Gmail: Big Brother in Your Sidebar

Things have been busy in the land of Cowbell. I'm going to try and update about what's been going on, and also get some of these drafts posted before they die the quiet death of forgotten drafts. Who knows how many of these things are languishing in the nether pages of the Edit Posts tab. Anyway, here's one from a day when Gmail was chapping my ass.

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I'm about over Gmail. Never mind that their whole "conversations" organizational method is, in practice, annoying as hell. Ever notice those helpful links over to the side? Ever wonder how the links are always mysteriously related to whatever you've been writing about? Yeah, the text in your emails triggers some kind of freakish link recommendation autobot. Like Match.com for email or some shit. It's disturbing in a 1984, Homeland Security, Big Brother kind of way. Like Halliburton is running Gmail or something.

For instance, if you send an email to your friend asking for a recipe for cupcakes, Gmail might hook you up with some links like these:

Make Fun, Cute Cupcakes
200 Piece Kit from Betty Crocker

Decorate Cupcakes, Cakes and More
DecoratorKit.com
www.LINK.REMOVED because I'm not advertising for them.

Buttercream Frosting
Watch Amazing Cake Decorating Tips Tricks & Secrets Of The Pros
Try it out now!
www.LINK.SIMILARLY.REMOVED .

Disturbing, right? Look Gmail, I appreciate the suggestions, but I prefer to keep my cupcakes to myself, thank you! I guess this advertising method enables them to offer free email. OK, fine, whatever. But Betty Crocker isn't the only one profiting from Gmail's linky love. I discovered this about the time I wrote the post on Sales Genie's racist Superbowl commercials. There was some email traffic regarding that post making the rounds of my inbox then, and Gmail took it upon themselves to provide me with some helpful linkage.

Things like this:

Funny Foreigner Jokes
It's Not Because They're Different, We Laugh Because They're Inferior.
http://www.CanYouBelieveThisBullshit.crap

Are you kidding me? "We laugh because they're inferior"? Who is Google hiring these days? Nice, Gmail. But hey, let's not stop there. It seems the current political climate is having an ugly effect on what's considered appropriate in the world of corporate advertising:


Guantanamo Bay T-Shirt
"Come for the beaches... Stay for the waterboarding."
http://www.BushCo4u.crap/

Yes, that was actually in the sidebar of my Gmail account. I'm sorry, but didn't the Google folks hit the big leagues some time back? I'm thinking they can afford to be a little more choosy (and responsible) regarding their advertisers. There's just no excuse for that. But hey, since our Commandant in Chief doesn't classify waterboarding as actual "torture", I'm probably just being overly sensitive, not to mention unpatriotic. Alright, how 'bout this one:


Funny Chinese Ringtones
Ringtones in 30 seconds!
Download Funny Chinese Ringtones
http://www.NotReallyFunny.crap/

I guess foreigners are not only inferior, they're also here for our entertainment. Funny! But if it's a different kind of entertainment you're after, there's always this site:

Get a Chinese Wife

Meet Chinese Wives Near You Today.

100% Free. Join Now!

www.CulturalExoticaForYou.crap

Or, if you want a broader pool from which to pull your multiculti romantic experiences,

Interracial Relationships

Start A Interracial Relationship!

View Profiles 100% Free. Join Now!

www.exotic.excitement.crap

OK, the Chinese Wife site, self-explanatory on the fuckedupness scale. That is something I'd expect to find on some $1 per click site, not in my own friggin' Gmail account.

If you're scratching your head over the Interracial Relationships site, thinking, "What the hell ... where does Cowbell get off griping about an interracial dating site? Aren't her kids biracial? What a bunch of bullshit," I don't blame you. Good point. It's a complicated subject that is not the point of today's bitchery, so for now I'll leave it at this -- when I delved headlong into marriage, I was blissfully ensconced in the whole "we all have the same hearts" deal, completely clueless as to the historical issues around the Black/White relationship paradigm. My Ex was, in hindsight, affected by some of those very issues, but I was clueless about that as well, and wasn't able to face that reality until years later. Also, I was a child who had no business getting married in the first place, but hey, I was 18 and knew everything, so on we charged.

Anyway, no, of course I am not against interracial relationships. I'm not against any type of relationship between consenting adults that is based in equality, honesty and respect. What I'm against is specifically seeking out an interracial relationship around some fucked up fetish deal, or as a public display of being Down With Diversity, or an attempt to somehow assuage liberal guilt, or because it seems "exotic", or whatever, just to touch on some reasonings from one side of the equation.

That's a whole different deal than a relationship eventually developing with a real person you've already met and with whom you share a connection.

Whew, this needs to be a subject for another day - sorry.

