Car crash?

The guy who stood me up yesterday left a message on my machine this morning. If his story can be believed, he got a call at 5 a.m. Sunday alerting him to a car accident involving a friend. On the message, he claims to have driven the five-hour drive to Daytona and "wasn't able to break away to call" me to cancel our plans. His apology seemed sincere, and he sounded exhausted on the message. Either he truly WAS on the road all day to care for his friend or he was just up late last night fucking his wife and his wife's best friend.

What ever is a girl to believe?

I got stood up today

OK. So I'm interested in dating. So I'm out running errands yesterday. So I see this guy working at one of my errand locations, and we strike up a conversation. So he reminded me of a first-term Bill Clinton in voice and looks. So I found him to be really funny and he seemed to know a lot about politics and foreign affairs - qualities that helped me start to move past his southern twang. So we seemed to hit it off. So he said he'd love to have me come up there so we could talk again. So I called there later to give him my number. So he called me when he got off work. So I wasn't there but called him back using the number he left. So it was his cell phone, and he called me back while he was out walking his dog (a golden retriever named Molly). So I learned he was as into NASCAR (strike one) as he was into nature (plus one) and traveling (major plus one). So, except for a couple of red flaggy feelings I got, he seemed nice enough and invited me to lunch today. So he said he'd call this morning. So, at 11:45 when the phone still hadn't rung, I went to the gym. So I got home at 1, and he still hadn't called. So I called his cell phone, and the 44-year-old asshole didn't have the guts to answer. So I left a message that said, "I guess we're not going out to lunch today. It's not nice to stand people up. Bye."

So I'm feeling majorly rejected. So back to square one.

Tooth update

What do you think? It's hard to tell, because the light in the bathroom makes everything look yellow. I bought a second pack of whitening strips yesterday and will be done with this little project in 6.5 days.

After 3 applications:



After 8 applications:



After 15 applications:



After 15 applications (in natural light):

My philosophy and a shitload of parenthetical information

I bought this lovely little T-shirt at fussy.org this week. It arrived in the mail Thursday, and I wore it to Bed Bath & Beyond today on a day off to run errands and lounge around reading and browsing the Internet (I looked here and here). I agree with the message printed on the shirt, but I would probably change it slightly to "writing honestly is the best revenge."

I ended up spending more than $200 at BB&B on everything from a mattress pad, a cutting board and a rubber spatula (it's sex night!) to a lint brush, a power strip (impulse purchase), a shower curtain and a vacuum cleaner - a glittery puke-green little Eureka that is bagless and weighs just 12 pounds. It also has this funky round handle and all the attachments I could ever want.

In the 16 months I have lived in this apartment, I haven't owned a vacuum cleaner and have been sweeping the low-pile carpeting with a broom. I vacuumed the second I got home - using the wand attachment to suction the baseboards and the little nook where the floor meets the wall - and ended up with a cannister full of dirt and hair after just 10 minutes. It was nasty. So, so nasty.


The funkiest little vacuum in all the land

Butter, be gone!

Almost half a lifetime of smoking has left me with black lungs, a damaged heart, less money in my pocket and butter-yellow teeth. Now that I don't smoke anymore, time will fix my heart, lungs and pocketbook. Those whitening strips will hopefully fix my teeth.

I love to kiss, and I'm assuming it's not that appealing to zero in on someone's lips when brownish yellow teeth are poking out between them. Who would want to move their tongue over teeth that look like they haven't been brushed in years or belong in the trap of someone who lives in Europe? I wouldn't know, because a tooth fetish leads me always and only to men who have perfectly straight and perfectly white teeth, the pointier the canines the better.

Anyway, I bought a tooth whitening kit at Target on Saturday. Two half-hour applications a day for seven days. Repeat the entire process a second time, if desired. Touch up every six months. I just finished my 10th application, and I will document my progress here. I don't really have a "before" photo as the first image was captured after three applications. But, since the butter is so thick I have enough to spare for popcorn, this photo will do nicely, anyway.

