Category Archives: links

January 18, 2008 · 6:21 pm

Floaters…

I’m a mess. I am the kind of nervous/apprehensive/distracted/under-performing mess that many psychiatric drugs have gone down my gullet specifically to prevent. All the pharmacological assistance in the world isn’t helping with this problem, though.

So, I went back to my ophthalmologist yesterday, thinking that I was having yet another recurrence of iritis in my right eye. I convinced myself of this despite the fact that none of the symptoms were the same, but it was the same eye so it must be the same thing, right, and so I’ll wait a week before going to the doctor, and she’ll just click her tongue and hand me eye drops and everythingwillbefine…but I have to go see this guy on Monday morning for what I’m told will be a one to three hour appointment. As is common, I have issues…

  1. I can barely make it through a regular eye exam without freaking-the-fuck out. I was fantasizing about punching my doctor yesterday, and that was just for holding my eyelid open and shining her brightest light in it (I think I may have seen God, though. He said hi, and bet on the Patriots). Click around on that specialist’s website. They throw around words like angiography in relation to eyes, for shit’s sake! There is no way I’m going to live through this.
  2. Since everything below my neck is some form of fubar and/or lost to me, I tend to be over-protective of what is left intact (i.e., my head). So, giving me three whole days to think about the prospect of permanently losing some of the vision in my eye is not. cool. Also not cool–Googling various diseases and conditions you might possibly conceivably have in a worst-case scenario. Wondering if waiting that few days to go to the doc will make a difference. Thinking maybe it’s a sign of some hidden chronic or auto-immune disease I don’t even know I have yet. Pointing out that it’s damned hard to drive a power wheelchair in a crowd without peripheral vision on one side.
  3. These are the things I do to distract myself: read, watch tv, internet, eat. Currently: foggy and floater-filled vision in one eye makes it hard to focus on pages/computer screen, television overrun by strike-induced storm of unwatchable crap, appetite in fine shape. Did you know Sam’s Club makes delicious cookies in their bakery, and they come assorted in big packages? Also, they’re excellent for breakfast.
  4. I am, as always, not allowed to cry, because it upsets my family. My default reaction to frustration, anger, and fear is tears. Therefore, I am carrying enough pressure inside my head that it is possible I might geyser steam if stuck with a tack.
  5. The thing that pisses me off the most about myself is the tendency I have to let things go, to float through life on a cloud of unfinished should do’s, until something goes awry and bites me in the ass.  Then I hate myself for a while and bust ass to make sure everything on my To Do list is done before I fall asleep at night.  Times passes, and rinse, repeat.  And so, here I am again.
  6. My appointment on Monday is at 9:45.  Yes, A.M.  The doctor’s office is a half-hour drive from my house.  It takes me two hours to get my crippled ass ready to go.  My natural sleep pattern is from 1:00 to 10:00 a.m., and the Packers/Giants game kicks off sometime after 6:30 Sunday night.  That’s some scary math.

On the bright side, I have the douchebag/pretty boy QB battle to look forward to on Sunday afternoon.

Jesus.  I may be crazier than Britney by Monday afternoon…

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October 13, 2007 · 9:37 pm

Somebody remind me…

For all my efficiency and hyper-organizational tendencies, I am a champion time killer. I procrastinate prodigiously. Fortunately I seem to work best under pressure–my best papers were printed out just as I was dashing out the door for class, and no work projects ever satisfy me quite as much as the ones that get wrapped up with mere minutes to spare. All of this begs the question, though: how in the hell did I waste time ten years ago?

1997: I lived alone in my studio apartment with no computer and (gah!) no cable television. In my office I was a daring revolutionary because I had starting using that “Web Thing” (in the words of the woman at the next desk) to do some research and book travel. Otherwise, my desktop was parked firmly in Word/Excel/Outlook land.

What did I ever do with myself? How did I ever procrastinate effectively without blogs to read, 182 channels to surf, Netflixed movies in my mailbox, an unbelievable backlog of programs waiting on my DVR, and the unbridled consumerist joy that is Sephora.com conveniently available for my window shopping needs at 1:30 a.m.? And how did I feed my dirty mind and masturbation habit without so much as a dial-up connection?

