Trying Not to Think about Politics

I live in Baton Rouge's Garden District, which has just been designated one of the 2012 Great Places in America Neighborhoods! No foolin'. And it truly is a great-place-in-America-neighborhood, shaded by trees straight out of Tolkien, featuring wonderful vernacular architecture (that's a technical term--impressive, eh? means "local") and a truly amazing abundance of flowering shrubs and trees. And it's walkable and has sidewalks and front porches and cute kids and a real sense of itself. It's a good place. It's a Great Place in America.

Except it's in fucking Louisiana. Minor FUCKING detail.

Sorry, sorry. But it's election night and I'm in FUCKING Louisiana, which means my vote means utterly and absolutely nothing. Geez. The Democrats don't even bother with us any more. I had to vote for Crazy No-Party Guy, just to register my complete contempt for my horrifying congressman. (Do you realize how many crazy little parties are out there? and this guy couldn't even find one of them to endorse him. . . )

But I am not blogging about politics. This is not a political blog. This is the blog of a middle-aged, getting- -old lady who is trying desperately not to think about politics tonight.

So I'm thinking instead about my shat-in-the-shower kitty, who has gone psycho, even by middle-aged kitty standards. It's my fault. I bought her a touch-activated squeaking mouse toy, filled with catnip. Actually, I bought it for the young kitty, since Wimsey never, even when she was a kitten, had any interest in toys. But Marple ignored the mouse while Wimsey, well, I do believe the mousey has sparked something deep within Wimsey, has in fact triggered a mid-life crisis, a veritable existential struggle. All night long, she wanders around the house, batting this mouse and wailing loudly, articulating, as only a cat can, those basic, keep-you-awake-all-night-long questions about life and love and meaning and purpose. I'm ready to strangle, skin, and barbecue the damned animal but I do admit that when she yowls, I find myself thinking, "Oh baby, yes, I know, I know."

Meeerowwww.

God Bless Amazon

I have to say, I often despair about the current political affairs in the U.S. I don't think of myself as much of a patriot. I couldn't run for office; I couldn't sport an American flag lapel pin and go on and on about "America" being the best country in the world. But every once in awhile, something happens to make me love this country. Like this:
http://www.amazon.com/Avery-Durable-Binder-EZ-Turn-17032/dp/B001B0CTMU/ref=sr_1_8?ie=UTF8&qid=1350534523&sr=8-8&keywords=white+binders

You have to scroll down to the Reviews. And then enjoy.

I just think it is so amazingly creative, so utterly innovative, so golly-gosh-darned American that people chose to express themselves in this way.

God Bless America. . . or at least amazon.com.

A Presidential Debate, and the Grace of God

Oh dear. Once again I've missed my self-imposed target of two blog posts per week. And this time I can't blame my vulva.

I blame Mitt Romney.

OK, I admit he probably didn't set out to sabotage my blog, but nevertheless that is what transpired. After That Debate, after Obama just stood there as Lie after Lie after Lie spewed forth from that horrid J. C. Penney-model-man's mouth. . . well, Things Got Difficult.

I am in a fragile state, dammit. Walking on the precipice of depression, just barely holding my own as I step gingerly through the minefield of professional failure, personal lacklusterdom, parental terror, and general middle-aged oh-dear-God-is-that-really me crisis. I do not need, I cannot cope with, a looming political apocalypse.

So I didn't. I withdrew into a total funk. But I am, slowly, bit by horrendous old-lady bit, emerging from my funk. And, weirdly, it is all due to Sunday's Communion (aka the Lord's Supper, Mass, Eucharist,  Love Feast, that weird semi-cannibalistic thing Christians do). I'm still amazed. I mean, who really expects Grace to come washing in via something as standard, as orthodox, as a communion service?

