George and Jeb's Florida,
the vegetative state
We’re witnessing history here, fellow Americans. We have a biologically operative congressional leadership, vegetating for the Christian Coalition against seventy-five percent of Americans, with a White House equal to the mindless, mind-numbing task of turning your democracy, your family, and any law they can deem unfit upside down. Call them contradictory, cognitively vegetative and they are taking action tonight to walk through the front door of your house and decide how to run your family. Better hide your teenagers or they’ll grab them and take them off to die in their illegal war while they’re at it.
Hey, Congress, how about a little universal health insurance over here to fund the vegetative state to which you are driving us.
Sunday, March 20, 2005
White knight or political pawn?
The president leaves his ranch-sans-herd to rush to the legislative bedside of Terri Schiavo. The governor sits in Tallahassee. Does he have a "ranch?" probably should get one to ready himself for his presidential run. Brother Jeb awaits an outcome favorable to his rise to dynasty (funny word, dy-nasty). If only he can keep TS alive through the homestretch, fall 2008.
The values voters, neocon driven, puppeteer ready, root on the sidelines. It's OK if their party promotes states rights, keeps government out of our private lives except when they see a mindless game of "life at all costs." This one stinks worse than an open colostomy bag valve.
The president leaves his ranch-sans-herd to rush to the legislative bedside of Terri Schiavo. The governor sits in Tallahassee. Does he have a "ranch?" probably should get one to ready himself for his presidential run. Brother Jeb awaits an outcome favorable to his rise to dynasty (funny word, dy-nasty). If only he can keep TS alive through the homestretch, fall 2008.
The values voters, neocon driven, puppeteer ready, root on the sidelines. It's OK if their party promotes states rights, keeps government out of our private lives except when they see a mindless game of "life at all costs." This one stinks worse than an open colostomy bag valve.
Saturday, March 19, 2005
Concern for Terri Schiavo
It’s been awhile. There is much to write about. I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking, working my day job. Avoiding TV news. But blog on I must.
What does America’s premier writer of love and death, John Dufresne, think of this Terri Schiavo ordeal. I must believe he is keeping copious notes. By the way, I’m into Died and Gone to Heaven at this point, the third to last story of Johnny Too Bad, one of the best books I’ve ever had the privilege of holding in my hands. The other night, sitting by my fireplace after a hard days work, sipping a Jameson’s day before St. Pat’s day, I read one of the most astoundingly honest and entertaining stories ever, JTB, the title story of my dear acquaintance’s book.
Tonight, after visiting my son, who was kind of sick today, delivering ginger ale and saltines, Pepto Bismol, bottled water, I finally caught today’s big story. The courts, the Florida sorry-ass excuse for a governor, the Florida state legislature, and now the U.S. congress, hell, even Larry Fucking King, are all trying to ride some sort of horse they hope will be high enough to keep this Terri Sciavo alive to prove some sort of theory that America won’t let anybody die if it can help it.
Wow. This may seem like a rant from a poster who has been asleep since Feb 1 but that is not the truth. I’m worried about us. I’m afraid about how we work. I have a wonderful son, hope he is feeling better in the morning, and an astoundingly beautiful daughter with a perfect boyfriend (he’s also my friend). And they have to live with all this bullshit America has become under this frightening, so-called leadership for much longer than I do.
So, here’s to George W. Bush. Here’s to Larry King. Here’s to Scarborough Country. With a special nod to Bill O’Rielly, and Jeb Bush, throw in Peter Jennings, and that new anchor at NBC (what’s his name?), and all them jackasses on CNN, especially Wolf Blitzer and Mr. 360 himself. You are all hurting us. Fuck you all.
Get out of our lives. Let Democracy be. It’s done fine without you, so back off.
Set some precedent here. Stick that feeding tube back in poor Teri. You’ll see more of us sticking pistols in our mouths and pulling the trigger if you do. Have a nice day
It’s been awhile. There is much to write about. I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking, working my day job. Avoiding TV news. But blog on I must.
What does America’s premier writer of love and death, John Dufresne, think of this Terri Schiavo ordeal. I must believe he is keeping copious notes. By the way, I’m into Died and Gone to Heaven at this point, the third to last story of Johnny Too Bad, one of the best books I’ve ever had the privilege of holding in my hands. The other night, sitting by my fireplace after a hard days work, sipping a Jameson’s day before St. Pat’s day, I read one of the most astoundingly honest and entertaining stories ever, JTB, the title story of my dear acquaintance’s book.
Tonight, after visiting my son, who was kind of sick today, delivering ginger ale and saltines, Pepto Bismol, bottled water, I finally caught today’s big story. The courts, the Florida sorry-ass excuse for a governor, the Florida state legislature, and now the U.S. congress, hell, even Larry Fucking King, are all trying to ride some sort of horse they hope will be high enough to keep this Terri Sciavo alive to prove some sort of theory that America won’t let anybody die if it can help it.
Wow. This may seem like a rant from a poster who has been asleep since Feb 1 but that is not the truth. I’m worried about us. I’m afraid about how we work. I have a wonderful son, hope he is feeling better in the morning, and an astoundingly beautiful daughter with a perfect boyfriend (he’s also my friend). And they have to live with all this bullshit America has become under this frightening, so-called leadership for much longer than I do.
So, here’s to George W. Bush. Here’s to Larry King. Here’s to Scarborough Country. With a special nod to Bill O’Rielly, and Jeb Bush, throw in Peter Jennings, and that new anchor at NBC (what’s his name?), and all them jackasses on CNN, especially Wolf Blitzer and Mr. 360 himself. You are all hurting us. Fuck you all.
Get out of our lives. Let Democracy be. It’s done fine without you, so back off.
Set some precedent here. Stick that feeding tube back in poor Teri. You’ll see more of us sticking pistols in our mouths and pulling the trigger if you do. Have a nice day
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
Once again, with feeling
The administration’s plan to fatten Wall Street with our Social Security is falling flat. No wonder. As I’ve said before, you can’t have it both ways—a trust fund going bust and economic growth supporting PRIVATE accounts. Impossible? Yes. Paul Krugman once again.
Today is Galloway Kinnel’s birthday. From TWA. "Maybe the best we can do is do what we love as best we can." Kinnel has been one of my favorite poets for many years.
Anthony hits the stage again tonight in Tuesday Improv, Whole World Theater, eight p.m. We’re getting a room. Break a leg, Anth. Tickets . . .
The administration’s plan to fatten Wall Street with our Social Security is falling flat. No wonder. As I’ve said before, you can’t have it both ways—a trust fund going bust and economic growth supporting PRIVATE accounts. Impossible? Yes. Paul Krugman once again.
Today is Galloway Kinnel’s birthday. From TWA. "Maybe the best we can do is do what we love as best we can." Kinnel has been one of my favorite poets for many years.
Anthony hits the stage again tonight in Tuesday Improv, Whole World Theater, eight p.m. We’re getting a room. Break a leg, Anth. Tickets . . .
Saturday, January 29, 2005
Results of the straw poll: Zero
Guess I don't have a big audience. But I will blog on!
"Don't tell me the moon is shining;
show me the glint of light on broken glass."
--Anton Chekov, from The Writer's Almanac for today, his birthday.
"He died in 1904 and was buried in Moscow. The crowds that were watching the funeral procession held up all traffic."
Gonzales gets promoted, Rice crowned? Chertoff appointed? What does a body have to do to get fired in this administration? tell the truth? obey the law?
From an AP news report:
“Female interrogators tried to break Muslim detainees at Guantanamo Bay by sexual touching, wearing a miniskirt and thong underwear and in one case smearing a Saudi man's face with fake menstrual blood, according to an insider's written account.”
Guess I don't have a big audience. But I will blog on!
"Don't tell me the moon is shining;
show me the glint of light on broken glass."
--Anton Chekov, from The Writer's Almanac for today, his birthday.
"He died in 1904 and was buried in Moscow. The crowds that were watching the funeral procession held up all traffic."
Gonzales gets promoted, Rice crowned? Chertoff appointed? What does a body have to do to get fired in this administration? tell the truth? obey the law?
From an AP news report:
“Female interrogators tried to break Muslim detainees at Guantanamo Bay by sexual touching, wearing a miniskirt and thong underwear and in one case smearing a Saudi man's face with fake menstrual blood, according to an insider's written account.”
Thursday, January 20, 2005
Just became obvious to me why the hillbillies wear boots with the suits. I listened to the inaugural speech on NPR and man the bullshit was thick. Need waders.
