goddess of clarity: a blog about politics, culture, and serenity

Archive: June 1 - June 30, 2005

June 29, 2005 — 15:45 EST

I had a choice last night between what was more depressing: watching the Phillies lose 8-3 to the Mets (the Mets?!) or watching President Bush outline his "new strategy" for the war in Iraq. Even with the Phillies in the midst of a five-game losing streak, I'd say the president wins this contest, hands down.

It's just that I don't think I can take much more of the guy. He's jumping on my last nerve, and someday soon I'm going to snap. I don't get it. I honestly, truly, and sincerely don't get it. I don't know how Bush can stand up there in front of an audience of American servicemen and say:

The troops here and across the world are fighting a global war on terror. The war reached our shores on September the 11th, 2001. The terrorists who attacked us — and the terrorists we face — murder in the name of a totalitarian ideology that hates freedom, rejects tolerance, and despises all dissent.

The terrorists who attacked us on 9/11 and the terrorists we now face ARE NOT THE SAME PEOPLE!! Bush admitted as much himself; that there was no link between Saddam Hussein's regime and the attacks of September 11. But then he and others in the administration continue to make these kinds of statements that, while falling just shy of out-and-out lies, are misleading in the extreme. And then they shrug their shoulders and say, "Gosh, I'm not sure why so many people think that Iraq was involved in 9/11. Must be the media's fault."

As it happens, the "terrorists we now face" in Iraq are only there because *we're* there. According to the CIA, we've provided them with the best training ground they could ask for. It's a kind of chicken-and-egg scenerio going on over there. Chickens and eggs, yes. But no weapons of mass destruction. Remember those? No? That's OK; neither does the president. They were the reason we started this war, if you'll recall, but Bush didn't mention them once last night.

Bush did mention the troops, of course, and asked us all to show our support for our fighting men and women by writing them a letter or posting a message to a goverment Web site. This on a day when the administration announced a $1 billion shortfall in veterans' medical services and the New York Times reports that the military continues to rely on outdated Humvees, most of which still do not have armour.

I'm at a loss.

—lori.

June 28, 2005 — 14:22 EST

Well, my first 5K is in the books. Let's check out how we did with those goals of mine, shall we? This time in ascending order of importance.

6. Finish the race in 35 minutes — Not so much.

If we go to the film, we see that my purple Husky cap and I crossed the finish line with an impressive time of 38 minutes 19 seconds. That's a blistering 12:45/mile pace, people. Oh no, you can't stop me. You can only hope to contain me.

5. Finish the race without stopping to walk — Nope, 'fraid not.

I chose the Rochester Airport 5K as my first race because I figured, "Hey, at least it'll be flat." You see, the race is actually run across several runways at the Rochester airport. And while I was correct about the flatness, airport runways are also notable for their complete lack of trees. So the absence of shade combined with the freakish summer weather we've been having lately (Four days in a row in the nineties?! Are you kidding me?!) led to one inescapable fact: it was HOT! That's my excuse for the walk breaks, anyway — one at the halfway point and another a little over a mile later.

4. Finish the race — Check!

I did manage to run the last quarter-mile of the race, and though the early finishers had come in some 20 minutes before me, it still felt good to cross the finish line with people lined up on either side cheering. And while I may be Slowey McPoke, the mayor of Slowtown, I've now got an official PR and something to build on for the next race.

3. Don't fall down — Check!

Notice in this picture how the road is still directly under my feet and not my ass.

2. Don't puke — Check!

Honestly, it only *looks* like I'm about to spew. I managed to keep it together for the duration.

1. Have fun — Check!

Been there. Done that. Got the T-shirt!

—lori.

June 24, 2005 — 08:52 EST

I'm running in my first 5K tomorrow, and for reasons I can't quite explain, I'm feeling kinda nervous. Make that terrified. Actually, I believe the expression is "scared shitless."

I'm trying not to think about it. And when I *do* think about it, I'm trying to trick my brain into being all nonchalant about the whole thing: "Yeah, I'm just gonna go run a 5K tomorrow. No big deal." But it doesn't seem to be working, and instead my stomach turns somersaults whenever the thought merely crosses my mind. In fact, I had to take a potty break in the middle of typing this paragraph.

Of course, this makes no rational sense at all. No one is forcing me to run this race. There are no consequences or repercussions should I fail. What am I so nervous about? What's the worse that could happen?