I'm not sure a difference can be noticed here (both photos taken in the bathroom with the light on, no flash), but my teeth are definitely a couple of shades whiter, at least. Anyone wanna make out? Most of my teeth are all natural. I've never even had braces.

After 3 applications:






After 10 applications:

Vox invites

I have two of them. Whoever wants one, leave a comment or send an e-mail and let me know. Be sure to include your e-mail address so I can send along the invite.

New music

I picked it up for $10 at Target. What a deal. I can't say it's as good as anything Radiohead ever put out, but - hey - it's Thom Yorke. I'd buy a CD of him farting out tunes using his armpits.

Thom Yorke/The Eraser

Even more proof that I am a competitive asshole

Background

Guys: You know that drunk moron at a bar who wants to impress his woman so he sidles up next to you and challenges you to a game of pool or darts? You know that jerk who loudly proclaims "I can beat any one of you!" and then makes awful "ha HA!" noises and spews "Eat that!" or "Beat that!" with every bullseye or ball knocked into a pocket?

I don't like to admit it, but sometimes I'm that guy.

I'm not trying to impress a woman (or man). I'm trying to impress myself. I'm not trying to say something bad about you. I'm trying to say something good about me - and doing it poorly. I admit it. I'm addicted to competition.

I love tests of math and logic, and I take IQ tests on the internet just for fun. I love completing tasks for a grade and comparing my grade to the grades of others as well as the number of hours we studied. I love playing all sorts of games against friends and strangers, and I keep a backgammon board in my trunk for impromptu sessions. I love racing anything and seeing who will win. When I was a reporter, I didn't have to write the most stories but I had to have the best stories faster and on the front page. When I worked in public relations, I had to have the most media hits on campaigns and come up with the best and brightest ideas. I had to be a better writer, a better thinker and a better schmoozer than all the others.

I'm the one who would cover her test paper so others couldn't cheat. I'm the one who wouldn't allow do-overs.

Faster, more, better, nicer, smarter, cleverer, meaner, stronger, braver, funnier. It's my curse, and I have been known to wear myself out in my quest for perfection.

Story #3 (click here for story #2)

Journalism is one of THE top professions designed to accomodate competitive assholes, and the fact that I was ever a reporter proves, without a doubt, forever and ever and ever, that I am, indeed, a competitive asshole.

That said, as reporters go, I was more competitive and assholish than most. My reporter persona came easily, and I slipped it on at 9 a.m. every day. Persona, you query? What is that? And why ever did you use one? Are you insane? The answers are 1) a role I played in public 2) to shield myself and maneuver through difficult or intense situations and 3) nearly.

I'm not sure how many reporters use personas in the line of duty. I've met a few who do but many who don't. I think it depends on the nature of the job. Mine was necessary considering I was a Yankee (I grew up in Florida and once lived in NY, which, I was told, makes me a Yankee) who was working at a small newspaper in rural South Georgia (where the word "nigger" is bandied about often and using a full voice, no hushed tones or whispering) who bucked social convention by having the audacity to write about things that were ACTUALLY GOING ON and quoting people using words they ACTUALLY SPOKE.

Before I came along, I was told by more than a million people, including fellow reporters, that city council members and other folks in the good old boy network needed only to mutter five sweet words to a reporter to keep their public images intact and to keep embarrassing actions and words away from public scrutiny: "This isn't for the newspaper."

When those in charge saw that I wouldn't be bowing down to them, many hissy fits were thrown by one mayor and a certain city attorney. And that was just in the first month. I knew I'd have to toughen up a bit. Hence, the persona.

My persona evolved over time and was borne out of necessity and extreme hardship. The best way I can describe it is that it was one that combined detachment with a dash of superior smugness and a heapin' helpin' of razor-sharp suspicion. It was my shield against nasty insults, lies and attacks and it gave me a face to wear that masked my own when my heart wanted to break and tears wanted to fall.

I have a million stories I will eventually tell about being a Yankee reporter in Backwards U.S.A. But to suit the title of this post, I will tell a tale involving Gov. Sonny Perdue.

