home work
Today was my first, deeply pleasurable sip of the potentials
of being an independent worker. It’s
been nerve-wracking to give up health benefits, paid sick leave, paid vacation,
administrative staff. Private practice entails
a ton of stress like solo financial responsibility, all the paperwork on my own
time which often eats into my weekends and nights. And I can’t delegate a damn thing.
But today was an odd day, a turning of the seasons. We are nearing Fall, as the kids return to
school this week, the stores and magazines are selling Halloween gear and wool
clothing already, and I am still in denial that half of this year is well
gone. The seasonal pumpkin lattes &
leather boots are evidence that time proceeds whether I like it or not.
Yet it’s so friggin’ hot today the (black!) car was a
veritable oven. “Spare the Air” day warnings all over the news for air quality
and worries about the power grids being overtaxed. It feels like 4th of July all of a
sudden.
I took the morning to treat MIL, mom, and SIL and my niece
and her little friend to lunch at the salad bar. Hey, only $1.50 to feed each
kid. Not bad. That’s less than I tip the
bussers. Then again, the little Princesses’
idea of lunch was: fried wonton skins and raisins, a leaf or two of iceberg
with gobs of ranch, mac ‘n cheese, and ice cream with a profusion of
multi-colored, suspiciously plasticine sprinkles. There I was at the pasta bar serving mac n’
cheese to these 2 amazingly adorable little girls outfitted head to toe in
Princess gear and sparkly sandals. Geez. I can’t decide if I am taking undue
credit for these two cuties or if I am embarrassed and want to say “hey, I sure
didn’t dress them like that.”
Post –lunch I got in the car and almost passed out. Despite my sunshield, the heatwaves could be
felt on my face the instant I got in. Ugh.
So, instead of spending an afternoon in the office, I said ‘F
this.”
Took BART to a meeting in
Oakland
and back and savored feeling
environmentally superior, as well as the reading time for Bohjalians’ Midwives
novel.
I then exercised my independent consultant/freelancer/practitioner
options and came to work from home. What
a novelty-I am home before dark. I can
take off my make – up and work clothes prior to 9:30 at night.
Don’t get me wrong, I still gotta work. Tonight I’ve got
invoices to make, logs to check, articles and speeches to try and write (or at
least progress on)…but I sat in our home office this afternoon in a new bikini
returning phone calls and e-mails. Hey, I said I could live in these things… (At
least another perk of seasonal change is that $80 swimwear is now being sold at
less than half that price.) How great is
that? Must be like the pleasure people get in being able to shop online in
their PJ’s or underwear. I am missing
out on yoga tonight, but dashed out to our pool for a 40 minute swim with NO
KIDS, ah, bliss. (the pool is overrun with rug rats all summer long and
weekends).
All that open water training pre-triathlon has made for
markedly better swims. Now I’m back at
my desk, prepping work, raiding the fridge for nectarines and fried chicken
(pollo frito is my triathlon fuel of choice!).
Wow. Has this been
what I’ve missed? What a concept to be at home for more than 2 hours before it’s
time to crash out. I could certainly get
used to not spending the days inside a cubicle…..
Feliz Bautizo
"A question from the Agnostics,"read the e-mail to our friends of faith, "what kind of gift is typically given at a Baptism?’ P & I were honored to have received the formal invitation, completely in espanol, white custom cardstock replete with white ribbon and little gold cross, inviting us to Baby J’s baptism. We’ve been adopted by some families just as we have adopted others’ into ours, and el familia Gonzalez has hosted us many times. When P and I were dating, we spent a Christmas eve there, and left stuffed with tamales and bearing posadas. Surely taking me to a Mexican home won him brownie points with me as I practiced my language skills and they humored me by proclaiming I was either half Mexican or was in Mexico in a past life.
Now there was to be a formal church ceremony, and then a reception banquet, all for familia and close friends only. Our answer to every occasion with kids is usually "red envelope" with $$ but who knew…
I received e-mails advising me not to send more bibles to this baby, the relatives would take care of that. Mi querida bella Monica en Los Angeles advised: "You can get something from his favorite patron saint." Hmmm. But I don’t know who in heck is his patron saint. I myself am partial to St. Francis but that’s because he’s good to animals which surely is not relevant at the Bautizo?
Monica also recommended a religious store that was frequented by Bob Hope. Alas, I’m no longer an Angeleno, and frankly, I belong in a religious supply store about as much as I do a Hooters "restaurant" or an Amish barn-raising.
In the end, we were furnished with a child friendly red envelope from my office spouse that featured Winne the Poo and Piglet decked out in chinese outfits (copyright violations, anyone?) Heck, no one can go wrong with dinero right?
Next step: Getting dressed. I’ve been to the wedding of Baby J’s folks, and I know the crowd will be fashionista royalty. After all, Daddy was a Structure model once upon a time. But this IS a religious event so I don’t want to commit any faux paux either (such as our friend who showed up in Catholic church in a slinky, strapless, red dress which practically screamed out loud: "SINNER!") I try on clothes and P is given the responsibility of sin-checking. "Too loud? cleavage? panty line? too casual? too stuffy?" We go with something sedate yet slim, with crocheted, lacy sleeves that P deems appropriately "kinda Latin." Right. I should channel my inner Frida.