Well, I could puke. Somewhere around the two-mile marker, I could sprew all over the race course. That would be bad. And then I could step in my puddle of puke and slip and fall down in a heap in the middle of the road. And then the woman behind me could slip and fall in my puke as well. And then, realizing she is laying in a puddle of someone else's puke, she could puke herself, causing another guy to slip and fall in *that* puddle of puke, and before you know it there's a huge pile-up of puke-covered bodies at the two-mile marker. Spectators look away in horror, children start to cry, the police arrive followed by a local TV news crew. Yep, I'd say that's about the worse that could happen.

So let's just keep it simple: here are my goals for tomorrow's race, in order of importance.

1. Have fun.
2. Don't puke.
3. Don't fall down.
4. Finish the race.
5. Finish the race without stopping to walk.
6. Finish the race in 35 minutes.

June 22, 2005 — 16:10 EST

Rant alert! Rant alert! Ahh-OOO- gah! Ahh-OOO-gah!

While watching TV last night, (100 Years ... 100 Movie Quotes. Their #1 pick: "Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn." Personally, I would have gone with, "I keep getting older, but the chicks stay the same age.") I saw a couple of "previews" for that evening's local newscast. The night's top stories: the kickback scandal at Kodak widens, the new Troop Hollow bridge nears completion, and poison ivy is bad.

Now, one of these things is not like the others, and if you guessed "poison ivy," you'd be correct. Poison ivy?! What's the news angle on that story? "This just in ... Poison ivy still poisonous."?

Not only does this ridiculous bit of filler on "how to protect you and your kids from poison ivy this summer" in no way resemble news; it is in fact the OPPOSITE of news. The ANTITHESIS of news. What's "new" about poison ivy? Is there a new super-mutant strain afoot? Or a new vaccine? Have scientists discovered that poison ivy is, in fact, a healthy part of a low-carb diet?

There has been NOTHING new about poison ivy for HUNDREDS of years! It looks the same, it itches the same, and it's covered in the same calamine lotion as always. "But this kind of story is helpful to our viewers," whines the so-called "news" director. "Some people might not know this basic information about poison ivy." Well news flash, Sparky: that's what the ENCYLOPEDIA is for. Or the Internet. Or the Physician's Desk Reference. Or any number of other sources of information that are NOT the precious one hour of local news we get each evening, half of which is already taken up by the weather.

Sigh. OK, rant over.

June 21, 2005 — 15:39 EST

Last night, I saw something that I just have to commit to words, if only to confirm that it actually happened. My brain is still not sure whether to believe my own lying eyes.

Picture it: Rochester. Park Ave. Abbott's Custard Shop. A beautiful summer day is just beginning to turn into a beautiful summer night. Mr. Goddess and I and couple of friends have just returned from a truly lovely pizza-and-booze cruise up the Erie Canal, and I'm capping off this postcard-perfect day with a vanilla frozen custard covered in chocolate jimmies.

The four of us take a seat at a table along the sidewalk to watch the world go by. The neighborhood is buzzing tonight: couples holding hands, parents pushing strollers, people walking their dogs. Friends shaking hands saying, "How do you do?" And I think to myself, "What a wonderful world."

We engage in some lazy conversation, discussing alternate titles for John Wayne Bobbit's porno movie (Ben suggests "Frankendick") and floating story ideas for Anthony's much-planned but not-yet-realized sitcom pilot "My Retarded Wife." The usual stuff. And then it happens.

Mr. Goddess and Anthony have their backs to the scene, for which they should be forever grateful. I, however, am not so lucky. Standing right in front of me is a little girl, aged perhaps nine or 10, wearing a lime green tank top and holding a drippy ice cream cone. She must have dribbled some jimmies down her front because, before I know what is happening, an older woman (mother? grandmother? total stranger?) comes up to her, pulls down the front of her tank top, and ... I swear to god ... starts LICKING the ice cream off her skin.

It wasn't a quick lick either. It was a good four, five, six licks. It lasts long enough for me to think to myself, "What the hell?! Is she LICKING that child?!" A split second later I notice Ben sitting next to me making what I imagine is the exact same face that I'm currently making.

"Do you see that, too?" he asks tentatively. I nod.

"Good," he replies. I assume that he is both reassured that he is not going insane and disturbed that such a thing is in fact happening on a city sidewalk.

By now, Mr. Goddess and Anthony have noticed the look of disgust and horror on our faces and have correctly concluded that something bizarre must be going on, but by the time they turn around, it's over.

"What? What?" they shout. But now the giggling has begun. We wait till the family are out of earshot and Ben manages to recap the story. I can't. Way too much giggling.

"Ewwwww!" is the consensus opinion from the other side of the table. "Hasn't anyone in that family heard of NAPKINS?!"

