Author Archives: Marie Walden

Walden Pond is goin’ green

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This year I’ve resolved to be a better Earth citizen. Last night I watched The Story of Stuff. It’s a digital video making its way around the internet and it elucidates clearly the materials economy, from natural resource inputs to consumer consumption and, finally, to waste landfills and garbage incinerators. It is truly disheartening to see what we are doing to the planet. There is no question that things better change, and soon. The earth can’t sustain our never-ending demands much longer.
 
Today I read that 13% of home energy bills go toward heating water. To make some headway on our resolution to be eco-conscientious, I presented a couple of options to my kids. We could commit to taking shorter and cooler showers. Or we could economize in the way my mother did while my dad was in Viet Nam and she was left home alone to care for 5 young children.

green bathtub
My daughter just came upstairs, post shower, with blue lips and goosebumps galore. I think I have my answer.

Shieldher for her own good

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Available in five beautiful colors
I had to elaborate on Tony’s clever post about the fun-in-the-stun state of Arizona. I am shocked at the idea of personal tasers becoming as ubiquitous as Tupperware!
 
Did you ever carry pepper spray, or Mace as it was known when I was in college? It was pitched to women as a sure-fire way to stop a predator in his tracks. Just spray it in an assailant’s eyes and he’ll stumble around yelling “Ah, my eyes! my eyes!” long enough for his prey to flee.

There is a new protection device available from an Arizona company called Shieldher. It is, I kid you not, a personal taser, the TASER® C2. To soften the outright horror at the thought of our already over-armed streets filling with more weaponry, the Shieldher taser comes in innocuous and feminine colors like metallic pink. I imagine this is meant to discourage macho would-be criminals, who might otherwise be inclined to carry one of these weapons to subdue recalcitrant victims.

Shieldher is aware of the TASER® C2’s potential for misuse:

Our mission is to pacify the fears we face daily as women in an effort to increase the quality of our lives! We have received numerous calls and emails that validate the need for this product and we are committed, at Shieldher, to providing the product in a manner that reinforces it as a personal safety device NOT a weapon.

Undeterred by the overwhelming likelihood of sinister usage, the company touts the benefits of the personal taser:

The TASER® C2 transmits electrical pulses along the wires and into the body of the target, overstimulating the sensory and motor functions of the peripheral nervous system, causing overwhelming incapacitation.

I have a daughter going off to college in the fall and, once I overcame my initial horror at the very notion of personal tasers, I began to play with the idea that perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad idea. I rather relish the idea of the grabby cocksure frat boy writhing on the ground much to the delight of his drunken brothers.

But mere moments later I recalled what has been beaten into my brain over the years by gun control advocates. A handgun carried for personal protection is far more likely to be used against its owner than his or her assailant. I feel certain that the same will be true for the personal taser. How long until the stopped becomes the stopper? How long until Shieldher’s newly-empowered female client encounters a pretty pink taser tucked neatly into the back pocket of anyone desiring her overwhelming incapacitation?

Ancient Costa Rica for sale

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Denver-Art-Museum-LibeskindThe kids are still on Christmas break and are starting to show definite signs of cabin fever. To stave off a domestic implosion, we took a trip up to the Denver Art Museum yesterday. The DAM recently opened a spectacular addition designed by Daniel Libeskind, the architect chosen to rebuild the World Trade Center site. But I had an ulterior motive. I’d recently read about the DAMs 16,000-piece assemblage of pre-Columbian and Spanish Colonial art, including one of the world’s largest collections of Costa Rican artifacts, nearly 2,000 items, donated to the museum by Denver businessman, Frederick Mayer, and his wife. I wanted to check it out.

We’re planning a trip to Costa Rica. Although not much is known about pre-Columbian Costa Rica in comparison to the high cultures of Mexico and South America, recent excavations have uncovered numerous artifacts, including jade carvings. Jade is green and pretty and shiny, perfect for an art lover of my caliber, so I wanted to see it for myself. Call it a bit of research before hitting the craft markets in Sarchi!

Sure enough, Eric and I lost ourselves in a huge room filled with thousands of artifacts. Stone, ceramic, textiles, gold and, oh yes, jade. After an hour or so, we’d barely made a dent in the pre-Columbian collection. Vowing a subsequent visit to the Spanish Colonial galleries, we left to collect the kids before their art experience became Night-mare at the Museum.

As always, looking at ancient artifacts leads me into lofty reverie of past worlds and bare-chested warriors. But this time I couldn’t help but wonder about Jan and Frederick Mayer as well. Certainly amazement and appreciation for their commitment to art and to philanthropy. But really, how on earth had one couple managed to collect this much art from a small Central American country? And why aren’t many of the beautiful pieces residing in Costa Rica, teaching and providing inspiration to Costa Ricans? Especially because Costa Rican pre-Columbian history is not nearly as well-documented as that of its neighbors.

Costa Rica has taken significant measures to protect their natural environment from exploitation. Nearly 20% of the land is set aside for preserves, parks or refuges of some sort. But after my trip to the Denver Art Museum, I’m thinking that perhaps Costa Rica should endeavor to protect other national treasures, especially art created by the hands of largely unknown ancestors, from passionate and well-meaning American oilmen.

Jade museum Costa RicaI will visit the museums in San Jose and let you know how they measure up against the breathtaking Denver Art Museum, with its encyclopedic collection of pre-Columbian Costa Rican artifacts–and hopefully return with a few shiny jade replicas of my own!

A message from Michael Moore

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John Edwards favored by Ralph Nader and Michael MooreIn judging the crop of presidential candidates, who has time to visit every political blog and read the hundreds of analyses put forth daily by credible opinionators? I become overloaded in election years trying divine truth from political rhetoric. Thus, I welcome help, in the form of intelligent research and analysis, when making my decision.
 
Who better than consummate bullshit sniffer Michael Moore to do the legwork for lazy disinterested voters like me?
 
I have to admit, that for purely shallow reasons, I might take an interest in politics were he elected.

The Lysol toilet bowl game

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You probably know that I’m a big sports fan. I grew up watching football with my dad and cut my teeth on the traditions, the rivalries, the pageantry of college football. Rose Bowl corporate logoSome of my fondest memories are of college bowl games that were played during the holiday season. Bowl games presented matchups that were not seen in the regular season. From the weary television console came team histories, funny mascots, famous coaches, bright college colors, and excited pennant-waving crowds. It seemed to me that life came to a halt while the entire world focused on football for a few days.

