Ypres 1918

IN FLANDERS FIELDS the poppies blow

Between the crosses row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

- Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918) Canadian Army

The Past.

Sometimes living here in The Hamlet is really hard.

Having spent most of my childhood here, my early adulthood, and now that I'm back here as a full-fledged grown-up, it's difficult to dig a hole in the ground, throw memories which I need to forget into a hole, and shovel the dirt back over, bit by bit.

I think of things I shouldn't.

I think of Timmy, who went to college at the Air Force Academy, and who fell in love with me his senior year. Mom says I "underestimated" him, which is true. He was lovely, I know now.

Now he's long, long gone, living in Virginia and married for the last 25 years.

Tonight I opened my cedar chest and found his "cover"-- his hat-- worn on his graduation day from the Academy. "He needs this," I thought, "So his kids will have it one day." Inside was a tag indicating his hat size (ridiculously large) and written inside, in his hand, "Tim G.- (serial number, class)".

On that day in June, 27 years ago, Academy Superintendent General Tallman announced, "Gentlemen, you are dismissed." Timmy, along with his 1000+ classmates, threw their parade hats in the air and hugged each other, cheering and yelling, celebrating their completion of four years of intensive study and incredible pressure.

I was sitting at the top of the stadium with Timmy's parents. I broke away from them and ran down onto the football field, intent on grabbing Timmy's cover. Miraculously, I found it. I ran to Timmy, kissed and hugged him as his parents joined us.

There, someone snapped a picture with my camera. In the picture, Timmy's smiling and his proud parents flank us. We are all grinning. His cover perches rakishly on his thick red-blonde hair, his smile wide, white; his parade gloves removed and crumpled in his hand. I clutch his arm, smiling madly, wearing blue and white for the occasion. In the background, people look upwards with their mouths open, gaping at the Thunderbirds as they fly in formation over the stadium.

Tonight, I stared at Timmy's cover in the cedar chest. The smell of old perfume lifts up to my nostrils. I take the cover out, still in its delivery box. Inside, the cover is wrapped in a plastic bag of a clothing store long out of business.

"This is going to Virginia," I decide.

I go to my box of pictures and find the photo of Timmy, me and his parents that day. I find a card and write, "Darling Timmy, I thought it was time you had your cover back. Yours, T-Bone", put the picture in the envelope with the card, place it carefully on top of Timmy's cover.

I'll mail it tomorrow. He should have it in a week.

He would never call and ask, but IF HE DID, how could I possibly explain the last quarter century? How could I explain that despite all the things we wanted together, I never had children, never married? How could he understand how time just flew by, and suddenly, I was here alone, thinking of the past-- seeing an old hat and suddenly an old movie unwound my head? How could I explain to him-- who probably doesn't even remember that day-- how strongly this memory glows in my mind? How could I explain, and how can I explain to myself, how amazing to me it is that he's lived ten lifetimes since then and I'm still here-- two miles from the house I grew up in, the house he knew then-- so, so long ago?

Deal Breakers

For me to date a man, he must meet certain standards. I want to have a package rather than a project.

As a young lady, my list of standards was terribly unrealistic and ridiculously long. Nowadays my list is shorter; some would argue that it is still unrealistic.


Frankly, I don't care if the list is perceived as unrealistic. I don't ask for a lot from the guys I date. The guy's alternative qualities can often replace those on the list.

For example, I'd prefer that the guy I date is tall-- only because I am tall. Sometimes, though, if I meet a guy who is eye-to-eye or shorter and he's also intelligent or funny or wise or smells good, I'll toss out the "tall" requirement. Same thing for "well-educated". I'd certainly like it if the guy has an advanced degree, but if he's a high-school dropout and happens to also have a lust for books like I do, is curious about the world around him and isn't a mouth-breathing eedjit, I'll cross "well-educated" off the list. It's a weighing of qualities, you see.

There are things, though, that are deal-breakers. This is a short list, but it is carved in stone.


If you've been reading this blog for awhile, you know I have a "thing" for feet. It's not a fetish; it's a "thing".

By their very nature, feet are gross. Feet have a way of going wild without one noticing. If one doesn't wash one's feet properly they're gonna stink like corn chips or-- at the very worst-- nasty cheese. Toenails start getting funky as one ages and one must fight that. Thick toenails? Run a file over the top of them. Stained? Lots of products to take care of that problem. Fungus-y nails? Drugs, man! Dirty toenails? Grab a small, sharp implement and clean under the nail. Just take care of your feet, for God's sake.

