I've been tagged. Barry, apparently, got it from Nice Deb.

Here are the rules:

1. Write your own six word memoir.
2. Post it on your blog and include a visual illustration if you want.
3. Link to the person that tagged you in your post and to the original post if possible so we can track it as it travels across the blogosphere.
4. Tag at least five more blogs with links.
5. Leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play

So, here's my six word memoir...

I'm not tagging anyone, because I taint in the mood, but if you'd like to participate, by all means, take it and run with it.

Posted by: Kathy at 11:59 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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In no particular order:

• Goddamned dishwasher motor crapped out about a week and a half ago. (Yeah, because we all know how much Kathy enjoys washing dishes by hand!) The repair guy came last week, took ten minutes to diagnose the problem, and then, after collecting a check for this admirable task, left, because he didn't have the part in his truck. Fortunately, it was covered under warranty, but they'd have to ship it out to the house, said he, and he'd be back in a week to install it.

  The part shows up yesterday, but not before the repair company calls FOUR freakin' times to a. tell me to call them regarding my service call b. to make sure that the part is there c. to tell me to call them when the part gets there, to confirm my appointment and, finally, d. to confirm the appointment, again, in case the computer gnomes erased the appointment.

  I spent more time on the phone with these jokers than it took to replace the motor.

• Oh, and the dryer is broken, too. Refuses to tumble, or so I'm told by the various males who live in the building. The landlord has been informed. Whether or not he'll do anything about it in the near future, I have no idea. One can only hope, but the fact he lives in Ohio now doesn't really help facilitate the speedy repair of things around here.

  As the husband was completely out of underwear, I had to wash the white load, then hang it up to dry, like I was living in the seventeenth century or something. Even with Downy, you can probably imagine how nice and soft his boxers were this morning when he put them on.

  The socks are another story entirely. They could stand up of their own accord, and perform a song and dance number if they wanted to.

• The dreaded drain is a real pain. Both literally and figuratively speaking. It hurts, yes, but it's just not ideal to have to drag this bag around all the time. God Forbid anyone sees it, because the fluid is yellow and they'll probably get the wrong idea. They gave me this nifty velcro strap to thread through some holes on the bag, and, in theory, you're supposed to wrap this strap around some part of your body; the strap will hold the bag in place and no one will be any the wiser. In reality, however, the strap itches like a bad case of poison ivy, and since this is a gravity bag, it's supposed to go around my thigh, so it will drain properly. Of course, my vanity can't be bothered with the wearing of sweat pants all the time, so I place it up under my boobs when I go out, where an overly large flannel shirt of the husband's hides it perfectly. The nurse disapproves of this move, but, fuck it. My sweat pants are, also, dirty, and I can't wash them because, ahem, the dryer is broken. She'll have to deal. It's not like I'm heading out and leading a normal life all that much right now, anyway.

  And, of course, this being something related to my body, and of course, is now attached to my general bad luck, it's not working. I'm still producing copious amounts of drainage, so I have to back in tomorrow for another round of "Kathy is the Human Cocktail Shaker!"

  Oh, and have I mentioned that it's, on occasion, leaking?

  Good times, my devoted Cake Eater readers. Good times!

• From the National Weather Service in Chanhassen, Minnesota. Ahem.

  {...}RAIN WILL TRANSITION TO SNOW ACROSS WESTERN AND MUCH OF CENTRAL MINNESOTA THIS EVENING. THE SNOW MAY BE HEAVY AT TIMES DURING THE MID-EVENING INTO THE OVERNIGHT HOURS. ACCUMULATIONS BY DAYBREAK FRIDAY OF FOUR TO EIGHT INCHES ARE EXPECTED IN WEST CENTRAL MINNESOTA. MORE SNOW WILL OCCUR DURING THE DAY FRIDAY...WITH TWO TO FOUR INCHES OF ADDITIONAL ACCUMULATION. TOTAL SNOWFALL AMOUNTS OF SIX TO TEN INCHES ARE EXPECTED WITHIN THIS AREA...WITH POTENTIALLY NEAR A FOOT IN A SWATH FROM CANBY NORTHEASTWARD TOWARDS LITTLE FALLS. THE SNOW IN WESTERN AND CENTRAL MINNESOTA WILL ALSO BE ACCOMPANIED BY STRONG WINDS...WITH PATCHY BLOWING SNOW EXPECTED IN RURAL OPEN AREAS.

  IN THE WARNING AREA IN WEST CENTRAL WISCONSIN...PRECIPITATION IS
  EXPECTED TO TRANSITION TO SNOW THIS EVENING. IT MAY BRIEFLY BE
  HEAVY...WITH ACCUMULATIONS OF ONE TO THREE INCHES EXPECTED NORTH
  OF THE HIGHWAY 8 CORRIDOR. MORE SNOWFALL IS EXPECTED DURING THE
  DAY FRIDAY WITH AN ADDITIONAL TWO TO FIVE INCHES OF ACCUMULATION.
  STORM TOTAL SNOWFALL ALONG AND NORTH OF THE HIGHWAY 8 CORRIDOR IS
  EXPECTED TO BE FOUR TO SEVEN INCHES.

  WITHIN THE WINTER WEATHER ADVISORY A MIX OF PRECIPITATION IS
  EXPECTED THIS EVENING...WITH PREDOMINATELY LIGHT PRECIPITATION
  EXPECTED OVERNIGHT. A TRACE TO AS MUCH AS ONE INCH OF ACCUMULATION IS EXPECTED WITHIN THIS AREA TONIGHT. HOWEVER...PRECIPITATION WILL BE PREDOMINATELY SNOW ON FRIDAY WITHIN THIS AREA WITH AS MUCH AS TWO TO FOUR INCHES OF ACCUMULATION.

  THE HEAVY SNOW IS IN RESPONSE TO A LOW PRESSURE SYSTEM MOVING
  NORTHEAST FROM NEAR KANSAS CITY EARLY THIS EVENING TO NEAR
  MILWAUKEE BY FRIDAY EVENING.

  Get all that? No, I don't know how much snow we're supposed to get either.

  I just know that it's supposed to snow. In April. On the TENTH of April.

  Gah. Screw this state. I'm moving south of the Mason Dixon line. I've HAD it.

• Ok, since when did gauze pads become such a highly valued commodity that you have to take a freakin' loan out to buy them? $5 for 20 gauze pads? And that's the Walgreen's brand! What? Is this only the finest Venetian gauze, gathered lovingly by EU-protected laborers? Eh? And, if I wanted the Johnson and Johnson gauze pads, I would have had to spend the same amount for half the product! What the hell is that all about? Don't get me started on how much tape costs.

  Fortunately, however, you can get a boatload of alcohol swabs for $1.99. Just never mind that whatever you need to sterilize won't be sterile for long because you can't afford to buy the gauze to cover it up.

  I swear to God the nickel and diming of all this medical crap is going to drive me to commit murder of some jackass pharmaceutical rep before this whole thing is over and done with.

• Upon the recommendation of Mr. H., who lusts after Jonathan Rhys Myers, I have been viewing the first season of The Tudors.

  Surprisingly, it's turned into yet another one of those "post menopause" experiences for me. Ever since they took my ovaries, modern day advertising doesn't work on me. I look at the writhing bodies that are in most ads nowadays and wonder just what the hell they're advertising. It makes no sense to me, she who hasn't the daily recommended requirement of sex hormones running rampant in her body. Watching The Tudors is much the same for me as looking at these ads: it's a big "What's with all the copulating?" moment for moi. I'll bet Henry VIII wasn't exactly a slouch in real life, but I'll be damned if the guy was really as, ahem, active as this series portrays.

  Other than that, it's a fairly decent show. Again, I doubt it's very historically accurate in the details, but it's a good drama and is highly entertaining, nonetheless. Sam Neill and Jeremy Northam are very good, as Cardinal Woolsey and Sir Thomas More, respectively. However, the standout performance, if you ask me, is Maria Doyle Kennedy as Catherine of Aragon.

That should do you for a time, my neglected Cake Eater readers.

Posted by: Kathy at 11:10 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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So, there was a reason why Dr. Academic opted for moi to have a simple drainage instead of the booze-inserting procedure...and that reason is, ahem, it effin' hurts. The original radiologist wasn't kidding when she said the drainage was "more comfortable" than the sclerosis procedure. Sheesh. If someone would have explained this, yea, verily, I would have understood.

