Hedgehog

Two thoughts for this day

roscoe@drizzle.com — Mon, 12 May 08 11:54:00 UT

It's Steve Winwood's birthday. in a touch of serendipity, I had a conversation a few days ago about "the first concert I ever attended" after we did "the first music I ever bought" (mine was vinyl, and i don't know, but I know it was $3.33 at Korvettes) and my first rock concert ever was The Spencer Davis Group with one of the two Andys I dated. This one a drummer, my first real boyfriend. (If that group doesn't click, a) you're even younger than you look or b) have you ever heard "Traffic"? "Blind Faith? Um, oh god please tell me you know Eric Clapton. oh PHEW.

Thought #1 - I tend not to use words like "blessed" as in "I am blessed" because it implies a deity or higher power which I simply don't don't don't honor in any corner of my soul, but I am this day very very very grateful for my friends and for my friends' generosity. You know who you are. Thank you oh thank you So Damn Much.

Thought the second - NOT that I worry about this a lot but should you ever wonder if my brain's been taken over by alien spores or some sort of parasite, here's a test....if I ever refer to my breasts as "the girls", something's wrong.

Really SERIOUSLY wrong.

A-m-b-i-g-u-i-t-y

roscoe@drizzle.com — Tue, 29 Apr 08 20:56:00 UT

Today I gave the go-ahead to Clark at the wheelchair place to order my power wheelchair. And Iâm having aftershocks. Is that weird? It strikes me as weird. Then it doesnât. Then it does. I mean I have had months to deal with this reality and I have. Sort of. Pretty much. Mostly. And Iâve talked about it (see 2/15 âWelcome to Bureaucracylandâ) so Iâve gotten many of the ducks in a row for a while now.

So why am I still feeling shaky and verging on tears, the way I do after some major big deal thing has happened or some major big deal decision has been decided? Iâve known this day was coming for a long time. If Iâm this emotionally wobbly today how the hell am I going to be when I actually take delivery of the thing?

They rejected my appeal so I will be ordering, most likely, the basic chair but it is set up so that should the time come that I can get the tilting seat, we can do that without having to replace the rest of the chair. Itâs a Pride Quantum. Pride makes scooters and in fact they made my first scooter, which was a bottom line cheapie, but it worked very well. Barry, my scooter guy who knows lots of things told me when we first discussed this (I didnât get the chair through him as he does not do Medicare any more) and he said that while Prideâs scooter were lousy (apparently I lucked in on mine which had a reputation as a lemon) they made excellent wheelchairs. Iâm deciding on aesthetics right now. Back seat or gray (since tan reportedly shows dirt too easily, but truth is, I wouldnât want tan anyway) and then the base color. Thereâs not a lot on a power chair that isnât black, just a bit under the seat, but it matters. Big time. I will be using this thing from morning to night. It will be my legs. I will not be swapping it to go out and will probably stay in it all the time. In other words, where now I transfer to the restaurant chair or the theater seat, I probably wonât once I have the wheelchair as it will vastly improve my comfort level.

I did ask some friends about color choices â do weigh in if you like. You can see them at http://www.quantumrehab.com/accessories/colors/colors.html and while I cannot be sure all those colors are available, the other resource I found which showed lots of colors, but some are intended for kidsâ chairs and Iâm not really clear if I could get âpearl pinkâ if I wanted it . I will not be getting black. I just canât. Maybe eventually Iâll say âoh the hell with itâ and am probably going with âcandy apple redâ Thereâs no true purple, no lilac, no lavender no purely real honest-to-purple. I donât get it but hey, at least itâs not just blush and bashful (ok, obscure movie reference fans, name that film!)

Iâm shaky and Iâ not sure why. It is a huge decision, yes but itâs one I made some time back. This decision means it will actually exist relatively soon, rather than things just being âI wonder if Iâll be able toâ¦â and âwhen I get the chair, Iâllâ¦â

Iâm alternately serious and goofy about it. I want a cup holder. I want it red. I want to be able to put Powerpuff stickers on it. No I donât. I want my Flying Spaghetti Monster thingy to stick to it somewhere. I want that sticker I saw and canât find (I saw it on a chair once but the person was not IN the chair at the time) that reads âI donât feel like being stared at today.â And I plan to put my âstart seeing wheelchairsâ sticker on it.

I think Iâm happy. Itâs finally at a finite end, a definite âthis is going to happenâ. But then I feel shaky like âoh shit, itâs real.â Then Iâm back to âoh good, itâs realâ. The past week I feel like Iâve headed downhill even more than is usual for me, with walking becoming even more ridiculously impossible to accomplish. Of course, wonky weather often makes things nasty, but itâs not just the pain issue. Itâs my non-functioning hip joints. But Iâm going to end up with a new identity. Iâm going to be more than just a disabled woman, Iâm going to be a woman in a wheelchair. That is going to be part of me even more than being a disabled woman dependent on various devices and equipment to function. And tomorrow I meet with two of the local members of the Democratic Party about the caucus I attended. And next week Iâm meeting someone for lunch downtown. This person who was my contact and best buddy at the Renaissance Hotel for LCC in 2007 has a new job at a different hotel in town. The hotel does not have food services, but is attached to a restaurant which provides all their needs. Except that this person, only in her job for a few weeks realized she did not now if the restaurant was accessible. Stu and I have been by it and noted at least one step at the entrance. A phone call got me the information that âthey have a ramp they will put outâ. Of course, I had to ask âer um how do you know someone needs it since I canât get in?â just to make her crazy and she assured me âthereâs a big window and I will see you.â This is so NOT how I like going out to eat.

Itâs going to be an adjustment. I know that, yeah, yeah. I just wish it werenât one now when nothing is actually happening.

