the drift


Thursday, January 31, 2008

Romney Money Quote

I caught this the other morning on NPR and it rose above the morning din of Ro in the backseat doing his caged wild animal routine and the honks of commuters like a black truffle-infused fart:
"People, they don't call it AMERICA Warming -- they call it GLOBAL warming! {raucous applause and woots ensue}"
Mitt, buddy, "they" are just being nice. They could totally call it 'American' warming given that we are the largest consumer of fossil fuels in the world.
And, to all you douchebags who actually cheered at that comment, you can suck it because while the rest of us get to move into the shiny new, climate-controlled, pollution-resistant protective biodome in the year 2025, your asses are getting left out in the cold, smog-filled, low ozone air. Try to shirk the duty to China and India then.

Tuesday, January 29, 2008

what matters or doesn't, i suppose.

one of my four brothers has an unfortunate persecution complex that, at the ripe age of 28, causes him to work a job for about a year then for some particular reason, on some particular day, he up and quits on the spot.His explanations usually revolve around claims that his co-workers and/or the clients he serves are talking down to him, or talking behind his back, not giving him his due and generally being dicks. I'm not sure at what exact age I came to the realization that I'm not only getting paid to do a job but also to put up with shitheads that no one else would ever hire. I think that was probably sometime in my first job after college working for a pit full of day traders (I still carry a grudge for the finance douches of the world). I mean there's an asshole tax built into everyone's salary, isn't there?But here on the verge of simultaneously quitting my living wage/shitting my proverbial pants, I'm left to wonder what kind of message I want to send to my children? When I tell my brother that he needs to suck it up and learn how to deal with the crappy co-workers of the world, do I really mean that? (Update: My boss has actually thrown out a semi-serious offer to get me to come back from maternity leave. Damn if I don't have the most obvious achille's heel.)
If you have to deal with assholes no matter where you go in life, isn't there a way to do it with a little more dignity? Maybe in a forum where you can actually affect some social change? Aren't we designed for something better than scrapping for your mindless job, or fighting for the breadcrumbs that trickle down from the top? This is why I'm determined to stop letting meglomaniacs ruin institutions like the school board, or the city council, or the mayor's office. I'm determined to take my babies with me to city council meetings, to actually speak at a schoool board meeting -- that's what really matters right?

Thursday, January 24, 2008


"I'm not talking about dance lessons. I'm talking about putting a brick through the other guy's windshield. I'm talking about taking it out and chopping it up. " -- Royal Tenenbaum

20 minutes into the Republican debate. Jeez. Ron Paul, the missing link in the Grumpy Old Men old men franchise, is the only one spitting any fire so far. The Huckster, of course, continues to turn a populist phrase like the rainmaking preacher he is, but do tell, doesn't Romney smack of Bush circa 2004 (i.e. a total automoton)? He and Guiliani couldn't look more disinterested in their reaction shots. Guiliani knows everything's on the line but he's tripping over his words and can't drive home a point tonight to save his life.
If McCain hadn't left behind his scrappiness somewhere on the campaign trail, I'd be excited to see him up there again.
I'm sort of longing for the misquoting, race-baiting and evasion tactics of the dem debates.
Yawn, muthafuckers. Yawn.
In other news, Jay and I got to spend a night on the town last weekend. We took in fish and chips as recommended by IrishKC then walked the Block building to view some of the new acquisitions, or newly displayed contemporary pieces in the Nelson's collection. What fun. What wonderful, world-class art we have in a town this size. We're lucky bastards.
Photo evidence on the town/two Kansas City favorites:

fish and chips at 75th Street Brewery:


To see or dream that you are a zombie, suggests that you are physically and/or emotionally detached from people and situations that are currently surrounding you. You are feeling out of touch. Alternatively, it may indicate that you are feeling dead inside and are simply going through the motions of daily living
Dreaming that a zombie is after you can mean you feel or fear that someone is threatening you in real life—emotionally, mentally, or physically—or it could just be that you're having a Toxic Dream.
Zombies can represent people who will simply not think rationally. Zombies can relate to moments when you are unable to act and feel paralysed. Zombies exist in a state where they are not alive yet they are not dead. They may symbolise something in your life that has similar features.
After two consecutive 'chased by zombies' dreams last week, i'm left wondering, 'Why are the reanimated such a persistent dream motif for me?' Zombies are the fertile soil in which my subconscious plants its past anxieties and my repressed condescension to the rest of the human race. i can think of no other dream symbol that more effectively reflects my anti-social tendencies and distaste for humanity.
in waking life, like any decent person, i would like to think of myself as a very social, open-minded person who will hear anybody out and validate others even if I'm actually rather ambivalent about the person in question. i know this isn't true, of course, and yet this is how i conceptualize my interpersonal activities.
I know this isn't true because in dreams when the rest of humanity has turned to consuming brains and walking around as corpses cold and soulless, I am the one voice of sanity. The one with the clear head (albeit a head targetted for consumption by ghouls).
I'm such an asshole.
I know this because while my husband will heed the beckoning wave of a non-familiar person wandering our neighborhood, I know before the first word is spoken that they're trying to get something from me, and probably not anything too specific, just anything they can get, which is even more dangerous in my perview. Because this person thinks I'm a sucker, or full of white guilt, or simply stupid. And before he opens his mouth to tell me his story, I'm miles away from listening and I'm reatreating in to the land of Getting the F*ck Outta Here.
My husband sees this behavior as treating the people who randomly show up on our doorstep as "Those People". I would wager that there's a race element in it for him because of his chosen characterization. I suppose it can't be ruled out as part of my trigger to evade the situation (I make no naive claims of immunity from the racist currents of our society), but I'm inclined to think it has more to do with the fact that it's any random stranger approaching me in my personal space with a grifter's smile and a used car saleman's guile. That said, I certainly understand how my failure to overcompensate in those situations could be read as racist.
But I just don't buy that it's all so simple. I could deal with being a racist. It's much harder to look at yourself and see a complete distrust of humanity in general. Much harder to logic that one out of the way ...
I would like to think of all this not as a fault line in my own map of morality, but as a manifestation of hard-won survival skills. But, maybe during the episodes in my past when I acquired said skills, some human part of me died. Maybe despite my superego's attempts to objectify those around me as zombies, maybe I'm really the walking dead feeding on the soft entrails of humanity.
Hmm. Maybe so.

Monday, January 21, 2008

Moreover, or That was a nice break from the raging preggo

I'm reading two books that couldn't be more apropo in light of the economic train wreck unfolding before our eyes.
FREE LUNCH by David Cay Johnston

RICHISTAN by Robert Frank
Really a great duo -- Free Lunch sets up the economics of the situation (comparing it to the Great Gatsby era of nouveau riche and fortunes made amid the unregulated Industrial Revolution off the backs of the labor classes -- all of which set the stage for the Great Depression) and Richistan sort of brings you into the world of the elite who are riding the new wealth boom (the nouveau-nouveau riche, if you will) and how they’ve created their own micro-economy based on trickle down/voodoo economics (once again with fortunes built off the backs of the poor bastards who actually pay their share of taxes and don't benefit from any of the 35k lobbyists currently swarming the capitol).
And just for good measure:
Documentary: Taxi to the Dark Side
About how quickly government embraced the idea of torture and marketed it to a frightened public post-9/11. Explores stories of how honest and well-intentioned service men and women got caught in the moral balance. Esp considering the Dem Congress isn't doing shit to repeal these tactics and are turning a blind eye themselves, this is more than just your standard attack on the Bush Administration's inept war policies.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll get back to watching Hillary's mechanical attempts to impress black people at the National Black Caucus debate.

Sunday, January 20, 2008

roommate redeemed

so our housemate comes home with a box of happiness commonly referred to as "Rock Band".

sadly, but not surprisingly, my fate as drummer continues to look grim. after an ultimately unsuccessful attempt to learn in college in order to join an ultimately unsuccessful art rock band, i resigned myself to a lack of hand-body-eye coordination. my 66% score on Creep just reconfirmed that.

on the bright side, i channeled Karen O. near perfectly for Maps. I RULE.

Saturday, January 19, 2008

taking a break from the hormone rage

postscript: i just realized i've got the spooky eyes in that madonna photo. kinda give myself the willies even.