Thank goddess for progress; otherwise, I might have accomplished something productive this week instead of all this crap:

  • Obsessively checking my blog stats. I got Fleshbot-ted again, this time for my most recent entry. Sorry for all the sleep you lost over the years, former neighbors, but your insomnia got me lots of blog traffic–and the thrill of being read and recommended by the great and powerful Oz Jefferson.
  • Watching way too much television. The new season has been killing me, not because the volume of new shows I’m interested in is that great–there are only four (Chuck, Reaper, Dirty Sexy Money, and Pushing Daisies) that I have been watching so far–but because of the convergence of the new season with the baseball playoffs, football season, the tail end of a couple of cable series, and Ken Burns’ The War on PBS. If my DVR could talk it would beg me to consider radio. Or therapy.
  • Geeking out. Were you aware that today was the premiere of the 27th season of This Old House? I was shamefully excited when I woke up this morning.
  • Crushing on Tom Ford. For me, loving Tom Ford is an old habit, and comes so naturally: I love menswear and beautiful tailoring, I’m fascinated by human anatomy, I appreciate anyone who is so openly appreciative of sex, and ohbytheway–have you SEEN the man? Anyway, I love this new interview with him on Out.com. You must read it, and you must scroll through the pictures. That is one foine 46-year-old ass…and I’m pretty sure three hot men in a shower is a universal sign of good luck.
  • Hating baseball, then loving it. Fortunately, the hatred only lasted for about 30 minutes after my Cubbies finished gagging away their season. Once I took a deep breath, cursed a little on the exhale, and checked mlb.com for the start time of the next game, I was interested again. And by the time the Yankees got their goddamned doors blown off two days later, I had regained my will to live. That’s why I love the game–it’s a thirty-family soap opera; the season is so long and they play so many games that the plotlines are endless. Unfortunately, loving it hurts sometimes, and not in the good way. A prime example of which is…
  • Hating Dane Cook. I wholeheartedly agree with the writer of this article, with one exception: the cuddly, sensitive, conflicted, gay Satan from South Park would be an enormous upgrade from Cook. Can anyone tell me why he’s famous? He’s not funny, can’t act, isn’t especially smart or charming, and is at best only borderline generically handsome. The only reason I should be subjected to his picture is if he wins Celebrity Boxing or fucks Paris Hilton on camera and lives to tell about it. The sight of his face pisses me off almost as much as Dick Cheney’s. Great choice to center a multi-million dollar ad campaign around, folks…

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September 25, 2007 · 10:07 pm

Tasteless, party of one…

I begin tonight with my standard disclaimer: I generally avoid writing about the political here because I prefer to limit the number of outraged, misspelled, and semi-literate flames I receive to the bare minimum. I am making an exception to that rule to post links to two stories that I believe are of critical importance but most likely didn’t make the cut for your local news.

First up, the inspiration for our headline: Oh. My. Dog. This seemed like a good idea to–I don’t know–anyone? Not only is it a truly tasteless plan for a fundraiser (though apropos for a candidate whose entire campaign plan consists of repeating “9/11! 9/11!”), but the amount of money it will raise in relation to the potential public relations nightmare it may create for their guy is minuscule.

Said guy, by the way, could certainly put a stop to the whole misbegotten event with a one sentence press release: “While I appreciate the efforts of these young people and applaud their initiative to mobilize individual donors, the requested donation amount of $9.11 is a completely inappropriate politicization of our national nightmare; my campaign will not accept any donations from this event.” I can only imagine his shock and righteous indignation if any other New York politician allowed such a gathering to be held in her name.

————————————

This woman is my new hero. Advocating for and caring for her husband is a full time job in itself; unfortunately, navigating the ridiculous bureaucracy that our returning wounded have to wade through to get proper care is another. This woman, though–and the many others like her–have somehow found the time, the will, and the energy to fight this larger battle. These are the struggles that truly “Support The Troops.”

