School's Out For Summer! (But Before We Leave, A Little Glimpse Into My World, And William Shakespeare's)

I'm postponing the Prodigy of the Week in order to bring you this worthy delight.

About a month ago a student research essay was left on the common printer in the lounge I frequent at The Rock. It was apparent that one of my colleagues who teaches a freshman repeater class had allowed the student writer to either type it on the computer in her classroom or send it as an attachment to her via email. In any case, she printed it a couple of times, I guess, because this one was left on the printer for a couple of days before I finally laid claim to it. I have no idea if it is a final draft or a first draft, but it is definitely student writing. Trust me, it brought untold joy to the English department for days and days. Now, I'm ready to share its bounty, just as it is, completely unedited:

Back in the day fashion was simple all they wore was dresses, and fencing acted as a sport and dance was very common in Elizabethan era. The three most common things in shakespearion era was fashion, fencing, and dancing.

Was Elizabethan dance common. Yes, Elizabethan dance was common. Elizabethan dance was highly sophisticated and stated with intricate steps and nuances. I don't think I could do that dance. What is a nuance? Many of the court dances were performed as couples. What if you didn't like your partner? How many different partners did you have? That is about how common dance was in the shakespear era.

Was fashion much different then it is today? Yes fashion was. I would of never wore that stuff. I'm glad fashion has changed. And there clothes had a lot of patterns on them. I think there clothes were ugly. At least there fashion was simple. That's how fashion was back in the day.

Was a real way of fighting? Yes, it was they have used it for centuries. Fencing is one of the first forms or sword fighting. Back in the day it wasn't just a art form, it was also the most protection you can get. There is a whole bunch of weapons to use while fencing. They figured wearying a cage on there face would be enough protection. They also used the cage so they don't see each others faces. It is hard to get use to seeing threw the cage. Fencing was a real way of fighting and still is, thanks to back in the day in shakespear and era.

These are three important topics to the Elizabethan era. The Elizabethan era was long ago but we still learn about it today. We still do celebrate parties that closely resembles an Elizabethan partie.

There is, of course, an attached page of "Work Cited" that contains the obligatory Wikipedia reference along with another website.

I suppose you could look at it and be dismayed and horrified, but I consider the source: Freshman Repeater. And because I don't know if this is a first draft or a final, I'm willing to give it the benefit of the doubt. Finally, just reading it is hilarious. I love its conversational tone, rhetorical questions, and use of "back in the day."

And now that I'm on Summer Vacation, hell, everything is funnier.

teaparty Prodigy Of The Week: When Wall Street And Whitney Houston Collide And No One Thought To Run Spell-Check

Not only are a spelling error and a punctuation error here, I am also mystified by the addition of the two red stars bracketing the imperative DON'T. Are they a design element or some sort of teabag punctuation mark? And doesn't the bow seem a bit like it's muddling the Message? It's like tacking on a little Tweety Bird-voiced "please?" or "okay?" at the end of the sign's directive.

Come on, tea party sign carrier! Go Hard Or Go Home!

found here: http://blogs.seattleweekly.com/dailyweekly/2010/03/the_10_funniest_teabonics_sign.php

In Which I Confess, Digress, And Then Mess With A Victorian Novelist Because I Really Hate The Whole Irony Thing Anymore

In a cruel twist of Irony, I found a paperback copy of The Mill on the Floss as I was cleaning out my storage cabinet at school. I first read it approximately one hundred years ago--in my junior year of college--while taking a class called The Victorian Novel. It was taught by a professor named Dr. Robb, who I promptly fell deeply and madly in love with for no apparent reason other than the fact that he was profoundly intelligent and I loved the Victorian novel. (I didn't find him physically attractive; he looked exactly like Mike Farrell, who played BJ Hunnicutt in the TV series M*A*S*H.) Here is a perfect likeness.

But I digress.

As you can see by my sidebar, I started rereading the book. Big mistake. In the intervening hundred years, I had forgotten what a downer those Victorian novels were. And this one, written by George Eliot (a pseudonym for Mary Ann Evans) is really, really laborious and unrelenting.

So, I feel as if I have to vent a little bit in this, a sort of open letter/rant to George Eliot/Mary Ann Evans:

Oh, George Eliot. Were you and Thomas Hardy and maybe a Bronte or two sitting around one night in a damp, draughty house with nothing to do but deprive yourselves of creature comforts? And once that got old, did one of you say, (a la Percy and Mary Shelley and Lord Byron), "Let's each of us write a really sad, sorrowful, unrelentingly grim tale, the heroine of which will be a dark-haired girl whose life is nothing but tragic irony"? And all of you did?

And you know me: I had to read that whole damn book until the very end, even now, when I am feeling just a little bit like a dark-haired Victorian heroine myself.

Luckily, I found this. It puts everything into a little bit better perspective. Enjoy it!

New Feature: teaparty Prodigy Of The Week

While I attempt to locate my sanity amid the boxes, I've decided to take it easy on myself and start a New Feature here at the Dept. Each week, I will find an illustrative photo of a teaparty (remember, I refuse to capitalize, and thus legitimize, this organization) member and post it here for your perusal and judgment. I consider it a Public Service.

Here, then, for your consideration, I present Exhibit #1:

Wow. Where do I begin? I'm going to not be too terribly nitpicky and just count 6 basic errors in what my students and I term "MUGS"--Mechanics, Usage, Grammar, Spelling. I'll allow the rest of you to take Points Off for lack of coherence and no central theme.

Begin.

attribution:http://www.flickr.com/photos/pargon/ / CC BY 2.0

Feeling A Little Boxed In At The Moment

It's so near the End Of The School Year that I'm feeling stressed out and relieved at the same time. In addition to Teen Wrangling and attempting to cram a little more academics into unwilling minds, we have to pack every single bit of the content of our rooms--including all of our textbooks--because about two days after we leave on 27 May, the demolition crews arrive and knock our building down. The Collateral Damage is that I'm fragmented and distracted at home. I find that I want to just sit down--alone--in silence; I don't want to make decisions, talk, or even listen. I get massive headaches at night that are still there when I wake up as my body tries to deal with the tension.

As I look at the piles of boxes in my classroom, I wonder aloud how hoarders live the way they do, habitually surrounded by clutter. I can barely stand the orderly wall of boxes that mark a pathway to my door, or the stack of boxes-yet-to-be-made leaning neatly against the wall. Every spare minute I can, I devote to packing. It makes for a hectic day. Luckily, I have wonderful students who offer to help--and they are a big help. But I still have to direct, inventory, label, and double-check. In the back of my mind looms the reverse--the unpacking when school starts.

You know, it's almost enough to make me start wearing flats to work. Almost. If I had any.

This stress, this fatigue, this...whatever (look! the writing teacher can't even come up with A Good Word!) is making my perspective skewed. I have a dim view of everything, and I busy myself with making up Horrid Lists, like "People Who Need To Be Publicly Slapped" (1. Palin 2. Limbaugh 3. Mike Brown 4. Glenn Beck 5. Octowomb{she's no mom}, oh I could go on and on); "Things I Must Accept Will Never Happen" (1. Crocs will be outlawed 2. the tea party will be declared a domestic terrorist organization 3. saying "irregardless" will be punishable by death 4. sweatpant wearing in public will be a misdemeanor 5. the republicans will finally be called out on their shit). Those are the very mild ones. Believe me, there are some that are far more dire.