What I'm getting at is that this advertisement in my Gmail sidebar reduces people's relationships to one thing, race, largely by capitalizing on the whole Exotic Experience thing. Sure, it's usually framed in kinder gentler terms like, "Everyone has their preferences, just like hair color!" or "I just find dark skin so beautiful!" or "I just don't even see color!" Well, yes, actually you do if you're signing up for an interracial dating site: you're looking to purposefully hook up with someone you haven't even met yet on the basis of one thing -- race. And stepping into a culture for no other reason than to satisfy your own "preference" is ... just bullshit.

Anyway, by itself I likely wouldn't have paid that one much mind, but when combined with all the other unwelcome links in my mailbox, it annoyed me along with the rest of them.

OK. On to the next link to arrive unbidden in my email. Since we're on the subject of relationships, you may be glad to know that when it comes to holding on to your man, Gmail has your back, ladies.

Understand Why Men Leave?
Learn The Real Reason Why Men Leave
And How To Become Irresistable!

http://www.dr.laura.crap/

Wow. If only Eliot Spitzer's wife had had Gmail. Because we all know when a man leaves a woman, it's because she has somehow been found lacking in appearance, desirability, and effort. I mean really, why should men be villified for leaving our asses? If we were more irresistible, they wouldn't! Boys will be boys, ladies, best keep up on the waxings and step it up a notch.

Come on Gmail, if I want to hear that kind of crap, I'll tune in to Dr. Laura's show and listen to her blast resistible women for causing their men to lie and fuck around without protection.


Better yet, I'll just click this link in my sidebar:

Ann Coulter's Column Free
Get Ann Coulter's weekly column delivered to you
Free via email!
www.KissMyAssGmail.crap

Blech! My eyes felt violated. No wonder Blogger -- Google creation that it is -- won't let me change the email address that was used to register this blog -- they know their next ad would have to be:

Understand Why Gmail Subscribers Leave?
Learn How Not to Piss Off Your Customers!
http://www.GetOutOfMyInbox.crap/

Bastards.

Unnatural Causes

I want to let you all know about a new documentary, Unnatural Causes, that begins airing nationally on PBS tonight at 7pm PST for HDTV viewers, and on April 2nd at 11pm PST for analog/cable viewers. It is a 4-part series addressing health equity in the US.

Unnatural Causes, a four-part series for PBS broadcast and DVD release, will, for the first time on television, sound the alarm about our glaring socio-economic and racial disparities in health—and seek out root causes. But those causes are not what we might expect. While we pour more and more money into drugs, dietary supplements and new medical technologies, it turns out there is much more to our health than bad habits, health care or unlucky genes. The social conditions in which we are born, live and work profoundly affect our well-being and longevity.

The website is part of the impact campaign that the documentary is meant to kick off. It is a fascinating interactive companion site to the series, and is loaded with activities, info, and resources. I was blown away by the wealth of information on this site, and the interesting ways they present it. There are video clips, interactive activities, a quiz, an Action Toolkit, discussion guides, handouts for educators, and more. They even have a panel of experts who will answer questions sent in by John & Jane Q. Public. Really interesting stuff.

The opening 56-minute episode, In Sickness and In Wealth, presents the series’ overarching themes. Each supporting half-hour episode, set in a different ethnic/racial community, provides a deeper exploration of how social conditions affect population health and how some communities are extending their lives by improving them.

Episode descriptions here.

In my area, there will actually be facilitated community discussions at local hospitals after the complete series has aired. Check your local community organizations for similar events.

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BROADCAST INFO:
This info is for Pacific Standard Time (PST).
For other time zones, check your local TV listings here at PBS.

• HDTV episodes will air on:
  -- 4 consecutive Thursdays @ 7pm, starting March 27th, or
  -- 4 consecutive Sundays @ 1pm, starting March 30th
  
  
• Analog/Cable episodes will air on:
  -- 4 consecutive Wednesdays @ 11pm, starting April 2nd, or
  -- 4 consecutive Saturdays @ 1pm, starting April 5th

Episode 1: In Sickness and in Wealth
HDTV viewers: 27-Mar-08, 7 pm PST

Analog/Cable viewers: 2-Apr-08, 11pm PST

Channel: PBS (Seattle: KCTS)

Alternate Times, Episode 1:
27-Mar-08, 10pm PST -- PBS (HD only)
30-Mar-08, 1pm PST -- PBS (HD only)

2-Apr-08, 11pm PST -- PBS (Analog/DT)
5-Apr-08, 1pm PST -- PBS (Analog/DT)
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I encourage everyone to check this series and the website out.

But Wait! There's More!