Maybe the key thing is that it wasn't a very standard communion service, at least not by Presbyterian standards. My church is in the midst of massive renovations and so we are now meeting not in our sanctuary but in our "fellowship hall." We sit in stackable chairs in a multi-purpose room, devoid of all aesthetic beauty, acoustic utility, or liturgical symbolism. In this room, Communion Sunday presents some logistical challenges. See, the thing is, we Presbyterians, we usually do communion in one of two ways: We sit in our pews and pass around heavy trays laden with individual teeny-tiny cups of wine and torn-up little itty-bitty pieces of bread, or we process to the front for "intinction." (Intinction means you stand in line--kind of like you're a Catholic except you don't fold your hands in front of you, unless you're an ex-Catholic; born-and-bred Presbyterians keep their hands swinging by their sides to show their Protestant liberty from papist tyranny--and when you get to the front, you tear off a piece of bread from a common loaf and dip it in a common cup. You eat the intincted bread. You sit back down.)

But in our temporary fellowship hall accommodation, neither of our usual communion procedures would serve: No little circular cup holders in which to place our empty communion glasses, no wide aisles in which to process for "intinction." The powers-that-be, then, decided on a new format; a big loaf of bread, wrapped in towel, and a large common cup of wine, to be passed down each row. As you received the bread, you were to tear off a large hunk, dip it in the wine, and ingest. Then pass the bread and wine to the person sitting next to you and say "The body of Christ, broken for you. The blood of Christ, shed for you." Okey dokey.

Except for a slight problem: If you stick a large hunk-o-wine-dipped-bread in your mouth, it is then very difficult to say, "The body of Christ" etc. So there we were, good Presbyterians all, trying desperately to mind our table manners and not talk with our mouths full, yet to be liturgically correct and not just sling along the bread and wine without the proper blessing as if it were just ordinary ol' white bread and screwtop red wine.

And as I watched this ridiculous scene repeated, pew by pew, Presbyterian by Presbyterian, all these wonderful souls endeavoring to negotiate between liturgy and etiquette, to chew and to swallow and to bless all at the same time, suddenly I saw God--God stuffed in the mouths of mannerly Presbyterians.
God of the drips and the crumbs and the choking coughs and the awkward giggles.
God of the white bread and screwtop wine.
God of the stackable chairs and multi-purpose rooms.
God of the professional failure, the lackluster personality, the terrified parent.
God of the middle-aged.
God of the politically weary.
God of the frightened and the funked.

God of me.

Cowering in a foxhole

Sitting here watching the Democratic National Convention. Rahm Emanuel is on. He has amazing skin. So smooth and soft-looking.

Am incapable of thinking about national debt or health care or welfare-to-work or jobs programs or taxation rates. Can only focus on skin. And ties. And hair styles. Am not sure I'll ever be capable of substantive thought again. Saw the sign for "Virgina" and thought it said "Viagra," and that seemed fine.

I could just be tired. Or maybe I'm getting sick. But I think it's that I'm sick and tired of fighting these fights. I so admire those awesome folks who spend their entire lives fighting the good fight. Me, I just want to crawl into a foxhole and let the battle pass me by. While I comment on the soldiers' fashion choices and skin care regimens.

Dreaming of Havel

Today Vaclav Havel died.

It's strange, isn't it, to feel bereft when a stranger has died? I never met Havel; I know very little about his personal life, his likes and dislikes, his quirks and complaints, what he loved and what he loathed on a quotidien level. But I do know what he loved and what he loathed in the cosmic sense. I know about his decades of resistance under the communist regime in Czechoslovakia; I know his published work; I know his political career and his commitment to individual freedom; most of all, I know that when it mattered, this ironic, Frank Zappa-loving playwright did the right thing. Again and again and again.

So, I won't apologize for the fact that I, now and again, have erotic dreams about Vaclav Havel. He was one extraordinarily sexy guy. I imagine he'll keep appearing in my dreams. Damn, I hope so.

Grants

I spent most of this week on the utterly soul-destroying task of writing a grant application.

