The Devil's Night--Oh, And Halloween's Coming, Too

We're in full-on Halloween preparation mode here at Casa Polito. The Kleenex ghosts are flying off the tree (Literally flying off in some cases, courtesy of some drunk teenage haters that swooped by early yesterday morning. Thanks for thinking of the children, jerks!), and the giant spider web and its resident are hanging from the doorway. Pumpkins are coming tonight and costumes are well on their way to being brilliant and adorable. Pictures to come!

I think that for once, we've done a pretty good job of a. being prepared with decorations and fun projects for the big 'Ween, and b. not exhausting the kids completely by October 25. In San Francisco, it's entirely possible to be so overstimmed/oversugared/over Halloween in general far before the big night, since you can go to about 10 parties and events a day for at least 10 days before. Living in Halloween Central is hard work and very exhausting if you don't pace yourself. But we've limited Halloween to pumpkin carving and decorating and costume making and saving the sugar and all-out hyperactivity until Tuesday.

Which brings me to the important part, the candy. As far as Gianni's concerned, Halloween could be a day-long insurance seminar, as long as there's sugar involved. He has complete tunnel vision focused laser-like on all of the loot he'll be getting tomorrow. He is pretty equal-opportunity when it comes to candy--at this age, it's all good. Amazing how a kid who makes me take basil and herbs off of the top of his pizza because it's "green stuff" can wolf down circus peanuts like they're the delectable bon bons of the gods.

We try to be good Halloweeners and buy the good candy--you can't go wrong with chocolate bars and jolly ranchers. But some parents will just never learn. A short list of some of the nasty-ass shit we've gotten in Gianni's bag, and in general the vilest stuff that goes masquerading as "candy" this time of year:

1. Candy Corn--Seriously people, this stuff is the devil's eyeteeth. Which makes it on some level appropriate for Halloween. But as a candy treat? Candy corn BLOWS. Like the Santa Anas. Why do you continue to buy it? Because it's orange? Because it's sweet? Because it comes in nice little individually-wrapped pouches? If there was ever a case where the sum of the parts does not add up to anything good, this is it. No one likes candy corn. And if they do, there's something wrong with them. Save it for the candy farm animals.

IT BUUURNS! MUST...DESTROY!

2. Those Peanut Butter Chewy Things--You know what I'm talking about, those nasty little chews wrapped in orange and black wrappers. I would have thought these things had died out from natural selection years ago, but no. Every year in Gianni's bag, we get a handful of vaguely peanut-flavored evil. Hey, adults who buy these things--have you ever TASTED them? You probably think that dog turds wrapped up in orange and black are a cute idea, too. It's enough to make you barf in the moment, and then you still get the joy of picking them out of your teeth and having your dentist yell at you a month later for eating them. It's the worst of both worlds.

3. Sugar-Free Candy--On the flip side of the sticky peanut chews from hell, there's the sugar-free candy, devoid of any pleasure at all. Are you the black-hole of fun? Have you totally forgotten what it's like to be a kid? Why don't you just give out STD pamphlets and Bibles and be done with it? My downstairs neighbor gave sugar-free candy a few years back, and I openly accused her of hitting the crack pipe. And to prove my point, kids trick-or-treating actually snubbed her candy bucket, looking at it like it smelled bad or was sprouting hair. Do you really think kids aren't going to know that it's sugar-free? Even the smallest ones are smarter than that. You can go inside and eat all the sugar-free candy and carrot sticks you want, but one day a year, suck it up and throw the kids some Snickers bars.

4. Toothbrushes--Yet another self-righteous public-service announcement masquerading as a Halloween "treat." Yes, we know! Kids eat sugar on Halloween! Alert the media! Even dentists aren't stupid enough to try this trick. And I'm pretty sure most kids already have toothbrushes. I want to set up a stand at the end of the block where kids can exchange their toothbrushes for actual sugary treats. Kind of like needle exchange. Giving out toothbrushes at Halloween won't get kids to brush their teeth more; it'll just get them to think you're an asshole and egg your house.

5. No Candy--It's amazing that anyone would ever THINK to actively and vehemently not give candy at Halloween. Yet it happens. Don't want to participate? Turn off your lights and hide. Better yet, leave the neighborhood. Go out for a nice dinner and a movie. Avoid! Here's what not to do: put a sign in your window telling any and all who walk by that you're not doing Halloween because you hate kids/think it promotes devil worship/can't imagine celebrating a holiday when there is so much pain in the world and September 11 just happened and all those poor people are suffering. Note that the last one ACTUALLY HAPPENED in our neighborhood in 2001. Hi, why don't you put up a sign instead that just says BRING ON THE ROTTEN EGGS! COSTCO HAS GREAT DEALS ON TOILET PAPER! IF YOU HURRY THEY'LL STILL BE OPEN! Idiots.