I'm never doing THAT again (very long post)

roscoe@drizzle.com — Sun, 27 Apr 08 15:11:00 UT

Just about 5:30 on April 5, the day of the 46th legislative district caucus, as we were heading home, I looked at Stu and said âHoney? In a few years time, if I tell you Iâm considering going to another district caucus, would you remind me that I told you âOkay, thatâs it. Never again.â? Iâd really appreciate it if you remind me that I so do NOT want to do this EVER again.â

Mind you, it was not all awful. It was intermittently awful and there was lots of groovy stuff in the other parts. But oh GODS. It was at times more frustrating than a bad convention, more tiresome than the neighborâs slide show of their last road trip and more badly organized than, um, Condiego. Granted, much of the problem of organization has to do with the issue of âsurprise! There are ten times the numbers of enthusiastic people than we had four years ago!â but it seems as if no one took any of that into account. The assumption that everything could get accomplished in six hours, when it would seriously take at least two days to do much of what they wanted done, and they kept being optimistic right until 10 minutes before we had to leave the building. Twenty-two hours later, they were still not done counting ballots. No kidding.

Itâs really understandable in light of the differences between the 2004 and 2008 races, however, it doesnât take a lot of analysis to figure out that a meeting involving upward of 900 people, a 14 page document with parts a, b, c, d, and e at times and well over 200 people wanting to get one of 50 or so positions (as delegates/alternates) would take more than six hours, especially given that 1) there were two different districts to deal with and two different candidates and 1, sub a) there were rules for gender parity involved and that 2) this is politics. What, like weâre not going to have opinions? I mean itâs clear that the platform folks worked immensely hard on the platform that was proposed but when have you ever in this country of ours, known anyone to accept a given political statement without wanting to change, edit, add, delete, improve or otherwise mess with it? Itâs the nature of the beast. We want things to be good, or better, we want to leave our mark and weâre just plain ornery enough so that even after we had time to read the damn thing and accept it, we couldnât accept it.

We came up against problems IMMEDIATELY too because one of the huge issues regarding the location of this event which took place in a public school w(hich of course means they are required to be ADA compliant) is that they were not ADA complaint. I know that had I been one of the organizers, I would have assumed they WERE. Theyâre a fucking HIGH SCHOOL for godssake! And itâs not like ADA is new law. Theyâve had gobs of time to get into legal compliance with access laws. But while I was not checking for lots of details, the damn building was not compliant from the gitgo, that is to say BEFORE WE EVEN ENTERED THE BUILDING. Because we could not FIND the entrance that would serve disabled people. Because there was no sign showing us where to go.

The paperwork said weâd start at 10 AM and be out by 4 PM. Everything took a long time and it was fairly orderly chaos but when you have hundreds and hundreds of people whose only reason for being there was that theyâd put their hands up (ok, not necessarily. In some caucuses maybe they argued, voted, discussed. In ours it was the five people who raised their hands, essentially. And then the other five who agreed to be alternates.) We had no special training, characteristics or knowledge. Weâd just gone to the caucus in February and ended up in this high school gym. Alas, what that meant was that there were hundreds and HUNDREDS of people with a) their own agendas b) an inability to follow directions c) a need to talk even when it wasnât the appropriate time d) understandable confusion over rules e) headaches, babies, nerves, personality disorders and impatience. The idea for example for the platform was that section by section, we would note WHICH item should be discussed. WE WOULD NOT DISCUSS IT, we would only mark it down as something we had an issue with â to add to, amend, delete. And only about 20% of those who got up GOT that. Constantly someone would start EXPLAINING WHY they wanted part 14 discussed. NO. You were to say âPart 14, please mark it for discussion. Thank you.â And get the hell away from the mike. Why people could NOT do this appalled me. We did not have time for everyoneâs little ego trip, speech, reason. It was ONLY for putting out for later. I did not want to know that the woman who had been Catholic and now attended a mosque wanted the gay marriage section deleted. It was NOT THE APPROPRIATE TIME for that but she had to say it. A(ctually, what she had to say was that her churches held that view. This actually creeped me out more because it seemed well, you know. She might not have felt it but apparently felt obligated to say something because her religionâs hierarchy said to. I donât want to hear that, but I especially take issue when it takes time and itâs not the right time.)

That was a lot of the awful. It was the job of one very polite man to try to shut people up, while hundreds of us sat. And sat and sat. We were waiting for a) first for the something committee responsible for ensuring everyone was legit or something to do their job. Then b) after that happened and everyone who wanted to run for delegate was named or whatever, the ballot had to be made up and sent to the printer and returned. And collated because apparently the printer was unable to collate 4 pages. Or whatever. Who knows. But it was at least 2 pm before we got the ballot back into the gym. And then we had the hundreds of would-be delegates. The rules gave them each 30 seconds, which would have resulted in 3 Â½ hours of short half-minute speeches. The chair entertained a motion to cut it to 20 seconds and it passed which still meant 90 minutes. But how else do yu decide which 41 delegates to vote for â and not just that but which 20 women and 21 men since equal representations was required.

That was the part that kept the day from sinking into the boredom and mismanagement tar pits. The 20 seconds of âwho I amâ which wasnât always interesting but often was. The fire, the enthusiasm (remember, this was, by now all supporters of Barack Obama; the Clinton delegate would-bes were meeting in a separate room to choose their representatives) the voices of immigrants, of 20 year olds, of old hippies, and young punks. The woman who sat behind us and wore a dress and a pearl necklace because she didnât know what to expect but wanted to respect the process. The guy from the village where the Peace Corps had made a difference. The âguy with the funny nameâ who supported the candidate with the funny name. The totally crushed out woman who spke of how Obama gleamed and shined (ok, she scared me.) The new voters, the new citizens. And the party types who really really really bugged me by taking 20 seconds to say âvote for me and these people who have worked hard on the campaignâ because a) no one forced yu to do that and you donât get rewarded in that fashion b) it told me nothing about why u were and why you were doing this c) it reminded me of why I dislike party politics.