Now, for those of you grant virgins out there, let me just point out that not all grant applications are the same. I, for one, don't find applying for money for my own research to be spiritually annihilating, I suppose because I get to witter on and on about ideas that I care about and it's kind of a kick to try and make some group of unknown folks care about these ideas too.  (Perhaps I ought to note that for all my wittering, I'm amazingly bad at getting said funds. Which is why I am, and will always remain, an associate rather than a full professor. Not that I mind. Really. No, no. It's just my allergies. Something in my eye. A problem with my contacts. Really.)

This week, however, I was applying for "enhancement funds" for one of the undergraduate residential colleges at LSU. Don't get me wrong: I do care about this project, as much or more than I care about my own research. I mean, frankly, I research and write about British Victorian and post-Victorian religious culture. Not exactly gonna change the world, is it? Whereas this residential college, well, it won't change the world, it won't even change LSU, and it sure as hell won't change Louisiana where we just re-elected the horrific Bobby Jindal as governor by an embarrassing landslide. . . .but it might just change the lives of a few LSU undergrads. These residential colleges are a way of somehow sneaking the harmony and elegance and coherent community of a small liberal arts college experience into the cacophony and chaos of a huge state university. I had a wonderful, life-transforming and yes, even mind-altering (without hallucinogenic drugs!) experience at my liberal arts college and I passionately want the same for my hungover, disengaged, football-addicted, parochial, and utterly lovely students. (I mean, take this final sentence from one of my upper-level student's essays: "A new period began during this time, it has come to be known as the Victorian period, named after Queen Victoria, who ruled at the time." How unbelievably, utterly lovely is that?)

So, why then, did I find the experience of writing this grant so personally and emotionally and existentially devastating? Because, dear ones, winning the grant demands that the applicant demonstrate that the project will acrrue calculable economic benefit to the state of Louisiana. And tell me, how does one quantify, how does one calculate, the economic benefit of encouraging well-rounded, globally aware, internationally engaged, intellectually vital, politically active young folks?

I'll tell you. One makes stuff up. Not out of whole cloth, mind you, but one does grab meaningless numbers and one marshalls one's skill at crafting words to make those meaningless integers appear to carry profound weight.

I hate playing this game. A good liberal arts education, which is what I had--thank you Mom and what was then the Social Security dependent's benefit (axed by Reagan but not before I'd used it for all four years) and Calvin College and Northwestern University and an impressive array of underpaid, incredibly committed professors--teaches intellectual honesty. I betrayed that education in an effort to obtain at least some of the benefits of that education for some of my students. Sigh. How perverse is that?

Ordinary People

September 11, 2011. Listening to the memorial service at Ground Zero. Former President Bush reads from a letter Abraham Lincoln wrote to a woman whose several sons died in the Union army: he has no words to comfort her in her loss but  he hopes she will accept the gratitude of the Republic that her sons died trying to save.

Bush reads this letter to an audience consisting of the family members of individuals who died in the Twin Towers on 9/11. Presumably they are to infer their loved ones died to save the Republic.

But, umm, is that what they were doing? Saving the Republic? I thought they were getting coffee, settling down to another day at the desk, riding the elevator, leaving the train, reading the paper, making a phone call, checking their email. . . just doing the ordinary things that ordinary people do in their ordinary lives.
Not the Republic's Saviors. Just ordinary people going about their ordinary business on what they assumed would be an ordinary day. Isn't that the tragedy? the horror? the crime? That they weren't soldiers on a tour of duty, let alone knights on a quest? They were just Jean and Bill and Pablo and Irina and Melissa and Miguel and Tony and Noreen. Just folks. Secretaries and janitors and clerks and salesmen and brokers. 

Maybe one, maybe several, maybe several hundreds of those that died that strange, horrible morning died thinking of the Republic. But I doubt it. I'll bet the last thing every one of those folks in the Towers thought of was incredibly ordinary--maybe a husband of average looks, intelligence, and prospects; a child not destined for greatness; a mom who looks just like countless other old ladies; a set of memories of a life filled with the mundane. But the mundane is where we, the ordinary people, live. Add up the mundane and it's our lives. And by God, dear God, please God, in all the mundane there is so much that matters. Why, then, reach for rhetorical abstractions, why disguise ordinary people as willing warriors in some kind of national crusade?

