Giving Thanks

I imagine most of you are basting your turkeys or sweetening your yams. Oh, get your minds out of the gutter, I'm talking about dinner preparations, you freaks. Such a naughty bunch.

I'm watching football.

We're actually going to do our Big Meal on Friday. (A small strike back at government-mandated holidays) Teen Demon and the Male Offspring were invited to their significant others' houses today, and the Bohemian's throat will have an extra day to heal before the gluttony. Plus, it's not easy to put on a big meal Thursday if you work. Braving the grocery store mobs Wednesday night after work? Screw that. I hate grocery shopping even under the best of circumstances.  Add mob mentality, and I'm out of there. And then there's cleaning the house; when do you fit that in? I'm actually surprised more people don't do it on Friday. Probably better for travel arrangements as well.

Teen Demon isn't crazy about doing the extended family thing with Boyfriend's family, but she's putting on her game face. A few of them try to corner her on the religion thing every once in a while.  She's not down with that. Male Offspring was excited because Girlfriend's stepdad was thrilled to have a guy to watch the games with. Various uncles will be arriving later in the day as well.

It was a bit heartbreaking, watching his face light up at the prospect of watching the game "with the guys". I gave him a hug, seeing that bit of Little Boy shining through his teenage face, and he said, "It's not like my own dad watches the games with me, but whatever". I told him his dad would if he were here, to which he just rolled his eyes. Well, at least his mom is a football freak, so we do watch the game together every week. But multiple games with the guys, shoot, I'm envious, and I don't even have a penis. Anyway, we're doing our big dinner tomorrow, and it works out well for the son. I hope he has fun.

We did a big breakfast this morning and watched the Lions v. the Packers. I was rooting for the Lions (sorry, Lex) but the Packers won.

The Bohemian is improving - she's eating, her lymph nodes are receding, her throat is looking more normal every day. She's still very fatigued, but her humor is intact, she's resting, and she's going to be fine. I'm very thankful for that, and I'm thankful she was able to come home.

--------------------------

I'm always conflicted about this particular holiday. On the one hand, I should take time more often to really be thankful. Even when we feel our lives are shit, there are things to be thankful for. It's good to be reminded of that. Life gets in the way, things get busy, and I often think about what's gone wrong, my worries and stresses, where my life should be as compared to where it is. It's good to have a time where I'm reminded to consciously stop and reflect on those things for which I am thankful. That's a good thing.

On the other hand, the actual holiday on which this happens represents something very different for those people who were already here when the rest of our forebears immigrated. Being purposely thankful is good, and I need to do that more often, but celebrating this particular day and the history behind it ... I don't feel so good about that. I wish there were a different event or concept tied to celebrating thankfulness, rather than a skewed history, prettied up and neatly presented in textbooks and children's plays.

A construction paper pilgrim's hat, a feather paired with a few stripes of paint across a small face, people clap and smile as diminutive of pilgrims and Indians kindly help each other and give thanks together ... except that's not the whole story. It's very painful for many across this country to see this version so celebrated and honored.

And most of us ignore it and get on with our meal.

However, regardless of how one might personally feel about this holiday, the fact remains that this weekend is a four-day holiday, and we don't get to pick and choose when those come along. Grown children can return home. It's actually possible to take time out from life to visit and connect with friends and family. So we do. And yes, I'm thankful that we each have time off from our various jobs, schools, schedules, and are healthy and able to gather and be thankful for each other.

(And thus I rationalize, and get on with my meal.)

It would be nice if each worker could individually choose which 11 holidays to honor each year. Maybe there would be more actual honoring of history and people that truly have meaning for us, rather than just another day off work.

Anyway.

So tomorrow I get my domesticity on. Bring on the gluttony. To all of you turkey basters out there, enjoy your family, your friends, your turkeys, your football games, your connections over this weekend. I'm thankful for you guys, too.

Not Quite a Medivac, but Close Enough.

So I thought I'd do an update, mainly because it's easier than answering all the emails entitled "The Bohemian" inquiring as to her constitution. And I'm lazy. Sorry I haven't really been out and about in the blogosphere, but hey, the world didn't end. I probably should make that break more often before I end up at Blogger's anonymous.

She's not doing so hot. Every time I talk to her I keep hoping to hear she's feeling better, but it's looking to be a slow recovery. Expected with mono, but still. Today was some good news, as she says the swelling in her throat has begun to go down, but it's nowhere close to normal. She did manage to actually eat some oatmeal today -- mixed down to a sort of oatmeal soup, but still, it's food.