The reception is the real deal. Wedding-looking cake, framed portrait of baby J at the door, white streamers and glittery cross decor everywhere, white Feliz bautizo balloons, and Baby J himself in a beaded, beribboned bonnet and white christening ensemble. A live band specializing in the regional, traditional music of Baby J’s madre charges in like a marching band (un regalo sorpresa that Daddy G. got for the occasion). We enjoy an hour of musica that is like mariachi music except louder, less hornsy, and features a clarinet.
"This is so nice." We sit in the shady gazebos and listen to live music, chilling out. I anticipate a polite lunch chatting with families. And what beautiful families! Moms who look like the sisters of their daughters, dark eyed guys with hats who bring delighted smiles to both toddlers and grandMoms with their dancing, and each young woman there, including baby J’s mum, more striking than the next. We feel a tad awkward. It’s so formal, white floral centerpieces on each table, silverware and wineglasses. After the band leaves the DJ kicks in.
Hmmm. I begin to get an inkling that perhaps this is a fiesta normal, not a sedate baby party. There are women in satin, skintight, Beyonce-stage worthy get ups, and stiletto heels galore. Camera-worthy Make up jobs applied by serious pros. Then Baby J’s tia (auntie) grabs my arm while P is away in the loo, "Come on, come inside with us."
I smile at this gorgeous lady in the one-shouldered dress, "Ok!"
"Come do a shot with us!"
"huh…?! isn’t it kind of early for that…?"
Thus begins an afternoon of giant double shots of Don Julio.
Followed by YUM, Comidas Mexicano, and more shots before we can escape. All the Ladies advise me to go on YouTube and look up Alejandro Fernandez, and consider going with them to his concert in San Jose this year. I tell P we ought to hire the Dj so we can have a Reggaeton party of our own.
So.
Now we know. Bautizo is a warm family gathering for religious purpose, about a precious baby and his relationship with his family’s God, and the love of a huge extended familia.
It is also a place where red envelopes are appropriate, where even agnostic Chinos are welcomed warmly, and next time we attend (Baby J’s folks want another 2 or 3 ninos) Tia H and Tio P will come more prepared to hold their liquor, wear their party clothes, and toast the proud parents.
Farewell potluck
I’m having a joint-farewell potluck this afternoon with my office spouse. I’ll still linger in the halls until next week, and am already working on a contract to continue as a hired gun-dog-pony-show after my formal resignation. But She will go on to her new supervisory job as of Monday! No rest for the wicked. Who am I to judge-I’m already overlapping with my new jobs as well.
But with O.S. gone, this is truly the end of an era. We took in so many interns together and groomed them, our "kids" keep serving the community as we go on. Like real kids, most have thanked us, some have cried with us (um, admittedly at times even because of us), surely some have cursed us!
No longer will there be surprise banana breads, brownies for me in the office, someone to split their lunch when I was too frazzled and disorganized to have made one for myself. I knew before she did that she was gonna be a great mommy to Baby D. She was so mothering (in a good way) to me as we suffered through psych licensure exams and all sorts of work conundrums.
We are leaving an agency that hosted hotpot parties, sushi parties, ice cream making afternoons (all we do is eat, I guess), and countless times we sought sanity by taking a walk and getting coffee/tapioca drink/noodles/bakery stuff…
Farewell Porteguese tarts of Chinatown from the bakery Napoleon! (how’s that for a culturally confused pastry?)
O.S. and I are trying to shift into a healthier place away from the pig-carcass in the street, spit and god knows what else of Chinatown. It’s time to actually spend more quality time with the people we adore rather than just toil in their proximity.
Potlucks are awesome-personally revealing, and at ACMHS, a serious culinary masterpiece. Everything Cantonese, Taiwanese, Mien, Vietnamese, Japanese, Cambodian, Pilipino, and good ‘ol American thrown in too. Have some Burmese tea salad with your Mien noodle and Mai’s famous home made Meyer lemons salad dressing atop organic greens. That goes well with the Cambodian chicken, Japanese dessert and Pad thai. How about some coffee jell-o, pork buns, water spinach, curry eggplant, BBQ pork, lemon chicken, pea sprouts, Japanese red bean sticky rice and Joyce’s mushrooms? Hello Kitty cookies from Hong Kong is served with Berkeley lemon bars. And - the ever present Chinese cake. White fluff frosting and fruits on a super light sponge.
A friend who had also left ACMHS wrote to me, "Yes, it is hard to leave the ACMHS village…" It is. A place where random treats appear on one’s desk for no reason. Where no one would think of going on vacation without doling out little gifts or yummies to one another immediately upon return. Where they put up with my bumbles & stumbles as I learned gawkily how to sprout from an intern, to a coordinator, to finally be a supervisor. Where we all pretty much know one another’s business in the rumor mill but pretty much let it be without judgment. And where one can get fine culinary advice & dine/shop out tips from all corners of the world.
