, more representative of an entire decade? Madonna maybe. But Madonna was not the King.

Michael Jackson was.

That this is thriller, thriller night
‘Cause I can thrill you more than any ghost would dare to try
Girl, this is thriller, thriller night
So let me hold you tight and share a killer, diller, chiller
Thriller here tonight

Pepsi, Disney, MTV. At times it seemed he held the entire world in that bedazzled gloved hand of his. Quirky, eccentric, odd, or just downright bizarre

Flashback Friday: King of Pop

I’m letting go of my previously planned Flashback for today, but I don’t really have much else to say right now. His life was one of strangeness and sadness, and I don’t think anything else need be said for the moment. Everything else aside, for my generation Michael Jackson was and shall always be the King of Pop. And who can deny the utter joy of watching that glorious video for “Thriller”? He was just hitting his stride at this point. Plus, he roped in Vincent Price to perform one of the greatest moments ever in rap history.

No embedding allowed, but here is the link for the full “Thriller” video on YouTube. Pop the tab on a can of Pepsi and enjoy.

Appalachia? Argentina? Adultery!!

No, I don't think you know what I want for Father's Day this year...
No, I don't think you know what I want for Father's Day this year...

So maybe you didn’t hear that South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford went a little AWOL for a while. He just ambled away one day and didn’t tell anyone where he was going. He kind of mentioned that he was thinking about hiking the Appalachian Trail, so his staffers assumed that this was what he was doing. They even sent out a press release indicating that this was indeed where he was.

SIKE. Just playing. He was really in Argentina. Schtooping his mistress.

That’s right, you’ve read correctly: GOP Governor Mark Sanford

The Bittersweet Life of Xena…Weave-Uh-Diva Sista?

Amazon.com has done it again with some impeccable recommendation work for me. Based on my past purchases of Xena DVDs, they have recommended a book: Chocolate Lemons and Peppermint Tears: The Bittersweet Life of Xena. Behold the Amazon.com book description:

Set in Los Angeles in the mid-1990’s, Chocolate Lemons and Peppermint Tears: The Bittersweet Life of Xena, tells the poignant, funny, sexy, in your face, and very relatable tale of Xena Quay Vaughan, an attractive, successful, slightly neurotic, never been married black woman in her mid-thirties, who struggles desperately with getting over a married man; her perceived weight problem; being celibate for almost two years; being a natural sista in a weave-uh-diva world, her free-spirited best friend, Renee, with her “I don’t give a damn” attitude; finally meeting and falling in love with “the one;” and a mind-boggling encounter between the married man and her lover. This story will leave you wanting more – like seconds at Thanksgiving.

Um. Yeah.

In Amazon’s defense, the name Xena is unique enough that it’s a fair assumption that any appearance of the name would be in reference to that familiar warrior princess. You’d think, though, that a company called Amazon would have a special knack at picking out the real protector of the Queen of the Amazons, wouldn’t you? I mean, really.

Too nerdy? Okay. I’ll reel it back a little.

I love that in this book, Xena’s best friend is named Ren

Fail-Safe Failure

metroaccident

The impact instantly killed the train operator. All that’s left of her portion of the train is the husk protruding overtop the second train.

Last night the casualties were at 4 dead and 70 injured. This morning, the death toll is at nine.

Recovery efforts continue this morning.

I am routinely critical of public transportation in the D.C. metropolitan area. It’s supposed to be the greatest in the country, but it is consistently ill-managed, overpriced, and inadequate for the demands of the nation’s capital city.

However, this? This is just horrible. Each of these trains is fitted with “fail-safe” signal systems that are supposed to alert train drivers when they are in dangerous proximity of another train. “Fail-safe” and “fail-proof” are two distinctly different things, apparently. Right now it seems that the fail-safe system failed to alert the driver to the fact that there was a train stopped on the track ahead of her. However, investigators have also said that the driver failed to attempt a manual stop, even though she should have been able to see the stopped train.