The Tournament of Roses game, now known as the Rose Bowl, started in 1902. It was a classic East-West battle, and was the only bowl game held outside of the South until 1971. Paired with the beautiful early morning parade, it has been part of every New Year’s Day that I can remember.

In 1933, the first Orange Bowl game was played. Its purpose was to draw attention to the unknown city of Miami and help build a tourism
industry. Next came the Sugar Bowl (1935, New Orleans), the Sun Bowl (1936, El Paso), the Cotton Bowl (1937, Dallas), and the Gator Bowl (1946, Jacksonville).

The associations behind these bowl games had altruistic beginnings. Most benefited charities, many which were recently formed to help people in the wake of the Great Depression. Today they still have 501(c)(3) status but their exempt purpose is fuzzier, bringing economic impact to a particular area. Most current bowls still contribute a large portion of revenue to worthy causes. For example, the Gator Bowl gives 75% of game revenue to support educational pursuits in Jacksonville. Of course they do, and I’m sure the money is put to good use. But if hard truth be told, I’ll bet that much of the money given to charity is a payout to preserve their nonprofit status, to keep the IRS at bay.

The late 1950s saw a proliferation of new bowl games hoping to make money from television coverage. The first bowl game to sell corporate naming rights was the US F&G Sugar Bowl in 1988. The move generated an adverse reaction from the public. No matter, it has now become commonplace. I personally loathe each and every corporation that co-opts tradition in the name of profit. Naming rights are even sold for half-time reports. The most memorable was an attempt to reach out to female viewers, the Stayfree Maxi-pad Half-time Report. At least that one made me laugh. I can’t say the same for my dad who quickly left to stir the chili.

I suppose I should be more understanding. With competition from the new bandwagon bowl games, which offer team payouts in the millions, the old timers have to play by the same rules. After all, bowls can’t make money if the teams don’t show up. And the impoverished state-sponsored universities aren’t willing to be pawns in someone else’s money-maker.

As with so many of our cherished cultural traditions, all has been reduced to greed. Corporate greed, state-supported university greed, individual greed.

It’s said that money is the root of all evil. I don’t think so. Money can do much good as the original intent of college bowl series illustrates. The Lockheed Martin Holy Bible actually says that the love of money is the root of all evil. The perversion of college bowls is but a small and insignificant example of what’s become a global truth.

The names have been changed to expose the guilty:
Rose Bowl presented by Citi
FedEx Orange Bowl
Allstate Sugar Bowl
Brut Sun Bowl
AT & T Cotton Bowl
Konica Minolta Gator Bowl
Capital One Bowl (formerly the Citrus Bowl)

I had a blue Christmas without you

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Advent wreath
I felt more than a bit empty around Christmas this year. For the first time it seemed completely devoid of meaning. No one believes in God. No one believes in Santa. There’s nothing particularly thrilling to give or get. There’s just an obligation to pour money into the pockets of corporate pricks and fill our houses with crap none of us needs, or even really wants.

I remember Christmas as magical. But, as I reflect on my childhood, the magic of the holiday was closely tied to religious ritual. Coming into church on a Sunday soon after Thanksgiving, back when Christmas lights didn’t begin showing up by Halloween and could still be cause for celebration, we’d find the Advent wreath suspended from the rafters. Oh, yes! Christmas is coming! The three purple candles, a pink one for the third Sunday of Advent, a white candle for Christmas Eve. Each candle with its own story and symbolic meaning.

The beautiful haunting Christmas carols. O Come O Come, Emmanuel was my favorite. It still gives me goosebumps. The nativity display. The Christmas story with its shepherds and wise men and camels and bright stars and inns and stables and mangers and gold, frankincense and myrrh. Oh my! I just loved it all.

My poor darling children have none of this, thanks to me. I, like many of my generation, have largely rejected organized religion. Unfortunately, I now understand hypocrisy and oppression and believe that the church is guilty of all the sins it forbids. But what do we do about our spiritual longings? How do we find meaning and impart that meaning to our children who are daily bombarded with despicable messages from our commercialized world? For meaning surely does exist.

I am at a loss when it comes to recreating Christmas magic without a little baby Jesus to help me. And I can’t just pull him out of a box in the attic and blow the dust off of him so he can lay in his manger Christmas morning. My parents did this, and it was okay, because we knew all about him, every day of every year, so it didn’t smack of phoniness like it does when I try to bring him into the Christmas mix.

I have no answers. My children sense my sadness around Christmas, and they know it has something to do with religion. But it doesn’t really. It has to do with meaning, significance, all things lofty and sublime. It has to do with my remembered feelings of joy and sheer awe at the birth of the Savior. It’s the Christmas spirit that, without a miracle, my children will never know.

Getting high with Darwin and Keynes

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stop the war on drugsThe war on drugs. Oh yes, it’s a nasty endless little war, one that’s filling our prisons with small-time users/entrepreneurs and costing the taxpayers billions. It’s a war that hasn’t helped our poor addicted countrymen one iota, and it’s a war for which win-happy Bush has not yet declared victory. But neither has he hung his head in defeat, which he certainly should.

The DEA bigwigs ought to be lamenting the indisputable fact that its decades-long fight against drugs is not working. In fact, it’s making things worse. After spending more than six billion dollars to cripple the Medellin and Cali cartels, the IBM and General Motors of the drug industry, cocaine production and trafficking in Colombia has actually increased. Hundreds of smaller and more efficient cartels have filled the void left by the blue chip cartels, kind of like the dot.com explosion, except the brilliant, creative, innovators happen to run drugs. And the DEA hasn’t a clue who they are or how to stop them.

The war on drugs has penalized and incarcerated thousands of small-time drug dealers/users, the weak and dumb, the poor souls who would never be counted among the fittest in a Darwinian assessment. Years of artificial selection have given rise to the super drug-dealer, the one who, like the virulent bacteria that have arisen from overuse of antibiotics, is more efficient, more cunning, more innovative and much more difficult to eradicate. How can politicians hope to win a war with a strategy that ensures that only the most efficient and creative drug traffickers survive?