On one level, I'm hoping that I come back here on Wednesday with nothing but smiles and pictures of adorable kids in costume. But realistically, there will be some morons. And I live to serve. So here's to Halloween, may it provide with great stories that we can mock for years to come. But no candy corn. I beg of you.

An Open Letter

Dear KGO's Pete Wilson,

Fuck you.

Your pal,
Julie

Me and Mr. T

The T-Man, Pre-Katrina

Mr. T is back in action!

One of the most underappreciated performers of our generation is giving interviews, touting his new reality series called--of COURSE--"I Pity the Fool." According to the T, in the show he helps struggling businesses and families with his own brand of tough luv.

Among the things the Reuters story reveals:

• He struggled with, and survived, T-cell lymphoma (oh, the irony!). Way to go, man. The story also says that "As his illness became known, the calls offering him work stopped which Mr. T put down to the stigma surrounding cancer." Uh-huh. Whatever gets you through the night, Mr. T. (He is now in remission, so we should be seeing him all over the silver screen now that he is not contagious.)
• Mr. T stopped wearing gold chains because he felt that "after Hurricane Katrina devastated the Gulf Coast and New Orleans as it felt wrong to be covered in wealth when others had lost everything."
  
• And, he won't do just ANY reality show. ""Before this show I was offered some other reality TV shows but I won't do anything with nudity, obscenities, eating worms or things like that." Good to know the man has his standards.

Seriously, how can you not love Mr. T? Sure, he cut all those trees down in Lake Forest, but he's such a righteous dude. When I was in college, I was working in downtown Chicago and Mr. T drove by us, right down Michigan Avenue, in a cherry-red Rolls Royce convertible (License plate: MR T). He was in full Mohawk-and-gold-chain T-regalia and looking like he was on top of the world. We all waved and shouted, "Hey, Mr. T!" and he smiled and waved right back. He was and always will be a man of the people. And hey, after what, 20 years, he's still here. Long live the T.

Terror in the Skies

Take that, Tree Huggers!

It’s Fleet Week in San Francisco! The Blue Angels are in the house! Grab your earplugs, civilians!

You’ll want to block out the deafening noise, the incessant roar, that horrifying sound that makes you want to crouch under your desk in fetal position until it’s all over.

And I’m not talking about the jet noise.

I’m talking about the whiiiiining.

“They’re so looouuudd!”

“We’re waaaasting taxpayer dooolllaaars!”

“I caaan’t wooork! The noise makes it impossible to coooncentrate!”

“Why do they have to come every yeeear?”

It is the great San Francisco pastime, a Blue State merit badge, the mark of a true progressive intellectual, to bitch about the Blue Angels. You either love them or you hate them, and if you care about our country and our planet, you hate them, of course. It's the first thing they teach you at UC Santa Cruz. A vote for the Blue Angels is a vote for the Other Side, or at least a big red flag drawing attention to your blissful ignorance. Right?

Not so fast, hippies.

I vote Democrat. I take Muni. I give money to progressive causes. I think George W. Bush is a smirking, brainless chimp.

But I love the Blue Angels. Like good coffee and the Gay Pride Parade, it’s one of those things that makes living in San Francisco such a gift. That’s right, the Blue Angels and the Pride Parade. And I know I’m not the first one to think of them both in the same paragraph.

I savor my peace and quiet as much as the next working mom of two, but the Blue Angels are just cool. They are fast! And shiny! And they do cool stuff! There is something to be said for primal audiovisual gratification. Come on. Is San Francisco really so far up it’s own ass that we can’t come out for two days and have a little fun? Let’s leave our agendas inside for a few hours, shall we?

I hear you. They pimp for the Navy. They glorify war. They burn fuel. They could crash into one another over downtown and take us all down in a flaming ball of hellfire. Blah Blah Blah. Having armies and fighting wars? Not the same thing. I wish our armed forces were doing something besides fighting a brainless war for oil, but I still appreciate them. Personally, I am happy to see the Blue Angels are here trick-riding over the Bay and not out shooting folks. (I know, they don’t shoot folks, but as long as we’re all making blanket generalizations…)

True, those planes burn a shitload of fuel. It's wrong. Tell you what: Why don’t you leave your cars at home and take the train down to the Valley to go to work, and maybe turn your computers off for a week, and not fly down to Disneyland twice a year, and pick your kids up by public transportation instead of driving them to and from school and the soccer field every day, and then we can talk.