Because of various things I saw, I made sure the chair of the group got a card with my phone and email on it with a note that said âwe MUST TALK ABOUT THIS EVENTâ and the next day, I emailed him. The event was the entire meeting was not even remotely aware of issues of disability, from that front door issue to the fact that I could not reach the microphone when I wanted it. To the lack of seating down front for wheelchair users in a gym crowded to the rafters and the lack of wide enough aisles to go down to the mike, to get through the crowd in back. To the fact that nowhere in any written materials was there the offer of large print, interpreters or other ADA concerns.

It didnât get better. The person I spoke with assured me he would get back to me then did not. The next attempt I made I basically got âgo away, Iâm busy and Iâm a volunteer here.â In May they take the next step and if that meeting doesnât do better regarding disability awareness, they could face a lawsuit, or worse. Worse, to steal from Aaron Sorkinâs The American Presidentâ, the party MUST pay attention to this stuff because if they donât, to quite Sydney Ellen Wade, when Andrew Shepherd plays politics âyou've got bigger problems than losing me. You just lost my vote.â

Of course the Dems havenât lost my vote. But they donât seem to get that they lost me when I was considering coming back. Because they are too busy running around âdoorbellingâ to get some basic understanding that stuff like ADA matters. Because the woman with total laryngitis just HAD TO read all those names because it was her moment in the sun. She couldnât give it to someone else whose voice was intact and take her damn applause and stop showboating. Which is what that is, sorry. âLook at me, look how hard I worked.â

They failed because this was more important and it had to matter. That the law of the fucking land aside, that you CHECK TO BE SURE that when you use a building, you use one where the accessible entrance is clearly marked. You THINK like a disabled person. You THINK like a mom with a baby in a stroller who needs to know where the bathrooms are, and how to get the stroller in without using the stairs. You THINK how someone will sign the list if they canât reach the table. You PLAN for some volunteer who desperately wants to DO something to stand by the fricking microphone and be sure to hand it to the person who canât reach it. You donât wait for someone else to do it. You show that you are the goddam Democratic party that pays attention to people with disabilities. And you donât lecture someone a week later that you are too busy to deal with it but youâll bring it up at a meeting. Thatâs what I got. Oh yeah, Iâm a volunteer too, you know. We all are. All the delegates, alternates, all my friends who did their bit, my friend Tamara whoâs going on to the next level â wow. Itâs all volunteer work bub.

So I pursued this. After getting the brush-off email which infuriated me, I made some phone calls. First I called the state senator Iâd seen at the meeting (who in fact put Obamaâs name into nomination and told a very good joke) and asked who to talk with. His assistant called back with a number. I called that one and he was away for a few days but I got two phone numbers. I called one and got an immediate response. I called the second and got a delayed but informed response.

Next week, Iâll be meeting with two concerned and interested members of the local Democratic party both of whom helped plan that event. And they screwed up and they know it. And they want to know how NOT TO SCREW up again. Good. Itâs probably too late to get anything ito writing for the next step, alas, because everything took too damn long. Big surprise.

I wonât be going on in the process. For one thing, six hours in the scooter in the damn gym exhausted me. Trying not to scream when people took it on themselves to ignore the process over and over and over made me crazy. Iâm not patient enough for this. It makes me crazy and I want to hit people with sticks (Iâm such a BAD pacifist.) I also refuse to attend another event where no one, NO ONE can promise me that things will be better. And no one can. Thereâs no time and thereâs little support from the top. I hope to hell someone other than me gives a damn about this issue because otherwise, the Democratic Party can, can, well I originally typed âgo fuck itselfâ but I donât know what to say. It can damn well do without me, and continue in its sorry way to disappoint me as it has for 40 years since the debacle of â68, the failure to respond to Reagan and 2001 and to be cowardly and indecisive and fearful at being called horrible things like âliberalâ and accepting that it was unpatriotic to stand up against war. (Iâm the one with the WWWD button out here. âWhat would Wellstone do?â)

Sorr,y but itâs 2008 and I should not be pointing out to the Washington State Democrats that they need to follow federal law when they hold a meeting. And âwe thought we wereâ is not good enough and âIâm an volunteerâ is definitely note good enough and âweâll do better next timeâ is oh-so-totally not good enough.

Been there, done that, got the tee shirt

roscoe@drizzle.com — Mon, 21 Apr 08 15:46:00 UT

The original MATCH IT FOR PRATCHETT tee-shirts are gone. the new design will be up soon over at the cafe press site.

Today I received our MIFP tee shirt, so if you wanna see it up close and personal, come hang around with me. I'm delighted that $10 went to the fund, i understand trying to do a less-Discworldy tie-in but am veddy happy to have a shirt with the discworld cosmology represented on it. Tee shirt is black with a white design showing, what else, a turtle, a couple elephants, you know.....

There's a lilac pin being sold to wear in TP's honor on May 25 - check the website if you so desire. Pins come in large and small designs using silk ribbon and look enough like lilacs that my nose started to itch instantly. All money raised after Paypal fees are taken out go to the fund.

Oh but I look SO cool....

ARCs and books available

roscoe@drizzle.com — Mon, 21 Apr 08 11:01:00 UT

HARDCOVERS - $10 each

THE AMATEUR SPY, Dan Fesperman
DEATH WILL GET YOU SOBER, Elizabeth Zelvin
VODKA NEAT, Anna Blundy
COLD PLAGUE, Daniel Kalla
DIRTY MONEY, Richard Stark

TRADE PAPBERBACKS - $6

THE LAST ENEMY, Grace Brophy
THE GLASS DEVIL, Helene Tursten
ISLAND OF LOST GIRLS, Jennifer McMahon

ARCS- $7
THE HIGHLY EFFECTIVE DETECTIVE GOES TO THE DOGS, Richard Yancey
ECHOES FROM THE DEAD, Johan Theorin

DEFENSELESS, Celeste Marsella ($3)

Buying more than one helps re postage and would be taken into consideration for the total (as in, if i can put 2 or 3 books in 1 package, I'll charge less!). Media mail IS going up mid-May like all postage rates but it's still a good way to send stuff.

