You know what feckin' day it is.

So yeah yeah obligatory flashback link to that entry you all like. Christamighty, it's been 14 years since I posted that? It's old enough to have zits and shaving and have spent all it's Bat Mitzvah money at Claire's.

I don't feel like celebrating shit this year. I'd consider getting drunk if 1. I had booze in the house that wasn't designated for cooking 2. my guts weren't a misery and I'm out of antiemetics 3. I actually enjoyed being drunk.

The world sucks and shitty people are happy about it.

Me, I like clean air and water and Sesame Street and knowing that old people and school kids have full tummies and immunizations.

Sucks to be more Christian than most so-called "Christians".

oo, ah, up da Ra. Punch Trump in the vaja as a symbol.


The @realDonaldTrump drinking game, an incomplete list.

(inspired by @pommie_tappet, a gnome of great worth.)

Take a drink every time Schlump uses the word "very" in a tweet. You'll be wasted before you finish one scroll.

Take two drinks if Shlump ends a tweet with an interjection. Sad!

If Shlump uses "scare" "quotes" in an "awkward" manner, light a shot on fire and pound it.

If Shlump ignores an established cultural holiday or anniversary, chug the bottle and throw the empty at Sean Spicer.

if Shlump tweets something apeshit after sundown on Fridays, have a swig of Manishewitz.

If Shlump says anything about a wall, have a shot of cheap tequila. If Vicente Fox says #FuckingWall in a subtweet, top shelf anejo.

If Shlump gets another lesson in international policy from Merkel, do a Jaegerbomb.

If Shlump pretends that Malcolm Turnbull is his friend, shotgun a Toohey's.

If Shlump whinetweets about the Taoiseach refusing to meet him, drink whatever the fuck you want, but blast some Thin LIzzy.

If Shlump thinks someone dead for over a century is alive, have some Jim Beam Jacob's Ghost.

If Shlump calls for a boycott of any company, funnel some Budweiser.

If Shlump says any established press or network is "fake news", have an O'Douls.

I tell you what.

Ya know...I'm really not all that altruistic.

I'm lazy. And not just because I have this chronic ailment bullshit that fatigues me. I'm genuinely a sedentary kind of person who wants to pursue her own interests at her own pace most of the time. Low physical energy, high mental energy, I suppose.

But at the same time I know that ensuring the well-being of others is the best way to achieve my own overarching goal. If others are happy, healthy, and safe, then I can concentrate on myself. And I am aware that makes me selfish in the end.

I didn't want to spend the next four years keeping one eye on 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. I never have before. No, not even in GOP administrations. Bush 2 might have been a dolt but he was not genuinely evil or inherently unkind or disgusting, and even he had the intellectual curiosity that is essential to governance.

I wanted to spend my time observing and creating beautiful things. I wanted to spend my time seeking knowledge.

I didn't count on having to call out egregious lies from a ridiculous bloated creature that throws tantrums because not enough people showed up to his self-aggrandizing fete in the rain, and then sends some equally infantile doofus in an ill-fitting suit in front of the cameras to insist that 2+2=1.5 million.

Are you not ashamed?
annie lennox

I need contact I need contact Nothing seems to please

25 years ago I helped arrange for two busloads of women from Queens College to travel to Washington DC for the March for Women's Lives, on April 5 1992. It was an amazing day.

Unfortunately I won't be able to relive that experience on January 21 (though i did knit a swanky pink pussyhat in preparation). I'm having oral surgery a couple days before and I will be too wonked out on painkillers to be traipsing around the Mall in the cold. I bet I could navigate the metro from RFK to Lafayette Park, though.

I wish I was going. I wish so so much I was going. I missed the 2004 march too, because J. had his hernia operation and I had to stay home and nurse him. But we gave judecorp and her then-wife our hotel room so at least they weren't down two bodies.

I want to be around people who know that what is happening is not right. I need the contact.

I'm an agoraphobe, but some crowds I find great safety in.
  • Current Music
    Peter Gabriel -- I Have the Touch

Don't ask why I'm scared. Ask why you're not.

With all the attempts to normalize the "alt-right" and package them as dapper (and therefore more palatable?) hatemongers, who manage to keep their pocket squares crisp while venting their frustration that white/cis/het is not the default setting of all things anymore;

With the wheedling exhortations to "give it a chance" and "try to understand" factions that quite frankly would not piss on me and the people I care about if we were on fire;

I'm reminded of this tale penned by James Clavell, "The Children's Story". Take five minutes and read it.