The relentless persecution of small-time drug dealers has decreased the supply of drugs on our streets. I suppose this can be seen as a good thing. However, the demand remains. Thus, according to accepted economic theory, interdiction has supported higher prices for the super dealers and provided incentive for more traffickers to enter the drug economy.

Alas, the war on drugs has been a complete waste of time and money. It’s time for the DEA to huddle in the war room and come up with a new strategic plan. They should bring in some new generals, hopefully with public health backgrounds. They might even want to get off their moral steeds and decriminalize recreational drug use, thereby decreasing the demand for illegal drugs. They might decide to throw their allotted resources at dangerous criminals and our underlying social problems and let the small-time stoners be. That is if success is truly their goal.

After all, wouldn’t it make sense to address the underlying demand for drugs? Shouldn’t the DEA stop focusing on supply and address the unchanged demand for illicit drugs? Of course, this would mean funding public health initiatives and educational programs which are not nearly as fun as fighting a war against cagey dark-skinned enemies in exotic foreign locales. No, the men in suits aren’t really interested in giving up their fat federal budgets in order to win the struggle against drug abuse.
The war is too much fun.

So we will keep building expensive prisons and filling them disproportionately with people of color, too poor to make waves. We’ll keep propping up the super-drug dealers we’ve created. We’ll ask Congress for $1.4 billion to fight the drug-crazed Mexicans from Merida, the enemy du jour. And we’ll rejoice that, as is true for all of our wars, there is no end in sight.

Benazir’s murder, a matter of when

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Bhutto muralIt’s tragic that Benazir Bhutto was assassinated today. There is rampant speculation about who did it and why. But largely missing from the analyses I’ve read is the possibility that the nation of Pakistan, the Islamic nation of Pakistan, a nation that recently gave Osama bin Laden a 46% approval rating, simply didn’t want a high-born, Western-educated, secularist woman in a position of power in their country. A woman who has twice been removed from office on corruption charges and whose father was branded an enemy of Islam and executed in 1979.

McDonalds PakistanWe can pretend that it’s an oppressive regime we oppose and that the Pakistani people are longing for freedom and equality as we’ve defined it. In actuality, our quarrel is with the Pakistanis themselves, at least half of whom would institutionalize Islamic fundamentalism and call it freedom. Pakistanis who would love to be free of Western influence, be it cultural or political. Pakistanis who want to practice their religion and define their values without interference from outsiders.

The world does not want our electronics, nor our cars, nor much of anything we have to offer. Why do we insist that the world want our democracy? Clearly it doesn’t.

Go Team Tibet!

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Beijing 2008 Game Over Free TibetI love love love the Olympics. The Olympic Games epitomize humankind’s best and highest physical achievement, our ability to live in peace with other countries, to ignore race and to play fair, if only for a time. Sitius, altius, fortius indeed!

Historically, because the International Olympic Committee has avoided entanglement in world politics, the Olympics have had a larger number of team participants than there are UN-recognized countries. Puerto Rico, Hong Kong, Taiwan have been allowed to send teams to the Games despite their status as possessions of other nations. Even during the Cold War, athletic contests leading up to the Olympics took place behind the Iron Curtain. Talk to any Olympic athlete. They’ve been places that were off-limits to the rest of us. International sport transcends politics. And so it should.

This month the International Olympic Committee betrayed egalitarian tradition and denied the nation of Tibet a place at the 2008 Olympic Games in Beijing. Tibet, illegally-occupied by China since 1949, will not be allowed to field an Olympic team because China claims ownership of their land and their people. To add insult, China has plans to take the Olympic torch to the top of Mt. Everest, a mountain that rightfully belongs to Tibet and Nepal, to solidify its “ownership” of Tibet in the eyes of the world. China has already stepped up its presence at Everest, an easily identifiable landmark to Westerners, in anticipation of the propaganda campaign to come.

China should never have been chosen to host the Olympics in the first place. Countries with a history of egregious human rights violations have traditionally been disqualified as potential Olympic hosts. China bullshitted the IOC with progress and promises. We’re different now! Look how far we’ve come! And for whatever reason, monetary or political gain, good television potential, or maybe just plain old ignorance, the IOC bought the lie. And now they’ve become complicitous in Tibet’s oppression.

So when you see that beautiful Olympic torch, that symbol of good fellowship and unity, carried up Mt. Everest in May by the Chinese, remember that the Tibetan people have been denied their land, their identity, their religious and cultural practices, and a place at the Beijing games. You’ll have to count on memory, because you won’t see any protests during the climb. China has already warned foreigners about engaging in activities concerning the sovereignty and unity of China. Tibetans and Chinese won’t dare make a public spectacle; they know they’ll be shot on sight. Even now, four American citizens are being detained by the Chinese government for unfurling a banner calling for Tibet’s independence during a recent torch relay assessment.

I’m sure the worldwide media will honor the Chinese request for silence and make nary a peep about human rights violations in Tibet and elsewhere. And it’s going to make me sick sick sick.

Make orgasm, not wargasm

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Orgasm-for-peaceOrgasm and the sense of well-being it brings – how would the planet be if it felt that good? Couldn’t that be one definition of Peace? Practice visualizing the planet experiencing the afterglow of a rousing orgasm and taking a break from daily despair.

What if a simultaneous universal orgasm was timed perfectly with the solstice and the funky energy surge it brings? Could that help move humankind off its sure path to self-destruction?

According to researchers at Princeton University working on the Global Consciousness Project, nearly ten years of data collected from random event generators indicate that “when millions of us share intentions and emotions the network shows correlations.” Recent studies have shown that there is indeed power in prayer. It would make sense that there would be similar power that could be released through collective orgasm.

I invite you to join me in a Global Orgasm for Peace. Hopefully worldwide orgiastic energy combined with a mindful intention for peace (no dreaming of scantily-clad nymphets or bruiser beefcake—peace, not piece, should be the focus) could reduce global levels of violence, hatred and fear. We, for a brief spell, could join in a vast post-orgasm group spoon and change the course of human history.