I haven't a clue what "the Republic" means. But an ordinary day in an ordinary place with an ordinary family and ordinary and friends? Oh, yes, I know what that means. It's worth all the world.

I Cleaned the Garage

Memorial Day.

I spent it cleaning the garage. I figured that on the scale of things one can do on this holiday designed to honor those who have died in the service of their country, garage-cleaning weighed better than shopping for a pair of black skinny jeans or curling up on the couch reading The Cookbook Collector (great novel by Allegra Goodman, by the way). Cleaning the garage seemed less self-indulgent, more, you know, disciplined, active, results-oriented, military. Particularly when one is cleaning the garage in south Louisiana, where the temperature by 10 am was 90 degrees.

Still, somehow, it did occur to me that sorting through old paint cans and tossing out broken badminton rackets was not quite what our national leaders had in mind when they created this holiday.

Although, actually, it's not all that clear what they did have in mind. For one thing, it's not clear who "they" were. According to some accounts, Memorial Day (originally called Decoration Day) started when Southern ladies began decorating the graves of Confederates soldiers with flowers. We do know for sure for sure that in 1868 General John Logan issued General Order No. 11, a command to decorate the graves of Union and Confederate soldiers buried in Arlington Cemetery, that by 1890 all northern states had recognized Decoration Day as a holiday to honor those who died in the Civil War, and that southern states refused to acknowledge the day until after WWI, when it became a day to honor the dead in all American wars. Now, think about what you have just learned, or perhaps already knew--although if you did know all that, geez louise, what kind of history nerd are you? I'm the ultimate history nerd, a history professor for pete's sake, and I had to Google that info. Anyone who just knows that kind of stuff needs to have sex more often. Really.

So where was I? Right. General Logan, Confederate-loving ladies placing flowers on Johnny Rebs' graves, and the Point of It All. Am I the only one who thinks it a bit strange that the origins of this holiday-- now officially a day to recognize and honor American military personnel, and particularly those who have died in combat to defend the United States-- rests in part or wholly in the South and in efforts to commemorate those who fought to destroy that Union of States that is the United States?

But, history aside, how is one properly to observe Memorial Day? When I was a small child, we'd always pile in the station wagon and head into the city to the cemetery, where we'd stand at my grandfather's grave for a few solemn moments--he was a Dutch immigrant, a garbage man rather than a soldier, but I guess Memorial Day made for a convenient duty visit--before careening out to look for evidence of gypsies in the grave yard: beer cans stacked high, plastic flowers, fried chicken bones.  And then it was off to Uncle Bud's or to the Deckers for good-hearted badminton games and Auntie Theresa's Sloppy Joes and grilled hotdogs and hamburgers and barbecued chicken and pototo salad and cole slaw and potato chips and brownies and popsicles, and the inevitable awful ride home, sticky all over, tired beyond belief, with an upset tummy. I don't recall any mention, ever, of the Fallen, or the Ultimate Sacrifice, or Those who Died so that We Might Live in Freedom.

I got more of that in high school, because I was in Band. Every year the Timothy Band marched in the Elmhurst Memorial Day parade. As I recall, we did a really spiffy, crowd-pleasing, marching version of "I Wanna Hold Your Hand," and then we'd end up in the central park where we'd  stand, sweltering in our woolen black uniforms, sweat trickling down our backs, feet aching, desperate to be released, while some local dignitary dithered on about Patriotic Duty,  and the smell of grilled chicken wafted through the air and babies screamed and kids shouted.

Still, I guess the point is that we did Something Special. We stepped out of our routines and in so doing, we said, "This Is Important." Maybe we weren't too sure what "this" was. Still, we celebrated it the way humans do--by downing tools, by eating til we were sick, by letting go and laughing lots and grabbing on to what makes life livable.