We have an incoming President with the mindset of a petulant toddler. He is held up as a paragon by his adherents, something to aspire to, to converse in dumbed-down language and squall when his desires are not immediately met without question.

Consider how easily the classroom is swayed in Clavell's story. Consider how malleable the PEOTUS is by the sycophants that surround him. Consider. Considering anything is going to put you a few levels above his functioning parameters, which we can all agree are stuck permanently in Id.

John Oliver* was right. This is not normal. Do not accept this as normal. Please. Write letters. Make phone calls. Send emails. Tweet. You are not alone. We can support each other. We are all we have.

*I just found out he is Stephen Oliver's nephew.

This is truer now than it was 26 years ago.

These are the days of the open hand
They will not be the last
Look around now
These are the days of the beggars and the choosers

This is the year of the hungry man
Whose place is in the past
Hand in hand with ignorance
And legitimate excuses

The rich declare themselves poor
And most of us are not sure
If we have too much
But we'll taking our chance to say
I sang twenty years and a day
But nothing changed
The human race found some other guy
And walked into the flame

And it's hard to love, there's so much to hate
Hanging on to hope
When there is no hope to speak of
And the wounded skies above say it's much too late
Well maybe we should all be praying for time

These are the days of the empty hand
Oh, you hold on to what you can
And charity, charity is a coat you wear twice a year

This is the year of the guilty man
Your television takes a stand
And you find that what was over there is over here

So you scream from behind your door
Say what's mine is mine and not yours
I may have too much but I'll take my chances
I sang twenty years and a day
'Cause nothing changed
The human race found some other guy
And walked into the flames

It's hard to love, Jesus, there's so much to hate
Hanging on to hope, there is no hope to speak of
And the wounded skies above say it's much too late
Then maybe we should all be praying for time

Doo doo doo
Do you think we have time?
Do you
Do you think we have time?
Lord, give us time

annie lennox

Veterans Day, or What The Fuck Are We Doing Again With This Shit.

My dad was a WW2 veteran. Purple Heart, Silver Star, lost a hand at the Bulge. Lifelong untreated PTSD. Night terrors. Saw some shit on a scale of the opening scenes of Saving Private Ryan. Self-medicated with screwdrivers. I think having to learn to write with his non-dominant hand fucked up his brain, too.

On the GI Bill he got two Masters degrees from NYU. The first person to earn two concurrently. I dunno how long that record stood. The diplomas stayed rolled up in their tubes in a drawer. I don't know where he kept his medals. He never displayed any accomplishments.

He wasn't a great father. But I know he loved me. And I know his marriage to me mudder was miserable and a mistake he could not extricate himself from for many reasons.

He was also on the McCarthy list.

He worked as a high school teacher, and later as a vice principal. One day in the teacher's lounge as his fellow faculty were getting their nicotine fixes and ranting on about the Red Scare and Them Dirty Commies and who knows what-all else bullshit white suburban people wet their pants over in The Time America Was So Fucking Great, he opined thusly:

"eh, people should be allowed to think what they want."

That night the FBI was at our fucking house. NB: I wasn't alive at this time, this is from my sister, who as a little girl answered the door to find a couple of G-men asking for her Daddy. LITERALLY because he made a comment against THOUGHT POLICING.

And now Newt Gingrich wants to revive HUAC once Drumpf names him to whatever cronyist cabinet position he's been slated for.

The fuck did you do, America? The fuck did we do?

Aren't we better than this?

I'm glad my dad is dead. I'm glad he doesn't have to see this horror.

On LCBS, #IStandWithChelseaCain, misogyny, et cetera.

Now you fuckers know I love comic books. I read shitloads of comic books. Mainstream stuff from the big two, indie stuff, "kiddie" titles, manga, you name it. I follow more established comic writers and artists on twitter than any other entertainment field. I have strong opinions about comic books and media associated therefrom.

Now, if you're a fellow comic fan,you're probably well aware of how Chelsea Cain has been treated recently for her stint writing Mockingbird. Non-comic fans might know Mockingbird as Adrianne Palicki's character (although she's not referred to by that code name there) on Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., because fuck it, I know a lot of non-readers watch and dig that show muchly because it's pretty damn strong. Also because whenever Coulson flies Lola around it's the bestest.

Chelsea Cain was the writer on the recent highly acclaimed Mockingbird solo title. Chelsea Cain is also an established novelist. She's not the first female novelist to have transitioned into writing comics in the past decade; Jodi Picoult (Wonder Woman), Roxane Gay (World of Wakanda), and Margaret Atwood (Angel Catbird) off the top of my head have stuck their toe in the water and each of them have done so to rave reviews thus far.