Frankly, between the deterioration of third-world infrastructure and the population explosion and the global warming and the overfishing and the greedy warmongering, I think we are so far fucked in so many other crucial ways that grounding the Blue Angels for a weekend is really not going to do the trick. There are many other things I'd put the kibosh on first--No Child Left Behind, Dennis Hastert's franking privileges, at least one of our stupid wars...let's not cut out something that's actually entertaining and doesn't harm anyone.

Then there's the NOISE. Oh, the humanity. You can’t work? It’s too loud? Both of my kids were, well, kids during Fleet Week, when the Blue Angels flew directly over our house during naptime. Did either of them even twitch, much less wake up? I THINK NOT. So cowboy up; if the kids can sleep through it, so can you. Pin your ADD on something else.

Ahem. I apologize. I’m not a hawkish jackass. And I love you all. Really. But please, people, you live in a beautiful place. You’re not in the Midwest. You walk outside and you see sun, and mountains, and ocean, and yes, the Blue Angels. Life is good. All I have to do is look at my 6-year-old son staring at the sky with an expression of wonder on his face and say, anything that makes my kid that happy can’t be all bad. Until he drives down the block in his SUV to mail his application to Halliburton, I’m going to keep my head up and enjoy the show.

The Army Dresses Down

My friend Lily is the most unconventional Army wife I know. She is a talented, no-bullshit writer, former fetish-zine editor, and ex-stripper and sex-positive issues advocate. Not the kind of lady you usually meet at an Army spouse luncheon. But she and her alt cred live a wonderful life up in the Hudson River Valley with her West Point officer husband, two teenaged stepsons, and an adorable golden lab. The places love takes you....

Anyway, Lily has a great op-ed in the Times today, on her sentimental sadness about the retirement of the Army's Battle Dress Uniform for more modern combat duds. It's really wonderful and I'm so glad she's writing about her life. She shows so well that the Army is not just Them, it's all of us. Thanks, Lily.

Best. Music Video. Ever.

Or, at least the best that I've seen in months.

In my continuing quest to spotlight things that anyone under 35 has already seen a thousand times over, I LOVE this video from Ok Go. The song (and the album, and their other album) are great, too. Very power-pop, Knack-esque with Cars and Cardigans undertones and other groovy 70s/80s influences. This was choreographed by one of the band members and his sister, and it is their SECOND single-take video. (A Million Ways was the first, and it's also pretty awesome.) Ok Go, I bow down before you and your treadmill gracefulness!

Important, Hard-Hitting News

How about that Foley freak? Did anyone catch the Veronica Mars premiere last night? Read any good books lately?

Okay, I'll stop pretending that I care what's going on in the world. I just wanted to post a complimentary picture of Tea. Is she cute or what?

Enjoy!

B is for Bitchout

nice to customers!

The new Bloomingdale's is open! I feel so complete. I actually stumbled on the grand opening yesterday as I wandered aimlessly downtown to find a fancy dress for the many fancy things I must do this fall. I just waltzed right in the only open door, which happened to be in an alley behind about ten delivery trucks belching exhaust onto those of us crafty enough to find the entrance.

My verdict yesterday? Fan-fucking-tabulous. I have been waiting for this moment all of my adult life. Literally! A store less cheesy than Macy's, less frumpy than Nordstrom, and less godawful expensive than Saks or Neiman's. It's not Barneys, but it'll do. There are shoes that I would wear, intersecting with shoes that I can actually afford! Amazing. I spent a few hours poking around as one of the only customers, with a whole staff of hyper-solicitous salesfolks fawning over me. Not bad. I even found a dress I liked, that I decided to come back and get the next day when I had time to try it on.

Bad, bad idea. If you were anywhere near 5th and Mission yesterday, you know exactly what I mean. Where there was no one yesterday, there was a giant line of Bloomie's-lovin' consumers snaking all the way down Mission Street and back into the alley where I sneaked in yesterday. There were security guards posted everywhere and they were not letting anyone in who didn't have some kind of card and who didn't park their ass in that line for a few hours. Apparently people had been there since 6am. What the f---?