If I wasn't a cheap whore, I'd wipe my ass with it an mail it back to you Mr. Prez

$1600. $1600, really?
Taxpayer rebates piss me off (just as much now as they did when Bush first pimped them on the campaign trail in 2000). Here's why:
1. It's a gimmick, plainly. It frankly insults my fucking intelligence and the act of you picking my pockets then handing me a wad of the bills you just ganked from me takes political audaciousness to a whole new fucking level. Oh, a gift, of MY MONEY, for moi???
2. so, don't we elect you aholes to BE stewards of the public treasury? To me a rebate says the elected officials of this land (and/or the king ahole 52% of the population elected in 2004) are just collectively throwing up their hands and saying, "Hey, we're out of ideas for this public stewardship of tax payers money thing. Why don't you all give it a try?" This is what you got elected for! Do something constructive with our money -- like paying for social programs that due to a billion-dollar-a-week war, I now have to pay for out of my pocket (on top of adhering to your unfair tax code).
3. The idea is that giving taxpayers money to spend on flatscreen televisions from Korea, or furniture from Sweden or cars from Japan is going to stimulate this economy out of a recession (which despite the mass denials, we ARE already in -- ask the 4 people in my dept who got laid off/fired last week). I mean, seriously? The money is going right back out of the country. People aren't going to be buying stocks or god help them if they want to buy a consumer electronic built in this country. Impossible!
So we have a growing economy, yet, we need taxpayer rebates injected into the middle class? Why is that? Who is reaping the benefits of raping the middle class? Instead of throwing us breadcrumbs, why don't you go knock on the doors of Citibank, Bank of America and the payday loan sharks and reinstate some predatory lending laws that actually have some teeth? We aren't in a recession because people can't pay their mortgages, we aren't in a recession because middle class people don't have $1600 to drop on consumer electronics at will, we're in a recession because the credit industry continues to line middle class americans up for a good old gang bang without any protections from the government.
You can't pay your mortgage on time? Sweet! Everyone you have entered into a credit contract with will be checking your FICO score every month until we can find a reason to renegotiate our credit terms and stick you with a 10% interest rate hike. So, what's a middle class person without a personal lobbyist on Capitol Hill to do??
$1600 isn't going to fix anything. Eat my box, Mr. Bush.
(There's something heartbreakingly poetic about that last sentence, don't you think?)

Thursday, January 17, 2008

Morning Creepshow

Ok, so I'm reeling from a grisly discovery this morning. I'm making a fried egg for the little guy when i raise the kitchen trash can lid to dispose of the eggshell and i'm bitch-slapped in the face by the smell of jizz. Unmistakable, don't you think? And, keep in mind, with my pregnancy nose, the smell is amplified by a thousand so that it actually resembles the trashcan of an irreputable sperm bank.
The kind of sheer horror that prompts one to stare into the snarled metal of a roadside crash causes my eyes to fall on a perfectly preserved tableau of bachelorhood on display in my kitchen trashcan. An empty beer bottle, a crumpled bag of Cool Ranch Doritos and a seemingly non-descript fold of soaked toilet paper. I know immediately this is the calling card of our roommate.
For a moment, I'm paralyzed with disbelief -- mostly because in my effort to squash down the almost-full trashcan, I touched that piece of toilet paper.
With my heart racing I tell Jason our kitchen trash smells of jizz. He looks at me like I'm nuts. I open it for him, HE ACTUALLY PICKS UP THE SUSPECT PIECE OF TOILET PAPER and shakes his head and says with a completely straight face, "I don't smell anything" -- leaving me feeling like I'm going totally nuts. But his next action is telling: He ties of the bag and puts it outside. AH HA!
I say: "Um, you would flush that, right? Barring a childhood raised by wolves, one would never actually put a jizz rag in the kitchen trash -- much less the kitchen trash when you're not living by yourself? I'm crazy, right?"
His response: "Yeah, of course. I don't know anyone who would do such a thing."
My response: Take out the bleach water and spray down the entire trash can and inside the trash can. All the while trying not to puke.
I'm crazy, right?

Tuesday, January 15, 2008

The funeral procession continues ...