There he goes again
You just can’t sit by and let your government run on automatic. Automatic pilot is for aircraft.
Microcosm: A few years ago our homeowners association was run by a man we later learned wasn’t even an owner. He was renting. He diverted hundreds of dollars of our fees to a relative as a way of paying himself, stealing money.
Of course most of us just want to live here, pay our fee, and have a nice common lawn, shrubbery, and a few annuals planted at the entrance to our neighborhood. Maybe 15% of us attend the annual meetings to approve budgets and elect officers.
It’s kind of like that in all of America. We may complain at the local bars and diners but we pay our taxes and go to sleep at night pretty sure other countries won’t invade us. We don’t “go to the meetings.” Heck, if more than half of us vote it’s a benchmark.
Many things have gone wrong in government and we usually don’t find out until it becomes too big for the corporate media to ignore. Kind of like Reagan and the Iran-Contra affair, where guys like Elliot Abrams and Ollie North were convicted of crimes. Abrams was pardoned by George H.W. Bush.
Now Rummy is looking longingly at using death squads in Iraq modeled after Reagan’s cockamamie Iran-Contra idea. From Sojourners: “Is it merely coincidence that President Bush appointed Elliot Abrams in mid-2003 to be his senior advisor on the Middle East?”
“The ‘Democracy Option’ disappears in Iraq.”
It is difficult to keep your heart these days.
Also from Sojourners and the daily dig, “silence is betrayal.” Don’t let even your town council member steal a dime, don’t let your government steal your country’s soul.
"A time comes when silence is betrayal. Even when pressed by the demands of inner truth, men do not easily assume the task of opposing their government's policy, especially in time of war. Nor does the human spirit move without great difficulty against all the apathy of conformist thought, within one's own bosom and in the surrounding world."
- Martin Luther King Jr.
Turn your back on lies today. Turn your back on Bush.
Burning the candle at both ends
Here’s how one and one equal zero in the Bush economic doctrine: Tax cuts have improved the economy, helped create jobs. The economy is growing.
Social Security is in crisis and must be handed over to Wall Street to save it. This will cost three trillion dollars and we’ll have to borrow it to “save” Social Security.
Hmmm. If the economy is growing and jobs are being created because of tax cuts, and if Bush is going to make those tax cuts permanent, then the Social Security trust fund surely must grow, too.
The numbers Bush uses to create the crisis in the minds of those stupid enough to keep accepting twisted logic from this White House are based on the most pessimistic economic forecast his geniuses of propaganda can fake. So Bush wants to take your retirement (all of it, for the poor elderly) and roll the dice with his investment banker buddies.
It would be like taking grandmother’s money to Vegas on the chance she may go broke before she dies, even though you might calculate she has enough to live to be a hundred and twenty.
One end of the candle, tax cuts for the wealthy/crushing debt for generations to come, is burning. Think about that today while America in Washington “celebrates freedom,” prepared to light the other end of the candle. The elite, powerful, and rich are really celebrating the freedom to pick our pockets.
Can’t think of a better man to carry a lantern of truth for the people than Paul Krugman, interviewed by Rolling Stone:
RS: What would you say to college students and young workers who are convinced they'll never see a dime of the money they put into Social Security?
Paul Krugman: You've been sold a scare story. Right now Social Security has a large and growing trust fund -- a surplus that has been collected to pay for the surge in benefits we'll experience when the baby boomers start to retire. If you're twenty now, you'll be hitting retirement around 2052. That's the year the Congressional Budget Office says the trust fund will run out. In fact, many economists say it may never run out. If the economy continues to grow at an average rate, the trust fund could quite possibly last forever.
There he goes again
You just can’t sit by and let your government run on automatic. Automatic pilot is for aircraft.
Microcosm: A few years ago our homeowners association was run by a man we later learned wasn’t even an owner. He was renting. He diverted hundreds of dollars of our fees to a relative as a way of paying himself, stealing money.
Of course most of us just want to live here, pay our fee, and have a nice common lawn, shrubbery, and a few annuals planted at the entrance to our neighborhood. Maybe 15% of us attend the annual meetings to approve budgets and elect officers.
It’s kind of like that in all of America. We may complain at the local bars and diners but we pay our taxes and go to sleep at night pretty sure other countries won’t invade us. We don’t “go to the meetings.” Heck, if more than half of us vote it’s a benchmark.
Many things have gone wrong in government and we usually don’t find out until it becomes too big for the corporate media to ignore. Kind of like Reagan and the Iran-Contra affair, where guys like Elliot Abrams and Ollie North were convicted of crimes. Abrams was pardoned by George H.W. Bush.
Now Rummy is looking longingly at using death squads in Iraq modeled after Reagan’s cockamamie Iran-Contra idea. From Sojourners: “Is it merely coincidence that President Bush appointed Elliot Abrams in mid-2003 to be his senior advisor on the Middle East?”
“The ‘Democracy Option’ disappears in Iraq.”
It is difficult to keep your heart these days.
Also from Sojourners and the daily dig, “silence is betrayal.” Don’t let even your town council member steal a dime, don’t let your government steal your country’s soul.
"A time comes when silence is betrayal. Even when pressed by the demands of inner truth, men do not easily assume the task of opposing their government's policy, especially in time of war. Nor does the human spirit move without great difficulty against all the apathy of conformist thought, within one's own bosom and in the surrounding world."
- Martin Luther King Jr.
Turn your back on lies today. Turn your back on Bush.
Burning the candle at both ends
Here’s how one and one equal zero in the Bush economic doctrine: Tax cuts have improved the economy, helped create jobs. The economy is growing.
Social Security is in crisis and must be handed over to Wall Street to save it. This will cost three trillion dollars and we’ll have to borrow it to “save” Social Security.
Hmmm. If the economy is growing and jobs are being created because of tax cuts, and if Bush is going to make those tax cuts permanent, then the Social Security trust fund surely must grow, too.
The numbers Bush uses to create the crisis in the minds of those stupid enough to keep accepting twisted logic from this White House are based on the most pessimistic economic forecast his geniuses of propaganda can fake. So Bush wants to take your retirement (all of it, for the poor elderly) and roll the dice with his investment banker buddies.
It would be like taking grandmother’s money to Vegas on the chance she may go broke before she dies, even though you might calculate she has enough to live to be a hundred and twenty.
One end of the candle, tax cuts for the wealthy/crushing debt for generations to come, is burning. Think about that today while America in Washington “celebrates freedom,” prepared to light the other end of the candle. The elite, powerful, and rich are really celebrating the freedom to pick our pockets.
Can’t think of a better man to carry a lantern of truth for the people than Paul Krugman, interviewed by Rolling Stone:
RS: What would you say to college students and young workers who are convinced they'll never see a dime of the money they put into Social Security?
Paul Krugman: You've been sold a scare story. Right now Social Security has a large and growing trust fund -- a surplus that has been collected to pay for the surge in benefits we'll experience when the baby boomers start to retire. If you're twenty now, you'll be hitting retirement around 2052. That's the year the Congressional Budget Office says the trust fund will run out. In fact, many economists say it may never run out. If the economy continues to grow at an average rate, the trust fund could quite possibly last forever.
Monday, January 10, 2005
Stewart fires Tucker Carlson;
Moyers makes O’Reilly look like
a fool without uttering a word
Tucker Carlson’s boss seems to agree with Jon Stewart. He is bad, hurting America. Bye-bye bow tie.
You’ll remember Sponge Boy Bill O’Reilly, he of Fox “News,” he who dallied a bit too much explaining what he’d do with one of his female underlings if he got her in the shower. O’ Reilly, who went around thumping his chest about his former employer, Inside Edition, and his show winning the prestigious Peabody Award for Journalism, when it was really a Polk Award won a year before he joined the show?
Now he’s slamming one of the finest journalists ever to file a story. From Media Matters:
FOX News host Bill O'Reilly, whom Media Matters for America named "Misinformer of the Year" for his 75-plus documented lies, distortions, and mischaracterizations in 2004, attacked retired PBS host and Peabody Award winner Bill Moyers for the December 17 episode of PBS's NOW, which criticized what Moyers called O'Reilly's and FOX News' "partisan agenda." On the January 5 edition of The O'Reilly Factor, O'Reilly called Moyers "totalitarian," claimed Moyers "finds it morally offensive to hear points of view with which he disagrees," and suggested that "he ought to give back his Peabody."