So, while I'm in this Dark Place, I'd better take a little break. I'll be back when things clear up a bit...when I've "packed up my troubles," so to speak. I hope it's not too long; I'm sick of boxes.

Being A Mom Is Not All FTD And Brunches, You Know: The Dept. Takes A Walk on The Romero/Hitchcock Side Of Motherhood (Again)

*this is previously posted material from long, long ago when my blog was just a newborn; it contains minor edits*

If the producers and directors of horror films were smart, they'd have their test audiences comprised solely of moms. Because we know scary. We confront it every day; moreover, we stare it down and kick its ass. It is part of our on-the-job training, and even playing with dollies does little to ready us for when it rears its ugly head.

Consider the labor and delivery room: Not only do we propel, through sheer brute force, a human being averaging 8 pounds and 20 inches out of our bodies, but while we are attempting to do so, someone is sticking his/her fingers inside us, strapping machinery to us, and, in my case, leading in a pack of student nurses to interview us and observe us, taking notes during the entire event and then admonishing us when we are a teensy weensy bit less than polite.

Then, at various times throughout Momhood, we are vomited on, snotted on, peed on, diarrhea-ed on, and forced to deal with "boo-boos," some of which require a trip to the Emergency Room--also known as "The Department of Motor Vehicles Medical Center"--where we see people who look like extras from Central Casting for The Night of the Living Dead. After we get home, we get to clean all these bodily fluids up, while retching upon our own.

And, because of our supernatural diagnostic powers, we are subjected to a barrage of horrific encounters almost continually if we have teenagers, a species well-known for its low grossness threshhold.

Teen: Mom, taste this.

Mom: Why?

Teen: Just taste it.

Mom: But I don't want any.

Teen: You don't have to eat it, just taste it.

Mom: Good God! Okay, fine! (tastes it) There. It's good. Why?

Teen: It smelled funny. I thought it might be rotten and I wasn't sure.

And it's not just our palates that are assailed. Our vision is assaulted as well:

Teen: (in bathroom, calling): Mom! (pauses imperceptibly) MOM!!!!!

Mom: (rushes in) What?! What's the matter?

Teen: Is there something on my back?

Mom: What? Is that all? You sounded like you were bleeding to death.

Teen: I can feel something gross on my back but I can't get it.

Mom: Let me see....Eeew! It's a huge zit. Just leave it alone.

Teen: Mom! I know it's back there. It's gross. You have to get it.

Mom: I don't want to touch it. Yuck.

Teen: Mom! Please. You have to. I don't want my new American Eagle shirt to even touch it.

Mom: I'll put a band-aid on it, then.

Teen: Mom, come on! You have to. Just squeeze it real quick.

Mom: (Sighs) Okay. Brace yourself. (Squeezes) Ugh!

Teen: Ouch! Oh my God! Mom! Geeze! What the Heck!!!!

And this is the same child who, upon entering and seeing that I am watching "Dr 90210", the plastic surgery show on the Style Network, says, "Oh my God, Mom, how can you watch all that blood and guts and crap?".

If Moms wrote the script for a horror movie, can you imagine what it would be? Mine, now that my kids are 22 and 25, would be one in which the boys never left home but got some low-life trashy Tea Party wenches from the Fundamentalist Right "in trouble" and tried to live here with their babies, played country music at top volume, spoke with bad grammar, and brought yappy dogs into my house. Seriously scary stuff, that.

I'll be back soon with Something New. In the meantime, Happy Mother's Day to all the Moms, Moms-to-Be, and Those With Moms.

The Dept. Of Nance: Your One-Stop News Source. We Follow The News So That You Don't Have To

As you know, there is no better place to keep up with All Animal News than here at the Dept. Also, I feel confident that I keep you abreast of All Things Important Politically as they occur. Allow me to assure you that, should anything else of Major Importance occur in the World Of News In General, I will bring it to you here. Really, there is no need to look anywhere else for your news needs.

Could I be any more Wonderful and Informative? (Not to mention well-dressed and with an impeccable footwear wardrobe?) But I digress.

Item! Citizens of the Boston Metro Area are under a boil alert after a water main break occurred in their area. Here is Valuable News Commentary from the Dept. News Desk:

Nance: Ha! That's what they get for sending their bullshit basketball team to Cleveland.
Rick: Is that what it is?
Nance: Of course. You see what one of their thugs did to Shaquille O'Neal. And they tried to hurt LeBron last night.
Rick: True.
Nance: And! They elected a republican to the US Senate to replace Ted Kennedy! KARMA.
Rick: And wasn't Mitt Romney just here?
Nance: That's right! He spoke at Ashland University's commencement this weekend. Holy crap. So, oh well, Boston. You can suck it.

Item! I grew up as the daughter of a union steelworker and I belong to our local teachers' association. I am constantly fighting for the rights of the worker. That's why this item caught my eye immediately, even though its dateline is Copenhagen, Denmark. I don't care where it is, when The Worker is being oppressed, I am on it, that is my vow to you. Workers at the Carlsberg brewery were forced to walk off the job in protest last month when Man den (translation from the Danish: "The Man") suddenly changed policy on them and changed a rule that had been in practice since 1847. (Hey! What would you do?) Here's the deal: Brewery management removed all the beer coolers and demanded that employees limit their beer consumption to their 30-minute lunch period only. What is up with THAT? I mean, how is a hardworking brewery employee supposed to make it through the day? Just to show you how sympathetic others are to the plight of these workers, Carlsberg's truck drivers joined the strike in sympathy — even though they are exempt from the new rules, a spokesman from the brewery said. "The truck drivers are permitted to bring three beers from the canteen because they often don't have time to have lunch there." I'm going to let you think about the Irony of that while I ponder the value (for both me and my students) of having a Martini Bar in the second-floor lounge at The Rock. PS--There is a coffeepot in there as well, so no worries.

Item! File this under "Duh." Stephen Hawking, major Smartypants on all things in the Universe--literally--is advising caution to all those other science eggheads who are all fired up about making contact with alien beings. Hawking, who appears in a new documentary for Discovery, reminds us that the vastness of the universe makes it highly likely that life exists outside our galaxy although most of it is probably microbial or in the form of single-celled or very simple animals. On the chance that other civilizations do exist, however, Dr. Hawking thinks we might not want to extend an open invitation to just anyone. "Reaching out to the stars with our messages of curiosity and peace may only make it easier for an advanced alien mining operation to stake a claim on Earth," Hawking warns. He also makes the analogy to the Native Americans being visited by white European settlers, claiming it "didn't turn out brilliantly for them." To summarize, Discovery comments, "it might be better if we kept our location a secret rather than being so anxious to make contact." I'm with you, Stephen (if I may call you Stephen; you, of course, may call me Nance). I saw "V" the first time around. And "Geronimo."