Pretty simple.


Unfortunately, there are people out there who think no one notices their feet. They let dirt build up under the toenails and around the cuticles. They have patches of thick, yellow flakes on their heels. Most sickening of all-- they don't clip their toenails. They let their toenails grow unimpeded. Lupine. Curved. Ridged. Yellowish-orange with age.

Pardon me. I'm running to the ladies' to have a puke. Be right back.

So anyway, I was at The Hovel with a new friend. He asked if he could take off his shoes. "Of course," I said, pleased he'd feel so comfortable in my house to ask such a thing. He took off his shoes and socks and sat down next to me, his legs stretched out in front of us.

Reader, I nearly shit my pants.

"Uh, your toenails are really long," I mumbled.


"Yeah, they are. I guess they need to be clipped, huh?" he answered.


"Do your feet hurt when you have your shoes on?" I asked, honestly curious. I couldn't imagine stuffing those Raptor-like claws inside an unforgiving shoe.


"Nooo... they really don't," he said innocently, completely missing my facial expression, which I'm pretty darned sure registered complete repulsion.


Deal breaker.


For days following this episode, I ruminated about this guy. I thought and thought and thought about him. I listed his good qualities. I listed his bad qualities. The recall of his disgusting toenails always tipped the scale over to RUN AWAY! RUN AWAY! I could not work through the toenails.


This disturbed me. Am I really this shallow? Am I such a horrible person that I won't date someone because his toenails make me want to barf?


So I talked to Rebecca.

"I have a question for you, Becca."


"Okay. What is it?" I told her about the toenails. I told her all the other aspects of this guy too-- good, bad, indifferent. I said, "Why am I voting this guy off my island? Is it really his toenails? What on earth is wrong with me?"

She rolled her eyes upward and put her finger on her chin. After a moment, she said, "Tell me about his grooming otherwise."

"Well, he's fine. He shaves, he flosses, he combs his hair-- he cares about how he looks," I said.

"What are his fingernails like?" she said.


Hm! I thought. "This is really weird, but I actually noticed his fingernails. And that's not something I usually notice, either. But his fingernails are so nice, I couldn't help but notice them. He files them, and they're actually buffed," I said, more confused than ever.

Becca said, "Innnnnnteressssssting. And everyone can see his fingernails, right?"

"You're right. Oh my God! And no one can see his toenails," I breathed, all Watson-y to her Holmes.

Other things about this guy ran through my mind-- primarily several shady items he explained away, with which I was having difficulty. He only takes good care of the stuff people can see, I thought to myself. The stuff that he thinks no one can see are the things he lets go, even though these things should be taken care of too.

"Becca, thanks. I really needed that."


"No problem. So you gonna see him again?"

"I don't think so. The foot thing is a deal-breaker for me."

"Yeah," said Becca, "We all have our little yardsticks, don't we?"

Snapshots From The Hamlet.

A disheveled, angry man came into the office. His eyes were blazing. In a tense, controlled voice he asked, "There's a plaque across the street in the park. There's a name of a family on that plaque that donated the land in the park to The Hamlet. Is their name pronounced 'Karr' or 'Kerr'"?

"Sir, I'm not sure. Maybe--"

"Do you keep genealogical information in this office? Like birth records, death records?"

"No, sir, we don't. Maybe if you--"

"So is it 'Karr' or is it 'Kerr'? Which is it?"

"Sir, that land has been a park for a long time, before World War I. I'm not even certain I've seen the plaque--"

"'Karr' or 'Kerr'. 'Karr' or 'Kerr'?! Which is it?"

"Maybe if you went to the library, they'll have information--"

"That isn't what I asked you. DO YOU KNOW. THE PRONOUNCIATION. OF THE NAME."

I stared at him and said, "No."

"Thank you. That's all I needed to know." He turned and walked out of the office.

******

I was transcribing a tape of a recent planning commission meeting. The subject of the meeting was a proposed therapeutic riding center that would be opened in a residential area of The Hamlet. Approximately 80 residents of The Hamlet attended the meeting, most of whom against the proposal, as they felt the stable would contribute to rodent and insect infestations, manure would pollute the groundwater, and traffic on the small road leading to the stable would increase exponentially.

After opening comments and presentations, the public was invited to share their concerns about the facility. One woman came forward and proceeded to share that she was batshit crazy.

"The horseflies!" she screeched into the microphone. "They are going to eat my face!"

******

"Good morning, The Hamlet. This is T-Bone."