On with the gratuitous pet pics. Dog and cat videos are a common sight in the blog world, but certain Texas bloggers have reminded me that the pet world doesn't end with the canine/feline connection. After viewing her photographic tributes to chickens, lizards, and rabbits, I've realized I have committed an egregious faux paw.

All of you are well acquainted with the trials, tribulations and medical emergencies of my two Labradogs, Batman & Mason. It occurs to me, however, that you may be living in blissful ignorance of our other pet, who actually predates the boys. I should be ashamed. Even my blogger label is "dogs", not "pets".

This creature was presented to the Bohemian on her 12th birthday, straight from the tiny Hungarian pet store on the corner. The process to bring him to the States three years later was harrowing, expensive, and nearly resulted in the term "going postal" making it into the Hungarian lexicon. Yes, I would've been the crazy foreigner screaming in toddler-level Hungarian from a prison cell, "He's not a rodent! Sign the goddamn papers!"

Teen Demon's guinea pigs, Cheeky & Friend, were sadly not authorized to travel, as they bore the unfortunate cross of being officially classified as rodents. They had to stay in Hungary with one of her friends. A couple of years later, Teen Demon received this succinct text message from her friend: "Csiki meghalt." (Cheeky died.) Facts are facts, I guess.

Our other pet was luckier. I discovered he was, in fact, a lagomorph, not a rodent. Convincing the Hungarian authorities of this fact was not easy, but we prevailed. Finding an airline that would accept him was another hurdle. Many American dollars, reams of paper, and extra flight miles later, he became a legal immigrant, although he was not permitted to ride in the cabin with the rest of the family. I still don't understand the reasoning that allows yappy chihauhaus and yowling cats in the cabin, but bans a silent pet. It's not like he's a snake, for pet's sake, he's a friggin' mammal. The airlines clearly have specieist policies in place. Nevertheless, he arrived at Sea-Tac, only to be left randomly in the airport by their crack team of employees. When he never showed up at baggage claim, we found his little carrier, balanced on a post out in the public area, with some little kid contemplating whether to open the door and play with him.



That was 4 years ago, and he's recovered nicely. Without further ado, I present Cadbury, the Hungarian lagomorph.

So Cadbury just turned 8 and seems to be going strong. When the weather warms up, we'll take the top part of his cage, or maybe dig out the harness he hates, and take him out in the yard. We can't let him loose in this yard, because there are gaps under our weak old fence which holds back the monsters my neighbor refers to as "dogs". (I keep meaning to post about that whole situation.) He loves dandelions and clover. I wish he could keep the lawn down enough that I wouldn't have to mow grass, but I guess for that I'd need a goat, which brings me back to that whole goat thing from my high school farm daze that I also keep meaning to blog about.

Redneck Mother has stated that some folks classify pet-heavy blogs as being "unprofessional". Whatever. The animalia on her blog does not take away from her scathing political commentary, her skills in raising two progressive kick-ass kids in the midst of a Republican stronghold, or the fact that she's rocking Texas as a fellow Obama delegate. Bring on the pets, I say. In that vein, I took a video of Cadbury as well, because I know you are all about the pet videos. It's kind of dark, but you can see him getting his broccoli fix.

While packing up to leave Hungary, my landlords couldn't believe we were going to all that trouble and expense to take a rabbit back with us. Laci, the husband, kept joking about how we could leave him there and he'd have Mari whip up a Cadbury pie. They found this hilarious, and laughed about it for days. We thought they were just poking fun at our vegetarian ways, which Laci always saw as some sort of illness. Turns out that all this time, they thought the name Cadbury was actually Cadberry, and that a cadberry was the English name for some type of American berry not native to Hungary -- you know, blueberry, strawberry, gooseberry, cadberry. A "Cadberry pie" was actually a witty double entendre that we just didn't get. They, of course, had no idea who the Cadbury bunny is. Yeah. That's my funny pet story for the day.

So that's our rabbit. I'm not blogging about Teen Demon's fish.

The Boys, in Photographs

To those of you who missed me while I was actually having a life, I love you man. To those who didn't, well, I guess you have lives all the time. Isn't that nice. No, I'm not bitter, why do you ask?

I've been insanely busy and have way too much to write about to actually do it. For now, let's go with an installment of the canine chronicles. Many of you -- okay, three of you -- have taken the time to write me and specifically ask for pictures, video, and news about the dogs. That may be more than the number of emails professing to be pining away without me.

I'm not sure how to take that.

So, without further ado, I present Batman and Mason:

Batman, rolling in the yard

Mason, after his bath last week

Batman taking a breather yesterday.

Nap time.

Mason's freakish drumsticks. Mason has odd back legs. You can't tell so much when he's walking, but sometimes he lies down like this. I can't imagine how this could be comfortable.