At first, I thought it would be a stupid, routine story. Three companies were coming to Thomasville thanks to some state funds, and the governor was going to be paying a visit to provide the details. Naturally, I wanted to know which companies were coming for my pre-visit story. Unfortunately, no one would tell me. Stonewalled!

City officials wanted to kiss the governor's butt by keeping the info under wraps so HE could announce it during his big visit. That didn't sit well with me, especially since I really really really wanted to break the news first and I really really really REALLY hate it when people won't tell me things. It doesn't make me stop asking. It just makes me start looking for a door or window or tunnel or mountain to go through, over, in or around to find out what I want to know.

Soooo....What started out as a routine story turned into a nasty little game of hide and seek, and I was damn sure it wouldn't be me that came away the loser. Plus, why should that fucking asshole redneck of a governor have all the fun? I ended up wanting to spoil it for him, and I did. It's not much, but it's all the information I could dig up in five hours or less. I can't reveal how I got the info (wink wink), but here is the article - printed the day before Gov. Perdue's visit - that landed me in hot water yet again. Sigh! It's hard being superior.

--------------------------------------

THOMASVILLE -- Gov. Sonny Perdue will be in Thomasville on Wednesday to talk about how OneGeorgia money will soon benefit the area.

Three companies are either expanding or setting up shop in Thomas County thanks to OneGeorgia money -- funds from the state's tobacco settlement that are helping some parts of Georgia develop economically. It is unclear how much money is being distributed for the three current projects. The governor will provide details at 2 p.m. Wednesday at the Thomasville Cultural Center, 600 E. Washington St.

One of the beneficiaries of the OneGeorgia money is Dillon Candy Company in Boston. The company has outgrown its 12,000-square-foot facility, said Oscar T. Cook Jr., the company's president, and will be moving to a 20,000-square-foot building that currently exists but will be renovated.

"Part of our reason for moving is that we've reached capacity here," he said. "Our sales warrant larger production capacity. We need to get to a new and larger facility."

The new facility will be located on Georgia Highway 84, one-and-a-half miles away from its current South Green Street location. The money will enable the candy manufacturing company to stay in Boston, Cook said, instead of moving to another state.

Additional employees will be hired to match production needs in the future, said Cook, who said the hope is for a 30-percent production increase in a few years.

A. Duda & Sons, Inc., which grows, ships, markets and exports fresh fruits and vegetables and has a presence in Florida, Texas and California, will soon be set up on 13 acres at the former Sunnyland site on Old Cassidy Road thanks, in part, to OneGeorgia funds. Doug Silvis, the local attorney for the company, said it will buy a $4 million facility in August from the Joint Development Authority and set up a food processing plant. Celery will likely be one of the main vegetables processed and packaged there, Silvis said.

"Hopefully, it will open up an additional market for farmers because of the connection (the company) has with goverment food programs and the school food programs," Silvis said. "Hopefully, what people can't use fresh can be processed by the A. Duda Company."

Susan Howard, a spokesperson for A. Duda & Sons Inc., refused comment Monday.

A welding company also is reportedly coming to this area, however details could not be obtained or verified as of press time Monday.

Don Sims, president of the Thomasville/Thomas County Chamber of Commerce, refused comment Monday.

maarmie + Vox = moxie!

I was invited to join Vox, and I started up a blog there today. But I'm not sure I'm going to make the switch. I'm definitely not going to try and maintain two blogs. I think Vox is probably easier to use and offers more options for the technically impaired. We'll see. I'll give it a try.

Feats of strength

I know my life is getting ready to implode when I wake up in the middle of the night lying in a puddle of my own urine. When bad things are happening and a part of me knows it but a more controlling part of me wants to deny it or hasn't caught on yet, I wet the bed. I'm 34 years old, and I still wet the bed at least once a year. Any guys out there really turned on by me yet?

