Best. Funeral. Ever.

For the last couple of days we've been having our annual-ish winter storm here in Texas. This one was actually kind of a doozy: a repeating cycle of sleet, snow, and rain over two days that made driving a very bad idea (as demonstrated by the morbidly fascinating news videos of native Texans and West Coast transplants trying and failing to do just that). It was a great time to stay home, and I did just that.

One of the things I'm very grateful for (for which I'm very grateful...whatever) is the technology that makes it possible for me to do my desk job from my sofa. Another is having management who recognize that letting folks work from home occasionally is a perk that pays dividends, and not simply a lost opportunity to micromanage and browbeat their workers in person. 

I don't take advantage of WFH all that often; when you're an office manager, a surprising amount of your work requires an office to, you know, manage. But I do a lot of other stuff that can be backed up, packed up, and taken home when necessary. And when various forms of frozen precipitation are falling from the sky in a place where that happens approximately as often as Jesus' birthday, I call that necessary.

So I've been tap-tapping away, much to the consternation of Tacocat, who can't understand why my lap is off-limits when I've got the glowing black machine in front of me. I took plenty of breaks to play fetch with him, don't worry. For the most part I've had the TV running while I worked, either keeping tabs on the weather or just listening to old reruns droning in the background.

But on January 9, the National Day of Mourning, I got to the watch the state funeral of former President Jimmy Carter, who passed on December 29 at the age of 100 (an age that, frankly, I never, ever want to reach). As I watched the flag-draped coffin being carried into the National Cathedral in Washington, D.C., it struck me that I was home on the day of the last Presidential funeral, that of George H.W. Bush in 2018. I don't remember if it was weather that day, or a stomach bug, or what. But apparently this is my thing.

Anyway, the funeral was, as far as a funeral can be, delightful. Solemn, celebratory, dignified, folksy, full of music and eloquent speeches...10/10, no notes. And you could tell that it had all been planned to the finest detail by the departed himself, a man who knew a thing or two about putting your heart and soul into making an impression.

I was impressed that former President Gerald Ford and former Vice President Walter Mondale both wrote moving eulogies for Jimmy Carter, knowing full well that they might end up being delivered after each of them were gone. Their respective sons read their words - words full of love, respect, and admiration for the man from Plains, Georgia. 

I was beyond impressed that speaker after speaker extolled President Carter's faith, his integrity, his lifelong commitment to civil rights and human rights. I loved his grandson's description of his papaw answering the front door of his house in "70s short shorts and Crocs" and having "a rack (in the kitchen) of Ziploc bags hung to dry." Like many others, I was humbled by the image of a man who was once the most powerful person in the world declining the protection of the Secret Service while he built houses for the poor.

And I - a small, unimportant, and above all very petty person - I enjoyed the hell out of the fact that this heartfelt celebration of Jimmy Carter's life, before over a thousand people from all walks of life, played out in front of the incoming occupant of the White House. He wasn't there as President of the United States. He wasn't there as a cherished colleague, friend, or confidant of the deceased. He was there because of...protocol, and politeness. He must have hated every minute.

The prayers. The hymns. The outpouring of love and sincere grief for the man who was (unlike him) the focus of everyone's attention. It must have galled Donald J. Trump.

What was he thinking? Was he trying to tell himself it was all lame, or phony? Was he flipping through his mental Rolodex, trying to think of people he knew who might give a eulogy with a fraction of the sincerity and affection? Was he mentally redecorating the National Cathedral with fake gold leaf and velvet-upholstered pews? Was he paying any attention at all to what actually constitutes a legacy?

Ugh. Attempting to get inside Trump's head gives me a rash.

There were five former Presidents at Jimmy Carter's funeral - Bill Clinton, George W. Bush, Barack Obama, Donald Trump, and (almost) Joe Biden. All of them will, in due time, receive state funerals. Each will reflect the character and legacy of the man it celebrates.

I doubt any of them will provide as much popcorn-worthy schadenfreude as this one.

I told you I was petty.

Rest in Peace, President Carter.

(Totally Faked) Death of a Writer

 Drunkards, have you been following this whole Susan Meachen saga?

It's a page-turner, a barn-burner,
a WTF of epic proportions.

Susan Meachen was a writer. Is a writer. May yet be a writer, but probably not. Let me explain. 

You're forgiven for not having heard of her - she was an "indie" author, a self-published creator of e-romance novels. She ran an online group of supporters and fellow writers called The Ward. And in September 2020, Susan Meachen's daughter took to Facebook to announce that her mother had tragically committed suicide.

The small but close-knit online community of Meachen fans expressed shock and grief at her passing. There were tributes, a surge in book sales - and at least one GoFundMe to raise money for the loved ones she left behind. While she wasn't well known outside her niche audience, her life and premature death clearly made an impact on her friends and readers. It was all very sad.

It could have come straight from one of her books.
Or not. I don't read a lot of online romance novels.

And then, on January 2, Susan Meachen popped up on her own Facebook page and announced, "lol jk." 

BITCH WAS ALIVE THE WHOLE TIME.