They are also the stories we should be getting heavy doses of on our 24-hour “news” networks.  Maybe Mrs. Wade could get her story heard more widely if she decided to go barhopping with Britney sans panties…

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September 1, 2007 · 8:00 pm

Pardon my wide stance…

As any regular reader of these blatherings can attest, I have made no secret of my love (and, oh hell, I admit it, my carefully burnished lust) for Keith Olbermann. It goes back to his SportsCenter days, but has certainly become more ardent over the last few years as he has honed his smart-assed, truth-telling newsman persona to its current vicious point while performing actual (GASP!) television journalism–add in his editorial “Special Comments” and Countdown makes me feel as if I’m watching the love child of Ed Murrow and Howard Beale. Only tall and funny and handsome, and in good suits.

I think part of the reason I enjoy my (imaginary) boyfriend’s show so much is its embracing of a simple fact of journalistic life: sometimes the news itself is so patently ridiculous, so completely surreal, that to cover it without a smile on your face insults the audience’s intelligence. This week’s big story of repression, denial, and hypocrisy is a prime example. Using only the text of a police report, a public restroom, and what can only be described in the loosest way as a “wig,” the folks at Countdown have hit comic gold…

Perfect. It’s damned funny, but still manages to be really informative–I’m a total news junkie and never saw any other coverage of exactly what was contained in that police officer’s report–and to point out the absolutely ridiculous nature of the poor closeted Senator’s outright denial. After hearing those observations read a la Joe Friday–the minutiae of the signals (the shuffling and rubbing of feet, the little waves under the stall), all time stamped and written in standard clipped cop-speak, the obligatory ‘don’t-you-know-who-I-am’ moment with the business card–a reasonable human is left to conclude one of two things: either a) Larry was looking for a little manly help with his little congressman, or b) Sergeant Karsnia is a compulsive and wonderfully creative liar.

And my Keith gave you all that while you had a laugh.

As for the soon-former Idaho senator, volumes too many have been written in the past week to make any comment from me necessary, but it’s my journal, dammit, so here goes…I am philosophically opposed to the practice of “outing” people who wish for aspects of their private, mutually-consenting adult behaviors to remain private. I don’t believe that Senator Craig should be more or less employable whether he’s straight, gay, bi, or Thai, or any more than any accountant, firefighter, sales rep, or shortstop. I also know from personal experience that American society, particularly in conservative places like Idaho or Indiana, is still a remarkably cruel place to let your freak flag fly; I very nearly lost my first managerial job because my boss didn’t like the way I conducted my personal life on my own time, and I was just cocktailing part-time and dating. Men. Vigorously.

However, I am passionately appreciative of the outing of public hypocrisy. I was furious at my upright, conservative, “Christian” boss for chastising me about my sex life and while she was shacked up with her 40-years-older boss and living high on his dime. I applaud every time some self-styled “law and order” swaggering suburban cowboy takes a perp walk after getting caught with his hand in someone else’s cookie jar/pension fund or wiping his ass with the legal system. And yes, I do a little dance (a pitiful dance, granted, sitting on my ass in my wheelchair and pretending to snap my crippled fingers while “Superfreak” plays in my head) whenever another moralizing “family values” sex-baiting, Bible-thumping, one man-one woman spouting, abstinence-only windbag asshole is nabbed cheating on his third wife with his research assistant Candee or soliciting knob jobs in airport men’s rooms.

My advice for the next closeted/conflicted member of this sad parade–and let’s face it, there will always be another as long as this loud minority is allowed to use sex to divide and conquer–learn to find your anonymous kink on the Internet, like regular people.

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July 13, 2007 · 6:35 pm

A little marketing…

As part of one of my periodic organizing and purging spasms, I’ve decided to get rid of some unneeded/unused items, and I’m starting with a stack of DVDs I think I can live without.

This might be particularly interesting to my Kiefer-loving readers, since the list is heavy on dirty blond goodness.