It happened last night. At 2:30 a.m., I woke out of a horrifying little dream involving someone I know - something involving a money-making opportunity she stole from me and used herself and wasn't willing to let me be part of it, lots of fighting, anguish and sadness going on in the dream. I couldn't take it. When I woke up, I was mid-pee. After a trip to the bathroom and a changing of the sheets, I went back to sleep only to suffer more unpleasant dreams.

Something big is happening, but I don't know what yet. Some kind of huge transition. I'm nervous, but I feel OK about it. I feel pretty strong and happy with myself. I am dealing better and better with loss. I seem to be more able to handle shifting circumstances and change. I think I am more able to stand alone now if that's what's required. It sucks being alone, not having anyone to rely on. But it's better to be in that situation than to constantly rely on people who are hurtful or who don't really have my best interests at heart.

I guess now I'll have the chance to rely only on myself and see if I'm as strong as I think I am.

Yes, I'm happy

Ok. I admit it. I'm happy Kenneth Lay is dead. I'm glad the founder and former chairman of Enron was found guilty for his actions. I'm glad he was awaiting sentencing. I'm glad he had a heart attack. And I'm glad he croaked. Because of his death, I'm starting to believe there may be such a thing as karma or...gulp!...god.

Now, what to do about the money...

I don't think his family should get a dime. Some people I know think his wife and kids should get to keep enough to live comfortably, but I think anyone who was married to him had to have known what a monster he was. Maybe his wife knew about the scandal? In any event, if she doesn't work already, I'd like to see her roll up her sleeves and wash some dishes or maybe work as a cashier at a local grocery chain. Make her burn off her sins with hard labor as she watches ALL THAT MONEY go back to the people from whom it was stolen.

His lawyer shouldn't get any of it, either. Any creep who would defend Lay deserves to be...shipped to my island? Oh, you haven't heard all about my island? It's that spot of land surrounded by shark-infested water in the middle of nowhere that's a little bigger than Manhattan and holds all the scumbags who have raped, murdered or molested. I think all the Enron thieves would make it there, too.

On this island, there is a limited supply of food and fresh water (each "inmate" gets some seeds upon arrival), and prisoners get to build their own homes. They get to make their own laws - or not. And there is no escape. Guards in towers with machine guns see to it. There, the psychopaths are able to live how they want and can rape and kill each other and eat each other for sport. No questions asked.

If only I were president...

Film: An Inconvenient Truth

If you can manage to stay awake, An Inconvenient Truth is a movie worth watching.

For one, I had no idea that Al Gore is such an environmentalist. When you don't know anything about a person, you tend to only know and believe the media hype. Those meat-headed journalist types would have you and me and everyone else believe that Gore is a robot and that he goes around claiming to have invented the Internet. Now he's going to singlehandedly fix the global warming issue, too, right? Oh, wait. Some people would have us think there IS no such thing as global warming.

I voted for Nader in 2000, and I'm tired of hearing people say that my vote for Nader was a vote for Bush. In fact, I think I will bloody the face of the next person who tells me that. That's how sick I am of hearing it. OK. I never voted for Gore. I thought he was nothing but a robot who claimed to have invented the Internet. A wooden wacko boy, right? Wrong!

If nothing else, An Inconvenient Truth shows another side of Al Gore, the softer and more passionate side of a man who loves nature and treasures the time he spent on his father's (tobacco) farm growing up. In the movie, Gore talks about what's causing global warming and the effect global warming will have on our planet - all in our lifetime. Within 50 years, if CO2 emissions continue like they are, says Gore, the temperature of the Earth will rise by one or two degrees, the ice caps will keep melting, species native to those areas will die out (polar bears will drown), water surges will flood huge parts of Asia, a majority of Manhattan, lots of Florida, California, several other states. Not only will those areas be underwater, but the dry land left over will be flooded with people who have nowhere else to go. Weather patterns will change. Some areas will face typhoons; others will face drought. In short, we'll all be screwed in one way or another.

Gore doesn't offer any solutions to the global warming crisis, though. I think that's where the film falls short. Why present the problem and the issues that problem will create and not give the solution and steps people can take to fix the problem? That's basic speech etiquette.