"Hello, T-Bone. This is Judy up on Long Street. I was just calling to let you know so you can warn some of the personnel at the fire department and at public works that there is a big mountain lion up here."

"Really. Was he in your yard?"

"Yes. He scared me! He was walking around outside in my yard and looking in the living room windows at my cats! He just sat there and stared at them."

I chuckled. "Yeah, I bet he did!"

"And he's huge. I bet he weighs 150 pounds. He was just walking around, then he started looking in my windows."

"Did you call the Division of Wildlife?"

"Yes. I called them and they sent a lady out. The lion had already left and gone across the street to the creek, but she tracked him. I guess he has an injured left back paw."

"Oh. That's not good. I'm really glad you called to tell us," I said, envisioning the mountain lion attacking an unsuspecting public works guy cleaning out a storm drain or something. "So you haven't seen him since?"

"No. But I do think it's the same lion from last summer. He sat on the roof of my neighbor's house trying to figure out a way to get this raccoon that was sitting way up high in a pine tree in their yard. It was so scary! That lion sat on their roof for over an hour, and that poor little raccoon-- well. Finally the lion just leapt off the roof to the pine tree, got the raccoon in its mouth, and landed on the ground and took off. He took the whole top of the pine tree with him. I watched the whole thing from my kitchen window."

Relief.

Today I began my "new" job at the Hamlet's City Hall.

That's right-- no more dust, no more dirt, no more feta cheese-covered keyboards.

Instead, I was greeted with a lovely vase of daffodils on my desk, a funny card bidding me welcome, warm smiles, sincere thank you's, positive words and pats on the back.

In my new office, the carpet is vacuumed. The trashcan is emptied. There are no disgusting unisex bathrooms with urinals and deodorant cakes.

I am thankful. I am relieved. I am grateful!

Happy Easter

Sacrelige. Peep Show.

Have a happy Easter, everyone.

Something I've Decided.

Let's stop using the phrase "OUT OF WEDLOCK".

First of all, ain't nobody's bidness if the child's parents are married or not. The child is here sharing space with us. The lack of a wedding doesn't make the kid "OUT" or "IN" of anything; it just makes the child HERE.

Secondly, the use of the archaic word "WEDLOCK" in our modern age is just silly. The word "wedlock" insinuates marriage is some kind of granite-like, terribly superior contract; that if the contract is broken, a malignant chaos will creep in and infect the clan for generations to come.

Finally, using a phrase that easily draws a picture for those not in the know about the kid's background is cruel. The kids will be thrown to the lions soon enough, people. Give them a few brief years of blameless enjoyment before they realize life is tough and people say mean, mean things.

Just had to get that off my chest. That is all.

Sara Teasdale, Two.

Life has a loveliness to sell-
All beautiful and splendid things;
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Climbing fire that sways and sings,
And children's faces looking up
Holding wonder like a cup.

Life has a loveliness to sell-
Music like a curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And for your spirit's still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night.

Spend all you have for loveliness,
Buy it and never count for cost;
For one white singing hour of peace
Count many a year of strife well lost,
And for a breath of ecstacy
Give all you have been or could be.

Hitting the Delete Button.

Yeah, I deleted my last post.

In case you didn't read the post, it was about a really naive idea we had at work and how we thought we'd try to open up discussion with management about our concerns. Suffice to say, it didn't come out very well.

Truthfully, I'm sick of thinking about the whole situation and didn't want to sully my blog, or your mind, with all the crap that followed.

So I hit the delete button.

I Am Really Pissed.

Each morning on my way to work, I pass a little house, ramshackle and run-down. The house is enclosed by a combination chain-link and wood fence, with the side yard visible. The yard is a sad sight, worn down to hard-packed dirt and rocks, diseased-looking scrub oaks and tufts of dead, straw-like weeds.

I take particular notice of this yard every day, because the idiot that lives there has three dogs, all of whom apparently live outside. These poor animals are out there all day, every day, in the rain, shine, snow, wind, freezing cold, or blistering heat.

The alpha dog is a beautiful German Shepherd, who acts in typical German Shepherd fashion when I drive by. He rushes the fence and leaps upward while baring his teeth and barking. He is also wagging his tail during this show of ferocity. The second, a mixed breed, is very mellow and kind of stands at the fence smiling, also wagging his tail. The third, a Husky, just sits and stares quietly.

During a recent cold spell, I drove past the house on my way to work and reflexively turned my head to see how the dogs were doing. That day, they weren't at the fence; they were in a pile against the house, trying to keep warm. Imagine-- the stucco of the house was warmer than the air outside.