Anyway, we're bringing her home tomorrow morning. There is just no way she could attend class next week, and I don't want her stuck there by herself over the holiday especially, when I'm sure even Miss Willis will have cleared out for the holiday. I couldn't imagine her this sick and alone there over holiday. Neither the doctor nor I thought she'd be able to handle the normal flight, though -- direct flights are always about $800 or more, so she always goes with the Commoner's Flight, an all day ordeal involving a layover of at least a couple of hours. Normally no problem - the child made her first international flight at 5 weeks old and is an old hand at traveling, but now? No way.

Anyway, she found a direct flight for only $400-something. We got lucky. So all she has to do is get on the flight and collapse, and it will take her straight to Seattle. I pick her up tomorrow morning.

She really hasn't eaten much since last Monday but a bit of soup, and that liquid oatmeal today. Other than that, it's been Gatorade and Ensure and herbal teas. She's very slender to begin with (amazing, given the fact that she often packs away more than her athlete-growing-spurt-brother) so I'm worried about her losing weight. I'm glad she's coming home.

She's worried she won't be able to eat Thanksgiving dinner. That's a good sign. Seriously, she may be a little slip of a thing, but the girl can EAT. Normally, anyway. I'm going to make my homemade potato soup for her tomorrow - it's one of her favorite things in the world, and if I mash most of the potatoes up real good and use more milk, she should be able to eat it.



Thanks to all of you who sent good thoughts and support and even medical knowledge over the cyberwaves to the Bohemian and her mom -- it is much appreciated. I must throw a shout out to my Boston and DC boyz in particular. I received offers to actually rush to her rescue, which was very much appreciated. I know it might seem seem strange to those who don't "do" this blogging thing, that I'd find some measure of comfort in knowing there were a bunch of men across the country whom I've never met, who were willing to rush over to my daughter's dorm room and tend to her every need. Come to think of it, that actually sounds just batshit crazy. But I knew they would, and in a totally good way, too.

To quote one RG, of Boston fame:

... one word to The Boyz in the DC area via the blog-o-sphere, and she'll be more looked after than a sequined dress on Halloween in the Castro. We got your back girl.

That pretty much says it all. I've got a couple of non-cyber friends out that direction as well, which has always lent a bit of "just in case" security to the Bohemian being on the opposite coast. That security is feeling even stronger now. Knowing that people care and would be there if we really need it ... well, it makes things a little bit easier. Thanks boyz.

Felled by a Bug

UPDATE BELOW

The Bohemian is sick.

I mean really sick. As in they had her hooked up to an IV and she had to get 2 shots and 3 prescriptions. She has mono AND "something similar to strep". And she's on the other side of the damn country. She can't eat and can barely talk. She doesn't even have a roommate this year, so she's just by herself in her room, now that they've released her. Some of you know that last year's roommate was Satan's daughter, the TV Addict, but right now, I'd be grateful for someone who could look over every once in a while and hold a mirror under her nose, maybe bring her a cup of friggin' tea.

One of the prescriptions is actually a steroid to bring down the swelling in her throat and tonsils, because apparently, they look something like this. Welcome to mono, folks. Yeah, horrid. No wonder the poor kid can barely swallow water.

I was researching same-day Fed-Ex deliveries at about $150 (WTF?) when my sensible friend suggested checking grocery store deliveries. So by noon tomorrow the daughter should be up to her ears in Gatorade, soups and broths, chocolate nutrition shakes, ibuprofen, pomegranate throat lozenges, Nighttime Airborne, some other shit that I don't remember, and a thermometer. Yeah, I sent my kid off to college without a thermometer, and we're just now realizing it.

Of course, the delivery man will not make her soup or bring her a cool washcloth or fix the lights or make sure she drinks enough or that she has enough blankets or that her fever isn't too high. What good is he, anyway?

Tomorrow morning I'm going to call to her dorm and see if the RA would check on her every once in a while. Although she says the RA for that building is pretty much invisible. -sigh-


You know it's bad when your normally sarcastic, almost-20-year-old "kid" cries before getting off the phone, while trying to squeak out "I miss you".

Fuck.

------------------------------------
Update: Wow this kid is really sick. (Did I tell you they called in the medical students to observe her on Tuesday because "we don't usually see cases this bad?")