Instead, Gore uses fancy graphics and cartoons to outline the dilemma in the global warming speech he gives and has given all over the world. Cut into the speech are segments showing Gore at the North Pole studying the ice cap with researchers, clips of him running other legislators over the coals on environmental issues and footage of Gore on his father's farm.

It was obvious he knew his material well. It seems the wooden puppet had turned into a flesh and blood boy. But it felt like this film was nothing but a campaign tool for 2008. If it is, he's crafty. If he would have requested a manual recount of every ballot in all Florida precincts for the 2000 election, I might even think he's smart.

I'm a good American

In honor of July 4, I decided to be patriotic by exercising my rights that have been fought for and won through loss of limb and life. With a group of like-minded activists, I stood in front of the Florida capitol where two of the busiest streets in town intersect and, holding a sign saying "Bush lied, people die" in one hand and a burning sparkler in the other, protested the war in Iraq.

The protest has been ongoing since before the war officially started and is normally a twice-weekly event. Protestors have been hassled a couple of times by the cops - once when a guy was out there acting like an idiot in a GW mask (the cops made him take the mask off) and another time for no reason other than the supposed fact that the protestors weren't allowed to stand on that strip of land. The protestors didn't budge. The cops backed down. They had to. They didn't have a leg to stand on.

Most of the people who drive by our demonstration honk in approval of our stance. But some of the motorists express their disapproval with their middle fingers and verbal cries of "Fuck you!" "We love Bush!" "Pussies!" and, most often, "Get a job, hippies!" Funny. I wasn't aware we were all hippies. And, as far as I know, we all have jobs. One of us is even a lawyer.

It felt good to get back out there Tuesday. I haven't been in a while. I've decided to get back out there, though, and keep being a patriot. After all, dissent is patriotic.

Lucky

My friend Michael is sitting in a car somewhere with his dead dog in a box. He's sitting there, in his car somewhere, crying, inconsolable, next to a box containing the body of one of one of his best friends, a dog named Lucky.

Lucky came to my friend via an animal shelter, a place Lucky, a scraggly little long-haired freak, called home after a not-so-lucky life of severe physical abuse. The abuse left Lucky frazzled and suspicious, wary of strangers, terrified of loud noises and swift movements. Lucky took to my friend's wife right away. It took him years to take to Michael and one of their sons. He never took to the other son but loved being the leader of Michael's pack containing four other dogs, all of them much bigger in size than the tiny Lucky who was known to have a furious little bark used to keep the other dogs in line or protect them while they slept.

I am honored to say that Lucky took to me immediately and even once stayed the night at my house without much drama. The last time I saw Lucky was Saturday night at Michael's house. Everywhere I went, there was Lucky. When I sat on one of the barstools, Lucky would stand nearby and lick the bottoms of my feet. When I sat on the couch, he sat next to me. That night, Michael chose Lucky as the fortunate recipient of the leftover pesto, and only Lucky got to go for a walk with us around the big lake near his house. Lucky ran with me around the lake that night, and, for a few moments at least, Lucky knew no fear.

Tuesday night, Michael was at my house. Lucky was roaming country roads after having accidentally been left outside by his son. Lucky walked all night while Michael frantically searched for him. Lucky was hit by a car and was found the next morning in the gutter on the side of the road and taken to an animal hospital. His leg was mangled, but he was otherwise OK, said Michael when he called me Wednesday to let me know what happened. Lucky went into surgery and came out. Then, today, Lucky had a heart attack and died. Now he's in a box, and Michael's a wreck.

I am sad because's Lucky's life wasn't that great. But I am happy that he at least got to spend the last years of it in Michael's home as his wife's favorite friend and as a happy lead member of Michael's pack of lovable beasts.

Everything is gonna burn, We'll all take turns, I'll get mine too

I'm sitting here at work reading the latest issue of The Week. There's this article here about how the biggest problem in this country right now appears to be flag burning and about how rightawaybeforewedoanythingelseinthefuckingworld we need to change the crapstitution to include a ban on it. Well, the article doesn't say that, but it does say that someone actually compared flag burning to spray painting swastikas on the tombstones of Jews. Jews for Jesus H. Christ! How can anyone be so dumb!