Saturday, December 22 at 06:08 GMT is the appointed time for the Global OooooAaahhhOh. That’s FRIDAY the 21st at 11:08 p.m. for those of us in Colorado. Women, you may want to practice a little beforehand to get the timing down. Men, I’m sure you’ve got a handle on it already. And remember, the intention is peace. Think peace. Wish for peace. Come for peace.
globalo.jpg

She’s a real doll

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Realdolls come ready to step out of their steamer trunk
 
Over the weekend I saw Lars and the Real Girl, a strange but funny movie about a mentally-ill introvert who, much to his concerned family’s delight, finds a “girlfriend” on the internet. The girlfriend, Bianca, it turns out, is actually a Real Doll, a life-sized anatomically correct silicone woman, created by Abyss Creations in California and sold for upwards of $10,000. The entire community sweetly honors the “relationship” while Lars works through deep psychological issues resulting from his mother’s death at his birth.

The brilliance of the movie is that it causes us to gain an uneasy acceptance of something that would otherwise seem perverse and completely laughable. Yet Lars is not, by any stretch, a normal guy, so our acceptance is tenuous. What type of real man is satisfied substituting a silicone representation of a woman for an actual relationship? Abyss Creations has sold thousands of Real Dolls and have an order backlog even as we speak. So who is purchasing these things? Maybe the same man who leaves his wife sleeping upstairs while spending hours looking at internet pornography? The guy who can’t handle the complexities of a real relationship with a flesh and blood female?

At the core, Real Dolls and pornography appeal to the same man. Both give the illusion of love–a travesty of love–created for poorly mothered or often-rejected men. For once these men have control over the omnipotent feminine. The unattainable girl. The instrument of rejection. That intense and infantile vulnerability to the female is turned on its head. The female is now submissive, expendable, interchangeable. Performing for you! Wanting only you! Loving only you!

Ryan Gosling, who plays Lars in the movie, is quite charitable in his assessment of the men who own Real Dolls. “There’s a whole culture of guys out there who have these dolls, and they have very intimate relationships with them. Part of it is sexual, but a lot of it is emotional. One guy goes hang gliding, and he takes his doll to watch, so that he has someone to support him in the things that he likes to do. Some guys cook with them and have dinners; they’re part of the fabric of their life. So, all of this is possible. … I think it’s a romantic idea, that love’s not a transaction. It’s something you have to give, and you give it freely to whoever and whatever you want.”

Okay, I can’t disagree. It’s plenty romantic. Objectification of women is the epitome of romance. In fact, it’s the definition of romance…an artistic work that deals with sexual love, especially in an idealized form…an idealized form like a silicone doll or a stylized airbrushed photograph.

I’ll keep my Old Life, thanks

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Another tragedy has been visited upon New Life Church. This time the perpetrator is not a gay male prostitute. No, Matthew Murray is one of their own. The son of devout Christians and a former member of Youth with a Mission.
 
As is the norm for evangelicals, the story is being presented in the thought-stopping language of Christian-ese. “Ms. Assam, as you were advancing toward the gunman firing repeatedly, what was going through your mind?” “I was thinking how awesome and powerful God is, and how happy I am that I was his chosen instrument.” Okaaay.

Let’s try again. “Why would a young man raised by devoted Christian parents feel such hatred toward fellow believers?” Permit me to improvise here. Matthew Murray hated Christians because he’d allowed sin to gain a foothold in his life. Or because he didn’t have Jesus in his heart. Maybe he didn’t actually have a personal relationship with the Lord. Perhaps he was being assailed by Satan and his minions, caught in his own private Armageddon.

I have a thought. Maybe Matthew Murray despised Christians because he’d been isolated from his peers and home schooled (brainwashed) by them. Obviously he was experiencing some emotional turmoil, a common thing really, but instead of being heard, or being helped, he was expected to trust in the Lord because, after all, his ways are higher than our ways. As a young man, when his God-given inclination was to find himself and taste a bit of freedom, he was expected to be a youth with a mission. Go to the ends of the earth and spread the good news of our Lord!

One spin I’m sure we won’t hear coming out of Christian mouths in the coming days is the possibility that, like Hurricane Katrina and the AIDS epidemic, the shootings represent God’s wrath pouring down on people who claim to know him, to speak for him; people who oppress and repress and judge in his name. There will be no one uttering what many of us are thinking. Perhaps Matthew Murray was God’s chosen instrument.

Where are you from?

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AFAIn college, when asked where I was from, I would proclaim, “I’m from Colorado Springs!” Eyes would light up in recognition. “Isn’t that…?” “Yes,” I would nod. Nestled at the foot of Pikes Peak. The inspiration for America the Beautiful. Home to Garden of the Gods, the Air Force Academy, NORAD, the Olympic Training Center. I could proudly claim them all.

My how times have changed. Still happy to reside in Colorado, I do not readily admit that I live in Colorado Springs. When my secret is uncovered, eyes narrow with suspicion. “Isn’t that…?” “Yes,” I say as my shoulders sag. Focus on the Family, New Life Church, Ted Haggard, Raytheon, General Dynamics, Lockheed Martin.

My home town, my slice of purple mountain majesty, has become ground zero for war profiteers and religious zealots.

Although we don’t know many of them by name, they have a profound impact on our community. They shape local politics. They vote down cultural and environmental initiatives, and deny tax support for helping organizations. They control school boards and change school curricula. They chase away our artists and our young idealists. They drive our gay population back into the closet. And they profit from the spilled blood of our children.

They and their ilk put George W. Bush in the White House. They continue to support our country’s assaults on sovereign nations in order to advance their narrow ideologies and line their gaping pockets. The shame I feel when people discover that I am from Colorado Springs is the same shame felt by many Americans traveling abroad. “We are from the United States,” they mumble. Ground zero for war profiteers and religious zealots….

Life is an epiphany

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jim-suzy-marie.jpgOnce when I was twelve or so, my sisters and I bought my mother a birthday present. We found it at Spencer’s, a store full of black lights and glow-in-the-dark posters, lava lamps, hanging beads. To our young minds Spencer’s held every groovy thing the 70s had to offer and we could not wait to present our gift to Mom.

I remember with crystal clarity the look on her face when she opened the box. The sidelong glance that she gave my father, who turned away at that moment, the apparent victim of a coughing fit. I knew there was something that I didn’t understand and I thought about it for a long time after.

I remember another adult joke from my wonder years. People would see my siblings and me with our parents and would exclaim various things about us. Suzy’s red hair and fair complexion! Jim’s bright blue eyes and olive skin! My blond curls and, well, just that usually. They would follow up these spirited observations with the same question, “Are they all YOURS?” To which my dad would reply, while pointing at us, “The postman, the milkman…” My bubushka-clad mom would then hit him on the arm with her leather gloves and say “Milty!” which was his name. Everyone would laugh and we would continue on our way.