Don’t expect to hear him read my email to you on The Factor.
Billy:
You are not even qualified to sharpen Bill Moyers’s pencil, sponge boy. Mr. Moyers is one of the finest journalists in America. You couldn’t even get near the copy desk of professional journalism. I think you should apologize to Mr. Moyers on the air.
--Tom Todaro
Duluth, Georgia
Maybe the bosses at Fox will follow CNN's lead and help clean up a little air pollution. Bye-bye Billy? Fat chance now that Rupert Murdoch is buying back all shares in Fox properties.
Grocery lists online
There's a Web site with scores of found grocery lists posted. Thanks to John Dufresne on his blog.
Before leaving for work a minute ago, Mary handed me this list:
Fluoride (tooth-decay-fighting wash)
Sugar
They each do a good job but I think sugar has the edge.
Moyers makes O’Reilly look like
a fool without uttering a word
Tucker Carlson’s boss seems to agree with Jon Stewart. He is bad, hurting America. Bye-bye bow tie.
You’ll remember Sponge Boy Bill O’Reilly, he of Fox “News,” he who dallied a bit too much explaining what he’d do with one of his female underlings if he got her in the shower. O’ Reilly, who went around thumping his chest about his former employer, Inside Edition, and his show winning the prestigious Peabody Award for Journalism, when it was really a Polk Award won a year before he joined the show?
Now he’s slamming one of the finest journalists ever to file a story. From Media Matters:
FOX News host Bill O'Reilly, whom Media Matters for America named "Misinformer of the Year" for his 75-plus documented lies, distortions, and mischaracterizations in 2004, attacked retired PBS host and Peabody Award winner Bill Moyers for the December 17 episode of PBS's NOW, which criticized what Moyers called O'Reilly's and FOX News' "partisan agenda." On the January 5 edition of The O'Reilly Factor, O'Reilly called Moyers "totalitarian," claimed Moyers "finds it morally offensive to hear points of view with which he disagrees," and suggested that "he ought to give back his Peabody."
Don’t expect to hear him read my email to you on The Factor.
Billy:
You are not even qualified to sharpen Bill Moyers’s pencil, sponge boy. Mr. Moyers is one of the finest journalists in America. You couldn’t even get near the copy desk of professional journalism. I think you should apologize to Mr. Moyers on the air.
--Tom Todaro
Duluth, Georgia
Maybe the bosses at Fox will follow CNN's lead and help clean up a little air pollution. Bye-bye Billy? Fat chance now that Rupert Murdoch is buying back all shares in Fox properties.
Grocery lists online
There's a Web site with scores of found grocery lists posted. Thanks to John Dufresne on his blog.
Before leaving for work a minute ago, Mary handed me this list:
Fluoride (tooth-decay-fighting wash)
Sugar
They each do a good job but I think sugar has the edge.
Sunday, January 09, 2005
Bush’s profound analysis:
They fear freedom
(I wrote this for Jan 8)
One of his own generals warns of a “spectacular attack” within the three weeks leading up to elections in Iraq. Bush can only respond with this:
“’I know it’s hard but it’s hard for a reason,’ Bush said, adding that the insurgents are trying to impede the elections because they fear freedom,” according to The Associated Press.
I guess in his fairy tale the “insurgents” are a different breed of human being, one that despises freedom and longs for hegemony, one-party rule, maybe despotism, kind of like what Bush and the right wing are attempting right here, right now in America.
Or maybe it's the Bush Brand of science: Some human beings fear freedom and would rather be told what to do, how to live. Is he getting his anthropology from Pat Roberson? Jerry Fallwell?
Maybe, just maybe, Bush made a mistake by invading Iraq. Ask him. It’s a tough question for him to answer. The press caught him off guard last time it asked him if he made any mistakes in his first four years. He still hasn’t been able to muster an answer. I suggest we bloggers and the mainstream press put it in writing as an essay question and give him a few weeks to respond. It’s hard work. He’s working hard. Tell it to the Army Reserve now facing forced service of up to two years in Iraq while their families fall apart at home. Tell it to two members of my family on their way back to Bush’s tragic mistake of a war. Tell it to the Iraqis without a country and without much hope for years to come. Tell it to the native police and military we’re trying to piece together—it is hard work, going to work everyday with the specter of getting blown to smithereens.
Countdown to the next presidential press conference, Day One.
I welcome all comments, especially from the fifty-nine million idiots who asked for a return of this madness.
They fear freedom
(I wrote this for Jan 8)
One of his own generals warns of a “spectacular attack” within the three weeks leading up to elections in Iraq. Bush can only respond with this:
“’I know it’s hard but it’s hard for a reason,’ Bush said, adding that the insurgents are trying to impede the elections because they fear freedom,” according to The Associated Press.
I guess in his fairy tale the “insurgents” are a different breed of human being, one that despises freedom and longs for hegemony, one-party rule, maybe despotism, kind of like what Bush and the right wing are attempting right here, right now in America.
Or maybe it's the Bush Brand of science: Some human beings fear freedom and would rather be told what to do, how to live. Is he getting his anthropology from Pat Roberson? Jerry Fallwell?
Maybe, just maybe, Bush made a mistake by invading Iraq. Ask him. It’s a tough question for him to answer. The press caught him off guard last time it asked him if he made any mistakes in his first four years. He still hasn’t been able to muster an answer. I suggest we bloggers and the mainstream press put it in writing as an essay question and give him a few weeks to respond. It’s hard work. He’s working hard. Tell it to the Army Reserve now facing forced service of up to two years in Iraq while their families fall apart at home. Tell it to two members of my family on their way back to Bush’s tragic mistake of a war. Tell it to the Iraqis without a country and without much hope for years to come. Tell it to the native police and military we’re trying to piece together—it is hard work, going to work everyday with the specter of getting blown to smithereens.
Countdown to the next presidential press conference, Day One.
I welcome all comments, especially from the fifty-nine million idiots who asked for a return of this madness.
Friday, January 07, 2005
Iokiyar
Paul Krugman, a national treasure, writes the Cliff Notes for his bad novel in today’s NYT. Krugman, and other intelligent people with hearts of gold, represents another reason why you should keep your television off: You’ll rarely find them there. Television is for Republicans.
Another novel idea
Wither principle, Democrats?
Anna Quindlen is another gem in the mud pile left over from the 2004 elections. Doing what is right rather than what gets you elected? Interesting.
Presidential Medal of Fiefdom
More evidence Bush should rename the medal. Here’s the big winner, out of government but back in the news today. For what? Well apparently he was asleep at the wheel pre-9/11, too. Fire up the furnace, boys, with all the incompetence we can expect in the next four years, we’ll need the metal!
Mower Relief
I’ve been away for a while; had this Santa thing to attend to, then developed a program to raise money for tsunami relief in South Asia. If all goes well, volunteers will be maintaining the little landscaped entrance to our neighborhood rather than a lawn service. Mower Relief will donate the savings to Oxfam or some such reputable organization like World Vision. We could raise as much as three or four thousand dollars. I'll present the plan at the annual budget meeting next week. Break a leg.
Paul Krugman, a national treasure, writes the Cliff Notes for his bad novel in today’s NYT. Krugman, and other intelligent people with hearts of gold, represents another reason why you should keep your television off: You’ll rarely find them there. Television is for Republicans.
Another novel idea
Wither principle, Democrats?
Anna Quindlen is another gem in the mud pile left over from the 2004 elections. Doing what is right rather than what gets you elected? Interesting.
Presidential Medal of Fiefdom
More evidence Bush should rename the medal. Here’s the big winner, out of government but back in the news today. For what? Well apparently he was asleep at the wheel pre-9/11, too. Fire up the furnace, boys, with all the incompetence we can expect in the next four years, we’ll need the metal!
Mower Relief
I’ve been away for a while; had this Santa thing to attend to, then developed a program to raise money for tsunami relief in South Asia. If all goes well, volunteers will be maintaining the little landscaped entrance to our neighborhood rather than a lawn service. Mower Relief will donate the savings to Oxfam or some such reputable organization like World Vision. We could raise as much as three or four thousand dollars. I'll present the plan at the annual budget meeting next week. Break a leg.
Friday, December 31, 2004
Slacker Santa
I have been remiss in my daily chores. Some catching up to do.
From Santa-morphisis, Dec 25—Dec 31, 2001
Dec 25, 2001
I said I would write all day and I did not. How could I when . . . well, no excuses. Memorable pictures:
Joy’s great smile and loving words.
