SAD ELEGY FOR OAKLAND

(Art found on net. Work by Matt Mahurin)
I wrote this at work in memory of the four cops who were killed by a parole. He had just raped a little girl when he was stopped by a motorcycle officer. He opened fire instantly. During the course of the arrest, three others died. As angry as I have gotten at times over speeding tickets, I worked with the police during one summer and did research for them, and in so doing, I met some very decent human beings. At the time, I posted it on the website that was taking comments about the incident from my work computer. I'm sticking this on here at a later date, but reflective of the time it happened.
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Their shift began like any other; an ordinary day
No warnings were given of danger on its way.
The clock that rang, the coffee mug, the "see you" at the door.
The routine of life in uniform, which ended for these four.
The first two fell in a road-side stop.
A constant risk for the traffic cop.
No chance had they against this demon unleashed.
An overwhelmed system means mistakes in release.
Hate reared, prison punk, hollow point heavy.
To avoid his just sentence; to kill he was ready.
What thoughts did they have then?
When darkness befell them.
Yet the horror continued, as two more would die.
And leave in their passing a search for just why.
The bravest amongst us must give up their lives.
And leave in despair a child or their wives.
So as we begin this day all anew,
Let's give pause a moment for lost brothers in blue.

RIELLE HUNTER NEEDS A FRIEND

.....Rielle Hunter needs a female friend; an honest to goodness one to set her straight. Not another actor/model/whatever hanging with her because she has good coke. Not somebody that's there to party. No; a true blue friend that would tell her she is making a big mistake. I doubt she's ever had a real female friend in her life.

.....Elizabeth Edwards is the real deal and a class act. Not only is she fighting cancer with incredible courage (as she did the death of her son) but she's tackling her husband, John Edwards' affair with class and grace. She has to know that were she to vent while on the talk show circuit, she'd sell more books. You can be certain that she has been encouraged to do so. The shows themselves would love a soundbite snippet that would appeal to their viewership. It's the dreaded cliche---after years of support and hardwork he up and "nails a bimbo'.

.....Rielle Hunter, evidentally angered by the book written by Elizabeth Edwards, wants revenge. She can phrase it whatever way she wants. Getting her side of the story out, protecting her daughter's interests, etc. The female demographic will paint her further into the homewrecker category. Although she is perceived as worse then that as she knowingly approached a man who had a wife that was ill. Women do not take kindly to having pregnant women and sick wives hurt. We all know that they aren't exactly presenting their most desirable and sexual selves when they are losing their hair or puking into a bucket. It's playing with marked cards. Sure, the male wanted in on the game, but he did not stand a chance.

.....It goes beyond this. Many people out there think that Rielle made Elizabeth ill again, as her cancer had been in remission. A lot of people believe that there is a link between stress and beating cancer. I would suggest that Rielle learn from history and study the case of Assia Wevill. Who? Even in death, Assia is the detested "other" woman. The one who "killed" Sylvia Plath. To this day, her name is known in literary circles. Instead of recalling her as an early female worker in the all male advertising industry and an innovator of an interesting ad campaign, she led to Sylvia's demise and the loss of who knows how much future works of art.

.....Rielle proclaims that she is a new age seeker. Her website, which has since been removed, featured items referring to this and she alluded to it in an interview while she was making her documentary of John Edwards. If she truly believed in this, she would recognize the flaw in her thinking. All of these beliefs have some basis in karma. What goes around, comes around. What you put out, comes back to you. By seeking vengence, she is violating a fundamental tenant that will only hurt the victim more. Surely that has to be a lot of bad energy to come back at you. At the very least, you'd think she'd feel some guilt (if she believed).

.....Rielle needs a friend to sit her down and tell her that nothing good is going to come of this. Let it go. Issue a statement that she is sorry to Elizabeth for any pain caused and that she hopes her children are not hurt by this. Not only would this best serve Rielle in the future, it would alleviate the guilt to some degree should Mrs Edwards not survive her illness. For Rielle does need a future source of income. She cannot live off of men forever. I saw her video documentary and I must admit it wasn't bad. She obviously got too close to her source (she slipped in one and called him honey when she boarded the plane). She had wanted to be an actress but that had never worked out. This will not work out either if she persists in this course of action. Nobody will trust her.

