lesbians and terrorists and Bush--oh my!

Due to the recent Israel-Lebanon debacle (in addition to the ongoing US-Afghanistan, US-Iraq, and US-Iran ones), I am rapidly approaching my depressing/politically frustrating news saturation limit--much as I did after September 11 when I killed my TV for 4 months until I could safely get through an afternoon re-run of Frasier without pulling my hair out over the commercial patriotism of an evening news bumper. During yesterday's morning commute I was just about to switch from my favored program on NPR to some hideous DJ show on one of the local rock stations when the radio reporter on the morning news twice referred to Lebanon's resident terrorist militia as "Lezbullah". She quickly recovered and carefully finished the rest of her broadcast without another slip-up, but it was too late--I was inspired. A bit of Googling revealed some joking chatter involving the term "Lezbullah" or "Lezbollah," as well as an intriguing site in Turkish which I think may involve some sort of a dead lesbian, but as of yet, no Islamic terrorist organization run by lezbos. Though I am neither a lesbian nor an Islamic terrorist, the kitsch of the name alone is making me seriously consider forming such a group--you know, just for fun. Can you imagine if Dubya could market the War on Terror as a struggle against both Islamic terrorism AND lesbians? Such an epic and noble mission would surely earn him enough spiritual points to sway the tetchy evangelical vote into electing him into a third term. If only he could find a way to work in a quest to defeat abortion, evolution and environmental laws he could rule forever!

summer reading

During the move I snagged a few books off my mom’s bookshelves for some light bedtime reading. One was on the diplomacy of Henry Kissinger and the other was The Scarlet Pimpernel. Of course, the tumultuous nature of moving soon swept one of my finds away to the depths of some mysterious box, not to be seen again until the next move, no doubt. Fortunately, considering how brain-dead lugging heavy boxes around in 100 degree heat can make you, I was left with Pimpernel and not the tome on diplomatic intricacies (Sorry, Henry!). I’d never read it in school and had always shied away from it due to its title’s similarity to The Red Badge of Courage, upon mention of which my mom would always roll her eyes and gag, having been forced to read it in high school. But what with the cable being out I settled into it and was pleasantly surprised.

The story follows the tragically uncommunicative and distrustful relationship between a French woman and her husband the Scarlet Pimpernel, an English nobleman who risks his life to save members of the French nobility from the clutches of the bloody revolution. I was deeply immersed in a condemning chapter about the dirty French revolutionists when my brother spotted my reading choice.

“Isn’t it awesome?” he said. “It made me feel all conflicted. I didn’t know whom to cheer for.”

This caught my attention, because if you know anything about my brother it is that he rarely read any books assigned in high school and even when he did he refused to remember or absorb anything useful from them. But I immediately realized why he’d remembered it so well—why the preachy text about the evil injustice of the French nobility’s savage beheadings had stuck with him through the mish-mash of forgettable school-assigned novels: growing up in France, we’d been taught the opposite perspective of the gory revolt. To us, the storming of the Bastille and the mass executions of the nobility were glorious feats of victory, not repulsive acts of insurgence or terrorism. On Independence Day we marched tirelessly through the streets of our town alongside our classmates, proudly clad in the bleu, blanc et rouge fashion of the revolutionists. Somewhere my mom has pictures of our first patriotic parade to the town’s center—me in a lace cap and striped skirt, my two brothers in red rooster caps and ragged blue, white and red trousers. I want to say that our faces were smeared in red paint to denote the blood that the French patriots shed during their epic battle to overthrow the monarchists, but that may only be the impression that I’m left with. One thing I’m certain of: we knew all of the verses to La Marseillaise and chanted them boisterously in our march through the streets.

Arise children of the fatherland,
The day of glory has arrived,
Against us tyranny's
Bloody standard is raised!
Listen to the sound in the fields,
The howling of these fearsome soldiers,
They are coming into our midst,
To cut the throats of your sons and consorts!

To arms, citizens!
Form your battalions!
March, march!
Let impure blood
Water our furrows!

Talk about the swelling pride of patriotism! It’s one thing to sing the tame American anthem at the start of a Little League game, it’s quite another to feel your young blood boiling at the battle cry of the revolution. The guillotine was our instrument of freedom, our equality the currency of brotherhood! Forget national monuments or Masonic symbolism, before the Euro came along French cash was emblazoned with the bloodied faces of its liberators, its most prominent feature an imposing woman who managed to convey nationalistic pride while simultaneously flashing everyone with her large rebellious breasts! What could be more French than that?