Everything leading up to the procedure was pretty much the same. The ugly gown, the nasty texturized socks, the struggling to start an IV, the wheeling of my fat ass to the CT scanner. You know, the regular. It became apparent, however, when I entered the room that things were a wee bit different this time around. This time there was a lot more equipment in the room---surgical looking equipment. There were also pads lining the CT Scanner, you know, in case I leaked. They got me set up, and I was introduced to a new radiologist. He was a nice guy, and while I've forgotten his name, he explained that he'd chatted with Dr. Academic, and they'd jointly decided that the best bet for me would be to insert a catheter into the lymphocele, for improved drainage. He said that the alcohol probably wasn't going to do the trick the first time around, that they'd probably have to take two or three whacks at it, and that having a catheter installed would a. make it easier the next time around, it would b. help us determine the amount of drainage to see just how efficacious the process had been in the first place. With that explained, they went to town, doing much the same thing as they had last time, but obviously there were more drugs involved this time because all I really remember about the whole process was that a. it hurt and b. we had an interesting conversation whilst all this was going down about the kidney guy over at Methodist. I expressed my opinion that the mistake had to have been in the chart long enough that everyone thought they were removing the correct kidney, and the radiologist agreed with me. He even added that he'd just looked over some images that morning where left and right had been mixmatched, and said it was hardly uncommon for that to happen. (Take that for what it's worth.) He said he doubted if the surgeon would ever perform surgery again, even if the guy was cleared in the investigation. Interesting conversations aside, soon thereafter I'd had another 50cc of fluid drained, a wire had been inserted via the needle, I'd had a big ol' blue catheter stuck to my belly with adhesive tape, and about 10cc of pure alcohol had been inserted into the lymphocele. Attached to the big blue catheter (it's not really that big. It's a little bit bigger than a fifty-cent piece), is a foot long bit of tubing attached to what looks like IV bag. In the midst of this is a locking mechanism that can turn the flow on or off, or can reverse it entirely. If it wasn't attached to me, it would be interesting, but it is attached to me, so it falls strictly into the "YEEEEUUUCH" category.

They wheeled me back down to my room and then it was time for the ceremonial "Rolling Around of the Patient." They have to make sure that the alcohol hits the entire inside of the lymphocele so I had to spend fifteen minutes on my back, another fifteen on my left side, my right side, and, of course, my belly. This was, to put it mildly, excruciating. Of course, I was starving by this point in time, so I ate lunch while this was going on and was called "Ernie" by the husband because of all the crumbs I left in the bed. {insert "whatever" shrug of shoulders here} Not only was I extremely sore from the catheter insertion, the alcohol stung like a mo'fo. When the nurse pulled the booze out, I was relieved. Until I realized that the pain of having the catheter inserted still hadn't let up. Another nurse, who deals specifically with drains, came in and explained all the various equipment that was now attached to my body, how to keep it clean, how to drain the bag and measure the contents. It's important, we were told, to keep it clean (lest it get infected) and to keep accurate records, because this would be crucial in deciding how many more times I needed to have the alcohol inserted. The more drainage I had, the worse it was, and the more I would have to undergo this procedure. (The radiologist suspected that, even though we were going to give this a good whack, it wouldn't close up at all. He said he thought that the lymph nodes were draining into this thing entirely and that would keep it from doing so, but he was going to give it his best shot, so we wouldn't have to resort to surgery.) The less drainage I had, well, you probably get the picture. After that, they handed me a prescription for some vicodin, all the various equipment we needed to keep the drain up and running, and we were on our way out of there.

So, that's where we're at. I'm very sore right now. Getting up and down, in and out of bed, is trying. Vicodin, again, is my friend. The husband is, poor guy, having to deal with taking care of me. Nevertheless, the pain is better today than it was yesterday, when I was seriously trying to judge just which procedure---my hysterectomy or this---had been more painful. (I've come to the conclusion that I think I just had better drugs after the hysterectomy.) Moving around isn't fun, particularly when you add in that I have to carry around this bag every time I want to go someplace. It's sort of like having an IV, and it's interesting how quickly your mind reverts to having to take that thing with you everywhere, but it's still a pain. I have to cover the stupid thing up with saran wrap when I want to take a shower, and I'm told I can lock the mechanism and disconnect the bag from the tubing when I shower, but I'm scared of doing so, lest I futz the whole thing up because we know Kathy isn't one of the mechanically inclined few. I can't remember whether I'm supposed to call them or if they're going to call me to see where we're at regarding the drainage; I just know I could be back in the radiology department by Friday to have another tete-a-tete with the booze. It's all just a big mess.

But, I suspect, I shall live. Now, if you don't mind, I shall leave you, my devoted Cake Eater readers, because I've got an appointment with my bed and some vicodin and I intend to keep it.

Posted by: Kathy at 09:41 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
Post contains 1169 words, total size 7 kb.

While there have been some pretty dumb letters to the editor over the course of publishing history, I think this dude takes the cake...or at least comes pretty close to doing so.

Sir, As a former US Army Reserve officer who witnessed the Cuban missile crisis, I find it abhorrent that George W. Bush presses vigorously for Nato membership of two countries bordering Russia. Compounding his lack of depth is his proposal to install missile defence systems in east European countries. The Cuban crisis was as close to global nuclear war as anything I have seen. We were ready to drop bombs. A war was averted because clear minds prevailed.

Now, let us imagine how the Russians feel when their “spheres of influence” spanning centuries are threatened. The Soviet Union lost millions of citizens during the second world war, and we Americans had little or no comprehension of that horror. We were separated from much of the world's anguish by thousands of miles of ocean. But Russians recoil today as they see their borders menaced.

In the name of democracy, Mr Bush is exporting his brand of governance to many regions, including the Middle East and the former Soviet Union. It may be a laudable goal to some observers, but we know the results and the consequences. It is time for clear minds to prevail.

William Sprecher,
Fairfax, VA 22033, US

{my emphasis}

Poor widdle Wussia.

By this guy's reasoning, any eastern European country should be left to the whims of Russia, because---ahem---we've failed to understand how badly the Russians suffered during Hitler's eastern campaign in WWII. The Russians are only acting belligerently because they're scared that NATO's going to invade, just like Hitler did when he reneged on the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact. Never mind the Cold War, even though he prominently references it; it apparently never happened. Heck, the Cuban Missile Crisis was probably our fault for daring to dream that there---ahem---shouldn't be Russian nuclear missiles ninety-miles off our coast! Bad America! We failed to understand how damaging Stalingrad had been to the Russian psyche, so we deserved to be blown to bits!

One wonders how hard Putin laughed after he read this.

Posted by: Kathy at 10:15 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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Bluto or Carl Spackler?

Posted by: Kathy at 08:21 AM | Comments (7) | Add Comment
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It didn't work.

I suspected as much, a few days after the procedure, when the pain came back. There was the "getting over the soreness the procedure caused" pain, and then there was the regular pain, yet it was fairly simple to realize that latter shouldn't have been there. Then there was the fact that when I palpated the lymphocele itself, it was hard again, whereas it had been all soft and mushy---the way it's supposed to be normally---right after the procedure. I called into Dr. Academic's main nurse, talked to her about it, and, since I already had a CT scan scheduled for the 25th, we decided it would be best to keep that appointment, to confirm or deny my diagnosis.

So, last Tuesday, after my volunteer shift, I checked in for yet another CT scan---this time with the added joy of contrast! If you've ever had a regular CT scan, you'll know that it's like having an X-ray taken, but instead of holding still while they shoot a still picture, you have to hold your breath while they run you in and out of a donut a few times. In other words, it's fairly painless, and leaves you with you an odd craving for Krispy Kremes. The contrast, however, adds the sprinkles to the donut. You have to take oral contrast at three specific times before your appointment, but then when you go in for the actual appointment, they insert yet another IV, and then, while you're being scanned, they shoot you up with more contrast, which, I have to tell you, my devoted Cake Eater readers, isn't a whole lot of fun, even if it is over with quickly. You feel three things when they inject the contrast: a full body flush; a nasty copper-ish taste in your mouth, that reminded me of having a mouthful of blood; and, finally, the urge to pee REALLY BADLY, like when you're on a road trip, you've drank a soda and there are no restrooms for a hundred miles and you're really tempted, despite being a lady, to pull over and relieve yourself in the weeds. Fortunately, these lovely side effects were over in few moments, and once I stopped bleeding from having the IV removed (more advil is the culprit) I was out the door a little over an hour after I'd checked in for the procedure. After it was over and done with, I was happy, but I wasn't anxious about the results: the thing had either filled up again, or it hadn't, and, either way, I'd find out in a week, which was my next scheduled appointment with Dr. Academic.