Mason, last summer at the dog beach.

Not a recent pic, but it makes me smile to look at it.

I should've gotten a pic of Batman playing with the new tug toy Teen Demon let him pick out at the pet store today. She'll have to be careful of his teeth ...

Puke & Rally!

The son is projectile vomiting.


He woke up seemingly fine this morning, and was skillfully working my nerves about getting his driver's permit (St. Christopher, I'm ready to believe in you.), when I suggested we go pick up cinnamon rolls and coffee cream. Then things took a turn for the worse.

Male Offspring: If I had my permit, I could drive, and you could go in the store.

Me: If you had your permit, you'd be a sophomore. Oh ... you're a freshman. Sorry. Let's go.

MO: I seriously don't want to go to the store.

Me: Cinnamon rolls? Please. Lets go.

MO: [whining] My stomach feels weird.

Me: You look pretty normal to me. No fever, no swelling. Seriously, you're not driving, son.

MO: Landon's driving.

Me: Sophomore.

MO: [walking to the bathroom] Yeah, but he had his permit when he was a ...................BRRRAAAAUUUGGGHHH...........

I made him ginger & chamomile tea to settle his stomach. "Sip it slowly," I said, for the ten-thousandth time since drawing that first placebo of a Lamaze breath two decades ago. "I know," he replied, chugging it. Three minutes later the tea was hurled into the toilet with a force that made me suspect the boy was on performance-enhancing steroids.

He's in the bathtub now, mere inches from the toilet. Four episodes of hurling. Dry hurling. The boy can't even keep water down. The offspring and the dogs all have one thing in common: emergency medical situations or extreme illnesses only occur on weekends or holidays. Anything after 5pm on Friday is fair game. In this instance though, I'm not really worried. Not yet, anyway.

Male Offspring is affectionately known as the 24-hour kid when it comes to getting sick. He'll pop up with some serious projectile vomiting, or bust out with a 103.5* fever until you can practically see green ickiness wafting from his pores. During these times, the boy will be seriously sick. Until the next morning, when he wakes up feeling fairly close to fine. It's like he takes a normal 5-day sickness and condenses it into this fevered, mondo-puke-o-rama deal.

So I'm hoping he'll feel better by tomorrow. If not, it's off to the urgent care weekend clinic. Whee. As for me, I'm still coughing like a smoker in LA, even though I (finally) am feeling better. The cough just will not leave. I'm thinking I need to cast it out like the devil, with some sort of cough exorcism ritual. I'm finally starting to get caught up at work though, and am actually cleaning the house this weekend. Brain and body have just been operating in such a fog this year; I feel like one of those gross hairy moths emerging from a cocoon of illish yukkery. I'm so ready for spring, both within and and without.

In better news, this is the weekend when I can finally take Batman out for a walk. Tomorrow is Day 28 of his captivity. I haven't been able to let him run since he hurt his leg, four excruciatingly long weeks ago. You try keeping 70 pounds of crazy locked up for 4 weeks. 150 pounds, if you count Mason. Honestly though, I have to say he's been a very good dog considering he's been imprisoned for the past month.

Anyway, I've been trying to get around to everyone's cyberspaces and sling some comments around, but the online stuff has been flagging along with everything else. Such is life. Spring is coming though, and hopefully a big ol' batch of healthy for everyone along with it.
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UPDATE:
As hoped, the son is no longer feverish, no longer hurling. The 24-hour kid strikes again. He is asking for a taco and burrito dinner tonight. Always a good sign.

Geraldine Ferraro: Obama's Lucky He's Black.

I just couldn't let this one go, now could I? Geraldine Ferraro, former congresswoman, former vice-presidential nominee, and staunch Clinton supporter, had this to say about Barack Obama's incredible run for the White House:

If Obama was a white man, he would not be in this position. And if he was a woman (of any color) he would not be in this position. He happens to be very lucky to be who he is. And the country is caught up in the concept.

What? Did she really just throw that card down? You'd think Kellyanne Conway was her new BFF or something, slinging that kind of talk around.

So, if Barack Obama is so lucky, in this election process, to be Black, why is he the first to really have a shot? To say that he wouldn't be there if he were a White man ... I'm sorry, it's ludicrous. What, do you mean like the 40+ presidents who came before? You mean those White men?

Every previous president of this country came up through a system set up by White people, for the benefit of White people. Our own friggin' FUBU, y'all, For Us, By Us. A system built with free Black labor and free Native American land, a system purposely built for the advantage of some, and the disadvantage of others.

A system which mightily resists change.