If they ban flag burning, it'll just make me wanna do it. I swear to fuck, I'll buy as many damn flags as I can and toast them in my yard. And I'll go to jail where I'll be sodomized by angry lesbians for 20 years and get out eager to submit others to my deep and terrible wrath. It'll get ugly. I swear it. Yes, I know it will.

So, do us all a favor and focus on how we can make this country NOT go to shit instead of attempting to divert the idiot majority's attention with a juicy and emotional but altogether meaningless debate over burning a piece of cloth decorated with red and white stripes and white stars on a blue background. Idiots, all of you!

P.S. Every man, woman, boy and girl who disagrees with my post is required to come to my house right away so I can beat him or her severely about the head, neck and chest.

On going back on your word

More than a week ago, I told the tale of a not-so-typical trip to the library. I promised the kind librarian who renewed my book even though it was on hold for someone else that I would turn it it the following Monday. I ended up turning it in a week after I said I would - and I never even finished the book or felt bad about going back on my word. In fact, I let people go ahead of me in line at the library when I turned it in (I had other books on hold and needed to get a refund on the book I lost and paid for - I found it!) so I could avoid said kind librarian. Maybe I'm turning into a sociopath. I never would have done this kind of thing in the past. Definitely indicative of antisocial behavior, wouldn't you say? Normally, when I give someone my word, that's my word - that's me. I don't take it lightly. Sadly, you don't find that in people too much anymore. I'm not going to be one of those people. Lord, give me the strength to change my villainous ways!

Dogs do not make good pets for people with guilt complexes and paranoia

I've been having a great time staying in this beautiful house (decorated in a 60s style - groovy!) and taking long walks and playing with Meeko. One thing I can't take, though, is that dog's intense neediness. If she could sit INSIDE me, I know she'd do it. She's on top of me constantly, and, no matter what kind of treat I give her or how much I scratch her belly, she flashes me a pair of sad, brown eyes. My friends insist that she's manipulating me and that I don't have to give her 24 hours of attention every day. They say that I should play with her when I want to and go about my day when I don't. For some reason, I can't do that. I feel like, if I don't include her, I'm abandoning her. Her sad look isn't helping. I feel claustrophobic. Trapped. Guilty. Neglectful. Even if I just take five seconds to go to the bathroom, she's there, sitting next to the toilet on the floor, watching me and wondering how I could be so cruel to take a few seconds for myself. I feed her, then make my own dinner. By the time I sit down to eat, she's done with her food and sits there staring at me expecting me to give her mine. Then I see that look. That terrorized look when she realizes that I won't be offering her my plate. I know what she's thinking. She'd kill me if she had half a chance. That's why I have to lock her in the closet while I sleep. Keep her away from my throat when I'm unconscious. I see her. That look on her face sometimes. She wants me dead. I just know it.

Smoky the rat

I was lying on my bed minding my own business last night when this furry creature with four legs scurried out of my kitchen and into the main room of my apartment. He/she was on a trajectory aimed at the center of the room when he/she saw me move. He/she (hereafter referred to as "Smoky") thought better of the course and darted behind my bookcase.

Since I'm a girl, I really have no idea what to do in the event of a rodent infestation except 1) panic and 2) call a man. I grabbed my phone and scrolled through the saved numbers looking for my landlord's. I hadn't saved the number in my phone. I would have to go to the kitchen to get the number off my fridge. But there might be more of them in the kitchen. A whole gang of them ready to grab onto my ankles and take me down, angry that I keep my food in a high cupboard out of their reach and ready to gnaw my face to the bone.

I ran over to my computer desk chair and jumped up on it flinging myself and the chair (thank you whoever invented wheels!) kitchenward. Once in the kitchen, I grabbed the landlord's number off the refrigerator door and pushed off back in the direction of my bed. Once back on the bed, I dialled the landlord's number. That's when Smoky darted from behind the bookcase to behind the computer desk to behind my dresser. The landlord said he and the pest control dude would be out today.