Anthony’s face, making visual music.
The normally grumpy people smiling.
The usually grumpy being OK.
The sometimes grumpy being a little grumpy, then smiling.
The always angelic at their angelic best.
The generous, the all so generous.
My feisty friend Scotty being his feisty, though merry, self.
It is evening. Santa has gone dormant. Only New Year's remains.
Dec 26, 2001
Mary and I have taken to sleeping in this week. Rousing slowly with coffee, books, and TV movies. It has been a long time since I stayed upstairs until after eleven in the morning.
Walked with Mom today. Visited with others at her place.
To The Tea House. Walked around the new square. Back home for reading. Tim O’Brien’s Tomcat in Love.
Candies and cordials with Joy, Pat, Raina, Jeffrey, and Robin. Then poker. Seven people playing poker. Maybe three actually know how. Dumped a bunch of change on the table and we all dug in.
Santa is melting away. All that is left is the beard, and . . . Remembering how kindness works. Just say kind things, do kind things. Redefine and refine love over a lifetime.
December 27, 28, & 29, 2001
Trimming my beard I asked my self, OK, who are you now? In some ways I still think I am Santa Clause but mostly I think I am not, at least until next year. People still call me Santa out there, on the golf course, at my Mother’s place.
Mary and I have enjoyed sleeping in. It is almost eleven and I am just getting to this. Finished Tomcat in Love, fourth novel by Tim O’Brien for me. A funny, funny book.
This is the year of September Eleventh. The economy is bad, worse than it has been in maybe a decade or more. People are losing sleep. People are depressed.
Dec 30, 2001
When did Santa Claus begin? When was he born? I think it was November tenth, after a few days of beard growth, whimsically seeing myself in a red suit, with fluted white French cuffs and some sort of fancy white lapels. I think I thought of doing this last year but did not do anything. Nobody writes anything in their mind, nobody designs anything in their mind, either. Sit down and draw. Or buy a pattern and see a tailor.
Dec 31, 2001
Significant beginnings to the past year: By January I was making monthly trips to Florida to help my sisters take care of Mom, working with Mary on ad projects, and playing a lot of golf the rest of the time. Now Mom is in assisted living, a mile or two from my house. My sisters visit regularly.
Went to Mom’s with Mary. As we walked Mom around the building, she slipped from my grip on her gait belt and fell half-way to the floor attempting to sit in her wheel chair. She assured me she was not hurt.
Came home to a nice family, kidding around, lots of that. Warmed it all up with a fire from wood I collected myself about a year ago at the golf course.
Look at Santa, driving the beverage cart with a wreath on front, across the golf course, selling soft drinks, beer, and snacks. Part of the landscape of Christmas, at least around here. There he goes at the big country club party. Taking pictures with everybody. There he goes to the day care centers, the old folks home, the mall with his son and friends, the UPS store, the company parties, the exercise group party. There he is sitting in his front yard waving at passersby. At the convenience store hugging everybody, including the man on the ladder changing a light bulb. Calling Mellow Mushroom for a pizza for Santa and picking it up. “I told you! I told you he would come! I knew it was Santa on the phone!”
There you have it; dancing with hundred-year-old women, ninety, eighty. And dancing with my mother down the hall with her walker and gait belt in place. And dancing and playing as if my heart has never been broken, like I don’t need the money, like nobody is watching. (The “like nobody is watching” part is hard to pull off when you’re in a Santa suit.)
I have been remiss in my daily chores. Some catching up to do.
From Santa-morphisis, Dec 25—Dec 31, 2001
Dec 25, 2001
I said I would write all day and I did not. How could I when . . . well, no excuses. Memorable pictures:
Joy’s great smile and loving words.
Anthony’s face, making visual music.
The normally grumpy people smiling.
The usually grumpy being OK.
The sometimes grumpy being a little grumpy, then smiling.
The always angelic at their angelic best.
The generous, the all so generous.
My feisty friend Scotty being his feisty, though merry, self.
It is evening. Santa has gone dormant. Only New Year's remains.
Dec 26, 2001
Mary and I have taken to sleeping in this week. Rousing slowly with coffee, books, and TV movies. It has been a long time since I stayed upstairs until after eleven in the morning.
Walked with Mom today. Visited with others at her place.
To The Tea House. Walked around the new square. Back home for reading. Tim O’Brien’s Tomcat in Love.
Candies and cordials with Joy, Pat, Raina, Jeffrey, and Robin. Then poker. Seven people playing poker. Maybe three actually know how. Dumped a bunch of change on the table and we all dug in.
Santa is melting away. All that is left is the beard, and . . . Remembering how kindness works. Just say kind things, do kind things. Redefine and refine love over a lifetime.
December 27, 28, & 29, 2001
Trimming my beard I asked my self, OK, who are you now? In some ways I still think I am Santa Clause but mostly I think I am not, at least until next year. People still call me Santa out there, on the golf course, at my Mother’s place.
Mary and I have enjoyed sleeping in. It is almost eleven and I am just getting to this. Finished Tomcat in Love, fourth novel by Tim O’Brien for me. A funny, funny book.
This is the year of September Eleventh. The economy is bad, worse than it has been in maybe a decade or more. People are losing sleep. People are depressed.
Dec 30, 2001
When did Santa Claus begin? When was he born? I think it was November tenth, after a few days of beard growth, whimsically seeing myself in a red suit, with fluted white French cuffs and some sort of fancy white lapels. I think I thought of doing this last year but did not do anything. Nobody writes anything in their mind, nobody designs anything in their mind, either. Sit down and draw. Or buy a pattern and see a tailor.
Dec 31, 2001
Significant beginnings to the past year: By January I was making monthly trips to Florida to help my sisters take care of Mom, working with Mary on ad projects, and playing a lot of golf the rest of the time. Now Mom is in assisted living, a mile or two from my house. My sisters visit regularly.
Went to Mom’s with Mary. As we walked Mom around the building, she slipped from my grip on her gait belt and fell half-way to the floor attempting to sit in her wheel chair. She assured me she was not hurt.
Came home to a nice family, kidding around, lots of that. Warmed it all up with a fire from wood I collected myself about a year ago at the golf course.
Look at Santa, driving the beverage cart with a wreath on front, across the golf course, selling soft drinks, beer, and snacks. Part of the landscape of Christmas, at least around here. There he goes at the big country club party. Taking pictures with everybody. There he goes to the day care centers, the old folks home, the mall with his son and friends, the UPS store, the company parties, the exercise group party. There he is sitting in his front yard waving at passersby. At the convenience store hugging everybody, including the man on the ladder changing a light bulb. Calling Mellow Mushroom for a pizza for Santa and picking it up. “I told you! I told you he would come! I knew it was Santa on the phone!”
There you have it; dancing with hundred-year-old women, ninety, eighty. And dancing with my mother down the hall with her walker and gait belt in place. And dancing and playing as if my heart has never been broken, like I don’t need the money, like nobody is watching. (The “like nobody is watching” part is hard to pull off when you’re in a Santa suit.)
Friday, December 24, 2004
A little Santa in us all
Santa-morphisis
From December 24, 2001
Yesterday, Mom comments: “Oh no, you’re not wearing that damn thing again, are you?”
Today when Santa walked into her room at Plantation South to pick her up for our annual party, Oh, no, not again. In the car: Why are you wearing that suit again.
What else would Santa wear on Christmas Eve? Besides, don’t forget, you’re my mother; you’re the one who got me into believing in Santa in the first place.
“You didn’t even notice my new hairdo,” she said. Oh yeah, it looks nice, Mom.
“When are you going to stop wearing that outfit?” It’s Christmas. Don’t you like me in my Santa suit?
“I just want to see you in normal clothes. You’re embarrassing me.”
Santa has baggage, a sack full of gifts. People shouldn’t take them elves so seriously. Santa has a mother and father, sisters and brothers, like anybody else.
From my friend, Mark:
Thanks to the Sicilian Santa for spreading Sopranos-like holiday good
cheer to all of us! Shane won't stop talking about Santa Claus and his
personalized visit to "Shane's house." In all seriousness, it meant so much to Lisa and me to get all you guys together and catch up with everyone. We need to do more of that going forward. Again, appreciate everyone's taking the time out during the holidays to get together with us -- it meant a lot.
--Mark
Dear Mark,
We're all Santa. Thanks for the kind note.