Not only that, but dig this: Two months after she supposedly croaked, she set up a new account under a different name and...volunteered to take over running Susan Meachen's online community.

I don't get to use this meme often, so yay!

Ever since this turn of events - which likely is more compelling than anything she actually wrote - her friends and fans have been going crazy. Accusations, exclamations, recriminations. People were confused. People were pissed. And with good reason. Susan Meachen had left behind a community of people who genuinely cared about her, who genuinely grieved for her. Who genuinely donated in the memory of someone who straight-up took their money and let them believe she was dead.

If you want to read a well-written and thoughtful summation of the Susan Meachen story, please click here. Because the rest of this post is going to be petty.

So...I haven't ready any of Susan Meachen's "perfectly flawed romances," as she called them. But I've read a few excerpts that are available on Amazon. Guys...they're not good. 

The romance genre takes a lot of shit, because romance novels are typically formulaic, over- or under-written, and less than intellectually challenging. But like other genre fiction - horror, Western, science fiction - romance can be done in a way that is engaging and enjoyable. It requires an author who understands the conventions of the genre. It also requires a disciplined editor and a focused marketing effort.

As a self-published author, Susan Meachen arguably understood the romance genre. But she operated outside the structure of a publishing machine dedicated to churning out well-written, professional product. And it shows.

Here's the first paragraph of a book called "His Wicked Way":

This is not polished writing. This is a paragraph of exposition that could have been several pages of action and dialogue, with maybe a flashback thrown in and some mood-setting descriptions. And what the hell are "unknown riches"? Instead, the pages following this introduction are a steady stream of run-on sentences, flaccid passive voice, and statements that whoosh by without structure or pacing. 

I don't expect literary excellence from romance novels. I do expect writing that doesn't beat me over the head with mediocrity.

I don't mean to beat up on Susan Meachen. After all, during her lifetime (which apparently is ongoing) she managed to complete a number of novels, which outpaces my total output of zero novels. But Susan Meachen had a niche: She wrote pulpy stories for an audience that supported her. Much as I write silly blog posts for an audience that for some reason sticks with me. I don't pretend for a minute that her efforts were one bit less worthy than mine, and I give her full marks for exceeding my output of long-form stories.

I also would never denigrate or dismiss the struggles of another human to survive and thrive. If Susan Meachen was suffering, I feel for her. Even now, after she's callously deceived the people around her, I have sympathy for the situation she placed herself in (into which she placed herself...never mind). 

But Jaysus, she done fucked up. And I've seen no sign that she feels any remorse for her actions. 

My promise to you, Drunkards, is that I will never pretend to be dead. When I go, I'm all in. I expect the same from all of you. 

But I really want to try my hand at romance writing now. Maybe "The Wind Below." Or "Our Trembling Knees." Or "He Came Cummingly."

What do you think?

Farewell, Pete

You guys.

I've lost the love of my life.

I think Drummer Boy will be OK with me saying that. At least today.

Peter Tork - Monkee, musician, human being - has passed away.

I am beyond devastated, Drunkards.

Peter was a gifted multi-instrumentalist singer-songwriter who found himself immortalized in a TV pop band. He got the part, or at least the audition, because he looked like Stephen Stills. This world is random and has a perverse sense of humor.

They're both gone.

In 2013, I was privileged to see Peter perform live at the Granada Theater in Dallas. I met him. He autographed my ticket.

He was the second best part of an amazing night.

The best part was sharing it with my dear friend BekS and my darling Drummer Boy.

They've both reached out to share our collective grief that this sweet, talented, gifted person has left us.

Peter was on my list - you know, that list of people your significant other knows and understands you would def sleep with if you had the chance. Hell, Peter basically was my list. Thing is, my ex-spouse was good with it, and Drummer Boy was good with it. Because...fucking Peter Tork. He was probably on their lists, as well. Peter was that kind of guy.

Oh, Peter. I'll forever remember your bassline on "Pleasant Valley Sunday" and your harpsichord on "The Girl That I Knew Somewhere" and your vocal on "Do I Have to Do This All Over Again." I'll remember your stellar solo work, most recently with Shoe Suede Blues.

And I'll forever remember meeting you and sharing a smile with you, and knowing that you were (or at least acted) as pleased to be seated next to me as I was to be seated next to you.

Rest in peace, sweet Peter. I hope you recognized a bare fraction of the love you made while you were here.

I miss you already.

Death in the Family

Our guinea pig died today, you guys.

When she was just a wee thing.

Muinea B. Guinea - you may recall the B stands for Ermahgerd - was five and a half years old. She passed away at 7:45 a.m., having held on just long enough for Precocious Daughter to say goodbye.

She wasn't sick, thank goodness. Yesterday she was her peppy, wheeking self. This morning I found her laying on her side, something she never did, and I knew she was dying. I called PDaughter over, and she told Muinea she loved her. Then I watched our darling cavy draw her final breath and cross the Rainbow Bridge.

She was the best, Drunkards.

Here's an early post about her.

We are sad.

The Siamese kitten is getting extra pets tonight.

Here they both are, being good dogs.

