Grinchy critique of the family Christmas card . . .

Dear you,

The day after 12/25, I am thinking about certain versions of Christmas cards.  The ones I appreciate most are generic, from acquaintances like my mail carrier and dental office staff.  The mail carrier is awesome and surviving the strangling efforts of her boss, that DeJoy man.  Her card, left in my mailbox before Christmas, thanked me for being a good customer.  The image was traditional, a sleigh in the snow, evergreens, and a wish that my Christmas and New Year be bright.  The card did its job as a messenger of good vibes.  I can say the same about the dental card.  Nothing self-serving.  Just good wishes and touching images.  The mail carrier and dental office greetings are wildly different from another kind of card I received, one of those “fabulous life” cards featuring the smiling nuclear family. You’ve gotten these before.  You see the family sitting together in a boat or something somewhere exotic. Their tans are complimented by their freakishly white clothes and teeth. These cards are the old-school versions of selfies, self-promotion cloaked as sharing and they bug me a little bit.  Yes, we all pose for self-congratulatory vacation photos, but we don’t all use them as Christmas cards. There is usually a tasteful reason to not do that.  I would say one tasteful reason is that Christmas is also considered a holy day (for some).  Probably a good idea to avoid the “look at me being all A-list” messages on holy days.

I got one of those fabulous life cards this year from a realtor I know.  Beneath each photo (there were several making up the front, back and center of the card) was a little summary about what this or that posing person achieved in 2021.  The did-list shared the highs.  Little Janey is graduating from an expensive California university and headed to the perfect internship with a company famous for making expensive things.  Little Bonita is killing it with her online influencer gig, and just take a look at that handsome boyfriend who joined us for the trip!  The husband and I are busy perfecting our backhands on our new tennis court and breaking sales records every week.  Real estate is hot, hot, hot! What a phenomenal year!

Yawn.  Look, I appreciate the good fortune of others, but this just sounds like bullshit.  Boring bullshit.  Why not share the lows?  You want to hook your audience, tell the backstory baby:  Little Janey will graduate with massive student loan debt. You aren’t paying for anything because she was a train wreck her entire senior year, binge drinking, binge eating, and binge f-ing all the wrong people.  You hope the internship at your uncle’s Ferrari dealership will get her back on track.

Little Bonita claims she is looking for a real job since her internet gig is “toxic”.  She’s been looking for five years now.  She’s 32 years old and lives in your basement guest room.  As for the boyfriend?  You all know he’s gay.  Bonita says he’s simply polyamorous; they’ll work it out once they’re married.  What can’t be worked out is his tendency to steal money from your home office petty cash drawer whenever he visits.

Finally, there’s you and the mister. He is cheating on you with your receptionist.  How cliché, right?  Couldn’t he have hooked up with someone further up the real estate food chain?  You don’t care because you are having an affair with your tennis coach.  And the guys who installed the new tennis court.  And the lawyer who is handling your IRS audit (those record sales will cost you).

Now that’s a card I want to receive.  Instead of the fabulous life posing, send me a TRUTH OUT Christmas message. Something the Grinch would enjoy.

Candor is sublime.

I hope your holidays are/were sublime too.

Love,

Resting Grinch Face Joyce

Artemis, help us!

 Dear you,

Events piling up. Post-Thanksgiving, I felt like a witness to everything troubling, standing by and carrying on but without words.  I need to channel my inner-Artemis, my power goddess of choice. We all do. So it is. Today, I have some words again about my body, my books, my cat, and my fourth estate, things I imagine Artemis defends.

Begin with the body.  Not specifically my body, but the body female.  That Supreme Court decision to let Texas do their anti-abortion, bounty hunter thing was expected but still shocking.  How can something expected shock? We see it coming and still reel from the blow.  Justice Amy hurts the most.  Dear girl, your declaration about pregnancy not being a burden, that was brutal.  Barbaric.  Why am I typing “her body is none of your business” in 2021?  Because conservatives are broken in ways I can’t explain. Don't mess with my body. So it is.

My books.  Apparently, literature, fiction or nonfiction, that irritates parents must be banned.  The irritation is caused by the pinch of truth.  In the best books, that pinch becomes a slap.  A good thing for those who want to be awake and aware and not dumb as hell.  The list of selected forbiddens includes Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye (and of course Beloved too). The protagonist, Pecola Breedlove, lives in a racist Ohio community and prays for blond hair and blue eyes.  The problem for the banners seems to be references to sexual abuse in the novel.  Nice excuse.  Their real problem is having to acknowledge the society they prefer breaks people like Pecola on the daily. Slap, your bleached-out identity preference is soul-killing.  And then there is Alison Bechdel’s Fun Home, a graphic novel (memoir) about the author's father coming out and her own lesbian identity. This was on a high school reading list (Nevada) and pulled.  Not second grade mind you, high school.  Those readers would have enjoyed the book; many would have been elated to know someone like them is out there.  Speaking.  Can’t have that, can we?  Don't mess with my books. So it is.

My cat.  Baby girl has a lump on her head, right between those gorgeous gold eyes.  It has gotten bigger and sometimes bloody.  I have got to get her to the Vet now, no more procrastination and letting nature take its course.  I called a popular animal care group in Rosemary Beach and booked an appointment.  But overnight, I wavered.  They only do curbside drop off of pets due to Covid protocols. They grab and go while owners sit in their cars feeling sad and guilty.  I get it.  There is a pandemic.  But to hell with that.  I am taking her in the examining room in her little soft carry bag and staying there till the poking, prodding and whatever-must-be-done is done.  Where can I do this?  I did a little research and found a place right across the county line (I am in Walton, just to the east is Bay) where I can enter with kitty and never leave her sight.  Even in the examining room.  We’re booked to see the doc next week. I am traveling into deep, deep red territory (even redder than my county) to be with my cat and ease her fears.  And mine.  Is this selfish, careless?  Yes, I don’t care.  I am triple-vaxxed. I love this creature. I am not dropping her at anybody’s curb.  Don't mess with my animal. So it is.