.....In a way, her background can explain, but not excuse her behavior. There's a difference. She came from a family of four girls and a father that appeared to be indifferent. Her parents split when she was seventeen and her father, it is reported, dated much younger women. Rielle seems to have been in competition with women for the attention of males all her life. She had been a promising horse jumper and had loved her horse, Henry the Hawk. Her father, in an insurance scam, had the horse electrocuted via attaching one electrode to his ear and the other to his rectum. Rielle became aware that he had done this and I cannot imagine how this must have messed her up. She must have loathed this man, yet she was dependant upon him for income. She never completed college and she gave up show jumping. She left for New York, where the writer Jay McInerney based the book "Story of My Life" on her antics. It details a woman who used huge amounts of coke and slept with men to maintain her lifestyle. This included faking an abortion to get money. In the book "American Psycho", Brett Easton Ellis describes a sexual assault upon her. Whether true or not, any woman would have been angered and saddened to have such details discussed in an open format; artistic licence or not. She moved to Los Angeles, quit drugs, married a lawyer (as was her father) and tried to become an actress with little success.

.....She seems like a woman who's learned to use people, but it has to stop. Rielle, you've got a child now and it's a girl. There's a message you need to send her. Not all women are in competition with you and deserve to be hurt. Not all men are there to be used as a means of survival. Work on that video production company. If truth and honesty is still as important to you as it once was, start with yourself. Look at your motivations. Look at the men you pick. It won't fix what took place in the past. I hope you find some peace.

WHEN SILENCE ISN'T GOLDEN

Is there anything quite as depressing as being all excited about something and wanting to share it with a person only to have them display a total noninterest? Not just that, you're met with a disapproving silence and a stare. Any minute now you expect to be sent to the corner and have the proverbial dunce cap stuck on your head. If it happens to be on a dinner date, it's like the kiss of death.
You just hope that a sudden terminal illness hits or that should nuclear war break out, that it happens at that moment. Anything to break that uncomfortable silence. It's as though you had seriously misjudged some main character feature of this person.

I know that people do not all have the same interests and I do not expect them to. What I am talking about is that death stare of condemnation. Where they absolutely do not get where you're coming from at all. There I am, bounding in excitement like a lamb in the field with joy at some new band or film. Nothing. Nada. Then the proverbial...

"But, I just don't understand how anybody could find that funny?"

On the other hand, it is so wonderful to meet people who do understand. As a kid I read all of the books on "Anne of Green Gables" and she used the term kindred spirit. That about describes the feeling. To find that person who gets it. In highschool I had a friend who shared a love of Monty Python's "The Holy Grail'. We could do the skits from SNL. When I was in university I happened to be in a club downtown one night, when somebody in the washroom asked to borrow something. We began to talk and she knew somebody that I did. It turns out that she had to take the bus home early before the club closed. I said that I'd drive her instead. Over the years we've lamented breakups, my problems with food and a shared a love of old vampire films with Peter Cushing, similiar bands, etc. But what first cemented our friendship was some really stupid joke that both of us got.

I've noticed that the types of people with the death ray stare tend to fall into the zealot category. They are apt to be fearful of new ideas and often have their own agenda to push. Think Tom Cruise or those annoying people who knock on your door. They have such concrete thinking that everything is route; there is no spontaneity and it's a threat to them. Any great display of enthusiasm for something new or foreign is "wrong". Therefore, you are "wrong". I judge myself enough. I don't need attitude because I like a band, thankyou very much. I also resent then being put on the witness chair and defending my actions as though I have done something wrong.

I am trying really hard not to care as I judge myself enough. I don't need the help of some demented Church Lady/Soccer Mom hybrid who spent a little too much time listening to Dr. Laura. Likewise, I am not looking to have some alpha male lead me in the proper direction. There are worse things than being single. But I swear that sometimes we're still locked into high-school. On somedays it's just really hard not to care.

TAILS TO TELL

I am currently house and cat sitting for a friend and am falling behind on my own e-mail and cleaning as I am working nights at the same time. His poor cat has seperation anxiety; at least, were he a human that's how I would diagnose him. He was about ten months old when he was re-homed by my friend. There was nothing as to his history and how this wonderful kitty had come to be dumped off at Petcetera. When he gets left, though, he panics. I suspect that he may have been left alone for an extended period of time.