It's down to THIS? Your thoughts

roscoe@drizzle.com — Thu, 17 Apr 08 22:11:00 UT

When they start asking stupid, idiotic, moronic, asshole, time-wasting, Fox-tv slam-your-patriotism questions about something that has been explained about whether you have a goddam flag pin in your lapel, it's time to stop the whole sham debate thing yes? If "no one questions your loyalty" then why ever raise the inane issue of "gee fella why aren't you like every other ambitious hypocritical suck-up politician. He doesn't wear a damn flag pin. Cut. Me. A. Fucking. Break. Don't you DARE EVER QUESTION HIS PATRIOTISM OR MINE for that matter, because he's not in goddam LOCKSTEP with the Congressional folks who all flocked to the jewelry box inn back of the closet after 9/11 to show their rah-rah patriotism.

Last October, Obama stopped wearing a flag pin, stating in part "Shortly after 9/11, particularly because as weâre talking about the Iraq war, that became a substitute for, I think, true patriotism" and continued saying "But after a while, you start noticing people wearing a lapel pin, but not acting very patriotic. Not voting to provide veterans with resources that they need. Not voting to make sure that disability payments were coming out on time."

Barack Obama stopped wearing one last October and apparently that makes him a terrorist or a lesbian or something.

Pass the Big Bottle of aspirin, would you Sergei?

The Serendipity Ring

roscoe@drizzle.com — Tue, 15 Apr 08 23:03:00 UT

Iâve coined the phrase âserendipity ringâ to mean the way things come around again on the guitar. âSerendipityâ is my favorite word (Iâm saving it for my interview with James Lipton). What I mean by a âserendipity ring is that thing that happens when youâve never heard of a certain book, or musician, or place, and then once you do, itâs EVERYWHERE even though you arenât going out of your way to visit the library, music store, youâre not reading a lot of history books that mention that place, or that person, but there it is again. And again. And then itâs gone and thenâ¦it comes back.

Chez Roscoe, the code word for this phenomenon is âAntietamâ the Civil War battle site that once a few years ago, kept creeping in everywhere. Like those damn slugs we had in the kitchen for a while. There it was on âJeopardy!â. There it was on âBook TVâ where Sarah Vowell was talking about taking her vacation to various Civil War battlefields (or whatever. Sheâs a little weird. Good weird, but weird.) and there it was in Stuâs latest copy of Archeology magazine or whatever. It died down after a while, but never out. It still pops up, like a mole needing whacking every so often (âWhacking. Iâm hell at whacking.â Ten points if you recognize the movie, the actor, the reference.)

Antietam ainât the only one, but it was a big one. Sometimes itâs not the word, or the song, or the actor or the book, but things that start there and spread out until it seems that everything is tied to it and yeah, there really are only 43 people in the world. Itâs a sort of dÃ©jÃ vu for your entire life.

A couple weeks back, I bought myself a copy of DECCA: THE LETTERS OF JESSICA MITFORD as a birthday gift because Mitford was a hero of mine. I never met her, which seems slightly odd as we must have overlapped our lives in leftist politics in the bay area. Someone told me a while ago that a bay area fan lived next door to her. I never knew what to do with that information, any more than I did when someone years ago invited me to a party, using as a lure that one of Shirley Jacksonâs children would be there. I adored Shirley Jackson as one of the best writers ever, and have practically memorized her two hysterically funny memoirs, but I could simply not get going to a party and trying to drum up a conversation with someone whose mother mattered to me. It seemed horribly rude. But readhing DECCA and seeing so many people we had, at least somewhat in common (I might have only met some of those people once, but it was in a meaningful place or time) but we simply never met.

The book by the way is well worth it if youâre a Mitford fan. While much of her life is out there in her own two memoirs HONS AND REBELS (itâs now been renamed in the US edition from DAUGHTERS AND REBELS) and A FINE OLD CONFLICT, and of course she wrote (and most folks probably know her for this one) THE AMERICAN WAY OF DEATH, her letters are pretty amazing. They sound exactly like her, and forgive me but they remind me of me, at least insofar as we both really like emphasizing things and speak in italics, even when weâre writing (in her letters, itâs underlining like crazy because her world was typewriting, not computer. Mitford died in 1996, and had only recently discovered the joys of a fax machine. But she wholly believed in communication by letter, to her sister Debo, to her daughter and son, various friends, fans, antagonists, editors, agents, her husband Bob Treuhaft, her grandchildren. And she wrote what she thought, leading at times to feuds, arguments, anger, hurt and reconciliations with various friends and loved ones.

She was a communist, or rather a Communist, member of the party who quit and never apologized for being misled, naÃ¯ve or stupid. She refused to be in the same room as her sister Diana, lover and then wife of Oswald Mosley, the leader of the British Fascists during WW II. Diana was imprisoned with her husband for a couple years, in what apparently was a suite of rooms, complete with servants provided because god forbid the upper class Diana not have her tea. Or whatever. This so infuriated Jessica that when the Mosleys were released, she wrote âcousin Winstonâ to complain and throughout her life refused to âbe in the same room as murderersâ, tolerating an exception only when they were in France when their sister Nancy was dying. Mitford saw her mother during her life, but never again saw Unity either after she, Jessica, ran away with her cousin (whom she married) to the Spanish civil War. Unity, whom she loved deeply, was enamored so of Adolf Hitler (descriptions in this book are pretty skin-crawly about her finding him so attractive) attempted suicide when Germany declared war on England and was severely disabled until she died a few years later. Itâs a hell of a story, a hell of a familiy. Debo (Deborah) who only ever wanted to âmarry a dukeâ did so and apparenlty never comprehended what it was that drove any of her sisters, remaining utterly apolitical but even more, not even understanding what politics was.