It's not easy to become president, even with that system in your pocket. It's a lot of work, and a hell of a longshot. But let's be clear: every single president of this country had the support of that system working for him. That's why every single president of this country has been White, and that's why every single president of this country has been a man.

There's a reason for it, people, it didn't happen by chance. That's how it was supposed to be, and that's how it has been.

Until now.

Neither one of our candidates would be where they are if they were White males, you got that right, Geraldine. Had Hillary been issued the penis, she may have been President before Bill. And if Obama were White, as Ferraro suggests, he may already have the nomination.

Hell, had Ferraro been male, maybe she'd have been president years ago. Ever think of that, Geraldine?

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UPDATE:

And Ferraro's response:

Any time anybody does anything that in any way pulls this campaign down and says let's address reality and the problems we're facing in this world, you're accused of being racist, so you have to shut up.

Racism works in two different directions. I really think they're attacking me because I'm white. How's that?

Are you kidding me? I've got nothing.

No Means No, Hillary.

Barack Obama, on the Clintons' repeated hints that he settle for VP:

I've won twice as many states as Senator Clinton. I've won more of the popular vote than Senator Clinton. I have more delegates than Senator Clinton. I don't know how somebody who is in second place is offering the vice presidency to the person who is first place.

I don't want anybody here thinking that somehow, 'Well, you know, maybe I can get both.' Don't think that way.

... in fact, this kind of gamesmanship — talking about me as vice president, but 'maybe he’s not ready for commander in chief' — that’s exactly the kind of double-speak, double-talk that Washington is very good at.

If I'm not ready ... how is it that you think I should be such a great vice president?

No means no, Hillary. Have some pride; quit stalking the man.

Kellyanne Trips to the Back of the Bus

Did anyone else catch Larry King Live tonight? Larry's subject this evening was "Campaign Clash". Republicans against Democrats. I fixed a snack and settled in for a good round of political fisticuffs. One of his guests was Kellyanne Conway, Republican strategist and CEO of the Polling Company.

I just heard Kellyanne say this, live,

This is what [John McCain] is doing behind the scenes now while Hillary and Obama argue about whether she should let him sit on the back of the bus of her presidential ticket, or he argues whether or not she lied us into war in 2002.

Oh, yes, she did.

And then had the nerve to act like she had no idea what the problem was, while she continued gnawing on her foot. Like a fox caught in a trap.

Jamal Simmons, cool-headed Democratic strategist and an Obama supporter, handled it beautifully, calling her out on her gaffe, clarifying that the remark had absolutely no connection to the Clinton campaign, and settling back to watch her try to extricate that foot. But here, check out the transcript for yourselves. (emphasis mine)

SIMMONS: Larry, we have to address that. We have to address that. This back of the bus comment is beyond the pale. I think Senator Clinton, whatever our disagreements are between the two candidates, Senator Clinton has never done or said anything that would imply that she would rather have Barack Obama sitting in the back of her campaign bus.

CONWAY: No, as VP. You aren't paying attention.

SIMMONS: No, you are not speaking clearly, because that's out of line.

CONWAY: No, she doesn't want him to be the first Black president. She wants him to be her VP. She said that this week. She would consider putting him on her ticket, but I guess he wouldn't consider putting her on his ticket, would he?

KING: Did you use the term back of the bus?

CONWAY: I did. I just said ---

KING: Meaning?

CONWAY: Meaning that she wants --- she has said she would have Barack Obama as her VP. Thereby she is denying something that many Republicans are not denying, that Barack Obama has a very strong chance of becoming this country's first Black president, that someone like me respects.

SIMMONS: We can move along. I was there for a lot of Bill Clinton and Al Gore's time and Al Gore never sat in the back of the bus.

Go on, Mr. Simmons. Call it out.

Now, if Ms. Conway's back of the bus comment truly had no racial context, why then, does she proceed to bring up race -- twice? I'm sorry, but there is a world of difference between saying that Clinton doesn't want Obama "to be the first Black president", and saying Clinton doesn't want anyone to become president but her, right?

What did Black have to do with anything? No one brought that up, Kellyanne.

Careful, honey; your slip is showing, and it's cut on the bias.

And that entire last comment of hers ... where do I even start? She says that Clinton "would have him as her VP", and that this somehow means Clinton is denying what Republicans are willing to face, which is that Obama could become the first Black president.

What?

First off, that's not accurate. Clinton has not said that. Second, even if she had said she wants him as VP, how does it follow that she's denying anything? And third -- again -- what's Black got to do with it? That was not part of the conversation until you brought it in, Kellyanne.

But hey, at least she pointed out that the first Black president would be a person whom "someone like her respects". Points to Kellyanne!