First off, the Bohemian's delivery arrived, and she has hydrated herself and ingested some liquid nutrition in the form of Ensure, which is what we used give my Grandma when she was ill. Second, I have spoken a couple of times with the director of her residence hall, a saint among us named Ms. Willis, whom I secretly suspect is some version of fairy godmother. She arranged for the delivery to be taken straight to the Bohemian's room, and said she'll have the RA check on her every few hours. She told me, "Honey, I've got kids myself - if one of mine was that sick and far from home, I'd want somebody to do the same. You just call any time. Ask for Ms. Willis."

It's really hard to hear her sound so awful. I mean, of course she's been sick before, since she left home, even, but nothing like this since that flu swept through Eastern Europe from Russia, and all the schools and businesses were shut down for weeks. We all got it, the Bohemian and I the worst - I seriously wondered if I was going to die. Anyway, this is the sickest she's been since then. That kind of sick.

Background: You have to understand the Bohemian has deemed all Western medicine to be "evil chemicals", and none shall pass her lips. No form of the mildest pain reliever or cold medicine. Not even an ibuprofen for cramps. Instead, she drinks an herbal "women's tea". We have gone around about this for years.

The child will not even take vitamins. I once made her take a multi in front of me. Later I found the soggy mess in a crumpled napkin on top of her piano. She was 17 at the time, not 5. Also, any sort of sugared or "fake" drinks fall into the category of "evil chemicals". Neither do these pass her lips. Third, she particularly hates Gatorade, due to some of their advertising that she found offensive, and will not support them with her $$ even if she did like "fake drinks".


With that in mind, she has taken the IV, shots, and pills without complaint. Last night I explained that Gatorade and Ensure were on their way, along with various meds. Her response? "OK." Uh-oh.

Today, after it arrived, I explained how important it was for her to have the electrolytes and nutrition (she hasn't eaten since Tuesday), and asked for her solemn promise to JUST DRINK THE DAMN STUFF. Her response? A half-hearted "OK."

Later, she informed me she had taken Ibuprofen -- on her own, no suggestion from me -- in addition to her antibiotic dose. Holy Mother of God, my mother was right -- it is the end times.

Yeah. She's sick.

Weekend Rain Phenomenon

Q: What are two rainy days in Seattle called?

A: The weekend.

pink umbrella photo by photographer Jef Maion

It's a gorgeous sunny day here in the Puget Sound. Of course it is. It's Monday. Well, virtual Monday, yesterday being a holiday and all. The rain gods knew I didn't have to work yesterday, so the usual Monday sunbreaks were delayed until Tuesday. Because they're sadistic bastards like that.

At first I thought it was my imagination, this idea that it somehow always rains on weekends, sunshine being doled out on the days when I'm trapped in my hermetically sealed office.

I told myself to stop being such a Debbie Downer, that there aren't really rain gods up there, high-fiving each other and laughing at me, down in my soggy grey existence, every weekend.

Surely I only thought it rained more on the weekends because that's when I notice the rain. Right?

"Suck it up and drive on, Cowbell," I admonished myself, "Quit being such a whining baby, it's just your imagination."


Except it wasn't.

There actually is scientific evidence explaining the rainy weekend phenomenon:

The fine particulate matter produced by car exhaust and other human sources of pollution form cloud condensation nuclei, leads to the production of clouds and increases the likelihood of rain.

As commuters and commercial traffic cause pollution to build up over the course of the week, the likelihood of rain increases: it peaks by Saturday, after five days of weekday pollution has been built up.

In heavily populated areas that are near the coast, such as the United States' Eastern Seaboard, the effect can be dramatic: there is a 22% higher chance of rain on Saturdays than on Mondays.

How about that. Our hellish commuter situation is contributing to our hellish rain situation.

Further research turned up a story on KOMO-4 news where our own Steve Pool, of Double Doppler fame, analyzed several years of rainfall records specifically to investigate the weekend rain phenomenon. The findings? Yes, Virginia, it does rain more on Saturday and Sunday than any other day, with Sunday edging out Saturday. Friday -- of course -- is the driest day of the week, which I can see nicely through my 20" wide office window.

Imagination my soggy, chapped ass.

Tales from the Crypt

So the last post got me to thinking about sick and twisted family traditions. Our little family did not develop this particular brand of humor by accident.

