Jane Fishman on Misplaced Anger

Link to Jane's semi-weekly column at the world's finest newspaper (and yes, I am biased), The Savannah Morning News.
http://savannahnow.com/accent/2010-09-04/jane-fishman-crazy-world-recognize-misplaced-anger
[Column printed below for you motherfuckers who are too damn lazy to click on that shit.]

Jane Fishman: In a crazy world, recognize misplaced anger

These are the best of times and the worst of times and in between, the most absurd of times. The other day I was toddling along in my car, the windows open, my elbow resting on the edge of the window, cutting through a neighborhood on my way to Victory Drive and points east.

Conscious of trying to drive the speed limit, I saw in my rearview mirror a car on my tail. I mean on my tail. I took a deep breath, and, while I don't think I slowed down just to prove a point, I did maintain what I thought was a respectable, decent speed as I passed kids on bikes, people behind mowers, dogs trying to cross the street.

When I got to Victory Drive, I turned on my right-turn signal, looked over and saw my tailgate buddy. He had pulled next to me. He also wanted to make a right-hand turn. I made the universal gesture with my face and hands (not the one with the middle finger) as if to say, "WTF. What's going on here? You can't wait a second? I make the turn first, then you. This is how we do it. "

Like me, he was driving with his windows open. He leaned across the passenger seat and said, "I bet you're a Democrat. You're a Democrat, aren't you? C'mon, tell me."

I understand that these are stratified times, tough times.

I understand that there's a 24/7 media designed to foment and inflame people's feelings. I understand people are angry that we have spent $53 billion in Iraq while our own school-age students are sitting in mobile units, that 4,400 American troops have been killed in that country, that we are about to see the same thing happen in Afghanistan, that with all the bailout money we have given banks we still can't get loans without giving processors everything but our blood type or our first-born.

I understand all that. But for this man to vent his anger by calling me a Democrat is strange, very strange, indeed. This was the worst he could think of?

Was it my 1996 beige Ford Taurus station wagon with one hubcap missing? My yellow CARA rowing shirt? My unplucked eyebrows? My unkempt, uncombed hair? I know it wasn't my incendiary bumper stickers (other than one from a radio station from Lafayette, La.). I don't have any.

I looked at him, paused and laughed. What else could I do? Several minutes later, when we arrived at a light at the same time, I looked at him again with a slight smile. This time he did not look at me.

The first person I told that story to threw up his hands and said it reminded him of a John Prine song, "Spanish Pipedreams," written in 1971.

This is the chorus: "Blow up your TV. Throw away your paper/Go to the country, build you a home/Plant a little garden, eat a lot of peaches/Try and find Jesus on your own."

The second person I ran into - a friend who lives in Savannah but is going to school overseas - preferred to focus on the idiocy of my tailgater's position.

Then she could hardly wait to tell me her own story of idiocy. She had just had her hair cut. During the session she told the beautician she was about to go back to Germany. Oh, the other woman said, how long does it take to get there? About eight hours from New York, my friend said.

Gee, the beautician said again. I wonder how long it would take to drive.

Well, my friend answered, until they build a bridge across the Atlantic Ocean, I don't think you'll be driving.


All worked up

It's a crazy world out there. We, the little people, are products of an underwhelming education system and pawns of a corrupt and disingenuous political system.

While they - the politicians and members of the corporate community, one and the same - go merrily on their capitalist way, they leave us all worked up and hating one another.

If I were more paranoid I'd say it was a plot.

Is it time to "blow up your TV" and move "to the country," John Prine style? Maybe. Or maybe we can fool them. Maybe we can decide to band together, the tailgaters, the beauticians, the Republicans, the Democrats, and find a little love of our own.

Last month, when I was on the road to Canada, getting gas somewhere in North Carolina, I locked the keys in the car. "Brother," I said, to no one in particular, as I paced and wondered what to do. It just so happened I directed my dilemma to a man also getting gas. He was a big man. He was driving a pickup that said "Big Al's Guitar Lessons." He must have been Al.

"I think I can help you," he said quietly.