Give your furry friends - and your non-furry friends - all the love you can. It's never wasted.

OK, 2018 *cracks knuckles* Let's Do This

Happy 2018, Drunkards.

Belated fireworks.

It's been a pretty whirlwind time for the last week or so. As glad as I was to see 2017's sorry ass depart, I'm not sure I was expecting 2018 to come in quite so full of piss and vinegar. But it did...and is.

Some of the ups and downs of the last several days:

Up: New Year's was actually amazing. I hadn't planned on seeing my darling Drummer Boy at all, because he had a NYE gig. But it fell through, so we were able to spend 28 wonderful hours together from December 31 to January 1. We'd never seen the new year in together. It was nice.

Down: A childhood friend passed away on January 1. I don't know what happened, except that it was very sudden. She was posting on Facebook on the 31st, and the next day she was gone. She was a lovely person, both when we were kids and up until the day she died. I wish her family peace.

Up: I've decided to start sewing again. If you've been around a while, you may remember that I used to love to sew. Loved it with a passion. But just about four years ago (!), I had to turn my sewing room into a solo bedroom as my now-ex and I began our long, strange journey to divorce. And as my life spiraled out of control, sewing receded to something I used to love. But now I'm clearing a little space in the corner of my apartment so that I can once again wallow in fabric and patterns and the 4,000 bobbins I somehow acquired (but thankfully never threw away, even when I drastically downsized my life to start over). Stay tuned.

Down: Another old friend announced that her husband's cancer, once in remission, has returned and metastasized. They're hoping for another eighteen months together. I always thought I was pretty indifferent toward life until I started watching people die. Now I'm absolutely bound and determined to love every moment of it, whether I have months, years, or decades in front of me.

Sideways?: Precocious Daughter got her driver's license two days ago. Tonight she's out by herself for the very first time. I'm freaking out, you guys. I'm proud, and happy, and completely terrified. She's an excellent driver, but she's outnumbered by all the idiots on the road. If there are such things as angels, I'm hoping she has one on her shoulder as she drives.

So yeah...2018. I have very high hopes. I'm glad to be here, and I'm glad you're here, too. I'm going to get writing, get sewing, get loving, and get living.

I hope you'll join me.

My Heart Hurts for All of Us

What a week, huh?

A wealthy asshole slaughters 58 people attending a Jason Aldean concert for no fucking reason.*

And a beloved rock musician dies suddenly (and more than once, if you believe some hack news reporting).

Quite the juxtaposition.

The shooting rampage in Las Vegas and the death of Tom Petty together serve to illuminate, in that strange way the universe has of not quite letting me let go of a belief in some kind of God, the great profundity and stunning ordinariness of death.

The idea of one anonymous person killing or injuring nearly 600 others in a non-military, non-political, completely innocuous setting, is very difficult to wrap my head around. (I won't dignify him here by using his name or the "lone wolf" appellation that attempts to define him as something other than a terrorist, or at least a common thug, both of which he certainly was.)

The idea of a famous musician - who entertained and inspired me since I was 10 years old - suffering cardiac arrest just a week after playing his "farewell" concerts fills me with sadness and a sense of grief I can hardly articulate.

Nearly 600 people - none of whom, as far as I know, had a personal connection to me - mercilessly attacked for absolutely no good reason.

One man - with whom I also shared nothing - who was a household name and died suddenly after living a life of wealth, fame, and success.

Surely there should be a qualitative difference there, right?

And of course there is.

Men in their 60s die of heart attacks. Not all, but it's certainly not an anomaly. It happens.

Average people die, too - sometimes individually, sometimes in small numbers, sometimes in shockingly, unexpectedly large numbers.

As an average person, I'm terrified that I or someone I love could go any time. For any reason. Without warning.

At the same time, some elemental part of my brain wants to believe that people of enormous talent - whether it be intellectual, physical, or artistic - somehow deserve a better and longer life than the rest of us. And every time that belief is proved wrong, I feel small and mortal and scared for everyone who is just...a human, doing their human thing.

In that way, the loss of Tom Petty reminds me that no one is immune from death, and that while I tear up at news reports and then move on, there are people for whom his death is the death of a spouse, a father, a bandmate, a friend.

And the loss of 58 random people in Las Vegas at the hands of a madman reminds me that life carries no guarantees of longevity, and that not knowing the names of each and every victim makes their death no less a tragedy, and no less personal to my own existence.

I mourn every death this week...Tom Petty, 58 men and women in Las Vegas, and the countless others whose obituaries I will never even read.

Someday (FAR in the future, I hope), my own death will give to someone an appreciation of the preciousness of life.

For now...

My condolences to all of us.



*  I totally don't mean people were attending a Jason Aldean concert for no fucking reason. I meant there were shot for no fucking reason. No matter what kind of music you like, you don't deserve this shit.

Love and Love

Oh Drunkards...my heart aches tonight.

Jerry Lewis has died at the age of 91.

As a child of the 70s and 80s, of course my most vivid memory of the man is as the host of the annual  Muscular Dystrophy Labor Day Telethon.