How many times have you heard that story? A person gets into a new relationship and they discover that the person doesn't like cats. So, guess who leaves? Even if the beloved pet may have been around for a long time and "Mr We Just Met in A Bar and I'm Desperate" may not be a sure thing.

I wish they could tell us, for they do have strong feelings. People who blow off the emotions of animals are clods. I once read a Phd's comments that cats merely bond with their owners in order to garner food. Idiot.

Yes, they want that. Shelter and territory and if they are not fixed, the feral males seek as many females as possible. They also enjoy play. I've also watched cats seek revenge. We had a racoon problem at work and the trapper came in to relocate them. The racoons had been particularily troublesome to the cats. One of the fattest, nastiest coons was in a cage. I watched one of the cats size up the situation. Realizing that the racoon could no longer do him any harm, he climbed on top of the cage and with what I suspected was supreme satisfaction, defecated on top of the racoon through the grill.

I had a domestic rabbit in my back yard who had gotten out of somebody's cage. After time, I began to see him spending time with this very feral tom that I fed. One night I spotted them sleeping side by side in one of my flower beds. A large tom and a domestic rabbit would naturally be enemies but I like to think that they wanted some sort of company. I would see them together often at night.

They also show gratitude and an understanding and comprehension of the source of the food. We all can provide stories of dead birds being dropped off on our steps. I have a story that still makes me upset when I tell it. At work there was a feral cat who I merely called Wildcat. That's a photo of him above the blog. He only showed up at night and would cover the grounds to make sure that his girls were okay. For years he ran the show and for years I fed him. I would bring the food in, put it down and step away. If I got too close, he'd give me a slurpy hiss. There was no messing with this cat. He certainly had a longer run then most wildcats too. However, he suddenly began to lose a lot of weight. One night I got a phonecall and one of my coworkers told me that "my cat" was looking for me. He told me that the cat had come into the building and was looking around and had then jumped into a chair. This was astounding. The cat had never been inside in his life.

I walked to the building and sure enough, the cat was there. I walked over and talked to the cat. He looked me dead in the eye and held my gaze. I put my hand out and pet him on the head. Just once. I lost it. I knew I was never going to see the cat again. I knew he was saying goodbye and thanks. The cat got up, walked out and I never saw him again. I hate crying in front of people and I had to go to the bathroom because I was so upset.

Tell me again that cats don't communicate and have feelings.

ODD FRIENDS AND A GOOD FILM

One thing about feeling out of sorts and not really being able to fully shake this viral thing is that I do not feel guilty about rewatching some old videos. One of them was "My First Mister". It's actually a gem of a film about an odd friendship and stars LeeLee Sobieski. I had picked it up in a delete bin and it really struck a cord.

It's difficult enough to try to convince people that men and women can be just friends. Try to do it if there is a really big generational gap. That's the subject of this film. These two people also happen to have, on the surface, very different personalities. The film brought tears to my eyes as it reminded me so much of my relationship with Pat.

When I was 23 I started to work with Pat. Like the girl in the film, I was the proverbial goth girl with a penchant for Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath. I did not have the piercings, but on my own time I had the haircut and the thrift-shop clothes. We all had to wear the same item at work, so that wasn't an issue. We were on the same schedule and had a lot of time to talk. He was 30 years older than me. In addition to liking a lot of alternative bands, however, I also had an interest in Shirley Bassey, who he loved. And Big Band, Nat King Cole. Who would have thought?

Pat was the only other person I knew who had watched the film "Three Men in A Boat" and loved it. Like me, he had read the book. We both appreciated the dry humour and wit of British comedies. We also agreed that James Woods, by far, was one of the finest actors going. Roger Moore was the better Bond. We could debate a topic and the time would fly at work.

Sadly, I learned from Pat that it is not only women who can be hit in a relationship. This lovely man, with the Liverpool lilt and sparkling eyes would never fight back in his defence. Yet, he never became a cynic about romance. He was forever trying to set me up with a really nice guy whom he insisted was interested.

