Glitter-less
Well, my addiction to La Mujer en el Espejo continues. The show that we call Glitter and Gopher has had us hooked for about a month now. No, we still don't speak Spanish...although we have bought a Spanish-English dictionary. But we visit the dicussion boards daily and we're doing a pretty good job of figuring things out on our own.

Tonight, however, no Glitter. Because of the Pope there's a special 2-hour finale of the novela that was supposed to end on Friday. So I have to start my week without my daily dose of stiletto heels and cringe-inducing eye makeup.

So what's your guilty TV pleasure these days? Come on, I've fessed up about watching Spanish language soap operas that I don't even understand. (Not to mention Japanese TV as well. Don't get me started on how much I miss Sakura on Fuji TV). Other than that, I don't watch much besides British mysteries. Oh yes, I do watch Desperate Housewives, but not much else. So come on...what do you watch that you can't believe you tune into every week?

I'd like a pound of food, please
Today is my husband's birthday. (Happy birthday, husband!) I'm working from home, but took time out to play hooky and take him out to breakfast -- his favorite meal. Which leads me to today's useless observation. Why do restaurants insist that everyone who goes out to breakfast is hungry enough to eat several pounds of food?

There seem to be only two food choices. The tiny-small (a side order of toast or a bowl of cereal) or the "hello, I've been working in a coal mine for 3-days straight please bring me an entire cow." There's no in-between.

The place we went to brought me an omelette that must have been made with about 4 eggs, a half-pound of veggies, and about 3 cups of cheese. Plus a small lake of hash browns and a bagel. I think I ate about 1/4 of it.

Now I realize that I don't eat all that much, and that there are many people who do work in coal mines and who do want that entire cow first thing in the morning. But I just wish there was some option other than ordering a combination of 4 side dishes or have a plankful of meat and eggs plopped in front of you.

And remember when "servers" used to be "waiters?"

It's for you
There's someone whose office is nearby whose cellular phone rings as the theme to Bonanza. Yes, when I get a call, I want to be reminded of the great outdoors. There's someone else who has Beethoven's 5th. And one that sounds like what I image a smurpf sneeze would be. My phone is as dull and unobtrusive as possible.

I wonder what Freud would make of people's choice of ringtones? From Japanese pop to mechanized hip hop. From Star Wars to Monty Python, people are no longer content to have phones that sound like phones. No, they must make a statement. In some ways it's almost like people want to proclaim to the world the fact that they, too, have a cell phone. "See? I'm hip. I'm important. Notice my cool ring? I'm different."

Unfortunately, everyone and their Uncle Edgar has a cell phone. And everyone and their Uncle Edgar has a ring of varying degrees of annoying. I don't really want to sit through three choruses of "Material Girl" while you fish through your Kate Spade bag in search of your electronic umbilical cord. Nor do I care to be serenaded by a nearly unrecognizable version of Chopin in an elevator.

So what's the statement? Classical says "superior and sophisticated?" Hip hop says "I'm really an urban guerilla, not a mere software geek?"

Does vibrate mean shy or merely considerate?

Got a question?
I was amused by this story from the UK. It's a text-message service that, for a small fee, will answer any question you can ask in 10 minutes or less.

Make 'em laugh
I've decided that one of the things I disklike about my new job is the complete absence of laughter. I honestly can't recall the last time I heard anyone laugh in my building. This is especially hard for me because (and I know this sounds wildly egotistical)...nobody thinks I'm funny. Or, I should say, I don't have the opportunity to be funny.

The total lack of conversation means that my sense of humor, which is of extreme importance to my identity, remains as locked away as my co-workers behind their office doors. Any attempt at lightening the mood is looked upon as if I'd just peed in the corner. And, quite frankly, I hate it.

I'm one of those people who is firmly convinced that it is possible and, in fact, desirable, to have fun at work. Sure, you can work hard -- but you can also have a good time doing it. At my last job we were like a non-stop comedy team complete with catch phrases, funny noises, and large amounts of sarcasm.

Here....nothing. It's a wasteland that truly makes every day drag by like it's in a coma. So....how do I learn to live comfortably in my little isolation bay? Or is my only option to take the advice of the most useless PR person ever and just "suck it up?"

Got Slim & Slam?

Don't know who Slim & Slam were? Shame on you!

Slim Gaillard & Slam Stewart were two very crazy musicians who did very crazy things in the 1930s and '40s. Slam focused on bass and vocals while Slim played pretty much everything else. What made them so special, and still makes them so much fun to listen to, is how swingingly odd they were.

Flat Foot Floogie, Boot-Ta-La-Za, Matzoah Balls and other such gems often rendered in hilariously un-PC "dialects" of Chinese, African, Japanese, and Yiddish. But they weren't just comic performers, these guys were serious musicians who delilvered songs that still entertain and still have the groove. Check them out, you'll thank yourself.

California gay marriage ban ruled unconstitutional!
Finally, someone with some common sense. My favorite line "it appears that no rational purpose exists for limiting marriage in this state to opposite-sex partners." Horray for San Francisco County Superior Court Judge Richard Kramer!

Anybody speak Spanish?
Lately I've become hooked on a Telemundo novela called La Mujer en el Espejo (The Woman in the Mirror). It's a deliciously cheesy soap opera about a woman who, because of a magic mirror, is gorgeous (although too much glitter eye shadow) by day and turns into this little gopher-chick at midnight. She's got a bitchy mom and a frosty-haired pseudo-husband (we think the man who married them was an imposter). But hey, everyone thinks she's either dead or a criminal by this point. Although she isn't dead -- and we're pretty sure she's not a criminal either, but is being framed by bitchy chick #4.

And then there's Paco, owner of the worst dance studio in history. Poor Paco! He's been shot!

Oh yes, and then there's Paco's employee who can't dance and who apparently owns no shirts with buttons. Oh my god it's tremendous fun. However, we don't speak Spanish and really have no clue what's going on.

In praise of modern chemistry
I've been fighting a sinus infection for a few weeks now, and it's only due to the miracle of modern pharmaceuticals that I'm a functioning human being. All hail drugs! I am so happy to live in a world where relief from my migraines is only an Imitrex away, and where various antibiotics can wage war in my body so that I can look forward to feeling better soon.

As an avid reader of history I find myself occasionally delving into worlds where even something as commonplace as aspirin didn't exist, and I find myself eternally grateful to live in the time I do. And I feel infinite pity for the poor migraine sufferer in the 12th century who probably had only bleeding or trepanning (look it up) as options to ending the pain (or her life). Perhaps back then migraines were seen as some form of demonic possession?

The power of speech
I believe that most companies, and certainly the group in which I currently work, drastically underrate the power of friendly communication. To date after nearly 2 months on my new job, I still have not had a personal conversation with anyone on my immediate team. I still go through entire days not speaking to another living soul. I am gradually developing friendly working relationships with others in the building, but not on my team. Why is hiding out in your office with the door closed and the blinds down considered to be a good, productive environment? I have always found that I work better, and harder, when I am working as part of a team -- with shared joys and pains. The day goes so much faster when there's joking, non-work conversations, and those small interruptions that brighten a long afternoon. And yet here it's either all e-mail, or it's the briefest conversation possible -- all work (often not even a "good morning") and then they're gone. No lingering to ask how the weekend was. No "nice picture, is that your husband?" Nothing.

Personally I feel this team is fragmented, confused, isolated, and morale is extremely low and I blame the lack of human interaction.

Yawn
Is it just me or were last night's Oscar proceedings even duller than usual? I blame Chris Rock, by the way. Not only was he not in the least bit funny, he was also insulting. No class whatsoever and a complete lack of appreciation for the history of the Oscars. Sure they're occasionally ponderous, but that's part of what makes them the Oscars. 70+ years deserves better than smartass remarks that pass for humor.

And please, get the presenters out of the aisles. And get the poor nominees off the stage. That's just tacky.

Jesus may love you, but he hates your SUV
Today's ramble is about the stickers which people choose to put on their cars. My first stunning observation is that liberals are still so pissed about the election that not one of them has removed their Kerry sticker. They (and I include myself in this assessment) feel the need to constantly disassociate themselves from the current administration. My Kerry sticker says "hey, I didn't vote for the Bozo," and gives me some minor sense of an impending "I told you so."

On the other end of the spectrum are the brain-dead zealots who feel the need to inform me of their superiority by virtue of having been "saved." This, apparently, gives them the freedom to cut me off, do 60 in the fast lane and generally drive like they have no fear of death (thereby proving their peity, apparently). However, their stickers do apall me. "God gave you two knees...use them." (Um...crap games? Oral sex? Scrubbing the bathtub?) "Christians aren't perfect, just forgiven." Oh goodie, free reign to go out and be imperfect. Hate thy neighbor! Protest against same-sex marriage! Bomb an abortion clinic! It's ok, you'll be forgiven.

On the other end of the parking lot spectrum is the earth mother; a term I use regardless of actual gender. "Love your mother," emblazoned on a picture of the earth. Nice sentiment, however seeing on the back of an SUV seems to be the height of "just not getting it." "Love animals, don't eat them." Listen Moonflower, animals were made meat-flavored for a reason.

I reserve a special class of my loathing for the spoiled bitch. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about. "Daddy's Little Princess," on a BMW driven by a blond 17-year old future ex-wife of some as-yet-not-out-of-grad-school future CEO. "Spoiled rotten, I deserve the best." Wow...nice ego there. Great example of the "it's all about me" generation.

I just love feeling superior to strangers. Don't you?