Item! Allow me just one Cow News Story, and you will be well rewarded. In a deal brokered last year but which just became finalized recently, three-year old Holstein milker Missy Gold was sold for the staggering sum of $1,238,508. This was For A Cow. Missy, described as "long and leggy with perfectly shaped teats for efficient milking...has a big chest that indicates a healthy heart" and can calve as many as 75 offspring and produce 50% more milk than the average cow in her lifetime. If any of those calves are males, each one could sell for upwards of $550,448 US. Now, this article was found in a Kenyan press, so consider the source, but its tone is so admiring and its style is so endearing that you just know they love their cows. Especially wonderful and...informative is this excerpt: "Maybe at one time Kenyan farmers will enjoy a piece of Missy, described by a farm spokesman as having an ego and big personality, since the country is a major consumer of semen from the US." Really, now, after that, what more is there to say?

This has been A Dept. of Nance News Update. Remember to check back here often for Late-Breaking Developments as they occur. Or when I feel like it.

Why Is Television Making My Life So Hard? This Isn't Rocket Science, People! It's T.V.

Not so long ago, I admitted my sad, pathetic albeit somewhat passive Television Addiction and, although it has not waned, it has become a little bit more...discerning. I have broken up with a vast number of television shows that have cavalierly betrayed me, and I have dismissed innumerable Food Network chefs who have sullied their toques by stooping to the Meals In Minutes fad or worse, the shamefest of the PTA Cookbook/Internet recipe. (If I wanted to just slop together something from canned soup, Minute Rice, grocery store chicken, and frozen peas, what do I need to watch a chef for?)

But I digress.

With all the "choices"--and I use the term oh-so-very loosely here--that we have as Television Viewers, one would think that the various Purveyors Of Television would get their act together and be a little less flippant about how they present their offerings. I've already wailed and gnashed my teeth about the unreliability of the television schedule/Local TV Listings; this time I want to bitch about and lament the misleading names of the various cable networks themselves. For instance:

A&E: Initially, this network was termed "Arts and Entertainment." How far it has fallen! Now the A and E apparently stand for "Apprehension and Enforcement." Gone are the biographical films of famous authors and artists; their lineup now consists of shows like Dog the Bounty Hunter, Criminal Minds, and Steven Seagal: Lawman. When did this network change its mission? And if you go to their website, you can't even find the words "Arts & Entertainment" anywhere. They know, at least. They know. Hey, A&E! Relaunch! Put it out there and call it what it is. Maybe C&P--Crime and Punishment Network. But...what would they do with Hoarders?

Lifetime: Okay, here's my issue. Lifetime calls itself "Television for Women." Its website's mission statement contains a lot of posturing about how it is committed to celebrating, supporting, and entertaining women. But, holy crap, have you ever surfed around and hit on that station and glimpsed a Lifetime Movie? Invariably, that movie shows a woman in prison, a woman being beaten, a woman being raped, a woman crying, or a woman held hostage in a home invasion or something. Yikes. Now, I think I can safely say that, as a woman, I am part of Lifetime's target demographic. I don't think, however, that I feel supported, celebrated, or entertained by any of that. If it weren't for Project Runway, I'd be calling my cable provider about putting a block on old Lifetime. It sounds more like television for sickos.

Mtv: Allow me to show my advanced age here, and those of you with grey hairs are with me already. The "M" in Mtv stands for MUSIC. Why is it, then, that there is absolutely no music played on this network? When this station first aired, it was an all-music video venue. It was, quite simply, MUSIC + TELEVISION. As in, you could watch your music. What happened to my Mtv? Now it's a cesspool of stupid, inane, low-wattage reality shows with such illuminating titles as Sixteen and Pregnant, Sloppy Ho's, and Disaster Date. Time for the "M" to be changed to an "R"; it can stand for Rejects, Ridiculous, Remedial...oh, any number of far more descriptively accurate adjectives.

TLC: The Learning Channel has a real identity crisis. Like A&E, you're hard-pressed to find what TLC stands for on their website, which is as much a hodge-podge of...stuff as their network is. What, exactly, are we supposed to learn? Well, gosh! All kinds of junk! We can learn about hoarders on TLC, too, along with What Not To Wear, cake decorators, strange sex, cops, toddlers in beauty pageants, tattoo artists, and "little people"--whether they make chocolate or not. But, just so you don't think that TLC isn't truly about learning, they also include a small widget on their sidebar called "How Stuff Works"! Hey, thanks, TLC! Learning is fun! TLC needs to get real with itself. It's not about learning at all. It's all about rubbernecking. You know it and I know it. People tune in to watch Jon and Kate crash and burn, to watch the overly-tattooed people look freakish, to watch the obliviously scary mothers doll up their toddlers a la Jon Benet Ramsey and hawk them like prostitutes down the runway. It's the Voyeur Channel. The Trainwreck Network. (Help me here, Readers--I know there's a good one out there....)

Plenty of people tell me that they just don't watch television anymore. What with the endless commercials, availability of Hulu and other online outlets for their favorite shows, and the DVDs of entire series, they just don't bother. Still more tell me that they simply aren't interested; they do other things with their time. Not me. After a long day of Teen Wrangling at The Rock, I enjoy blobbing out in my big chair with my blankie, letting myself be entertained, even if it's somewhat mindlessly. I have to be able to shut it all down--all of it--and some TV time lets me do that. And if I get to look at Hugh Laurie or laugh at the same episode of The Office that I've seen a million times or appreciate the good writing of a new show that's funny and smart (for a change!) while forgetting a particularly tough day at school, then I'm good. Real good with that.

Spring Cleaning At The Dept., And Everything Must Go: Ninjas, Paula Deen, And Genes...Especially Those Genes

Here are some little Thought Nerfuls that have been nooking-and-crannying in my brain for awhile. Besides, it's time things got a bit Lighter here at the Dept.

]*[ Jared, shaking his head and chuckling at the memory, recently recounted this scene while reminiscing about his adventures with his buddy Isaac, currently serving in Iraq.

(scene opens at a neighborhood bar. young man in his twenties is at the bar; seated next to him is a young woman of the same age. they are obviously strangers.)

Young Woman: Yeah, so what do you do?
Isaac: Um, I go to school.
YW: Oh, really? What are you studying?
Isaac: (without missing a beat; completely cool, serious) Ninja Arts. At the community college.
YW: What? Wow. (takes a moment to study his face; is skeptical) Really? I never heard of that.

Isaac: Yeah, well, it's sorta like a phys. ed./psychology double major thing. It's pretty cool.
YW: Oh, wow. That is cool. Wow. Could you, like, show me something?
Isaac: Come on. Really? Here? (shakes head with totally disdainful look; walks away)
(end scene)

]*[ The Cleveland Plain Dealer has been doing a series about obesity in America. It recently published an article about celebrity chefs climbing on the bandwagon for healthier eating habits. I almost sprayed my coffee when I saw the name Paula Deen. Holy crap. This is the woman whose Holy Trinity is Butter, Mayonnaise, and Cream Cheese. Who invented a recipe called "Gooey Butter Cake." Who has a casserole called--and no, I am not making this up--"Piggy Pudding" which calls for a cup of maple syrup. I'm sorry, but unless her inclusion in this campaign is Court Ordered, I'm just not falling for it.