I played golf today, 24 holes, in the Santa rig; played pretty well. The suit made me swing within myself, I guess. Some creep hit into us on the 11th hole and I tossed his ball into the woods. Bad Santa.
Love, SC
Santa-morphisis
From December 24, 2001
Yesterday, Mom comments: “Oh no, you’re not wearing that damn thing again, are you?”
Today when Santa walked into her room at Plantation South to pick her up for our annual party, Oh, no, not again. In the car: Why are you wearing that suit again.
What else would Santa wear on Christmas Eve? Besides, don’t forget, you’re my mother; you’re the one who got me into believing in Santa in the first place.
“You didn’t even notice my new hairdo,” she said. Oh yeah, it looks nice, Mom.
“When are you going to stop wearing that outfit?” It’s Christmas. Don’t you like me in my Santa suit?
“I just want to see you in normal clothes. You’re embarrassing me.”
Santa has baggage, a sack full of gifts. People shouldn’t take them elves so seriously. Santa has a mother and father, sisters and brothers, like anybody else.
From my friend, Mark:
Thanks to the Sicilian Santa for spreading Sopranos-like holiday good
cheer to all of us! Shane won't stop talking about Santa Claus and his
personalized visit to "Shane's house." In all seriousness, it meant so much to Lisa and me to get all you guys together and catch up with everyone. We need to do more of that going forward. Again, appreciate everyone's taking the time out during the holidays to get together with us -- it meant a lot.
--Mark
Dear Mark,
We're all Santa. Thanks for the kind note.
I played golf today, 24 holes, in the Santa rig; played pretty well. The suit made me swing within myself, I guess. Some creep hit into us on the 11th hole and I tossed his ball into the woods. Bad Santa.
Love, SC
Thursday, December 23, 2004
Santa dancing
Santa-morphisis
From December 13, 2001
“Work like you don’t need the money, dance like nobody’s watching.” Somebody sent me that line, without credit.
Lilly turned 100 recently. She wore glasses like welders use when cutting metal with a blowtorch. Santa is at the Plantation South holiday party, dancing with Lilly. Walking with Lilly was dancing with Lilly. “I’m a hundred years old. It’s a miracle,” she laughed as we walked somewhere in the direction of her room “Oh, God bless you, thank you Santa.”
Dancing with Martha. What a fine dancer she is at, oh, eighty-something. I looked down, Martha’s face looking for me to lead her on, looking around the room at the faces of all those ladies, Mother included, all the faces of those on staff I’ve come to know. Santa was on staff today.
I lifted my head, watched the balloons dancing on the ceiling, the clouds dancing through the high windows. The sense of the heights of human spirit danced all around us. I looked across the room again, just to check. Sure enough only Martha and I are still dancing. The dancing of the others is all in their faces. Betty laughed. “You made Betty laugh. She’s never laughed,” somebody said.
Dancing with Winnie, ninety-something. “You know, Saturday nights I used to buck dance when I was a girl.” Exactly what is buck dancing, Winnie? is it like square dancing? “Why, yes! It is square dancing! You should have seen it. We would move my bed against the wall and make enough room for the boys to come in and we’d buck and dance. Oh My! You should have seen me then!” My head up, my smile pointing at two corners of the room. “And you know? some boy would always end up hiding under my bed until late at night!” Oh Winnie!
Mary and I carry sixty presents to sixty rooms. HO, HO, HO! Merry Christmas! It’s Santa. May I come in? Sweet, old, tiny Eugenia one of my all-time favorites, was a concert pianist once. Well preserved for eighty or more, wanted to make sure she got her kiss from Santa and she got it.
In Lilly’s room. She sat in her special chair with the built-in table. Very fine old furniture in the room, old white oak with carved ornamentation on the dresser drawers, like garland.
“You have to see . . . where is it?” What, Lilly? “It was right there.” She pushes the table aside and slowly gets up. Walks over to the dresser. “It was right on here.” She goes to her walker. Oh, look, I say to Mary. There is a candy cane dressed like Rudolf the Red-nosed Reindeer attached to the front of her walker. We all began singing that song. “Yeah, that’s right,” Lilly said, then gave us a big knee-slapping laugh.
I wonder how Mom felt about having her own personal Santa among all of her newfound friends at Plantation South.
Lynnita is a great friend of ours. Santa didn’t make it to Lynnita’s Mother. She passed away before we could arrange the visit. Today is the wake. Tomorrow is the service at Flipper Temple, near the campus of Morris Brown University, Atlanta. Could I have been her personal Santa? What would she have asked for and could the gift be possible?
(Excerpts from my journal, Santa-morphisis, from the 2001 holiday season, all entries copyright Tom Todaro, 2004. Santa-morphisis is in the trademark process. So don't even think about it. Wink.)
Santa-morphisis
From December 13, 2001
“Work like you don’t need the money, dance like nobody’s watching.” Somebody sent me that line, without credit.
Lilly turned 100 recently. She wore glasses like welders use when cutting metal with a blowtorch. Santa is at the Plantation South holiday party, dancing with Lilly. Walking with Lilly was dancing with Lilly. “I’m a hundred years old. It’s a miracle,” she laughed as we walked somewhere in the direction of her room “Oh, God bless you, thank you Santa.”
Dancing with Martha. What a fine dancer she is at, oh, eighty-something. I looked down, Martha’s face looking for me to lead her on, looking around the room at the faces of all those ladies, Mother included, all the faces of those on staff I’ve come to know. Santa was on staff today.
I lifted my head, watched the balloons dancing on the ceiling, the clouds dancing through the high windows. The sense of the heights of human spirit danced all around us. I looked across the room again, just to check. Sure enough only Martha and I are still dancing. The dancing of the others is all in their faces. Betty laughed. “You made Betty laugh. She’s never laughed,” somebody said.
Dancing with Winnie, ninety-something. “You know, Saturday nights I used to buck dance when I was a girl.” Exactly what is buck dancing, Winnie? is it like square dancing? “Why, yes! It is square dancing! You should have seen it. We would move my bed against the wall and make enough room for the boys to come in and we’d buck and dance. Oh My! You should have seen me then!” My head up, my smile pointing at two corners of the room. “And you know? some boy would always end up hiding under my bed until late at night!” Oh Winnie!
Mary and I carry sixty presents to sixty rooms. HO, HO, HO! Merry Christmas! It’s Santa. May I come in? Sweet, old, tiny Eugenia one of my all-time favorites, was a concert pianist once. Well preserved for eighty or more, wanted to make sure she got her kiss from Santa and she got it.
In Lilly’s room. She sat in her special chair with the built-in table. Very fine old furniture in the room, old white oak with carved ornamentation on the dresser drawers, like garland.
“You have to see . . . where is it?” What, Lilly? “It was right there.” She pushes the table aside and slowly gets up. Walks over to the dresser. “It was right on here.” She goes to her walker. Oh, look, I say to Mary. There is a candy cane dressed like Rudolf the Red-nosed Reindeer attached to the front of her walker. We all began singing that song. “Yeah, that’s right,” Lilly said, then gave us a big knee-slapping laugh.
I wonder how Mom felt about having her own personal Santa among all of her newfound friends at Plantation South.
Lynnita is a great friend of ours. Santa didn’t make it to Lynnita’s Mother. She passed away before we could arrange the visit. Today is the wake. Tomorrow is the service at Flipper Temple, near the campus of Morris Brown University, Atlanta. Could I have been her personal Santa? What would she have asked for and could the gift be possible?
(Excerpts from my journal, Santa-morphisis, from the 2001 holiday season, all entries copyright Tom Todaro, 2004. Santa-morphisis is in the trademark process. So don't even think about it. Wink.)
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
Sheltering Arms
From Santa-morphisis, Christmas 2001
I read one of Joy’s student essays today about maturity. It must be the best of its kind.
This from a girl I coddled and nurtured and cared for and love so dearly. This from a girl I’ve known from her first cry, a face I will never forget. This from a girl whose father became a peculiar kind of Santa somewhere along the way, a girl just skeptical enough, maybe a bit more, with equal amounts of innocence, better equipped than most to use it all to it’s fullest.
Mrs. Claus and I picked up some treats at the drug store and were off to Sheltering Arms a non-profit organization providing daycare for fifty-six children of families with low incomes. I could see the kids in the window when we drove up. I could hear them yelling, Santa! Santa! My blood began pumping fast.
Inside, the assistant director gave me a bag for each class. First was a group of one-year-olds. Some were excited. Some were dumbfounded. Some were afraid. One little girl stayed near the far corner and didn’t move the whole time I was there.