If you're "of a certain age," you're currently smiling and saying "awww..."

You guys, the MDA telethon.

So, muscular dystrophy is a thing. It's a genetic disease that affects people for no good reason. You can read about it here.

And Mr. Jerry Lewis hosted an annual telethon to raise money for research and treatment of muscular dystrophy. And when I was a kid, literally Labor Day was about watching the telethon.

Hosting from Las Vegas, Jerry would bring on his famous friends, like Frankie and Dino, and then would cut away so local stations could make pleas for donations.

In Milwaukee, where I grew up, that meant Howard and Rosemary Gernette.

Who totally deserve their own post. If you grew up in Milwaukee,
they are Fred and Ginger, Han and Leia, Kim and Kanye, you guys.

To me, it meant something more.

My mom had a friend named Susie. And Susie had a son named Matt.

Matt had muscular dystrophy.

And he was my age.

Oh, you guys.

Most important...Matt is the kiddo seated bottom-left in this photo. This was first grade.

Later he relied on various apparati to get around.

But Matty was the face of MD in Milwaukee when I was a kid. And if my memory is not impaired, he also appeared on the MDA telethon, at least locally.

Matthew Klockow passed away, much too soon, in 2003.

And now Jerry Lewis is gone.

On Labor Day, I'll make a donation to honor them both.

I hope you will, too.

Thank you. <3

Simian Lives (Even Imaginary) Matter

Here's a true story from the Baudelaire Files:

A couple of weeks ago, Precocious Daughter and I were driving home from her weekly clarinet lesson.

Totally channeling the Goodman vibe, she is.

She was driving, because ever since she got her learner's permit, I basically only drive to work and home again. Everywhere else - Target, music lessons, her dad's place, band practice - she drives.

She is actually a pretty damn good driver. I'm proud of her.

And in fact, except for her two iron-clad rules - 1) the driver picks the radio station and 2) when she's not the driver she picks the radio station - I like being a passenger. It's a novelty I haven't enjoyed since becoming a single mom.

Let's pretend any of these women are me, OK?

Back to the point, though.

We were driving on a stretch of road between suburbs where the speed limit is 50 mph. And naturally, PDaughter was taking tf care of that rather high limit as she drove us home.

And so, while driving at a pretty good clip for a city street, we both saw something in the median.

First, we saw a big-ass crow.

I mean, this thing was the size of a KFC five-piece meal all by itself.

Seriously, effing wings and thighs and biscuits and all that shit.

Second, we saw that said Mr. Crow was presiding over the body of some roadkill. As your standard suburban crow will do.

Spoiler alert: Doesn't give a sh*t whether you call it a crow, blackbird,
or grackle. Will crap on your car and stare you the f*ck down
from the median.

Here's the thing: As we whiz by, PDaughter exclaims, "Was that a monkey?"

As in, was the roadkill we just saw next to the amazingly freaking large crow...an actual monkey?

DO NOT EVEN LOOK IF YOU'RE SENSITIVE YOU GUYS SERIOUSLY

Oh, Jeebus. I'm sorry for that.

Here's the thing. I saw something in the median that Sunday morning.

I thought it was a large cat...?

Possibly a Siamese, because it was, like, tawny and had a long tail...?

But...A monkey?

What the actual f*ck would an actual dead monkey have been doing in the median of a suburban thoroughfare on a Sunday morning?

Besides something super-interesting but also
inherently very sad?

You can imagine our curiosity.

Unfortunately, the moment passed quickly.

We did not make a U-turn to confirm our suspicions, also unfortunately.

So what did we see that Sunday morning?

A run-of-the-mill carcass of a squirrel or cat that didn't make it across the road like the fabled chicken?

Or an actual long-tailed, tan-bodied, inexplicable monkey who somehow met its unlikely end along a wide suburban road in Texas, to be attended in death by a glossy black-feathered bird?

I'd like to say I have the answer. But I don't.

As far as PDaughter and I are concerned, we saw a monkey in the median along Belt Line Road between Coppell and Carrollton, Texas.

And we mourn that little guy.

The point is, every little life matters. Try to remember that as you whiz by on the roadway.

Every life.

Every one.

Wind, Whirling

I've had such a week.

You know that last Friday, I said goodbye to Darling Dog. I'm so glad that he's on the other side without pain, but, you know, I'm still here and I miss him.

Well, on Tuesday night, one of my dearest friends passed away. I was pretty much a loser in high school, particularly after moving to Plano, Texas. But I was fortunate to be part of a very small, very tight group of friends. And among these were Bestest Friend, who has remained my Bestest Friend for lo these many years, and the beautiful Noelle. We were sort of like the Three Musketeers, at least in my memory of those days.

There are legitimate benefits to remembering the '80s imperfectly.

Noelle was smart, funny, sassy, warm, happy, and honest. She was an only child (and adopted, at that), and she is actually the reason I didn't stress out when it became obvious that my Precocious Daughter would never have siblings. I figured if Noelle could grow up an only child without being lonely, resentful, or selfish, then I could raise my child to be the same way. And thanks to her, I was right.

I will miss her so much, you guys.