]*[ Had Easter buffet/groaning board/Embarrassment Of Food Overload with the Entire Extended Family on Sunday. Lovely...and Freudian in that we all blamed the patently ridiculous amount of food brought/provided on our upbringing by my mother. My sister bought a huge ham, hefted it at the store, and what was her first thought? "I will also make an Oceanic Vat of sloppy joes." I made enough Asian Slaw to bury that continent, and on and on and on and on it went with all of us relations making Titanic containers of food and transporting it all to Patti's house, then feeling waves of amusement, ridicule, and resignation. It is part of our Genetic Makeup. My mother did--and still does--the same thing. My brother Bob witnessed her, standing in front of the open freezer, doing unnecessarily complex mathematical calculations, just to decide how many chicken wings to cook and bring. When he quickly told her what he thought, she viciously challenged him:

Mom: How do you know that's how many?
Bob: Because I made one bag for my poker night for half as many people and it was more than enough.

Mom: But...

Bob: And shut the freezer. You're wasting energy.

Mom: Oh for heaven's sake. You don't even know how many wings are in here.

Bob: (reaches over and shuts freezer door while handing her a bag of wings) There are forty in here.

Mom: How do you know? It doesn't say on here.

Bob: I just know. Don't worry about it. I'll take care of the wings.

Mom: Boy oh boy. I wonder how I ever raised four kids if I never, ever do anything right.

(By the way, there were plenty of wings, but once this story was related to everyone by my brother--and my mom overheard--she made several of her grandchildren ask for more wings, pretending that they hadn't had enough. She can get ornery.)

]*[ Finally, one last story. My sons tease me endlessly about how long it takes me to "run into Walgreens" to get one or two items. They claim that I take hours, aimlessly wandering, lingering too long here and there, reading labels, calculating cost per ounce for the best deals, etc. They never want to take me or go with me. I claim that they are filthy liars. I might take a bit longer than they would like, but it is never hours. But this, too, might be genetic. My brother, who takes my mother shopping, says that she especially lingers overmuch at the greeting cards. "Dropping Mom off at the greeting card aisle is like dropping off a kid at the arcade," he said earnestly. "She can spend hours and hours in there. I can go do whatever shopping I have in whatever departments I need to, and when I'm done, no matter how long it took, that's where I'll find her. It's incredible."

I'm wrapping it up here. Dinnertime, and it's leftovers. For some reason, I always seem to have a lot of leftovers....

In Which I Expose Albert Einstein's Big Lie, As Well As Other Fallacies Of Democracy (And No, I Haven't Started Drinking Tea)

Rick and I were in the car not so long ago when a minivan zipped past us at a pretty good clip. I was immediately on alert because I have a Major Minivan Theory, and I wanted to see if it held true yet again. (My Theory is that most minivans are under-utilized; I maintain that the vast majority of minivans are not transporting large families/groups of people and are, therefore, wasteful and unnecessary.)

But I digress.

The driver was alone in the van (ha!), and as she sped away from us, I caught a glimpse of her bumper sticker. The minute I read it, I became derisive and outraged. Here is what it said:

Imagination Is More Important Than Knowledge

What in the hell kind of bullshit is that? How can anyone truly believe that, let alone unabashedly market it and advertise it? Just because it is part of a quote from Albert Einstein doesn't mean it is Scientific Fact. You know, this idiocy is another overly simplified Great American Lie, right up there with

1. You can be whatever you want to be.
2. Anyone can be President.
3. If you want something badly enough, you can make it happen.

Now, while it is true that Bush 43, aka The Angel of Death, would seem to buttress the assertion made in #2, all clear-headed people know that this statement simply isn't true. He may have been a buffoon and an ersatz cowboy, but he was a rich, well-connected doofus with a political pedigree and a republican family name equivalent to the Kennedys. That isn't just "anyone." And before someone flings the name Barack Obama around, please do a little research. He's much closer to "Anyone," but he's a lot closer to a "Somebody." Do poor, uneducated people ever run for government office? Let's just start with that.

With respect to Lie #1, which should really be nipped in the bud right after elementary school, if not sooner, I can offer my own experience. I have always had a natural affinity for animals. I had many pets as a child, and no animal is anathema to me except perhaps the snake. I decided in high school that I wanted to be a veterinarian. In college I began a pre-vet program of study and worked my ass off. Guess what? I couldn't cut it. Once it got into hardcore math and chemistry, I just washed out, pure and simple. All the love in the world for animals--or imagination!--can't stand in for basic subject material. That, and I discovered an abject abhorrence for the sight of blood.

But I really, really wanted to be a vet! Oh. Well.

You can just imagine the scene, though, right?

(Interior. Office of veterinarian exam room. Man rushes in with injured Irish Setter. Dog is limp, bleeding. An unidentified organ is protruding from stomach area; it glistens in overhead light.)
Man: Dr. Nance, our dog was hit by the ice cream truck! It just happened! We came as quick as we could!
Nance: (back is to Man; pulling on latex exam gloves) I'm glad you got here as soon as you did. Let's have a look. (turns around) Oh good heavens! I--I'm--The poor thing! How awful! What's his name?
Man: MacDuff.
Nance: Oh, I love that! But you know, MacDuff was Scottish, not Irish. That's from Macbeth, and---ugh! What is that? (points to organ thingy hanging out; begins to gag a little)
Man: I know. It's pretty bad. Will he make it?
Nance: That's--bloody--that's--his stomach. Excuse me. I have to go throw up.
(end scene)

Point is, I could NOT be a veterinarian. I wanted to, but I COULDN'T. Not only was I not smart enough in the subject areas required, but I just didn't have the temperament. I could imagine myself as one, but...not gonna happen.

Now, #3 seems to be the same as #2, but really, it's not quite. If you've ever watched the show American Idol on television, then it is a perfect example of how stupid this tenet sounds. How many times do these sobbing wannabe singers whimper, "But I really, really want this"? Well, sweetheart, I really, really want this blog to get me a book deal, but guess what? That isn't happening either! Ha! Desire alone is not enough. I had a student many years ago--a junior--who had to write a career narrative, a short essay in which he had to explain his plans for his future career. This student--I'll call him Jason--wrote about becoming a professional basketball player. I asked him if he currently played for the high school team. No, he didn't. I asked him if he ever had. No, he had not. I asked him if he played in junior high. No. Did he play for his church or for the city recreation league? No, none of those. I asked if he planned to try out next year or in college. No, he didn't see those things happening. "Jason," I said gently. "How do you think you'll make the NBA if you don't play anywhere that a professional basketball scout would see you? They don't normally just drive around small towns like ours and see kids out on playgrounds or in driveways." I suggested that he might want to have a backup career plan, just in case.

Well, that was not what he wanted to hear. He exploded. "Don't come up here with your essay!" he yelled, turning around to face the class. "She is killing our dreams!"

O-kay.

No.

The point that I wanted to make was, just because he wanted to be a professional basketball player didn't mean he was going to be. He was doing absolutely nothing to get him anywhere near that goal. He had just as much chance of being a pro basketball player as I did. NEWS FLASH: IT IS ALMOST 15 YEARS LATER. HE IS STILL NOT IN THE NBA.

(Did you see that coming?) I'm sure he imagined himself in the NBA. But that's not enough. It never is, is it?

Imagination is never MORE important than knowledge. That is just patently absurd. At some point we have to stop selling our children--who eventually become adults, you know--these glib, slick, meaninglessly dangerous axioms. Because they believe them. And many of them go on living their lives expecting things to just happen to them because they want them to.