We both had a real interest in World War Two and various battles. We had more to talk about than just work.

Then....yes, there is always a then. I had to pick him up for work one day. The night before I'd had him and somebody else over after shift. We'd worked evenings and I'd made some cheese enchiladas, for which I'm quite well received. I'd lamented my migraines and he'd told me "Touch wood, I've never had a headache in my life."

Pat did not show. I had an odd feeling and I went to his door. I knocked, walked away and went back. My odd feelings so often mean something. I thought I heard something so I bent over and looked through the mail-slot. He was on the floor.

My friend only lived a month after that although he was never the same. He had a brain tumour. I would stop and visit and he would seem happy to see me, but I don't believe he knew who I was. I remember one visit in particular; I was on my way to the ballet and he was in a room full of old men with various degrees of dementia. I must have reminded them of their youth as my night on the town regalia consisted of a very exquisite outfit probably last sported when Kennedy was in the White House. I was the hit of the ward that night in my thrift store find. I was touched to find that, although the sign on the door said "Family Only", when I had turned to leave the nurse stopped me. She indicated to me that Pat's daughter and son-in-law had said that I was included. It meant so much.

I think of him often. He should have grown old and retired and travelled back to visit England. We could have watched "Three Men in a Boat". I'm sure by now they'd have released it on DVD.

I learned from Pat that friendship crosses time, as it needs to cross our bias towards appearance and race.

FIX YOUR CATS (AND KEVIN FEDERLINE)

(Note on photo: Dot is neurotic. She just went crazy one day and began to hiss and carry on. The other cats don't know what to make of her. I had to get Dot her own stinky box, otherwise she'd just go on the kitchen mats. She will not leave the kitchen any more.)

(Note: This squirrel would jump at the window and slide down if I did not notice her to get my attention. There used to be a lot of them and I am sure the redneck behind me killed them as he had a pellet gun. I would hear the idiot firing it all the time, along with the chain saw he would sometimes start up at 0300 in the morning. I kid you not. Others have vibrators. I think he used his chainsaw. Anyways, all the squirrels were just gone one day. This one used to come up to me when I sat outside and read as I had the peanut bag beside me. The neighbours always give me the stink eye as I feed the strays, the squirrels and the birds.)

This orange Tom is totally feral. I've been feeding him for years. The poor old guy only has one eye which limits his ability to defend himself and has garnered him some nasty wounds. Only a while ago he had an ugly, festering infection on the side of his neck. I did not think he would make it this time. It has not limited his ability to reproduce.

One of the black cats in the photo is an old girl-friend of his. I had caught her after she had five kittens. All were females. I got them when they were small enough that they could be tamed and they found a home. The two previous kittens were too feral to be adopted. I got stuck with them. One is the grey one and the other is the exotic looking black one, who is handsome but a handful. The vet told me a sad story of an older woman that had passed away. She had taken in a number of feral kittens that responded well to her. When she died they tried to place the animals with other people but it did not work out and all of the cats had to be put down. These two cats are almost a year old now. With me they are loving, although they run around more than most cats. With others, they take off. I know that if something happened to me they would suffer the same fate. I got stuck with the mother cat also. I had paid to get her fixed and had meant to release her, but once her stitches healed, she made no move for the door. She knew a good deal when she saw it. Two of my cats are from a local prison that has a feral cat population. Two cats just showed up at my door; one was only about four months old at the time and showed up in the middle of the night in the winter. It was so hungry that it had been eating grass to survive and had large lumps in his intestines because of the consumption of items that weren't really food. He felt pregnant and had such a bad cold that it was touch and go.

Anyways, I am breaking the law because I am permitted only two cats. They all stay inside and are much loved although they annoy me at times. In the photo they are watching one of the strays outside eating. Unfortunately, I am forced to feed them as the people in this town are cheap. They do not fix them and the common refrain is "oh, they're just barn cats, they can look after themselves."

It breaks my heart. And my pocket book.

JUST A NOTE,'CAUSE I CARE.

I keep seeing photos of people walking around with masks. This is as a result of their fear of the swine flu. Unfortunately, they are often wearing the masks wrong.