The same day I learned of my beautiful friend's passing, I learned about another death. Because the universe does love to pile on.

Last year, a co-worker lost his young son. Most of us were told that it was a "vehicle accident."

Yesterday I learned additional details of this child's death. And I wish to God that I hadn't.

I understand that when a person is in possession of deeply disturbing information, it is human nature to want to share that information, to (perhaps) diffuse its horror by parceling it out to others.

But Jeebus, being told the heartbreaking - and graphic - details of a child's death is not what I needed this week.

And then today, I got a promotion and a (small) raise. Which should make me happy as hell. But I'm slightly numbed by the actual important human-related things I've handled this week, so...yeah.

Tomorrow is payday. Maybe I'll be audited or something.

Here's my takeaway from this week, Drunkards.

If you love someone - anyone - tell them. Hug them, smile at them. Be the person you want them to remember on their deathbed.

Be thankful for what you have. No matter how small. You're alive, you can struggle against tomorrow's problems. That is SO GOOD. Hug someone who is important to you. Please.

Finally, here's a picture of a lily. Because I love lilies.

Requiem for a Good Boy

I can't believe he's gone.

My ex and I said goodbye to Darling Dog today. Precocious Daughter opted out, which I understand. She processes things in her own way. I respect that.

I told you guys a few days ago that DDog was sick.  Three days in the animal hospital, receiving fluids and antibiotics, did almost nothing to improve his outlook. Bloodwork indicated a number of markers that indicated he probably had cancer, and the vestibulitis was just a by-product of his weakened immune system.

You can read about DDog here.

And here.

Or here, which honestly is my favorite post about my sweet boy.

This afternoon my ex and I met at the vet's. In a private examination room, the doctor explained DDog's situation (still not eating after 10 days, only hydrated because of IV fluids, unable to walk, negligible improvement in overall condition), then suggested we spend some time with him before discussing next steps.

A vet tech carried him into the room, wrapped in a blanket. My ex sat on the floor and gently cradled DDog in his lap.

Please stop to picture a 53-year-old man sitting cross-legged on a hard tile floor, holding up his dog's head because the dog can't hold it up himself for more than a minute or two at a time.

This was my day.

DDog in his vibrant and happy middle age.

We knew, in less than two minutes, that this was goodbye. Our sweet, goofy, happy boy looked so tired, and so sad. I took one last photo of him. I can't even post it here, because it breaks my heart to see his hopeless expression, so different from how we had seen him for the past 12 years.

We talked to the vet for a minute, all of us agreeing that it was best to help DDog cross the bridge.

My ex signed the paperwork. We agreed we did not want to be present for his death (oh God, the word death is making me cry). We said goodbye, we paid the bill, and we left. My ex received DDog's collar, and we will also get his pawprint and a lock of his ridiculously colored fur.

And that is that.

DDog is not the first doggo I've lost. But each one leaves its pawprints on our hearts and devastates us as if for the first time when it must leave.

His name, for those of you who don't know, was Wallingford Wellington Biscuit Dog No. Some called him Walter. We called him Wally.

I frequently called him my sweet boy.

Please please please consider a donation to the ASPCA (which is where we got him back in 2004).

They give so much in so little time.

If you have a doggo, give him/her a big hug and say "I love you, sweet thing."

You'll never regret it.

A B C D E F Cookie Monster...FTW

Where to start with this?

Some tales are windier than others.

I don't know if I've mentioned it here, but Precocious Daughter recently became the youngest member of a local wind ensemble that performs throughout the year in the Dallas area. Her music teacher happens to be the clarinet section leader, and she invited PDaughter to join the group.

As an aside, the previous youngest member of this ensemble was one of my amazing nephews, whose music teacher plays for them, and who coincidentally is married to PDaughter's music teacher.

Connections. They're a thing.

Anyway, the wind ensemble rehearses once a week in the band hall of a high school in a little town somewhat north of where we live. In normal late-rush-hour traffic, it takes nearly an hour to drive there. Then I get to sit through two hours of rehearsal, then drive back on roads undergoing late-night construction, i.e., closures and detours.

It's a bit stressful.

Let's not forget that this is after putting in
a full day's work at the Office O' Hell.

So I bring my laptop with me on these evenings, and a pair of headphones (gifted me by my wonderful Drummer Boy). And tonight, while PDaughter rehearsed with the ensemble, I watched an episode of Mystery Science Theatre 3000.

Prince of Space. I LIKE IT VERY MUCH.

When the episode ended, there were still about 10 minutes remaining in the rehearsal. So I watched one of my all-time favorite clips from Sesame Street, namely this.



And then I got to wondering about this wonderful little girl. Her name is Joey Calvan. She appeared in several Sesame Street bits in 1973. She was six, which makes her just about my age (and believe me, at the time I owned numerous outfits just like the one she's wearing here).

After a bit of Googling, I found this. It's the prologue to a biography of the late great Jim Henson, and it happens to be about this very segment.

Please, please, please, read it here.

Drunkards, I firmly believe that Jim Henson was one of the best humans to ever walk this Earth.