After he finished filling up, he climbed into the bed of his truck, fished around in one of those locked compartments and pulled out what he called a "Slim Jim." Minutes later, presto, this big man wielding a "Slim Jim" set me free and set us on our way. He wouldn't take any money. How un-American. But how generous. How kind.

Suiciding Shrimp & One HELL of a Responsible Farmer

Hat tip to the beautiful, impossibly wonderful Maggie May at Flux Capacitor. Maggie is a real treasure of a writer.

Link to story about intelligent farming: http://edition.cnn.com/2010/TECH/innovation/08/30/gulf.dead.zone.minnesota.farm/#fbid=7K2eRRyAtWD&wom=false

Tony Thomspon might have big bushy eyebrows, but he's pretty damn good-looking to me.

[SB loves you, Maggie! Thanks.]

SB Is Back

But posts may be light today. A bitch has some catching up to do here at the old grind, a.k.a. work.

On the bright side, a VERY COOL work friend brought me Billy Idol's fucking autograph from the concert Friday night. That's right, motherfuckers--BILLY FUCKING IDOL'S AUTOGRAPH! I work with the coolest and nicest people EVER. That shit basically made my WHOLE ENTIRE week.

This bitch hopes all of you motherfuckers had precious drunken rip-roaring holiday weekends. Tomorrow a bitch will report on her trip to the Dayton Social Security Office. Actually, it turned out better than I thought. I also need to update you motherfuckers on the status of the born-again biker neighbors from HELL. Fucker relapsed. Dude's in the rehab (it's a colorful story), and his wife still feels the need to YELL every fucking word. Bitch actually screamed at my ass in the damn porch window. Scared the shit out of me. SB HATES a mouthy motherfucker.

Shit SB Says to a MADD Representative

[Note for my motherfuckers who do not reside in the States: MADD stands for Mothers Against Drunk Driving.]

Hello.

My name is Sheila and I am with Mother's Against Drunk Driving. Would you like to join us in our fight to prevent drunk driving today?

Actually, I'm for drunk driving.

[Long silence.] Excuse me?

You heard it right.

Billy Idol Tickets Are $61.00 a Piece Here in Buttfuck, Ohio

Guess I won't be going to that show. He is here in the Dayton area tomorrow. Poor sonofabitch. Hopefully he will say something like: Fuck you, Dayton. You suck!

We do.

I'd do the shortest show in history (20 minutes tops) if I had to come to Dayton, and I'd do it SO FUCKING DRUNK, I'd fuck with the damn words to my songs, especially the hits.

Fuck the cradle of love. Fuck the cradle of love. . . .

Cats Do NOT Like to Cuddle, Bitch!

When I was a little kid, Nana, this nice old broad who lived next door to us, bought me a little book showing what kitties like and DO NOT like. It included helpful shit, like how to hold a kitty so your eyes don't get scratched out. Thanks, Nana! (Her ancient ass is probably dead now.) Basically, if a moggy's damn ears are flat, a bitch is NOT enjoying the enforced bonding experience, and a hapless human bitch is about to get slashed and gashed.

And then, there is the particular feline mode of expression in the photo above. Check out kitty's face. Bitch on the couch is about to lose his damn testicles.

Tobias Wong Hung Himself in His Sleep

Now, here's one I have never heard of before. Motherfucker was more productive in his sleep than I am in waking life! He designed costumes for his cats in his sleep, people! Holy shit.

Link to article: http://mydeathspace.com/article/2010/08/31/Tobias_Wong_(35)_hanged_himself_while_sleepwalking

[And yes, I read Mydeathspace.com daily. Fuck you. It's like when old people read the obituaries everyday, but it's online, so that shit is adapted for my generation. A bitch doesn't like to get black newspaper print on her precious hands!]

SB Will Be Back Next Tuesday, Motherfuckers

Consider yourselves warned! In the spirit of Labor Day, my ass is taking a mini-vacation from paying work and the damn blog.

Happy Labor Day, motherfuckers! Stay safe and shit. See y'all on Tuesday.

More Shit SB Says to the Dear Ms. Moon

I always find the fall light so lovely. The fact that I notice it so readily is attributable to Mrs. William Faulkner, who is long dead and gone now, but God bless her.