She held very strong views, but did not insist others hold them, although I suspect thatâs how it came across (since thatâs something I encounter regularly, often because what I say comes across as strong, although I never intend for it to sound insistent.) She assumed her friends knew her politics and could discuss disagreements, and were willing to hear her opinions â since we donât see the letters to her or the replies to some of her chastisements, we simply donât know.

Reading hundreds of pages of letters from Decca (as she was known) to dozens of correspondents, I met old friends and acquaintances along with surprises. Surprize number one: Hillary Rodham clerked for Bob Treuhaft in 1971 during one of her summers in law school. Treuhaft, also a CP member a huge activist leftist lawyer, alost up there with Kuntsler and Garry and Weinglass but somewhat less publicity-conscious, spent his entire law career, after leaving government service in defending labor unions, fighting for civil rights, all that lefty stuff. I have never, ever not once, read about this in any mention of Hillary Clintonâs career. The book hints that few people know and that it was discovered mstoly by Bushâs âdirty tricksâ people to use against her. It dismays me to feel that this information has been swept aside by the official biographers of the candidate. Rodham probably could have chosen any big New York or DC firm for her summer internship that year; that she chose Treuhaftâs Oakland law practice says a lot, but apparently she would rather folks think of her differently. Okay, NOT that I read candidate biographies but had that ever ever been mentioned (I suspect it has been pounced on by the Fox news/sheâs an evil bitch types) in passing, I would have caught it, because Treuhaftâs name is writ large in my brain.

Strange fact/surprise deux: not surprise, but one of mitfordâs closest friendships was with Maya Angelou. I know what most folks know about this writer had have read several of her books, remember her poem on Inauguration Day. What I donât remember is her support of Clarence Thomas, a decision which severely damaged her friendship with Mitford and which I was surprised to read of.

But then there are the more serendipitous items, which was really what I wanted ot get to. The first was that while reading DECCA, there were 2 or 3 stories in the newspaper about the famous, well-connected head ofhte car racing industry, a man named Mosley. Mx Mosley, son of Oswald Mosley, yes indeed, apparently videotaped himself cavorting (what a word, huh?) with five prostitutes. Mosley rejected all calls to resign even after the video which of course was seen by thousands (and no, I havenât) was revealed. Stories range from Mosley speaking German 9out of courtesy, I read, as one of the whores was German) and doing all sorts of prison role play with German uniforms brought calls for him to resign from his job, which is as head of the body in charge of Formula One racing. Of course claiming it was private (arguably yes but) the whole thing gained a layer or two when it was mentioned that Max was Oswald Mâs son, and you canât quite ignore that, can you? Itâs a creepy story, but took on a weirdness that was a little bigger just because of the book I was reading, you know? Should Mosley resign? I donât give a fuck of course, but the rules of his organization do have a sort of âmoral turpitudeâ clause which he appears to be blithely ignoring. But then, given the role models heâs had, maybe he doesnât get it. He did, however cite a grand conspiracy out to get him. Apparently he does not draw a salary for the job. I havenât noted any photo sessions with his âlong suffering wifeâ by his side. Maybe thatâs only in America. Or politics. But it IS icky, really really icky. And a smidgen weird and serendipitic (the adjectival form I just made up.

Further on in DECCA, I came across the name of Don Jelinek, who apparently practiced law with Bob T. I know that name because when I lived in Berkeley, he was newly elected to the city council and Iâd written to him about a proposal he had before the council which I agreed with. It all had to do with granting business licenses to businesses who were not in compliance with certain laws. For quite a time when I lived in Berkeley, I spent hours reading plans and noting where business were not in compliance with ADA, by not putting in the ramps they had stated they would put in, or making doors too narrow, or not giving a shit. I thought they should not be allowed to operate their businesses. I never heard back from Jelinek, but I moved out of the bay area a few months later. Just a little click from my past (I left Berkeley for Boston in 1985). Berkeleyâs a smallish world, though. But a little flutter here, a click there starts weaving the varying strands of memory and news and politics and stories and degrees of separation. I mean I was once in a car with Charles Garry (heading to Ying Lee Kellyâs house I think (yes, it is a great name) after attending the funeral of someone who mattered greatly to me (and whose name also appears in DECCA â Fay Stender.) but that sort of contact is to âknowingâ someone as my being at the Parkersburg Airport is to saying âyes, Iâve been to West Virginiaâ. (oh ye gods, that airport).

But then it was reading about Benjy, Benjamin Treuhaft, Decca and Bobâs son that I felt the world get teeny. Really really tiny. And small too. For there on the page was a note about Benj (as he is known by his mother) who is a piano tuner. I knew a fair amount about his sister âDinkyâ or âDinkâ (Constancia Romilly) , but little about Ben. Ben, who, according to the letters in the book, has dealt with bipolar disorder was once (is no longer) married to Sue Draheim. Big whoop, right?

Except, see, I know who Sue Draheim is. Iâm a Sue Draheim fan. Iâve got recordings of Sue Draheim playing fiddle because Iâm a fan of Any Old Time String Band, a fine all women quintet which existed in the bay area when I lived there. The group was founded by and featured Susie Rothfield (now known as Suzy Thompson), whom I knew back in West Hartford, Connecticut back in he Pleistocene Era. We were in a musical together. I had one conversation with her in my life where she, a couple years younger than me, told me she wanted to play music for her lifeâs work. Some 15 years later or so, I learned that weâd both relocated in Berkeley and that she in fact was playing music for a living. In a band called Any Old Time String Band where she sang and played wicked good fiddle, especially in the Cajun numbers. You can even hear the band on the web, As did Sue Draheim, who played wocked good fiddle. I loved watching her play. Okay? All right? Is that serendipity enough?