All of these are currently for sale on eBay; all but two have intact factory shrink wrap and/or seals:

  • Cowboy Up
  • To End All Wars
  • Melissa Etheridge: Live…and Alone (2-disc concert film)
  • Flashback
  • A Few Good Men (Special Edition)
  • Ground Control
  • Freeway
  • Promised Land
  • A Beautiful Mind (2-disc Awards Edition)
  • Breaking And Entering
  • Last Light
  • Woman Wanted

Win more than one of these auctions and sweet talk me a little by email…I could be persuaded to cut you a deal on shipping. Or sweet talk me just for the hell of it–I don’t mind.

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July 11, 2007 · 1:41 pm

Chaff…

A few really quick bits meant to assuage my guilty feelings about neglecting this space:

  • It turns out that, in my case, iritis is nearly as hard to keep dead as this guy:

and nearly as ugly. Long story short, I finished my treatment, got cleared by cutie pie doctor on a Monday, put my contacts in on that Thursday…and woke up the next Wednesday with a bloody throbbing eye. I am now back on both the stinging and itchy-making drops and will be for the next six to eight fucking weeks–also meaning that I am stuck wearing these damned glasses.

I am going out on the 22nd for my birthday…dinner, concert, new outfit…and might just have to slip in a pair of lenses for a few hours. Don’t tell.

  • How in the Sam Hell did this get so breathlessly reported as news? A gut feeling–are you shitting me? This clown runs, among other things, the most sophisticated and far-reaching spy operation in the history of the free world and the best he can come up with to scare me is a gut feeling? And it makes the NEWS? That’s like the National Weather Service issuing a tornado warning because my Mom’s thumb swells up.
  • As part of my continuing quest to find the perfect lip gloss, I was thrilled to find a surprise ally a few days ago. I’ve been in love with products from e.l.f. for a couple of years–all kinds of makeup and tools, and every item is $1.00–but I’m such a cheap bitch that I dreaded paying for shipping. Besides, it’s hard to pick things like makeup colors from a picture. Now, though, the e.l.f. line is selling at some Target and KMart stores. I spent seven dollars for a bagful: mascara, this cool color stick, and five awesome lip glosses for Summer. Kelly happy.

Yeah, I know it’s shallow and stupid to be so excited about makeup. Here’s the thing: I had a very healthy body image before my disability came along. I took care of my body for the sake of my physical health, of course, but also as part of my mental and social health as a single woman–it was important to look good, too. I spent a lot of time developing a personal style; it was based on clearance racks and discount stores, sure, but it became part of me. For one reason or another, whether for skin integrity fears or side effects of my condition or the nearly-unavoidable weight gain associated with sitting on my ass for nine years, every aspect of that style has been taken away. Except for my face and, to a lesser extent, my hair (since I need help to wash, dry, and style it, I have to keep it short). So I slather my skin with lotions and potions and yeah–I buy a lot of lip goo. Sue me.

  • I continue to be amazed at the traffic still finding its way to this site via my dirty dream post. Every once in a while when a hit pops up in my blog stats I imagine that the subject of that dream and so many others has, through the wonder that is the intertubes, found his way here and read it. That’s not a very far-fetched fantasy; I haven’t exactly buried my real identity under layers of poetic subterfuge in these pages and anyone who knows me personally could quickly make the intuitive leap from who I am to who He must be. I thought when I wrote the post that I’d be mortified if he saw it. By now I think I hope he has.

And, if he’s reading this: you aren’t just a sex object. I also had a dream where you were helping me paint my living room. Granted, I think we fucked on the drop cloth afterward…

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June 26, 2007 · 2:18 pm

Total radio silence…

Man, am I screwed–I probably won’t accomplish a damned thing all day.

OK, so that’s not really all that rare, but usually the only reason for my sloth is that I’m a lazy bitch. Today I am hideously non-productive with an excuse: my soundtrack is missing.

I have sung the praises of my very favoritist local radio station, WTTS, in these pages before. I have never run across any aspect of their programming that I didn’t like in the ten-plus years I’ve been listening–rocking music, fantastic airstaff (I have a monster girl crush on Laura, the afternoon DJ, and I covet her voice), great syndicated programming, a Sunday morning program that backed so many of my hangovers in the good-bad old days, New Music Mondays, a morning show with traffic and weather and headlines but that emphasizes (no shit!) music…and my newest love, The Groove Show on Saturday nights–reggae, funk, and jam bands–which, I can recommend, is awesome with darvocet and Chambord-spiked lemonade. Calling ‘TTS my soundtrack is no exaggeration; it’s a part of my life.