By chance, I followed the reading of Pimpernel with a public television broadcast on the British royal family. Its emphasis on its haughty royalty and stoic fortitude in the face of war and scandal made me understand for the first time exactly what separates the Brits from the French, and made me wonder at the interpretation of history that we’ve chosen. I’m not sure which one is more accurate, but at least I’m still questioning my own.

home again, home again, jiggity-jig

Well, I’m back from my Week of Terror in DC and despite my initial anxiety about the laundry list of moving my mom and finding an apartment and securing a moving company for our own move, things have turned out pretty well. In fact, I consider this last week nothing less that a big fucking success. Here’s why:

1. I rented the very first and only apartment I looked at. I know, I know, it sounds really dumb, but I’d done my research. I’d scoured the newspapers and craigslist, called several places beforehand, and even made a three-ring binder with over twenty places that I was planning to scope out during my gigantic apartment quest. But then none of the places I called the first day panned out, except for this one—and it was cheap, and clean, and close to my work, and included all utilities, and air conditioned, and the management was competent. I won’t pretend that I wasn’t more than a little nervous to sign the lease right off on the first and only place I’d seen, but my mom’s and brother’s assurances (‘this is divine intervention’ and ‘SCORE!’, respectively) and the fact that the rent is the same exact amount that we are currently paying in San Diego soon won me over. It seemed like a sign that this apartment was ‘the one’. So I sucked up my nerves, signed the lease the following day, thanked my lucky stars, and gave an imaginary high-five to Jesus. Done.

2. My mom delayed her move by two days, just in time for my brother Bear and his naïve friend to get back from their trip and help out. This circumstance was especially fortuitous because my mom has waaaaay more stuff than she’ll admit to. By the third day of her insisting that ‘there’s really not that much stuff, really there’s not’ I was shoulder-deep in boxes of knick-knacks and fortunately too exhausted to do her any real violence. All I can say is, God bless the construction crew foreman for lending me Carlos and his two hombres for an hour. They saved us from certain failure and solved the conundrum that we’d been trying to resolve all week: what to call the levels of my mom’s new three-story house that begin on the ground floor, but not with a basement. Thanks to the exhausted yet good-natured Hombre #1 who had to haul the double-wide dresser up two flights of stairs, they are now christened: ‘downstairs,’ ‘arriba,’ and ‘arriba arriba’. I rewarded them with ice-cold Cokes, cold hard cash and effusive thanks. I had originally intended to pay them with booze and loose women but they still had a full day of work ahead of them and the whorehouse didn’t open ‘til noon. Whatever, they seemed satisfied.

3. My mom picked the two hottest days of the year to move. It was nearly one hundred degrees outside and extremely humid, which made it feel like one million kajillion degrees. Add a bajillion boxes, heavy furniture and a quadrillion stairs and you get a pretty miserable result. I’d forgotten what it was like to sweat like a hog from the moment you wake up until—well, actually you just sweat every second, except for the few minutes spent in a cold shower. Anyway, it was awful, but apparently I lost two pounds in the process, so whoohoo! Screw dieting and exercise, all weight loss really takes is abject misery. This revelation has tempted me to launch the most unpopular dieting movement ever, but I’m busy so I’ll resist for now. Besides, salad and celery is almost as good.

4. And last but not least, we’ve found a moving company that will load, transport and unload all of our junk for a reasonable price. Also, certain unsuspecting friends of ours will be arriving next weekend, just in time to help us pack boxes and sleep on our bare hardwood living room floor. Haha, suckers—bring your own pillows!

move again, move again, jiggity-jig

It’s official—I’m freaking OUT.

Tomorrow I fly back to the DC-area for one week during which I must help my mother move house and find an apartment in time for our own cross-country move in 3 weeks. While I am gone, my moving partner will be researching moving companies and auto-shippers—making sure that they are legitimate businesses who won’t dump all of our stuff somewhere in Idaho or blackmail us before relinquishing our possessions. Ugh.

See? Right there. I had to stop typing for a few moments to calm my blood pressure. The thought of packing a suitcase, much less two households in two weeks, just gives me the vapors. What the hell is wrong with me? I need a brain-clearing slap to the face. Or some gin.

No. I just need to have faith in my ability to plan, and faith in my contingency plans when the first plan craps out. Planning is my strength. I’ve even been lifting weights for the past several weeks in anticipation of this month’s moves. Now that I think of it, maybe I should have practiced lifting our 4-ton couch instead. Damn—hindsight 20/20. Whatever, I’m feeling buff. Strong like locomotive. Big like ox. I can lift multiple boxes at one time, leap over obstacles while balancing antique furniture on my head, pack plates and silverware with lightning speed. I run through the moving game plan in my head: office, bedrooms, kitchen, living room. Oh shit. I frantically dial my mom.

“You’re getting someone to move the baby grand piano, right?”