*****

Sitting in The Hovel writing, I heard a dog yipping and crying. I looked out my window and saw a dog tied up outside the restaurant across the street. Being a shorthaired pointer of some kind, I know he was cold; sleet was falling from the sky and freezing on the streets and sidewalks. I'm supposing his owner just couldn't wait to get some crappy Mexican food, so he had to tie up his dog outside the restaurant in the atrocious weather, get inside where it's warm and order his stupid crappy lard-ridden food and then eat it in front of the restaurant's fireplace. While his dog is outside, yipping, crying, freezing.

*****

Looking around on the internet, I saw a headline on CNN today that a Marine was taped throwing a puppy off of a cliff in Iraq, and the tape is now on YouTube. I studiously avoided the headline, making a mental note not to let my mouse anywhere near the story, lest I open it by mistake and then... I'll have it in my mind forever. Some things you just can't undo, you know?

So I was taking my daily journey over at Jezebel, and they'd posted a still of the smiling asshole, weapon in hand, sunglasses and kevlar helmet on, holding the puppy by the scruff of its neck. Whammo!!! There it was for unsuspecting me.

Naturally, I didn't open the link. But that still is in my head. Oh, that I could erase it.

As a child (and I still do this sometimes), when I didn't want to hear something, I'd put my fingers in my ears and say, "LA, LA, LA, LA, LA" really loud. It worked.

Now I wish I had something like that for my eyes.

Stump.

There is a lady at work whom I refer to as "The Stump". She is short, dark and dumpy, with frizzy brown hair, bags under her eyes and stained, unmanicured fingernails. Her clothes are torn and dirty. She eats cereal and smelly feta cheese burritos at her desk.


Her personality-- well, I contend she is missing a compassion chip. Sometimes she says things that astonish me with their complete lack of empathy or insight. She can be cruel and dismissive. Unfortunately, she is intelligent.


The very worst thing about The Stump is that she is participating in an old, old scenario to get what she wants: she's fucking The Boss.


What does she want? I dunno- I guess she wants things her way. The Stump used to be in my position as Administrative Assistant, but she was "promoted". To what? No one knows her title. Is she a horticulturist? A gardener? A foreman? Queen of the parks department? We remain ignorant. Her position, whatever it is, was created by her with The Boss's blessing. She now has a desk in his office, an extension of her own, a computer, lots of papers piled on her desk, and a truckload of privilege bestowed on her by her boyfriend.



The Stump schtupping The Boss certainly gets her lots of things the rest of the staff does not have. She isn't on-call for emergencies in The Hamlet, meaning when a snowstorm hits in the middle of the night, The Stump stays warm and snug in bed, while the unfortunates on our staff have an hour to get to the shop, warm up the snowplow, and start an 12-hour snow removal shift. The Stump receives compensatory time, although she doesn't work the requisite overtime hours one must work to receive comp time. The Stump does personal errands during work hours, in Hamlet vehicles. The Stump uses Hamlet supplies, such as fertilizer, mulch, etc., for her on-the-side landscaping business.

Being The Boss's girlfriend also gets her toys. She has a GPS system for map-making, which she has never used. She asked The Boss for a greenhouse to be built on our facility property, and it stands empty and unused, without happy little pots of baby plants and seedlings; instead it is filled with dirt, dead plants and nests of Black Widows.

Most alarming, The Stump has The Boss's ear. He looks to her for advice and support when situations in The Hamlet go awry. She is, of course, filled with opinions and ideas which she imparts to The Boss with certainty and authority. More often than not, he follows her advice.


Dad used to say about people like The Stump: "She must be great in the sack." This used to horrify me when he'd say such a thing, but now that I'm older and have gained a bit of life experience, I think he must be right, in his coarse little way. Now Dad's comment fills me with horror in another way-- imagining The Stump and The Boss together... well, I'd like to have that part of my brain zapped with a powerful laserbeam so I can't visualize it again.

Yeah. Hey. Howaya?

I've been sick with some kind of lung-filling, sinus-blocking, voice-thieving, muscle-crunching virus these last few days. I slept most of last week, wore filthy pajamas, drank water and tea and ate virtually nothing. My voice is taking little trembly steps back to normalcy-- I sound like Demi Moore. Sexy.

Time disappears when I'm sick. It's an odd thought that the world went on while I was in a fever-induced daze-- people went on trips, went to work, planned weddings, worked in their gardens, bought cars, shoveled snow, wrote poems, cooked food-- all while I laid on my couch, inert, sweating, shivering, miserable. I hate missing out on life when I'm sick.