My fourth estate.  Honest journalism is barely hanging on, at least in TV-land.  Last night, during prime time, I watched Liz Cheney presenting facts about Trump-crowd emails related to the 1/6 insurrection.  These were presented as reasons to charge Mark Meadows, Trump’s chief of staff, with contempt of congress.  My favorite came from Don Jr.  He was pleading with Meadows to convince Daddy to “condemn this sh*t ASAP”.  There were many others, notably from Fox cheerleaders.  Even Hannity was begging the madman to shut it down.  I was getting this from MSNBC. Kind of important news, I would say. I wondered how Fox was covering the Cheney statement and switched the channel.  They weren’t.  No Cheney.  No news.  Just dudes blabbing about defunded police and Vice President Harris (supposedly) trying to gas-up an electric car.  They called her Kamala. Ouch.  Little boys, derisive assholes having a blast not covering the big political story of the day because they would rather take a shot at two of their favorite targets, the first female VP and progressive transportation.  I suppose they would argue they’re simply framing issues of the day, see Wiki definition, “The term fourth estate or fourth power refers to the press and news media both in explicit capacity of advocacy and implicit ability to frame political issues.”  Oh, they are framing all right.  Framing and undermining and advocating the worst. Don't mess with my fourth estate. So it is.

As 2021 winds down in America, women’s bodies are under state-government control, excellent books are being banned, my cat has a weird lump on her head, and the fourth estate is fighting for its life, subverted from within.

So it is. 

Looking forward to 2022, days away, a new year where I can replace that dour period with happy exclamation points: “So it is!!!"  Artemis willing, so it shall be.

#Persist

Joyce

Thanksgiving ratings, children will listen!

 Dear you,

Inspired by (stealing) something John Green did in his Anthropocene:  Reviewed, my Thanksgiving thoughts feature the star rating schemata.  I am only sharing the best and the worst, the five stars and the one standout zero star.  Here we go:

Tiptoe the Reindeer – The sweet gal was featured in this year’s Macy’s Day Parade.  Absolutely precious; made me think about Bambi and other little critters trying to get their legs and bearings in our mean old world.  Even if Tiptoe is synthetic, she ruled the parade, vanquishing creepy high-flyers like Ronald McDonald and Pillsbury Doughboy.  They're troubling. She's adorable. I give Tiptoe a misty-eyed 5 stars.

The NFL on Thanksgiving Day – I don’t even remember who played, I just know it was great to have professional football on the screen, a far better option than Hallmark channel’s sanitary Christmas movies and other “family fare”.  I do recall the contests were fun to watch and no one got hurt.  The boys of autumn entertained and diverted with excellence as I sipped multiple cocktails. I give the T-day pro-football shows a tipsy 5 stars.

Chinese food for Thanksgiving dinner – Why turkey and dressing? Nothing wrong with the traditional meal, but what I really love is Asian food, any kind. My favorite restaurant gifted me with lo mein, eggrolls, and fried rice.  Microwavable for warm-ups and delicious, Asian cuisine should be the new feast for the 21^st Century special occasion table.  Reject the norm and eat what you crave!  I give Chinese Food on holidays an energized, fueled but not full 5 stars.

The Unknown Visiting Family Across the Landing – Even though high-season is technically over, holidays are still busy in the condo complex. I was prepared for the worse and awaited the invasion. The folks under my feet arrived, totally civilized.  Check.  Next, a small white car pulled up and mom, pop, and child exited, entering the unit across the landing without drama.  Too good to be true?  Perhaps.  Shortly after, a big minivan (oxymoron) pulled up and a huge clan (men, women, children, infants in arms) poured out in clown-car fashion.  Oh, good lord.  However, to my surprise, their move-in was drama-free too.  During their stay, they were out and about a lot and when here, they kept the kiddies under control.  No door slamming.  No tantrums.  No blasting music. No stinky cooking smells.  No garbage bags outside their door.  Wow.  I give this chill extended family an appreciative, well-rested 5 stars.

Music – Two geniuses were with me this week, Ludwig van Beethoven and Stephen Sondheim. Sondheim died a few days ago.  Ludwig has been gone a while.  Both dead.  But not. Their magic remains. During a particularly stress-ball day, I played (for the millionth time in my life) Beethoven’s Ode to Joy, his Symphony No. 9.   You hear it, don’t you?  A classic for a reason, the lilt, and yes, the joy! This was Beethoven’s last symphony and the only one with singing.  Lyrics and music sublime.  Then I got the news about Sondheim. The great composer-lyricist, gone.  His melodies and words go through my head all the time. Sometimes I get the notes and lyrics wrong, but they’re there in my jukebox of a brain.  I hear bits of “Children Will Listen”:  Guide them along the way/Children will glisten/Children will look to you for which way to turn/ To learn what to be/Careful before you say, listen to me/Children will listen. 

Yes, they will.  Masters Beethoven and Sondheim, I humbly offer you a grateful 5 stars.  (I can’t believe I made these gentlemen share list space with a plastic reindeer and spicy noodles, but my intentions were good.)

Now, on to that final item, the zero-star rating: 

Twisted Celebrations – See Kyle, the guest of honor at a Florida diner.  People gathered to celebrate his “innocence”.  What did they say to this kid during the meal?  What was said to him before he committed murder? Who was Kyle listening to?  Who is he listening to now?  Sondheim said it, children will listen.  Kyle was listening. Not glistening. This picture, this celebration, makes me incredibly sad.  I give it (greasy laminate menus and white nationalist chit-chat included) absolutely 0 stars.

End.

Thank you Tiptoe, thank you NFL, thank you New Jin Jin, thank you Beethoven and Sondheim. 

And thank you, John Green. 

XO

Joyce

But, And . . .

Dear you,

Another Sunday, but . . .

Bright sun on the coast and crisp air, cool at last.  It’s an NFL fun day, but . . . my mind keeps going somewhere not so fun.  The Seahawks-Packers game is on, snow swirls on the screen, happy fans wear cheese hats cheering for Aaron Rodgers, their hero returned.  Oh, yeah, that guy.  The anti-vax-now-I-have-Covid man who no doubt spread the virus to unwitting contacts.  My preference for the Seahawks aside, his presence on my screen bummed me out.  It’s just a game; I never really had a beef with this athlete before, but . . .