Free Stanley!
With the demise of the NHL season, a movement is underway to free the Stanley Cup. The Stanley Cup was originally intended to be an award for the best hockey team in Canada. I support the Free Stanley movement....lets have a Stanley Cup playoff even without the NHL. Besides, it'll give me a chance to break out my Manitoba Moose sweatshirt.

The sound of Cameroon
Once again I turn to music to get me through my day. Today I'm favoring Henri Dikongue, a singer/songwriter/guitarist from Cameroon (now based in France) who is just glorious. His warm, breezy, easygoing style is perfect for days when my brain doesn't want to work.

I don't know whether it's lack of sleep or this headache that won't go away, but I just can't seem to concentrate today. It's like an episode of "Short Attention Span Theatre." I try to do something and after 5 minutes I'm distracted away after something else. And above all is this driving, nagging urge to have a conversation. I'd give my shoes to have someone to talk to right now. Not that my shoes are worth anything, but you get the idea.

But once again it's a sea of closed doors out there. Luckily I have Henri Dikongue to at least bring beautiful sounds into this otherwise silent world.

So here I am distracted into uselessness and bored into submission. Is this any way to make a living?

Why is it...?
That commercials are always so much louder than the show you're watching? That there are people who can manage to drive for miles on the freeway with their turn signal on? That yellow rain slickers are only worn by children? That commercial radio stations get away with playing the same pablum as every other commercial radio station? That high tech offices typically have dozens of unwanted keyboards laying around, but you can bleed to death looking for a band-aid? That people are willing to embarass themselves in front of millions of people for the sake of being on TV? That milllions of people will watch idiots embarassing themselves rather than read a book? That people still feel the need to explain on their answering machines that they're "not home right now, please leave a message after the tone?" That the people who scream the loudest about "Christian values," are the least charitable, least accepting people in the world? That the word "party" gets used more as a verb than as a noun? That people actually care what kind of exercises Jennifer Aniston does? That Bush won the elction....any election? That men are always surprised when a woman actually knows something about sports? That more people have heard of Homer Simpson than have read Homer the poet? That Gwenyth Paltrow has a career? That people can get paid $5 million a year for playing a game, but cops and teachers can't afford to buy a house? That the damned mockingbird outside my window wakes me up at 6:30 every weekend, but doesn't sing a note during the week? That the asnwer to "paper or plastic" still confuses me? That I should pay extra for shoes that hurt my feet than for shoes I can walk in? That Hawaii is always too far away? That people feel the need to be reachable at every minute of every day? That people would rather send an e-mail than walk down the hallway for a face-to-face conversation? That pot stickers can cure everything? That old people in love always make me smile? That there are so few news stories that make me feel hopeful?

Just do it!
No, I don't mean go out and be a Nike ad. I mean just do your damned job.

What is it with people who are so concerned about keeping their job that they don't actually do their job? Why are people so afraid to say "that's a bad idea?" Why is making your boss happy more important than doing what's right?

Oh yes, and can I just say how sick I am of people who want to be seen as "different" and "edgy" who manifest their individuality by continually saying "yes boss, you're brilliant. I'm brilliant too!"

The savior can't act
So exactly when did Keanu Reeves become the official savior of the universe? I recently saw an ad for his new movie, Constantine, and once again he's fighting hell for the gipper. Or for somebody. And I must say, it's beginning to freak me out. Between him being just this side of Christ in the Matrices (because I am too much a lady of quality to misuse my irregular plurals), and this new flick I have to say it's not looking good for the world. Keanu Reeves the man who can change destiny? Density maybe.

Comfort
Hot baths and favorite old books. Mashed potatoes. Warm chocolate chip cookies and cold milk. Buttermilk biscuits with butter. Classic MGM musicals where everyone lives happily ever after and even the cab drivers know how to dance. Sweats and slippers. Fires. Cocoa. Toast. As Time Goes By on BBC America. Photographs of loved ones. Things that are soft, faded, comfy, warm, and familiar. Homemade chicken soup. French bread and cheese. The music of Louis Armstrong. Clean sheets. Cozy mysteries. Popcorn. Pillows and blankets. Making a nest on the sofa.

In praise of world music
You may or may not know, or care, that I host a world music radio show on KZSU, the Stanford University radio station. Because of that, I am constantly exposed to new music from all around the world. And all I can say is...wow!

Thank god for Sanseverino, a wacky Italian-French gypsy-jazz-pop singer whose CD "Les Senegalaises" was one of my top ten of 2004 and still gets me through the day when things get dreary. Thanks too, to Rachid Taha whose Algerian cover of The Clash's famous anthem "Rock the Casbah," is an ironic hip-shaking rai-groove that is seriously cool. Bless Henri Dikongue (one of my first discoveries), Wassis Diop, Angelique Kidjo, Oliver Mutkutzi, Ladysmith Black Mambazo, and all of the wonderful artists out of Africa who don't get nearly the fame they deserve. Bless all those 80 year old "Buena Vista Social Club," guys who keep Cuba dancing. Thanks to Kila for their hypnotic Celtic-world epics. And lets not forget the amazing Native American performers who are (typical of Native Americans, unfortunately) pretty much ignored by the mainstream: Joanne Shenandoah, Robert Mirabal, Bill Miller, Sharon Burch, to name only a few.

If you only listen to mainstream music, do yourself a favor and discover the world. Like Blues? Check out some French Blues? Like hip hop? You might try listening to African or Spanish hip hop. Pop? Hell, the world is full of great pop, rock, jazz, even punk artists.

Please, listen to the world. It wants to be heard.

I give up!
So what I think might be the last nail in the "I want to buy a house" coffin was struck today with this morning's front page headline in the San Francisco Chronicle. "Bay Area home prices increase 20%, sales skyrocket." Oh goodie...Boise, here we come.

Happy Hallmark
Today is Valentine's Day. An entirely retail-created holiday that has little or nothing to do with romance.

Romance is not sending flowers to your loved one because advertising tells you that you must (or else you'll be sleeping on the sofa). Romance is sending flowers just because, or when he or she is having a bad day and could use a little extra love.

I don't know how people can get romantic on demand. Nor do I understand how people can make such a huge thing out of such a manufactured occasion. I know I am loved, not because my husband buys me candy on February 14th, but because he brings me tea when I'm sick. And because we always seem to end up holding hands, even when we're just watching TV.

Anybody else remember the song "detatchable penis?"
I didn't know there actually is such a thing. Turns out some actor used one to help him try to fake a drug test. He failed. Oops.

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Poor dear
How will poor, maligned Carly Fiorina get by on just $21 milllion? Thanks for helping my husband's job move away so he had to leave something he truly enjoyed, Carly.

How come I can't get $21 milllion for getting fired? Hell, I'd happily be fired for only $1 million!

Hey ladies, don't want to use sex to get ahead at work?

Use sports! Today thanks to my knowledge of football and hockey I was able to cut through work crap and "bond" with two separate men because of sports. Coming together on a common ground of "what's wrong with hockey" and "why the Eagles lost" (sob!) we were able to quickly reach a work decision because there was some semblance of equality and none of the obnixious "this is my turf" posturing that I keep running accross. So, what to break the ice with the guys you work with? Learn to discuss the infield fly rule. Trust me, it works.

Baby, can I drive your car?
From my (temporary) window I can see the freeway. I watch the cars zooming by, writing in my mind scenarios of homecoming and evenings of relaxation. Cooking dinner while listening to John Coltrane and talking to your loved one about the day. Solo Thai takeout eaten in front of whatever goodie TiVO caught on your behalf.

Trucks filled with the sounds of Alan Jackson twanging the drivers along their way. Self-important BMW drivers too intent on their cell phones and not intent enough on the traffic.

Moms with kids tucked and buckled safely in, singing “The Wheels on the Bus” for the 17th time this month.

Every one in every car has a story. Someone just got fired. Someone got hired. Someone fell in love today. Someone broke up.

A few lucky drivers have furry passengers licking up their windows breathing down their necks.

Some cars are filled with silence. The calm, relaxed silence so needed at the end of a hectic day. The cold, uncomfortable silence of people who have run out of things to say to each other far too early in life.

Some drivers smile and wish herds of field-stuck cows “good evening,” as they speed along, enjoying the freedom. Others would probably be surprised to learn that there are cows along the side of the freeway.

In the sleepy, waning hour of the workday when I’ve had not enough to do and not nearly enough human interaction, I envy the cars on the road.

Right now, I would like nothing more than to be among them, heading home.

Have a good evening, cows.

The morning after
Alas, our beloved Philadelphia Eagles did not win the Super Bowl. Certainly my husband and I did everything in our part to bring about a victory. We were attired in the appropriate green clothing. We were drinking the right beer. I did not look during the crucial plays. It's amazing how superstitious even the most rational of people (and by which I mean my husband, not I) can be when the stakes are so high. We actually get anxious that our team might loose because we took off a hat or forgot to use the same water glass we used during the victorious playoff games.

I know Philadelphia is a blame kind of town. In fact there's a poll in today's paper asking whose fault it is that the team lost. (Poor Donovan McNabb is in the lead for taking the rap). But I hereby declare my innocence. I swear that I was in no way responsible for their defeat. I swear by the statue of "Dirty Bill" that I did nothing to jinx, hex, or otherwise stymie the Philadelphia Eagles in their quest to become champions.

Oh well...there's always next year.

Go Eagles, and thanks for a great season.

Need an "awwww"?
Cheetah cubs! Impossibly adorable.