You can only imagine what The Hovel looks like at this moment. I'm longing for spring, where I can open up my windows and welcome in some warm, sweet air. I'll wash my floors, take my curtains to the cleaners, throw out old papers and letters, and start again.

It's been a long, cold winter.

Thank You, Heath.

Gluttony.

According to a quiz at Belief.net, I am spiritually a bit too thin. This is true. I live lean and mean; not out of necessity, but out of habit.

With the exception of a few good financial years during my adult life, I've been poor. I've learned to do without things that most people possess; cable television, new clothes, a cellphone, a full freezer, a full gas tank, lattes from Starbucks, and stacks of DVDs.

I'm not complaining! I'm just telling how it is here at The Hovel.

On occasion, it occurs to me that I live a spartan life. This sometimes morphs into a spell of bitterness. For the most part however, I don't consider myself poor, although my bank balance tells me otherwise.

I'm very fortunate my inner life has sustained me when things are rough. I pick up Jane Eyre and read it for the hundredth time, which makes me happy. I pop Pride and Prejudice into the VHS and the world seems right again. I put together a pot of homemade soup, which satisfies hungries and reminds me I can create something delicious from those few simple ingredients I just happen to have in the cupboard. I play with and cuddle my cats, which lowers my blood pressure. I cut my hair and feel better about myself, snipping off dead-ends for an instant erasure of bad feelings.

I'm thankful I'm not a gluttonous person by nature; however, I do need to acknowledge this doing without versus having what I need. Pseudo-monastic living has its limits.

The Shoes From La Roux's Fantasy

Gina asked I post pictures of the Anthropologie shoes that are central to The Redhead's fantasy. Here they are.

"Ooooh! Lookit!!!!"

and...

I'm all over the heels. Oh boy.

Le Roux fantasme autant que je fais, peut-être plus!

The Redhead sent me a picture of dangerously adorable tangerine leather peep-toe character shoes with a white instep strap (and button!) this morning (from Anthropologie, natch), with this little story:

From: yer "sis"

Provence: As the waiter sets a tiny dish of olives next to your wineglass, you smile "Merci" and shade your eyes against the afternoon sun while looking up the road winding its way through a warm field of lavender stretching away over the hill. Tickled by the breeze, the hem of your frock flutters and dust whispers across the toes peeping out of the new tangerine shoes. "Where is he?" you wonder, glancing at your watch. A buzz in the lazy air shivers a bit louder, then louder still as it becomes the growl of a somewhat elderly motorcycle. "Un autre verre de vin, s'il vous plait", you say to the waiter. "Daniel! I wondered if you'd ever get here!"

I know that "Daniel" is this fellow, and he's driving up on a vintage Indian.

The next email from The Redhead. Attached is another wonderful pair of shoes from Anthropologie (pink Mary Jane flats, with little eyelet-cut holes-- whee!):

From: yer "soeur"

Provence, deux: A slanting sliver of sunlight beneath the bathroom door. A hiss of water, clank of pipes, whisper of a razor on his cheek. Linen skirt smooth against your legs as you slip into the pink shoes. "Oui?" you call to the quiet tap at the door. "Madame, un mimosa ou deux?" "Deux, merci," you say, and pull the windows open to a brilliant day.

I'm guessing the fellow shaving in the bath is again:

Le Roux et moi mangeons de l'un de l'autre, vous voyez ?

Lust.

There are those who lust for power, money, or attention.

Me? I lust for really cute shoes.

Just ask The Redhead and she'll tell you-- if we are in a department store, we will inevitably gravitate to the shoe section where I'll find a beautiful pair of shoes. I will hold one of the glorious shoes up to my cheek and squeal, "Redhead! Lookit!" Repeat this ten times. This is what we do when we go to the mall.

Oooooh... I lust for pasta.

Hot or cold, red sauce, meat sauce, olive oil, with vegetables, basil, or just gorgeous, velvety cheese-- it simply doesn't matter. Pasta is the ultimate comfort food and like a good shoe, goes with anything.

I do lust for a particular Australian bloke, whom I believe I've mentioned before:

You know, each time I Google My Husband Russell Crowe, I find yet another picture of him that becomes a favorite. This is today's choice. He looks relaxed and casual and kind of scruffy/messy.

*Whispering* Oh, Russell-- if you were here with me, my love, I am sure I wouldn't know what to do with you.

Hm. Wait... okay. Yes I would. Never mind.