But here's something really interesting. Turns out that Conway is the coauthor of the book, What Women Really Want: How American Women Are Quietly Erasing Political, Racial, Class, and Religious Lines to Change the Way We Live.

Really? Because it didn't seem like she was erasing political or racial lines tonight. It would stand to reason, seeing as how Conway has literally written the book on erasing racial lines, we could expect her to have some inkling of the historical context around the phrase she used tonight.

Of course she did. She knew exactly what she'd said as soon as it fell out of her mouth.

In fact, Conway has been involved in sensitive discussions regarding her party's need to tread carefully around the areas of race and gender. She sure has. Seems the upper echelon of the GOP is quietly setting acceptable sparring guidelines for this election, seeing as how the good ol' boys' club has now been infiltrated. They've even come up with a benign term for the unseemly racist/sexist language they're desperate to avoid: undisciplined messaging.* Not easy, I suppose, when you're used to saying whatever the hell you want. Ms. Kellyanne had this to say just a few short months ago:

Republicans will need to exercise less deafness and more deftness in dealing with a different looking candidate, whether it is a woman or a Black man. But at the same time, really charge back at any insinuation or accusation of sexism or racism.

You can’t allow the party to be Macaca'ed. I think the standards are higher and the bar is lower for the Republican Party.

~Kellyanne Conway, Nov. 2007

Well what do you know. She's not so adept at following her own advice, is she? Seems Conway slipped into a bit of undisciplined messaging herself this evening. Oops.

I call bullshit. This was a shrewd but blatant attempt to attribute GOP racist rhetoric to the Clinton campaign, in hopes that it will stick and stir up further division and discord between the two democratic camps. The poo-flinging didn't work, Kellyanne, you got called out on it and were left with shit stuck to your hand.

I do agree with her on one count: that bar is hanging mighty low for the Republican party.


*David Paul Kuhn, Politico

Of Grammar and Grandparents

Today is National Grammar Day.

This celebratory day is brought to you by the Society for the Promotion of Good Grammar. And lest you think this particular day was chosen willy-nilly, think again:

It's not only a date, it's an imperative. So march forth on March 4th!

Clever. I was thrilled to find that you can disregard certain grammar "rules". It's true. Feel free to:

1) end a sentence with a preposition.
2) begin a sentence with a conjunction.
3) use sentence fragments with discretion.

They have this to say about sentence fragments:

We’ve been told not to use them, but when we do it with a light hand, they can improve the flow of our writing, making it easier to understand.

This is a huge relief. I know what you're thinking. Please, Cowbell does that shit all the time. That's true. My blog writing does tend to be more casual, particularly when I'm getting my bitch on, but the truth is, I am a grammar freak. I even do proofreading and editing for cold, hard cash. In official writing, I would never write a sentence such as, "And I'm all about some ice cream," or "That's where I'm at," but it works here.

Anyway, knowing that I can righteously begin a sentence with "but" or end a sentence with "to" makes me happy. Yes, I do it anyway, but now I won't feel like my grandparents are shaking their heads disapprovingly from the clouds.

Thank you, SPOGG. I salute you.


So, my grandparents.

How I wish they'd lived to see National Grammar Day. My maternal grandmother entered the world in 1907, the only girl born to a farming family in Pennsylvania Dutch country. Her own grandmother took a look at this squalling, newborn girl-child and remarked to her daughter (my grandma's mother), "You may as well throw her in the river, May. A girl's just another mouth to feed on a farm."

Luckily, my great-grandmother ignored her mother's advice and did not throw my grandmother into the river. My grandma went to school, worked on the farm, helped to run the house and take care of her brothers, and eventually became a teacher. She later earned a master's degree in English, despite being "just a girl" from a generation in which women were lucky if they ended up with a high school diploma.

When I think of my younger years at Grandma's house, I think of books and the color blue. Grandma loved both. There was blue in every room, and at Christmas time, the house and tree were always wrapped in blue lights.

My grandma was 40 years old by the time she had my mom and uncle (he was born in January; my mom that December, 11 months later) so I didn't know her until she was in her 60s. She didn't run around and play baseball with us, and she wasn't much of a cookie baker either, although she kept a steady supply of those miniature, individual ice cream bowls in her freezer, each accompanied by a tiny wooden spoon. What Grandma did was read and tell stories. She also still taught, driving off to her classes in her blue Plymouth Duster, wearing a smart pantsuit, her beautiful white hair brushing her shoulders. Grandma was an artist as well, something she passed on to my mom, and which trickled down through me and my sister, to our own children, exploding full force in the Bohemian. I credit my artistic skills, somewhat diluted, and definitely dusty from neglect, to my grandmother.

