Sarcasm, not just implied

Romanian institution for disabled children, 2006

Funding for home health aides would be cut by 20%, and services for the disabled would be slashed by $100 million -- on top of deep reductions already made in those programs.


That could be the last straw for Michelle Franklin, 45, of Stockton, who receives just under $800 a month from the state to care for her schizophrenic son and an elderly neighbor. If her payments drop by 20%, she said, she may have to commit her child to a state mental hospital. "I love my son dearly and it's going to break my heart, but if they cut my hours I may have to make the decision to let my son go," Franklin said. "That's going to end up costing the state a lot more in the long run."



-- Los Angeles Times, Thursday, November 17th, 2011, in an article spelling out upcoming California budget cuts if revenue is not as expected in December.

"I earn my pay," adding, "Republicans earn their money."

-- GOP state Rep. Lou Blessing, Speaker Pro Tempore of the Ohio House of Representatives, in response to a proposal to cut taxpayer-financed politicians' salaries as a balance to cuts in teachers' taxpayer-balanced salaries, November 6th, 2011


(I was going to post a number of quotes from Newt Gingrich about shared sacrifice, and some information about the enormous amounts of money the man and his lovely wife have spent at Tiffany's over the years, all while espousing his individual "frugality," but I threw up a little bit in my mouth as I perused the stories and decided to call it a day.)

"The occupation is not meant to become a butterfly"

I like this:

Yesterday I went down to Zucotti park. It seemed like there were at least a thousand people and probably more surrounding the park, pressed up against barricades, wondering why they weren't allowed inside. In the park were maybe a hundred police officers, occupying the park. The park has lights on the ground, in the concrete. You could barely move on the sidewalk. Around six p.m. they began letting the occupiers back into the park through a small opening in the barricades, searching them for tents and sleeping bags. It was lightly raining.

There were numerous editorials about the end, and beginning, of Occupy Wall Street. They were often written in the tone of a proud father. They were encouraging: Now was the time to grow into something else, the next phase. The movement is leaderless, its demands unclear. You could hear the editorialists smirk. Why do we do that?

Yesterday a stockbroker stopped on the corner of Cedar and Broadway to argue with some of the protesters. At first it was tense, then it became friendly. What do you want? he asked.

We want the rich to stop taking our shit. Stop placing the tax burden on the poor and expecting us to be grateful. It is no longer OK to give away all our money to the richest 1%, to bend to the will of the financial institutions and the labyrinth of dividends, offshore tax havens, and money making schemes. Stop referring to fair taxation as socialism. Stop telling dishwashers and migrant farmers that you earned your money, that you work hard for what you have, because lots of people work hard and don't have. There are a lot of hard working people who are not rich. Don't look down from your fairy tale and tell us that people get what they deserve. Stop quoting Reagan. Stop telling us that riches beyond imagination breeds innovation. Stop pissing on our leg and calling it rain.

Occupy Wall Street is not a set of demands, it is a statement: We exist.

It began, though not noticeably, when Obama extended the tax cuts for the wealthy instituted by George W. Bush, referred to by Dick Cheney as "Our due." At the time it didn't seem like there was the political will on the left to do anything else. Occupy Wall Street is a manifestation of political will. It would be a awhile before the tents and libraries and occupations across the country, but that is where it began. It's hard to gauge which step is one step too far, but there it was.

The occupation is not meant to end, or become a butterfly, or sadly peter out. It's not indebted to paternalistic leaders giving a pat on the head and assuring the child: You will do better. The occupation doesn't need to negotiate or lay out a list of specific demands. Stop taking our shit. We notice when you steal from us. The occupiers sleep in the park and in the widening gap between the rich and the poor. The occupiers will invade the political rallies in 2012. Of course they will. The politicians will notice, they already do. The occupation is a seat at the table with no intention of going home.