What's hell to you?
My idea of hell? Forget about demons gnawing on my bones for eternity. Forget pits of fire and brimstone. For me, hell is an eternity being spent locked in a room with technology…alone. My idea of the worst torture I could endure would be spending eternity having to set up computers, having to transfer information from one to another, having to download and install software, having to do things llike “configure” and “reconfigure.” Having to create and remember more passwords than I have teeth. Having to figure out how to install a printer.
That’s my idea of hell.

Today, I was in hell.

Horray for the brain
Have you seen Rough Science? If not, you should. I am by no means a scientific type person, but I love this show. A group of scientists (all of whom I'd love to have over for dinner) are "stranded" someplace and given assignments like "make a clock," "make a radio," or "figure out how much this glacier moves in 24-hours." Using only what they find around them, plus an assortment of odd tools, they make things happen.

This is the kind of reality television I like. Watching people use their brains in an ingeneous way, seeing how cooperation makes things possible, this is good stuff. I've been amazed watching them make sunscreen from native plants, building weather stations using spare wood and parts of an old radio, and various other wonders. Check it out.

There is no reason...
For Cadillac SUVs. None. There is no reason why they should be manufactured in the first place, let alone a reason for anyone to be driving them.

Gettin down with Donnie Mac

Being married to a native Philadelphian, I am naturally all caught up in Super Bowl fever as our beloved Eagles prepare to trounce those nasty Patriots.

I am not, however, going to write a song about the Eagles. No, it's been done...and done repeatedly, apparently. As if choruses of "Fly, Eagles, Fly" after every TD wasn't enough, many in the Philadelphia music scene are expressing their love for the team through new compositions. Among the titles are "Donnie Mac," and "Letz Go T.O." (The latter was, apparently, featured on the personal website of limping egomaniac Terrell Owens.)

However, I believe my favorite title in honor of the Eagles has to be the love ballad, "Respect, Hustle, Pride."

Go team!

Talk, talk
Do you have any idea how much I'd give for a conversation right now? No, you probably don't. You probably work someplace where your co-workers might randomly stop by and ask how your weekend was. Maybe while you're pouring yourself a second cup of coffee, a pre-Super Bowl debate will break out.

Not here.

Here it's silent. It's a wall of closed office doors that prohibit any kind of human interaction.

Maybe I'm weird, but I find I enjoy work more if conversations spontaneously break out. If I hear laughter occasionally. If my day is filled with unexpected encounters with pleasant people. I also find, as a manager, that a team is tigher and happier if they treat each other as people and not as just someone they work with. I don't expect instant friendship, I do expect a "good morning" now and then.

I've been here for two hours this morning and haven't spoken to another person. Hell, I haven't even seen another person (and no, I'm not exaggerating or making this up). Everyone, as usual, has their door closed.

Come on, people, open your doors and let a little life in.

There's trouble at the mill...
Many of my friends have expressed surprise at the fact that, after being so miserable working in the high tech world in my last job, I have taken another one in the same industry. And yes, I did say never again.

So why am I once again working in the field? Because around here, high tech companies are the only ones hiring. I don't know why it took me so long to realize this, but from out of the blue came this revelation. Basically, we're a steel town with computers, and I'm just working at the mill.

Mill workers don't go work for the steel mill because they love steel. They work there because they need to pay rent and take care of their families. And while there are definately people who work with technology because they love it, I am not one of them. I don't love technology. I fear and loathe it. It stymies me at every turn and makes my life a misery.

I'd be much happier working for a non-profit organization but either a) there are no jobs, or b) the jobs that do exist pay next to nothing. And the spectre of that damned house that I long for still looms in the distance -- a sincere impossibility if I work for $65,000 a year saving the world.

What a choice to make. Do I save the world and selflessly give up my biggest dream or do I callously become materialistic all because I made the mistake of growing up in the most expensive area of the US?

I will wrestle with the answer to that question probably for the rest of my life. But for now, I'm just working at the mill.

Farewell Johnny
I know I'm late on the boat here, but I just wanted to say how much I'm going to miss Johnny Carson. Yes, I know he hasn't been on the air in years, but I have such fond memories of him. I think many of us do. The stupid gags, the nights when he'd have animals on (anyone remember Joan Embry?), his monologues with the golf swing at the end. And, of course, the guests. It was a nighttime ritual. Get ready for bed while listening to that familiar music kick in and then curl up for a few minutes and watch some up and coming comedian or old-time Borscht belt veteran. Great stuff. He had class, that man, a quality which few people today have and fewer still appreciate.

Back in college my group of friends used to have monthly theme parties. Come as your favorite ex-President. Celebrate arbor day. That kind of thing. One time we had a party where you weren't allowed in unless you brought with you a "famous person." Basically, you had to bring along someone who had the same name as a celebrity. Great party. Someone brought their 80-year old aunt, Betty White. Another person brought along Pat Garret who, in addition to being credited with the killing of Billy the Kid was, apparently, also a banker in San Francisco. I searched high and low for a celebrity and was saved the day before the party by discovering that my neighbor went to a dentist named, yup, Johnny Carson.

I love that I once brought Johnny Carson to a party.

Thanks for the laughs, Johnny. We're gonna miss you.

Life decisions
The big life decisions suck. I'm one of those people who, no matter what decision I make, I always seem to regret. After being concerned about money for such a long time, I finally landed a job. Now it's day 3 of the new job and I hate it. So what do I do? Quit and look like an idiot, but save me headache and save them time in finding someone new? Stick it out for a reasonable period of time (say 6 months) and then see how I feel? I have no clue. I do know, however, that right now I am terribly unhappy....more so than can be blamed on the expected stress of starting a new job. The place has definately NOT lived up to my expectations. Everyone seems to be in a perpetual bad mood (not the case when I interviewed), no one seems to be friendly...let alone friends, and I feel extremely unwelcome there. Plus the work turns out to be far more dull and far less creative than I was led to believe. So...what would you do?

The Blues
I love the Blues. I think the Blues are like poetry: either you love it or you hate it. And, like poetry, the Blues are universal.

We all know what it feels like to have love go wrong, to feel like life is out to get us, and to know, deep down in your soul, that you are the only person in the entire world awake and alone at 4:17 am.

Because Blues is the sound of someone saying, "how could you do this to me?" It's the slam of a door with you on one side and your lover on the other. It's the soundtrack to the realization that in your necessity to earn a living you've given up on your dream to climb Everest or write the great American novel. Blues sets loneliness and regret, fear and desperation to music, and invites you to pour a shot and wallow in it.

But the great thing about the Blues is that it also has the power to remind you, when you wonder if the night will ever end, that there will be another day.. It makes you feel less alone, in a "misery loves company" sort of way. And it lets you know that everyone, with the possible exception of Keanu Reeves, knows what it's like to feel that the universe has a grudge against you.

So heres to Muddy Waters and Lightning Hopkins, Howlin' Wolf and Big Mama Thornton, and everyone who had the courage to share their pain with us in the hope that it might help get us through the night.

2004: The good, the bad, and the really bad
I don't know if I'm sad to see the end of 2004 of if I'm relieved to have made it out alive. Certainly it was an eventful year, possibly with more downs than ups, and with the usual crop of things to celebrate and mourn.

On the upside, for one brief, shining moment it seemed possibly to actually get George Bush out of office. On the downside, we were wrong. But there was a lot of hope and positive energy going on that felt wonderful. It was a refreshing reminder of the power of good to see so many people from so many different backgrounds uniting to work for a common cause. And then, everything went wrong.

On the severe downside the year ended with a disaster of an almost incomprehensible scale. On the upside, once again people are opening their hearts and wallets to make a difference. Nothing can truly help these people recover from all they've lost, except perhaps time, but it is nice to know that generosity and kindness are not dead. In spite of the Bush administration's attempt to throw pennies at the problem.

On the downside we lost too many good people, including Ray Charles, Captain Kangaroo, Christopher Reeve, and Artie Shaw. On the upside my world was added to by the birth of new friends....welcome little ones, I hope you enjoy the ride.

I quit my job in 2004, and now revel in the freedom to say "I hate IBM!" and I found a new one in the final week of the year that promises to be in an atmosphere of far more creativity and far less bureaucracy.

There were amazing days that I will always remember: most notably the weddings of Bridget & Dustin and Andy & Jess, because they honored me by asking me to perform there ceremonies. I will also remember watching the sun set over the Grand Canyon with my beloved, and views of Yosemite, Manzanar, and Death Valley that I recall clearly -- even without the aid of photographs.

2004 was the year of endless Scott Peterson stories, the election that consumed the world, hurricanes, a hockey strike, and Janet Jackson's breast (who cares?) It was far too much reality TV and far too little quality fiction in the world of books.

So what will 2005 bring? The usual crop of disasters, no doubt. But hopefully with a few delicious surprises along the way. I don't make New Year's resolutions, aside from an overwhelming desire to clean during the first week of the year, but I do hope to keep an open mind and be more optimistic about what the future will bring.

Happy New Year's everyone, may it be a year of peace, joy, laughter, and positive change for us all.

In Praise of History
I admit it, I'm a history fanatic. Give me a well-researched, well-written account of even the most obscure event in world history and I'm happy. Because of this, I'm a huge fan of the History Channel. While their programming is certainly not perfect (too many programs on the history of the Howitzer and such), it's still nevertheless television that never fails to teach me something I didn't know.

One of my favorite of their shows is Battlefield Detectives, a fascinating program that takes some battle (tonight, for instance, there were back-to-back episodes examining the Civil War battles of Antietem and Gettysburg) and explores issues such as how geography, soil conditions, and crowd behavior could have affected the outcome.

There's really no point to this, except to say that it's a good show that definitely deserves a bigger audience than American Idol.