Still waiting for the ALL CLEAR from the leadership so I, and the rest of The Company, wait with bated breath for a clear sign that we're not on a sinking ship. Several of my usual trips to the bathroom today revealed a rampant wave of Osco Syndrome taking hold amongst the crew members on my floor. I offered an apologetic glance to the cleaning lady as she wheeled the sani-cart into ladies' room for an afternoon wipe up. God, I used to feel bad for her, but now I realize that she's got one of the few steady gigs in this place.
In other funereal news, KCKPD unveiled a new Midtown police station a mere hop skip and jump away from the gangland-style homicide at 47th and State Ave that occurred during the dinner hour over the weekend. What is actually discouraging: there's been a police station in the basement of the flat-lining Indian Springs mall literally across the street from the shooting for at least 5 years.
Here's to fighting the good fight, boys -- watch out for loaded hairbrushes on your new beat. And hey, Reardon, thanks for the breadcrumbs. Maybe we can work on this bit about sharing the tax wealth with the rest of WyCo on this side of 435.

Monday, January 14, 2008

Dispatches from The Company

I don't have any revelations about the unexpected and widespread lay-offs at The Company. Or, at least anything too original to say about it, except that the recession the pundits and Fed bozos have been predicting is already hitting close to home. The very sweet but unlucky girl next my cube was one of those blindsided. As I carried her pet fish up the parking lot to her car, we felt uncomfortable discussing the details with the security drone following closely behind us. I didn't know what to say anyway. It's one of those moments where you find all the hopeful statements you can muster and offer them up like a cup of soup -- warm and nourishing but you still feel empty afterwards.
From what I understand, the rest of us are safe for now. As for morale, it's been damaged probably beyond repair as anyone worth their salt and who can find work somewhere else is probably trolling careerbuilder as I write this. So essentially what will remain is the shaky, feral animals who can't jump ship because they don't know how to swim. I feel pretty safe for as long as I remain there (10 weeks and counting) as Exhibit A for an EEOC suit continues to snuggle warmly in my womb, but there are no guarantees.
What I will add is that, tkc, this cowtown's own Chicken Little, may not be so wrong about the impending doomsday for the downtown renaissance after all. Many of the young pimps at The Company purchased those overpriced lofts downtown in a futile attempt to be young, hot AND urban. And that's all downtown needs -- a wave of foreclosures or desperation sales in the lap of nouveau riche luxury.
For now, I'm treading water and hoping no one goes postal. My post-traumatic stress disorder superior survival skills have yielded a proper plan of escape should such a bloody contingency occur, but I'm not at liberty to share that tidbit.
Wish us luck, eh?

In happier news, here's a photo of my brand new little cousin [Blank] Michael Smith born just last Saturday.

Wednesday, January 09, 2008

hillary makes me cry for a change

Well, everything's been making me cry lately and I've gotten quite the penchant for ingesting pop culture morsels dripping with hopelessness. Watching extremely depressing documentaries on the Doc channel, reading the most depressing magazine articles, and listening to npr.
That last one did me in this morning when I was listening to a New Hampshire woman and Episcopal priest (i.e. one of the masses of women who helped Hillary Clinton win the dem primary there) talk about how she came to her decision. After hopping around between the dem noms throughout the past few weeks she came to the realization that she'd be happy with any of them. Then her daughter who lives out of state called and reminded her of an exchange they had when the daughter was young. She said, in a moment of teenage rebellion, "No one's ever going to call ME a feminist." And her mom's simple and quiet response was, "That's so ungrateful." After this, the mom decided that she would not be a part of the history of this country that refuses powerful, accomplished women their due recognition and her vote would go to Hillary Clinton.
A tear came to my eye as I imagined the same conversation with my own daughter in 18 years. I was once that ungrateful precocious daughter of post-feminist America. The years have taught me how much we owe our forebears and each other. Hillary isn't my choice candidate. I think she's kind of shady, but she knows how to get things done, and since Edwards isn't likely to stage a comeback of any consequence in this race, I'll stand with her. And hope for a bellwether victory.

ninja vaginata

I was directed here this week much to my delight. What more fearful lore could there be for the misogynist but the legend of vagina dentata. Love to see what they do with this. Um, literally. That could be some freaky stuff. Images that burn into your retina for far too long after viewing the piece (for more something similar but slightly more disturbina as it's true, see Zoo).