We know better, and so should they.

When Walt Whitman Said, "To Die Is Different From What Anyone Supposed" How Did He Know I'd Be Analyzing Obits?

Perhaps you recall from a previous chat we had here that, almost daily, I read with great interest and care the Plain Dealer obituaries. I am not obsessed with or even remotely worried about Death--far from it--I am fascinated with Life. Not mine, you understand. I am thoroughly bored with mine. I like to read about Other People's Lives, especially now that they are done with them.

I like to read their names, first of all, because I am fascinated by unusual, alliterative, evocative, or just downright funny names. One of my favorites recently was Esther Sylvester. How awesome is that? Her name is a poem. (Way cooler than the Esther who was of one of my Uncle Marshall's customers at his candy shop. He used her for advertising every Easter. He made a huge chocolate egg and put it in the window of his store. On it, in icing, he wrote Happy Easter Esther Oyster! Pretty good name. Right up there with another goofy Grandma-friend name: Flossie Shawbell. But I digress.)

A 97-year old woman passed away at a comforting place called "Nannie's Inn." If I can choose a place to have to die, I want to go there. But here's the thing: her name was Hope, and she was preceded in death by her two sisters...Faith and Charity. I'm not lying; look it up.

And how much did I love the obit of the beloved Very Irish husband, last name O'Something, whose kids' names were Kathleen, Timothy, Sean, Maureen, and Patrick? But the best part of all was that his real name, Eugene, is listed, and then, in quotation marks, the name "Geniehoney." I smiled and felt my heart melt and my eyes tear up just a little. Can't you just hear his wife calling him that all the time? So much so that it became his name? I love that the family put it in the paper.

You already know how I love the non-traditional photos for obituaries. I forgot to save/remember the one of the middle-aged woman wearing the Teletubbies sweatshirt. I had to read that obit because I had to know more about her. Turns out, if anyone had a reason to sport a Teletubbies sweatshirt, it was she. She was only 58 years old, but had something like 14 kids, 38 grandchildren and already many great-grandchildren. Wow!

But the photo in this obituary still seems odd to me. The woman died at the age of 84; the picture shows a much younger lady. Yet, the photograph is not antique-looking, and the photography doesn't look as if it was from the era of the 50s when she was a model. (It might be a mixup, but I doubt it. There has been no correction online or in the Monday print edition.) That's not the most intriguing facet to this obit, however. If you read farther into the article, you come across this incredible sentence: In later life she was afflicted with a shower of frogs. That's it. There is absolutely no context surrounding this amazing statement to give you Clue One as to what it refers to. And that is why I love it. This woman had a fantastic life and, obviously, a fabulous family or group of friends who continue to celebrate her personality even after she is gone. Is she lucky, or what? I don't give a damn about the frog shower or what it really means. I just love the fact that it's in her obituary--inexplicably and unapologetically. Probably a lot like her.

In Creative Writing I & II, I encourage my students to steal from the dead, and by that, I mean to grab pieces of ideas for poems and stories from the obituaries. It's a great place to look for names, snippets of plotlines, characters, and glimmers of ideas. Occasionally, a poet can even find a cool line.

Something like, In later life she was afflicted with a shower of frogs.

My Perspective On Irony, Or How I Choose My Victims Carefully And Toy With Them First, But Oh So Very Gently...

Perspective is something I struggle with, and perhaps it's because I seem to see the Irony--the Ridiculous Irony--in so many things.

Consider these scenes.

Scene I.

High school classroom. Students are in their seats. Teacher at front of room behind lectern. Finishing up instruction. Checks clock, sees that there are four minutes left.

Mrs. D.: Okay, everyone. Take the last four minutes to double-check that you have the assignment written down correctly. Are there any questions? (surveys room. sees no hands raised) Great. You've got the last few minutes to yourselves. Wow. Are you lucky, or what? Have a great day, and that's an order.

(as if by unseen decree, half the class rises and begins to shoulder huge bookbags; they wander towards door. teacher, shocked, halts them)

Mrs. D.: Um...where on Earth do you think all of you are going? I do believe that this is still room 245 and that all standard rules and regulations still apply. Stay in your seats until the bell rings.

(general moaning, bitching, crabbing ensues as wanderers roam back to seats)

Mrs. D.: Holy crap. How ridiculous. Can you just imagine the phone calls I would get from Mumsy and Popsy if my rule said "All students will shoulder their fifty pound book bags four minutes before the bell and stand in a huge herd like bison in front of the door. They are absolutely forbidden to sit in their seats to wait for the bell but instead must press their bodies against one another and jockey for position like marathon runners at the gate." ? You are, all of you, insane right now. Here I am, giving you four minutes of respite from those gargantuan bookbags and the terror of the hallways, and this is the thanks I get? Never again!

(Students roll eyes, sigh, a few smile. Bell rings for dismissal. On their way out, several are heard to say, "She's right, though." One actually whispers to teacher, "Sorry!")

Scene II.

(Living room. Mother and "adult" son are sitting on couch. Completely annoying commercial for Ford Edge comes on television in which girl in nasally voice extols virtue of "texting hands free while driving" because she is "constantly on her cellphone texting and talking anyway.")

Nance: Jared. I want you to listen to me right now and with a completely open mind. Can you do that?

Jared: Oh god. I don't know. Yes. What now? Oh no.

Nance: Seriously. Pretend that it's about ten years ago. And I'm telling you that you have to type email messages on a very small keyboard that is approximately one-twelfth the size of your laptop.

Jared: Okay...

Nance: And that you have to do it very fast. And that you have to pay for the privilege to do it. And that most of the time where you want to do it, it will be illegal.

Jared: I get it.

Nance: Do you hear how incredibly ridiculous that all sounds?

Jared: I know, right?

(Nance smiles triumphantly and victoriously, almost as if she has discovered the cure for AIDS and Rush Limbaugh all at once. Sadly, it is all meaningless because not only are AIDS and Rush Limbaugh still very much with us, so is rampant and inane text-messaging. Sigh.)

Scene III.

(Classroom. Students are chatting; some are finishing up work, others already done are socializing. Teacher is circulating.)

Liz: My brother lost the cordless phone again. It's ridiculous. He's such an idiot.

Jessica: Doesn't your phone have a pager thingy? Ours did. We just all have a cell now, so we cut off our house phone.

Liz: I don't think ours does. Anyway, the battery is dead. He's in so much trouble.

Mrs. D.: You know what would be great? If the phone had something like a cord attached to it so that it didn't get disconnected from the base. That way, it wouldn't ever get lost. It couldn't!

Liz: Yeah! That'd be awesome! You should invent that, Mrs. D. That's genius.

Jessica: (rolls eyes) Are you serious? Liz. She's screwing with you. All phones used to be like that back in the day. That's why your phone is called a cordless phone. Hello? BECAUSE IT HAS NO CORD. ANYMORE. DUH.

Mrs. D.: (winks)

Liz: Oh. I get it. Good one, Mrs. D.

(Teacher pats her head, grins, and moves on. She has more minds to...illuminate.)