Yesterday, again after my volunteer shift (I prefer the one-stop-shop), I humped it over to Dr. Academic's office, only to find out, after I'd filled out the required check-in slip that Dr. Academic had moved his practice. What? If I'd bothered to look at the sign listing out all the occupants outside the main door, I would have noticed his name was no longer on that list. But I hadn't, so it was news to me that he'd moved. Fortunately for me, however, he hadn't gone very far: just down one floor, into a larger office, that he now shares with a thoracic surgeon. It's their first day in the new office, so, obviously, they're still working the kinks out. I schlep myself down to that office, then schlep myself back up to the main office, to the lab, where I had blood drawn, then it's back down the stairs we go, for the endless wait that usually accompanies visits to Dr. Academic. By the time he enters the exam room, a little over an hour later, he closes the doors, wearily leans back against it, lets out a long sigh, and says, "It's filled up again."

Somehow, I resist the urge to reply, "No shit, Sherlock."

He quizzed me about some numbness in my left thigh I'd felt after my surgery until about December, which, magically, reappeared after the first draining. We chat about the pain it's causing. (He suspects the lymphocele appeared right after the surgery and this was causing the numbness all along.) And then we decide that the best thing to do in this circumstance is to have the procedure I thought I was to have originally---where they drain the lymphocele, much like last time, only after that the radiologist will insert the caustic agent of her choice (it'll either be alcohol, or talc, or perhaps something else), shift me around a few times to make sure it hits all the high points within, and then, supposedly, the lymphocele will fill up with scar tissue, but should also shrink considerably. This is supposedly the silver bullet that will solve the problem. The procedure is technically called "CT guided drainage with sclerosis." There was some bit about "on the left iliac chain" in there, too, but I didn't write that down, so it's lost to the shifting sands of my memory. I'm scheduled to have this done on Monday, April 7th, and hopefully it will work, because I really don't know where we go from there if it doesn't, and as I'm fearful that it would probably include surgery, it had better work. Fortunately, this procedure is, like the last one, outpatient. Second verse, same as the first.

This, my devoted Cake Eater readers, is why there's been a dearth of decent posts around here for the past couple of weeks. I'm in pain. Is it as bad as the pain that caused me to go running to the hospital in the first place? No. It's not anywhere remotely near that level, thank God, but pain is pain. It distracts you and, no matter how many drugs you take to deal with it, it wipes you out. It sucks your energy away, like a runaway Dyson. Life becomes a slog, instead of this joyful, better smelling and looking experience it was supposed to be after I was declared to be as close to cured as I'm likely to get. It not only represents a big mental shift (I was supposed to be DONE WITH THIS SORT OF THING, HELLO!), it just takes you right back to where you don't want to be: being physically incapacitated. You'd think I'd know by now that's it's a baaaad thing to write when I feel like this, that I just drive people away with my weirdness, but, alas, I just want things to continue apace, so I write, because that's what I do. I've spent enough time being sick, in pain, and not being productive, and I just want. it. to. be. over. with. Hence, you, my devoted Cake Eater readers, get screedy posts that make no sense, and I'm sorry for that. I should just keep to the one liner posts in circumstances such as this. I suspect I won't be posting too much over the next few days, just because my drug of choice, Advil, is now off the list of things I can take to deal with this, and you shouldn't have to suffer the consequences.

And now? I'm off to take a vicodin, of course, because that's one of the few things I can take now. Good times, no?

Posted by: Kathy at 12:52 PM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
Post contains 1227 words, total size 7 kb.

The Fug Girls, who have a pretty suh-weet gig commenting on all things fashion related for New York Magazine have some valid things to say about Vogue's "Shape" Issue. If you're unfamiliar with the "Shape" issue, this is when "my hair is bigger than my body" editor Anna Wintour decides that it's time to put out an issue to appease The Big Girls, and by "big" I mean the girls who wear a size six, not a fourteen.

Cut to the Fug Girls:

Every year, as a nod to the abnormality of its bony universe, Vogue publishes a shape issue purporting to spotlight non-model bodies for a change. It often feels as perfunctory as it sounds — like alpha-twigs know anything about cellulite? — but this year we dove in with extra curiosity thanks to Anna Wintour’s recent criticism of runway models’ diminishing frames. Would that sentiment bloom into an issue that actually honored real clothing sizes and three-dimensional shapes?

Not so much, apparently.

{...}Yet, short of featuring a bacon-cheeseburger on the cover, this is sadly probably the best we can expect from Vogue. It just isn’t in the habit of realism. Because it peddles fashion and fantasy better than anyone, these clumsy attempts to soften up just feel as patronizing and ham-handed as a Very Special Episode of Blossom, but without the hats. So while we’d love to see women of various sizes in the magazine — wearing bizarre $20,000 goat coats like any other model — if it keeps feeling like an act of bored, forced obligation, we’d rather Vogue climbed back on its pedestal and left us to get our feel-good fix from Glamour. And a pizza.

The Girls have a point. Vogue is, well, Vogue. It's meant to be the fashion bible, and, yes, while it's frustrating to look at the photo spreads in that magazine and be disheartened that a. the models keep getting younger and younger (and, no, I don't mean that in the context of my getting older; they're honestly no more than fourteen or fifteen years old at most, and hence have the body types associated with that age (no hips, no boobs, they've lost their baby fat, but haven't gained any Reese's peanut butter cup-associated fat, either.)) and, b. that the clothes are extremely impractical and just are not meant for anyone. At some point you just have to realize that they're peddling this magazine not to budding fashionistas, and people who love clothes, but to photographers, and the art world. The clothes are the art, and as such, you want the art to look good, so you hang it on a nice wall, aka a size zero model.

I know I'm rare in that I've actually modeled a bit---and when I mean "a bit", I mean I had a total of three jobs when I was in high school, and I did it a. as a favor to a lady I knew who worked in the advertising world, who needed models who weren't from the local Barbizon school and b. for the cash, because I got paid $50 a pop. While it was actually the most boring job I've ever held down (and that's saying a bit), tottering around in high heels on a four-foot platform the size of a child's shoebox, it was, nonetheless, educational. If I had to go on tee vee, even now, almost twenty years later, I could do my own makeup. I know what clothes are most flattering and work with the limitations of the cameras (no red, no checks, or optical illusion-type patterns). But mostly what I learned is that, if you're smart, you realize that they don't really want you because you have a charming personality, charisma, or a vivacious smile, although that's part of what you bring to the table, it's that whatever they're peddling will look good on your body. You are just a hanger for their clothes. That's it. Therefore to sit there, and flip through Vogue, and base your entire self-image on what the hangers look like is a bit ridiculous. If you're looking through Vogue to find women who "look like you" and you aren't an androgynous, prepubescent, bony young girl, you're going to be a bit disappointed, aren't you?

I'm just tired of playing this game. The fashion magazines are in existence to sell clothes. They make a lot of money on this, hence, they know how to do it, which means they're going to use skinny, young models, with dewy skin and the bodies of a twelve-year-old boy to sell the wares. Women read fashion magazines to keep up with the latest trends, to see who's doing what in fashion, to see what they want to buy. But there is a disconnect---the clothes that are advertised, generally speaking, aren't made for the women who buy the magazines. This is just what the deal is. I'm weary of reading article after article about how the average American woman is a size fourteen and how disheartened they feel after watching tee vee or reading a fashion magazine, how angry they are that none of this is meant for them; how these magazines and designers are holding them up to a standard they'll never meet. I'm tired of the argument of how the fashion magazines, the entertainment industry, et. al, are encouraging eating disorders in young girls because of the images they put out. I'm sick of Kate Winslet and other actresses holding themselves up for the admiration of all because they claim they choose not to starve themselves, when it's patently obvious that they're nowhere near "average size" and that they simply cannot be because of the demands of their jobs, in front of cameras, which really do add ten pounds. I'm sick to death of all of it, even though, from time to time, I'm just as guilty of perpetrating these issues on this here blog as anyone else who's bitched about size-two models. I've had a change of heart, however. As Joshua once said in War Games, the only way to win the game is not to play. While I will grant you, he was a computer and was chatting about Global Thermonuclear War, the machine's got a point.