This brief prologue made me tear up. Because I'd like to be as sensitive, loving, and humble as he was in his all-too-short life.

But mostly, I love that through him, Kermit created an immortal moment of love and kindness.

Who among us can say we've done the same?

You've Got Spunk. I Love Spunk.

If you've spent any time here in my tiny little corner of the internet, you know that Mary Tyler Moore is one of my heroes.

If only for that flip.

She was a brilliant comedienne, a fine dramatic actor, an enchanting dancer, a tireless advocate, and a trailblazer for strong, independent women.

And, my gosh, I never noticed how much
she looked like Precocious Daughter.

Mary Tyler Moore has died, Drunkards. I literally gasped when I heard the news this afternoon. Somehow, even after a 2016 in which so many iconic figures left us, many before their time, it never occurred to me that we could ever lose Mary. She was part of my life from my earliest memories. She made me laugh. She starred in a movie with Elvis, ffs.

I would give my left tit (and possibly any of the other ones)
to have starred in a movie with Elvis.

And of course, I always wanted to be Mary Richards, although in reality I was always Rhoda. Bestest Friend was always Mary.

Bestest Friend actually looks
just like this. I'm not worthy.

MTM was a huge advocate for the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation, because she herself lived with type 1 diabetes. The JDRF today is paying tribute to her on its website.

Here's the JDRF website today. If you so wish, you can honor
MTM's memory here.

I'm so sad Mary is gone, but I'm so happy that she was here, and that she left us with such a tremendous legacy of laughter, style, and strength.

And making everyone wish they looked
this damn good in capri pants.

In case you scrolled past the link above, you can honor MTM with a donation to the JDRF here.

I've made mine.

I end with this. Of course.

Three Hundred Fifty-Five Days and Counting

So I haven't posted lately.

Turns out 2017 is not yet appreciably less difficult than 2016.

It's gonna be a long year.

First there's the whole thing about Donald Trump being inaugurated as President of the Goddamn United States in just 10 days. That's a problem for me. Even without the whole Meryl Streep brouhaha.

I love her, political views be damned.

Then there's the fact that right now I'm filled with anger that I'm not sure I can even define. I feel as if I'm a disappointment to myself, to my daughter, to my co-workers, and that makes me angry, at them and at myself. I can't really explain it. But 2017 has started off as a bit of an emotional quagmire for me.

Also, I'm locked in a battle between hope and despair. I suppose I'm not alone in that battle. I'll bet lots of you reading this are struggling with the same conflicting emotions. You're not alone, people. I understand. I don't have any advice to give about how to choose one over the other. Do you? If you do, I'd love to hear it. If you don't...I get it. Really.

Finally, I feel as if I'm slowly strangling to death the one gift I've been given in my life...the ability to write. My head is so full of ideas these days, but I can't translate them into written words. I'm in sort of a panic over this. What if the ability never comes back? What if I'm doomed to entertain all of my tortured, complex thoughts within me forever, and never drag them onto the written page where they can be shared, and possibly tamed? I wish I could  regain the marvelous affinity for the written word that so overwhelmed me when I was younger. I hope it returns. I hope I'm not destined to be one of those dull people who never express themselves but only yearn to be heard, to no avail, their entire lives.

If you have any ideas, I'd love to hear them.

So yeah...2017 is presenting some challenges. It's not as if we've lost David Bowie all over again, but still I'm feeling put upon by this new year already. 

If only I had something to write about, I'd be so happy.

Share if you have any ideas. I'd be happy to write for you.

Looking Back, Looking Ahead

George Michael, you guys. Carrie Fisher. Richard Adams, who wrote the amazing Watership Down. Vera Rubin, who confirmed the existence of dark matter. Ricky Harris - you know, Malvo from "Everybody Hates Chris." Most of the famed Russian Army choir, in a plane crash.

That's in the last three days. There are four days remaining in this putrid cesspool of a year. Literally anything could happen.

I'm a wild and crazy guy.

CNN's photo gallery of "people we've lost in 2016" stands at 118 pictures. And the number of these people who were household names, cultural icons, and just too damn young to go, is astounding. Looking at all those pictures brings back fresh grief. Damn, we lost Alan Rickman this year. We lost Elie Wiesel. And Muhammad Ali. And fully two-thirds of Emerson, Lake and Palmer, gone.

Are their deaths more important than the nameless millions who have died this year in war zones, in areas lacking fresh water and basic medical care, in neighborhoods ravaged by gang violence, in hospitals and hospices and homes? Are they more important than the four murders in my little town this year, including two that occurred literally a couple of hundred feet from where I'm sitting? For obvious reasons, those particular deaths affected me far more personally than, say, Harper Lee's or Boutros Boutros-Ghali's. There is no objective standard for the significance of a person's passing.

And it's not a contest. That's why they always try to find ways to keep the "In Memoriam" segment of the Academy Awards from being a Dead Celebrity Applause-o-Meter. By the way, the next Oscars broadcast will likely be six hours long because it will take at least two hours to list all the film industry professionals we lost this year.