Good grief.

Aw, shucky-darn it

roscoe@drizzle.com — Sat, 12 Apr 08 12:15:00 UT

It saddens me deeply to report that the stupid-ass reality show I wrote of last month (see 3/20) was cancelled after one episode. That's how bad it was.
Secret whatever of the stars apparently strated out bad and got worse. We sat trhough the first show. It was pretty awful, and alas, George Takei cannot, that is cannot sing even when the song's range is about 6 notes.

I wanted it to last long enough for me to see Paul Magid and "the boys" on tv, but given the format we saw, they would have maybe had 30 seconds screen time.

Bad. B-A-D. Bad. Stupid-ass format ("you" get to vote but only during the commercial break. Right. Like we all have time/DSL whatever to get on line and do this) and it was comparing apples and Volkswagens (anyone else recognize this reference? Five points and a free front-row seat at Clint Black's next appearance at the Comedy Store of your choice.)

Bad.

MATCH IT FOR PRATCHETT

roscoe@drizzle.com — Sat, 12 Apr 08 11:54:00 UT

Terry Pratchett, as many of you know, has received a diagnosis of early onset Alzheimer's. Terry P who's a good guy and brilliant write and one of the best selling authors in Britain (yay, don't we love that?) has donated $1 million to Alzheimer's research, yes to help himself but to benefit scores of people who face this disease that scares us all.

I read in Dave Langford's wonder fanzine Ansible about "Match It for Pratchett" an effort based on someone saying "hey, if a million fans/people doanted a dollar to match Terry P's donation...." and thus was born an idea. See above It's my new second link, right after "Cluelass.com" US folks, they take Paypal and there's a Cafe Press merchandise link as well.

Let's do it.

APRIL SUKS

roscoe@drizzle.com — Fri, 11 Apr 08 18:13:00 UT

My laptop, which was a gift from a great friend, went haywire on me on Wednesday. After spending some time trying to fix things, I began asking for help for someone to look at it. since the great folks at Westwind Computing shut down a couple years ago. Long story blah blah the laptop's hard drive is dying and needs replacing.

I'm trying very hard not to have hysterics but it's $300 I don't have and don't know how to get. Yeah, its' my "stimulus check". I'm really counting on that to show up soon.

Then here is the text of an email I just got:

"I was just reading a review you wrote on Jonathan Lethem's The Fortress of Solitude, and I noticed in your review you refer to Dylan's father as Alexander Ebdus, even though his name is Abraham. Your review hardly brings any real light to the story, it feels as if the 2 days you spent reading it were actually spent skimming the book and maybe reading a synopsis of the book online."

I am SO FUCKING fed UP with this month already. Separate from this is a major uptick in back pain and not getting enough sleep for the last 4 days.

I SO HOPE you are having a better month.

ACK! (skip if women and sports bores you)

roscoe@drizzle.com — Mon, 7 Apr 08 18:42:00 UT

Well HELL. UConn lost in the final four, as did LSU, by an amazing last minute sqeaker play by someone who had not scored a single point until that time. so it's Stanford Cardinal (that's single, they apparently are not the Cardinals but the Cardinal) against Pat Summitt's amazing Tenniessee (**sigh**) "Lady Vols". (God sports team names are dumb enough but put "Lady" in front to explain that it's a woman's team is even dumber). the two best NCAA players in the US, Parker against Wiggins - Candace v Candice, youl ike that? - and i gotta figure out who to root for. Oh fuck it, i'll cheer for everyone. Amazing AMAZING semi-finals. but damn, Geno, you shoulda been a contendah this year. And I would have been awfully pleased if somehow we could have gotten Rutgers back into the finals as well.

Anyway, it's girly basketball college style and Tuesday decides the championship. Yeah, it matters to me. It's an amazing team sport and I've never had much reason to be proud of Connecticut. Like it matters that I'm from there. Big woop. But HELL that was amazing Sunday. I sat there, borderline asleep and exhausted beyond belief, every so often erupting in my usual "Who were you PASSING to?" and loving what I was seeing. These women are amazing. Bibble.

And i have huge admiration for both teams, but I'm gonna be going for Tennessee.

HBDPS*

roscoe@drizzle.com — Fri, 4 Apr 08 12:43:00 UT

The last time I wore something promoting a live actual candidate, I was probably 11? Iâm hoping but not very hopeful that Styrofoam skimmers are a thing of the past. Tomorrow, I attend the 45th Legislative District Caucus, the most intensely partisan political event Iâve ever attended. I donât DO party politics. I stopped allying with political parties before I could vote. And I could vote only after turning 18 in 1971 dammit. (And I still remember heading down to New Londonâs City Hall to do so. I was a year younger than most of my classmates who got to register en masse on campus. It was also the first time I ever affirmed something since I donât swear to things and I donât like using bibles.

Iâve remarked on my early memory of my parents as precinct members, getting out the vote. In memory, the sheets and sheets of paper with names/addresses on them to record who voted were taped to the walls of our rec room, so mom and dad could call and offer those who hadnât voted yet, a ride to the polls, or a reminder to vote. Growing up in Connecticut meant voting machines with party levers.

My involvement will end here, most likely. I put my hand up that day thinking âwhat the hell, itâs a Saturdayâ and thinking while I have the time and energy, so many others donât. so yeah, I really was trying to be unselfish and give working people a day off. Maybe their idea of fun is attending a district caucus. I have no idea. Iâm thinking âsix hours of raising my handâ, while sitting in distinctly uncomfortable chairsâ. I thought about offering to go to the next step, for, again, the same reason. I have time, I have no day job, I have no kids who need to be taken care of on the weekends. But I sort of forgot how simply sitting exhausts me. The wheelchair doesnât exist yet. The scooter is not meant for all-day sitting and weâre at a high school, for godsake. High schools are not designed with ergonomic seating options for 3000 people. Iâd be nuts to keep going. The guy on KUOW this morning informed listeners that the last week in March here was the coldest since they began keeping records in the 1940s. Iâve been popping âbreakthrough painâ Vicodins (some halfs, some wholes) off and on for weeks since my low back has been horrible despite the Oxycontin I take every 8 hours. What was I thinking? I canât sit all day when Iâm having FUN, for godsake! We did lunch/museum and brunch/Moisture Festival last weekend and oh gods, was I tired.