In CW2 This Is How We Roll

Creative Writing II is All Poetry, All The Time. But, in our Quest For Good Poetry, it usually becomes All Life, All The Time. And because writing good poetry is often about baring your soul, we have become a very intimate group. That's the way CW2 goes. It's an upper-level elective, and I run it like a studio class: each student receives individual instruction in conference and is graded on his or her progress as the semester goes on. Poems are read aloud, then frankly critiqued by the group. Sometimes in our Quest For Poetry, we go off on incredible tangents. We discuss Life In General. Nothing is Off Limits. Nothing. We laugh, we cry, we advise, and we snack. (The day that I brought in a tub of Trader Joe's Ginger Cat cookies, the place went nuts.)

Teenage poets eat a lot. It helps them create.

Earlier this week, the following scene took place in room 245, period 3, CW2--or as my writers call it, The Red Pen Massacre:

Scene opens in classroom. Teacher is perched on high stool at lectern at front of room. One student, Lindsey, the editor of the literary magazine, sits frowning, at teacher desk, working at computer. Several other students are sitting at desks in classroom. One student, Carlos, is sprawled on couch, surrounded by papers and notebooks. He is writing furiously while looking from two copies on either side of him, obviously blending the two. Two black students, one boy and one girl, are seated at desks next to each other on one side of the room, reading each other's work.

Terrence: I think it needs more development. The tone is good, but you don't have any positive imagery in there like you said you were going to.

Kashala: I know! I said it wasn't done yet. I'm experimenting with some alliteration in the first stanza, though, so I want some feedback on that, please. Also? Did you notice how my diction changes here (indicates a line) when I started using more fricatives? That took me all night! (Takes a plastic baggie containing chicken wings out of her purse; opens it, takes one out, begins to snack on it.)

Terrence: (immediately crestfallen) Oh no! No. You are not--

Kashala: Don't be hatin' on me right now because I have some fried chicken up in here.

Terrence: (looks longingly at the food and shakes his head; looks up at the teacher as if to say, "Aren't you going to say anything?") That is just hurtful.

Mrs. D.: (to girl, with mock admonishment and horror) Do you know how cliche you are right now? Holy crap! You are African-American. You are eating fried chicken. You used the slang terminology "be hatin' on me" and "up in here." You have a bunch of braids in your hair. AND YOUR NAME IS KASHALA! What on earth is left?

Kashala: I could get me some ropes and do the double-dutch!

After All, Wine Does Come In Red And White, So It's Pretty Patriotic Already...

You know, I'm just flabbergasted by all the uproar and falderal about this Tea Party bullshit. Now there's a Coffee Party that was started on that most serious of all political forums, Facebook, and while I respect all exercises of The Democratic Process, I still think both of them are missing the boat. They really have no clear agenda or goals, and neither one is willing to be completely organized or take ownership of anything.

Well, Dept. Readers, you know what that means. Time for me to step into the breach and start bossing people around. I'm starting my own movement and I'm calling it The Wine Tasting. Here's what we're about: restoring civility, couth, intelligence, and authentic leadership to America and American Government. Period.

The Wine Tasting will not take pride in being a vast, decentralized movement/network of militiamen, conspiracy theorists, birthers, cultish Wal*Mart shoppers, gun-toters, and scooter-riding wrinklies on Medicare who maintain they want the Government to keep its hands off their healthcare, or people who think that being a mom/waving at foreign countries qualifies you to hold high government office.

In short, wackos.

Rather, The Wine Tasting will be a highly organized and elite (not a dirty word!) group with a carefully selected membership with an actual leader who will be responsible for its actions and influence. For the time being, as the Founder And Originator of The Wine Tasting, I volunteer to be its first...Host.

And, as Host, I propose the following rules be adopted immediately:
1. There are no "rallies." All Wine Tasting events are billed as just that: Wine Tasting Events.
Example: A Wine Tasting Event will be held on Saturday 6 March at the (insert name of pleasant indoor venue here) in support of the candidacy of _________."
2. All Wine Tasting Events are held indoors.
3. There will be an Official Spelling And Grammar Checker for any signs, placards, pamphlets, etc. and no signs may have illustrations or pictures of any kind.
4. Guests and Members must wear appropriate dress--business casual, minimum--to all meetings/Events. Men will never, ever wear hats.
5. Members of The Wine Tasting must prove that they read more than just the TV Guide, People magazine, and the Twilight series of teen novels. Subscription to at least one newspaper is required.
6. Potential Members will be asked to take an impromptu quiz with no Googling privileges. Questions may include, but are not limited to the following:
A. Which American historical document contains the famous phrase "We the people..."?
B. How many sitting federal Supreme Court justices are there?
C. Which Constitutional Amendment gave women the right to vote?
D. Did your state go republican or Democrat in the presidential election of 2008?
E. Under what circumstances did there become both a North and a South Korea?
7. Members must be registered voters.
8. Host reserves the right to disinvite any Member of The Wine Tasting if said Member displays or advocates any behavior that is embarrassing to or contrary to the organization.

So far, that's what I've got. I'm still working on it all, but I know you'll help me out in Comments. After all, if a Facebook group is going to try to save us, the least the Dept. can do is step up and further refine the process.

Another Timely Public Service Announcement From The Dept. of Nance: Oh, Hey. It's What We Do!

Once again, it would seem that there is a need for my services. As Longtime Readers know, I have volunteered to make the Dept. of Nance an actual government entity, one which will take care of such things which seem to fall under no one else's auspices but need to be done immediately and with all good taste and alacrity.

Before I go on, let's all check today's date, shall we? It is February Twentysomething, 2010. Thank you.

Allow me, then, to make this announcement which, it would seem, some members of Our Society have been waiting to hear:

IT IS TIME TO TAKE DOWN YOUR CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS OUTSIDE.

Perhaps I need to be more specific. Gladly:

1. Illuminated reindeer in your front yard are not "wintry." They are "Christmassy" and should be removed.

2. A fake pine wreath with glittery ornaments on your front door--outta there.

3. The life-size manger scene celebrating the birth of a baby who would be 2 months old by now and already out of the manger--history.

4. The fence draped with fake evergreen swags and red bows isn't "Valentiney," it's Noel-ish and Valentine's Day was almost 2 weeks ago.

5. Pretty soon you'll have to scoot Santa Claus over in that sleigh in your yard and make room for either a leprechaun or the Easter Bunny.

6. If you aren't going to take down those icicle lights, at least stop turning them on every night!

I could go on, but I think you get my drift. (Is that a pun?)

I'm starting to rethink my position that everything bad can be blamed on the republicans and instead, I can start blaming it on these people. Think about it. All this snow? The groundhogs came out, saw all these damned Christmas decorations and thought it was still December! Thanks a lot, Lazy Decoration People! Flattened housing market due to unsold existing properties? Well, who the hell wants to buy a house next to one with lit-up reindeer in the middle of February? Thanks a helluva lot, Lazy Decoration People! The house can't sell, the family can't move to a cheaper property, the parents can't make their payments, the house forecloses, the family is homeless, the dad loses his job because his credit is trashed, the family can't buy the necessary goods and services it needs to survive...Thanks a whole effing bunch, Lazy Decoration People! You've just destroyed An American Family AND the American Economy!