It's time for an attitude shift.

If women are really sick of what Vogue and all the other magazines are peddling, STOP BUYING THEM. Stop buying the products they advertise. That will send them a message as clear as anything else. If, however, you want to buy the magazines and wear the clothes advertise, start working out so you can fit into them. It's your choice. You won't be happy, probably, because no one wants to be hungry all the time, but if that's what you really want, go for it. You have my blessing, because at least you'll be doing something about it, instead of wishing for the impossible to happen. If young girls are starving themselves to fit some preconceived notion of what beauty is, my question usually is, where are the damn parents? How can they not see that their daughter is excusing herself to go and throw-up after every meal? I once read a story somewhere about a girl who had hundreds of empty paint cans shoved under her oversized princess bed, and instead of being full of paint, they were full of vomit. This was how she chose to hide her problem. She knew that the toilet in her bathroom would eventually plug up, so, living in a new development, where there were plenty of empty paint cans available in dumpsters nearby, she started appropriating them and used them as her own personal vomitorium. How did her parents not realize this? This whole thing is a sick, co-dependent cycle. There is choice involved. Women choose to participate in this game and on either side of it, each needs the other's dysfunction to keep going, otherwise they themselves will disappear.

Is this a reality-based solution? Probably not. But, I have a bit of a different perspective on all of this since I went through chemo. I hit absolute rock bottom in terms of vanity toward the end of my treatments. There's no getting around it:I looked like a spud. A bald spud whose face had been rounded off with steroids. In fact, you could pick out all of Dr. Academic's patients in the waiting room because we all looked alike. I had no eyebrows or eyelashes, which you need for facial definition. I had no hair, through which to express my personality or my sense of style, despite what I was wearing. Because my skin was gray, with nary a shade of pink to be found in my cheeks when I went severely anemic, and the deep, dark circles of exhaustion under my eyes that never went away no matter how much sleep I got, I looked ill. There was absolutely nothing I could do in terms of clothing or makeup that would make me look like anybody other than what I was at that point: a sick person. While I wasn't happy about it, there wasn't much I could do about it, either, and that, in itself, was, surprisingly, liberating. I could go out of the house and know that this was as good as it got, and while it wasn't very good, at least I wasn't "looking good and feeling better" in a room on the oncology floor of the hospital. I could leave my house, do what I could manage to do, and while I didn't look great, and, most of the time didn't feel great, this was, in and of itself, a big deal. I was alive and moving, and that wasn't too shabby. I knew that, someday soon, the rest would come back once the treatments were done. And it did come back, even if I was impatient for it to do so. When my eyelashes, eyebrows and---Mother of God!---hair came back, it was cause for much rejoicing. The first time I could put on mascara in a few months, I was happy as a clam, and I'm still get a small, cheap thrill every time I put the stuff on. I'm sure I'll get back to bitching about the crap soon enough, but all of this provides an important lesson, to be sure: none of this stuff is necessary. Sure, putting on make-up and dressing in stylish clothes can make you feel nice and normal, but, on the whole, this is stuff you can live without. You can live without reading Vogue as well, or buying new clothes, or trying to live up to someone else's standards about your appearance. You don't have to play the game. In fact, the only way to win the game is not to play.

Perhaps this is all overly optimistic of me, because I'm obviously not coming from a place where too many people have been, but that's just the way I see it. You have a choice: you can either buy into this scenario, choosing one side or the other, or you can choose not to. It's up to you.

Posted by: Kathy at 12:13 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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It may be really wrong of me to say so, what with the exploitation of a three year old to describe the downfall of Eliot Spitzer and all, but, screw it, it's still funny.

Posted by: Kathy at 11:09 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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I'm a little late on this one, but as I get the opportunity to bitch about Northworst Airlines, it's not like I'm going to pass this one up. The proposed merger between Northworst and Delta has been put on the back burner.

A new era of belt-tightening is beginning for Northwest Airlines, as its executives respond to abnormally high fuel costs and craft a future that in the short run isn't predicated on a merger.

The company's planned combination with Delta Air Lines was envisioned as a way to create a global airline that would be a long-term survivor in an intensely competitive industry. Their networks are compatible, with Northwest dominant in Asia and Delta strong in Europe.

But now that merger looks to be on indefinite hold, and with it the vision of building a larger company that could grow its way to greater profits while also being better insulated against cyclical downturns.

Now some analysts are forecasting that most major U.S. airlines will lose money this year, and additional cost savings are tougher to find because a number of carriers -- including Northwest and Delta -- already have restructured themselves in bankruptcy.

{...}An evolving part of that strategy is how to deal with much higher fuel prices than management anticipated.

Northwest revealed last week that its fuel bill could reach $5.2 billion this year if oil averages $104 a barrel. That's $800 million more than the carrier projected for 2008, or more than half of the $1.4 billion in annual labor savings that Northwest achieved from its workers during bankruptcy.{...}

Riddle me this, Joker: one of the reasons NWA went into bankruptcy a few years back (besides the fact that the fat cats at the top would get paid more if they reorganized under Chapter 11 before new bankruptcy laws were enacted) was because of "astronomical fuel prices" that they hadn't anticipated. Now, a few years later, they're still whining about how quickly fuel prices have gone up and how they haven't worked this into their business plan? How the eff is that possible, when anyone who fills up their car on a regular basis knew that the price of oil wasn't likely to go down anytime soon? Eh? How is it possible that the MBAs at Northworst thought that prices would go down and calculated their projections accordingly?

I've gone on at length in the past about how shitty it is to be stuck in a Northworst dominated hub. Everyone I know who lives elsewhere refuses to believe that the situation could be as crappy as it is. They have received good deals and good service from Northworst. I regularly get emails from my brother in Austin, who would really like me to visit, claiming that it's only a hundred and some dollars to fly from Austin to MSP, so why don't I buy the freakin' ticket already? Of course, I have to regularly disabuse him, because NWA wants twice as much from me to fly from MSP to Austin.

Northworst has a lock on MSP International Airport. They control over seventy-five percent of the gates. The population of the Twin Cities is close to three million people and we don't have a low cost airline available to us. Neither Southwest nor Jet Blue operate here. Why? Because Northworst won't let them in. They threaten and cajole the Metropolitan Airport Commission with the loss of their business, and because they've set themselves up in the dominant position, and MAC is worried that they could find themselves with a huge but empty airport, they cave every time. Never mind the fact that, in the early nineties, Northworst borrowed somewhere around $125 million from the state to stay out of bankruptcy, never paid the money back, let alone the interest on the loan, and then had the debt forgiven when they did declare bankruptcy. Never mind the fact that Northworst, an airline that didn't have one of its flights forcibly hijacked and crashed on 9/11, had its lobbyists up on Capitol Hill on 9/12, begging for federal assistance to keep running before the fires at the Pentagon and the World Trade Center had stopped burning.