I never understood why my father pointed at me and said “the milkman” so often. What did that even mean? What was a milkman? Shouldn’t I be a milkgirl?

Yesterday my brother sent me some old family photos that he had digitized. And I finally understood.

By the way, the gift for Mother was an adorable grinning egg in a nest. The sign underneath said “You’d smile too if you’d just been laid!”

The Tao of Marie

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Cousin It Derek
I read yesterday’s post and decided that I’d had too much turkey, too much tryptophan actually, to have sufficient mental clarity to properly opine on the divine. Today I possess mental acuity thanks, in part, to the fact I have yet to break my overnight fast. The turkey omelet must wait while I wax philosophic for a spell.

Scientists search, a bit like pigs after truffles, for cures to heal us. Doctors prescribe drugs to relieve us. Cosmetic manufacturers create creams and gels and shampoos to give us a healthy glow. Dieticians create programs to slim us down, bulk us up, bolster our energy, keep us young. Mostly they make us poor and depress us. The diet industry alone took in more than $50 billion last year but has, get this, a 95% failure rate! What the hell? Why aren’t these people in jail?

If the divine can be bothered to dwell within us, doesn’t it make sense that all we seek might possibly reside there too? Why do we allow lesser mortals to define our highest and best? If the path to enlightenment is one we walk alone, the road to self-actualization is simply the other lane. The time spent hunting for essential oils would be better spent looking for the essential self.

I cannot, for a minute, separate my physical, mental, emotional and spiritual selves and still feel a sense of well-being and balance. Perhaps I am particularly sensitive in this area. Perhaps the essential “I” is a tightly-woven braid that feels mussed at the slightest breeze. Actually, I think the popularity of Bo Derek’s terrible movie 10 was a collective recognition of our inner corn rows. Perhaps you are pig tails or a pony tail or a big tangled mane. Perhaps you can stand in the midst of a cyclone and feel unruffled and focused. Maybe you even enjoy the wind in your hair because, after all, it is still hair no matter the form. But a braid does not have this luxury.

I am not mentally healthy when I am not physically sound. My thoughts scatter, if I can be bothered to think at all. To me, a rational and precise thinker, this does not feel right, or safe. I am emotionally fragile when I don’t have the support of my other strands. When I can’t think clearly, or I don’t feel physically healthy, I am a mess. Once, only once, I had what, in retrospect, was a migraine headache. I laid face down on the couch and sobbed, aloud, until it went away.

I am a hairy wisp of a girl in every way. Only when I am integrated can I feel the power of my inner braid. As if this necessary tidiness wasn’t difficult enough to maintain, there seems to be a power struggle within my strands. The physical strand determines the hairstyle. This is not a rational choice that I have made. It seems to have little to do with my conscious self. But from experience I know that if the physical strand feels powerful and centered, I am free to play with the other strands.

Psychologists have affirmed that this is the case for many. The physical is the lowest rung on Maslow’s ladder. It is primitive. A beast that must be pacified. Woe to the other strands if the physical isn’t happy. Only when I am pregnant can I let my hair down, let the strands commingle, and still feel whole. Maybe it is because I am sharing my body with another human being in an vital way, maintaining health my highest purpose, that the physical knows its importance and loosens its grip on the other strands. Or maybe it’s hormones or other biochemicals manifesting their influence. They are, after all, the scrunchie of the essential I. Without their cooperation, there is no braid. And they know it.

Human beings are unique. We each have different power structures, styles, desires, needs. We’ve encountered different weather conditions and live in different climates. If we want to know what our particular hairstyle is, and how it’s faring these days, we don’t need to look at a magazine or a television or even at our friends and family. No, to ascertain the condition of the hairstyle, the true self, the essential I, we need only natural light and a hand-held mirror.

Ghosts of Thanksgiving Past

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Devon praying
I was obsessed with Bernadette Soubirous when I was a Catholic schoolgirl. You’ll recall, or perhaps you won’t, that the Mother of God appeared to Bernadette at Lourdes in 1858. Or so Bernadette claimed.

Filled with unbelief and not wishing to delude the gullible faithful, the church hierarchy convened a Council of Enquiry to check out Bern’s story. Oh how the Bishop wrestled with his monumental burden!
“But if Bernadette does not want to deceive, was she not deceived herself? How could she believe to see and hear what she did not see and hear? Was she not the victim of hallucinations? How could we believe her? The wisdom of her answers reveals in this child a spirit of goodness, a quiet imagination, good sense beyond her years. Religious feelings never showed in her a spirit of exhalation; nobody could prove in the young girl neither intellectual disorder, nor change of mind nor unusual personality nor morbid feelings which would allow her to give way to a creative imagination.”

The Bishop of Tarbus, after only four years’ deliberation, decided that Bernadette was worthy and the people were given permission to believe her. The divine presence revealed, because of the moral purity of one young girl. Hmmmmm.

Upon hearing this story as a ten-year-old I determined to be the next Bernadette. I was certain I could be as holy and pious as she was. I secreted myself in my room at night and quietly recited the rosary, lingering over the Hail Marys. Surely the Blessed Virgin would take notice of my glow-in-the-dark rosary beads and appear to me as I lay in my little bed. I worried about my response. Should I feign surprise? Perhaps a sense of peaceful recognition? What if she expected tears of joy? Would I be able to produce them without delay? What if she appeared and my acting was deemed inferior? What would happen to poor Mary?

I enrolled in a Creative Dramatics class to ensure my success.

Despite years of piety, countless novenas (guaranteed to work! follow instructions exactly or no money back!), mental sojourns along the Via Dolorosa, Easter vigils, midnight masses, prayer flags, candles, medals–still no Mary. After learning that Marie was synonymous with Mary in the eyes of linguists everywhere, my final act of radical devotion saw me refuse to take a confirmation name. There could be no saint that I hoped to emulate more than the Mother of God. Mary, are you listening?

I finally gave up hope the summer after my sophomore year. I burned my uniforms and transferred to a public school. I decided that if Mary was too good for me, I’d find another other-worldly persona that liked my obviously flawed self. Who could be bad enough for me? Perhaps Satan?