A number of years ago, a friend of mine was a designated fit tester for the Portacount and its attachment. This measures how much particles get through masks and is meant to assure that a tight seal is made on masks and SCBA. He asked if I would be his witness when he tested people and assist him with filing the reams of paperwork that was generated. I told him I would. In watching him do this over a hundred times or so, I picked up a few things and I want to pass it on. I was also his guinea pig when he was getting familiar with the machinery. We tested a lot of different surgical masks. They are pictured above. The little silver prongs are what we attached the hose to. They are not part of the masks but were added by me when we tested them.

If you are going to get a mask, make sure it says N95. Anything below this level means that enough germs will get through the mask to make you sick. We were surprised to find that even some of the professionals had problems putting on masks properly and they failed the tests. Mold the mask to your face. Do not have any hair going under the elastics or the silver piece.

Think condoms. If a seal is broken on a condom, those suckers get in and your safety is jeopardized. Do not break any kind of seal.

Once the mask is on, you can move your head to the side and up and down as long as you do so in a smooth and easy fashion. Do not jerk it to the side. If you had to, you could drive somebody to the hospital wearing one of these.

It would be smart to have the sick person wearing a mask too. That way, if they coughed, they'd seal the germs in the mask much better than their hand would. Do not put on a mask if there is risk of vomiting. They can choke to death.

We found that the best mask was made by 3M. It is the one on the bottom and it is numbered 8210. We kept getting good readings with it. The one that looks like a traditional surgical mask failed on us when we had people do the side to side test as it broke the seal and germs got in.

So there you have it.

Let's Get It Together...

The photo was sent to me as part of a joke package of Barbie items. Artist unknown. .....Let's imagine this scenario, shall we? You pull into a gas station and ask for two gallons of gas. You pay and leave. At some point down the line, you pull into another gas station and ask for two gallons of gas and they give you half the amount of gas. Of course, I am assuming full service still exists, but I digress. How long do you think this would go on?

.....Well, it happens all the time in women's clothing sizes. There is no such thing as standard sizing. We leave it up to the manufacturers to determine what their version of a large will be, or even what they call a size four. As I said. There is no way we would accept this in the distribution of any other goods. Milk is always sold in the same predetermined container. They don't just decide to wing it and call it what they want to call it.

.....Men would never put up with this garbage. They would be crazed. Men like to have a garage full of tools in which each little screw driver is hung on the wall in its exact little spot. Do you think they would tolerate the whims of designers that have no standard of sizing?

.....I find it difficult to wrap my brain around the half sizing and misses and juniors and all the other nonsense that goes on. Add to that the idea of European sizing as compared to American sizing. Then, if you go to a retro store you discover that sizing has changed. Just like intelligence has dumbed down, so has our figure. You know how they always try to tell us that Marilyn Monroe was a size twelve? Well, actually she was not. The size twelve of today is not the size twelve of yesteryear. The cut has changed.

.....There was a brand of jeans that I had become used to buying. Now, there are many brands of jeans that I like, but it's hard for me. I am a strict vegetarian and for some reason designers are intent on sticking that stupid bit of leather at the back. I do not eat meat for moral reasons (it has nothing to do with health). Do not worry; I will never lecture. I believe it's like a religion and best kept to yourself. I finally found a pair of jeans that I liked that did not have that piece of leather and didn't look like Mom jeans.

.....I was in a rush one day and I tried a pair on. I knew that I had not lost weight, yet somehow my normal size did not fit. I asked the sales woman what was going on. She told me that the brand had changed the sizing. I am no fool. A miracle of God had not taken place. The jeans did not hold the long, lost answer to weight loss.

.....So, basically what it amounts to, I said to the sales woman, is that the designers think that women are so gullible and vain that they will buy the jeans if the size is a smaller number. The sales woman told me that it works and that all the designers are doing it. It is an effective marketing tool. This only served to piss me off. On principle I did not buy the jeans. So, I am now walking around in a really old pair of pants.

.....If this nonsense keeps up we will be walking around in negative numbers soon. Please. We need to have numbers that we know mean something. When I bake something I know that the measuring cup equals one cup. Why can't we get standards set up that we know for certain that when we buy something that x=x? Is that too much to ask?