My family of origin was rife with twisted humor. My mom, seen here with me and baby sister back in days of yore, was prone to punnery and word play, while my dad leaned more toward dry, sarcastic wit and scatological humor. It was my dad and I who often teamed up for jokes and hijinks. My mom and sister were, by default, often the victims of our depravity.

My parents moved us out to the country my freshman year of high school. That's a photo of my dad from that time. The one perched on his shoulder is Clara Clucker, my sister's Plymouth Rock hen.

We lived on about 25 acres, outside city limits. And by "city", I mean fewer than 6,000 people, townies and country folks combined. Our house was set about a quarter mile off the unpaved road. Country folks don't have driveways; they have lanes. Probably 2/3 of our land was woods, which started at the bottom of the hill behind our house.

Neighbors were widely spaced. The nearest ones may have been within shouting distance, meaning they might have heard an all out, blood-curdling scream if the windows were open, if the wind favored you, and if their TV wasn't turned up too loud. There were no streetlights, so dark meant dark. Satan's asshole dark. A car crunching down the gravel road was a rare enough occurrence to bring us to the front windows.

Daddy brought home a VCR one day, probably my freshman or sophomore year. This was a big deal in the early 80s. The newest technology! He also brought home a ColecoVision video game system, on which I spent many a happy hour with Donkey Kong and Mario. Anyway, with the VCR came the concept of family movie night. My dad and I loved scary movies. Mom and Sis, not so much. In fact, not at all.

Like the night we watched the original Halloween. Remember that scene where the young couple is in bed together, and the boyfriend leaves to go get her some milk or beer or something? (my sister and I were shocked to see the nekked breasts of the girlfriend character revealed, right there in our living room! The VCR was the best invention ever.) Anyway, in the scene, the "boyfriend" comes back covered in a sheet, wearing his glasses on top of the sheet. The girlfriend thinks it's cute, but of course it turns out to be the murderer, and she meets her demise in grisly fashion. It was scary as hell.

After the movie, Mom went to brush her teeth. A terrified scream pierced our tender eardrums, and my mom came flying back down the hall from her bedroom. Daddy had pinned a sheet up on the wall, and, in a stroke of genius, pinned up a pair of those black glasses with the nose and mustache attached as well.

Then he unscrewed the light bulb in their room. Genius.

The moon was out, so there was just enough light for her to come face to face with a ghostly sheet, complete with glasses. When the light didn't work and the realization kicked in that my dad, the prime suspect, was still out in the living room, and therefore, not under the sheet ... well, that was all she wrote. Mom had a major freak out.

Mom was not amused, but my sister and I sure were. I'm pretty sure part of Sis's laughter was relief at not being the intended victim this time, but still. My dad was well pleased with himself.

At some point during those years, Salem's Lot, a Stephen King thriller involving vampires, was made into a mini-series to be shown on TV. Daddy and I couldn't wait. Mom and Sis reluctantly agreed to watch.

That's me and my sister, over there to the left, long before any depravity had started. Well, actually, maybe some depravity had taken root; this photo was taken not long after I'd decided to cut my sister's hair. My mom was not happy, as she'd already scheduled the photo session. I thought Sis looked great, and was quite pleased with myself, as you can see in the pic.

Don't we look sweet as sugar, with our little nautical theme going on there? By the time high school rolled around, a lot of the sugar had worn off. Along with the nautical themes.


Anyway, Salem's Lot was showing! A mini-series was a big deal before Tivo, Netflix and 500 cable channels. Hell, before DVDs. Everyone in town was going to watch it. The fact that there really wasn't that much to do in our town made it an even bigger deal.

Salem's Lot was seriously scary. It had these horribly heinous vampires who would show up even in my nightmares, so you can imagine my sister's. In fact, looking at the fangs and yellow eyes of this guy to the right, I'm gaining a clearer understanding of why that beastly devil-rat from the last post currently making the rounds in my house freaks me out so much. There's an uncanny resemblance.

The Salem's Lot vampire may be lodged more deeply in my subconscious than I realized.

I don't remember a whole lot about the plot in Salem's Lot, but I do remember there was this floating little boy vampire who terrified my sister. He would appear at the window of the sleeping movie-child, and scratch ... scratch ... scratch against the screen, enticing the child to invite him in. The little boy vampire scared the crap out of my sister. He pretty much scared the crap out of me as well, but my mind was already formulating a plan.

That night after everyone was asleep, I carefully removed the screen from my window and picked up a long stick I'd placed there before bedtime. The stick was long enough that I could lean out and scratch ... scratch ... scratch against the screen of my sister's window, her room being just down the hall from mine.