UPDATE: Here is a picture from today's Chron.

Once again, I say, ARE YOU PEOPLE FREAKIN' NUTS? The store--it's not going anywhere! They will still have zillions of pairs of black boots next week!

I walked up to the salesdude guarding the Jessie Street door and asked precisely that. He said, they were offering some kind of special promotion where people who opened Bloomingdale's charges yesterday and brought some kind of special card got in "by invitation only." You would not fucking believe this line. It was "by invitation only" the way McDonald's is "by invitation only." I think all of Walnut Creek and most of Milpitas were waiting to get inside. I mean, it's a nice store, but come ON.

Of course, I determined immediately that I was not going to wait in no stinkin' line. I went up to the door guard/sales manager and told him that I had a kid to pick up from school and a busy life and my ass was not going to be spending the next two hours in line so I could walk out with a few perfume samples. I would either be let in to spend my many dollars of cold hard cash on a dress that I had been lovingly sold yesterday, or I would walk up the street to buy another dress, never, ever to return to Bloomingdale's.

Apparently no one (except me) wants to be a dick on the first day. To the guy's credit, he let me in only if I PROMISED to go straight up to the Fancy Dress Section and buy only the dress and nothing else. Well, the joke's on him, I tried on lipstick too! But I did get out in time to pick up Gianni.

So two thumbs up for the new Bloomie's, one for nice stuff and the other for customer service!

Running with Tinkerbell

For reasons that are not entirely clear even to me, I have decided to run a half-marathon in November. I have been more or less retired from racing since my high-school track days. Even then one could argue that I was semi-retired, 'cause it's not like I really tried. Despite possibly having some aptitude for running, I was just getting my jock card punched in sports-crazy southern Indiana, where if you didn't do SOMETHING you weren't worth knowing. Anyway, I digress, because other than running the San Francisco Marathon in 1998 just to prove that I could, and getting up to do the Run to the Far Side every Thanksgiving weekend (there's just something about running next to people dressed up like giant bananas and insects and dogs in suits riding a bus that makes life worthwhile) I mostly just run for my own enjoyment. And so I don't get fat.

But a few weeks ago my friend Atoosa, with whom I run on weekends, asked me if I wanted to do a half-marathon with her and a few of her friends, and I thought, why the hell not? It turns out that Atoosa can only do a race the week that I'm out of town, and she's out of town for the race I can do, so we are not actually running a race together, but now I have got the bug so far up my butt that I want to run a half-marathon that there's no turning back.

I started training a few weeks ago and realized something I'd forgotten in all of my years of leisurely running--training for a race makes you HUNGRY. Like, all the time. I feel like I have a tapeworm. I'm constantly starving and shoving snacks in my piehole all day long. It's just bizarre to polish off a big meal and still be like, mmmm, when's the second course? Excuse me, I need to go eat something now.

Okay, now that I'm back, I'll share my moment of the week, heck, the whole month, that happened while I was training for this blessed event. I was out running the Lyon Street Steps. If you don't live in San Francisco, these are some steep motherfucking steps that climb a big hill next to some gorgeous mansions and kick your ass all the way. When you get to the top, there's a gorgeous view of the waterfront. It's both heavenly and vomitous all at the same time. Anyway, I was coming down the steps, and this woman was running up. She was very California blonde, all tanned and fit and dressed in matching workout clothes and barely breaking a sweat. She was keeping a steady pace and in one hand she was carrying....

Wait for it...

A chihuahua. I shit you not. It was very Paris Hilton. I really thought I'd seen the chihuahua as accessory to just about every occasion, but I was wrong. At least she did carry the thing freehand and didn't have it in a little Adidas bag, or wearing a matching LuluLemon dog track suit or something. If you think about it, it was practically subdued.

All I'm saying is that if I'm on the last mile of the half marathon in November and a kinkajou named BabyLuv passes me, I'm gonna be really pissed.

Look What the Stork (or L. Ron Hubbard) Brought!

It's a big week for celebrity babies and I'm just catching up on news of two little bundles of...something.

First, my brand new copy of Vanity Fair came on Monday. Along with the usual stories about rich old white guys and Eurotrash, there's that Suri Cruise right on the cover! Man, what a cute baby! Who apparently was born bundled with Photoshop! I haven't seen that much airbrushing since Miss December! How many blemishes does a baby need to hide? Now really. If that's our standard, if I'm ever photographed for Vanity Fair I should just put a bag over my head and be done with it. Still, I begrudgingly admit that little Suri is one adorable little muffin. Well done, you Scientology freaks!