Then there's the fact that they treat their customers like shit. They just don't give a rat's ass about the people who actually fund their billion dollar largesse. You pay through the nose for a ticket because you don't have any other option, (for instance, we have a family reunion coming up in August, and I checked the prices the other day, just to see where they're at. Currently, they want $506 per person to fly from MSP to Austin in early August. You're generally supposed to get some discount for purchasing early, but not now. They're going to get you coming and going. Get bent.) You show up at the airport to check-in for your flight, and, if you got stuck in traffic and are running late, be prepared to be yelled at about your tardiness by the ticket agent, with dire threats of your bag not making onto the plane hurled at you for good measure. If you're lucky, you walk away from the counter without paying anything extra. But, if you haven't packed carefully enough, or tried to fit all of the belongings of many people into one bag, you're screwed. They weigh every piece of checked luggage to make certain it doesn't weigh over fifty pounds and if it does, in the name of funding their worker's compensation plan (or so they say), they charge you $25 on the spot. You get through the hassle that is security, then you go and get a bottle of water for your flight, so you don't get dehydrated. Because the airport is paying off a load of debt Northworst forced them to take on to upgrade the airport (otherwise, of course, they would have taken their business elsewhere), you wind up paying $3 for the bottle of water, the costs of debt servicing having been passed on to the retailers through astronomical rents, who, ultimately, pass them onto you, the paying customer. Then, after you're treated to the hassle of getting to your gate, and after you've been treated indifferently by the rude gate agents, who always have something better to do than the job they're paid for, you get on your plane, where you're crammed into a seat that would only fit a toddler comfortably. If you want to sit in the bulkhead, or the emergency exit rows, you have to pay extra for the privilege of opening the emergency exit doors in exchange for a little more legroom. Once you're settled in your extra small seat, and are crammed in like sardines in a tin can, you are, predictably, told by the pilot, that you're going to be late taking off. To make up for the late take-off, the pilots jam up into the stratosphere as fast as they can, causing your ears to pop, for babies to wail, and for allergy and cold sufferers to moan in pain. The speedy rise in altitude is, of course, accompanied by a rapid descent, which causes even more pain and wailing. When you actually land, you have to suffer through an interminable taxi to the gate, the indignities of unloading, only to have to wait a half hour or longer to get your luggage, which, undoubtedly, will have been shaken and jostled by baggage agents who could not care less if you actually like your possessions and would prefer for them to remain in one piece. Never mind that your bottle of shampoo has exploded in mid-flight because of the massive shifts in altitude and all of your belongings are now covered in soapy goo.

But I've neglected to mention the wonderful customer service that the flight attendants offer. They no longer help people stow their carry-ons, but rather bitch and moan when there isn't enough room for all of them, and then get on the loudspeaker to berate people, and inform them that the plane isn't taking off until they, the passengers, get things sorted out amongst themselves and someone checks their bag. When they come around with the beverage cart, they sniff if someone requests something that would require them to do some work, like mixing a Virgin Mary. Then, if you're the husband, and are sitting on the aisle, prepare to have a flight attendant dump milk down your $800 black cashmere sport coat. They do, somehow, manage to apologize in this circumstance, but only because it's going to come back and bite them on the ass if they don't. They'll offer up some club soda and where to send the drycleaning bill, but if the jacket comes back from the cleaners with the milk stain intact, don't bother trying to get compensated for the loss of the jacket, because not only will they want a copy of the original receipt, which was lost to the sands of time, they want to know how much the jacket is worth now, forcing you to sort out the depreciation on a cashmere sport coat that's going to cost just as much to replace as when you originally purchased it. Because that's all they're going to pay for if you manage to get them everything they want in the first place, which happens to be an inordinately large amount of paper. They actively look for ways to get out of their obligations. But I digress. Then, after you manage to get your one obligatory beverage out of these people, if you want something to eat, because, perhaps, if you're me, you have to take medication that requires it to be taken with food, you'll have to pay extra for a teeny can of Pringles. Then, when they're done with serving, the flight attendants roam the cabin, collecting trash as quickly as they can so they can get back to their jump seats, where they'll bitch, loudly, about how onerous their jobs are, and how people can be such a pain in the ass, within earshot of said people.

And all this is if your flight goes off as planned. God help you if there are weather or mechanical related delays.

This is what passes for customer service on Northworst. I'm not alone in this opinion, either. While I'm sure there are nice people that work very hard for this airline to make their customers happy, and they will howl with outrage at this rejoinder, all I can say to them is that your compadres are ruining it for you. Again, I'm not alone in my complaints. Everyone I know here in the Cities has at least one Northworst horror story in their repertoire, and everyone they know has a similar tale of woe. We talk about it at dinner parties: it's a favored topic of conversation. When that many people have had a poor experience with a company, something's wrong. Unfortunately, Northworst does nothing to fix these problems. They file for bankruptcy, in part, to pay their employees less, and you don't need to be a rocket scientist to realize that the customers are going to suffer as a result. Furthermore, Twin Cities residents are supposed to consider ourselves privileged that Northworst has headquartered itself here, and that MSP International Airport is a hub. We're supposed to consider ourselves lucky that we have an international airline at our disposal. Well, pardon the language, but fuck that. We're expected to take it from all angles: as taxpayers we have to bail this stupid company out, and fund their largesse through tax breaks and airport expansions they declare they need to stay competitive, and then we're stuck using them because they have a lock on the market. We're held hostage by this freakin' company. I, for one, would have been extremely happy if they'd merged with Delta, because perhaps we would have started to receive some decent customer service. Perhaps they could have found some cost savings and stopped nickel and diming us at every turn. Perhaps we would have received some decent, fair pricing. But that's not going to happen.

I don't think I'm alone in saying that I hope Northworst does go out of business. It would be better for the people who are forced to fly this garbage airline because we have very few other alternatives, but it would be better for the Twin Cities economy as a whole, because, perhaps, the freebies we hand out to Northworst on a regular basis would finally come to an end. The free market would find a solution to the problem of all those empty gates at MSP, and we would finally get some competition in this market.

UPDATE: Oooh, how convenient! Proof of more nickel and diming to make my point!

If you want to check a second bag on your next trip on Northwest Airlines, you'll be paying an extra $25 starting May 5.

The fee applies each way on flights for passengers in coach class.

The move, announced this afternoon, follows an industry-wide trend started by United Airlines in early February.

If you travel extra heavy, you'll have heavier costs. The Northwest changes also include an increase from $80 to $100 for three or more checked bags, and an increase from $25 to $50 if a bag weighs more than 50 pounds.{...}

I can't check two suitcases without paying extra? Bite me. The sooner this airline dies a horrendous and painful death, the better.

Posted by: Kathy at 09:43 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Good grief, but does that stupid gray pillbox hat bother me. Taaaaaaa-cky. The whole outfit is hideous!

If one is unaccustomed to the duties and responsibilities attached to first lady-ship, like Carla Bruni-Sarkozy obviously is, it seems reasonable that one would look to see how others had done it, for inspiration. The only problem with looking to Jackie O for fashion inspiration is that, ahem, she was first lady almost fifty years ago. Anything you come up with that Jackie would have worn, way back in the day, is bound to be a bit dated, n'est ce pas? You live in Paris, with some of the world's best designers in your mobile phone, and this is what you come up with for your first state visit?

That the hat is, apparently, shrouded in the wool from a WWII era blanket, is beyond the pale. I wonder if it reeks of mothballs, because it looks like it should. Don't even get me started on the shoes.

It's not every day when you can say Queen Elizabeth II is more fashion forward than an ex-model.

Posted by: Kathy at 08:03 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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The Terminator shitcanned Dirty Harry.

...and lived to tell the tale.

Must have something to do with the fact he's actually a robot and those .357 .44mag* bullets just pinged right off.

Don't know what I was thinking. My apologies. Thanks to Bike Bubba for the correction

Posted by: Kathy at 10:46 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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Yesterday, the FT published a rather lengthy interview/analysis piece focused on the new President-Elect of Russia, Dmitry Medvedev. The man whom nobody (you know, other than Vlad the Impaler) knows had some rather choice things to say. It's a long piece, but it's good.

A few highlights of the article:

{...}Mr Medvedev’s inauguration on May 7 will mark a unique moment in Russian history. For the first time a Russian leader – whether tsar, Communist general secretary or post-communist president – will voluntarily leave office on time and at the height of his popularity. Yet it also heralds the start of a risky experiment. Mr Putin will leave the presidency but stay on as prime minister, in what some see as merely a ruse to remain in power. Others warn it could create a dual-headed power structure, which has spelt instability in Russia’s troubled past.

The president-elect insists the arrangement can work. He describes it as a “tandem”, in which both men understand the division of labour spelt out in the constitution. Mr Medvedev, as president, will set the priorities in domestic and foreign policy. He is commander-in-chief, makes the key decisions on forming the executive, and is guarantor of Russians’ rights and freedoms. The government, headed by Mr Putin, implements policy, especially in the economic arena.

He has much to prove, therefore, not just to the former military and security men nicknamed the siloviki or “men of power”, but to the outside world, where he remains an unknown quantity. Until two years ago, Mr Medvedev was largely a backroom operator, as Kremlin chief of staff. Two stints as chairman of Gazprom, the state-owned energy giant – a position he still holds – will have provided only a hint of the pressures he faces running a country where the political environment is as unforgiving as a Siberian winter.