I had to work hard to get back to that fun day feeling.  Forget Aaron.  Look at those cheeseheads!  Adorable.  Cheese themed cowboy hats, cheese themed hard hats, and plain old cheese wedges just being cheesy, bopping up and down on the heads of those loyal fans.  They love their Wisconsin team, but . . .

Wisconsin. The trial of Kyle Rittenhouse.  A deranged judge setting up the prosecution for failure on so many levels.  Doe-eyed Kyle is guilty of the worst, murder for fame; he wanted to be the “hero” his death cult followers admire.  He got what he wanted.  I can’t blame the entire snowy, whimsical, cheesy state of Wisconsin for whatever decision that jury will reach, but . . .

Let it go.  It’s fun day.  Check out the latest on Twitter.  Laugh with the supporters of Big Bird in the Cruz V. Sesame Street war.  Check out the latest antics of Marjorie Taylor Greene.  She tweets her devotion to the holy book, photographed with a giant prop version of that text, blabbing about how long it took her to read the thing cover to cover.  In the shot, we also see her unfortunate, predictable décor, a wall of crosses, crucifixion as a design choice. A cross adorned wall usually wouldn’t irk me, but . . .

Another Sunday.  I bring it to a close by re-reading bits of wisdom from one of my holy books.  I am reminded by Marcus Aurelius not to degrade my soul by caring about other people’s motives, their guilt, innocence, guile or purity.  I am told to be undisturbed and concentrate on myself, the perfection of what is mine to perfect; I haven’t graduated from the Aurelius school of stoic wisdom yet, but . . .

I love the way the Packers connect with their fans, the way Wisconsin snow swirls and cheese hats bop with joy, the way Kyle’s prosecutor won’t give up, the way religious iconography can be artful and even sexy like:

(Sorry, Marjorie.  80's Madonna would annihilate you in a CrossFit contest.) And I love the way we all want something we can’t quite name.

The point is I just keep trying to not have my head messed with on a daily basis by whatever, well, messes with my head, but . . .  since demented judges, the Arrons, the Kyles, and the Marjories aren’t going anywhere, I must see it as it is and stay steady.  I can do that by making a rhetorical adjustment that affects my frame of mind:

It’s not about “but”.  It’s all about “and”.

This and that.  Good and bad.  Both just are. 

Finally, slowly, stoically when possible, I’m catching on and catching up with everybody who knows this already.

Love AND kisses,

Joyce

 

We Want Wings

 

Dear you, a brief post for the week that was:

You heard the news about the Brazilian baby born with a tail.  That story got as much digital ink as this week’s political traumas. I confess, to take a break from thinking about anything relevant, I clicked a link to a New York Post piece summing up the tail-tale.  I learned this happens sometimes, rarely, but sometimes.  The tail the baby boy sported is normally absorbed as we develop in the womb, turning magically into our tailbone.  Still curious, I googled the tailbone topic and got sucked into other questions about our evolving bodies:

“Can humans grow wings?”

“Why do humans have no fur?”

“Could a person grow feathers?”

“Will we evolve into crabs?”

“Can humans evolve with gills?”

That last question begged for a click.  A bit from the www.dailymail.co.uk article:

“Webbed feet, cat’s eyes and gills:  [These] Features are just some that humans could evolve to have to deal with a ‘water world’ due to global warming.  Humans may evolve bizarre features such as webbed feet and eyes like cats in response to changing environments. . .”

Evolution = survival.  Adapt or die. Or we could just nip global warming in the bud.  

Now, we have a shot at that.  At last, we can say it: Happy Infrastructure Week!  Finally. The trillion-dollar infrastructure bill passed this week aims to halt the heat, the melt, and the methane with innovative transportation, technology, and energy plans.  And we (you know who we are) are happy. We don’t want webbed feet, fins, or tails.  So de-volutionary. 

We want wings.

HAPPY INFRASTRUCTURE WEEK!

That's all.

Joyce

 

 

Peavy, Pointy, and Venus de Milo

Dear you,

While Marvin Peavy still flies his freak flag in my neighborhood, making news by resisting fines and hosting a Trump rally yesterday (nice choice for the Sabbath), I/we all carry on swayed by whatever version of “breaking news” we hear.  Depending on the source, the swaying effect can range from apathy, due to exhaustion and waiting for change, to red-in-the-face rage.  I know this because my cashier at the local Publix yesterday was an example of the latter.

After driving by that very unattractive rally group, I arrived at Publix a bit agitated but refusing to let them “own” this Lib on a pleasant Sunday.  I selected the best available produce and products at the current inflated rates and headed to the checkout lane.  The cashier is someone I always chat with.  She is retired and doing this gig to get out of the house, so you don’t need to sympathize in this case.  She is not a poor, fixed income senior who has to keep working part-time to survive.  The gal is rich.  You should see the ice on her fingers and wrists.  Anyway, iced up cashier was not in a cool mood this day.  I could tell by her violent tossing of items to the way-too-skinny bagging boy after scanning.  And her eyes above the required mask?  They looked pinched and pointy.  I don’t know exactly how eyes can look pointy, but they did.  When she was scan-tossing my items, we did the usual “how are you” exchange.  I commented on the fact that the crowds were lightening up on 30A but more fall break kids are bound to come.  She rolled her pointy eyes and said “I know.  It never ends.”  I responded with a reference to “school’s out forever” and added it didn’t matter anyway since so many parents are now enraged by education. “They, the parents, think they should decide what kids are taught. Might as well home school.”  Pointy stopped scanning when I said that.  “They should!!!! Parents should control learning.  Now all schools do is teach sex stuff and that CRT.”

Oh no.  She went there.  She has been swaying to the tune of Tucker Carlson or that OAN thing.