And today, I cleaned the garage. And I think, maybe, I kind of missed the Point of It All.

Not intended to be a factual statement

So by now everyone has heard about Arizona Senator Jon Kyl defending his allegation that abortions account for "90% of what Planned Parenthood does" (the actual figure is 3%)by saying that his claim was "not intended to be a factual statement."

I feel so inspired. I've been incredibly anxious lately, wondering how in the world I am going to complete everything I've contracted to do, as well as my regular job. Now I know. I spend all this time making sure that what I teach my students reflects the latest and best research in modern European history. Well, shit. Now I realize I can just make it up. I mean, really, what's my ultimate aim? Is it that they accumulate a bunch of facts about European history? Of course not. That's what the internet is for. I'm endeavoring 1)to teach them how to analyze and to think critically, and 2) to foster good citzenship, to make them care about the world and their place in it. So who needs "factual statements"? Gosh, why didn't I figure this out long ago? I guess that's why we have leaders like Jon Kyl. Thank you, Senator.

Have mercy on me, a sinner.

Goddammit. Bloody hell. Bugger all.

In the past few weeks I've signed contracts to write two books. Let me be clear: I want to write these books. One might actually be read by ordinary folks and even make me a wee bit of money: It's about Margaret Thatcher; I mean, who's not interested in Margaret Thatcher, total she-devil and anti-feminist persona?

The problem with signing book contracts is that then you actually have to write the damn book(s).

Which means: one must not lose entire work days because one has a headache. Even if it's a nonstop motherfucking killer I'm gonna die headache.

Sooooo, what does one do, when one loses several entire work days because one has said nonstop etc. headache?

One gets depressed. One gets tired and cranky and bitchy. And one feels really really sorry for one's self.

Except:

Ordinary men and women and (God help us all) children are fighting for their freedom and their lives in Libya. And oh dear God, those beautiful Bahrainis are being mowed down by Saudi troops. And Jesus Jesus Jesus, entire cities destroyed and hundreds of thousands on the move and a nuclear holocaust impending. . . and one's heart and one's soul and one's spirit reaches across continents and oceans to Japan. . . . and I bet not a one of those Libyans or Bahrainis or Japanese cares about their literary legacy or their professional careers right now. I bet "Damn, my head hurts" is not a phrase of much meaning out there, on the edge of cosmic significance, right at this moment.

And yet, there's the Lucipherian ego, the Satanic self, the demonic part of me that screams, "Excuuuuse me!!!! I'm having a rough time here! My head really hurts! I don't wanna think about you people." And I feel so guilty for such horrible, self-obsessed, oh-so-trivial thoughts, and then, in the ultimate confirmation of Original Sin, I find myself utterly absolutely furious at the Libyans and the Bahrainis and the Japanese for making me feel so goddamned guilty. . . .

Jesus Christ. Oh dear God.

Have mercy.

More Guns

Still thinking about guns. Like everyone else in America, I guess.

When Keith and I had Owen, we didn't really talk about the whole issue of toy guns much. We were liberal parents. We were going to raise our child in a healthy environment, devoid of junk food and worthless tv and all racial and gender stereotypes. And of course, guns.

And then three things happened. Well, four, actually, as the first has to be that Owen turned three. Perhaps you haven't had much exposure to three-year-old boys. Hence you might not know that when a child with one x and one y chromosome turns three, he immediately starts shooting things and obsessing about heavy construction equipment. I don't know what male three-year-olds did before the advent of the musket and the internal combustion engine. Perhaps they began brandishing knives and obsessing about horse-drawn carts. Enormous carts with big ol' wooden wheels.

Second thing: Keith, little Owen, and I were in the coffee shop one morning. Keith and I were sipping our coffees and nibbling on our croissants, Owen quaffing his milk and staring at his banana bread. Then, with astounding speed, he lunged forward, bit his banana bread into the shape of a revolver, and proceeded to gun down every other customer in the coffee shop. Keith and I just watched in astonishment.