And as anyone who reads Perez Hilton knows already, life at the Spears-Federline double-wide just got a little cozier with the birth of little Sutton Pierce Federline (love the name!) on September 12, two days before big brother's first birthday. (All the cool kids are born in mid-September! Maybe Sean Preston and I can have a double B-day celebration! With a pony!)

Anyway. Congratulations to Britney and the Federchimp! Mazel tov! Many happy returns!

Now please stop breeding. Or at least slow the fuck down.

A Quiet Day Is A Good Day

Today is September 11, if you didn't notice. As much as I'd like to say I've been out hugging firefighters and singing "God Bless America" through a megaphone, I've had a nice, mellow day and that is truly a gift that I appreciate with all my soul after months of suckiness. In fact, I'm still anticipating the roundhouse kick to the head that seems to come with every calm moment lately, but hopefully it won't come this time.

Five years ago, I was getting ready to drop then-11-month-old Gianni off with the nanny for the first time. It was the first day I'd ever been apart from him for an entire day and I was, honestly, feeling guilty that I was feeling so happy that I would be away from him. I woke up that morning, and my first thought was: Free at last! I was already planning all of the amazing child-free things I'd be doing that day (Long lunches! Naps! Porn!) when my phone rang. It was my sister, calling at 7:45. I thought: someone died, since that's the only reason anyone is allowed to call me before 8:30. Someone died, all right. A lot of someones. She was calling to make sure that we were not driving on the Golden Gate Bridge, and that someone was not blowing it up right at that moment.

And then it hit me: oh my God, I'm leaving my child with a stranger and the world has gone nuts. I can't do this! Serves me right for being so gleeful at the thought of ditching Gianni to live a life of grown-up leisure.

Then I got it together--I have to do this. We have to keep on truckin'. So I scooped Gianni up, and drove him out for his first day in the care of someone else. He had a blast. I walked around Golden Gate Park, crying and listening to the freakish lack of air traffic noise from above.

I never imagined on that hellish day that I would wake up five years later to a similarly calm and sunny day and actually have that adult free time I'd planned so diligently before. (Okay, no porn, but maybe tomorrow.) My son was off at kindergarten, my daughter with HER new nanny. I was alone, listening to the silence again. And this time, it was good. I hope that the families of those who died on 9/11 are getting their peace too. Times a hundred.

Timing is Everything!

First of all, let's all just take a moment to acknowledge that I suck. I could say that I've been on vacation, I could chalk up my sparse posting as of late to a nasty shitstorm of events in my life that have taken up all my time. And I would be half right in both cases. But the truth is, I just got lazy. My apologies to my one reader. (Hi Honey.)

Anyway, I'm back. And I gotta say, it's amazing how much a few minutes can affect your life in such drastic ways. Two days ago, Gianni had his orientation afternoon at kindergarten. Naturally, we were all planning to go and embarrass him, er, I mean send him off in fine fashion. The plan was for Gianni and Rick to pedal over on the tagalong bike and for me and Tea to meet them at the school. But thanks to some dumb-assed forgetfulness on my part and a booster seat that wasn't quite strapped down to the chair, Tea managed to do a full face-plant on the kitchen floor the minute G and Rick were walking out the front door.

I called Rick on the cell phone and told him that we were going to be a little late, since we had to rush to the doctor and make sure Tea hadn't knocked all of her teeth loose in her grand stunt. Rick came back inside for a second, made sure that we were all fine (bloody, but fine) and then went on the way. They arrived at school with no difficulties, Gianni had a grand time,and I missed the whole thing because I was sitting in a doctor's office for two hours waiting for a consultation that took five minutes to tell me that Tea was just fine. (insert tiny violin and expletive-filled rant about health care here.)

When we saw the local news later, I realized what a blessing a blood-soaked face-plant can be for a family. Because Rick was a few minutes late getting started, he and Gianni were a few minutes late crossing California street. Thus, they barely missed this lunatic, who plowed down 14 pedestrians deliberately and was finally stopped literally blocks from Gianni's new school. While sitting in a waiting room with a grumpy, scraped-up baby is no fun, we all realize that it could have been much much much much worse and thank goodness for life's little delays.

So thanks Tea, and I promise not to be such a scattered dumb ass next time and buckle the booster seat.