We spend the next few minutes speculating on the impact it must have on the pre-pubescent psyche to have your chest licked in public. That's some good, old-fashioned therapy fodder, that is. Maybe she'll grow up to have terrifying anxiety attacks at the mention of "soft serve" or "double dip cone." Or perhaps develop a sexual fetish. "Would you like jimmies on that?" Mmmmmm, yes please!

—lori.

June 20, 2005 — 9:59 EST

While watching My Fair Lady for the umpty-upmth time on TBS last weekend, it got me to thinking. There seems to be a class of movies that I will watch on television over and over again whenever I happen to flip past them. I'll call these "drop-in movies;" movies that make me stop whatever I'm doing and watch, no matter where they are in the story or how many times I've seen the movie before. They're not even my favorite movies; they're just eminently watchable, stand up to repeated viewing, and seem to be on TV a lot. I feel a list coming on. The goddess presents ...

The Top Nine "Drop-In" Movies (in no particular order, and I couldn't think of a tenth)

1. My Fair Lady: the aforementioned 1964 musical is actually one of my favorite movies. I think it also works as a "drop-in" movie because it's chock-a-block with amazing musical numbers that serve as bait, drawing you in until the next great song. "Wouldn't It be Loverly," "I Could Have Danced All Night," "On the Street Where You Live," and on and on.
2. Hope and Glory: I'm not even sure if I've ever seen this movie from start to finish; I always seem to just catch bits of it. It's really just a series of vignettes about one family's life in London during the blitz, so you really don't have to watch it from the beginning to understand it or to be completely sucked in by it.
3. Master and Commander: Far Side of the World: I saw this in the theater and absolutely loved it. Then last month it was on HBO at least once every 12 hours, or so it seemed. It feels like I always drop in at the scene where Paul Bettany's Dr. Maturin has to operate on himself (ewwww!). The movie is such adventurous fun, it makes me want to buckle my swash every time I see it.
4. The Great Escape: Another great "boys' own" adventure that only improves on repeated viewings. The fantastic ensemble cast keep all the various threads of the plot from unravelling, and by the end you can't help but root for Steve McQueen every time.
5. Better Off Dead: "I want my two dollars!" Used to be hardly a weekend went by on Comedy Central without this or that other early John Cusack masterpiece, One Crazy Summer making an appearance. Memo to Comedy Central programmers: Less Joe Dirt, more Better Off Dead.
6. Coal Miner's Daughter: I don't really have a good explanation for this one. It's a pretty straightforward biopic, and I'm not overly fond of Loretta Lynn's music. Plus, whenever I watch it I end up with the title song in my head for at least three days.
7. To Sir With Love: Talk about infectious title songs! Lulu can claw her way into your brain and stay there, fighting off lesser musical attackers with the tenaciousness of a mother lion protecting her cubs. Like Hope and Glory, this works as a "drop-in" movie because it doesn't require start-to-finish viewing. It's really just a series of speeches by Sidney Poitier, only they're really really good speeches by Sidney Poitier.
8. Major League: I love love love this movie. It qualifies as a good "drop-in" movie because (1) the outcome is never in doubt ("gee, do you think the team will win the big game?") and (2) it's positively riddled with some of the funniest lines ever. "He leads the league in most offensive categories, including nose hair. This guy sneezes it looks like a party favor."
9. Bull Durham: Another great baseball movie with more great lines. "Baseball is a simple game. You throw the ball. You hit the ball. You catch the ball. Something you win. Sometimes you lose. And sometimes it rains." Plus it is the only watchable Kevin Costner performance committed to film.

—lori.

June 10, 2005 — 9:38 EST

The Unflattering Politician Photo of the Week

(Downing Street Memo Edition)

Prime Minister Blair: Just ignore him. Stare straight ahead. Don't make any sudden moves. If I'm lucky, maybe he'll forget I'm here and I can slip out the back before he invites me down to the ranch again. God, I hate firewood.
President Bush: If I concentrate really hard, I wonder if I can kiss my own tongue? Lemme try. Hmmmmmmph. Nope. Didn't get 'er that time. Lemme try again. Hmmmmmmmmmmmmpgh. Man, that's hard.

With Tony in town this week, I've finally seen a little more media coverage of what has been dubbed the "Downing Street Memo," which was leaked to the Times of London nearly six weeks ago and hasn't made much more than a ripple on this side of the pond. The memo contains the minutes of a July 2002 British cabinet meeting in which the director of the UK's foreign intelligence service reports on his recent meetings with Bush administration officials in Washington. The intelligence head reports that, "Bush wanted to remove Saddam, through military action, justified by the conjunction of terrorism and WMD. But the intelligence and facts were being fixed around the policy."