-- Stephen Elliot, The Rumpus

Feed the Future,

make something beautiful


OFFF Cincinnati 2011 - Let's Feed The Future from OFFF, let's feed the future on Vimeo.


via Design Mom

Lunch after acupuncture and before school pick-ups, dentist, flag football practice and homework

Pico Boulevard

 Ceviche, Guatemalan Style

A palm over my car, my head in the clouds

You saw it here

Last week, I posted about the photos I take while driving around. This one struck me as cool and exciting:

As it turns out, that was actually THE Shepard Fairy, graffiti artist extraordinaire, creator of the iconic Obama HOPE poster, working on his latest installation in Los Angeles. One of you commented on it, and I did a little exploration.

Here's the finished work:

How cool is that? I'd say a lot cooler than running into one of the Hilton kids at the dentist's office, which happened to me once when I brought the boys to get their teeth cleaned.

How We Do It: Part VI in a series

For some reason, blessed and welcome, the darker the edge and closer the chaos, the more we draw in, together. Last night, I lay on my bed with Sophie next to me, her legs stretched out under the blanket, her head on my shoulder. The boys were wilding up and down the hall and while I was tempted to do my usual yelling at them to stop and chill out, take it down a level, please STOP!, I refrained and they eventually made their way into the room, tumbling and falling (why doesn't it hurt?). Henry put on my black clogs, looked ridiculous in his boxer shorts and braces, a giant goofball, the dog ambled in and around, taking it in stride, and Oliver rolled on the floor and laughed when his brother kicked up the clogs and danced. I grabbed my phone and filmed the spectacle and we all collapsed laughing. Sophie smiled her secret smile, tendrils on her cheeks, wisps of recognition, the center of life as we know it.

So here's what I think about football.

A few of you asked and a few of you should probably not read any further because here's where I expound upon football and why I've always hated it and why the recent Penn State atrocity gives one a modicum of license to tell it like it is, at least if you're me. Plus, I have the urge to just tell it like it is, for me. The for me is purposeful, so don't get your panties in a bunch (is that the expression) or go thinking I'm all self-righteous and pretentious (although I can be).

It's what I think. And it's going to be a helluva rant.

I am repulsed by football and always have been except for a brief shining moment when my much-beloved high school boyfriend (hey, Clarke) played it, and the shining moment was not the football-playing but the dates afterward with the boy I loved. I suffered through a few Atlanta Falcons games with my family and many University of North Carolina alcohol-fueled end-zone sitting in the boiling autumn sun with more dates games, but The First husband hated the game as much as I did and The Current Husband is Swiss and thinks it's stupider than anything else in America, so there you go. I've had a history of hating football, and it hasn't stopped yet.

My boys periodically pester me about playing it, and I'm not budging. I tell them NO because of my perhaps irrational fear of head injuries. I tell them that I'm just not up for the risk and having not one but two kids with neurological problems. I know that some of you might think this insane. I also tell them that I think football is a stupid spectacle, and that would include the Super Bowl and the insane amounts of money spent and consumed. Honestly? The Super Bowl, to me, is equal in barbarity to the Roman gladiator games of old. The commercials and all the hoopla about them just add to the sickening disgust. (I told you this was a rant).

Here's what else. I think the Penn State horror show is emblematic of American culture in this, the third millenium where every single thing is a commodity, to be bought or sold or valued in economic terms. I've spoken about this ad nauseum as it pertains to people with disabilities. Those of us in those particular trenches, in fact, anyone who has any kind of healthcare issue, must frame our fight in economic terms to soften the blows, to gently influence, to persuade, to get anything. One must make the case that it costs less to help a family to take care of their child or elderly parent at home than to place him in an institution. Those who oppose the death penalty often say it costs more to put someone on death row than to give them life in jail. Money speaks and it speaks incredibly loudly. There was money to be made when American troops were sent to Iraq ten years ago. I'll only mention the commodification of healthcare -- the industry of depression -- treating patients as consumers, etc. etc. etc.

Etc.

Those heinous acts at Penn State happened because one perverse man with a sick, sick mind, was protected by those in power because of the economic repercussions of the scandal. Sure, there's a bit of social scandal thrown in there -- the cult of personality and sports, the protection of one's job, one's reputation -- but I think of football as an industry and the wheels must be kept greased, the benefactors satisfied, the wins bought, the show must go on.