After dismissing her fear of sex stuff by explaining it’s just simple biology, anatomy, or sociology 101, I asked what she thought CRT was.  “Critical Race Theory.  I know what it is!!!!!”  I exhaled and noted she knew what the letters stood for but wondered if she knew what the course contained.  “Do you know the curriculum for that line of study, the reading material, the questions posed for consideration”?  Pointy Eyes went blank.

Of course she didn’t know.  If I had tried to explain the need for CRT, she would have repeated that cherished notion about kids only needing reading, writing, and ‘rithmetic.  She said it once already.  I didn’t want to hear it again.

No history, no art, no physics, no astronomy, no literature, no music, no geography, no philosophy, no political science, no chemistry, no critical thinking much less critical race theory, etc. etc.  Basically, Know Nothing.

Her ideally educated child will never be able to identify this:

I think she is what Pointy Eyes and Marvin Peavy want our children (and me) to be, mute, immobile, disarmed, unable to strike back.  Actually, they would hate Venus de Milo because she is Aphrodite, the goddess of sex (oh no!).  And then there’s the nudity thing (oh no!).  And the polytheistic world she ruled (oh no!).  Oh yes, we must ban her from the classroom too.

Talk about cancel culture.  Look out, dear you, Pointy and Peavy are all riled up and on a mission.  They sure know how to ruin a Sunday.  You can only imagine what else is on their “ruin it” list.

Nevertheless, we will keep the faith.

#Resist

Joyce

Tangled Up in Blue/Camo, Coors, and Cornhole . . .

 

Dear you,

This morning Captain Kirk went to space (for real) in a Bezos rocket.  A quick trip, but it seemed to do what travel to strange places does best – teach us to see things anew, pop our minds open.  During the post-flight interview, Shatner appeared to be transformed, intoxicated by that heavenly shade of blue and the beauty of Mother Earth below.  Most of us can’t afford this experience, so we stay local underneath that mind blowing blue.  Here in the Seagrove Beach zone, travelers keep coming, but not to see anew. The current crowd is heavy Tennessee since the first two weeks of October are fall break for their kids.

These TN travelers have been the recent focus of my ongoing anthropological study, and I have learned this so far:

1. The teenage girls wear camo themed clothing, bikinis, pajamas, tank tops and of course the ubiquitous baseball caps.  They are ready, day or night, to hunt or participate in a pop-up civil war.  Kudos for double duty fashion.

2. Coors light seems to be the beer of choice, especially at 9 A.M. for the under 18 set whose parents are totally missing in action.  They purchase this beverage by the caseload.  Without proper identification.  Good luck trying to buy alcohol here without an ID if you are a young black man from Atlanta.

3. They love playing cornhole.  They toss a bean bag into a hole carved in a slanted piece of wood.  They wear #1 (camo) while doing this and hold #2 (Coors Water) in their non-tossing hand.

Okay, it’s all a matter of taste.  Not every traveler wants to experience the shock and awe of the unknown or the beautiful.  Not every traveler can boldly go where only the rich and blue obsessed can go.  Some travel to one place and do the same things they do in any other place.  In this case, Tennessee is just doing its thing in a coastal setting.  Camo, Coors, and Cornhole by the sea. I understand.

Another pretty obvious assessment I can make regards political style. They (mostly) are conservative and thrilled by the “Trump Won” banner down the street.  Much editorial thought has been published about how Democrats better start courting this demographic or face annihilation by the GOP who owns their votes (and minds).  Even if they are outnumbered in our country, we should supposedly adjust, seek to understand.

Understand.  I do understand.  I just don’t live as they do, and I do not want to.  I don’t wear camo.  I prefer workout wear in solid colors and little black dresses.  And if you ever see me in a baseball cap, I’ve probably had brain surgery, possibly a lobotomy. I don’t like light beer. Especially Coors Light.  It tastes like swamp water.  Hand me a Guinness Stout, even in hot weather.  As for cornhole, no.  Just no. 

All those cultural differences aren’t critical, but the politics thing is.  Because of observation number four:

4. On many, many of their vehicles I see what I have seen all season, that revised American flag with the black stripes and blue line in the middle.

Supporting the blue line, no matter what. Tangled up in a not so heavenly shade of Shatner blue. Even after they view the latest outrage, the brutal attack on a paraplegic driver in Ohio, dragged from his car without mercy.  This stuff just keeps happening and happening and happening and the Dems cannot get a police reform bill passed because we need some of “them” to come on board.  We need to make sure we don’t alienate the thin blue line, camo wearing, light beer drinking, bag tossing people. 

No.  It is not happening, Dems.  You know that. We have to use whatever power we have to get some shit done as quickly as possible.  They aren’t messing around and they are not at all inclined to “understand” us.  And while we honor their freedoms and choices, please be clear about the fact that they do not honor ours in return. 

This is sad. Like losing someone, part of us.  As Bob Dylan wrote:

“All the people we used to know/they’re an illusion to me now/some are mathematicians/some are carpenter’s wives/I don’t know how it all got started/I don’t know what they do with their lives/But me, I’m still on the road/heading for another joint/we always did feel the same/we just saw it from a different point of view/tangled up in blue.”

A different point of view indeed.

See blue anew.

Anthropology class dismissed.

Joyce

Showtime!

 

Dear you,

Everything feels like a movie now.  I know I have a dramatic nature and pretend my life is a Baz Luhrmann production, but really, everything feels like a movie now.  Some titles and plots align with what passes for my reality:

The Unbearable Lightness of Being

The Daniel-Day Lewis character, a surgeon and player, returns to his home in Prague in spite of the Soviet occupation.  He does this for love, love of homeland and a woman.  The once lively city is drab and paralyzed.  He stays anyway.  Ah, love.  Me.  I return to Floribama, watching the destruction of land, water, and wildlife. I stay anyway.  Ah, love?