The memo goes on the say, "It seemed clear that Bush had made up his mind to take military action, even if the timing was not yet decided. But the case was thin. Saddam was not threatening his neighbors, and his WMD capability was less than that of Libya, North Korea or Iran."

And all of this dates back to the summer of 2002, before Bush and Colin Powell had made their case to the U.N. and at a time when Bush was telling all of us that he would only go to war as a last resort. In fact, the memo makes clear that the whole U.N. process was just a cynical ruse, that the administration and its allies in Britain were just using the U.N. to lend an air of legality and legitimacy to their plans. "We should work up a plan for an ultimatum to Saddam to allow back in the U.N. weapons inspectors," the memo states. "This would also help with the legal justification for the use of force." (The full text of the memo is online.)

Now, I know there is no love lost between me and the Bush administration (a thought that must keep them up nights, I'm sure), but this sure does smell like a big deal to me! It's only the most specific evidence yet that the Bushies were planning a war in Iraq as early as summer 2002, and that when they told us they were working toward a peaceful, diplomatic solution to the Iraq problem, they were -- wait for it -- lying! To channel Bob Dole for a second, where's the outrage?!

And nevermind outrage, where's the coverage? I've been following this story on sites like Salon and London Calling (which posted info related to the memo on the same day it first appeared in the British press -- way to go guys!). But the story has been getting precious little attention outside left-leaning blogs and online publications. Why is that?

I think there are several reasons:

1. Although the information it contains concerns the behavior of the Bush administration, the memo itself is British. It reports on a British government meeting and was first leaked to a British newspaper. American journalists, and especially American political correspondents, can be as inward looking and provincial as the politicians they cover. If this memo had contained the same info but had come from an American agency, I think it would have gotten a lot more play.
2. Unfortunately, I think there is an air of resignation about the whole "Bush lied" story among reporters. "Everybody already knows that Bush really wanted to go to war against Saddam and would sell the war to the public using whatever rationale worked best," these reporters say. "But hey, that ship has sailed. Nothing we can do about it now. That's old news." (Eric Boehlert's column in Salon yesterday explains this "nothing to see here" attitude better than I can.)
3. And lastly, for a reporter or editor to cover this story now means they must (if even tacitly) acknowledge that their particular publication or station had its head up its ass for the last six weeks for not covering it before now. Maddeningly, this works in the administration's favor by diluting the story. The story becomes half-memo, half media analysis. That's what I've been seeing lately. For every story you get about the memo itself, you get three more about the media process and why it has taken the American press so long to report on the memo. And all this furthers the right-wing agenda of making the media appear incompetent and unreliable, when the real story should be -- hello! -- the lies of an American president who basically tricked us into supporting a war in which thousands of people have died! Grrrr.

Where's the outrage?

—lori.

June 8, 2005 — 10:39 EST

They say you can't fight city hall. That's not strictly accurate. What they should say is, "You can fight city hall, but before you do be aware that you will lose."

My particular exercise in civic futility began this morning when I headed downtown to plead "Not Guilty" to a parking ticket I received during the Lilac Festival last month. I've received my fair share of parking tickets from the city of Rochester before, and I've always paid them. Because I've always been in the wrong. "It's a fair cop," and all that. But there was NO WAY I was paying this $35 fine! My plucky sense of justice and fair play had been roused. This would not stand!

I had two arguments in my favor. Argument #1 was the "Philosophical Argument," which basically boiled down to this: everybody else was doing it. The Lilac Festival lasted for 10 days, and on every one of those 10 days I drove past the festival along Goodman Street on my way to and from work. And on every one of those 10 days, dozens if not hundreds of cars were parked along the west side of the street. So when I attended the festival on its last day, I parked there too. The ground had been laid. Expectations had been established. Everybody else was doing it; why can't I?

Well I got my answer two hours later, when I returned to my car to find the offending document under my windshield wiper. The 20 or so cars that had since joined me in this crime spree were also ticketed. My initial reaction was something like, "Oh, my! That is an unexpected annoyance, I must say." I think at the time I expressed it more succinctly; something like, "What the fuck?!" But before my tantrum could develop further, I read the ticket more closely and smiled.

I had discovered the basis for Argument #2, the "Technicality." See, the parking enforcement officer on duty that morning had checked the "PM" box on the ticket. Perhaps this shining example of Rochester's finest had forgotten his or her AM-PM cheat sheet that day ("Daylight=AM; Dark Outside=PM"), but no matter. I was manifestly NOT on Goodman Street at 9:36 PM on May 29th. My case was ironclad.