At this point, it would be pure speculation as to why the fail-safe alert didn’t sound or why the driver didn’t take emergency manual action. Sadly, several questions regarding the “why” behind the accident may never be completely answered.

Metro maintenance has long earned itself intense ridicule and ire from riders. It seems that they are constantly locked in a no-win battle against failures and glitches and just plain stupid mistakes. The new trains, for instance, arrived a few years ago and were promptly placed in storage until maintenance could sort out the fact that the new train computers were not compatible with the older Metro systems. Then there was the massive failure of relay switches that were supposed to last 70 years, but had only been in use for 25 before they started sending incorrect messages to trains. About 4 years ago, there was also a similar accident to yesterday’s, in which a train collided with another train that was off-loading passengers at the Woodley Park station. No one died in that accident, which was an eerie foreshadowing of what happened yesterday.

All there is to do right now, though, is offer condolences for the families of those who didn’t survive and positive thoughts for those injured.

Presidential Age-Off: Bartlet v. Roslin

Two of my all-time favorite television shows are Aaron Sorkin’s The West Wing and Ron Moore’s reboot of Battlestar Galactica. Interestingly enough, at the heart of both shows is a strong vein of politics played both fairly and deceptively (not that big a surprise from the former show, but a lovely layer of the latter that made it such a pleasure to watch).

Both shows also featured presidents, one of the United States and one of what’s left of the 12 colonies of Caprica. Martin Sheen played U.S. President Jed Bartlet, a bright beacon of hope during the dismal darkness of the real Bush II presidency. Mary McDonnell portrayed Laura Roslin, former Secretary of Education who found herself thrust into the presidency when all in line before her were killed in the Cylon attack on Caprica that started the BSG journey.

Beyond the obvious similarities, both of these presidents held health secrets from their constituents. Bartlet had relapsing-remitting multiple sclerosis. By the end of the show, the disease was causing a rapid and noticeable decay of his body.

In the very first episode of BSG, Roslin learns that she has terminal cancer. By the end of BSG…well…like I said, she had terminal cancer. I’m sure you can figure this one out on your own.

Now even under the healthiest situations, a president always leaves his station looking much more bedraggled and aged than he did coming into it. Look at recent evidence. Du(m)bya left looking much older than the actual numbers of his age (or his IQ). And the only way Clinton was still feeling young at the end of his presidency was when he was groping up interns in the Oval Office. Several have even pointed out that Obama is already starting to show more gray than he did prior to January 20, 2009.

Add the strain of an incurable disease and you’re bound to look even more wrung out, right? Certainly was the case with President Bartlet.

bartlet-bae

In the beginning, he was a middle-aged statesman, with still dark hair and minimal lines to his face. He was commanding and centered and the White House was bright with hope in his presence. By the end, however, he’d gone gray with white at his temples, the lines had deepened, his stance slouched and aided by a cane, and the brightness of his new administration slowly dimming to a close (aren’t these photographers just too clever?).

Yes, I’m sure that some of this was makeup decisions done to enhance the strain of both being president and fighting a once relapsed illness that is now making up for wasted time.

BUT…then there is Laura Roslin.

roslin-bae

To borrow that ridiculous BSG epithet: What the frack?!

Seriously, I cannot even begin to express the joy I felt inside when I saw Mary McDonnell that first time as Laura Roslin. It had been a while since I had last seen her, and then there she was, wrinkles and crow’s feet, and looking absolutely beautiful. Even better, she looked REAL. And I was filled with so much hope and happiness that here was an actress who was embracing her age and all the lines that came with it, and doing it with incomparable grace.

This second photo is how she appeared in the final season. You could bounce a quarter off her face, it’s so tight. Dull, expressionless forehead. No more lines around her eyes or her mouth. What you don’t see in this photo, but what was depressingly obvious in the show, is the fact that this “youthful” appearance came with a price. One side of her mouth droops now as though she’s had a stroke. Her eyes also don’t always blink synchronously anymore.