Third: It was hot. We live in Baton Rouge. It's almost always unbelievably, mind-numbingly, soul-destroyingly, body-disintegratingly hot. A couple of friend with kids around Owen's age were coming by for the afternoon. So I bought squirt guns. I didn't think about it, didn't plan it, didn't strategize or ponder or question it. It was hot. Damn hot. I bought squirt guns. And the kids had a marvellous time, squirting each other and themselves and their moms. A wonderful afternoon. Except then the moms and kids went home. And the squirt guns remained. And quickly, in a matter of a day or two, said squirt guns dried out and made their way indoors. Hmm. How do you explain to a 3-year-old that a squirt gun is fine and moral as long as it's filled with water and squirted outdoors on a hot afternoon, but not ok and utterly immoral when dry and indoors and accompanied with shouts of "bang, bang!"? Owen was confused and frankly, so was I.

Fourth: The hot squirt gun banana bread revolver summer coincided with the Discovery of Robin Hood. Ahh, such a glorious time. If you didn't grow up reading Robin Hood, if you didn't lie in bed dreaming about Robin Hood, if you didn't long to be Maid Marian and marry Robin Hood, oh, how can I explain the utter, absolute delight of introducing your myth-loving little boy to the wonders of Sherwood Forest, the village of Locksley, and the city of Nottingham? My Owen, blessed Owen, he leapt into my fantasy world like a heroic knight confronted with a marauding dragon and a damsel in distress. So how could I not give him a toy sword and shield? And logical liberal that I am, how could I not wonder why it was ok to give my son low-tech slaughter toys and at the same time insist that more advanced weaponry was forbidden?

The combination of these four happenings shredded our anti-toy gun parental stance. Soon, we had a veritable fantasy arsenal: not just swords and shields and squirt guns but also maces, Three Musketeer pistols cowboy guns, Davy Crockett rifles, Star Wars blasters and light sabers. (We did, however, draw the line at lifelike modern-style handguns and assault weaponry.) We became The Gun Family, the popular, preferred, go-to household for all the male children of all our liberal friends, the only place with weapons.

Interestingly, Owen rarely played with said weapons except when his little gun-loving buddies were visiting, and Hugh had no interest in the arsenal whatsoever. Owen has grown up into an animal rights activist with strong no-guns views. In contrast, Hugh is now a teenager who longs for a rifle, just as he longs to belong to a proper huntin'/ fishin'/ fundamentalist-chorus- singin' family. Soo, it's all a crap shoot (so to speak).

Maybe, then, the parenting practice we fell into by accident wasn't all that bad. That's what I tell myself anyway. Plus, once upon a time, a legion of little boys thought I was awesome.

I Don't Speak American

Like every other at least semi-sentient person in the United States this past week, I've been thinking a lot about guns. Once again a horrific mass shooting. Once again the debate over guns and "gun rights" heats up. It's a debate I opted out of long ago. I can't remember ever struggling with this issue. I came to political consciousness at age 13 and I was then and I have always remained a strong supporter of the strict regulation of hunting and sporting weapons, as well as a complete ban on private handguns and all assault-style weapons and ammunition. Clearly I am a European soul trapped in an American body--and so I've stopped participating in this ongoing American conversation. I just don't speak the language. And I don't want to.

I know that I am wrong. I know that in his superb address last week President Obama called on us to "broaden our moral imaginations"--and I think that means he's asking us to imagine ourselves on the other side, to try to see the world through another's eyes, and so to find common ground. He's right, I know that. And I know that's what my Christian faith demands as well. Jesus, I think it's safe to say, had a very broad moral imagination. But I do not want even to try to imagine being a person who would hear the news from Tucson and then would rush out to buy magazine clips that can fire 30 shots in a few seconds, the type the shooter used, just in case a miracle happens and the NRA allows them to be banned.