We loved hearing Grandma's childhood stories, usually about some mischief involving her older brother, my great-uncle Ted. We especially loved hearing stories of when our own mother was a girl. I felt like I was being let in on a secret. She would also make up wonderful stories with animals and invented countries. The worst was when she'd insist we make up the ending ourselves! We wanted her ending, but she wanted us to think for ourselves.

Grandma wasn't one for gifting us with underwear or Barbie dolls at Christmas. She bought lots of books, and had even more in her house. Grandma read to us from the time we were babies, as did Mom. I did the same with my kids, and so did my sister. When people hear that I learned to read at four, and that my kids learned at three and four, they attribute it to "being smart", but I don't think so.  (Okay, we're smart, but that's not what was going on.) It has more to do with constant exposure to the written word, adults never assuming a child is too young to learn, and with making books and stories more exciting than toys.



My Grandpa George, whom Grandma would eventually marry, was a self-educated man. He was born in Chicago, but spent time in Norway as a child. His mother, who had come to the US from somewhere near Oslo, had two sons, Grandpa being the younger. She committed suicide, the story goes, by drinking a large amount of Lysol or some sort of lye-based cleaner. My grandfather was the one who discovered her body.

He was 10 years old.

Grandpa George had dropped out of school by the 8th grade, but he never neglected his education. He served in WWII, and did various apprenticeships, coming up through the ranks, becoming a journalist the hard way. By the time I came along, he wrote a regular newspaper column and had once run his own radio show. I can still hear him doing the sign-off in his booming bass, to make us laugh, "And that's the news ... by George!"

Grandpa had an enormous printing press in the basement, a cast iron beast that dwarfed me. Its weight was measured in tons and it made an unholy racket. It was an old-school press, where the ink is rolled across a huge platter and the type is actually metal letters, set in careful lines. The walls were lined with drawer upon thin drawer of movable type, higher than my head, containing the letters and words formed in my grandfather's mind.

Grandpa told stories as well, fantastical tales told with gusto in a resonant timbre, which had Grandma shaking her head, admonishing, "Now don't you go putting wild ideas in those girls' heads, George," which did nothing but encourage him.

Ever since I can remember, Grandpa would quiz us with vocabulary words before we could sit down to eat. "Where is your proboscis?" he'd ask. My sister pointed to her knee. "Well, my chickadee, that's no proboscis, but that bone is called your patella. Say it! Patella!" Giggling, we'd point to our eyes. "What?!" he'd roar, "One's proboscis is not made for ocular work! The eyes handle the ocular responsibilities of one's body!" (rolling his eyes around like a madman) "The proboscis is meant to inhale! To detect an arrrrroma!" (rolling the "r" until we shrieked)

And don't even think about mumbling around Grandpa. "Enunciate your words, young lady! We come from a long line of enunciators! I'll not have mumbling in this house!"

My grandparents, each in their own way, loved language. Whether written or spoken, it permeated their house without us even being aware of it. My mother and uncle each grew up to become language aficionados in their own ways, before passing it on, in turn, to my generation.



So yes, I am a grammar freak. It's in my genes. As a child, I could diagram a sentence down to the tiniest detail. I used to ask my teacher for the most complicated sentence she could come up with. I may not have been able to balance an equation like the math-whiz kids, but my sentence diagrams were the stuff of legend. I don't know if US schools even teach sentence diagramming these days. I used to keep lists of interesting vocabulary words, and yes, as a matter of fact, I did read the dictionary.

To this day, I am far too easily amused by grammar humor, such as the title of Martha Brockenbrough's book, Things That Make Us [Sic]. How clever is that?

I loved the book Eats, Shoots, and Leaves. That title is a scream! It comes from a sign found at a zoo's panda exhibit, meant to convey the fact that shoots and leaves are the mainstays of the panda's diet. The addition of the commas, however, has the panda suddenly doing a dine and dash -- eating, then grabbing its rifle for a shooting rampage, and finally leaving the scene. Come on! That's funny stuff, now.

Is it really just me? Fine. Whatever.

Anyway, that's the story of why National Grammar Day has put me in mind of my grandparents, and why I think they'd get such a kick out of it. Happy National Grammar Day, everyone. Now I have to go call the Bohemian and indulge in some geeky grammar humor which she will, no doubt, appreciate. She comes by it honestly, too.

Remote Area Medical: on the Homefront

Remember the guy from Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom? Not Marlon Perkins, I mean the guy who actually did all the work, the guy down in the trenches with the alligators and water buffalo, before Steve Irwin even knew what a croc was. That man is Stan Brock. I saw him on 60 Minutes tonight, but he wasn't sporting his trademark khakis.