Truth in Advertising
Have you seen those IBM commmercials where the guys are in Paris and look around and see things like "wireless internet" and "deals being closed?" Those always make me laugh. Having worked for IBM, I can say that behavior is exactly what IBM would like their ideal employee to do. Even if they weren't in Paris on business, the ideal IBM-er would sit in a sidewalk cafe and see, not history, art, beauty, or romance, but commerce, technology, and non-stop business. At last, truth in advertising. They're not kidding when they use the slogan "on-deman business," because when IBM demands it, you do business, dammit!

Fa la la la la
Here's my new favorite Christmas song!

Protect Us From Dangerous Chess Players

Have you heard about this? Bobby Fischer, former US Chess Champion is in limbo in Japan because he's wanted in the US for violating international sanctions by visiting Yugoslavia in 1992 to play chess. His passport's been cancelled by the US, he's applied for citizenship in Germany (due to his German father) and has just been given asylum in Iceland. Don't we have bigger problems that trying to jail some guy who played chess over 10 years ago?

The Plot Thickens...
Recently my beloved husband was, justifiably so, incredibly pleased with himself to have discovered the murderer early in the course of a murder mysery he was reading. Similarly, I was taken aback when watching a mystery movie to discover my prime suspect had, in fact, become victim number two.

What is it about mysteries that are so compelling? Is it as simple as the comfort derived from knowing that the bad guy will get caught and there will be justice? Certainly that's part of it. In today's world when everything seems overly complicated and justice often dictated by public opinion, there is a level of satisfaction in knowing that Hercule Poirot or Lord Peter Whimsey or whoever will solve the crime and the perpetrator will be punished.

And speaking of punishment, I am truly glad the Scott Peterson trial is over. I am, however, apalled at the people who aplauded when the death penalty was announced. Even more so when I saw a woman being interviewed by the local news about how glad she was he was going to die, and then driving off in her SUV with a pro-life sticker. Does anyone else see this as contradictory? If life is sacred to you, then all life should be sacred -- even the life of a conviced killer. And nobody's death, even someone who may have done evil things, should ever be a cause of rejoicing.

Man, Philadelphia is one tough town

Recently police in Philadelphia arrested and handcuffed a 10-year old girl for bringing a pair of scissors to school in her backpack. They have since apologized. Personally, I think they were right. How proud I am to live in a country where I am protected from children armed with arts-and-crafts supplies. Do you have any idea how dangerous glitter can be in the hands of someone determined to do harm?

Somewhere along the line, America has lost all common sense. OK, scary as it is, I understand that a few troubled kids may try to bring guns and knives to school with them. But a little girl with scissors? Please. What lack of judgement decides that this is an offense deserving of handcuffing and arrest? Take the scissors away, fine. Send her to the principal's office, not jail. Good lord, people, where are your brains? Laws against bringing weapons to school were meant to cover automatic rifles, not some poor kid innocently bringing in scissors with no intent to harm.

Perhaps it's just Philadelphia, a town so tough that they once infamously booed Santa Claus at a sporting event. A town where the previous football stadium had its own holding cell and courtroom. But I know it's not limited to the "city of brotherly love." All across the US people are overreacting. Grandmothers who can't bring knitting needles onto airplanes because they may decide to purl a flight attendant. (Personally, if you're so terrified of knitting needles that you'd rather give up control of the plane rather than be poked by one should pretty much prevent you from being a flight attendant in my book.)

It would all be hilarious if it weren't so terrifying. That hated class of people known as "spokespersons" are notorious for comments like "well, those are the rule and we can't make exceptions." To which I can only ask "why not?" Why not use a little common sense. Why not understand that there's a huge difference between trying to bring a stick of dynamite onto an airplane and someone trying to come on with a manicure set that includes cuticle scissors? And, above all, why not realize that we're more in danger by continuing to foster this climate of fear in which individual rights are trampled on than we ever can be by a 10-year old with office supplies?

It hurt me...but then I got better

What is it with publishers? Why is it the review quotes that they choose to put on the covers of books always make me want to throw the book across the room rather than part with $15 to buy the damned thing?

Today I went to the library (god bless libraries!) to get this month's book group selection (For Kings and Planets by Ethan Canin) and found this quote on the cover: "Shimmering...luminous...For Kings and Planets leaves you wounded and healed." This comment (from the NY Times) does not fill me with confidence.

I do not wish my books to wound me. I mean if they are going to wound me, it's very considerate of them to heal me as well, but I really don't want to be wounded, thanks all the same. I want my books to entertain me, make me laugh, make the think, take me away from my world and show me another world. But I do not want them to wound me.

I am, however, comforted by the fact that this book is hardly likely to wound me. I seem to be invulnerable to book reviews. I have yet to have my life affirmed by any book described as "life-affirming." Novels practically guaranteed to change me have yet to do more than make me nauseous. And anything that has the word "moving" in any of the chosen review quotes usually means, as far as I'm concerned, pretentious and dull.

For Kings and Planets has another quote that describes it as: "Masterful...a classic parable of the human condition."

Um...what exactly is the human condition? I've never been able to figure that out. Perhaps after reading this book and deciphering the parable I'll be able to understand what the human condition is, but truly I'm mystified. Various other novels have been touted as "touching on," "commenting on," "explaining," "challenging" and otherwise denting the ever-present human condition, and yet here I am, thousands of books later and still none the wiser about what this damned condition is. You'd think, as a human, that I should know this. In fact you'd think, as a human, it would be a requirement for membership in the homo sapien club. And yet here I sit, clueless about the human condition.

I think that's why I like animals so much. Animals rarely, if ever, have enough pretention to refer to an exploration of the "canine condition," or the "avian condition."

Plots, dammit, I want plots, not "a breathtaking commentary" on anything.

Why can't people write anymore?

I do not want to be remodeled

What is with the current trend towards making over your friends? So-called "fashion experts" ambush poor innocent people because, according to their friends, they need help. If my friends tried to do that to me, I'd be pissed. Yes, I know I am not fashionable and guess what? I like it that way. I dress the way I do with malace aforethought -- because I prefer to be me and not some Nordstrom clone.

Houses too, are unsafe. A husband goes away for the weekend and comes home to find that his wife has brought in a team of decorators to turn their bedroom into an Arabian Nights retreat, or their living room into a "gracious entertainment space." I would never do something so drastic without my husband's input. Worse, they spring it on the poor guy on TV where he really cannot say "holy shit, this looks like crap," and must, instead, smile bravely while pretending that he's always wanted to sleep in a canopy bed.

I admit that I'd love to redo my house (well, buy a house and then have the freedom to redo it), but I would be incredibly upset if my husband snuck behind my back and turned our kitchen into a Tuscan bakery. No thanks.

Baby, it's cold outside...

OK, not Maine cold, but cold enough to remind this California native of her thin blood. For days now I've wandered around bundled up in layers and have begun a serious relationship with my hot water bottle. It's nicely atmospheric, though. There's something about the cold night air, fragrent with the scent of woodsmoke. The fugitive puff of air that I exhale. The coziness of soft gloves and a favorite scarf. It's a wonderful excuse for mugs of hot tea, rereading favorite books, and indulging in long, hot baths. With Christmas fast approaching, it also makes a nice accompaniement for the white twinkle lights that dot the neighborhood. But truthfully, I dread next month's heating bill.

I have nothing to say and I'm saying it
How is it possible that there are still books in my "to be read" pile and yet I can't find anything to read? Ever look at a book you bought years ago and still haven't cracked open and asked yourself "why did I buy this?" I have a few books like that for which I have no answer. Perhaps I should read them and find out what appealed to me in the first place.

I know the Republicans won the election, but do they have to be so damned smug about it? They're truly insufferable.

Why are old movies so much better than new ones? In part I believe it's because of character actors. We don't really have them anymore. Or sure, you might recognize the hotel clerk as the guy in the Mazda ad, but it's not the same as the stable of truly great and memorable character actors of the golden age of Hollywood. Thelma Ritter, Eric Blore, "Cuddles" Sakall, Mary Wickes...they made every seen they were in an interesting, frequently hilarious part of the overall film. Today so-called character actors get to be seen taking Tom Cruise's order in a restaurant scene and that's pretty much it. Back then the character actors were given life. Of course back then movies had scripts instead of just special effects and plots.

Lately my beloved has been playing lots of old jazz and blues vinyl. This makes me very happy. There's been some great music around our house recently.

You know the hardest thing about being unemployed and having to watch finances? It's not that I can't go crazy in Borders....it's that I can't write large checks to every wonderful cause out there. I got used to that, now I have to not feel anything when I throw solicitation letters unopened into the recycle bag. It makes me very sad.

My husband is the greatest guy in the world. No debate.

Why did the people across the street start painting their house yesterday 20 minutes before the sun went down? Odd. People's behavior always fascinates me.

Today...
...the weather matches my mood. Gray. Cloudy. Overcast. It's that kind of day in my brain. Between 4 more years of Bush and my ongoing and, to date, fruitless search for a job, I must admit I'm not really in my happy place. Torn between my desire to make enough money to buy a house and my desire to save the world, I find I can't do either. Non-profits will only pay for Administrative Assistants (for which I'm overqualified) or Executive Directors (for which I'm underqualified). And in the business world, there's nothing going of any interest. Oh yeah, there are jobs, but one of the reasons why I quit IBM is because I was tired of working for just a paycheck. I need more. I need to feel like I'm doing something, not just taking up space. After having taken that stand, do I really want to go write tech manuals for a hardware company? Um...no. Aside from the fact that the work and the industry (sorry geeks) sound deadly dull....it would be just another paycheck.