It took me a while to find the tiny office that serves as the city's Parking Violations Bureau. Once I found the right building, however, the office itself was unmistakable: from the rounded sans-serif block letters stenciled on the door in just the wrong shade of orange-brown, to the Coke machine that dispenses cans rather than bottles, to the painted cinder block walls and matching grey-green carpet, it reeked of that peculiar school of interior design known as "Early Seventies Governmental."

I was the first person in line this morning, and was promptly called for my hearing before the parking enforcement examiner at 9:01. (Side note: I can now add "parking enforcement examiner" to my list of jobs I would never want to participate in, should the Inside the Actor's Studio people ever ask me.) The process is actually a little bit intimidating. There's a court reporter, you have to get sworn in, you have to waive your right to an attorney, you have to speak into the microphone. But I wasn't going to let the trappings of the state get to me. I am a citizen! And I have right on my side (and a technicality).

I plunged into an impassioned recitation of Argument #1. The examiner countered by referring to "The List," a laminated list of parking regulations that were in effect during the Lilac Festival (I'm guessing the festival has generated a lot of complaints--and revenue--for the Parking Violations Bureau.) "The west side of Goodman Street was designated No Parking during the Lilac Festival," he said, pointing to The List.

"But all throughout the festival people were parking there," I parried. "And that was the only reason I parked there that day."

"This was a No Parking area," he repeated. "Anyone parked there would be in violation." It seemed The List would not be denied. I quickly switched gears.

"Well, what about the error on the ticket? It says I was parked there at 9:36 PM and I was not." I had to work to keep a note of triumph out of my voice at this point.

"Were you parked there at 9:36 AM?" asked the examiner.

"Yes," I responded, and this time I altogether failed to keep the note of meek defeat out of my voice.

"In my opinion that is a clerical error that does not rise to the level necessary to return a verdict of not guilty. You have 30 days to appeal or pay the fine."

So that was it. My day in court lasted all of two and a half minutes. As I left the office waiting room to its more enraged occupants, I felt a sense of resignation where I had once felt a quiet confidence. Seems you can't fight city hall. Even on a technicality.

—lori.

June 3, 2005 — 14:25 EST

In case you haven't noticed (and judging by the attendance figures you haven't), the Phillies have managed to win a few here and there and are threatening to climb out of the cellar! (With apologies to the great Bob Uecker.)

Yep, my Phils have just come off a sweep of the Barry Bonds-less San Francisco Giants, and are now back at .500 for the first time since mid-April. They are still in last place in the division, but the NL East likes to beat up on itself so even with our .500 record, we are still only 2.5 games out of first.

So I am having a happy day. Rochester's annual Greek festival is on tonight just steps from my front door; dolmas and spanikopita are just a stroll-in-the-sunshine away. And there are brownies in the upstairs conference room. It's the little things, really.

—lori.

June 1, 2005 — 11:27 EST

Just returned from spending Memorial Day weekend in Levittown, Pennsylvania, the American-flag-car-magnet-ribbon epicenter of the country. Sandwiched in between the family barbecues, Mr. Goddess and I took the train into New York City to meet with some friends and to eat really, really good Indian food (my bottomless appetite for saag paneer and chicken makhani remains unsated).

While walking up Broadway toward 42nd Street, I saw The Best. Restaurant. Sign. Ever. In the window of an otherwise nondescript little joint hung this vinyl sign:

PIZZA
JEWISH DELI
FALAFEL
(now serving a full line of SUSHI!!)

Now, while I honor the global vision of this restauranteur, I'm fairly certain that there is no way one place can do all these cuisines well. What do you order in a place like that? "Yeah, I'll have some unagi on an everything bagel with the couscous and chickpea salad." "And I think we're going to split a large Sicilian, half sausage and mushroom and half salmon roe.

It wasn't until several hours later, while purusing the books of funny road signs, funny prom photos, and boring postcards in the gift shop at the International Center for Photography, that it occurred to me that I should have taken a photo of that sign with our new digital camera. I mean, what's the point of having this gadget if not to capture hilarious images like that? Mr. Goddess was nice enough to offer to walk all the way back down Broadway to try and find the place again (a very generous offer indeed, given his low tolerance for crowds) but the moment had passed.

This is why, despite my longtime interest in photography, I could never make it as a professional photographer. There is the lack of skill and talent, sure. But more importantly I rarely seem to make that crucial leap from "Wow, that is really cool," to "Wow, that is really cool. I'm going to take a picture of it."

—lori.