“Umm. Oh yeah, I should do that.”

“Because that thing’s heavy. And it won’t fit through the door.”

“Yeah, I’ll call them.”

“Is Bear ready for the move?”

“Well, he’s actually going to be out of town this weekend. And your other brother just had knee surgery, so…”

“It’s just us?”

“Yup. Oh, and my Bible group, but they can only come on Saturday.”

God forgive me, but the words “Bible group” don’t exactly inspire any confidence in me. I remember our old Bible group, a rag-tag bunch of pale weaklings. It took them an entire day to move a single person’s studio apartment two miles down the road. And as I recall, she didn’t own any 4-ton couches—not like my mom. A few years ago she bought new living room sets, one for the upstairs and one for the basement. They were really nice couches—full sized and plush—but heavy as all hell. Of course, I can’t expect her to know that since it was Bear and I who moved them in. A week later she decided she wanted them switched around—the red couch downstairs and the gold couch upstairs. I can still hear her cackling at our grumpy faces. But she wasn’t there for the epic struggle. She wasn’t there when Bear and I had to trudge around the entire row of townhouses through a foot of snow with the enormous couch balanced between us, only to discover that the back gate had frozen nearly shut and the only way to get it into the house was to lift it over the 6-foot fence into the back yard. And now Bear is gone (Judas!), cruelly replaced by my midget mother. But the midget isn’t worried. She has more faith than I do. Maybe I should pray for strength and sanity. Maybe then God won’t let the couch crush me. Maybe then He’ll give me an apartment. Who am I kidding? I’ll bet He’s just like my mom. I’ll bet He thinks this shit is hilarious.

Screw it. Tonight I won’t lift any weights—no more good can come of it. Instead, I’m going to practice my swearing.

we've come a long way, baby

Tonight Cartoon Network started re-running episodes of Pee Wee's Playhouse. I never watched it as a kid--its crazy sets and schizophrenic tempo didn't appeal to me at the time, but I decided to give it another go as an adult because of the brilliant promo featuring Pee Wee and his "giant underPAAAANTS!". After a disturbing parade of clay-mated toys, the announcement of the day's secret word (door--scream when you hear it), and the departure of what appeared to be three homeless children, Cowboy Curtis arrived.

Oh yeah--it's him

What was I thinking? I can't watch this damn show. It's too fucking weird.

good clean fun at good's expense

Some of us have deep, dark zealous pasts that we'd rather forget. We don't want to remember the self-righteous superiority we felt at the holiday food drives, stakeouts at the local abortion clinic, or motivational prayer retreats. It's too painful. Too embarrassing.

Well I'm tired of running. I want face my humiliation, remember my ignorance, embrace my shame! Join me--let us cleanse ourselves of our sordid pasts!!

No really, it will be fun, I promise.

Onward, former Christian soldiers, into the dark heart of the religious political agenda--organized conservitism! First stop, the wacky antics of the Family Research Council! Next, Focus on the Family. Pro-abstinence? Flag protection? Anti-pornography? Wow, these people are CRA-zy! Anti-gay marriage? Anti-HPV vaccine? Overreporting of hate crimes? Oh God, this is getting kind of depressing. Oh God.

Maybe we should take baby steps--you know, ease ourselves into this cesspool. You can't just suck it up and dive right in and suffer through the shock like the first frigid day of swim practice. That might just give you hypothermia, but this could kill your soul. Slowly it is, then.

Actually, why don't we take a break and go see a movie? Don't forget to check the reviews first, though. It won't just cost you ten bucks and an overpriced 600 calorie popcorn snack--it could morally bankrupt you as well. So check here for some guidelines and current movie reviews and ratings. It's easy to use and FUN: the quality ratings go from POOR to EXCELLENT and the acceptability ratings from EXEMPLARY to ABHORRENT. Also, check out the content abbreviations, but be warned--they're spoilers! (My favorits are "AP", "Fe" and "RH".)

Whew. I'm pooped. That's enough for today.

Almost. If you're looking for some reading material after the movie, check out Margaret Mouse's Moral Picture Books for Children. MM is a great role model for you and your offspring. Check her out.

Always be kind and obey your parents, children. Or I'll eat you--rawwrrrrr!

constant vigilance

You may be a terrorist if:

a) Your phone records show a suspicious pattern of calls to/from suspicious people

b) Your bank records show a suspicious number of large deposits to/from suspicious people

c) Your voting records show a suspicious lack of patriotism and/or a desire to destroy American freedom or traditional way of life (Beware: This can also indicate Communist loyalties or homosexuality.)

d) Your 4th of July barbecue contains no beef, pork, dairy, or potatoes, but instead looks like this:

Mmmmm, terrorism is delicious!!