Booklust.

The other night a friend asked me, "If you had only $20.00 left in the world, how would you spend it?" I answered, "I would go to a used book store and buy a bunch of books." I love to read, feel the heft of the book in my hands, smell the pages, relish the story, and often lose myself in what I'm reading. It is my only true escape.

To me, lust is not sinful, at least as it applies in my life-- my quiet, uneventful, largely celibate life. Screw Thomas Aquinas and his little list of the Seven Deadlies! I'm keeping lust close to me, thank you very much, and it's a cheap, cheap thrill.

3:10 to Heaven

January 8th, 2008- a day I look forward to with one fluttering heart, two sweaty palms, and three heapin' helpin's of overwhelming anticipation!

Thaaaaat's right... My Husband Russell Crowe's movie, 3:10 to Yuma, is coming out on DVD.

Note the tagline: "Time Waits for One Man". It should've read: "T-Bone Waits for One Man."

Just saying.

As I've mentioned before, dear readers, I have a rich fantasy life.

Greed.

Here's the iconic greedmeister from Wall Street, Gordon Gekko. He is the poster child for the deadliest of the seven deadlies-- GREED. Underhanded, manipulative, and dishonest, these qualities make a person like Gordon into that one thing-- GREEDY.

The news is always filled with greedy characters, but one group of people in particular spring to mind-- those steroid-taking, human growth hormone-shooting baseball players.

There's only one reason why these guys take the steroids and hormones; they want to be faster and stronger than anyone else on the field. Because players can't be those things just by sheer talent and athleticism, they get an edge over other players by shooting up the stuff.

So why do these athletes feel the need to be faster and stronger than anyone else? It's not because of their inherent competitive natures. It's the money, baby! If they're faster and stronger than other players, they'll get the contract from the ball club that'll make them rich and famous. They'll get the hitting record. They'll get the good press. They'll get the attention and adulation from fans. They'll get the money.

Barry Bonds has been haunted by rumors of steroid use for many years. After being outed once again in Mitchell's report, Bonds stubbornly said for the umpteenth time, "I've never taken steroids". He thinks that if he keeps denying it, the public will eventually believe him. Bonds also knows his hitting record would be forever sullied with an asterisk if he said he made the record while taking performance-enhancing drugs. If he didn't have his record, he would certainly lose the money and respect he apparently craves. Greed. Again.

Why don't the ball clubs punish their players by firing them for lying and cheating? Because it's the money, honey! If the clubs don't have big players in their lineup, who would come to see the games? Nobody! If nobody comes to the games, how will the clubowners get rich? They won't! The club owners want their share of the pie, so it goes around and around. Corruption. Cheating. Greed.

Politicians are greedy assholes too. You think this war in Iraq is about "terr-ists"? No. It's about control of the Middle East's oil. Greed.

Those assholes who ran Enron into the ground? All those employees who worked for that corporation-- their pensions gone. Everything they worked for, gone. Why? Because the folks that ran Enron decided they wanted more money, so they used the pension plan and retirement money set aside for their employees to pad their own stupid wallets and fund their ridiculously opulent lifestyles. Greed.

I can't describe to you the difficulty I've had writing this post because I hate the concept of greed so much. I've revised, revised, revised and I still find greed such a repulsive subject, I hate to even give it another bit of effort.

Simply put, greed sucks.

Talkin' Shop

This conversation was intercepted by Pakistani authorities (thanks to NPR for the transcript):

Maulvi Sahib: They were our men there.

Mehsud: Who were they?

Maulvi Sahib : There were Saeed, the second was Badarwala Bilal and Ikramullah was also there.

Mehsud: The three did it?

Maulvi Sahib: Ikramullah and Bilal did it.

Mehsud: Then congratulations to you again.

Maulvi: Where are you? I want to meet with you?

Mehsud: I am in Makin. Come I am at Anwar Shah's home.

Maulvi Sahib: OK I will come.

Mehsud: Do not inform their family presently.

Maulvi Sahib: Right.

Mehsud: It was a spectacular job. They were very brave boys who killed her.

Maulvi Sahib: Praise be to God.

Do these men truly believe what they're saying to one another? Aren't there tiny voices in their heads telling each of them that they're full of crap?

To me, there's a silver lining to Bhutto's death and it is this:

What pissed these murderers off more than anything else was that Benazir Bhutto was a woman.

God bless you, Benazir! You can rest easy knowing that you agitated these men daily with your brilliant mind, your courage, and most of all, your gender.