In return for this happy link, my jaybird sends me word of this piece of modern medieval torture device. Let me get to the heart of the matter with a quote, "If an attacker were to attempt vaginal rape, their penis would enter the latex sheath and be snagged by the barbs, causing the attacker pain during withdrawal and (ideally) giving the victim time to escape. The condom would remain attached to the attacker's body when he withdrew and could only be removed surgically." "Ehler mentioned that she was inspired to create the RapeX when a patient who had been raped stated, 'If only I had teeth down there.'" Mercy.

Thus commences the following email convo between jpp, slampost and myself, recreated here for your reading pleasures. Note: If you write that screenplay yourself, you owe us a writing credit, sucka.

Me: YES. Make these available! Esp in places in Africa and South Asia where young girls can’t even walk home from school without fear of being attacked. And for abused wives around the world, what better way to even the score for getting the s beat out of you day in and out. I’d call this more effective than the Burning Bed. I totally support this.
SP: That's an awesome idea! It kind of makes me feel sick to my stomach.Me: I guess you might get the errant crazy woman who wears one to bobbitize her cheating boyfriend. Small price to pay for the greater good, I say.SP: I could see a woman going off the deep end and, say, picking up random victims at a club. Man, that's the making of a screenplay right dere.Me: That sounds like a creepy Asian horror flick. Write it!SP: Only if we can throw in flying ninjas and the grudge for good measure.
Me: I’m sure you could work in flying Chinese stars. JB: and a nunchuck or two.Me: I think we’ve found the accompanying film for the next installment of Grind House. Ninja Vaginata. Would double feature perfectly with ‘Machete’.

Saturday, January 05, 2008

Out with the jolly

So after a week's hiatus of ingesting as much Iowa caucus as humanly possible (check emaw for better double entendres than my own), down comes the holiday deco.
The house has lost its fa-la-la and returned to the less lively wardrobe it wears for most of the year. My living room is becoming one of those living rooms where toys seem to be crammed in every corner and stuffed animals seem to propagate from beneath sofa cushions. Not that I mind that perception, but either psychosomatically or for true, I feel a repetitive stress injury taking hold in the small of my back from a constant cycle of tidying.
This week I found I have another co-worker moving to Perceptive Software and I'm intensely jealous and nervous that I'm missing some opportunity to make a livable wage (and enjoy the kind of cush corporate culture I've always heard rumor of -- they have a slide from the second floor to the first! ). I could throw my resume in the ring, but damn, I did this switch jobs-mid-pregnancy deal before and the shit is stressful. I'm someone who irrationally worries about losing my job constantly anyway during the best of times, but in those initial months post-baby when doc appts and sicknesses abound, it's enough to put me in an early grave with worrying about not cutting the mustard. Life is short. I'm willing to see how much stress being cash poor is this time around. Couldn't be any worse, right?

Btw, 'cut the mustard' is a great phrase that I think we should agree to resuscitate, ok? What do you say? Let's do it.

Thursday, January 03, 2008

The Tiny Lebowski

Picking up ladies at the bowling alley. In a turtleneck.

This kid's got it, man. For real.

Tuesday, January 01, 2008

The Spanish-American-Wyandotte War of 2008

Ok, so it's been literally years since I have been able to properly celebrate the New Year what with all this baby-hatching and breastfeeding but I can still appreciate a party. However, what occurred between 11:00 and 12:45 this morning in eastern Wyandotte county resembled more a post-NRA convention hoedown. Amid the sis-boom-bah's of KCK's little mexico I recognized the rounds of shotguns, gats and I'll wager that aural spray of raat-a-tat-tat was something in the family of an AK-47. Now, I'm a country girl by birth so I can appreciate some good ol' new year's pop offs, but this was on a whole new level. It was the prolonged quality of it, the diversity of ammo, and the occasional accompanying scream (I wouldn't call them hoots or even woots, but actual screams) that really made it a banner year. Something I didn't hear, quite thankfully, were sirens.

So yeah, all that crap i spewed about living in the city. Not as cool when you're wondering what shit-faced douche is trying to shoot your neighborhood up and likely their own foot in the process all in the name of tearing it up Dotte style on NYE.

In belly news, the mofo continues to expand. Duckling inside continues to tenderize my intestines with her ninja moves.

the first photo of the belly v2.0.

Behold the glory of the monstrous belly