I guess she wasn't sleeping too well that night, because it didn't take long for the scream to come, a scream like the undead loosed from the confines of hell. Timing was critical. I waited until she ran out into the hall, an extra beat for good measure, then ran out of my room, asking, "What happened?! What's the matter?"

My sister stopped cold. If I, the chief suspect, was in the house, in the hallway ... then who was outside scratching on her window?!? Sis continued to protest when mom told her it must've been a bad dream.  No! She really did hear something outside, she did! She wasn't crazy!

The folks checked Sis's room, but thankfully did not check outside, where the incriminating stick still lay. Daddy didn't say a word. The raised eyebrows and barely visible smile said enough.

Years later, I told Sis and Mom the real story -- Daddy and I were practically howling. Mom and Sis ... not so much.

Fright Night

A few Halloweens ago, the Male Offspring and I took a little trip to Value Village, that Holy Grail of Halloween, on a quest for a cheap costume forged from the castaway clothing of others. With an old choir robe, a witch's hat, some reflective tape and some scissors, Male Offspring was magically transformed into a wizard.

Aww. Isn't he cute? He looks so little-boy here; it's amazing what a difference a couple of growth spurts can make.

Mystical symbols of wizardry, or reflective armament against idiotic drivers? Both! It's all about multifunctionality when it comes to cheap Halloween costumes.

These were the pumpkins from that year: Teen Demon's frog, my cat, Male Offspring's tree spirit, and the Bohemian's witchy symbology.

This was Teen Demon's costume. Even cheaper. She's a thrifty kid. The Bohemian put on a Nordic looking hat, a big knitted poncho, a scarf, and some funky boots and went as some type of ... I don't know, someone who lives in a cold place.

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So anyway, all of that is backstory for today's subject, which stems from that fateful trip to Value Village with the Male Offspring. We were commending ourselves for keeping down the cost of costumery, when Male Offspring stumbled across the perfect Halloween item.

It was a rat. A giant, rubber devil-rat, long yellow fangs bared in a silent shriek of rage, revealing the angry scarlet portal to his despicable rat gullet. A monster rat. The kind of rat that would come flying across the room at you in a Stephen King novel, the kind of lurid beast that would just as soon rip your throat out as skitter through city sewers with his normal-rat brethren.

This was the Beelzebub of the rodent world.

The son and I cooked up a plan. The rat would come home with us, concealed until Halloween night, when he would make his appearance. He would appear on the back of the toilet, which, in that house, was tucked back in a recessed corner of the bathroom. Nature eventually calls. The girls were guaranteed to find him at some point.

Except they didn't, because we forgot to bring the archfiend out from his lair under my bed, by the time the fated night rolled around.

We were so disappointed! I couldn't believe we forgot. No matter; we could wait. The hell-rodent would remain our little secret for the next year.

Mostly he gathered dust, but not too much - there was a dust-ruffle around his lair, after all. Every once in a while though, Male Offspring or I would stealthily take him out. I'd hide him in the son's bed, or he'd put him in my bathroom sink and turn my dimmer way down. It scared the bejeezuz out of us every time. And each time the victim would silently plot revenge, biding time until the rat's next appearance.

We never have remembered to put him out on Halloween for the girls. He's become our own private fright night. Sometimes half a year goes by with no sign of the rat, then one night, I'll pull back my covers, unsuspecting, to discover its hideous. foul visage glaring up at me from my bed. Every time it makes me jump and scream like a girl. And curse. Last night I let loose a string of vilification scaring even the dogs, upon finding this in my bed:












wait for it....

BOO!

The son is so going to pay.

Angela Davis to Speak in Seattle

You heard right - Angela Davis is coming to Seattle. She'll be presenting Prisons and American History: The Prison Industrial Complex, at the Mount Zion Baptist Church, Thursday, November 15, at 7 pm.

I had another meeting scheduled that night, but you know where I'll be. Yeah, it takes a lot to get me into a church these days, but I will be there next Thursday.

...was that thunder?

Her lecture is part of the Bush School's ongoing Diversity Speakers Series for this year. (Named for Helen Taylor Bush, not G.W.) I was impressed as hell by that. They're a private school, and apparently are really making strides in the diversity department. Check out some of those speakers. That is a nice series! Wish our district had the funding and the consciousness to bring about a series like this. That doesn't just happen by accident, though - somebody's been doing some work over there. It is very inspirational to me, with the work I'm doing in our parents group.