So how does Mr Medvedev intend to assert his authority? In his first interview since the March 2 election, RussiaÂ’s next president outlined his priorities and offered an insight into his political philosophy. Speaking through an interpreter whose English he frequently corrected, he spelt out how he planned to continue Mr PutinÂ’s course while putting his own stamp on how the country is governed. He was clinical and dispassionate in his answers, without the folksy wit or earthy language of his mentor, scribbling occasional words and doodles on a Kremlin notepad.

His starting point is his legal background – he is, he says, “perhaps too much of a lawyer”. Meticulous and precise, he sees almost every issue through the prism of legal thinking. But behind the occasionally laboured language lies a deeper goal. Mr Medvedev says he wants to do what no Russian leader has done before: embed the rule of law in Russian society. “It is a monumental task,” he agrees, switching momentarily to English. “Russia is a country where people don’t like to observe the law. It is, as they say, a country of legal nihilism.”

{...}Mr Medvedev insists Russia can build the rule of law, outlining a three-point plan. The first step is to assert the law’s supremacy over executive power and individual actions. The second is to “create a new attitude to the law”.

“We need to make sure that every citizen understands not only the necessity and desirability of observing the law, but also understands that without [this] there cannot be normal development of our state or society,” he says.

Third is to create an effective courts system, above all by assuring independence of the judiciary. Judges must be paid more and their prestige enhanced so Russian law graduates, as elsewhere, see becoming a judge as the “summit of a legal career”.

Proper law enforcement is also fundamental to tackling another age-old problem that Mr Medvedev has made a priority – bribery. The president-elect is equally severe on the motorist paying off a policeman to avoid speeding fines as on the bureaucrat taking a cut on a business deal.

“When a citizen gives a bribe to the traffic police, it probably does not enter his head that he is committing a crime ... People should think about this,” he says. He also pays lip-service at least to the idea that those at the top of the “vertical of power” Mr Putin has created must set an example themselves. “The only way that Russia can count on having the supremacy of the law is in a situation where the powers-that-be respect the independence of courts and judges,” says Mr Medvedev.

When pressed, moreover, the president-elect signals a break with recent years by saying he will rein in any security and law enforcement services found to be engaged in illegal business. It seems a hint that he may be prepared to confront the siloviki clan – those most unhappy with his elevation to president. Viktor Cherkesov, head of Russia’s anti-narcotics service and a former KGB general, complained late last year that rival security services were fighting between themselves for wealth and influence.

{...}“I am a supporter of the values of democracy in the form that humanity has developed them over the last few centuries,” he says instead. “My definition of democracy as the power of the people is in no way different from classical definitions that exist in all countries.”

In what appears a veiled sideswipe at the US “freedom agenda”, he calls it a “dangerous extreme” to attempt to develop democracy in a country “outside its historic or territorial context”.

“Our democracy is very young,” he says. “It’s less than two decades old. Before this, there was no democracy, not in Tsarist times and not in Soviet times.”

But in words that may be welcomed in western capitals, Mr Medvedev makes clear he gives short shrift to those who say Russia is barren ground for democracy. “Russia is a European country and Russia is absolutely capable of developing together with other states that have chosen this democratic path of development," he says.{...}

Ok, enough with the theory, let's get down to business. Russian business, that is.

Mr MedvedevÂ’s overall thrust is that if RussiaÂ’s economy continues to expand, and it can build the rule of law so corruption can be overcome, its democracy will mature into something more closely resembling international models. His biggest priority, he says, is to translate RussiaÂ’s oil-fuelled economic recovery into social programmes that transform the lives of citizens.

{...}Mr Medvedev concedes the need for careful marshalling of the economy, but trumpets its strength. Russia’s financial and stock markets, he contends, are “islands of stability in the ocean of financial turmoil”.

“What makes us confident is that over the last eight years we have managed to create a stable macroeconomic system,” he says. “Our financial reserves ... are higher than ever before, reflecting the overall state [of] the Russian economy.”

The president-elect does not say specifically he will reduce the state companies that have proliferated under Mr Putin, which rivals and many economists charge with inefficiency and stifling competition. But he does say they should operate only in certain, limited sectors, for example where essential to the stateÂ’s economic security.

“The number of state companies ... should be exactly the number required to ensure the interests of all the country, but no more,” he says. Mr Medvedev also repeats campaign pledges to reduce the number of state representatives – often ministers or senior Kremlin officials – on state company boards and bring in more independent directors.{...}

So, basically, Gazprom and Rosneft will continue to operate as arms of Russian foreign policy, but they're not going to go into trade as haberdashers any time in the near future. Status quo, in other words.

As far as that foreign policy is concerned, well, let the man speak for himself:

“Any effective leader ... has to take care of defending the interests of his country. In foreign relations, you can’t be a liberal, a conservative or a democrat.”

On Russia’s most strained foreign relationship – with the UK – he says it is in Russia’s interests to see an improvement. Gordon Brown, the British prime minister, was one of the first foreign leaders to congratulate him on his election victory, he adds. Economic relations remain “magnificent”, with British investment in Russia totalling $26bn. Bilateral relations, such as co-operation between intelligence services, have been largely “rolled up”, though this is “not a tragedy”. But Mr Medvedev does not shrink from repeating recent accusations that the British Council, the UK cultural body whose offices outside Moscow were forced to close, has been involved in spying.

“The reports I get as one of the leaders of the country show that there is a problem with this,” he says. He deflects suggestions that last week’s detention of an employee of TNK-BP, the Anglo-Russian oil joint venture, might be a bid by security services to sabotage any improvement in UK-Russian relations. In this case, too, he says, his information suggests there is a case of industrial espionage to investigate.

Russia’s next president gives little sign he will adopt a more conciliatory approach to the US, with whom relations have deteriorated sharply. But he says he told George W. Bush, during a call to congratulate Mr Medvedev on his election, that relations might have been even worse were it not for the personal chemistry between the US president and Mr Putin. He holds out some hope of a “legacy” deal with the US before Mr Putin steps down to resolve disputes over US plans to site elements of a missile defence shield in eastern Europe, and over how to replace the Start treaty limiting strategic nuclear missiles, which expires next year. But Mr Medvedev warns that offering Ukraine and Georgia the prospect of Nato membership at a summit next week could undermine attempts to mend transatlantic ties.

“We are not happy about the situation around Georgia and Ukraine,” he says. “We consider it extremely troublesome for the existing structure of European security. No state can be pleased about having representatives of a military bloc to which it does not belong coming close to its ­borders.”{...}

In other words, don't even think about offering Georgia and Ukraine Nato membership, otherwise we'll feel threatened, and you wouldn't like it when we feel threatened. BIG OIL AND GAS RICH HULK SCARED! HULK TURN OFF HEAT IN MIDDLE OF WINTER TO TEACH YOU A LESSON!

So, I suppose the question would be, do we know anything new about Mr. Medvedev? Perhaps. Although, I don't think so. My impression is that he simply told everyone what they wanted to hear. What do western leaders want to hear? That he's all about the rule of law and democracy. Did they get what they wanted? Yes. What does foreign business want to hear? That he'll put and end to corruption, and that the nationalization of industry would, in essence, be stopped in its tracks. (I'm sure Royal Dutch Shell, Mitsui and Mitsubishi feel comforted.) Did they get what they wanted? Yes. What does the nationalist base who elected him want to hear? That he'll stick up for Russia against "western aggression." Did they get what they wanted? Yes.

Meet the new boss. Same as the old boss.

I suspect we'll see what Mr. Medvedev is made of when the cost of a barrel of oil plunges. It will only be then, when he'll be able to cut the puppetmaster's strings, that he'll dare to dance to his own tune. Until that point in time, watch what dear old Vlad is up to, and not Mr Medvedev: it will be a waste of your time to do otherwise.

Posted by: Kathy at 11:00 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Courtesy of TechCrunch, we have for you this morning, the digitized version of the Vietnam War Memorial.

Here's the story:

Footnote has taken the initiative to digitize all 58,000 names inscribed into the Vietnam War Memorial. It has also correlated them with military personnel records from the National Archives and made this information searchable from within an interactive Flash application.