After a short stint as a bad girl I found Jesus and stopped grieving my fractured relationship with Mary. I was drawn to the fundamental purity and wisdom of that most-revered and infallible document, the Holy Bible. In my youth, the Bible was clad in white leatherette with garish gold writing and a big picture of Jesus. It was placed in a prominent place in every Catholic home. But read? I was sure the Pope would not approve. Popes are popes and have need to pontificate. This requires a certain degree of cooperative ignorance on the part of the pontificatees, does it not? Feeling like a teenage boy with his daddy’s Playboy magazine, I sat in my room and studied the Bible. I could not believe how deceived I had been! Satan himself had been standing between me and the Holy Spirit, the only true path to peace and enlightenment. Jesus had been there all along, quietly knocking on the door to my heart, and I had been so caught up in my works-based salvation, my meager attempts to be holy, that I missed his call. Fuck.

Thus began a twenty-year stint as a religious fundamentalist. I will spare you most of the details of my quest to reconcile my inherently sinful nature with my holy and perfect god. I will say that I had a team of prayer warriors beseeching god to reveal himself to Dave, my militant atheist husband. I begged the Lord to allow the scales to fall from Dave’s eyes so he, too, could see as clearly as I did. It turns out that it wasn’t only Dave who was in grave danger. It was pretty much everyone I knew. And every unreached person in the four corners of the earth. It was up to me personally to pray without ceasing for each and every one of these lost souls. Their eternal destiny depended entirely on me. Holy fuck. I had wasted a lot of time on Mary.

Try as I might I could not suppress my rational nor my spiritual side forever. An academic approach feels safe when treading in parts unknown, so I embarked on a study of comparative religion. Surely most of the world could not be held accountable for truths that God in his infinite wisdom had not chosen to reveal to them. And surely it could not possibly fall on me and a handful of the idiotic chosen to make certain that the world had a chance to hear the good news. While I was sporting my hard-won Mind of Christ, my mind developed a mind of its own. What a crock of shit! was the refrain that replaced the time-honored Praise the Lord!

I’ll cut to the end. I believe that there is something more knowing, more powerful, more permanent, more loving than me. But to attach a personality, a gender, a shape, even a part of speech, to a universal force is not only foolish, it’s often tragic. If you want to see human frailty in action look no further than organized religion.

Spiritual reality has been a part of mankind since the beginning. We do our best to give our ephemeral understanding structure. We fashion an idol that resonates within us. Where food is scarce and money more so, perhaps god resembles a golden calf, the highest and best we know. Where women suffer together and depend upon the earth’s bounty to bear daily burdens, perhaps she is a goddess who permeates the natural world. Men stripped of their voices and forced to serve a capricious master create a suffering servant who will rule heaven and earth one day. When our basic needs are met and we are perched on the top of Maslow’s ladder, we have nowhere to go but inward. Divinity resides within.

At the deepest place we are the same. We are one tribe. We are protected and loved by a universal force that knows no bounds. We are free to define it as we will. Our understanding of it may change over time, a reflection of our growth. We must give others the same freedom to be, to know, to discover, to change. I am thankful that I have had that chance. That I still have that chance.

Operation OMG

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Slim Pickens rides againNorthCom, Pacific Command and NORAD, along with the Department of Homeland Security, are planning an anti-terrorist training exercise called Operation Vigilant Shield. It will take place October 15-20 and will prepare the military for a martial law scenario. The exercise will be a mock up of a radiological weapons catastrophe. I’ve read elsewhere that the military will use members of the clergy to encourage cooperation in the event of martial law.

I called the telephone number on the Operation Vigilant Shield Fact Sheet(PDF) and spoke to one Tony Hill. I am not sure of his rank. NORAD is today in the process of moving desks and boxes to a new home at NorthCom and didn’t have the usual operator in place. He chatted amiably with me about Operation Vigilant Shield, assured me that it was going to take place, assured me that it wasn’t all that unusual.

On September 11, 2001, NORAD was conducting a training exercise called Operation Vigilant Guardian. This ensured that our military air fleet would be tied up over the Atlantic and that no adequate defense to hijacked airliners could be launched.

I think I’ll be a ghost come Halloween.

Ask not for whom the bell tolls…

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B-52s are state sponsored terrorismit tolls for thee and me.
 
According to a story originally reported in the Army Times, a B-52 carrying six nuclear warheads traveled from North Dakota to Louisiana last week. Accidentally. This, despite the fact that flying nuclear warheads violates a treaty bearing our signature. The mistake was not discovered until after the plane had landed six hours later. President Bush was notified due to the gravity of the situation. As a result, all fighters and bombers within the U.S. will be grounded starting September 14 to allow for an internal investigation.
 
Can you spell DRILL?

Taps for Larry Craig? Maybe not.

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Officer Dave Karsnia
My 9-year-old twins learned about stereotypes in school last week. Ever eager to share social messages they receive while in the hands of the state, knowing that hours of rollicking fun will result, they vomited the latest rhetoric gleefully into my lap.

This is a picture of Dave Karsnia, the Minneapolis cop who took down Larry Craig. He received the Officer of the Year award in 2003 from none other than Dick Cheney, which somehow seems appropriate. Karsnia has, based on my limited exposure to all things gay, the look of a cute young, uh, gay guy. Without the adorable personality no doubt. I wonder what would’ve transpired if the officer had resembled Dennis Franz in NYPD Blue?

Why isn’t the gay community outraged that the state has hijacked its image and used it for nefarious purposes against them? Aren’t we shielded from self-incrimination by the Constitution? Perhaps the Constitution was what Larry Craig was reaching for on the floor of the bathroom stall. To wipe his lyin’ heinie. Thank god he didn’t flush. Whatever.

I actually wanted to post the transcript of a call made, before the big press conference announcing the intended resignation, by Craig to his attorney Billy Martin. Craig accidentally left the message on a complete stranger’s phone. Mother of God. If I were his wife I would be so pissed. Larry! Good Lord, pull your head out now and then!

“Yes, Billy, this is Larry Craig calling. You can reach me on my cell. Arlen Specter is now willing to come out in my defense, arguing that it appears by all that he knows that I have been railroaded and all that.

“Having all of that, we have reshaped my statement a little bit to say it is my intent to resign on Sept. 30. I think it is important for you to make as bold a statement as you are comfortable with this afternoon, and I would hope you could make it in front of the cameras.