I want the impossible. I want to make a living as an artist. I want to be creative. I want to fight the forces of evil. And yes, dammit, I want a house!

So it's gray in my head. And outside.

Anyone want to hire a depressed writer?

Damn, Damn, Damn!!!
Four more years of George Bush. I can't believe it. How stupid can America be? Apparently stupid enough to keep Bush in office for a second term. How in the name of sanity could anyone believe he's done a good enough job as President to be given four more years? An unjust war. Thousands of civilian and military casualties with no end in sight. A debt so large that it'll take generations to pay off. And yet he wins. I'm angry, confused, and just plain stunned. I guess every right-wing, SUV-driving, militaristic, Christian zealot in the US turned out to keep little Georgy in office. I'm furious and so very, very disappointed. I had hoped to wake up this morning in a new world, where humanity was valued, tolerance was preached, and sanity ruled. I was wrong.

Thanks to all the thousands of people who worked for the Kerry campaign. To all the people who made phone calls, staffed tables, went door-to-door, and gave up vacation time to visit swing states. Please know that your efforts are appreciated.

Truly, I could just cry.

Counting down...

Waiting for vacations is truly a painful process. Even for me, currently unemployed and loving every minute of it, the prospect of getting away, seeing new things and having adventures is almost too intoxicating to comprehend. A few days ago, my husband asked if I'd mind if we put our vacation off a week to give him more breathing room at work. "No problem," says I in one of my generous moods. And now it feels as if someone has put Christmas back a month. I can't wait. I find myself glancing at the maps lying innocently in a pile on the table and feeling that desperate sense of wanderlust come over me. I find myself doing laundry and thinking yes or no as each item makes the cut in my mental packing list. I'm spreading pre-trip errands out like some sort of shopping Advent calendar: today I get film, tomorrow I'll pick up batteries, on Thursday I should hit the library.

I feel like a little kid, stamping my foot and screaming "I wanna go now!!!" as I pass by the suitcase on my way to the exercise mat. And while I may be engaged in cleaning the kitchen or reviewing a CD, the truth is my brain is already on the road. It left last week and hasn't sent a postcard yet. I have no idea where it is, but it definately isn't here. I just hope I pass it on the road somewhere.

11 days to go...

Vote, dammit!

I was at a family gathering this weekend when the subject turned, dangerously enough, to politics. One of my brothers said he really doesn’t like Bush, but also doesn’t like Kerry that much…so he’s just not going to vote.

I wanted to scream.

Of all the possible decisions to make in this election, if you want Bush out of office, not voting is the worst thing to do. A non-vote is basically a vote for Bush.

There are only two people who stand a reasonable chance of winning this election (sorry Mr. Nader). So if you feel (as I do), that President Bush is a disastrous leader that has done serious damage to this country, then you must vote for Kerry…that’s the only way that Bush can lose.

The cats come back...

All of life’s rich pageant seems to get enacted in our backyard thanks to an ensemble cast of vagrant cats that pad endlessly through the property. At the moment, from the office window, I can see no fewer than three cats…none of which we own.

There’s the long grey stripy one stretched out in a patch of shade. The pale Siamese-ish one sleeping on the rail of the fence. And the brown one with the reddish hindquarters is curled up in an empty planter box.

At the moment, the cast seems to be resting between takes. Earlier this morning however, not a dry eye in the house could be found as the balcony scene from Romero and Juliet took place between a smitten kitten and a big orange Tom with a decidedly dusty air. With elocution worthy of a Victorian preacher, they delivered their lines so piercingly that they drowned out the Latin jazz I had playing on the stereo.


It all takes place out there. Love and death. Alliances and wars. The miracle of birth and the commonplace occurrence of cat poop on the lawn. We’ve had kittens and commandos fighting for supremacy of the most favored spots: under the lounge chair, on top of the fence, in the planter. We’ve had unwelcome midnight serenades that have kept us awake, and indignant mama cats have yelled us at when we’ve dared to water our own yard.

Conversation with our next-door-neighbor has led us to believe these strays are all fed by the neighbor next to them. Neighbors who do not, apparently, believe in spaying or neutering cats. We’ve had at least two and possibly as many as 4 litters of kittens in our yard looking untouchably adorable and causing us much worry. (Two animal lovers who can do nothing to protect little kittens wandering around next to a very busy street…very stressful).

My husband and I would love to have a pet, but we can’t. So until we have our own place, we live with the ironic fact that our yard has the pets we are not allowed to own. And, if nothing else, it keeps things interesting.

Thank you BBC America

Last night after watching the very funny comedy My Family, on BBC America, my husband turned to me and asked “why are the British so much better at television than we are?”

I think it’s because we have too much TV. The British don’t have 147 channels to choose from, so the availability of airtime is limited. I think, therefore, there’s a higher level of quality because in order for a program to fit into one of the few spots on TV, it has to be good.

In America television, like most other things in American culture, quality takes a back seat to quantity. If there are 100 plus networks trying to fill the airwaves 24-hours a day, you’re going to get a lot of crap. After all, the can only show so many reruns of I Dream of Jeannie and Different Strokes. So it seems that any lame idea has its chance at getting on the air, if only to do nothing much than to kill time.

It goes hand-in-hand with that odd assemblage of American society that seems to demand their 15-minutes of fame. Like the instant so-called “celebrities” that are created out of tabloid mini-dramas, bad television arises, captures attention like a fat woman in too-tight neon green Capri pants, and then disappears (one hopes) as quickly as they came.

And so since it’s all about filling time rather than being good, you find that television is crammed with programs featuring celebrities playing poker, talk shows hosted by has beens that you can’t remember, freakishly strong Norwegian men pulling semis with their teeth, and shows that teach you how to redo your bathroom for under $50 and using materials scrounged from garage sale leftovers.

But the English, bless them, still like good acting and intelligent scripts. Oh sure, they have their share of crap too, but even their crap has a brain.

So bravo for BBC America. For My Family, The Office, As Time Goes By, and all those yummy mysteries. And thank you for a job well done.

I hate IBM

I think most people have an unwritten list in their heads of things they know they do no want to do, try, or eat. For instance, my list includes: I never want to spend time in a Cambodian prison, I never want to meet a Klan member, and I never want to have a bikini wax. Also on my list…I never want to work for IBM.

Once again, Kafka is my personal guardian angel and the company for which I worked was acquired by the very corporation I used to hold up as the example of all that is evil and wrong about huge megapocalyptic companies.

The fact that I lasted an entire year still seems amazing. Now that I am out, I cannot believe I survived that long. Of course, it wasn’t without cost. I was miserable every day for that entire year. The toxic environment (and no, I don’t mean asbestos ceilings and acid water…I mean an atmosphere of stress and conformity) was so bad that I (like others) began to exhibit physical symptoms (migraines, back aches, etc.) I hated the lack of creativity, the endless pointless rules, the constant demands to comply with this standard and conform to that.

IBM is no place for a creative, freethinking, rule-breaker like I. And I’m damned glad to be out.

So here’s some career advice. If you want to stay sane, have fun, be different, and try new things…don’t work for IBM.

Hmm…maybe I have spent time in a Cambodian prison…

A few of my favorite things...

The music of Django Reinhardt. The movies of Katharine Hepburn, Gene Kelly, Cary Grant, Humphrey Bogart, and Jimmy Stewart. Chocolate chip cookies warm from the oven. Hot baths. The unconditional love and endless enthusiasm of dogs. Chinese food. Red wine. Traveling. Taking pictures. Being with my friends. Reading a good book. Lazy weekends with my beloved. The ocean. Lying on a warm beach. Classic British mysteries. Hawaii. The smell of leather. Making people laugh. Writing. Dinner parties. Lake Tahoe. Convertibles. Louis Armstrong. Sourdough French bread. Cheese. Museums, aquariums, and zoos. History. Faded jeans. Buying presents. Book stores. British comedies. NOT WORKING FOR IBM!

Still want to be an astronaut? How do you do it?

Somewhere there must be a cosmic recycle bin for discarded dreams. The worn, the tired, the hopeless – they all cast their plans for writing the great American novel or climbing Kilimanjaro into this receptacle where they are turned into fresh dreams for the young and the indestructible.

How about you. What are your dreams? What do you want? What have you already given up on? What are you holding on to?

I’m at one of those annoying crossroads that seem to afflict people of a creative mind. You must know them. Do I resign myself to being broke but live happily pursing my dream as a writer, or do I forsake the dream and get another job so that I can someday maybe even buy a house?

Wouldn’t it be great if everyone’s dreams came true? If we lived in a world filled with cowboys and ballerinas? OK, annoying, but a warm fuzzy “what if” all the same. I was going to save the world. I was going to win an Academy Award for Best Actress. I was going to be a photographer for National Geographic and go around the world taking pictures and writing stories. I was going to be a novelist. I was going to….well, you get the idea.

But somewhere along the way, we all give up. It’s tragic, really. I mean I’m not really a coward, but practicality does rear its ugly head and make you realize that as a responsible individual you have rent to pay that can’t wait until the world beats a path to your door and hands you the Nobel Prize for Literature.

It would help if the universe were cooperative. I’m not asking for a golden carpet, but fewer roadblocks would be nice. I mean it’s hard to stay focused on that last dream when your health insurance won’t pay for your physical therapy or you suddenly need to pay for car repairs that couldn’t come at a worse time.

This is the best blog ever!!!

Thanks to the over-zealousness of the American advertising industry, words no longer mean anything. If a chewing gum can be referred to as “extreme,” you know that the vocabulary has changed.

Everything has become a superlative. And when everything is amazing – everything becomes exactly the same.