I could tell Smoky was dying to get into my closet because that's where the little mongrel kept trying to go. But the door was almost closed, and Smoky was too scared to take his time about getting in there. Smoky finally made it into the closet. That's when I shut the closet door. Knowing that mice and rats can flatten themselves to squeeze through almost any size opening, the fact that Smoky was in the closed closet didn't quiet my nerves. I picked everything up off the floor (including my rumpled comforter that could easily hide a rat) and stayed on my bed the rest of the night with a broom next to the bed. I didn't sleep too well last night.

This morning, I got ready for work without use of my closet. It's a good thing I keep some of my pants in my dresser and that I don't have to wear a suit during the slow season. Before leaving the house, I left a note for the landlord/pest guy on the counter with a drawing of the critter (for size purposes) and descriptions of where I have seen droppings and where I last saw Smoky. I think there will be some very inhumane traps in my house starting today. Thank goodness today signals the beginning of two weeks of house sitting for my friends.

Smoky was a fine rat. WAS being the operative word here.

Update: My landlord and the pest control dude put a couple of glue traps down with peanut butter as bait in each one - one inside my closet and one behind my bed. Great. I can see it now. I'll be trying to sleep and all of a sudden I'll hear a bunch of shrieking and squealing right by my head. That ought to give me pleasant dreams. Landlord ordered me to keep my box of shoes off the ground for however long it takes to catch the sucker. Smoky likey my box o'shoes.

Update: A call from my landlord confirmed that a rat was found in one of the traps. I don't know it if was Smoky or not, because my landlord disposed of it. There's one more trap in my apartment. I just hope there aren't more rats.

New music

Albums recently purchased

Metric/Live It Out







Bonobo/It Came from the Sea







Very Hush Hush/Mourir C'est Facile


No image available




Yeah Yeah Yeahs/Show Your Bones







The Rakes/Capture Release

Operation Save America from Operation Save America

Operation Save America (formerly known as Operation Rescue) is an organization of violent right-wing religious activists whose members will flock to Jackson, Mississippi, between July 15 and 22 to cause trouble for the state's last remaining abortion clinic. Referring to the gate around the clinic as the "gates of hell" and referring to the clinic as an "abortion mill," Operation Save America Director Flip Benham is urging members to do what they have done in other cities containing clinics: show up in droves to frighten doctors and patients and disrupt the business of the clinic in the hopes of shutting it down.

I will hopefully be in Jackson that week as a National Organization for Women volunteer during a week of activities aimed at protesting the protestors. Members of Operation Save America don't just protest, though, they harass patients and take out newspaper ads meant to incite violence against abortion doctors.

According to refuseandresist.org, Operation Save America blockades the doors of abortion clinics, picket doctors' homes and hold protests outside gay bars and progressive churches, all part of the group's regressive agenda of intimidation. NOW will be countering some of these measures with a kick-off rally, a march on the state capitol to demand protection for women and girls and the registration of pro-choice voters. I can't wait to help let Operation Save America members know there are still people out there who value their right to choose.

According to the NOW Web site, Operation Save America has gathered at abortion clinics in Boulder, Colorado; Columbus, Ohio; Charlotte, North Carolina; and Dallas, Texas. Abortion is now illegal in South Dakota and is threatened with legislation in at least six other states.

If Roe v. Wade is ever overturned and Florida decides to ban abortion, you can bet I'll be running a clandestine abortion clinic out of my apartment. Abortion doctors who would like to volunteer their services can e-mail me at maarmie@hotmail.com.

Note: Squidley wanted to let me know that I went against the grain when I used the term "abortion doctor" to mean "doctor who performs abortions." I will refer, instead, to abortionists as "doctors who kill fetuses before they are old enough to complain."

As unpalatable as abortion may be - and the words used to describe those who perform them - I assure you I am pro-choice. I say this remembering that my own abortion in 1997 was unpleasant to say the very least and not at all the trip to Disneyland I was hoping it would be.