It's important to me that Teen Demon and the Male Offspring have this opportunity to hear Angela Davis speak. Hearing about her experiences and insights first-hand is something they can't get from reading a history book. (Definitely not from the history books in their classrooms.) There was a lot more going on in the 60's than just the flower power movement, and she is a huge part of history.

So come next Thursday, if you hear a huge crack of thunder, and the sky lights up, you'll know that Cowbell crossed the church threshold. Maybe it won't count since it's not an actual religious event.

Here's a little closing thought for you,

When Bush says democracy, I often wonder what he's referring to.
~Angela Davis

Happy Birthday, Joni

Down on your knees, all of you! Wow, so many of you were already there...

It is the birth date of my personal Goddess, one Joni Mitchell. This here is a call to worship, people. Actually, Joni wouldn't want a big deal made...

"I never wanted to be a star. I didn't like entering the room with all eyes on me. I still don't like the attention of a birthday party. I prefer Christmas, which is everybody's holiday."

It's weird, whenever I read her words, I hear them in her voice, sometimes with her laugh. So, in celebration of her artistry, genius and all around beauty, Joni's words:


Songs are like tattoos
~Blue


You know the times you impress me the most
are the times when you don't try.
~Woman of Heart and Mind


All I really really want our love to do
Is to bring out the best in me and in you too.
~All I Want


I can't go back there anymore
You know my keys won't fit the door,
You know my thoughts don't fit the man
They never can,
They never can
~I Had a King



Marcie's faucet needs a plumber
Marcie's sorrow needs a man
~Marcie




Some get the gravy, some get the gristle.
~Banquet


It seems such a shame
We start out so kind and end so heartlessly
~See You Sometime


There's no comprehending
Just how close to the bone and the skin and the eyes
And the lips you can get,
And still feel so alone
And still feel related
~Coyote


But now it's cloak and dagger
Walk on eggshells and analyze
Every particle of difference
Gets like mountains in our eyes
~Good Friends

He reached past the wine for my hand to hold
And he saw me young and he saw me old
And he saw me, sitting there.
~The Priest


He's the warmest chord I ever heard
~My Old Man

And he loved me so naughty
Made me weak in the knees
~River


I know you don't like weak women
You get bored so quick,
And you don't like strong women
'Cause they're hip to your tricks
~You Turn Me On, I'm a Radio




Now she rallies her defenses,
For she fears that one will ask her
For eternity
And she's so busy being free.
~Cactus Tree

One minute she's so happy
Then she's crying on someone's knee,
Saying laughing and crying
You know it's the same release
~People's Parties

Sitting in a park in Paris France
Reading the news and it sure looks bad
They won't give peace a chance
That was just a dream some of us had
~California

Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on
~River




With kids nearly grown and gone
Grown so fast,
Like the turn of a page
We look like our mothers did now,
When we were those kids' age
Nothing lasts for long
~Chinese Café


And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down.
We're captive on the carousel of time,
We can't return we can only look
Behind from where we came,
And go round and round and round
In the circle game
~The Circle Game


Oh, you're in my blood like holy wine
You taste so bitter and so sweet.
Oh I could drink a case of you darling,
And I would still be on my feet...
I would still be on my feet
~Case of You



Happy Birthday, Joni.

Banished

Last night Male Offspring and I had the opportunity to go to a screening of the film, Banished - American Ethnic Cleansings. The film maker, Marco Williams, stayed to answer questions after the screening.

The film has been making the rounds of film festivals this year, and will be shown on PBS in January or February, 2008. It covers three (of many) communities in which the Black populations were forcibly expelled in the early 1900s, losing their homes and land. They were forced out with guns, bombs, fire, lynchings. Many of these communities remain White even today.

One family, including their 95-year-old matriarch, finds that the 38 acres of land once owned by their grandparents in Forsyth County, GA, is now a wealthy subdivision. Researching the deed history shows that there was never a deed of sale before the family was run out of town - other people took it afterward, by default, by illegal means. The people living on the land now, in $300,000 homes, believe they have purchased the land fair and square.

(When the Ex and I lived near Atlanta, we were told never to go to Forsyth County or Macon - that Black people "weren't allowed". That was in 1990.)