Bottom line: I'm going to miss a lot of the famous people who passed. But I'm much happier about the people in my life who are still here. And in 2017 I'm going to do my best to make sure they know it. I haven't done a very good job of that. If 2016 has taught me anything, it's that life is about endings we can prevent and endings we can't. It's hard enough to cope with the latter without fucking up the former.

I have a lot of amends to make. And you never know when it will be too late.

Anton Yelchin was only 27, you guys. And George Michael was the same age as Drummer Boy.

Losing him would be hardest of all.

Ticket to Laugh

I'm terribly sad about the death of Gene Wilder.

Look at those kind, gentle eyes.

I love him. His brilliant work in The Producers, Young Frankenstein, Blazing Saddles, Silver Streak, Stir Crazy...He epitomized the truth that the best comedy is based in melancholy. While I must admit I'm not the world's greatest fan of Blazing Saddles, I have to say that the Waco Kid is perhaps the most beautifully damaged, hilarious character in the history of film. It takes a special person to create a character like that.

Gene Wilder was a special person.

He was from Milwaukee, just like me. That makes me happy.

He played characters who were neurotic, sensitive, emotional, a bit crazed.

If you can't relate to that, I honestly don't really want to know you.

Silver Streak is one of my all-time favorites.

So I'm sad. Really, genuinely sad over the passing of this comic genius.

But then, the universe is all about balance.

Today, I checked my mail and found this.

IRL name redacted, of course.

Drummer Boy and I are going to see Eric Idle and John Cleese in person. WHAT.

This is a dream come true for me. To breathe the same air as Eric Idle is absolutely a dream come true for me, one that I've held since 1983 or so.

Is it a coincidence that he somewhat resembles Gene Wilder?
No, it sodding well is not.

Drummer Boy and I will be attending Mr. Idle and Mr. Cleese's show in Dallas on December 1 at the beautiful Majestic Theatre. This is the same venue where BekS and I saw William Shatner's one-man show a few years ago. Also a one-of-a-kind event. I blogged about it.

(Please click on that link if you're unfamiliar with the story of me seeing William Shatner live. It's pretty damn good, and I think it says a lot about me. In case you're into that sort of thing.)

I'm kind of terrified lest Messer. Idle or Cleese not make it, sort of, alive, until December. That's a terrible thought that is also quite valid, yeah?

That's life when you worship aging gods, yeah.

Anyway, I hope Gene Wilder finds naught but peace and joy in the afterlife, and I hope Eric Idle ad John Cleese continue to suffer all the crap this world has to offer until after December 1.

Yep, just like that.

Bean Lives Matter

It is with great sadness that I must announce the death of one of my bean plants.

Me right now.

When I got home from work today, I went out on the balcony to check on my sproutlings. I had recently given them a good pruning, and they had had some nice rainfall this morning, so I was optimistic about how they were coming along.

Then I found the withered, lifeless stalk of Meenie, my special-needs bean.

*** WARNING GRAPHIC IMAGE ***

Sorry, not sorry.

Meenie was never as strong as his brethren. But he was scrappy. He tried so hard. But in the end, he didn't make it.

I think also he kind of got crushed when my bean pot fell over in last week's storms. It's hard to recover from a crushing.

So I gently wrapped Meenie's remains in a shroud of finest two-ply Bounty and laid him to rest beside a babbling brook.

Or put him in the trash. It's a bean plant, people.

Still, I've lost 20% of my potential bean yield. If this trend continues, it may be back to buying frozen beans for me.

The good news is, there is still plenty of life and abundant new growth in my remaining plants.

Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on. Brah.

I remain hopeful that Eenie, Minie, Moe, and Larry will heal and move past this tragedy so that they can fulfill their purpose of bearing delicious green fruit. (Beans are too fruit. Musical fruit. So there.)

In the meantime, join me in remembering Meenie, whose time in the pot was far too short. In lieu of flowers, please send, I don't know, fertilizer or books on how to grow beans or something.

Before I kill again.

And the Beat Goes On

Mass murders claimed by or known to be inspired by ISIS in 2016, as of July 14.

 *****

Zliten, Libya - Truck bombing. Sixty dead.

Hurghada, Egypt - Stabbing attack at hotel. Two injured.

Istanbul, Turkey - Suicide bombing. Twelve dead.

Jakarta, Indonesia - Suicide bombings/shootout. Four dead.

Mahasen, Saudi Arabia - Suicide bombing at a Shi'a mosque. Four dead.

Homs, Syria - Car bombings. Fifty-seven dead.

Sayyidah Zaynab, Syria - Car bombing/suicide bombings at a Shi'a mosque. Eighty-three dead.

Istanbul, Turkey - Suicide bomber. Four dead.

Brussels, Belgium - Suicide bombings at a Metro station and airport. Thirty-two dead.

Aden, Yemen - Suicide bombings targeting military checkpoints. Twenty-six dead.

al-Asriya, Iraq - Suicide bombing in soccer stadium. Thirty-three dead.

Dhaka, Bangladesh - Stabbing of LGBT activist. Two dead. al-Qaida group claimed responsibility.