The Chron Will Print Anything These Days

The paper proved that already, when last week they published a whiny, entitled "humor" essay by a young "writer" living in her grandmother's Eichler home in Palo Alto. For free. Really the only way to do the story justice is to read it in the voice of a 16-year-old Valley Girl. The walls are, like, green? And the couch is totally orange? And it's, like, really cold? I totally have to wear my fake fur coat all the time! Like, there's not even a jacuzzi tub! Eeuww!

Anyway. It sucked. And I'm not even an Eichler nut.

The paper printed a pageful of letters to the editor regarding the story today, including mine! I'm proud, not just because I got a letter in the paper, but because I got the phrase "takes a dump" into a family newspaper. That is a true accomplishment. Joe Eichler would be proud.

Editor -- Need I even say it: a gift horse that takes a dump on your lawn is still a gift horse. In a time when even non-freelancers can barely afford to make rent on frighteningly small and ugly places in the Bay Area, I cannot even begin to measure how much chutzpah one would have to possess to tell us this tale of "woe." The writer lives in an architecturally significant home that, for better or worse, is historically intact, more because of your grandmother's laziness in maintaining it than anything else. It's rent-free. It's worth a fortune. Cry me a river.

JULIE POLITO

Irwin Allen it Ain't

People are still talking about where they were during the Earthquake. I'm not talking about the 1906 Big One, or even the 1989 Pretty Damned Big One. (In case you're wondering, I was not born yet, and sitting on a couch in Illinois watching the World Series, respectively.) I'm referring to the moderate temblor we experienced just a few days ago. Yes, it was a shaker. Or so I'm told.

For a bunch of supposedly jaded Bay Areans, we sure love to talk about quakes, no matter how tiny. I was walking from the family room into the hallway with Tea for her bedtime. Rick was in the kitchen and he said: "Earthquake."

I said: "Huh?"

Rick was certain that we'd just had an earthquake. The windows rattled. The light fixtures swayed. By the time I looked, there was nothing. But he was certain. He checked the USGS Web site. Nothing reported yet. So I told him to go to the real source of all information.

"Try The Well," I said.

He checked into the San Francisco Earthquake topic on The Well and, before the USGS had a chance to check their seismographs, there were already 20 posts about the quake. Felt it in Bernal Heights! Didn't feel it in the East Bay! I didn't feel it, but I'm on vacation in Europe (thanks for sharing.) People were beginning to go through the stages of Earthquake Processing on The Well. Which are:

1. Report whether you did/didn't feel the quake, even if you don't live in the area. No matter how inane or uninteresting your observations. Please share.

2. Bring up your Bay Area Cred with regards to Earthquakery. I was born here! My grandparents were born here! And the old standby, I was here for Loma Prieta! I was standing on the San Andreas Fault! I am OLD SCHOOL.

3. Segue into how you scoff at people who freak and jump into doorways for anything less than a 6.0 shaker. Ha ha, you cowardly rubes! Look how casual I am.

Now, I have missed pretty much every quake we've had here for the past two years. And by "missed," I mean slept through, mistook for a truck driving by, or otherwise didn't catch because I was too busy gazing at my own thumb or something. But each time I hear the newscasters catching up or see that red square on the USGS map, I bow down in deference to the mighty earth, knowing that, while this time we were safe, it's just a difference of a few Richter points and 30 seconds between standing on solid ground and finding ourselves under the weight of our house and worldly possessions. I cross my fingers and thank some higher power that I still have a doorway to stand under and that my plaster ceiling is intact. May it continue to be so indefinitely.

By the way--4.4, centered near Glen Ellen in Sonoma County. And we're fine, mom.

Fuck Cancer. Again.

My friend Linda Dyer died tonight. She fought breast cancer hard for way too many years, and I think more than anyone expected. She went through jobs, health insurance, many apartments, many really crappy treatments, and a whole lot of exhaustion. And through it all, she was luminous. High-spirited. Beautiful. A real gem of a human being.

I was not on vigil with Linda in her final days. In fact, I have not seen her since she started to go downhill in the last few months. Not because I didn't want to; just that she was busy, I was busy, and we always seemed to find each other when we needed to. When I think about time spent with Linda, I think about her being a fun and caring babysitter to my son until she lacked the energy to do it anymore. I think about helping her move into her in-law apartment down the street, just as she was starting to fight her disease, none of us really knowing where it would take her.