The Year of Living Dangerously

No real plot connection here, but the title is all 2020 (and even 2021).  The simplest, dullest things are life threatening. I go shopping surrounded by hordes of Covid deniers! How daring!  I go to the dentist as soon as the mini-shutdown in Florida is lifted!  Daring!  I walk around outside without a mask, risking contact with vacationing drunks who just have to hug me!  Daring!  I go to random open houses and breathe not-so-fresh air in confined, overpriced spaces!  Daring!  I eat questionable takeout from the one Asian restaurant that hasn’t closed due to fear, fear of the local idiots who blame the “China Virus” on them. Daring!  Everything is dangerous now.  (A commercial just aired raising alarm about the dangers of cleaning the gutters on your roof.  Pulling leaves out of roof drains while standing on a ladder is lethal!  I am not at all interested in doing that.  But I have been known to pop bread in the toaster without washing my hands first. Daring!)

Gone with the Wind

Dear white nationalists, cry all you want about the end of an era and cancel culture, but those stupid Confederate monuments are coming down.  Good riddance.  Goodbye.

 Apocalypse Now

We are all end-of-days characters these days, heroes or villains, depending on your point of view.  Charlie Sheen is the protagonist on a mission (Willard).  Marlon Brando is the antagonist on an ego trip (Kurtz).  This morality tale took more than a year to film.  It was hell.  It was like being in hell while making a movie about hell.  Meta-hell. During the odyssey, Charlie Sheen suffered a nervous breakdown and a heart attack.  Marlon Brando (Kurtz) showed up for the gig looking more like Jabba the Hutt than a charismatic anti-hero.  Cinematic failure seemed unavoidable, but in the end . . . a masterpiece!  The hero lives and Mr. Kurtz?  He dead.  I intend to survive the apocalypse like Willard/Sheen.  And I hope whatever Kurtz symbolizes today heads into the abyss taking “the horror” with him.  Fuck the apocalypse.

The Devil Wears Prada

On my most misanthropic days, I am Miranda Priestly.  Everyone disappoints me.  Everyone is fat and stupid. Everyone is wearing their own versions of hideous skirts.  And everyone moves at a glacial pace.  You know how that thrills me.  That’s all.

Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown

That would be most women in America now, the “handmaids” aside.  Apparently, our bodies belong to the be-fruitful-and-multiply overlords. 

Jesus Camp

Better known as busy season at my condo complex. The converted and the converters get all drunk and destructive, but it’s okay because they do so while wearing charming Bible verse t-shirts.  Testify!

It’s all show biz, folks . . .

That’s a wrap.

Joyce

 

Swimming Pools and Politics

 

Dear you,

While the J6 rally was pretty lame yesterday, the poison consumed by millions of the benighted is still very popular, poison pimped as political nutrition. We are doing what we can, I suppose, to toss their toxins into another dustbin of history, but nothing seems to be working.  They don’t care, here or anywhere.  The “here” in Seagrove Beach analogy for ingesting poison mindlessly happened earlier this week.

Our west pool needed repair, the pool under my balcony. Monday/Tuesday, I noticed dudes at the pool mucking about.  A few hours later, I noticed the pool was slowly emptying.  I assumed there was some kind of pump taking the water to a big vat, and later they’d dispose of the chemically loaded (plus visitor urine loaded) goop in an approved/safe area.  I was wrong again.  More hours later, when I exited to run errands, the south parking lot was flooded with noxious pool water.  It was running towards the beach road and open storm drains.  The smell was gag-worthy. The chlorine in the air caused coughs, watery eyes, and maybe worse.  The guests noticed, coughing and eye leaking just like me, but didn’t care.  They were just pissed off that one of the two pools was closed.

Days later, the smell remained.  The condo complex should have been shut down by the EPA or OSHA or something.  This lazy choice by the HOA board/management got no blowback here in #DeathSantis Country where everyone is free to pollute at will, consume the poison of one’s choice, and spread toxic misinformation.  I know their reasons.  Money.  It would cost us to do it right.  I hate them.  Not much I can say to stop their privileging of money above all.  A toxic state of mind.

Pools and politics.  Orlando, Florida, a more civilized part of the state, has some rules about the former that should be applied to the latter:

“Do not drain your pool water into streets, gutters, or storm drains.”  Applied version: Do not spread your lies on social media sites, bumper stickers, or Fox & Friends.

“High levels of salts, chlorine, or other chemicals can make its way into waterways harming aquatic organisms and wildlife.”  Applied version: High levels of paranoia, science-denial, or other forms of ignorance can make their ways into public forums, harming those of us who have to share space with reactionaries and tinfoil hat wearers.

“Pumping the water directly into a sanitary sewer clean out is also not permitted.”  Applied version: Pumping the filth directly into a Matt Gaetz podcast is also not permitted.

Good luck getting those regulations passed in this zip code.

As for now, the effects on site at the Villas linger.  I haven’t seen birds in my holly tree, the palms and pines or even the bushes lately.  Is there a connection?  Perhaps.

The visitors don’t care.  All they know is the pool is back open and they can swim (and pee) without a care in the world.  The cost of their refreshed cement pond was only environmental.  A non-issue.  Poison apparently is a matter of opinion too.

Still here, dodging toxins of all kinds,

Your Joyce

 

Run for your life . . .

 

Dear you,

I blogged weeks ago about that dreaded Texas anti-abortion law.  Lone star women are running to other states to terminate pregnancies . . . if they have the means to travel.  I hear some are even headed to Mexico where abortion has been decriminalized.  Evacuations are the thing now.  We run away from each other, from Covid, from war; we run away from the anti-vaxer fascist next door.  We run from fires, tornadoes, floods, and of course, hurricanes.  In Seagrove Beach, we are hosting so many folks whose homes were wrecked by Ida; even if some structures are standing, power is not returning for weeks in places like LaPlace, Louisiana.

The unit across the landing from me is the temporary home to a family from LaPlace.  The group is big, grandmother, mother, two adult daughters, a couple of menfolk, a toddler, an elder with alzheimer’s and a teen with emotional problems.  That’s a lot. So far, they have been better neighbors than the usual vacationers.  But this could change.  How long can that many people stay jammed together in one condo and not lose their minds?  Perhaps they are good with it all, just being together and alive.  If their home is not repaired in time, where do they go next?  Where do we all go next? What’s the next reason to run? Here in the USA, it might be wise to prep for an exit because of a looming Civil War (part 2). The neo-confederates are assembling in D.C. a week from tomorrow, rallying to remember their January 6^th insurrection and honor its participants. Hideous people, tarnishing yet another September day.