The project started by hiring a National Geographic photographer to take over 2,000 high quality photos of the wall. The company then stitched them together, indexed the names, and pulled out information about each person from two major national databases: one for casualties and one for personnel. The whole process took about four months to complete and the end result is being provided for free.

If you want to find a particular name, you can run a simple keyword search. YouÂ’ll be shown key facts such as the personÂ’s rank, grade, specialty, and casualty date. You can also search for names that conform to certain criteria such as enlistment type, race, hometown, casualty date, squadron, and much more.{...}

And it works well. For instance, meet the man for whom the husband is a namesake.

Pfc. Michael Laverne Pheiffer is the husband's first cousin, and, unfortunately, he was killed of "multiple fragmentation wounds" in Binh Duong province a little over a month after his first tour of duty started. This is information the husband never had. If his family knew this information at all once upon a time, it's information that was lost over the years. All the husband knew was that he was named after his cousin who died in Vietnam; he didn't know any of the particulars. But now he does. The husband has always felt a little awkward about the fact that he knew relatively little about the relative he was named after. He once told me it felt a little disrepectful to carry this man's name, but to know so little about him. This will never tell him what sort of a person Michael Pheiffer was, or what he was like to know, but it does provide something that his family had never provided: bare facts about what he was doing there (he was drafted) and how successful he was in his mission (sadly, not very). From that you can deduce a few things, none of which make Michael Pfeiffer less of a person or a soldier, but, nonetheless, fill out the story a bit more.

There are an awful lot of people who can't make it to the Memorial in D.C., for one reason or another, but due to the wonders of the internet, they can at least take a peek at the names on the Wall, and find out some very valuable and relevant information that's not necessarily available to those who visit in the flesh.

Posted by: Kathy at 08:16 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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Last night, Mr. H. and I ventured down to the Minnesota Zoo's IMAX theater to take a peek at U23D.

Now, I'd never seen a movie filmed in the IMAX format before, let alone a 3D movie (yes, kids, somehow I missed Jaws 3D), so I wasn't really familiar with the format, let alone if a 3D experience was really, well, three dimensional. I figured, if nothing else, it would be an opportunity to see the Vertigo tour show, because Mr. H. and I had been cruelly shut out of ticket purchasing opportunities when they hit town two years ago. While I am a U2 fan, and have been listening to their music ever since I was fourteen (which is, precisely, the same time my well-documented crush on The Edge developed) my fandom is nowhere near the level Mr. H. has attained. He's a U2 fanatic. He has every album they've ever released, including the rare imports. He has books and DVDs. And, after one memorable front row experience on the Zoo TV tour, he has, in a Ziploc baggie, carefully preserved a tee shirt he was wearing that Bono's sweat dripped on. So, as you might have gathered, after the cruel ticket mix-up, Mr. H. was really looking forward to seeing this film. I, too, was looking forward to it, because, honestly, it never sucks seeing U2 perform.

We were, however, not expecting what we got, which was, well, everything even the most lackadaisical U2 fan could have ever wanted, let alone someone as dedicated in their fandom to U2 as Mr. H. It went ABOVE AND BEYOND anything we could have expected. It was amazing.

Imagine, if you will, a sixty-five foot white wall, and steep, expansive, theater seating opposite it. We positioned ourselves in near to the middle of the seating, placed our overlarge 3D glasses on our heads and strapped in for the ride. The opening of the film, when they were rolling the credits, was, I believe a way to orient the viewers to the 3D experience. You followed a young woman, running, and it became obvious, only after a few moments that you were following the first person through the gates, and she was doing the mad rush authorities no longer allow you to do when you go to a concert---rush for the general attendance spots near the stage. The shot then went to a darkened arena, where the fans were anxiously awaiting the band's appearance on stage. Confetti was thrown, and it seemed you could reach out and touch it as it fell. The Argentine flag was being waved, and it felt as if you could have been whipped by it. People in the audience were positioned directly in front of you, and, again, it felt as if you could reach out and touch them.

Then the band came out.

They started off with Vertigo, and when they screamed, "HOLA!" and the South American crowd went wild, the illusion was complete: it was real, you could reach out and touch them if you wanted to. By the time they played my personal favorite song of all time, Where the Streets Have No Name, I actually had to remind myself that I was not at a U2 concert, and jumping up, dancing, singing along, and in general just going wild, would not be welcomed by my fellow movie viewers. It's hard to describe the experience. The people at the IMAX had put up, before the film started running, tidbits of several positive reviews of the film, and one of them said something to the effect of, "It's better than being front row at a U2 concert." And it was---but in a very specific way. If you've ever been to an event you've only previously watched on tee vee, and then gone to the same event as it was staged live, you know that cameras can provide something you, the average spectator in a huge arena, cannot view: your eyes simply aren't good enough, your brain cannot process all that several camera operators and a crew in a control room can. But you'll never, when watching a concert on film, have the experience of being jostled by the crowd as you gaze up to see your favorite band playing; you'll never feel the heat of all the people crowding you; or the absolute communal exhilaration when the band rocks the house down to its foundation. The twain, in other words, do not generally meet. Here, however, they do. You get the experience of seeing it all, being able to catch things only cameras can see, whilst simultaneously feeling as if you're there. It's amazing. I don't know how they did it, but the filmmakers managed to accomplish the rare feat of making a concert film that actually makes you feel like a participant, not just a spectator.

The sound was fantastic, but wasn't overpoweringly loud. The play list was exceptional, and included many favorites like Bullet the Blue Sky from The Joshua Tree, but also New Year's Day, Pride (In the Name of Love), Sunday Bloody Sunday, that are U2 staples, and fan favorites, but that they don't play live all that frequently because they prefer to focus on the newer stuff. The play list was obviously tailored to appeal to all, but in this instance, it wasn't shooting for the lowest common denominator audience---this is STILL quality music, that is still worth listening to, almost twenty, and in some instances, almost thirty years later. It wasn't at all like when The Stones roll out Brown Sugar for the umpteenth time, and you can see that while they're bored with it, that this, nonetheless, is what pays the bills, so give the audience what it paid $120+ (per person!) to see, lest they not want to show up again and feed our largesse. This is music U2 still cares about, and that's enough for them to play it properly and with verve.

About the only downside of this film is that Adam Clayton, the bassist, was obviously having fun with the 3D aspects and he kept hamming it up in front of that particular camera. Many times it felt like you were going to get smacked in the face with the end of his bass, but, honestly, that was the only downside of the film. It's an AMAZING experience, and if you like U2 even a little bit, or even have a grudging appreciation for the band, let alone are U2 Fan #1, YOU NEED TO GO AND SEE THIS FILM. It's incredible. If you can see it in IMAX, I highly recommend doing so. Mr. H. tells me it's going to general release soon enough, but the IMAX experience is well worth the extra high admission price.

Trust me on this one. You won't be sorry.

Posted by: Kathy at 12:02 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
Post contains 1144 words, total size 7 kb.

I was chatting with my niece, Maggie, on the phone last night. They were waiting for their easter eggs to get up/down (?) to room temperature before they could dye them. After discussing how chocolate easter bunnies are lovely things, and how solid ones are better than hollow, I asked Maggie a simple question:

Me: Are you going to be a good girl for Easter?

Maggie: Are you going to be a good girl?

She didn't even pause whilst coming up with an expert deflection. She just zinged it right back to me.

By the way, she's seven.

Way to go, Maggie! {insert sniffles of pride here} I suspect you have a long future ahead of you in the legal field.

Posted by: Kathy at 08:45 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Seems as if the Easter Bunny has been doing some of his runs early.

I can practically feel Moses' temper being tested, can't you?

Posted by: Kathy at 09:17 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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So, this morning, I decided to walk up to the library to return some books. It was a relatively nice day, and since we're supposed to get six inches of snow tonight/tomorrow, I figured I'd better take the opportunity to get out and about before the world turned into one big slurpee.

I'm walking along, minding my own business, trying not to wipe out on the various icy patches, and despite the fact it's below forty degrees outside, the fact that the sun is shiny and warm, the walk is turning out to be a pleasant experience. A hint that spring is around the corner, and I'll soon be able to do this on a regular basis without worrying about ripping out my pants and can avoid all the public humiliation that goes part and parcel with such an event.