And because we can't ever have ANYTHING NICE, people decided to shit all over Chelsea Cain because of this cover. I'm gonna say it was because of the cover because if they had bothered to fucking read the book they would know that this is entirely in keeping with the character of Bobbi "Mockingbird" Morse:

..have I mentioned that Cain is the writer and not the artist?

So the harassment starts against Cain because like I said, we can't have nice things, and Mockingbird had already been canceled for god knows whatever reason, and Chelsea Cain has to leave twitter because you know, sometimes you just really, really have enough of the shit, sometimes the bastardes carborundorm, sometimes you just wanna go write and meet your fucking publishing deadline without your phone exploding every ten seconds with another Pepe-or-Egg cheesedick whining that his precious world-of-funnybooks has been tainted by ungrabbable pussy.

But there's been enough shit written about this and reasonable people like me and (I FUCKING DO HOPE) you are rallying behind Chelsea Cain and lining up to buy the Mockingbird trade paperback because you will not be disappointed.

What I wanna talk about (finally) is this:

The whole idea of "Wednesday Warriors", i.e. comic fans who show up weekly at their local comic book shop to grab their pull lists? Like, claiming that they drive the market and what the publishers consider bankable?


Primary reason being that we don't live in that kind of economy anymore. I wait for trade paperback collections because they're easier to handle, or I buy digital editions from ComiXology or a Kindle version if available when I can't wait--though I vastly prefer trades.

Secondary and anecdotally...I don't like going to my LCBS anymore.

Lemme explain.

THe guy who owns the place is an excellent human. Retired cop, I dig him, he digs me and J., when we hadn't been in to pick up our stuff in awhile he'd written us emails in iambic pentameter asking how we were. He likes my sense of humor and that I know more about pop culture of the early days of television than most people his own age.

But his son works there too and is in the shop half the time.

And he's a dick. A microaggressive dick. I hate seeing him there. And I think he hates seeing me. Probably because his dad thinks I am cooler than he is, but more likely because I have a uterus.

For instance: Kevin Keller comes out in trade. I am delighted. I love Kevin, I love Dan Parent, I am tickled by the fact that the once crappily evangelical Archie imprint is now producing some of the most wonderfully inclusive and progressive (and with the crossovers my homey Alex Segura handles, even transgressive!) stories put to pulp.

So I put my copy of Kevin down on the counter.

He flicks the cover. "You like THIS GUY?"

*blink* "Um. Yes?"

"Yeah but, YOU KNOW about him, RIGHT?"

I play dumb. "That he's Veronica's new BFF? Oh, I know, but Betty isn't the jealous type."


"Just ring up my books please." And I can't wait to get the fuck out of there. I want to read comics. I don't want to stand there and be the fucking ambassador for LGBT when I just wanna buy my fucking comics and go home and read them. It's wearying as fuck.

Somehow I doubt when anyone buys Ant-Man he says "YOU KNOW THAT HANK PYM BEAT HIS WIFE RIGHT?" or "YOU KNOW TONY STARK IS A LUSH RIGHT" or "YOU KNOW ROT LOP FAN HAS TO HAVE AN F-SHARP BELL INSTEAD OF A GREEN LANTERN RIGHT" no wait that last one would be me because fuck yeah Rot Lop Fan. No, I need to be warned about the faggot that moved to Riverdale.

I could end this post with pictures of my longboxes full of single issues, my bookshelves groaning with trades and limited edition hardcovers, my display shelves and closet and drawers full of merchandising tie-ins and t-shirts and shit I have on a fucking Batgirl hoodie right now (and Snoopy pants that don't go with it but I am not leaving the house today so fuck it). But I don't fucking have to prove my cred. I don't have to be all "WAAAAAIIIIT I AM SO NOT A FAKE GEEK GURL I SWEAAAAAAR" fuck you I am 44 years old and I want. To read. Comic books.

And it would be really nice if I could see myself in them sometime.
annie lennox

Hello fuckers.

There's a lot of shit I could/should write about. Politics, of course. Current culture. Social justice efforts. And personal shit too. Health, friends, experiences, renovating this house.

But a combination of ennui and hummingbird brain syndrome (if that is a thing) means I confine my (questionable) wisdom to Twitter these days. 144 characters, zip, boop, lost in the scroll of blatheryblahblah.

Frankly, any time I consider delving into the creation of a long-form screed, I get this internal defeatist telling me "eh, why bother? No one's gonna read it. No one's gonna care. You're not gonna be helping anyone but your ego. You're not gonna make a difference no matter how much effort you put into it."

So I don't.