From small voices I could determine that most of the girls wanted either Barbie Dolls or a baby dolls. And a car. Most of the boys wanted a motorbike and a car. And Power Rangers. Jamal had a yellow bubble in one nostril. He was dressed in a red sweatshirt and tiny jeans. I gave a little brown bag to each child. Two girls were named Sidney. The bags had little knit caps and knit mittens in them, white and lavender for the girls, black and brown for the boys.
Mrs. Claus led us all in a chorus of “Jingle Bells,” then “Here Comes Santa Claus," when we discovered we’d better stick with the songs to which we knew at least a majority of the words. Mrs. Claus was especially helpful with that.
We took pictures in large groups. And small groups. And with just one or two kids on my lap. A mother of one of the three-year-olds took most of the pictures.
One kid lifted my jacket and stuck his head under it. They asked me many questions, You the real Santa? Yes. Where are your reindeer? At the farm getting fed. The children were the stars of the show and I fell in love fifty-six times.
Miracle had pierced ears. She sat on the teacher’s knee. Quentin sat on the other knee. He had long curly black hair. They clung to their teacher all the while Santa talked with the other boys and girls; while the pictures were snapped, the wishes expressed, the songs sang.
Miracle finally sat on one of my knees. She wants a Barbie doll and a car. She has this down by now. What a cool name, I said, Miracle. She really is a miracle, somebody said, nobody told me why.
The twin girls with Downs Syndrome; so pretty. One wore a purple crushed velvet dress.
The little senses of self. The insecure, vying and jockeying for position with Santa. The ever so shy. McKenzie had to be brought to me and placed on my lap. While I began speaking with her, her teacher told her, It’s all right, holding one of McKenzie’s hands. I told her it would be OK and she let the hand slip. McKenzie gave me her Barbie and car wishes very quietly. She stayed on my lap while group pictures were taken. She asked for at least two hugs, maybe three, before I left the group to go on to the next.
Things I said were sometimes awkward to me. You will get lots of presents. And your parents have worked hard for your presents. One kid said, We don’t have any presents.
I went to Agnes Scott College to bring Joy home for the break, the third time Santa appeared there this season. I stayed by the dorm door and shuffled Joy’s luggage to the car. Joy and her roommate were mildly amused. (Daddy, why’d you have to wear that suit again?)
From Santa-morphisis, Christmas 2001
I read one of Joy’s student essays today about maturity. It must be the best of its kind.
This from a girl I coddled and nurtured and cared for and love so dearly. This from a girl I’ve known from her first cry, a face I will never forget. This from a girl whose father became a peculiar kind of Santa somewhere along the way, a girl just skeptical enough, maybe a bit more, with equal amounts of innocence, better equipped than most to use it all to it’s fullest.
Mrs. Claus and I picked up some treats at the drug store and were off to Sheltering Arms a non-profit organization providing daycare for fifty-six children of families with low incomes. I could see the kids in the window when we drove up. I could hear them yelling, Santa! Santa! My blood began pumping fast.
Inside, the assistant director gave me a bag for each class. First was a group of one-year-olds. Some were excited. Some were dumbfounded. Some were afraid. One little girl stayed near the far corner and didn’t move the whole time I was there.
From small voices I could determine that most of the girls wanted either Barbie Dolls or a baby dolls. And a car. Most of the boys wanted a motorbike and a car. And Power Rangers. Jamal had a yellow bubble in one nostril. He was dressed in a red sweatshirt and tiny jeans. I gave a little brown bag to each child. Two girls were named Sidney. The bags had little knit caps and knit mittens in them, white and lavender for the girls, black and brown for the boys.
Mrs. Claus led us all in a chorus of “Jingle Bells,” then “Here Comes Santa Claus," when we discovered we’d better stick with the songs to which we knew at least a majority of the words. Mrs. Claus was especially helpful with that.
We took pictures in large groups. And small groups. And with just one or two kids on my lap. A mother of one of the three-year-olds took most of the pictures.
One kid lifted my jacket and stuck his head under it. They asked me many questions, You the real Santa? Yes. Where are your reindeer? At the farm getting fed. The children were the stars of the show and I fell in love fifty-six times.
Miracle had pierced ears. She sat on the teacher’s knee. Quentin sat on the other knee. He had long curly black hair. They clung to their teacher all the while Santa talked with the other boys and girls; while the pictures were snapped, the wishes expressed, the songs sang.
Miracle finally sat on one of my knees. She wants a Barbie doll and a car. She has this down by now. What a cool name, I said, Miracle. She really is a miracle, somebody said, nobody told me why.
The twin girls with Downs Syndrome; so pretty. One wore a purple crushed velvet dress.
The little senses of self. The insecure, vying and jockeying for position with Santa. The ever so shy. McKenzie had to be brought to me and placed on my lap. While I began speaking with her, her teacher told her, It’s all right, holding one of McKenzie’s hands. I told her it would be OK and she let the hand slip. McKenzie gave me her Barbie and car wishes very quietly. She stayed on my lap while group pictures were taken. She asked for at least two hugs, maybe three, before I left the group to go on to the next.
Things I said were sometimes awkward to me. You will get lots of presents. And your parents have worked hard for your presents. One kid said, We don’t have any presents.
I went to Agnes Scott College to bring Joy home for the break, the third time Santa appeared there this season. I stayed by the dorm door and shuffled Joy’s luggage to the car. Joy and her roommate were mildly amused. (Daddy, why’d you have to wear that suit again?)
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
From Santa-morphisis
I decided to become Santa Claus for Christmas 2001. I had a suit custom made from a pattern of deep-burgundy satin, Sherpa (looks like white fur), belt, faux-boot shoe covers.
Mary and I made many appearances at subsidized childcare centers, a folk art gallery, the golf course, my mother’s assisted living home, a few parties, and sometimes I just wore the suit to go shopping.
Anthony was eighteen. One day near Christmas, he and a few of his friends were hanging around the house. I suggested they take Santa to the mall. We had a few stops to make on the way, first the UPS store. Here’s that excerpt from my “Santa-morphisis Journal,” being the Santa.
The Elves were all over the place. Playing with the toy UPS trucks, messing with the mailing supplies, trying to climb into the big package slot.
When I got on line I was behind a yuppie woman and her little girl. Both were dressed in red. They guy behind me said, “I don’t know about your choice of red, Santa.” I turned around and said, Check your history of Santa couture, buddy, article in Sunday’s NYT.
Then the little girl started in on me.
“You’re not the real Santa.”
“Why, yes I am dear.”
“No you’re not.”
Yes I am.’
‘No you’re not.”
“Yes I am.”
A lull.
“You’re not the real Santa.”
“Yes, I am honey.”
“The real Santa came to our clubhouse.”
“Your clubhouse?”
“No, you’re not the real Santa.”
“Yes I am.”
“No you’re not.”
“Yes I am.”
A lull
“You’re not the real Santa.”
“Yes I am.”
And this continued.
“Your name wouldn’t be Virginia,” I said.
“No.”
Her mother muttered something like, Santa wouldn’t say anything like that.
I didn’t think she could be Virginia. Virginia would have believed.
Off to Plantation South assisted living to deliver the Christmas gift for the staff from Mom. With the Elves in tow, sweeping the cookie basket as we pass through the ice cream parlor/beauty shop corridor. On to Mom’s room as I introduce my Elves and kiss Mom, hand her a card that came in my mail. Off to the Mall.
Ah, the possibilities. Waving, Ho-ing, hugging, posing for pictures with people randomly. Photo in front of Frederick’s of Hollywood. Santa at the mall. The Elves and I schemed and schemed. Hmmm . . . how about a picture of Santa with Santa? Over Japanese food the boys considered chipping in for the picture. They would never let us just shoot a snapshot. I was skittish about even going near the Santa picture set. I was afraid of being kicked out, or worse.
More pictures. Two female police officers and me. No they were not arresting me. Shot of us with three girls the Elves know from school. Shot of a high school theater diva, her boyfriend, and Santa.
Did get close enough to the Santa set to see the minimum was twenty bucks. The Elves passed on paying the tab for the picture, scooted off to work, shopping and hijinks.
Santa retired to the bar. Picture of Santa and bartender behind the bar. Played Trivial Pursuit with some patrons. Santa kicked butt.
All had a merry time.
Off to Sheltering Arms day care tomorrow.
(Photos available soon.)