Why that date, why September 18?  Maybe the neos have a special connection with that day and its noted celebrations. According to daysoftheyear.com, here’s what we celebrate on 9/18:

International Red Panda Day

Cheeseburger Day

First Love Day

Locate An Old Friend Day

Read An Ebook Day

Hug A Greeting Card Writer Day

Respect Day

Gymnastics Day

Water Monitoring Day

Coastal Cleanup Day

Eat An Apple Day

The only festivities on that list that seem to jive with fascist white nationalism are, maybe, cheeseburger day and locate an old friend day.  You know how they love to scream about libs taking away their beef.  And those “old friends” they want to locate are probably banned from Facebook and Twitter so they have to meet up at a rally. As for the other days, I am thinking endangered species, romance, reading, writers, athletes with opinions, environmental projects and the forever Eve-tainted apple are things they hate.  And forget about their relationship with “respect”.

These rally types are all over the place now.  And they really do want another Civil War; this is not hyperbole. Non-rally types should probably evacuate.

But we won’t. We still have power.

Running from fires, floods, winds, and war is the sensible thing to do.  But running from fascist assholes?  Not happening.  As they like to say, we will “stand our ground”.  And we will look so much prettier than them while doing that.

Stay.

Don’t evacuate.

Celebrate the best of September 18.

Joyce

 

Getting Over . . . Carrying On

 

Dear you,

This weekend, I kept the television running non-stop.  Between heartbreaking updates about our exit from Kabul and hurricane Ida, commercials carried on in the most disturbing way.  A former sitcom star screamed gleefully about “dynomite” Social Security benefits. A hyper-happy voiceover ordered me to “Show off your white smile this Labor Day!” An emu tried to sell me insurance.  Meanwhile, New Orleans went dark and thousands were left behind in Afghanistan.

The disconnect was unsettling.  The reality of events competing with the reality of the marketplace. Networks cannot run on nothing.  I know they need commercials to stay on the air and keep me informed.  But this seemed so out of alignment, twisted.  The twisting continues today.

I listen to details about how the #TexasTaliban essentially ended abortion rights in their state, how they pulled this off and why the SCOTUS majority just let it go.  Then, this:

“Here’s why birthday candles are the perfect gift.”

I listen to updates about Ida flooding the northeast.  And then this:

“Everything’s better between King’s Hawaiian bread.”

We seem, in some ways and in some places, to be carrying on. Life rolling along. No good can come from tears without action.  No good can come from walking around in sackcloth and ashes.  But it feels wrong to be bopping around all “dynomite” happy during these tragedies.  How to do this?  How to find balance without being mindless? Time for a refresher course in stoic philosophy. I have been reading and re-reading Marcus Aurelius since last year, perfect advice for these days. From Book III of his Meditations:

“You need to avoid certain things in your train of thought:  everything random, everything irrelevant.  And certainly everything self-important or malicious.  You need to get used to winnowing your thoughts, so that if someone says, “What are you thinking about?” you can respond at once (and truthfully) that you are thinking this or thinking that.  And it would be obvious at once from your answer that your thoughts were straightforward and considerate ones – the thoughts of an unselfish person, one unconcerned with pleasure and with sensual indulgence generally, with squabbling, with slander and envy, or anything else you’d be ashamed to be caught thinking.

Someone like that – someone who refuses to put off joining the elect – is a kind of priest, a servant of the gods, in touch with what is within him and what keeps a person undefiled by pleasures, invulnerable to any pain, untouched by arrogance, unaffected by meanness, an athlete in the greatest of all contests – the struggle not to be overwhelmed by anything that happens.  With what leaves us dyed indelibly by justice, welcoming whole heartedly whatever comes – whatever we’re assigned – not worrying too often, or with any selfish motive, about what other people say. Or do, or think.

He does only what is his to do and considers constantly what the world has in store for him – doing his best, and trusting that all is for the best.  For we carry our fate with us – and it carries us.”

Marcus Aurelius wasn’t suggesting I stop brushing my teeth, buying presents, or eating tasty bread. He would be indifferent to inane commercial breaks and advise me to do the same.  He’d say focus, be an “athlete in the greatest of all contests – the struggle not to be overwhelmed by anything that happens.”  He’d say learn this:

We live serious content interrupted by commercial breaks.

It all just is.

If I really get that, if I know how to roll, I can show off my smile this Labor Day with gravitas and balance. Like a stoic athlete.  Up and over the bar.

Still trying,

Joyce

Safe To Dance

Dear you,

The Taliban officially owns Afghanistan again; it is absolutely not safe to dance there.  What is this religious obsession with dance or pleasure in general?  Researching the history of dance as “sin”, I learned about Sayyid Qutb.  He came from Egypt in the 1950s to study America and left enraged, driven to “wage holy war” based on what he witnessed. This man is said to have created the theoretical basis for radical Islamism.  The following website describes a pivotal moment when he watched people dancing to “Baby It’s Cold Outside” at a sweet little Christmas party:

 https://qz.com/1491525/baby-its-cold-outside-and-the-rise-of-islamic-fundamentalism/

Oh for the love of god.  Literally.

I know I am being judgy again, but this is nonsense.  It’s malevolent nonsense.  When these religious guys (yes, they are usually guys) create their sin lists, innocent people get hurt.  Innocent people get fearful.  Innocent people who just want to be “good” feel lost and post questions like this to religious advice websites:

“Is it a sin to whistle, to clap, to wear yellow and red clothes?”

On another site, a soon to be married Christian man asked for permission to dance at his own wedding.  The advising expert (sexpert/pervert I would say) called him self-indulgent. He claimed dancing as found in Bible stories was different, not like “modern” forms “designed to express a love interest in the other person.  Movement, hand placement, and body positions all speak of intimacy in a public setting.  There are dances that don’t, but they are not currently favored.”  Oh, I got it now.  You can dance if you want to, but only if you do the “not currently favored” moves.  Just avoid moving in any way that is remotely appealing. Move without design and remember that this is a non-contact sport.  Do not touch.  Do not titillate. 