Mrs. F. once commented to her husband how lovely the diffused light in August was, and of course, her husband, being the resourceful type and likely generally a drunken pain in Mrs. Faulkner's ass, promptly did what all good artists do and stole that shit and entitled one of his books, "The Light in August."

I always think of poor sweet old Mrs. Faulkner this time of year, when the light is special and indescribably lovely.

God bless Mrs. Faulkner. God bless us all.

Admonitions to a Special Person by Anne Sexton

Admonitions to a Special Person

Watch out for power,
for its avalanche can bury you,
snow, snow, snow, smothering your mountain.

Watch out for hate,
it can open its mouth and you'll fling yourself out
to eat off your leg, an instant leper.

Watch out for friends,
because when you betray them,
as you will,
they will bury their heads in the toilet
and flush themselves away.

Watch out for intellect,
because it knows so much it knows nothing
and leaves you hanging upside down,
mouthing knowledge as your heart
falls out of your mouth.

Watch out for games, the actor's part,
the speech planned, known, given,
for they will give you away
and you will stand like a naked little boy,
pissing on your own child-bed.

Watch out for love
(unless it is true,
and every part of you says yes including the toes),
it will wrap you up like a mummy,
and your scream won't be heard
and none of your running will end.

Love? Be it man. Be it woman.
It must be a wave you want to glide in on,
give your body to it, give your laugh to it,
give, when the gravelly sand takes you,
your tears to the land. To love another is something
like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall
into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.

Special person,
if I were you I'd pay no attention
to admonitions from me,
made somewhat out of your words
and somewhat out of mine.
A collaboration.
I do not believe a word I have said,
except some, except I think of you like a young tree
with pasted-on leaves and know you'll root
and the real green thing will come.

Let go. Let go.
Oh special person,
possible leaves,
this typewriter likes you on the way to them,
but wants to break crystal glasses
in celebration,
for you,
when the dark crust is thrown off
and you float all around
like a happened balloon.

[Note to the fucking reader: I just dig this shit. Anne Sexton is one of my favorite poets. She always nails it.]

Shit I Say to Ms. Moon, My Idol

Yes dear, my ass is wide. It is also getting flatter as I age. At this rate, I may soon have Yoko Ono butt.

[Disclaimer: Yoko Ono butt is okay if you are Japanese and shit, but it looks fucking weird on a well-fed American.]

We Bitches Have All Been Obsessed by Some Deadbeat at One Time or Another

I think it's safe to say that most of us bitches have been obsessed with some loser at one point or another, but this shit takes the cake. Like I say, some choices are better than others.

Link to a very strange tale of stalkerism: http://www.truecrimereport.com/2010/08/dr_jacquelyn_kotarac_dies_in_c.php#more

Quote of the Damn Day from My Dear Friend, Shane

It is a cold day. It feels like there's ice outside. The sky is bright blue but fragile. It always feels like this when junk is seeping out your body. It's as if all the evils of all the world are hanging about outside waiting to descend upon you. Wind, noises, rain, smell, light. It is all there and all intrusive, like the the unwelcome touch of an unwanted lover. Coming off heroin feels like rape.

If you haven't yet visited Shane's blog, Memoires of a Heroinhead, you are in for a damn treat. He is one of the best writers I know and a very kind, gracious person as well. If you have a stereotype of a heroin addict in your head, it will likely change drastically after your encounter with Shane and his work. I very highly recommend his blog. I've read very few blogs from beginning to end, but I was compelled to read Shane's entire blog the first weekend I encountered it.

Shit SB Says

I don't believe in evil. I just believe in choices, and some choices work out better than others. Ignorant simple frightened people invent labels like good and evil, God and Satan. They feel safer when they can shove everything into a simplistic neat little category, when the nature of life itself is anything but simple. I find this tendency very tragic. This simpification causes much of the ugliness and the formidable problems of the world.

Morning Conversation with a Co-Worker

Do you have any Shout Wipes. . . . for my butt?

[Momentary stunned silence.]

Wha??????

I have some spots on the back of my fucking pants. I knew I shouldn't try and wear off-white. My ass is so big, it's like a magnet. Stuff just sticks to it.