Another family attempts to recover a grandfather's remains from an unmarked grave in the all-White town of Pierce City, MO. The family had onced owned property in town, but was among those forced out by a mob of Whites who, with weapons from the local armory, fired on the homes of their Black neighbors.

The film maker also visits the all-white town of Harrison, Arkansas, where the confederate flag still flies. He interviews a pastor trying to take steps toward healing, as well as the head of the local KKK who considers himself a community leader.

Marco Williams was soft-spoken, thoughtful, and easy on the eyes. Hey, truth is truth, y'all. He said that before the actual filming started, he scouted out the towns on his own. I think he was brave as hell to do that as an African-American man, more so after seeing the footage. He admitted to being "terrified".

It was interesting how he used tangible means to tackle this subject - land. Property equals wealth. It is concrete, it appreciates in value, it can be passed on to our children. Over the course of time, it is how wealth is built. The land these families had worked for, when it was not easy for those of African descent to acquire land, was lost. Stolen.

The film raises the question, how different might the lives of the descendents be, had their families not lost their land - their wealth? They had to start over from scratch, often with nothing more than the clothes on their backs.

Mr. Williams has included some trailers for the film on his site, if you're interested. These aren't actually in the final version of the film, but it gives an idea.

The film doesn't offer concrete answers, but it does bring out some difficult questions about a part of our history that we are not taught.

The Ice Pick Cometh

The Ovary Gremlin is here. I hate that fucker. It hardly ever happens to me. I've never been one to suffer from "female issues", at least not since those awful cramps of high school. No PMS or any of that. But the Ovary Gremlin is getting his evil on today, wielding his ice pick of doom. I mean the kind of evil where you can't stand up straight, and feel compelled to hurl obscenities behind the effort. Satan's Asshole!*

Sadistic little bastard.

The plan was to work from home a partial day today, while also attending to some things that need doing around the house. Like cleaning. And laundry. You know, those little extras that make a house a home. This pretty much shoots that plan in the ass. Or the ovary. The left one, to be specific. Which makes no sense, timing-wise, as Aunt Flo has come and gone, and I am not in the 'window of fertility', but whatever.

I'm attending the Seattle Race Conference tonight -- hopefully without the Gremlin -- and all day tomorrow. Yes, there's Sunday, but seriously people, going full bore all week, then spending Sunday cleaning and errand-running is a sure recipe for bitchiness and slackassedness the following Monday.

I really hate when I take some time off from work and then have to waste it over some kind of health issue. You think I want to actually use my sick leave for being sick? Please. When you're really sick, you're just grateful for that time to lie under your comforter, dozing in front of old movies and moaning pitifully. But this ... I'm not sick, I'm antsy because I'm wasting perfectly good sick leave being not-sick instead of getting things done.

It's all about sadistic hijinx with the Ovary Gremlin. He'd better be done with me by 5:30 tonight.

None of this is made better by the fact that I was insomniacing last night. Yes, I just coined a verb. Anyway, since I knew I wasn't getting up early to head on in to the office, I was doing my usual online multitasking - checking up on the lastest Republican anti-gay politician in my state caught soliciting gay sex, reading porn at certain blogbuddy sites, drooling over books even though I have a huge unread backlog, and paying online bills. I finally checked out Smilebox, which a few people -- both cyber and "real" -- have talked about. You've probably seen creations over at Lorraine's, who will, I'm sure, be happy to know she was absolutely correct in that Smilebox is basically cybercrack. I think another blogger provided her first taste.

Thus begins the ugly cycle of addiction.

I made this huge slide show for my mom, partly to make up for the fact that I, once again, did not get my father's birthday card out on time. This is a huge deal to the folks. I suck at things like that. I am the world's worst daughter.

Anyway, so I'm merrily Smileboxing away, putting this thing together, when I realize it is 4:00 in the morning. What the hell? I mean, I've heard about one's sense of time being skewed while under the influence of drugs, but this is ridiculous. Crap. Hey, give me a break, there are three kids so really it's like triple the slideshows, triple the fun. Which sounds way more productive.

Anyway, hopefully this will be a change from the usual Kodak Gallery slideshows of the kids for my mom. Take her mind off of my slackass card deficiency. Maybe I'll post it here after I change the caption names. My mom would wonder why the hell the kids were labeled Radical Bohemian or Teen Demon or Male Offspring. Then again, maybe she wouldn't.


*Credit: delightfully effective curse shamelessly stolen from the Radical Bohemian. Her creativity astounds me, as always.