It’s carried over into the rest of the culture as well. Marketing has become such a force of cultural change that it has completely altered our perception of what things mean. “Superstar,” for instance. Can someone actually be called a superstar when 4 out of 5 people have never heard of that person? Talk about a loose definition. Some 19-year old silicon airhead makes one movie or appears on one Fox TV show and suddenly they’re a superstar.

It’s such a modern term, too. In the golden age of Hollywood, Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant weren’t called “superstars.” “Stars,” yes. But super? No, that came later. Which is ironic, because Katharine Hepburn actually deserved to be called a superstar. Alyssa Milano does not.

When exactly did everything become overdone? When did words like “ultimate,” and “amazing,” become so commonplace as to be rendered meaningless? The other day at the grocery store I heard a child refer to a breakfast cereal as “supreme.” Supreme? It’s processed corn with sugar and food coloring and it’s worthy of being called “supreme?”

It used to be that modesty, both personal and commercial, was a virtue. When someone complimented you on a job well done you were expected to smile deprecatingly and make some comment about how much help you’d received from the other guys. Today people don’t wait to be complimented, they point out their own accomplishments and demand all the glory.

A while back I came across some issues of Time Magazine from the 1930’s and in looking at the advertisements I was struck at how humble they were. Products were described as “good-tasting,” and “durable,” not “the best,” and the dreaded “extreme.”

Which just goes to prove, once again, that I was born in the wrong century.

Video, video

On Fridays it is crucial to get to the video store early. After 5, when people get off work, the lines snake through the store and all the new releases are gone – except for those that no one wants to see. Anything that looked marginally interesting in an ad, one of those “yeah, I’d rent that” films…they’re gone by 2. After that, you’re only in luck if you like Adam Sandler flicks or movies with 5, 6, or 7 in the title. It’s amazing the dreck that gets left behind in the wake of hoards of weekend movie-renters. All those early Jackie Chan films that they re-released, those can usually be found. Films featuring huge mutant mollusks are also usually available. Anything that stars a rodent. But the good stuff? Forget it.

I believe you can gauge a star’s status by whether or not you can find their films after 5 pm on a Friday night. There will be no Brat Pitt, Will Smith, Denzel Washington, Johnny Depp, Halle Berry, or Tom Cruise. There will, however, be an abundance of Angelina Jolie, Kevin Costner, Meg Ryan, Jodie Foster, or anyone who ever starred on Friends or Saturday Night Live.

Then there are the surprises. Why would both copies of Mrs. Miniver be rented at the same time? How is it that the complete Godfather trilogy is still sitting on the shelf? Why does my local video bother to stock no less that 4 copies of Brigadoon? These are epic questions. Philosophy-level. Surely they reflect somehow on the condition of modern man. Don’t they?

Why is Finding Nemo always on the monitor, and how sick of it is the staff of the store? Will it have a deleterious affect upon them? Ten years from now, will they sue for mental anguish because they can still quote entire passages of dialogue? Will it cause them to never want to reproduce?

And what is with the mystical filing system. I have a dim suspicion that the categorization of films was adapted from the system used in the Great Alexandrian Library (one of the ten wonders of the ancient world, you know.) For only the oracle at Delphi could understand how things are shelved. The Great Escape, for instance, is not in Drama. It’s not in Action/Adventure. It’s not in Classics. It’s in “Award Winners” because, as we all know, it won an Academy Award for Cinematography. Yes, of course, how silly of me. Singing in the Rain. Musical? Nope. Classics? Nope. Family Favorites of course, you dope. Ah, well then how about a few Hitchcock movies. Well, Rear Window is in Classics. Vertigo is in Mystery/Suspense. And The Man Who Knew Too Much is….yes….you guessed it, in Drama. I half suspect I’ll find The Birds filed under Documentary.

In praise of favorite books

Recently I’ve found my entire life put on hold while I read, for the 5th or 6th time, books by one of my favorite authors. Books, like food, go in cycles with me. I’ll munch on toast at odd hours of the day for a month and then, for no reason at all, I’ll stop craving toast and start longing for apples. It’s the same with books. For weeks on end I’ll pick up one Jane Austin after another until I get enough and move on to someone else.

I’m currently in a Dorothy L. Sayers phase. If you haven’t read her, please do. She’s one of the great stars of British detective fiction. But don’t get all snobby about dead Lords in libraries and maiden lady detectives. Sayers was a scholar, one of the first generation of women to get a university education in Britain (Sommerville College, Oxford). Her novels are not only interesting mysteries, they are also well written, highly literate books. I especially love the ones involving her detective Lord Peter Wimsey and his eventual wife, the wonderful Harriet Vane. Please do read one or two (start with Strong Poison, for the first of the Harriet Vane books).

But what never ceases to amaze me is the pleasure I can receive from a book that I’ve read multiple times. There’s something so reassuringly delightful about letting a book fall open to its favorite place, running your eye along passages that you’ve all but memorized and savoring once again a special scene or memorable bit of dialogue.

For a cynical atheist like I, a favorite old book is one of life’s blessings.

California, love it or leave it.

I want a house. I want one so badly that I very uncharitably envy all of my friends who have houses of their own. I want walls that aren’t white, a garden that I can control and, above all, I want a pet.

But I can’t have a house because I live in the San Francisco Bay Area where your basic 1950's tract home costs over a half a million.

So you’re probably thinking to yourself, well move then. Here’s the deal. I’m actually a native of this area. That’s right, born and raised. And, truth be told, I don’t want to leave. I love it here. More than that, all the people that I love (with the exception of a few folks on the east coast) live here as well.

But everyone wants to come here. They leave Ohio or Maine or Georgia and head to California where the weather is lovely, the high-tech industry still (more or less) reigns supreme, and where houses cost a ridiculous amount of money.

My complaint is this. Because everyone moves here and has pushed the price of houses way out of my reach, I’m naturally a bit resentful. And what makes it worse…is when people who aren’t from here, complain about it.

“Oh, it’s so expensive out here!” They exclaim. No kidding…you want cheap? Go back to Idaho.

“I miss the seasons. California doesn’t have real seasons.” Aw, I’m sorry you miss watching the leaves change color…you know, you could move back to Connecticut and watch the leave change to your heart's content.

“It’s so crowded.” You know, you’re right…it is crowded. Why don’t you free up some space by returning to New Jersey – I think they miss you there.

Now I have a great many friends (and a wonderful husband) who are themselves transplants. And of course, since this is my world, they can stay…but if you’re going to move out here, cause traffic, inflate house prices and compete with me for jobs, at least have the decency to stop insulting my home.

Why an SUV?

Does anybody really know why people would buy an SUV? Do they people who buy them really know why they are purchasing such an unhelpfully large vehicle?

I can understand them for people who really do have the SUV-commercial lifestyle. Rock climbing in Yosemite. Skiing in the Sierras. Rafting down the…uh…big wet thing. But it’s odd. I actually do know people like that and they have pickup trucks. Not even the big-ass, hay-hauling kind either. Just a Toyota big enough to throw a tent and some rope into.

So why the SUVs? Please don’t give me the “I’ve got a bad back,” argument. I’ve heard that one. Guess what? I have a bad back. I just got through two rounds of physical therapy for it and not once did my therapist recommend I shell out an obscene amount of money to purchase a monster larger than my garage.

And don’t say, “We’ve got kids.” My folks had 5 kids and managed just fine with a station wagon.

So what’s the point? Why do people actually want something that gets 15 mpg when gas is over $2 a gallon? Why will people voluntarily drive something that is nearly impossible to park? (Note: You know those parking spaces labeled “compact car only?” THAT MEANS YOU, IDIOT. If you’re not in a small car, go park in one of those spaces at the other end of the lot. And don’t complain about having to walk – it’s good training for all those camping trips you must be taking because you have an SUV.)

People are spoiled. And car companies (hell, every company in the world) panders to that. Now I’m not going to get all “in my day” over you, but I do recall doing just fine growing up in a station wagon that did not have cup holders, 5-disc CD changers, a DVD player, individual climate control, or any of the other conspicuous options that people feel they need. And tell me, what’s the point of having kids if you won’t even talk to them while they’re in the damned car with you. Road trips were not meant for the kids to be watching Shrek in the back while mom and dad talk to each other – they’re supposed to be about family bonding. Remember the stupid license plate game from your own childhood? Teach it to your kid. Sing silly songs. Count cows. Yeah, there are boring stretches filled with “are we there yet?” But they are more than made up for by the fact that you will actually be interacting with your children, not just keeping them busy.

The Cheshire Mac

Computers are kind of like cats: they think they are smarter than you are.

Both the computer and the cat are wrong. They are not smarter than you are -- they are merely better at getting what they want than you are.

Consider the cat. A cat will blithely ignore you for most of your existence and then decide that it would like its ears scratched please and would you be quick about it. So, unlike a person who would like some affection, a cat does not make subtle conversation, laden with hopeful overtones and oblique hints too vague to be picked up by anybody other than Kreskin. No, a cat simply pours itself into you lap -- regardless of what you are doing -- and demands to be petted.

Now consider the computer. You are minding your own business, happily working away at a machine you once had to be convinced wouldn’t electrocute you. Then, you quite innocently do something that offends its delicate sensibilities. Now suppose you had similarly offended a person. A human would perhaps withdraw quietly, maybe with a little pouting for good measure, and save up the minor grievance (which would subsequently be heaped upon by other minor grievances) to be brought out and thrown into the offender’s face at a later date. However, a computer demands instant retribution. It beeps (or boings or hisses) at you insistently until you apologize for your transgressions by immediately fixing whatever was wrong. Silence is your only reward for jumping to its beck and call.