Mr. Brock heads up a different kind of wild kingdom these days. He founded Remote Area Medical (RAM), a volunteer organization that brings needed medicine and medical care to remote locations around the planet. He takes no salary, and lives at the headquarters in Tennessee, a former elementary school. He pilots the planes himself. The medical personnel, all volunteers, parachute to their destinations, and serve without benefit of showers, electricity, or other modern conveniences. Medical supplies are donated. RAM expeditions go to the Dominican Republic, Haiti, Honduras, Guatemala, East Africa, India, Nepal, Guyana, and Tanzania.

Now here's the shocking part: currently, 60% of RAM's expeditions are right here, in the good old US of A. New Orleans, yes, but also Tennessee, Kentucky and Virginia. That's right, instead of deploying its resources to "remote areas", as per the original intent, turns out RAM's services are needed right here, in the richest country in the world.

60 Minutes covered Brock and his team setting up a two day no-cost clinic in Tennessee. The people waiting to be seen were from six states. People slept in their cars, or stood in below-freezing weather, not wanting to chance their shot at medical treatment. They were issued numbered tickets, in order of arrival. The RAM team treated over 900 people.

They turned away 400 more.

Some of the stories were just heart breaking. Like the guy who slept in the parking lot all night, hoping to be one of the lucky ones to make it in. He'd had a heart attack a couple of years before, and had had treatment at that time, but he couldn't afford the follow up care. He'd also been living with an infected tooth for weeks. Yes, actually, he does have health insurance, through his job as a truck driver, but the deductible is $500. He couldn't afford it. He noted that he was fortunate in that he had a vehicle for the two hour drive and all night wait.

There was an elderly woman, in tears because her ticket number was too high to make the cutoff. She was on social security and needed glasses. The interviewer asked what she'd do now, and she hesitated, finally saying she had friends and a church, "... but I hate to ask," she said, breaking into tears. "I've worked all my life ... I hate to ask." (RAM volunteers did end up seeing her, and issued her glasses)

A 28-year-old mother of three had been treated for cervical cancer two years prior. She was supposed to be getting Pap smears every six months, and follow-up care. With three kids and her husband's job loss last year, they couldn't afford it. She got her first Pap smear since the surgery.

Another woman confided it had been 25 years since her last breast exam.

The interviewer asked one of the volunteer doctors who these folks were, this crowd of people so desperate for medical care.

They're the working poor, middle of their lives, most with families, most not substance abusers, and most employed without adequate insurance ...

These folks are people just like you and me. Most of the people seen during those two days are working hard, paying (or have long paid) into a system that is not taking care of them or their families. American families have a right to expect health care from a system we're contributing to. Given the current expeditions of Remote Area Medical, it doesn't look like that's the case.

Do I Really Have To?

That's about where I'm at. It's bad, people. I'm trying to get my motivation up. I was really hoping it would be sunny today, that always gets me revved up.

With all the fuckery of 2008, I either haven't had time, haven't given a damn, or have been busy coughing my lungs inside out. I know you all are sitting out there thinking, "Oh please, how bad could it be? I haven't done my dishes for three days! I know what you mean!"

Guys ... the Christmas tree is still up. Stockings, nutcrackers, everything. The dining room table looks like a hangerless closet on legs, with one of those German Christmas pyramids sticking up from the middle of it. I stopped noticing the pine garland on the curtain rod. It used to look so festive. The dog hair tumbleweeds look like guinea pigs running around. There are dead stems on the mantle that used to be flowers. I think.

So. I guess I should get up and get going. Instead of blogging about nothing. I even looked at YouTube videos today. I mean random ones, not searching for something in particular. I've watched the same stories on Headline News three times now.

I really ought to get started.

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UPDATE:

What the hell was I thinking back in December? Holy Tree Toppers, it was like Winter Friggin' Wonderland around this joint! I finally got all the Christmas decorations down. Yesterday I mentioned "the tree" -- I don't know how I got it in my head that "the tree" was the bulk of the Christmasery around here. The tree (which is currently naked and waiting for Teen Demon and Male Offspring to handle the lights and disassembly) was the least of the festive furor that was my house.

Every ornament is packed away, along with every other festive flourish. All the bulbs and ribbon curls hanging in the various windows. The lights strung up near the ceilings. The paper snowflakes, lovingly cut and hung in merry groupings. The velvet mantle cover and stockings. The pine scented candles. The battalion of nutcrackers. The Night Before Christmas book. Big velvet old-timey Santa who looks much classier than he sounds. The giant snowglobe, also much nicer than it sounds. The wooden tic tac toe board (Santas vs. Trees). All the things that have become our traditions since the offspring were wee tykes, with visions of sugarplums dancing in their heads.

Goodgod, people, I feel like I just performed a Yuletide exorcism on myself.