This was supposed to be a woman who was leading the remnants of a destroyed world through the unknown dangers of space while fighting a seemingly unstoppable Cylon enemy and being slowly consumed by incurable cancer. But this is how she looked at the end. Yes, they did her up on the show with pale makeup and a “cancer” wig (which is what she’s wearing in this second photo). But that face…

It was perfectly acceptable to show the progression of age and illness with Bartlet, but Roslin not only had to lead the colonists to earth, but she had to do it while apparently paying regular visits to Doc Cottle for galactic Botox injections. Maybe he was really just injecting her cancer treatments straight into her face and this was the end result.

jlange

Obviously, what I’m really doing at this point is screaming into the roar of the Hollywood machine that makes women feel less than publicly acceptable if they dare show even one shadow of an age line on their face. How else can we explain this recent photo of the now perpetually surprised Jessica Lange? Would you have even known this was Lange had I not identified her? I sure as hell didn’t recognize her without a caption.

And why is this acceptable? Because we’ve got fat tubs of douche like Rush Limbaugh clogging up the airwaves with “relevant” questions like is this country ready to have to watch Hillary Clinton age if she became president. Newsflash, Tubby: You’re not looking any younger (or thinner) yourself.

We all get old. It’s a fact of life. I’m in my early 30s, but I can see time leaving little trails across my face. Wrinkles around my eyes, parenthetical lines on each side of my mouth, a bagginess to my eyelids. Who gives a shit? The lines come from living, and I’d far rather have lines than not live. And guess what? You can tighten your face to the point of splitting in two and it’s not going to fool the Reaper.

For two seasons, Mary McDonnell made me so very happy when I would see her very real and very beautiful lines. I can’t say that I blame her or fault her for her decision to join the plastic posse. I can’t imagine the pressure she and her female acting peers must feel to constantly look 25. But just once, I’d like for an actress to just flip the double bird and embrace her age and all that it brings with it

Flashback Friday: Crayola Caddy

crayolacaddy

Want to know what my childhood smelled like? Wax and water color and poster paint. Oh my!

Of all the childhood flotsam that crowds my memories, this is one of the bright standouts. That beautiful school bus yellow plastic spinning caddy, yet another splash of fuel to feed my hyper-organizational fire. This is the favored toy of someone destined to one day strike fear in the hearts of her coworkers because they know that if they move ONE THING on her desk, she will notice (hmm, maybe this is why people are scared of me here…).

There was something so very comforting about knowing that every single piece of the Caddy had its very own place: snug little slots for the crayons (which I always rearranged into proper “Roy G Biv” order and, yes, with the Crayola label facing outward, thank you very much) and magic markers, gopher holes for the poster paints, elongated slot for the water color tray, center slot for your brushes, and little troughs on each side for your paint water.

Beyond feeding my junior OCD, however, was the fact that I wanted more than anything to be artistic when I was little. It’s in my blood, passed on to me through a paternal lineage of artists. Everyone on my dad’s side of the family is so enviably artistic. Developing some pretty decent PhotoShop skillz has helped me blend in a bit better, but when left with nothing but paper and drawing materials, I’m afraid even my best offerings fall a bit short of the mark. Somehow the artistic gene mutated when it reached me and my palette became words rather than paints.

Didn’t matter though. I still loved my Crayola Caddy. I could sit for hours doodling with what was there. Reams and reams of paper filled with fantastically ill-shaped animals and landscapes and dreams. Rainbow swirls like Starbuck’s Eye of Jupiter and Rothko blocks of color piled high with Pollock splashes. I’d paint until my water colors were nothing more than tiny little rings rimming the white underbelly of the tray and the lids of my poster paints had dried and flaked from being open for so long.

I’m actually quite stunned that Crayola no longer makes the Crayola Caddy. I mean, I get that we’re an increasingly digital world, but come on! Kids must still enjoy coloring and painting, don’t they? Crayola does offer something called a “Telescoping Crayon Tower.” That’s just not the same though. Where are the paints? The markers? The awesome center section to hold all your paintbrushes and left-handed scissors that your friends won’t ever be able to use? Where’s the fun?