Happily, one of the emails that came from the coordinator guy coordinating the 46th Districts delegates provided lists of those offering to attend the next level. Iâm actually gonna try to print them out tonight. I guess I have to vote for them. There are 2 lists, M and F because the powers that be want equal representation. I know I saw one person who has worked for Wellstone and Bradley, and she probably has my vote.

So weâre on to the big decisions. What to bring and what to wear. We gotta bring water. The notice advised that the water fountains at the high school will be off. We gotta bring lunch, even though someone might be selling snacks (oh please let there be an espresso cart. This is, after all, still Seattle.) Weâve been asked to bring stuff for a food drive. Very Seattle, but Iâm sure very Democrat as well. You know this is the worst time of year for food banks, and theyâre getting used more and more and more with the economy being so sucky.

Finally we get to âwhat does one wear to oneâs Legislative District caucus? Do we wear the ever popular âRegime Change Begins at Homeâ tee-shirt? The âSomewhere in Texas, a village is Missing an Idiotâ short? We might see some of those and one does want so to wear appropriate politics. Right now, Iâm leaning toward the Victoria Woodhull tee-shirt picked up off the Woodhull website (hey, theyâre on sale right now. $6.99 at http://victoria-woodhull.com/shophere.htm).

One must then contemplate finding the peace necklace (I have several. The newspaper informs me that itâs the anniversary of the peace sign. The article failed to inform me of the true history of the design, at least as I had learned it from the ânuclear disarmamentâ semaphore signals (that part was cut from our newspaperâs wire service coverage) (imagine my surprise) but at least itâs getting out there in the news. According to one website, the sign was brought over to the US from Britain, where it began by Bayard Rustin. If you donât know who that is, please learn. We owe so much to this man who has never gotten his rightful place in the history of the civil rights and peace movements. Here's a place to start. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bayard_Rustin

Buttons. Oh gods. I only have like a few hours to pick my buttons! Whatever shall I do?

Some people fuss over wardrobes for job interviews, attending the opera, award ceremonies, dinner out. Me? I spend hours debating which pin for which lapel, and which of my several dozen buttons to wear on my several jackets over one of my several dozen tee shirts. Low fashion.

*Happy Birthday Dear Peace Sign

"American Pastime"

roscoe@drizzle.com — Fri, 28 Mar 08 13:32:00 UT

Stuâs been getting lots of movies on DVD from the library. Many of them do not appeal to me, which is great, as I can play back here and he can watch um, well, whatever, but the other night he put on one and I sat and watched most of it. I was in the middle of something so I went back and forth until I finally just sat the hell down and watched. Iâm sort of glad I didnât see it all since the whole thing would have made me dissolve. As it was, I was weeping for a good 10 minutes afterwards.

You folks who know me know Iâm sappy â itâs a bizarre thing that I got much weepier after 9/11 and now just accept that itâs part of my emotional pattern. I donât quite cry at commercials but I get teary-eyed at both good â kindness â and bad â the background story of this film. Iâve had reason to cry for both reasons over the past few days, like when I wasnât able to see a documentary on PBS because our stupid-ass station doesnât want to show anything risky (Iâm not joking folks, they show the âLawrence Welk Showâ on Seattleâs PBS station and I could not find a way to access the thing. And I complained about the cowardice of the local PBS station and how the smaller station Â½ hour away was much more encouraging. And the producer of the documentary sent it to me on DVD 3 days later. And I cried. And cried. (Itâs called âRollingâ and Iâll tell you more after I watch it.)

But this is about a movie called American Pastime which I never fucking heard of. Itâs about baseball and the Topaz internment camp in Utah. The only actor I recognized is Gary Cole. The film is dedicated to actor Pat Morita and I know the part he would have played, which in fact was a character named âMoritaâ â Iâm guessing it was an homage, but Iâm guessing.

If you donât recognize the name Topaz, maybe you know Manzanar. It was where Japanese-Americans were interned during World War II. If youâre too young or donât know the history, please check this out. Itâs really critical that you know about it.

American Pastime tells the story of the people locked up in the camp, as well as some of their captors and the townspeople in the town where the camp was built. Telling the plots of movies is boring, so I donât really want to do that. You can guess. Itâs about racism, patriotism, itâs about how people act in war, about how stupid people can be when threatened. Itâs got romance and hatred, and understanding.

One of the characters in the movie, one of the internees joins the Army. I spent some time talking with Stu about how that I could never ever understand. I sort of get it when Black people did it even when they were in segregated barracks and considered too stupid to be real soldiers. I even sort of get the men who became the code talkers. But I am not sure I understand what it takes to put on the uniform of a country that has locked you up in awful ugly horrid circumstances with no proof that you or anyone like you has done anything wrong and then go fight in the uniform. The 442nd Infantry Regiment was made up of Japanese-American soldiers, who fought and died for the country that put them in concentration camps. According to a website dedicated to the history of the service of Japanese Americans in WW 2, âThe 442nd Regimental Combat Team was the most decorated unit for its size and length of service, in the entire history of the U.S. Military.â

Of course at the end of the film, a wonderful moment happens. Iâm glad of that, Iâm not sneering at it even if it was a little predictable because it needed to happen. The idea here was that people learned and people changed and racist white guys were made to see that âJapsâ were Americans too, just like them. Hey they played baseball. They played jazz saxophone.