You can protest all you like about the entertainment factor of football, what a great game it is, how these boys have worked hard their whole lives to participate, and that might have been true at some point, but it's not true today -- in either college or pro ball. It's about the money, and the monster that lured numerous boys into the hallowed locker rooms of football and then proceeded to rape them was supported by the sick apparatus of American sports. I'd throw in all college and pro sports, actually, and while I don't despise baseball or basketball, like I do football, I hate the whole industry of sports in general. The spectacle of thousands of people protesting and supporting the coach of that team was another emblem of our culture gone awry. For a minute, I thought that all those guys in charge should have just killed themselves -- sort of like the Japanese do, I think, when they've been shamed.

I think the football program at Penn State should be shut down. That would honor the victims and begin to right the wrong. But that's never going to happen because most of us will continue to plead the case that a few bad apples shouldn't spoil the bunch. An attitude that's as American, now, as apple pie.

Atlanta Aquarium, 2006

Opportunities, many times, are so small that we glimpse them not and yet they are often the seeds of great enterprises. Opportunities are also everywhere and so you must always let your hook be hanging. When you least expect it, a great fish will swim by.

Og Mandino

There are mustaches to be worn

The world is spinning around and there's much to discuss. There's The Age of Aquarius which began just the other day, there's the OWS movement, there's the ka-ching of money and the hallowed football halls of Penn State where men are allowed to rape little boys and heads are turned and gray areas are evoked and entered into, there is black and there is white, there are new medications on the horizon for seizures, and side effects to consider, the heart sunk; there are surgical procedures for the brain and software to buy for computers to help the brain, there is poetry popping out and memoirs written in situ; there are political debates to mock and more to dread; there are websites that track the doings of the diabolical left, there are vegetable gardens to be planted and baseball games to be won; there are relatives beginning radiation and relatives getting old; there are dinner parties to attend and mustaches to be worn.

... continued

Coconut Cake, 7:05 am

Flag Football and Coconut Cake

1. Watch as the other team slips from your grasp, again.
2. Do a little glaring
3. Get THREE flags in stunning feats of agility.
4. Lose 34-0 and still muster enthusiasm for Doritos and Gatorade.

1. Cream an inordinate amount of butter and sugar together.
2. Add four large eggs and four large egg whites.
3. Pour one cup of unsweetened coconut milk into creamed mixture.
4. Etc.
5. Bake at 350 degrees for approximately one hour.

To be continued.

Gail

via Drudge

From here on out, I'm going to read Gail Collins and participate in the game that I read about somewhere on the internets -- it's sort of like a drinking game without the drinks, a game for the literary nerd, perhaps, or, at the very least, the word nerd.

Basically, you read her very incisive, very funny yet not snarky (think Maureen Dowd when you think snark) columns in the The New York Times and wait for/marvel at her sneaking in a sentence about Mitt Romney and the dog he tied to the roof to travel to Canada. No matter what she's writing about, she manages to include this interesting, it's-a-big-world and everyone is weird and has their own literal baggage fact.

It's the Kevin Bacon game for the election year. Maybe it should be a drinking game -- to help us get through it.

Here's today's column.

Since it's only 8:06 am here in threatening-rain Los Angeles, I'm off to mix myself a mimosa with the oranges in the backyard.

I'm now a mother of a kid with braces

1:50 PM

3:14 PM

I believe I can fly

via sebmontaz.com

Do we need any more words about 11/11/11? I don't think so.

Today, though, you can watch the entire 40-minute documentary I Believe I Can Fly (flight of the Frenchies)   for free. If you're a Philippe Petit fan, as I am, you must. Here's the link.

Other thoughts?

Yesterday, I got an email from a blogger friend who has largely been absent from the blogging world the last couple of months. She is bogged (not blogged) down in life parenting a child with disabilities. She also told me that she didn't know who she was right now.

That got me thinking -- who am I? Who would I be without Sophie? Who might I have been? Where am I? 


These are the questions of the middle of the night, questions of the dawn and the day, of waiting in the carpool line and tucking the sheets in tight.