So, don't bother sending me phrase books or suggesting I try one of those immersion courses. Don't send me translations. I don't understand you. And I don't want to try to talk to you. I'll just go my way now. Sorry, no, no, I'm sorry. I can't help you. I don't speak American.

Bad Mom

So am I a Bad Mom? Hugh was singing this chirpy, get-inside-your-head-forever chorus that pretty much goes "Fuck you, fuck you very much." So, aspiring to be a Good Mom, I'm all set to throttle him. Then he shows me the video on Youtube, and it's the British singer Lily Allen, and the song goes back to the Bush years:

Look inside, look inside your tiny mind
and look a bit harder
cause we’re so uninspired
so sick and tired
of all the hatred you harbor
CHORUS: Fuck you etc. etc. etc. [But truly, it's very catchy. . . ]

Am I a Bad Mom because I laughed and joined in singing? Surely a Good Mom would gently remind her adolescent son, as he struggles to find his way in this world, that we must love our enemies, even when it's really hard? Surely a Good Mom would point to the importance of civility, not only in dealing with neighbors and family members, but in political discourse as well? Surely a Good Mom would suggest that such a song divides us rather than helps us move forward toward responsible solutions to the vast problems that we all face?

But today is Friday, November 5th, 2010. And three days ago, on Tuesday, November 3rd, 2010, well, we all know what happened three days ago. My soul is tired. My spirit is shattered. I am well and truly depressed.

The victors keep talking about "taking the country back." Back? Back from whom? Me, I guess. Evidently I don't belong here. And honestly, I would emigrate, but what country wants an overeducated, underskilled, middle-aged historian? We're not all that useful, really.

Certainly not here in Tea Party Land, this strange sordid place where I suddenly find myself living. And then along comes my beautiful boy singing this catchy song in this lovely British accent. We sang. We laughed. I'm a Bad Mom . . . but damn, Hugh and I, we were Good.

All's Well That Ends Well

The Daily Show is back on after a weeklong hiatus.

Thank God.

I'll admit it. I'm addicted. I need Jon Stewart. When he's not on, I'm confused and out of sorts. I feel isolated, out-of-touch, uninformed, alienated. Maybe it would be different if I lived in New York or San Francisco or Chicago. Or even New Orleans. But in Baton Rouge. . . I need my daily Daily Show fix.

I do find it somewhat troubling that the dominant voice of reason in our culture is a satirical comedian. But then I think about Shakespeare's comedies, and I figure maybe we're, well, pretty much as fucked up as we've always been. Which gives me hope.

Imagine

The worst environmental disaster in the history of the U.S.

As a woman facing 50, I am old enough to have seen the beginnings of the environmentalism. The first Earth Day. The initial calls for recycling. The No Nukes movement. The early days of Greenpeace and Friends of the Earth. The transformation of the Sierra Club from well-meaning, middle-aged, well-heeled do-gooding types to angry activists.

And yet here we are. The worst environmental disaster in the history of the U.S.

I have no words for what's going on in the Gulf right now. So I'll pass on the words of Ted Anthony and Mary Foster, two AP reporters*:

There is still a hole in the Earth, crude oil is still spewing forth from it and there is still, excruciatingly, no end in sight. After trying and trying again, one of the world's largest corporations, backed and pushed by the world's most powerful government, can't stop the runaway gushes.
As desperation grows and ecological disaster spreads, the operative word on the ground now is, incredibly, August--the earliest moment that a real resolution could be at hand.
And even then, there's no guarantee of success. For the United States and the people of its beleaguered Gulf Coast, a dispiriting summer of oil and anger lies dead ahead.
Oh--and the Atlantic hurricane season begins Tuesday. . . . It brings the horrifying possibility of wind-whipped, oil-soaked waves and water spinning ashore and coating areas much farther inland. Imagine Katrina plus oil leak.

Imagine.

*"August relief saps hope," The Advocate (Baton Rouge, LA), 31 May 2010, p. 1, p. 6.

Memorial Day

Memorial Day.