“I think it would help drive the story that I’m willing to fight, that I’ve got quality people out there fighting in my defense, and that this thing could take a new turn or a new shape, it has that potential. Anyway, give me a buzz or give Mike a buzz on that. We’re headed to my press conference now. “Thank you. Bye.”

Go figure. I can’t imagine that Arlen Specter is supporting Larry Craig for altruistic reasons. It certainly can’t be indignation about civil liberties under fire, nor state-sponsored stereotyping. It must have something to do with partisan House politics. As usual. I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.

WWDLD?

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Colorado Senator Doug LambornPer the Denver Post, the following are two voice messages that Rep. Doug Lamborn left on the home telephone of Jonathan and Anna Bartha after they wrote a letter to the Woodmen Edition criticizing Lamborn for accepting $1500 from gambling interests.
 
FIRST MESSAGE: “Hello, this is Doug Lamborn calling for either Jonathan or Anna. Something very serious has happened. There was a letter to the editor that you both put in your names to the editor of the Woodmen Edition and there is something that is blatantly false in that letter…

“I would like to get together with you and show this to you and appeal to you as a brother and sister in Christ. You didn’t give me that opportunity but I am happy to overlook that and deal with you on that level because I think that is the right thing to do and show you where you made a blatant, wrong statement.

“Now there are consequences to this kind of thing, but I would like to work with you in a way that is best for everyone here concerned. So please call me at your earliest convenience. It is now 2:40 (p.m.) on Saturday afternoon.

SECOND MESSAGE: “Hello, this is Doug Lamborn again, I’m finishing up my message from a moment ago. I got cut off. It is critical that you get back to me as soon as possible on this because I’ll be going back to Washington here in a few days and I have to make sure that this is resolved one way or another. And like I said I’d rather resolve this on a Scriptural level but if you are unwilling to do that I will be forced to take other steps, which I would rather not have to do. So please call me. This is essential. Call me by tonight, Saturday night and we can get together sometime Sunday afternoon.”

Oh my. Consequences. What consequences? Well, Anna Bartha worked on the campaign for Jeff Crank, an opponent of Lamborn’s in the Republican primary race. And Jonathan Bartha works for Focus on the Family. Maybe Lamborn is threatening to call in a favor from Dobson? This wouldn’t be retribution would it? I mean, what would Jesus do?

The Post reported that when asked whether his messages were threatening, Lamborn said: “No, that is ridiculous. My hope, I failed, but I had hoped to meet with them privately and confidentially because lying is a serious matter. ”

Asked what he meant by consequences, Lamborn said: “When someone tells a lie, it just has bad consequences.”

Lamborn claims that he did in fact receive the contribution but returned it. Federal records show he received the money, but not that he returned it. So let’s hope that the very serious sin of bearing false witness does indeed have consequences. I hope we can get this Nazi bastard out of office sooner rather than later.

Props to the right wing Barthas for busting his chops! The blind beating the blind. We likey!

See you in prison

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Bush dictator quote from 2000Quietly, with little mention in the press, the National Security and Homeland Security Presidential Directive was signed in May 2007. This directive places all governmental power in the hands of the President in the case of a catastrophic emergency (as defined by him alone). It also allows him to take control of the private and nonprofit sectors. It effectively abolishes the checks and balances built into the Constitution and demolishes the Bill of Rights. This is, of course, necessary to keep us safe in case of a national disaster. The “Unitary Executive” would be able to act quickly and decisively, without any interference from those other two annoying branches of government, slow-moving and contentious as they are.

Our Constitution has never been about efficiency. The checks and balances built into it were created to keep any one individual or branch of government from having unilateral power. It lays the groundwork for a democracy, not for a well-oiled machine.

George Bush has shown extreme disdain for the Constitution, the very document he swore to uphold. He has vetoed only a handful of bills while in office, but he has attached signing statements to more than a thousand, clearly indicating scorn for Congress and his commitment to enforce only the laws he chooses. He has taken bills designed to protect the American public and has amended them to be used against us. Congress recently handed Zippy even more power by passing the Police America Act 2007. He has stripped us of our right to privacy, our right against unreasonable search and seizure, our right to due process. All in the name of the fighting terror.

We already know that President “Hyperbole” Bush is a master of exaggeration, if not outright prevarication. He and his oil buddy, Cheney, lied to get us into Iraq. They’ve lied to keep us in Iraq. Long ago they planned to get their hands on all of that beautiful unctuous black gold under the desert. They are not about to cede power to a successor until they’ve gotten the goods. What terrible national catastrophe is up his sleeve that will enable him to retain power?

I won’t speculate about what the catastrophe will be, but WorldNetDaily.com reported yesterday that the administration has been authorized to set up civilian prisons at military installations, something that has not been done in our country since the WWII Japanese internment camps. Under international law, internment camps are used in times of war to incarcerate large groups of people deemed to be enemies or “belligerents,” indefinitely and without trial, of course. Hasn’t Bush already warned us that if we are not with him, then we are with the terrorists? Read the handwriting on the wall.

When the occupant of the highest office in the land decides what the law is, singlehandedly, we no longer live in a democratic society. We live under a dictator, the Unitary Executive. While we were sleeping, Zippy the Monkey’s big dream of being THE Decider has been realized. We are basically living in an autocracy. The Founding Fathers are turning over and over in their graves. But few of the living seem to care.

Prepare yourself for the war with Iran. Prepare yourself for the impending terrorist attack. Prepare for the national catastrophe that will allow the Unitary Executive to suspend the 2008 election and stay in power indefinitely.

Just watch. He’ll do it. He’s the DECIDER. We gave him that power. And he’s willing and able to use it.

I only wish I believed my own rhetoric

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Marie argues with Officer Paladino
Freedom to express oneself, to think independently, was the lure that led the masses to our shores. Safety from abusive and intrusive government is the dream that continues to draw people to our borders. Our military men and women are in Iraq and elsewhere fighting for these same principles on behalf of those who cannot battle tyranny alone. Yet here in Colorado Springs, where so many are at great personal risk because of American ideology, we do not recognize the basic Constitutional freedoms of our own citizens.