Which leaves me with a very short list of non-sinful dances, moves guaranteed to repel and not appeal:

The Funky Chicken

Jane Fonda Aerobic Grapevines (no hip movement, please)

The Robot

The YMCA (oh the irony, Village People and all that)

The Dad Dance (fist pump with foot stomp)

That Thing Where You Hold Your Foot Close to Your Ass and Hop Around

Nothing on that list is attractive.  Nureyev couldn’t make those moves sexy.  Maybe a stripper could, but I am pretty sure stripping is only allowed before baptism.  (Do they baptize naked?  I was raised chill-Methodist and we just got a little water sprinkled on our heads.  That’s probably why I was doomed to love dance and other assorted sins, faulty baptism.)

These sin-patrol monitors need to shut the hell up and quit projecting their shame on others.

I know, the Taliban and their kinder, gentler version here in the USA aren’t listening to sinners like us.  Since they aren’t, we need to add another line to the Declaration of Independence, update it for the record:

Dancing in all its forms is a human right; it shall be safe to dance.

(And to make music, to love who you will, to read, to write, to learn, to simply BE.)

Donate, please, to International Rescue Committee via RESCUE.org online.   They are working to evacuate, protect, and feed Afghani people. Thank you.

Love,

Joyce

Fred heading my way, suitable weather for grief.

Goodbye, Sudan.

Dear you,

Tropical storm Fred is heading to the Panhandle. The wind is starting to pick up now; littles gusts making the trees dance.  It is beautiful, really, this force of nature following the path Hurricane Michael took in 2018. The grey sky, the rain falling like tears; it suits this brutally sad day.

Sudan, the last male white rhino is dead.  An extinction.

Afghanistan falls to the Taliban.  Another extinction, or rather, a regression.

These two sorrows have hit me harder than anything I have experienced or witnessed.

I wonder why that is?  Could be a feeling of helplessness, impotence in the face of what I never, never expected, a world going backwards, killing beauty as it goes.

So, as we all mourn, I welcome Fred.  I hope he strengthens and cleanses this place.  I appreciate his timing, forcing us here in callous Florida to feel and gracefully grieve, painting an appropriate, somber background for honoring what is lost.

Tomorrow, we might wake to gentle weather and try again to get it right. Again, and again, and again.

RIP #Sudan

Good luck #ZarifaGhafari, the first female mayor in Afghanistan.

Joyce

Go Commando and Save the World . . .

Dear you,

Consumer affairs are still in flux.  The random shortages continue.  This week in retail:  Panty panic.

I don’t do underwear since most of the time I’m in leggings or long shorts (is that an oxymoron?).  It is just not necessary to wear one pant-like garment under another pant-like garment unless you’re layering for warmth. That’s redundant. But I do wear hipsters or boy shorts under dresses, skirts, or those XXL t-shirts posing as dresses. This I do to keep my commando mode private, in consideration of the greater good. So recently, I went shopping to renew my supply of the sometimes-necessary under things.  I went to Target, a bad idea.

The store itself looked a bit light in merchandise and the stock of undies in my size and favored types was beyond depleted.  I found one gigantic pair of hipster panties. Big enough for an XXL bottom who likes mint green with flowers. Moving on.  I found one pair of boy shorts.  But these were XXS.  I am little, but not that little.  And they had clearly been dropped on the floor a few times; the dove grey material was covered in shoe-prints.   The only fully stocked drawer contained the dreaded “briefs”, a.k.a. granny panties.

I wandered around looking for options and found a massive display of packaged panties, Hanes, Jockey, that sort of thing.  There were plenty of these.  But not in my size.  Plus most packs had been ripped open and re-taped shut.  Not a good sign.  Nobody should purchase underwear that has been "tested" at the Target in Panama City Beach.  My mission failed.

Where have all the panties gone?  Are they in exile with other things I struggle to find now, things like lint rollers, velvet scrunchies, Haagen Dazs coffee ice cream, and Suave $1 shampoo?

I was going to go on and on about these bougie concerns, but then I remember this from Reuters yesterday:

U.N. climate change report sounds “code red for humanity”.

I am shutting up about underwear.

We sweat, we burn, and (if you are a stork disoriented by wildfires) we die migrating across Greece.  An increase of 1.1C in temperature averages is now.  An increase of 1.5C is supposedly all we can take and we are almost there. I have a feeling our mutual desires for things like panties, scrunchies, ice cream and shampoo got us to this point, things, silly things made in and transported by an oily economy.

I really don’t care about the depleted panty supply at Target.  Like I said, I don’t like underwear anyway.  But this world? I hate to see it go. To prevent that, we are back to the obvious, necessary action:

“Anyone speaking about climate who isn’t urgently calling for an end to the fossil fuel industry deserves to be ignored.”  Peter Kalmus, NASA climate scientist, posted that on Twitter yesterday.

Will I see the end of the fossil fuel industry in my lifetime? What can I do? Step 1:  Stop bitching about depleted panty bins.  Step 2:  Keep pushing politically for a green approach to energy and production. Step 3: Commit to going commando.  Forever. Some "things" are just not worth it.

Go commando and save the world.  

Done.

Joyce

Broken things, steady friends

Dear you,

My gig website is not functioning.  When attempting to download a writing submission, I get the spinning “processing” sign that goes on and on and on.  If I finally receive a document to work with after enduring the spin cycle, I hit another wall.  When I complete the writing review that takes at least thirty minutes, I cannot submit the work.  More spinning processing signs. Wasted time and wasted instruction, lost in the matrix.

Is it the fault of my internet service provider?  Is it the fault of my strangely haunted laptop?  Is it just faulty me, going through a phase of failed “processing”?

The source of glitching is irrelevant.  I just cannot do this anymore, rely on broken things for work or information.  For every problem, there is a solution, right?  Not in this case.  I have danced on this broken glass for months now and I surrender.