This also affects me personally in my state, where property taxes fund the schools. Had to be said.

So. I think I've made several important points. So, Lazy Decoration People, just do it. Don't make me come over there.

If You Are A Fan Of Tim Pawlenty, Thomas Jefferson, Or David Gregory, You Might Want To Read Something Else Today. Like, Perhaps, My Pet Goat

Even though I have broken up with David Gregory and Meet the Press, Rick has not, and against everyone's better judgment, I sat in the livingroom this morning, perusing the Plain Dealer while Gregorius Interruptus played softball with Governor Tim Pawlenty. Tragically, I had already read the more...cerebral sections of the paper by this point of the show and had moved on to the Target ad, so more of my brain was available to process the republican bullshit that was plopping from Pawlenty's maw. This particular exchange, however, made me riproaring, hooting mad:

MR. GREGORY: Finally, a more personal question, I, I heard your remarks this week and something caught my attention. You're an evangelical Christian. And when you talked about the conservative movement, you said what comes first for you is that God is in charge. Describe your relationship with God.

GOV. PAWLENTY: Well, the founders of this nation embraced, also, that same perspective. They said that we were endowed by our creator by certain rights. We're not endowed by Washington, D.C., we're not endowed by the state government or the local government. And so I believe that there is a divine power, I believe there is a God, that God is in charge. And if it's good enough for the Founding Fathers of this country, it's good enough for me.

Now, I'm used to the republicans co-opting God. Believe me, I don't give a crap about any of that. Pretty soon, they'll take sole credit for Him, and that's okay, too, as long as they take credit for all the trouble that organized religion has caused as well, like the Salem Witch Trials, for instance. No, I'm talking primarily about that last sentence uttered by the governor/presidential hopeful from Minnesota. "...if it's good enough for the Founding Fathers of this country, it's good enough for me." ... Wow. Really?

In his defense, Mr. Pawlenty is not the only republican/presidential aspirer who does not know his history. (Or his grammar, for that matter.) But how sad is it when this man not only deliberately misrepresents the intent of the Declaration of Independence, but also---well, let me elaborate:

I. Bless his heart, Mr. Pawlenty did paraphrase pretty well the Declaration's lovely prose, which reads, in part: We hold these Truths to be self-evident, that all Men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness. But he conveniently forgot the next qualifying sentence. Here it is: That to secure these Rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just Powers from the Consent of the Governed, that whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these Ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its Foundation on such Principles, and organizing its Powers in such Form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.

Pardon me, for I do not wish to be tedious here. I am always blissfully and proudly aware of the intelligence of my readers at the Dept. Certainly all of you can see Mr. Pawlenty's tragic error and are shouting at your monitors as I did at my television. How pathetic and sad he is that he cannot see how he is, in fact, not in disagreement at all with anyone. He is merely reiterating the role of government, period. To secure citizens' rights. Who is arguing that? What, then, is he really saying? Was he elected by the consent of the Governed? Oh, Tim. Shut up. Before you hurt yourself. Some more.

II. I think even Tim Pawlenty would agree with me that Thomas Jefferson was a Founding Father. After all, as a primary author and signer of the Declaration of Independence, and our country's third president, his credentials are stellar. So, if Mr. Pawlenty's measuring stick is merely "if it's good enough for this country's founding fathers then it's good enough for me", I think a little History Lesson about Founding Father Thomas Jefferson might be in order. Allow me:

--Thomas Jefferson was not a Christian. He believed in God, but completely rejected the idea of the divinity of Christ. On June 25, 1819, he wrote to Ezra Stiles, "I am of a sect by myself, as far as I know."
--Jefferson owned 200 slaves. He often wrote dreadfully of freed slaves being permitted to remain in the United States, expressing a disgust that they might intermingle with whites: "Their amalgamation with the other colour produces a degradation to which no lover of his country, no lover of excellence in the human character can innocently consent."
--The above becomes all the more incredible when we recall that Thomas Jefferson had a biracial mistress, the famed Sally Hemings (whom he never freed, by the way), with whom he fathered at least one son, who he never acknowledged, but possibly as many as six illegitimate children.
--Finally, this Founding Father believed that women, "to prevent depravation of morals and ambiguity of issue, could not mix promiscuously in the public meetings of men." It was not, therefore, even a remote possibility, that a woman could vote, let alone run for public office because as Jefferson said, "The appointment of a woman to office is an innovation for which the public is not prepared, nor I." Remember, this is the man whose close confidante and adviser was Abigail Adams, one of the Great Ladies of the Age, and until Barbara Bush, was the only woman to be married to and mother to an American President. (You have no idea how much it destroys me to type that sentence. None.) Jefferson also had a great distaste for women who read novels. They risked "a bloated imagination, sickly judgment and disgust towards all real business of life. For a like reason, much poetry should not be indulged." As far as I know, Jefferson did not mention anything about "barefoot and pregnant", but he did say, even to his own daughters, that the happiness of a woman's life depends upon pleasing her husband, period. All other things are secondary, and to his credit, he said "even their love for [him]."

So...this is what is "good enough" for Tim Pawlenty?

My point, and I do have one, is this: Before Mr. Pawlenty--and other republicans who like to toss zingers from America's historical documents and former presidents (like Ronald Reagan, who is now a god for them, even though his trickledown Reaganomics never really did work)--they should do their complete research and know of what they speak.

Or, perhaps most sorrowful, they know that they really don't have to. The vast majority of Americans lately seem to be of the "teaparty"* ilk. They deal in soundbites and one-liners and suck down like pap everything they hear from whom they most want to hear it. It's sickening. No one is calling them on their shit. Well, I am.

*I'm just not capitalizing this dumb organization, either. So there.

You Can Dress Me Up & Take Me Out, But That Doesn't Mean I'll Be Happy About It (With A Random Emily Dickinson Reference To Class It Up)

A few days ago, one of my students told me that I was turning into a modern-day Emily Dickinson, and I fear that he was right. I have developed such an aversion to The Public that I cannot go Out There without being cataclysmically...affected.

Let's just say that, shall we?

Rick and I went to The Great Big Home & Garden Expo! (formerly known as The Home and Garden Show but so much more of a bigass deal now that it deserves more adjectives and an ampersand), primarily because we had free tickets, but also because we were lured by the prospect of escaping the eleventy inches of snow on the ground and the idea of seeing actual flowers and trees in bloom. Sadly, all of NE Ohio had the exact same idea, and we were shocked to see people actually standing in long snaky lines of more than a hundred just to walk through a pretend house.