I approach a busy intersection and, because the light has just turned green, I start to walk across it. I'm not hustling, because I know from experience that I've got plenty of time to get across it, and it's nice outside---I'm not in the mood to pick up speed. I get to the other side, and, because I need to cross the intersecting road, I wait for that light to turn green. While I'm waiting, some prosperous looking jagoff in a silver Volvo, decides this would be a good time to honk his horn at me. I turn and look, and as his window is already rolled down, he starts yelling, "If the sign says 'Don't Walk,' DON'T WALK BITCH!"

Then he rolled up his window and drove off. Bewildered, I just held up my arms, in what is universally accepted code for, "What the fuck was that all about?" He saw me from his rear view mirror. I know he did, because he paused for a moment at the top of the hill, before jamming on the gas again and taking off.

What is it with these obnoxious drivers? I don't have to press the crosswalk button. If it's been a long time since Driver's Ed, let me remind you that----ahem---PEDESTRIANS HAVE THE RIGHT OF WAY. And, yes, that includes not pushin the "Walk" button, and not moving as quickly as you'd like. As long as I'm not jaywalking, I'm in the right. The crosswalk button is there for people with small children, who need a longer period of time to make it across. I don't HAVE to press anything when the light is already green. That is my right by law. But, apparently, the law is not good enough for him. I did not move quickly enough for him, who, had to wait for me to make it across the width of one lane before he could turn right. And, God, you know, that JUST TOOK TOO FREAKIN' LONG TO HAVE TO WAIT FOR SOMEONE TO CROSS THE ROAD, so he had to delay his trip even more by stopping his car---in the middle of traffic, mind you---to yell at me.

This is becoming a problem around Cake Eater land, because this is not the first time some guy has yelled at me from their very fancy, very expensive cars about my failings as a pedestrian. I am sick of this shit. I regularly feel like Dustin Hoffman's character in Midnight Cowboy "I'm WALKING here!" Today, it was Volvo Guy. A couple of years ago, it was Black Toyota SUV Guy, who actually turned around, parked his truck, got out of said truck and tried to find me after I refused to move more quickly, so he could turn left, while I was carrying two heavy bags of groceries. His truck was about a foot from my person, he was gunning his engine, honking his horn, and, as I was royally pissed off at his behavior, I just stood there for a moment, refusing to move in one direction or another, to make my point. When I did move, he squealed around the corner and I went into another store. When I came out, the same guy was standing on the sidewalk, steaming, hands defiantly placed on hips, looking in the direction I had been headed. I walked right past him, a grocery bag in either hand. And he was, apparently, so pissed off that he didn't recognize me, even though I'd been about a foot in front of his truck, staring him down ten minutes previously.

Last autumn, it was Beemer Guy. early on a Sunday morning, I was walking up to the local bakery to get the husband a muffin. There was very little traffic at this hour, but there was some. One car in particular. I was waiting for the light to turn green at the intersection about a block away from our house, and when it did, this "gentleman" in a white, five series Beemer, who was waiting for me to do my business so he could turn left behind me, started gunning his engine before I could even enter the crosswalk. I was not only annoyed that someone had his panties in a bunch at seven-thirty on a Sunday morning, I was threatened by his behavior as well. I don't know about you, but I am NOT going to walk in front of a car where the driver is gunning his German-engineered engine. One slip of the foot, and I'm road kill. Thanks, but no thanks. I've spent too much time in the hospital already, I'm not looking for more. I waved my hand, insisting that he should go first. After he took advantage of my generosity, I shook my head and muttered to myself. He then stopped his precious Beemer, (again, in the middle of the street) and waits for me to get within shouting range. "If you've got something to say to me, SAY IT! YOU HAD YOUR TURN! I DON'T NEED THIS SHIT TODAY!" I just stood there, and stared at him until he decided to storm off.

Look, I'm a pedestrian. I walk places. I am used to coexisting with automobiles and the people who drive them. I am accustomed to obnoxious drivers, who regularly honk their horns at the slightest infraction, who blow through red lights and who are monstrously pissed off when I don't get out of their way as quickly as they'd like---and believe you me, you can never get out of their way quickly enough. Even if you're running, it's not fast enough and you should speed it up. Surprisingly enough, as well, I'm also used to the drunks who like to turn left, illegally, by turning into the wrong lane right in front of you, as in, if you'd been two steps further than you actually were, you would have been flattened. I am used to these people. I always make sure to cross at a crosswalk, with the light, so that if they choose to hit me, I will be able to sue them back to the Stone Age. But to actually start screaming at a random pedestrian? That's just not kosher. That should be a sign to you that you've got anger issues, and should start paying visits to a therapist. I don't really care if you're having trouble paying your mortgage, if your house isn't worth as much as you thought it was, if your wife is fucking the Guatemalan pool boy, if the lease payment on your overpriced sports car is getting to you, or if your kid didn't score well enough on the entrance exam to get into Blake. I don't care about any of these things. YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO SCREAM AT ME FOR NOT GETTING OUT OF YOUR WAY! I have every right to be there. When I'm there, in a crosswalk, you yield to me, asshole, not the other way round.

Posted by: Kathy at 02:25 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 1316 words, total size 7 kb.

It's interesting the people you meet on the web.

A few years back, I had the pleasure of meeting a lovely lady, Pat, on some boards I used to frequent. She's a professional translator, who used to live with her husband, Pascal, and their three kids outside of Toulouse, in a little town called Auterive. A little over a year ago, the family uprooted and moved to Dakar, for Pascal's work, which has something to do with water treatment plants. They still, however, have their lovely farmhouse in the French countryside, which was built on the ruins of a monastery, and now you, if you can afford to travel to France despite the atrocious exchange rate, can rent their guest house!

Go here, if you're interested.

There's decent skiing nearby, and the joys of the Pyrenees abound. It's a short hop to Lourdes, and if you're looking simply for a base in the region and have a car rental, it would make a good location.

Posted by: Kathy at 08:38 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Stealing is wrong.

But when someone actually manages to be clever about it, instead of the number of thieves in this city who simply attach a chain to a truck and pull out window frames or walls to steal cigarettes from a neighborhood convenience store (What? A black market in smokes in Minnesota? Couldn't possibly be! Nice job, Pawlenty!), well, my feelings become somewhat conflicted about casting them in a civic morality play. Yeah, they did wrong, to a great number of people, but you can still be impressed with their cunning ways, and think, perhaps, they should get some points off for being clever, quick and non-violent about it.

Take this guy, for instance:

If the accusations against Chad M. Storey are true, give the North Oaks man a big fat A for effort, along with some jail time.

Storey, 34, is accused of concocting an elaborate system of hoses and switches that allowed him to siphon gasoline from another vehicle into his own, all from the comfort of the driver's seat of his shiny red Dodge Ram 1500 4x4.

Storey was charged Tuesday in Ramsey County District Court with one count of possession of burglary tools. The sophistication of the device automatically elevates the charge to a felony, according to sheriff's investigator Tom Rudenick.

All Storey had to do, authorities said, was pull alongside a vehicle, stick a hose in its gas tank, flip a switch under his dashboard to activate an auxiliary fuel pump, then sit back and wait.

Authorities said they could only speculate about whether Storey was reselling gas after they found a valve on his gas tank -- clearly not installed at the factory -- that could be used to empty his tank.

{...}It took slightly less than 2 1/2 minutes to siphon 5 gallons from a gas can into the pickup truck. Authorities said it would take 6 to 8 minutes for Storey to steal the 20 gallons needed to fill his tank.{...}

I don't know much about siphoning gas, but what I do know is that it's messy, dangerous and takes a while, which, ultimately, creates more time to get caught. This guy, apparently, looked at the downsides of siphoning, found a way around said dangers and engineered a different option. Yeah, it's still stealing, but at least, he MacGyver'ed it. Which shows he's got some potential in the engineering realm, if he ever wants to turn away from a life of crime.

{ht: buzz}

Posted by: Kathy at 08:34 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 415 words, total size 3 kb.

Are you perhaps, my devoted Cake Eater readers, having a wee bit of trouble understanding just how the hell JP Morgan was able to pick up Bear Stearns for the bargain basement price of $230 million (when the Bear Stearns building in Manhattan is worth about a billion itself) or thereabouts?

Go here.

Instead of "RSG Investments" insert "Bear Stearns" and you'll be good to go.

You can thank me later.

Posted by: Kathy at 10:00 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 73 words, total size 1 kb.