Baghdad/Samawa, Iraq - Four separate car bombings. Ninety dead.

Balad, Iraq - Shooting/suicide bombing. Twenty-eight dead.

Aktobe, Kazakhstan - Shootings. Seven dead.

Orlando, United States - Shooting at a gay nightclub. Forty-nine dead.

Magnanville, France - Stabbing. Two dead.

Ataturk, Turkey - Shooting/suicide bombing at an airport. Forty-four dead.

Gulshan, Bangladesh - Hostage situation/shootings. Twenty-three dead.

Baghdad, Iraq - Two bomb attacks. More than 290 dead.

Medina, Saudi Arabia - Suicide bombing at a mosque and three other attacks in which only the bombers were harmed. Seven dead.

Nice, France - Shooting/truck ramming at a Bastille Day celebration. Approximately 80 dead.

*****

Estimated civilian and combatant death toll attributed to the "war on terror:" 1.3-2 million as of mid-2015. Total includes only deaths in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Pakistan; does not include deaths in Yemen, Syria, or other countries targeted in the war on terror.

*****

We're not winning. None of us is winning.

I don't have answers, or even suggestions. Only these statistics.

And great anger and sadness.

Nous somme le monde. Nous somme tous.

Ta Ta Tabitha

Sad news, Drunkards.

My page admin, Tabitha Roxanne Renee Louise Brown, has met her demise.

It seems she fell off a bridge and landed on the road below,

and was hit by an oncoming car,

which threw her into a nearby river,

on which she was carried for several miles in snapping turtle-infested waters,

ultimately being deposited on a muddy bank

that ran through a meadow full of wild pigs,

which found her quite tasty.

They'll eat anything.

I'd like to say I'm sorry she's gone, but I'm not. I would like to apologize to any wild pigs that suffered indigestion from snacking on her rancid meat.

Tabitha has been undermining my attempts at sobriety for a long time now. She's been undermining me for a long time, period.

She is (was) schadenfreude personified, and she hated me.

Well, she's dead now, and I'm glad.

Considering all she'd done, she really went in the most merciful way possible that didn't actually involve a wood-chipper and/or rabid coyotes.

I made damn sure of that.

Anyway, farewell, Tabby. You were kind of fun but mostly a bitch. I don't need you any more.

But I do need a new page admin.

I'll let you know who I find.

Hey Hey My My (In Purple)

I've been wondering what to say about Prince since his death.




And I've decided to say this.

I'm a writer, a songwriter, a poet. I don't pretend to be exceptional.

But I can appreciate great writing when I see/hear it.

And for 30 years now I've thought this was one of the most brilliant lines ever penned for a popular song:

"Ain't no particular sign I'm more compatible with/I just want your extra time, and your/Kiss."

I loved and respected Prince, even though his music was like nothing else I typically listened to.

It was just that good.

I'm sorry he's gone.

It's better to burn out than to fade away.

Well, I'm Convinced

Drunkard ChrisS wants to know why, in my post about the death of Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia, I didn't mention the most important part of the story.

You know, the part where Obama sent his death squad to Texas to have Justice Scalia murdered.

Or simply used HIS MIND.

Oh, that.

You see, I'm a blogger. I have integrity. I have standards. I'm not simply going to repeat conspiracy theories about Presidential hitmen without being sure I can make that shit funny.

Fortunately for you (and for me, because I'm not actually very good at this), the nuttiness coming out of the right wing is funny all on its own. I can pretty much step back and quote the crazies verbatim and we'll all have a good laugh.

"They say they found a pillow on his face, which is a pretty unusual place to find a pillow." - Donald J. Trump, noted forensic scientist and yuuuge "Quincy, M.E." fan

"My gut tells me there is something fishy going on in Texas." - William O. Ritchie, former Washington, D.C. homicide commander, amateur ichthyologist

"The question is, was Anthony [sic] Scalia murdered? The answer is, was the Bill of Rights and the Constitution murdered?" - Alex Jones, fuzzy on the concept of rhetorical questions

"It would be highly irresponsible of me to sit here and accuse the President of the United States of murdering a Supreme Court justice. It's...just little too coincidental." - Radio host Andrew Wilkow, walking the libel tightrope like a boss

"The 13th [of February] was the 44th day of 2016. Obama is the 44th President of the United States, so you have this numerology thing taking place." - Pastor Rick Wiles, who can count to 44 all by himself

"Dismiss assurances from incompetents in Texas that Scalia died of natural causes, and dismiss the press repeating these assurances—which add up to: nothing." Jon Rappoport, blogger, knower of things, aficionado of non-standard punctuation

"Autopsy was blocked and the body was embalmed to prevent future attempts at autopsy. This is smoking gun status tampering with evidence and direct evidence of foul play." YouTuber NatureHacker, Rhodes scholar (honorary)

So there you have it. It's been more than a week now, and Justice Antonin Scalia is still dead. If that's not proof he was murdered by para-CIA assassins, I don't know what is.

Four out of five UFO aliens agree.

If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go to bed, possibly with a pillow over my head. If I don't wake up tomorrow, Kanye did it.