You see, in both instances, we the people like to think of ourselves as the master -- and in both instances, we are sorely mistaken.

Join me
I have just volunteered to visit swing states for the Kerry campaign in the hopes of doing something to get George Bush out of office. Please join me. This is not the time to sit back and wring your hands while you bitch about the state of the world. This is the time to do something. Help register people to vote. Volunteer to call people. Sign up to go door to door. Host a house party to raise money. Do something, anything to get involved. Just make sure that if the unthinkable does happen and Bush gets reelected, you don't end up kicking yourself for not doing more.

All the news that fits

I have grown weary of the news. Mostly because we seem to be missing so much of it. Taking William Randolph Hearst as their patron saint, modern American news outlets have decided that telling us what they want us to know is more important than telling us what we need to know.

The worst crime of all, in my opinion, is the way the media decides there is one “it” story and that story will, above even wars and natural disasters, always have a place of prominence. Even when it’s no longer news.

Here in the San Francisco Bay Area the “it” story is the trial of Scott Peterson. And most of the coverage doesn’t even qualify as journalism, let alone “news.”

Let’s remove the personalities and look at this strictly as a crime. A woman disappears; that’s news. Her body is found; that’s news. Her husband is arrested; that’s also news. And when a verdict is reached, ok, that qualifies as news. However, taking up 5 minutes of a 30-minute local news broadcast with “interviews” with legal “experts” getting their opinions on the day’s testimony and what it means for the case is not news.

An interview with someone who went to high school with a murder victim is not news, and yet the media wants us to believe it is. Somewhere along the line, “opinion” became “news” and now it’s impossible to watch pretty much any television news without being told what might happen, what could happen, and what might happen if what could happen happens. (Follow all that?)

It’s not like these people have to struggle to fill up their news broadcasts, is it? The world is most obligingly supplying us all with non-stop material in the form of wars, genocide, terrorist attacks, crime, poverty, and other forms of mayhem. As if that weren’t enough, Mother Nature is kindly bestowing upon us hurricanes, locust invasions, droughts, and more. And yet there always seems to be room for the “it” story.

The problem is, that to make for the “it” story, the networks deny us full and impartial coverage of the aforementioned wars, genocides, droughts, etc. Ah…but who cares what happens in Africa as long as we can all get through the day secure in the knowledge that our media has qualified us to have an opinion about the behavior of Scott Peterson’s girlfriend.

I am not cool enough for the Bill Evans Trio. I have never visited a
nightclub wearing pearls and gloves. I do not like martinis, or other drinks
defined as "cocktails". I do not smoke. I have never sat in a below-street
club with blue spotlights and a coat-check girl. I have never held hands
across a small round table

There are some recordings that evoke an inescapable sense of emotion.
Mozart's Requiem, for instance, must cloak you in nostalgic melancholy. Some
create a sense of time -- "Eve of Destruction", for instance, will always be
the Vietnam War. But "Something for Debby" creates a sense of place. It can
only be New York. Specifically the New York of black before it was a fashion
statement, ever-honking taxi horns, steam rising from underground grates,
waiters in white coats, and women in red lipstick.

I am not cool enough for the Bill Evans Trio. But I "get" it in a way that I
hadn't ever really listend to jazz before. Perhaps because the multiple
tracks beg for repeated listening and comparison. Why is one version of a
song 15 seconds longer than another? How do three separate instruments
happen to sound so harmonious and yet so distinct? And why have I never
heard this music before?

This is jazz in a way that invites you in for a drink. So my assertion that
I'm not cool enough doesn't stem from the music's treatment of me -- rather
my assessment of the music. The quirky, beautiful, perfectly matched sound
is like something I want to be when I grow up. Unlike jazz that slaps you
with its uniqueness...and reminds you that you will never be a part of it;
this invites you to the party. It's your own fault if you lean against the
wall and feel only slightly like an imposter.

I want to belong to this music. I want to be one of those people
clapping in the background. I want to like drinks with olives in them, and
to close my eyes when the bass gets going. This music should accompany the
perfect romantic dinner at home. It's made to be listened to, closely, but
it won't be offended if it becomes a backdrop for conversation.

This is music to play on the stereo when you take your dream car for its
first ride. Music to cook to, before breaking into a spontaneous waltz in
the kitchen. Music to take you to New York, put you into that smoke-filled
club, and hold your hand across that small, round table.

There's only one problem with this music. I'm not cool enough.
For Fo, with love.

White Chicks Can't Dance
While watching the closing ceremonies for the Olympics it occurred to me, not for the first time, that I have no culture.

I’m not talking about Chopin-listening, poetry-reading culture, I’m talking ethnic identity culture.

Like many Americans, I’m a mutt. I’m a little French, a bit of Scots, a tiny bit of Irish, maybe even a pinch of Native American. But I’ve never identified with any of those cultures, and so I have no cultural identity. I’m a white chick, and we have no history.

I envy my friends who have tradition. The Passover Seder. The Cinco de Mayo festival. Chinese New Year. I have no childhood foundation of traditional foods (unless you count Thanksgiving), traditional dances (I shall glaze over the years my parents took Disco lessons at the local Rec center), or traditional forms of dress.

I only speak English, much to my embarrassment. I cannot share with others a heritage of music and feasts. And, in spite of being raised Catholic, I don’t have any real holiday feelings – although I do love both the giving and receiving of gifts at Christmas. Especially the receiving bits.

There is something missing in my life, but it’s a gap that I find I am powerless to fill. I’m just not the kind of person who can adopt other people’s traditions just because I want to. It would just feel false, which is not what I’m looking for.

I just wish I had more of a culture. Oh sure, as an American, I can point proudly to jazz and the blues….but little else has arisen that can be called “American,” and that fills me with any sense of belonging. And even those, while among some of my favorite forms of music, hardly compare with what my more culturally rich friends have to offer. When was the last time you saw an ad for “The Annual White Chick Festival?” (And no, Lillith Fair doesn’t count.)

When I’m surrounded by Greek Festivals, Carnival parades, Cherry Blossom festivals, and the other glories of the wonderfully multi-cultural San Francisco Bay Area I must confess to feeling woefully inadequate in the heritage department.

Flip Flop Flap
What am I missing here? The Republicans keep bashing Kerry because he "flip flops." Oh dear. That's dangerous. What we really need is someone who forms an opinion and never lets go of that opinion even when the facts prove that the opinion is wrong. Yes, we can't have someone in office whose mind is open to change, who re-evaluates a situation based upon new evidence, can we? That would be suicidal.

Down with Reality! (TV)
Recently I spent a great deal of time watching NBC’s coverage of the Olympics. It was the most time I’d spent watching network television since the last Olympics. Frankly, I hate the quality of American television, and the ads I saw in-between sports did nothing to alter my opinion.

Whatever happened to scripts? What happened to good writing, actors who get hired for their talent rather than their hair, and plots? What’s so wrong with a good plot?

And what exactly is the appeal of so-called “reality TV?” Tell me, whose reality involves being given a million dollars to live in a mansion with 50 supermodels? My reality isn’t like that.

Real reality TV would be extremely boring. One hour of watching someone grocery shop. A house full of a family doing homework and cooking dinner. That’s reality. Reality has nothing to do with eating maggots, getting engaged to a total stranger, or working for Donald Trump.

When I watch TV, I want to either be entertained or informed. Preferably both. And I see no entertainment value in reality TV. I wouldn’t want to meet these people, so why would I waste an hour of my life watching them on television? And why would I go out of my way to see obnoxious self-absorbed losers when there are so many that I can actually interact with in real life?

I want comedy that makes me laugh because the scripts and the situations are funny, not something that is billed as a comedy simply because it has a laugh-track and a lot of jokes about obnoxious kids. And I want dramas that believe there’s more to life than car-chases and emergency room scenes. I never want to hear the word “stat” again.

I have a brain. I like to use it. I presume others are also quite fond of their brains, and yet American television seems to feel otherwise. Oh sure, there are pockets of intelligent entertainment, thank god for cable, but mainstream television, frankly, sucks.

Personally, I think it’s all part of the downward spiral of American culture. Fat selfish people raising fat selfish children on a steady diet of McDonalds, SUVs, and television programs that teach people that you will be rewarded for lying and backstabbing. Wonderful. Great lessons for our kids, don’t you think.

In an era when the word “hero” has come to mean someone who gets paid $15 million to play basketball it’s no wonder that so much of our entertainment seems to be about money, sudden fame, and the rewards that come from being selfish.

And so I rear my head once more...
I've been silent for far too long, I know, but I'm back. I needed to be isolated for a bit, figure out what I want to be when I grow up. Ever get that way? Like a sick animal that just wants to curl up in a cave by himself. That was me, broke and freaking out about it, trying to get the taste of that awful place out of my soul and wondering what the heck to do next.

So, on to today's thought...

I am a fashion conscientious objector (as opposed to victim), and as such, I’m proud to say that I just don’t get it. I simply do not understand how women can pay thousands of dollars for the privilege of torturing themselves with uncomfortable articles of clothing and footwear that will be out of style in a year. I fail to see the attraction of it all. And, personally, I just cannot believe that I will be mesmerizingly more attractive to the opposite sex if I wear shoes that I cannot walk in, jeans that I cannot breathe in, and sweaters that cost more than a month’s salary.

Nor do I understand the creative rationale behind fashion ads. Why do photographers insist on putting models into situations where the clothing they wear cost more than the entire building? Are derelict warehouses that conjure up the remembered scent of old urine and fresh vomit the natural landscape for hand-tooled Italian leather boots and English cashmere sweaters?