I was similarly stunned to see that "Great Big Home and Garden" also meant several identical booths of meat jerky, fake pashminas, and powdered dip mixes. As we wandered through this incredible bazaar of the bizarre, I started to feel more and more as if I were on some alien planet. Come with me:

It started on our way in. I saw a woman in a bouffant hairdo clutching a sign of plasticized cardboard. It was about 18"X18" and had metal prongs on it so that it could stick in her yard. She looked positively enraptured. It was clear that this sign was a Major Score for her. On it, in bold, black capital letters were two words, one atop the other: KING JESUS.I was immediately befuddled. What would be the purpose of this sign? If it were in the imperative, a command, how could someone do that? That would take a mighty big checker, number one, and number two, with Jesus being the Almighty and all, isn't He pretty darn capable of kinging Himself? If it were merely declarative, well, then, okay... Now what? If she puts it in her yard, then is she saying that He lives at her house, or what? It's not very interactive like, say, "HONK IF YOU LOVE JESUS." And the odds of her having a Jesus statue with Him wearing a crown and her saying, "Damn, I really need a sign that indicates who the hell this is" just seem remote, don't they? I just don't get it. I mean, kudos for minimalism and all, but really, what's the deal? And honestly, let's say you're driving down the highway and see a house with that sign in the yard; what's your reaction? See what I mean? Later, Rick and I saw the booth in the Expo where the sign was being sold. It was a tiny booth with a bunch of "inspirational" signs, all on the same material, all black letters, all meant to be used outside. I still don't get it.

One booth made me do a double-take and made my stomach do a backflip. I have no idea what the guy was selling, but in front of him on a counter were feet, human feet--all cross-sectioned to look like they had been dissected. Suddenly, the man took a huge forkful from behind them and put it into his mouth and started chewing. My eyes flew open wider and I almost gagged. As we hurried past, I had to turn around and look more closely. The feet were plastic models, thank goodness, and he was eating a taco salad that he had placed behind the row of them. But still, it wasn't until we reached the Patio Enclosures booth that I realized that I had been holding my breath for more than a minute.

Almost equally disturbing were the Booths Of Vibrating Devices. It is important to note that both times I passed these booths, the Devices were being...sampled by men. One of the Devices was a sort of vibrating balancing board. The men on them were standing wide-legged and simply vibrating. A LOT. With an intense look on their faces that could best be described as...(send the children away) pre-orgasmic. The same could be said for the men on the chairlike Device which actually had a sort of...codpiece thingy that, well, let me just say that it looked like a carseat for grownups but it vibrated. A LOT. Again, the expression on the faces of the men was...heavily engaged. Rick offered to take photos/video with his cellphone for this post, but my gentle breeding (and my concern that there was no sign forbidding firearms in the Expo) forbid it.

Sometimes, the names of businesses are worthy of discussion. Rick pointed out Chip Painters. My favorite was Master Deck Builders, but they are not capitalizing on their name. I wanted desperately to give them a makeover. I envisioned them all wearing black, for starters. Then, I wanted them all to wear menacing black hobnail boots like these. Better yet, how about the boots that Gene Simmons from Kiss wears? Okay, maybe too much. Anyway, then, I think they should have a whip coiled up and hanging from a big, studded, black leather belt. Now those would be some Master Deck Builders!

When we had walked the entire Expo and had seen quite enough--of everything--Rick and I decided to go. I had worked titanically hard at behaving myself and it had taken a toll: I was exhausted. Not once had I remarked (loudly enough to be heard) regarding awful/clever spelling (Custom Decks by Klassic--Proffesional Builders!), nor had I said Word One about the number of people who behaved as if pushing a stroller made them immune to the Rules Of Common Courtesy.

That's what I have the Dept. for.

I'm A Political Visionary

Someday, if the world cooperates with My Vision, republicans will be kept in zoos and the Rest Of Us will be able to just observe them and remark upon their odd and strange ways.

Perhaps that statement is too...visionary. (Did you think I was going to say "harsh" or "strong" or even "partisan?" You must be a New Reader! Welcome to the Dept.!) Those of you who know me know that I was being rather tame and subdued, especially when it comes to the adjectives "odd" and "strange." I'll leave it to you to play Mental Thesaurus and fill in those spots with what I really want to say. But I digress.

I've been collecting little informatoids about republicans for you, and I'm ready to set them free in order to bolster my Visionary Plan. Let me know if you are on board.

I. The Lights Are On, But Nobody's Home: A Daily Kos/Research 2000 poll of republicans in the wild found that 53% believe that Sarah Palin is more qualified to be president than Obama, with 14% who believe Obama is more qualified and 33% who said they were not sure. Holy crap. Let's remember that the former Governor of Alaska, who quit for still-inexplicable reasons and who touted her international experience as being able to see Russia from her house, has no idea how South and North Korea came into existence. She couldn't name a single newspaper that she read, yet she claimed to read "all of 'em." Perhaps those republicans just admire her business savvy; after all, she is keeping her book on the bestseller list by using her PAC to buy up more than $63,000.00 worth of them as gifts to donors. This is more than she's been donating to other political candidates in her party. That's some hardcore maverickin'. But presidential brainpower? Duh.

II. A Woman's Place: Why any woman or gay individual or person of color would ever, ever identify himself or herself as republican is beyond me. This party is so provincial and Old Boys Club. But don't take my word for it. Oh no. Give a listen to Jan Larimer, Republican National Committee co-chair, on the republican party's strategy to recruit more women candidates: "Women sometimes need a little more handholding, or they need their friends to help them make a decision. And by our going in and talking to them and recruiting and educating and training them to either get involved in a campaign or become a candidate, we're giving them the tools so that they can do that on their own."

The fact that Jan is a woman makes me want to cry. Or scream. Or hurt someone. So much is so wrong so completely with this statement that a stuffed moosehead could enumerate the points. To a doorknob. With crystalline clarity and brisk alacrity. Allow me, if you will, dearest Readers, to address Jan Larimer for a moment.
Jan--republicans sometimes need a little more faceslapping, or they need Democrats to help them make a decision. And by our going in and civilizing them and giving them a dose of reality and educating them and taking them out of their nineteenth-century wayback machines, we're giving them the tools they need so that they can someday join the twenty-first century where women have brains, control over their lives and destinies, and are, in short, not Stepford Wives or mistresses of republican senators looking for a little action.

III. Don't Ask, Don't Tell, Don't Remember: See my above first sentence for II. In 2006, Senator John McCain was asked about the military's "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy regarding gay people serving in the US military. Now, we all remember the senator's glowing, stellar military service record. He made damn sure of that during the presidential election. Damn sure. And I, along with everyone else, thank him for that service. His opinion on military matters should be given consideration, given this experience. Here's what he said regarding the DADT policy: "The day that the leadership of the military comes to me and says, Senator, we ought to change the policy, then I think we ought to consider seriously changing it because those leaders in the military are the ones we give the responsibility to." Okay, Senator. But...now, with President (Democrat) Obama in office and DADT about to be repealed, is (Up For Re-Election) Senator McCain ready to trust the leadership of the military? Let's listen in: "At this moment of immense hardship for our armed services, we should not be seeking to overturn the Don't Ask, Don't Tell policy." Hmmmm....! Let's take a count, shall we? Defense Secretary Gates? Repeal. Chairman of Joint Chiefs of Staff Admiral Mullen? Repeal. Former Secretary of State and Former Chairman of Joint Chiefs of Staff and retired general of the Persian Gulf War Colin Powell? Repeal. Is this enough "Military Leadership" for you, John McCain? Guess not. Not when your seat is in play and you haven't had any other job for about eleventy thousand years. Life is tough.

But, don't despair, John McCain, Jan Larimer, and clueless republicans. If my vision is realized, you'll be well taken care of. I'm sure we can find a nice spot for all of you. Safe, homogenized, and very Beaver Cleaver. You can wave at us as we wander by and marvel. Just like Sarah to the Russians.