What sort of salutation does one use? Surely "Happy Memorial Day" is wrong for a day set aside to remember the American men and women who have died in war?

Memorial Day. The unofficial start of the American summer, a day spent shopping the sales and grilling at backyard barbecues and remembering the "Fallen." Tho' there seems to be a lot less remembering these days. Baton Rouge doesn't even have a parade. A good thing, I suppose, as all parades down here have been Mardi Gras-ified--doesn't matter if it's Christmas or St. Patrick's Day or 4th of July or a sports victory procession like the one greeting the Saints after the last Superbowl--it's all Mardi Gras, with vast drunken but good-natured crowds, breathtaking quantities of fried food, and enormous floats and the all-important "throws"--the stuff that float-riders throw and parade-goers catch: mostly plastic beads, medalllions, and cups, but also stuffed animals, ladies' lace panties, candy, foam footballs and frisbees, fake cigars, condoms, the occasional fruit or vegetable. I guess maybe the raucous south Louisiana parade culture wouldn't mesh well with the sober nature of Memorial Day.

But then again, when you think about the actual "Fallen," not the abstractions of the speeches but the actual guys, a few women but still mostly guys, mostly kids, just kids like Owen, trying to do the right thing in a world gone wrong, I dunno, wouldn't they have preferred a Mardi Gras-style parade over those somber processions led by elderly white gents with chests full of medals who drive up to the cemetery in limousines? Mardi Gras is the world-turned-upside-down, an affirmation of lunacy and rule-breaking and, most of all, an in-your-face insistence on enjoying the here-and-now right now, right here, on this sidewalk, on this street, at this never-to-be matched moment. Really, what could be more appropriate, more fitting, way to memorialize the deaths of too-young, brutally young soldiers, sailors, and marines?

Happy Memorial Day, fellas.

It's happening

Woke up to the banner headline on the morning newspaper: "Oil enters La. marshes." We knew it was going to happen. But still. . . The heart aches.

Better keep the sermon short

Yesterday the Louisiana House of Representatives voted 74-18 to allow the carrying of concealed handguns in churches.

I can't believe I live here.

Random Choices

Today Obama announced the nomination of Elena Kagan for the Supreme Court. The report on National Public Radio gave a brief bio--and I was startled to learn that Kagan is only 50.

"only 50"--not a phrase one hears very often. I'll bet no one is suggesting that Elena Kagan attend "Life After 50" expos or wear a red hat when she lunches with her lady friends.

But then again, she's nominated for the Supreme Court. Geez. She's only 50 and she's nominated for the Supreme Court. I'm facing 50 and I'm nowhere near the Supreme Court, or the historians' version of the Supreme Court. I feel like such a putz.

You'd think I'd be immune to this by now. After all, we now have a president who is younger than I am. I hate that. OK, yes, my doctor is in her 30s, and my dentist looks like one of the frat boys who sit in the back of my classes and watch porn on their laptops, and Hugh's high school teachers--good lord--I swear that his English teacher is also the head cheerleader and senior class president (well within the realm of possibility given the budget cuts). But still. Doctors and teachers can sometimes be young. Presidents, however, are supposed to be old. And Supreme Court Justices are supposed to be even older. Therefore, they cannot be my age or younger. It's logically impossible.

Which is a comfort. If I'm living in a logically impossible world, then maybe it's not my fault that my career trajectory has been, well, pretty much a flat line for the last 15 years. Things don't add up. The "if-then" does not produce the expected conclusion. Life is random. Chance is all. Cool. Because then. . . choices do not have consequences, or they do, but they're entirely unexpected and uncontrollable. Totally cool. I'm going to have another glass of wine now.

Deja vu all over again

It's 95 degrees with 98% humidity; the mosquitoes are back in force; the state legislature is in session and our esteemed statesmen are debating whether or not we have a constitutional right to carry concealed handguns in church; LSU faces enormous budget cuts; and a major ecological disaster looms just off the coast.

In other words, same ol' same ol' in Louisiana.