I think of running into her at Zazie, her coming from a chemo treatment and me in my 11th week of pregnancy with Tea. She was one of the first people I told, and we had breakfast together that day, both of us eating pancakes and fighting nausea for, sadly, entirely different reasons. I think about her joining our very earnest writing group and wowing us with her effective and spare prose poems. She was a writer for the sake of writing and I always appreciated that about Linda. It doesn't always work out that way for a lot of us and she kept it real for me.

They tell me she was not in pain when she died. She was at peace. She was surrounded by many friends in real life and many, many virtual friends in spirit. Me included.

I miss you already, Lin. I knew this day would come, but that doesn't make it any easier. Peace and love.

More Fun with MyHeritage.com

MyHeritage.com--it's spreading like a virus, I tell you. My friend Kristen tells me that she tried it with a photo of her baby daughter Kate, and got...

Louis Pasteur!

I tried to tell Kristen that it is an auspicious honor in our society to resemble the father of bacteriology. She is not buying it.

You know, Louis Pasteur tried it with his daughter and she looked just like Christina Ricci. Who knew?

Try and Put this Book Down...

...you won't be able to do it. It's impossible. Try, the debut novel from Lily Burana, has that all-too-rare combination of beautiful, delicious, writing and an actual plot. She perfectly captures Wyoming, rodeo culture, cowboys, and the tentative, aching first days of true luv. I stayed up until 1am last night reading it--my ass is dragging this morning and it's all your fault, Lily.

I'm not just blowing sunshine on this book because Lily is my pal and a brilliant writer. It's a really terrific read. I am a tough customer and I am really digging it. I wish I could churn out a novel like this. But does anyone really want to read a 350-page tome detailing the wacky misadventures of a San Francisco mom and her neurotic dog? Apparently, yes.

Oh well. I need to find a new hook. Anyway, read Try, this year's perfect beach book and then some.

Joss Whedon Rocks



If you haven't seen footage of Joss Whedon giving a speech at Equality Now's awards banquet, it's pretty much the best speech I've seen, ever. This speech is the one thing that made me feel great in an otherwise crap week. Not only is it brilliant, but to my trained eye, Joss looks like he's ad-libbing the thing. I am in awe.

For the uninitiated, Joss Whedon is the creator of some really kickass entertainment, including Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Serenity, Firefly, Angel, and other great stuff. His shows are filled with wit, emotion, excitement, provocative themes, and strong characters, both female AND male.

The dozens of misogynistic fuckheads working in media and entertainment right now could take a page or twenty from his book. Anyway, great, great, speech, Joss. Please marry me, or be my cool boss, or be my best friend, or something.

Craigslist, Hoosier Style

The all-knowing, all-purpose Craigslist now has an outpost in my hometown of Bloomington, Indiana. This cracks me up for so many reasons. For a week, my husband, who assumes that every resident of Indiana hunts squirrels and thinks Larry the Cable Guy is a laff riot, has been forwarding me Missed Connections and Rants and Raves from the Bloomington site.

The thought of a "missed connection" in a town as claustrophobic as Bloomington is to laugh. From my experience, a MC on Craiglist Bloomington would look something like this:

Tsk, Tsk, Tsk
Reply to: pers-177698478@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-07-02, 5:45PM EST
Julia Lynn McCullough, of the brown house on Winslow Road, you walked past me at the IU game on Saturday afternoon. Don't think I didn't smell that cigarette smoke in your hair and on your jacket, young lady. I really don't think you should be hanging out with that Andrews girl--she is such a bad influence. I think she is on drugs, are you on drugs too? I will be calling your parents tonight. They are such nice people and I really I have no choice, I'm only doing it because I care about you and them and I'm concerned. By the way, why did you break up with that nice Joe Smith? He is so handsome and such a good athlete and you know, his dad makes a lot of money. You could do a lot worse, dear.

(Note that Joe Smith is a. a flaming homosexual, and/or b. deals coke to grade-school kids)

It's not that bad. But there are some good ones. Some of my favorites:

need a threesome baaad ;) - mw4w - 22

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Reply to: pers-177798478@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-07-02, 5:45PM EST


hi! my bf and i are looking for single female to have a threesome w/. his birthday is next week and i want to surprise him!!! pref. an asian girl but will consider other types as long as u r hot!! LOL. this is a one time thing i'm ONLY doing this for his bday!!! -kim

Hilarious because first of all, despite the world-class university, Bloomington is a really. small. town. My dad probably bought bagels from these people last week. And second, they actually posted a PICTURE.

Who posts a picture for a threesome ad on Craigslist? (Although, hey, they're cute! I'd do 'em.)