Because I loathe daytime television and am incapable of functioning without background noise, my soundtrack and I spend a lot of time together while I’m working/reading/rotting my mind with Club Pogo games. And, because my little domain in this big house is in the basement–our Realtor says “sub-level,” but whateveryoucallit I see sidewalk and feet when I look out the windows–my radio reception is for shit. No problem, you say, since there is a live Internet stream (with the advantage of fewer commercials). This brings me to the reason for my screwed-ness today, and to my point…see, I do so have one.

When I shut off my TV today after the local “news” at noon–hey did you hear Paris got out of jail?–and clicked on my WTTS link, there was no music to greet me. The station is participating (by taking its Internet feed dark) in a one-day protest designed to draw attention to a looming financial crisis in the Internet radio community. Details are easy enough to find that I won’t go into them here–the organization behind today’s action is here–but the gist is this: the Copyright Royalty Board, which is an arm of the Library of Congress, is responsible for setting the royalty rates radio stations of all stripes (terrestrial, satellite, and Internet) must pay for the songs they play. In March, this board approved rate increases for Internet radio that, over the next few years, will range from 300 to 1200 percent. If these regulations are allowed to go into effect, the richness and variety available to web junkie music lovers like me are destined to dry out like a 90-year-old nun on Phoenix blacktop.

Land-based radio stations already pay ASCAP royalties which go to the recording artists; these additional licensing fees go to the record companies (because Buddha knows, those poor folks are barely eking out a subsistence-level lifestyle). Commercial stations like my ‘TTS will probably drop their streams to avoid the increased costs; the smaller and non-profit Internet-only stations won’t have much choice but to shut down altogether.

Look, there is no shortage of things about which to be outraged; on the scale of Iraq-Darfur-Gitmo-Habeus Corpus this stuff ranks only above things like toe jam and socks with sandals. Still, being an informed consumer is important.

Especially when something fucks with my soundtrack.

(If you’re wondering, my own meager music collection has been forced into duty today. This post, then, has been brought to you by tracks from The Shins, Plain White T’s, Instant Karma, The Cat Empire, and Rocco DeLuca and The Burden. Most of whom I first heard…on Internet radio.)

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June 12, 2007 · 9:45 pm

Look kids…

It’s the perfect crutch for a blogger who’s too lazy procrastinating indecisive prolific to choose among her many percolating ideas a real topic about which to write–it’s an Update Post!

When I posted Pondering, I had arrived at the notion that I needed to find a job. Amazingly, I haven’t just been sitting on my ass for the past four months (er, figuratively, that is), but have actually done some searching, and this is what I discovered: as I despise talking to strangers on the telephone, there are no existing, legitimate, work-at-home jobs for me. This is also the reason I decided against a career in phone sex. Luckily, we’ve been expanding the family business, which in turn has made work for me: designing brochures and forms, building an accounting system, ordering office supplies…all the managing and organizational projects that are right in my wheelhouse. So far I’m still working for free, but soon there may be a tiny supplementary income in it for me. In any case, it keeps me busy-ish, and my brother boss doesn’t care if I watch baseball or blast Foghat while I work.

Regarding my angry, throbbing, demon-red diseased eye: it once again looks like it belongs in a non-possessed human’s head and continues to be pain-free; I am off the oral meds and itchy-making drops and down to using the stinging drops just twice a day. I am, however, hoarding the leftover darvocet, in case of relapse. Or cramps. Or Saturday night.

My former fuckbuddy the felon over whom I agonized way back in November has, in fact, now been convicted and is awaiting sentencing; his lack of a previous criminal record will probably buy him some leniency. According to the newspaper reports, he still protests his innocence, but the jurors reported that their only discussion was which charge to convict him of; there was no question, to them, of his guilt. I’m horrified, but I still remember him well and still have sex fantasies about him…and I still don’t know what that says about me.