And as I type, just now, another thing broke. My Mediacom cable died. The sign this time is a black screen with a box informing me of a “scrambled channel or weak signal”.  So much for my beloved MSNBC background news stream.  Solution for this problem?  Nothing I can do in this case either.  Out of my hands.  I surrender again.

Carrying on, I turn on something that (for now) is reliable, the radio voices of NPR.  I am hearing updates about the Olympics.  I am hearing Wall Street news.  I am hearing political chat.  And none of this is glitching.  The only way this connection can be broken is if the power goes out.  And even that won’t matter.  This radio is battery powered too, part of an old school CD player/radio device.  It’s adorable.  And probably impossible to replace.

Carrying on considering late evening entertainment, I can turn on another reliable machine.  The DVD player.  If the cable is still down, I can pop in a classic like Sex in the City.  Which I have seen 5,678 times but whatever.  Sure, I could stream something on the Smart TV laptop connection, but I don’t want to risk possible “processing” annoyance.

And then for later-later, I have these things on my nightstand called library books.  They won’t burn my eyeballs like screen time.  They are physical and operate on their own power.  I can fall asleep on them or drop them on the floor without fear of breakage.  And that power outage thing?  I have a battery-operated camping light, good enough to read by.

I know if my cable is not back on tomorrow or if my gig-website drama continues, I won’t be happy.  I’ll be frustrated because I want those things too.  I just wished the new stuff worked as well as the old stuff.  I am not a Luddite.  I am a glutton for connection, the classic and the cutting edge. But I recall someone in one of those library books assessing that edge.  Something like if you live exclusively on the cutting edge, you are probably going to bleed.

I refuse to bleed over laptop spasms, digital-cable tantrums, or internet crashes (even as I attempt to post this blogette).  I won’t.  It just doesn’t matter.  I have my darling NPR radio, DVD player, and library books. 

Good friends don’t break. 

Invest in those.  And, oh, it's probably wise to get a landline too.

Love,

Joyce

Please mess with Texas.

 

Dear you,

My parents gave me a “Don’t Mess with Texas” coffee mug in the 90’s, bounty from one of their road trips west.  I loved that mug, perfect size, bright colors, amusing slogan.  It reminded me of good Texas stories and people, like the formidable Governor Ann Richards, strange Matthew McConaughey and Queen Beyonce.  Unfortunately, about a month ago, I dropped the mug on my stone floor.  Goodbye little cup.  I think perhaps this was no accident (see Freud).  I think, subconsciously, I was weary of Texas political antics and their freak governor (King Abbot) and took it out on an innocent souvenir.  Texas has gone so nuts their democratic legislators had to leave the state to stop the passage of a voting restriction bill.  Exiled in D.C., when they return the killer bill will pass anyway.  At least they tried to mess with Texas. 

Others are trying too.  Many are fighting this:

“Starting September 1^st, the state of Texas if offering a $10,000 bounty to any private citizen willing to sue another person who, in some way, helped make an abortion possible.  The potential list of targets for such lawsuits is endless: from a pregnant person’s doctor and nurses, a therapist or pastor who offered moral support, a partner who helped pay for the procedure, a friend (even an Uber driver) who drove the patient to the clinic.  Under the new law – which a group of doctors, clergy and clinic owners sued to block Tuesday – any or all of them could be taken to court by a stranger with no connection to the patient whatsoever and forced to pay a minimum of $10,000 each, plus legal fees, for “aiding or abetting” an abortion.”  (rollingstone.com, 7/13/21).

Even an Uber driver.

This is all so very disappointing.  I liked to think of big red Texas as out there in libertarian land.  Do your thing and I’ll do mine.  Now they are among the biggest and reddest puritanical purge zones in America.  Just imagine the havoc this bounty thing will create.  Every small or big town goody goody will be ratting out hot young women who might just be suffering from belly bloat one day and then got over it the next.  “I swear to you Roxanne was fully with child yesterday when I saw her at the Whattaburger.  Now she’s back to normal.  She should go to jail. And I’m calling my lawyer on that liberal pastor of hers.  He denies the truth about the Earth being 6,000 years old and I just bet you he had a hand in this.”

Things are going to get really ugly in the Lone Star State.

Good luck to the ACLU, Planned Parenthood, every owner of a “Keep Austin Weird” coffee mug and all the Roxannes too.

It is time to totally mess with Texas.

Love,

Joyce

 

 

 

Messy Holiday

 

Dear you,

How was your 4^th of July holiday?

The Gulf of Mexico was on fire near the Yucatan due to gas/oil leaks and corporate errors.

Afghanistan began falling to the Taliban after our exit.

Ransomware attacks continued.

Our “new” climate produced a heat dome in the northwest that killed millions of seashore creatures.

SCOTUS laid down a decision to further eviscerate The Voting Rights Act.

Surfside residents die in a condo collapse.

These events, and others, muted the expected joy associated with the 4^th of July holiday, at least for me.  I try not to be a Debbie Downer, but attempts at celebration fell flat.  Even our fireworks along the 30A coast were underwhelming, dampened by weather and something else in the air.  I can’t find the perfect word for that something else, but it’s like the feeling I get when I pass other condo units whose guests leave garbage outside their doors.  The above photo is one of the less horrifying examples.  I passed some of the occupants and complimented them for their “fabulous art installation”.  They had no clue what I meant.  “You know, that interesting pile by your door.”  Clue given.  Expressions shift to glares.  Twenty-four hours later, the pile is bigger.  They are free to do this.  And I am free to not clean up their mess.  Messy.  That’s the perfect word for all of this, the significant things like the above list and the insignificant things like filthy condo guests.

What should I do?  I do need to clean up this mess.  Keep pushing politically to reign in (or end) the fossil fuel industry.  Send checks to organizations who can, maybe, help the Afghani women.  Push for cyber-security as a key part of infrastructure.  Watch my own carbon footprint.  The Supreme Court and Surfside?  I don’t know.  For now, right this minute, I’ll start with the insignificant.

I am heading downstairs with a monster size garbage bag and cleaning up that mess by unit 10D.

My belated 4^th of July celebration.

Happy-Messy 4^th of July! 

Love,

Joyce