The shortest day of the year
Winter in North Georgia is usually mild with abundant sunshine. The birdbath stayed frozen all day yesterday. Spent about an hour splitting firewood from a tree Anthony and I had to cut down last spring.
I decided to become Santa Claus for Christmas 2001. I had a suit custom made from a pattern of deep-burgundy satin, Sherpa (looks like white fur), belt, faux-boot shoe covers.
Mary and I made many appearances at subsidized childcare centers, a folk art gallery, the golf course, my mother’s assisted living home, a few parties, and sometimes I just wore the suit to go shopping.
Anthony was eighteen. One day near Christmas, he and a few of his friends were hanging around the house. I suggested they take Santa to the mall. We had a few stops to make on the way, first the UPS store. Here’s that excerpt from my “Santa-morphisis Journal,” being the Santa.
The Elves were all over the place. Playing with the toy UPS trucks, messing with the mailing supplies, trying to climb into the big package slot.
When I got on line I was behind a yuppie woman and her little girl. Both were dressed in red. They guy behind me said, “I don’t know about your choice of red, Santa.” I turned around and said, Check your history of Santa couture, buddy, article in Sunday’s NYT.
Then the little girl started in on me.
“You’re not the real Santa.”
“Why, yes I am dear.”
“No you’re not.”
Yes I am.’
‘No you’re not.”
“Yes I am.”
A lull.
“You’re not the real Santa.”
“Yes, I am honey.”
“The real Santa came to our clubhouse.”
“Your clubhouse?”
“No, you’re not the real Santa.”
“Yes I am.”
“No you’re not.”
“Yes I am.”
A lull
“You’re not the real Santa.”
“Yes I am.”
And this continued.
“Your name wouldn’t be Virginia,” I said.
“No.”
Her mother muttered something like, Santa wouldn’t say anything like that.
I didn’t think she could be Virginia. Virginia would have believed.
Off to Plantation South assisted living to deliver the Christmas gift for the staff from Mom. With the Elves in tow, sweeping the cookie basket as we pass through the ice cream parlor/beauty shop corridor. On to Mom’s room as I introduce my Elves and kiss Mom, hand her a card that came in my mail. Off to the Mall.
Ah, the possibilities. Waving, Ho-ing, hugging, posing for pictures with people randomly. Photo in front of Frederick’s of Hollywood. Santa at the mall. The Elves and I schemed and schemed. Hmmm . . . how about a picture of Santa with Santa? Over Japanese food the boys considered chipping in for the picture. They would never let us just shoot a snapshot. I was skittish about even going near the Santa picture set. I was afraid of being kicked out, or worse.
More pictures. Two female police officers and me. No they were not arresting me. Shot of us with three girls the Elves know from school. Shot of a high school theater diva, her boyfriend, and Santa.
Did get close enough to the Santa set to see the minimum was twenty bucks. The Elves passed on paying the tab for the picture, scooted off to work, shopping and hijinks.
Santa retired to the bar. Picture of Santa and bartender behind the bar. Played Trivial Pursuit with some patrons. Santa kicked butt.
All had a merry time.
Off to Sheltering Arms day care tomorrow.
(Photos available soon.)
The shortest day of the year
Winter in North Georgia is usually mild with abundant sunshine. The birdbath stayed frozen all day yesterday. Spent about an hour splitting firewood from a tree Anthony and I had to cut down last spring.
Monday, December 20, 2004
W, Time’s Man of the Year
Good choice, Time, Inc. I think Richard Clarke would have been good, too, or Al Franken, maybe Osama bin Laden (was he considered again?); Thomas Friedman would have been an excellent consideration, maybe some of them leaders who are screwing up the party in Iraq, making a difference for years and years to come.
But since W changed the way we elect our leaders, through fantasy, I think he is the man, cowboy of the year maybe? Mini Me-man of the year with a side of Dick “go fuck yourself” Cheney?
“The first TIME poll since the election has his approval rating at 49%. Gallup has it at 53%, which doesn't sound bad unless you consider that it's the lowest December rating for a re-elected President in Gallup's history,” says Time Magazine.
There are, after all, the best of Time’s and worst of Time’s in this “person of the year business.”
Good choice, Time, Inc. I think Richard Clarke would have been good, too, or Al Franken, maybe Osama bin Laden (was he considered again?); Thomas Friedman would have been an excellent consideration, maybe some of them leaders who are screwing up the party in Iraq, making a difference for years and years to come.
But since W changed the way we elect our leaders, through fantasy, I think he is the man, cowboy of the year maybe? Mini Me-man of the year with a side of Dick “go fuck yourself” Cheney?
“The first TIME poll since the election has his approval rating at 49%. Gallup has it at 53%, which doesn't sound bad unless you consider that it's the lowest December rating for a re-elected President in Gallup's history,” says Time Magazine.
There are, after all, the best of Time’s and worst of Time’s in this “person of the year business.”
Sunday, December 19, 2004
The pharmaceutical industry "Florence
Nightingales" and how they screw us
“The more he spoke of his honor, the faster we counted our spoons.”
--Nathaniel Hawthorne
There is much grumbling going on in the drug business and in the financial markets. These audacious scum formulators will be picking your pockets with renewed vigor after Celebrex and its financial following took a dive this week. They shouldn’t have much to worry about, having bought a huge insurance policy from Bush Unlimited and his cadre of “good guys around him.”
Pfizer is caught in bogus trials; the FDA is once again exposed as an accomplice to corporate crime in the ostensible mission of keeping the people safe and healthy. Celebrex can kill you? So what, that’s better than pulling it off the market and opening up litigation. Sell, sell, sell. Who cares? Bush Unlimited will soon strike down all lawsuits as “frivolous” (but you killed my daddy!). Heartbreaking, isn’t it?
Are these drug-industry quack scientists Christian values voters and Bush Unlimited contributors? Then how does that explain billions of dollars in hard-on ads aired in prime time? You know, the ads with necked women in bathtubs luring daddy over for quickie. Or couples at bars with voiceovers, When the urge may strike (should throw a condom rift into the copy here, don’t you think?) These guys took the cure and now they can get it up! What hogwash. Look at the models. They’re young and beautiful. They probably need saltpeter just to shoot the damn spots. They need “the cure” for limpdick about as much my son, and he’s twenty-one.
Now the $500 billion industry is crying in its formula because they aren’t coming out with new drugs (profits makers) so they’re trying to push existing drugs on doctors who wish they’d go away and on patients who don’t need them.
Keep counting the flatware, folks.
Brrrrrr!
The first arctic wave should be here by tonight. Temperatures in the teens with twenty to thirty mph winds = zero and below. The kids’ gas bill went from $45 to $145 in the past month. I was over there showing them ways to seal windows, cut the usage.
Nightingales" and how they screw us
“The more he spoke of his honor, the faster we counted our spoons.”
--Nathaniel Hawthorne
There is much grumbling going on in the drug business and in the financial markets. These audacious scum formulators will be picking your pockets with renewed vigor after Celebrex and its financial following took a dive this week. They shouldn’t have much to worry about, having bought a huge insurance policy from Bush Unlimited and his cadre of “good guys around him.”
Pfizer is caught in bogus trials; the FDA is once again exposed as an accomplice to corporate crime in the ostensible mission of keeping the people safe and healthy. Celebrex can kill you? So what, that’s better than pulling it off the market and opening up litigation. Sell, sell, sell. Who cares? Bush Unlimited will soon strike down all lawsuits as “frivolous” (but you killed my daddy!). Heartbreaking, isn’t it?
Are these drug-industry quack scientists Christian values voters and Bush Unlimited contributors? Then how does that explain billions of dollars in hard-on ads aired in prime time? You know, the ads with necked women in bathtubs luring daddy over for quickie. Or couples at bars with voiceovers, When the urge may strike (should throw a condom rift into the copy here, don’t you think?) These guys took the cure and now they can get it up! What hogwash. Look at the models. They’re young and beautiful. They probably need saltpeter just to shoot the damn spots. They need “the cure” for limpdick about as much my son, and he’s twenty-one.
Now the $500 billion industry is crying in its formula because they aren’t coming out with new drugs (profits makers) so they’re trying to push existing drugs on doctors who wish they’d go away and on patients who don’t need them.
Keep counting the flatware, folks.
Brrrrrr!
The first arctic wave should be here by tonight. Temperatures in the teens with twenty to thirty mph winds = zero and below. The kids’ gas bill went from $45 to $145 in the past month. I was over there showing them ways to seal windows, cut the usage.