Of course, I’m still sex-obsessed and seriously deprived of relief. Some things never change…the only recent difference was when the darvocets knocked me out before I got to the–um–good part. Oh, and I hear that my infamous Crush just got a promotion. I guess that means he could fuck me on the hood of a nicer car now…

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May 15, 2007 · 6:40 pm

Yo momma…

Lots going on lately on all fronts except, of course, for this lil’ ol’ writing project of mine, which has been sorely neglected. It’s not because I’ve been resting on my Fleshbot-ted laurels…not that I don’t still get a little prideful tingle when I check my blog stats and see those lovely spikes in readership…I’ve just been occupied with some real-life stuff. Let’s try and put an end to that, shall we?

I tried writing a Mother’s Day post over the weekend. It didn’t take. Here’s the thing: I’m almost 39 years old, and I live with my parents; barring financial miracles I can’t even dream of, I will live with them the rest of their lives. My mom, who by all rights and according to forty years of planning, should be kicked back in a rocker on the porch of their cabin looking at the river, is instead living in and trying to keep up a four bedroom tri-level in the city she happily moved out of twenty years ago and providing all the care I need, up to and including wiping my ass. Their home and that cabin were sold and vacated in 1998 while I was still hospitalized and this house was gutted, remodeled, and ready for me and my wheelchair the day my doctor signed my release forms–but I never ate a meal alone in the five months I lived in hospitals. I don’t need Hallmark to remind me to love and appreciate a parent. I’m set.

Also, this is how easy my mom is to please. We gave her an inexpensive, practical gift (which we didn’t even bother to wrap) and a smartass card that my brother picked out. We forgot to pick up the restaurant gift card we intended to go with it, so I had to write her an IOU. She loved it (even though she hates to cook), and, given her choice of anyplace in town for Sunday supper on us, she picked…Rally’s. Yes, the double drive thru. My mom rocks.

In other news…

In sports: I used to think Ken Griffey Jr. was kind of an asshole, when he was a kid in Seattle knocking the shit out of baseballs, and as he got older and more injury-prone I starting wondering if he was getting lazy with his conditioning (of course, had he been playing for the Cubs I’d have fallen immediately in love, then gnashed many teeth and bemoaned his bad luck). None of it matters anymore, because of this. It’s all bygones, Junior. Like the recipient of that enormous jock, I’m now a fan, because you now own my favorite baseball heckling story. Previously it belonged to the vertically challenged Aaron Boone, who was standing on third at Yankee Stadium when some charming seat holder asked him (in colorful terms, I’m sure) just how short he was. Aaron smiled and yelled back “I’m a lot taller when I’m standing on my wallet.”

Headlines: Jerry Falwell died today. It’s not civilized to ever claim to be happy that another human has died, but I’ll cop to a tiny fist pump and a chorus of “Ding Dong the Wicked Witch Is Dead.” I’m sorry for his family’s loss–I’m sure they loved him–but that man has been scaring the shit out of me and my friends for 25 years. Intellectually I know his huge place in the history of American politics (Howard Fineman has written the best summary I’ve read so far, but it’s early). I hope he has, in fact, peacefully and painlessly met his maker–and that he got one Hell of a surprise.

Shocking! Who would have thought?

What on Earth could the editors of GQ mean to suggest with this picture? Ah, subtlety. Also good to see Jessica Alba’s still trying to be a Serious Actress.

To all citizens of the digital world: please stop forwarding me that email about Glade PlugIns burning my house down. First, because I don’t buy them…it just seems like a great way to both waste electricity and fill landfills while making my house smell like a mortuary. Second, because it’s NOT TRUE. By the way, Bill Gates won’t be sending you any money, the guy at the cash register has no control over the price of gas, sometimes size damned sure does matter, and you should ask your mom about Santa and the Tooth Fairy. Thank you.

Finally, because it’s almost time for Jeopardy and I have OCD, a label maker, and a stack of new 3-ring binders, I’ll share my “you’ve got to be fucking kidding me” moment of the week so far:


Right. Because a white dress and a trip to church with Mommy are gonna solve all her problems.

