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Archive for March, 2006

Couldn’t resist this. The revolution begins this Saturday…

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So, I was riding the bus the other day with a friend from work who will read this and hate me but will eventually come to the understanding that you can love someone and not agree with them all the time. Or he’ll never speak to me again.

We were talking about Georgw W. He was saying that he’s a libertarian but that he hates George W. Why? I asked. “Because he lied about getting us into a war that turned out to be a vendetta because Saddam Hussein tried to kill his father (George H.W.).”

Okay, this argument is so tired but I feel the need to address it — first, why is it that we glorify this vendetta mentality in movies — I mean, Con Air, Walking Tall, most recently V for freakin’ VENDETTA, among many, MANY others, are all about this mentality. And we celebrate this mentality as a culture. We cheer for the man who takes revenge after his family was targeted. Jack Ryan anyone?

Second, um, the World Trade Center bombings were all about revenge, right. We pulled out and left the Afghanis to fight the Russians. They hated us and sought revenge. And so many of our countrymen, while lambasting a Bush family vendetta, believe that a Bin Laden vendetta is a-okay. Why? No really, why? And don’t say it’s tied up with privledge and money cause Osama wasn’t hurtin’ man.

I made a couple of statements about my friend needing to dazzle me with an argument that wasn’t so trite and he said that, in reality, Bush just “turns his stomache” when he looks at him. I’m almost more willing to get behind this as argument because at least it’s a visceral reaction as opposed to one truly hollow and, at the same time, full of misinformation.

The only problem is, sometimes a visceral reaction to someone has little to do with the person you’re veiwing and more to do with the attitude of the person doing the viewing. Ever hated someone on sight because of your own bias? I have. Hard pill to swallow that one. I guess it’s easier to just project the blame outward.

I hate the whole vendetta mentality as a rule. I also understand the poetry of it. I do not, however, understand the poetry of hypocrisy.

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Happiness dust

This was a good laugh this a.m. Thanks Sharon. I needed it.

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I hate to admit it, being Catholic and not Hindu, but sometimes I believe in Karma. And when I do, I’m convinced that I must have been a right mean bastard in a former existence. Sometimes the tax man metaphorically comes a knockin’ and there’s nothing left to give. But he takes anyway…

When I was a baby, my brother John (5 years my senior) gazed at me in my high chair as my mother fed me and said, matter of factly, “I knew Lola (names have been changed to protect the, um, innocent…er, the somewhat innocent…) before. But she was a big person…and she was a boy, not a girl.” This actually explains a lot.

My mother tells me that my nephew David, being the sensitive little redhead he is, informed her the other day that he had lived over 300 years, and had lived many lives. And was apparently miserable in every one.

Jesus. I come from a family of mystics. Or really talented storytellers. Here’s hoping that if David and I are indeed paying for past mistakes, we get it right this time.

Happy St. Patrick’s day!

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Obsession sucks. But I’m very good at it…

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My friend “code name Ennui” thinks I just might be the woman for Joaquin Phoenix, despite the fact that he’s famous, rich, talented and can pretty much get all the dark-haired beauties he desires.

But hey, Ennui, you’re from New York and go home frequently. I hear he lives in Tribeca. Hook a sister up…

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Totally forgot about this and then “code-name Ennui” reminded me — For some reason this completely cracked me up, very likely because I love the PBR, we were drinking it this night (it’s deliciously cheap, if not so much deliciously beer), my Dad drank it when he drank beer and the guy who said this is one of those adorable guys who have a sweet edge of upper crust about them. Like they know all about fine wines and where to buy the best docksiders.

So when he (Chip was his be-spectacled name. Doesn’t it just scream J. Crew?), after someone suggested another small round of PBR, says, “Pabst’s Blue Ribbon — my dad called [cans of PBR] ‘baby blues’. Son, go get me a baby blue!” I nearly peed my pants laughing.

I don’t know why. It just struck me as funny.

PBR is offically, for me, now christend Baby Blue. Thanks you straight-laced-but-hiding-a-secret-redneck friend of a friend. You’re alright by me.

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