Saturday, December 18, 2004
Friday, December 17, 2004
Presidential medal of freedom?
I think thousands of protesters with their hearts in the right place should get a piece of that. Maybe we should change it to, Presidential Medal of Fiefdom. Then all them toadies who got it would deserve the damn piece of shit
Surprise! The Republican sycophant to the drug business gets handed cushy pharmaceutical industry lobby job. He’s the new CEO and he’s not looking out for you. And you thought Bush and his congressional puppets were looking out for grandmother and her drug costs! No, the sad dude is not only a motherf*%#@* he’s a grandmotherf*&$#! Spineless source on CNN:
“The source said (Retiring U.S. Rep. Billy) Tauzin wants to be a "patient-advocate CEO."
I guess that’s why he advocated blue-sky pricing for drug companies while leading his committee. What does he care now? He beat cancer, has a lifetime six-figure salary from congress, and never has to pay a dime for his own medical care. We just sat down and took a preliminary look at our taxes/expenses and trust me, he’s one lucky-ass grandmotherf&%##*! You should see my mother’s health care costs. Her out-of-pocket for Plavix is over $100 a month and there is no generic for Plavix. With guys like this greasing congressional skids, Plavix will probably get a copyright to infinity! Not negotiable!
Now the Weather Channel
warns of Zero by Monday
With temperatures in the teens, and winds up to 30 mph, we’re looking at a wind chill factor of zero to five below by Monday! It gets colder in places I've lived but this is getting chilly. I used to marvel when I'd drive by the same bank in Exeter, NH, in July and see the temperature at a hundred and six or more, then drive by in January and look at way, way below zero.
I covered the Apple Pickers Union protester holed up on a communicaitons tower high above the salt marshes of Seabrook on a makeshift plywood platform in the dead of winter, 1975. He was against building a nuclear reactor on the site. I had to borrow a flare from an AP reporter to thaw the lock on my Volvo. Wonder why I locked my car out there in the middle of nowhere.
I think thousands of protesters with their hearts in the right place should get a piece of that. Maybe we should change it to, Presidential Medal of Fiefdom. Then all them toadies who got it would deserve the damn piece of shit
Surprise! The Republican sycophant to the drug business gets handed cushy pharmaceutical industry lobby job. He’s the new CEO and he’s not looking out for you. And you thought Bush and his congressional puppets were looking out for grandmother and her drug costs! No, the sad dude is not only a motherf*%#@* he’s a grandmotherf*&$#! Spineless source on CNN:
“The source said (Retiring U.S. Rep. Billy) Tauzin wants to be a "patient-advocate CEO."
I guess that’s why he advocated blue-sky pricing for drug companies while leading his committee. What does he care now? He beat cancer, has a lifetime six-figure salary from congress, and never has to pay a dime for his own medical care. We just sat down and took a preliminary look at our taxes/expenses and trust me, he’s one lucky-ass grandmotherf&%##*! You should see my mother’s health care costs. Her out-of-pocket for Plavix is over $100 a month and there is no generic for Plavix. With guys like this greasing congressional skids, Plavix will probably get a copyright to infinity! Not negotiable!
Now the Weather Channel
warns of Zero by Monday
With temperatures in the teens, and winds up to 30 mph, we’re looking at a wind chill factor of zero to five below by Monday! It gets colder in places I've lived but this is getting chilly. I used to marvel when I'd drive by the same bank in Exeter, NH, in July and see the temperature at a hundred and six or more, then drive by in January and look at way, way below zero.
I covered the Apple Pickers Union protester holed up on a communicaitons tower high above the salt marshes of Seabrook on a makeshift plywood platform in the dead of winter, 1975. He was against building a nuclear reactor on the site. I had to borrow a flare from an AP reporter to thaw the lock on my Volvo. Wonder why I locked my car out there in the middle of nowhere.
Thursday, December 16, 2004
Today is Beethoven's Birthday
I dedicate Ode to Joy, to my daughter Joy and all the joy she is.
Who is O’Reilly’s daddy?
Bill, snorkleman, sponge meister, O’Reilly last night was spinning parents’ rights to listen in on their kids’s telephone conversations. Guess he’d give his old folks an earful, wouldn’t he.
“Dear, why is Billy talking with that girl about showers? What’s a luftaffa or whatever he’s talking about?”
“I think it’s some kind of washcloth, honey. Now get off the phone and stop eavesdropping on Billy boy.”
How old is that producer he paid the big bucks to shut up? Just a kid reporter, I think.
If you voted for Bush
you made a huge mistake
Let me know when you’ve heard enough. We can talk.
Looks like snow, Atlanta
Big storms out there, fronts and such. Weather Channel said North Georgia has better than 50 percent chance of snow showers Saturday. The temperature dropped below twenty again last night. I shut the fireplace down. When it gets this cold we loose more heat up the flue than we gain from burning wood. Fires are better on normal days, when it’s high thirties, forties.
I’m a Florida boy, born in PA, worked in NH for a couple of years. This is still fun, though, especially when you work at home. Had quite a blizzard our first year in the house, drifts of a couple of feet on April 1, 1993. Snow’s always fun in Hotlanta.
Crossfire’s hot topic yesterday
Cleveland Clinic wants to kick out McDonalds. They should kick them out, but come on now Begala and Carlson (Mr. Bow tie, and he’s thirty?) Jon Steward was right. What are these guys afraid of? Why don’t they talk about what really hurts? The media is hurting us; please stop. Stop being so stupid.
I dedicate Ode to Joy, to my daughter Joy and all the joy she is.
Who is O’Reilly’s daddy?
Bill, snorkleman, sponge meister, O’Reilly last night was spinning parents’ rights to listen in on their kids’s telephone conversations. Guess he’d give his old folks an earful, wouldn’t he.
“Dear, why is Billy talking with that girl about showers? What’s a luftaffa or whatever he’s talking about?”
“I think it’s some kind of washcloth, honey. Now get off the phone and stop eavesdropping on Billy boy.”
How old is that producer he paid the big bucks to shut up? Just a kid reporter, I think.
If you voted for Bush
you made a huge mistake
Let me know when you’ve heard enough. We can talk.
Looks like snow, Atlanta
Big storms out there, fronts and such. Weather Channel said North Georgia has better than 50 percent chance of snow showers Saturday. The temperature dropped below twenty again last night. I shut the fireplace down. When it gets this cold we loose more heat up the flue than we gain from burning wood. Fires are better on normal days, when it’s high thirties, forties.
I’m a Florida boy, born in PA, worked in NH for a couple of years. This is still fun, though, especially when you work at home. Had quite a blizzard our first year in the house, drifts of a couple of feet on April 1, 1993. Snow’s always fun in Hotlanta.
Crossfire’s hot topic yesterday
Cleveland Clinic wants to kick out McDonalds. They should kick them out, but come on now Begala and Carlson (Mr. Bow tie, and he’s thirty?) Jon Steward was right. What are these guys afraid of? Why don’t they talk about what really hurts? The media is hurting us; please stop. Stop being so stupid.
Wednesday, December 15, 2004
All I see is a couple of cheese
sandwiches and a fish stick, maybe two.
Free expression can be costly. Some spineless Chelsea market manager had the gall to attack the hard work of many artists over this? The fascists lurk among us.
Zell sells out to Fox
The Atlanta Constitution reports today Zell Miller hired as Fox News’s newest shouter and blabbermouth.
The paper had some fun with it, teasing the story on page one with, “You were thinking maybe CBS would have picked him to succeed Dan Rather?” Then they buried it on D6.
Fox News programming v.p., Kevin Magee:
“He’s colorful. He’s an interesting guy. He’s good on TV . . .”
And he couldn’t get hired to teach at UGA, Young Harris College (in his hometown).
sandwiches and a fish stick, maybe two.
Free expression can be costly. Some spineless Chelsea market manager had the gall to attack the hard work of many artists over this? The fascists lurk among us.
Zell sells out to Fox
The Atlanta Constitution reports today Zell Miller hired as Fox News’s newest shouter and blabbermouth.
The paper had some fun with it, teasing the story on page one with, “You were thinking maybe CBS would have picked him to succeed Dan Rather?” Then they buried it on D6.
Fox News programming v.p., Kevin Magee:
“He’s colorful. He’s an interesting guy. He’s good on TV . . .”
And he couldn’t get hired to teach at UGA, Young Harris College (in his hometown).
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