Do $300 dollar bathing suits get shown to better advantage against a graffiti-littered brick alleyway as opposed to, oh say, a beach perhaps?

Don’t they realize that the kinds of individuals who typically haunt these decrepit locales are highly unlikely to have platinum American Express cards – and the kinds of individuals who can easily drop $1000 on a blouse or a pair of shoes rarely find themselves surrounded by rusted chain-link fences, weed-spattered parking lots, and broken concrete?

Perhaps that’s what the “victim” in the phrase “fashion victim” means. Someone who, if they appeared wearing that clothing in that setting, would become a victim. A statistic. A “hey, I’m wearing more on my ass that you own in your whole life, so why not come over and rob me” kind of victim.

It just doesn’t make sense. Oh sure, a few marketeers actually put their models in the appropriate setting. Perfectly air-brushed androids posed majestically against one Hampton or another. Lounging languidly on a yacht. Sipping something frosty on a sun-dappled terrace in the south of someplace.

But all too frequently fashion ads resemble nothing more than crime scene photos, minus the chalk outline. Looking variously bored or miserable, anorexic mutant babes lean poutily against a scarred brick wall. Strong-jawed men, like show dogs, slouch into a chair with ripped upholstery in a tawdry motel room with an acid neon glow. Pseudo lesbian melodramas enacted with a freaky tableau vivant flair in empty and cracked swimming pools.

Like the hidden morality in 17th century Dutch still-life paintings, this emphasis on so-called beauty in the midst of decay seems to serve as a twisted commentary on life. But whereas the Dutch saw the presence of a rotting peach as a reminder of the fleetingness of beauty and the importance of a moral life – here the condemned warehouse seems to say “hey, life is short so you might as well blow an obscene amount of money on killer boots.”

In addition, it adds a touch of class to poverty that further removes the conspicuously conspicuous consumer from the homeless, the hopeless, and the just plain poor. After all, how bad can it be to live in a deserted garage if it’s good enough for Ralph Lauren? And how easy to walk by some hairy, cart-pushing bum when he’s walking past a building that could, at any moment, be filled with well-built, oiled-up young studs in $50 boxer shorts?

Nope, I just don’t get it. And I’m damned glad about that.

Onwards

Well my deep and abiding loathing of "Soul-Sucking Software," finally reached the breaking point and I have quit. And no, I have nothing else lined up. Scared? You bet I am. Happy? Beyond words. I am so glad to be getting out of this megapocalyptic hell and back into the real world. And I cannot wait to see where I end up.

Wherever I end up, though, it will be due in no small part to the love, support, and help of my beloved husband. He is amazing. He's dragged me kicking and screaming through creating a resume and applying for a job. He's reminded me that I've made the right call...and tells me he's proud of me for choosing principles over paychecks. And he loves me. How in the world did I get so lucky?

Music Hath Charms
But not when you're in a musically ambivalent mood. Do I want to listen to Chopin or Louis Armstrong? Garth Brooks or Khadja Nin? Salsa, Celtic, Afro-pop, or Japanese pop? Usually I love having a large music collection....today it's driving me crazy because I can't settle on one thing. Music is the one thing that helps me stay sane at work (well, music and my team), but today I'm in a state of confusion anyway, so it's carrying over into my musical choices. In the past hour I've listened to Henri Dikongue (from Cameroon by way of Switzerland), Caetano Veloso (too smooth for my busy mind), Dwight Yokam (nothing like a little shit-kicker music to jump start the brain), and Mozart. And so far....nothing is working.

A New Year...
...has begun, and I'm still unsure of what I want to be when I grow up. I just know it's not what I am now. I still want to save the world, but I don't know how. And oh my have I become used to having disposible income. I love being able to take vacations, to buy CDs, to go out to lunch with my friends...and I'm just selfish enough to want to keep that. I'm a bad person, sometimes, but aren't we all?

So, do you make New Year's resolutions? I've decided my mantra this year is going to be "Lighten the fuck up." I had all these serious thoughts about changing my world, my attitude, my life...and realized that most of them can be accomplished by not being so serious. I need more "water off a duck's back," and less "focus on the details." We'll see if I can carry this through. So...what do you want to do with your year?

World AIDS Day
Yesterday, December 1, was World AIDS Day. I wore the red ribbon in honor of my friends, and missed them dreadfully. 41 million people around the world are living (and dying) with AIDS. Only 1 million of them are receiving any sort of treatment for this still always-fatal disease. And yet, even in 2003, there are those who persevere in thinking of this as the "gay disease," and look upon AIDS support as a "political statement." Someone actually found my ribbon offensive. Personally, I find the fact that my best friend, Steve Sutherland died at the age of 31 to be infinately more offensive. Until there's a cure, I promise not to give up the fight.

Rain
It rained last night. The first good, strong rain of the season. Fall has fallen. Last week it was warm bordering on hot. Today I pulled a favorite old sweater out of the bottom drawer and have once again found the joy of wrapping cold hands around a mug of hot tea. It's gray and dreary out, but I welcome this change.

Those who say California has no seasons are wrong. We do. Not, perhaps, as dramatic as the fall colors of New England followed by the deep white snows of winter. But we have our cool fall nights, our rainy winter days, the first, hesitant sunshine of spring, and the glorious heat of summer. I must confess, however, that I do occasionally get fed up with people who move to California, triple the price of houses in my home town, and then complain about how much they miss "real" seasons. If you miss "real" seasons so much, go back to the blizzard and let me buy a damn house!

Oh dear, that gentle musing on the weather turned rather bitchy, didn't it? Well, them's the breaks, folks.

I've had another brilliant idea!
I want to have a bunch of bumper stickers made up that read "Overcompensating for a tiny penis." Then I want to stick on on every Hummer I see.

Why does this have a cult following?
By which I mean Babylon 5, one of the most boring things ever. My husband is a big fan and recently bought the first few seasons on DVD. Any show where, when you tell a fan that you're watching the first season, immediately burstst into "it gets better! Really!", you know you're in trouble.

Where to start? Well, first off the lead (who I call Rex Ranger) is about as wooden as they come and seems to "emote" entirely by bugging out his eyes and saying his lines through gritted teeth. There's absolutely no charisma between any of the characters and for most of the first season....nothing happens.

Apparently there are "clues" that lead to the interesting bits in seasons 2-5....but by that time I'll be so asleep that I won't wake up when the explosions begin. I finally gave up and skipped the last 3 episodes entirely. My beloved watched them and then, when I asked what happened, proceeded to tell me about more developments in 3 hours than in the entire series so far. So I sat through all the cardboard and missed the dessert? Just my luck.

As I said, apparently "it gets better! Really!" so I've promised to watch the first 2 episodes of the second season...but so far, I'm bored out of my skull. Sorry, sweetie.

Hey, I've got a brilliant idea!
Since I hate the farce that has become the California recall, and since I work for a company that likes to fire people so that they can hire cheaper labor overseas, I think we should "outsource" the position of Governor of California to India. We won't have to pay the Governor as much plus (and here's the key), Arnold won't relocate so he's not a possibilitiy any more!

A single voice?

A history book that I've been reading makes the excellent point that we like to think of our elected officials as "leaders," but that many of them are really followers. Most of the important social movements in US history have been started by the people -- and by people on the fringe at that. Abolitionism. Suffrage. The civil rights movement. All of these started as people pissed off enough to do something, and committed enough to make the sacrifices necessary to achieve change. So, for those of us who wish we could do more, I offer today's piece of advice: don't give up. We may feel powerless, but that might not be the case. We just need to fight against the narrow-minded, war-mongering, conservatives who want to tromp over human rights in the name of "God bless the USA."

Oh please...
So I saw a print ad for the Hummer this weekend, and it had the tagline "big is the new small." Uh huh...and pointless is the new clever? Hey, I'm gonna trademark that. You heard it here first, folks, "pointless is the new clever™."

Remember summer?

Remember the swish/slap of the screen door shutting behind you as you ran out to play in the warm evening? Remember eating peaches, with juice rolling down your chin? Remember playing tag, hide & seek, and Mother May I late into the night? Remember sleeping with the windows open so that you lay awake and listened to the world around you? Remember running through the sprinklers, eating popcicles, and laying on your back watching the clouds? Go do it. Forget being a grown-up. Forget that it's after Labor Day and summer is somehow over. Go play. Go on...I'll wait.

Bureauacracy reigns!

I hate my job. Not surprising, most people these days hate their jobs. I know a lot of unemployed people at the moment, but I truly am getting tired of the "you should just be grateful you have a job" lecture. I mean yes, I am grateful that I have a job....but I'm human. If I'm not happy, I want something that would make me happy.

At the moment, most of my frustration can be traced back to a life-long hatred of bureaucracy. After years of fighting against it, I found myself reluctantly "acquired" by a company roughly the size of Poland. I have gone from having complete and total editorial and artistic control of my job, to having only some editorial and creative control of my job, to now having absolutely no editorial or creative control of my job. Apparently I am no longer required to think...which makes me believe the company would be better off hiring a happy hamster and firing my disgruntled ass.

Yeah, I keep taking the paycheck. I like to eat, and I need more of a cushion before I bail...but I hate it.

Why do companies publicly advertise that they want "creative thinkers" only to tell them that they have no authority to make a decision? Why do they like to be seen as promoting "different" when they only want the same? And why, oh why, are so many incredibly talented, experienced, and once-motivated people left to turn into dust, their skills wasted, while mega-corps drone endlessly onward in the same stodgy direction they've always gone?