The film uses some documentary-style footage and fictional stories. The camp was built from apparently original blueprints of the original, one of camps built to hold Japanese and Japanese-American residents of the United States. You remember Jack Soo? He spent time in Topaz. You know George Takei? Heâs written about being raised in Tule Lake and another camp in Arkansas, called Camp Rohwer And yes, Pat Morita, whose family was also at Tule Lake.

At the end of this movie, I sat and cried and could not stop. Was I crying for the ending, where someone does something good and right in the face of opposition? Yeah, probably. Was I crying because Iâm angry? Yeah, I do that a lot. Was I crying because these guys went and put on uniforms representing a government that locked them up based on fear, suspicion, prejudice and not a fleck of truth? Yeah, Iâd say so. Could you do that? I couldnât. I mean, try though I m ight to imagine being male, able-bodied and all that, trying to imagine the situation which would get me to fight in a war, I cannot comprehend the courage it took to join up and fight for the regiment whose slogan was âGo For Brokeâ.

Hereâs the IMDB page for American Pastime: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0825225/

What you should do today

roscoe@drizzle.com — Thu, 27 Mar 08 14:12:00 UT

If you would please? I don't do this too often, I don't think I do anyway, but I'd like to suggest that today, you go over to the blog where Cornelia Read posts on Wednesday (http://nakedauthors.com/) and read what she posted yesterday. It's called "A Shot in the Dark" and it's a gazillion times better than anything I could say here.

Read the responses too, not because I wrote a rant but because what people say back to Cornelia and what she then writes is amazing.

And next time, I'll tell you about a movie I saw last night (Stu got it from the library) that made me cry and I will ask if you've ever heard of it because I never had.

Oh, so that's it!

roscoe@drizzle.com — Wed, 26 Mar 08 17:26:00 UT

I have what I guess you would call a love/hate relationship with tea. Tea, when I was young, was what mom gave me when I was sick. For a long time, this was a bad thing. I didnât like what we thought of as tea in middle-class urban 50s America, which was Lipton horrid awful floor-sweepings tea which to me tastes bitter and sour and nasty. But the given wisdom was that you got ginger ale and tea when you were sick. Since I didnât like the taste, mom doctored it with milk and I think some sugar. Ick. It cuts the taste someone and you have sweetened bitter and sour floor-sweeping. However, it sometimes worked. I had (I might have mentioned in the past) a childhood disease called croup and it was horrible and frightening and it meant I couldnât breathe. It was treated with humidifiers and hot moist air and I cannot tell you how many mornings of my life I awoke choking and gasping. It went away, but I still retain the scary memories of the illness.

What I also remember is my motherâs amazing ability to cope. Sheâs either wake up and head into the bathroom where weâd run the shower or whatever and get steam going or sheâd take me into the kitchen and say the magic words which were âsit down, and Iâll make you a cup of teaâ. I crack up now thinking of that â you know, itâs so mild and Dylan Thomas-y (thinking of the fire brigade and the wacky aunt in Childâs Christmas in Wales but what I remember is calm and steam and making the fear and panic go away with something so mundane.

So I think Iâve written about how I finally learned I liked tea by realizing I drank quarts of it in the Chinese restaurant. Butâ¦wellâ¦but still I havenât quite um, warmed to it. I have boxes of tea in the house â mostly for guests, some for making into iced tea â but Iâm a confirmed coffee drinker who never tires of coffee. When Iâm ill, I try to drink tea based on some old âyouâre not supposed to drink milk it creates mucusâ old wivesâ tale crapola. To be honest, when Iâm sick, sometimes stuff tastes funny and I donât want to ruin the taste of coffee by risking that. Besides, when Iâm sick, often itâs an upper respiratory thing and I go back to the steam and the magic of getting a hot drink down and hoping it would break up that GUCK in my head. I can handle tea at a hotter temperature than coffee. But two cups from now, Iâm going to be sick to DEATH of tea. Iâve never felt that way about coffee. Iâve never ODâd on coffee while three days of tea-drinking and Iâm fed up. I donât get it.

Iâm still suffering from âhotel voiceâ and laryngitis from two weekends in hotels. Itâs also spring and Iâm having some allergic stuffy headed reactions to all the lovely flowers and lovely plants and lovely goddam pollen. But suffice it t say my head is still full of cotton, hay and rags and I still am fighting the occasional desire for mom to sit me down and make me a cup of tea.

Hereâs what I figured out the other day. After dragging down about five different boxes of Celestial Seasonings this and Liptonâs that and Bigelow this and Twiningâs that and even Snapple, with a huge sigh I heated up the water for tea. And I made the tea and slurped it down. And I sort of liked it. Enough that when I went back, I made a second cup using the same box. And it finally came to me.

I donât really like tea. Well, big huge DUH, huh? I tolerate it for what I believe are its healing or helpful qualities but I donât like the stuff. Okay, except this one box. Which I blush to admit is Lipton tea. Donât be ridiculous, I only like the good stuff, right? I have no idea where I got this â probably on mega-sale â and itâs herbal tea by Lipton called something like âlemon sootherâ. And I can drink a lot of it and like it. For one thing, itâs got strong lemon flavor, so that it actually tastes like something, and I really like lemon. So that at least is helping. Even if my head is still full of cotton hay rags and er, mucus. And my voice is still ducking and weaving and disappearing at rare intervals.

But the truth is, I think, after sliding around this for about four decades the truth is, that while I would like to like it, I really donât like tea. I think itâs sophisticated to like tea. I would like to like tea. Iâve attended Japanese tea ceremonies several times and appreciate them. Iâve been to some tea rooms and places that serve High Tea and think thatâs lovely. I have a secret passion for teapots and would collect them if I had money and space. Truth is, Iâm afraid, though, that I donât really like tea. I just like the idea of tea.