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May 3, 2007 · 11:42 pm

Quickies…

  • A great big “yeah for me”: Fleshbot does a weekly roundup of a guest editor’s selections of sex writings here on the vast tubes of the interwebs. I’m a regular reader, because one…the immortal and irredeemable horndog that rages within me craves a diet heavy in erotica, and two…I’m a big fan of the bloggers who typically compile the list and trust them not to steer me wrong. At any rate, it seems that my dirty dream post has made the cut this week.

I am beyond thrilled about this, and not just because it means ton of new people are reading my words and someone besides me may have gotten damp drawers as a result (though it is as close as I’ve gotten to “published” since my high school lit magazine). No, the reason I went all giddy and giggly is that this roundup was compiled by the whip-smart and much-admired Chelsea Girl, so at the moment that I saw the Fleshbot link show up in my blog stats I felt a little like I had received her stamp of approval.

That’s me–self-delusional since 1968. Also…

  • I decided to devote some of my TV time the past couple of days to clearing out my DVR, since it seems to act up and want to purge itself if it gets over 75% full; somehow I ended up plowing through two four-hour documentaries instead of the sitcoms I thought I was in the mood for. First, I finally watched Spike Lee’s When The Levees Broke, which was everything I expected–heartbreakingly sad and infuriating, but also inspiring and beautiful and surprisingly funny. I think I waited so long to watch–it was the oldest recording in the queue–because I knew there would be emotional heavy lifting to do. My favorite uncle died suddenly and unexpectedly on August 26, 2005, and his funeral was on the day that it started to become obvious just how bad the effects of the storm were going to be, so my only clear memories of that week were sobbing in front of the television, crying for all the families. Crying for mine. I cried yesterday, too, more than once…but I still think everyone needs to see it.

The other doc was Frontline’s report on The Mormons. I’m a big PBS/History Channel geek, so this was right in my wheelhouse. Also, my only prior exposure to the religion consisted of a childhood crush on Donny Osmond, a tour of the BYU campus on Oahu, left-handed quarterback Steve Young, and two handsome blond missionaries who knocked on my apartment door and beat a hasty retreat when I told them I was a pagan and invited them in to help me celebrate the rites of Spring. Anyway, it’s a very interesting take on a faith that most Americans are either ignorant of or hostile to, presented fairly and featuring believers, skeptics, and former members. I learned more than I expected to. (Note: I am not, in fact, a pagan, nor am I endorsing Mormonism. As with every other organized religion I’ve been exposed to, I ask too damned many questions.)

  • I was pleased to catch a couple of new advertisers in my monthly crip read, New Mobility magazine. First, the province of Quebec ran a full-page ad touting their wheelchair-accessible tourism options. This is something I can’t believe more cities and attractions don’t do. Sure, a lot of us are dirt-poor a lot of the time, but disabled folks do go on vacation, do spend money on travel totaling in the billions of dollars every year, and do, like everyone else, like to go where we’re wanted and catered to. Hey, business owners…it makes good economic sense to purchase ad space in our publications for products beyond catheters and wheelchairs.

The other refreshing ad was buried in the classifieds, but my eagle-sharp smutty eye went right to it: a new product called the Intimate Rider. It struck me because it is the first product I remember seeing advertised in New Mobility, in the eight-plus years I’ve been reading, with a purpose which is purely sexual. I think that’s fabulous…not only do crips travel, and work, and raise families and run businesses, but we’re also just as obsessed with sex as the able-bodied world. The lucky among us even fuck (bastards), and there’s precious little out there in the way of adaptive equipment to help us out in the gettin’ it on department. Not surprisingly, this was conceived of and designed by and for a quadriplegic guy–someone who was actually interested in using the thing, so it’s simple and practical, relatively affordable (though seriously, what would you pay to get back your pelvic thrusting ability at the only time it really matters?), and not institutional looking. Bravo.

Now I need someone to invent a similarly-convenient, attractive system for safely and comfortably posing and holding a quad chick…and a documentary-watching Cubs fan that’s oblivious to surgical scars, lax abs, and spastic legs and secure enough not to flinch when I’m drooling over Jack Bauer.

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