Gotta love this one, too:

Where can a nice looking guy go to get a good bj in this town?

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Reply to: pers-179922208@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-07-09, 12:02AM EST


Where's the best public place to get a good blow job in this town? I don't care if it's from a man or a woman.

Depends on what you are looking to gain from the experience, sir! If you're a sucker for Hoosier tradition, try the Well House, or the center line at Assembly Hall. There's nothing like those red banners waving to enhance a good BJ. If you want maximum exposure, try the Courthouse Square on a weekday! And if you want to freak the shit out of some proper Bloomington matrons, a table at Peterson's bakery at noon. Tell 'em I sent you. Happy hunting!

Another gem:

I hate this fucking town

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Reply to: pers-177786162@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-07-02, 4:53PM EST


I hate the fucking immature girls (and they are GIRLS, not women) in this town who care only about looks and how much shit their parents will buy them.

I hate the idiot east coasters who walk around this campus like they own the place because they come from money.

I hate people from Indianapolis. First of all, everyone within an hour of the damn place claims to be from "the city" when they're from a suburb. Second, they think it's a real city. Go to New York, Chicago, hell, even Boston or Miami. Those are real cities. They have sports teams that don't consistently choke too.

I hate the illegals and foreign exchange students who choose to live here but refuse to speak English.

I hate the rednecks here who also barely speak English.

I hate the Goddamn university bureaucracy that shoves diversity down our throats just to make themselves feel good.

I hate the fucking professors who don't actually teach anything but still walk around with an unwarranted sense of accomplishment.

All in all I hate this fucking town. If I didn't need a degree (which I now know doesn't prove you know jack shit) to get a job I would never spend a minute in this town and after I'm gone next year I will never come back. Nor will IU ever get a cent of my money. Fuck this place.

Can't really argue with that one.

And finally, the quintessential Bloomington post:

The new big building by Dicks at the Mall

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Reply to: pers-180176922@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-07-09, 9:13PM EST


Does anyone have any idea what the big building near Dicks Sporting Goods is going to be over at the mall? There is no signage yet, and I am just really curious! Thanks.

Totally loving that there is a place actually referred to as "Dicks at the Mall." Huh-huh. Uh-heh-heh-heh. (Let's pretend they didn't clarify that it's a sporting goods shop.)

Followed by the quintessential Bloomington response:

re:The new big building by Dicks at the Mall

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Reply to: pers-180184929@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-07-09, 9:41PM EST


Not sure but hopefully it will be a strip club.

A perfect complement to Dicks at the Mall. Finally they're putting some useful stuff in there. Beats Chick-fil-A any day.

Damn You, Daniel Radosh

I love Daniel Radosh's blog. It's everything a blog should be--a great mix of personal narrative, opinion on hot topics, and hilarious ridiculousness (like his June 14 entry--Richard Scarry meets Samuel L. Jackson. If you have kids under age 6, this is the funniest motherfucking post you've ever seen.) In short, it's what I try to do with my blog, except he does it so, so much better.

Radosh is responsible for my latest Internet time-suck obsession. MyHeritage.com lets you upload your photos and their face recognition software will find your closest celebrity likeness. By "closest," I mean "barely related in any way whatsoever." Hey, you wear glasses! Benjamin Franklin wears glasses! You're practically twins!

Not since LinkedIn has there been such a wonderful Web time-waster. Of course, I had to do the whole family. First, Rick:

And his celebrity doppelganger:

I think I speak for all of us when I say: WHO? (sorry Gheorghie.)

I prefer our own self-selected celebrity likeness, chosen long ago:

Am I right or am I right? Then there's me:

Bad hair day, just woke up, I'm so much cuter in person, etc. and so on.

My celebrity twin?










Uhhhh.
Granted, this is probably the most flattering photo of Martina Navratilova ever taken. Still, damning with faint praise. That's like saying, "You look like Janet Reno at her hottest."

How about the kids?


Gianni:
A nice coincidence, since we just finished the first Harry Potter book and movie.












Finally, Tea:

Oh dear.











Mommy's little sex kitten. I get Martina Navratilova, and my 14-month-old daughter gets the sexiest woman in history. WHERE IS THE JUSTICE?

I tried to do Vito, but there were no matches. C'mon, MyHeritage, you can come up with some of the most random matches ever, but you can't find a lookalike for my dog? You're slacking.


Personally, I think he's a dead ringer for Al Pacino.