It was a private parade, you say. The police were just following the orders of John O’Donnell, the parade organizer. Those people had no right to be there. What a load of garbage. The city was a partner in the St. Patrick’s Day parade. They blocked off public streets and used public resources. For the city and the CSPD to hide behind another organization’s insurance policy is not only cowardly, it is un-Constitutional. The ACLU won a recent case in Hawaii, wherein a “private” parade sought to exclude a particular group from marching. The conclusion: government entities can not shield themselves, nor take directives, from private citizens using public resources. The rest of the country seems to understand this.

In any case, the excessive force used by several of the policemen called to the scene is absolutely indefensible. Miscommunication, fear of public safety, parade crashing. None excuse what ensued. Not for a minute. Today it was peace activists; tomorrow it will be someone else. This type of unchecked abuse of power is a terrifying thing to witness. The lack of accountability by the CSPD illustrates that this thug behavior is tolerated, perhaps encouraged. If they are willing to behave that way in the presence of hundreds of spectators, can you imagine the treatment of those less visible? Are they taught to leave their humanity at the door when they don their uniforms and guns?

While I appreciate the attempts made by John Weiss to reconcile the community, his call to the activists to drop the threat of a civil suit is wrong. Where the people have no voice the court system is the next step. A hung jury in so simple a case shows that we are a town that is not as freedom-loving as our local daily newspaper professes. Perhaps, as in Hawaii, a higher court will possess greater wisdom. It is the next peaceful step in our cherished democratic process. The checks and balances built into the Constitution provide a measure of hope.

If there is no relief to be found by those who have sworn to defend the Constitution, then we will have to take to the streets. Systemic change is always resisted by those in power. If the populace had not banded together in the past to demand its rights, women would not vote, blacks and whites would be segregated, workers would toil in dangerous conditions, children would be chattel.

We should not live in fear of our local government, they should fear and respect us. They are public servants. We are a country of the people, by the people, for the people. We will not rest until our government, including those on Capitol Hill, abides by the Bill of Rights. Don’t mistake quiet acquiescence for peace. It is a reaction to oppression.

What the peace marchers need is not a call to lay down, but the rising up of their fellow citizens. They call for peace. Let the rest of us support them with a call for justice. As Thoreau said in Civil Disobedience, “Cast your whole vote, not a strip of paper merely, but your whole influence.” It is time for every concerned citizen to help stop the rampant abuse of power in our city and beyond. Without liberty and justice, there will never be peace. Here, there or anywhere.

Are we not men?

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Law never made men a whit more just; and, by means of their respect for it, even the well-disposed are daily made the agents of injustice.
 
A common and natural result of an undue respect for the law is that you may see a file of soldiers, colonel, captain, corporal, privates, powder- monkeys, and all, marching in admirable order over hill and dale to the wars, against their wills, ay, against their common sense and consciences, which makes it very steep marching indeed, and produces a palpitation of the heart. They have no doubt that it is a damnable business in which they are concerned; they are all peaceably inclined.

Now, what are they? Men at all? or small movable forts and magazines, at the service of some unscrupulous man in power? Visit the Navy Yard, and behold a marine, such a man as an American government can make, or such as it can make a man with its black arts–a mere shadow and reminiscence of humanity…

The mass of men serve the state thus, not as men mainly, but as machines, with their bodies….In most cases there is no free exercise whatever of the judgment or of the moral sense; but they put themselves on a level with wood and earth and stones; and wooden men can perhaps be manufactured that will serve the purpose as well. Such command no more respect than men of straw or a lump of dirt. They have the same sort of worth only as horses and dogs. Yet such as these even are commonly esteemed good citizens.

Henry David Thoreau, Civil Disobedience

The g-factor

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sat1.jpg 
 
My courtship with Dave went something like this. “Hi.” “Hi.” “What did you get on the SAT?” “XXX on math. XXX on verbal. You?” “800 on both.” “Combined?” “Ha.”

That conversation, which occurred at Bennigan’s on North Academy in 1984, as I sat at a table holding hands with my cute-but-inferior tennis pro boyfriend, sealed our fate. Dave and I were less than crazy about each other. Our DNA, on the other hand, fell fast and hard. Over the moon in fact. Our double-stranded helices batted amino acids at each other, wanting to intertwine forever in a heart-shaped petri dish. Messenger RNA played Yenta. We were both far more concerned about the g-factor, inherent ability to learn, IQ for you old schoolers, than the g-spot, which I still don’t understand that well or care about that much. Really.

Our top colleges had traditionally drawn from the spawn of the affluent. Students from northeastern prep schools such as Exeter and Andover were the incoming freshman class. Higher education was not for the many, but for the privileged few. Thank goodness that a rebel Rockefeller or Carnegie daughter defied her parents and married a cowboy from Wyoming. The rich began to question the system. “How can I get my dung-covered grandson into Princeton? I know he is far more brilliant than some of these Vermont yahoos. I know! Let’s create a test that shows off the Mayflower genome. Diamonds in the American rough.” Thus the SAT was born.

For many years the SAT served a noble purpose. Intelligent hardworking children from mediocre schools, from up-and-coming western states, from blue collar families, could distinguish themselves as better than their circumstances would normally allow. Stanford, the “Harvard of the West,” helped America meet her Manifest Destiny.

But the rich are not comfortable with a level playing field. Perhaps they fear that too many trophy wives have diluted their genetic purity. I don’t know. But, predictably, they began to climb back up Mount Superior. What was designed to be a test taken after a good night’s sleep, by anyone, became a game to be won. Expensive review courses and other manipulations once again favored the privileged few. Not about to give up flagship universities to the underclass, they changed the rules of engagement.

Educators say that the SAT tells us nothing much. Yes, a certain segment of society has an inherent superior ability to learn, to achieve what they’ve been asked to achieve. No surprise there. But it is a limited quest. A limited vision. And a poor indicator of future success. Superiority for its own sake is a dead end. Our kids can walk around now with pride but not purpose. They can achieve but not accomplish. The SAT has become the measure of a person. Works aside. That’s sad. I feel for my children, being raised in this environment. They want to do well, and achievement is what it takes. I rue the pressure they feel, but I am unable to remove them from the competition.

Abolish the SAT. Abolish the ACT. Abolish the CSAP. Let the measure of a person be what they DO. If they work hard to attain good grades, let us honor that. I think it was Jesus who said, “Pretty is as pretty does.” Or maybe he said, “If they won’t work, let them also not eat.” I made a mistake when I thought that good genes were the loftiest goal. Not so.