I learned here the solid grounding in my heart that lets my do this work even as I go froward. I learned here how few difference there were between us all, no matter how disparate our backgrounds. I was privileged to serve refugees, crime victims, those with psychosis, "perps", clients who were 4 and held my hand, and clients who were 92 and made me laugh. Those who had seen or done things that made my eyebrows raise and heart ache. I learned the truth which is that we are all, all of these things at different time. I am an intern, a client, a family member, a supervisor, a community member, a victim and a perp. To serve one is to serve us all, to help yourself. My students and clients have given me more wisdom that I could have ever imagined, As much as my mentors, though in a different manner.
These people helped me grow up, and more importantly, they helped me grow Deep. Gave me a fortitude to do this kind of work.
They made me a leader, which is more faith in me than I can ever repay. (surely they were hard up for supervisors) And I learned that to lead well, I need to lose my ego, and accept that we are in this together, and it’s by not getting a fat ‘ol head that one manages to lead where the laypeople are at.
Citizenship studies
About 5 years ago, Aunt P started to take seriously the
process of becoming a
U.S.
citizen. She’d filed eons ago yet never
pursued it. As she visited us that
spring in 2002 and took a prime role in the engagement party P & I had, she
also began the journey to citizenship. At a glamorous 70+, this is no small undertaking.
Her husband, unimpressed. “If you wanted to be an American so bad, why didn’t you do this years
ago?!”
“Well, she retorted, years ago there was no Chen Shwe
Bien!”.
Indeed. Aunt P had always been a literal flag-waving patriot in
Taiwan
.
She’d
drag our tired, hung-over butts that had just crashed at 3am to get up at 5 am
on New Year’s day in
Taipei
to attend the flag-raising patriotic ceremony every year. As a child every visit to
Taiwan
I had
was punctuated with respectful, awed visits to the Sun Yat Sen and Chiang Kai
Shek memorials.
At get –togethers she’d talk so glowingly and ceaselessly about
Taiwan
,
how great the food is, how wonderful the metro, the postal service, the
scenery, that mom and I would roll our eyes. It was like listening to a lovesick teenager. But the object of this devotion was a
country.
But as President* Chen took lead (I give him an asterisk
sort of like President * W. Bush since the legitimacy of either election is
highly questionable if not outright laughable), Aunt P had to watch the things
she loved erode away. Corruption scandals
exploded everywhere, replete with sex scandals to rival the British. Many of the efficient systems that kept the
country running smoothly were getting messier by the day. Safety nets gone, toxins everywhere, an
educational system and military system losing its quality control. Instead of being the powerhouse workhorses
that built the teeny isle into an international presence, Taiwan was now becoming a
nation of directionless spoiled brats seeking solace in tabloids, drugs, and shopping. Instead of actually trying to govern, the government spent its time
having public fistfights in the chambers and creating a hateful, racist,
divisive rift in the community.
One could see her set her jaw strongly, raise her fist at
protests and sit ins…holding back the tears in her eyes.
Lately, I know that feeling. Of watching a place you madly
love turn into a parody of itself. Ideals becoming nothing more than marketing slogans. I too have marched in protest, feeling strong
and living true democracy…but feeling the tears inside as my heart breaks-
knowing we are probably too little, too late.
So it was that these last few months have graced us with her
presence here. She tends to mom’s flowers,
homecooks us meals, and listens constantly to her study materials. She BARTS to
Oakland
for class, looks things up on Yahoo
Taiwan
translation, plays
audiotapes, reads workbooks. 100
questions for the citizenship exam.
Evenings as family had become punctuated by her demands for
us to answer exam questions. P walked
in for dinner and was quizzed with: “What were the original 13 colonies?” (Dear reader- can you answer that? I sure can’t. Although P got several more correct than I)
She asked our 4 year old niece, ‘What colors are on our
flag?”
‘Red, white, and Blue, “, Arielle responded clearly.
She practices to herself aloud, daily, repeatedly, driving
my mother nuts.
“Who elects the congress, the legislative branch?”
“The citizens of the
United states of America
” she
practices enunciating-
while in the background I holler ‘The corporations do!!!!”
Mom starts to giggle and shake her head at that
comment.
“But don’t say that until you are already a citizen."
Look man, I am just making full use of my constitutional
right to free speech as a good citizen.
As exam Monday approaches, Aunt P gets nervous. We are all exasperated at this point by the
constant recitation of governmental factoids. She knows it backwards and forwards. I am utterly impressed with her
self-discipline and capacity for lifelong learning.
“Will you PLEASE stop fretting, you’re going to have no
problem!” Mom demands.
Two days before exam day, Aunt P accidentally breaks a small
plate while doing housework. Mom came
home from work hours later to find Aunt P crying, crying, crying.
“Oh no! What’s happened!”
“I broke that little plate.”
Mom stood for a bit, processing that information. At an age where their lives are often
punctuated by the death of friends, illness of family, her elder sister is
crying like this over that little, rather common plate?
Oooookay…
Aunt P concluded that surely this bad luck.
She’s going to fail the exam and be humiliated.
Every horror story she has ever heard about
people encountering mean, cruel, nitpicky examiners floods in. Mom’s consoling words have no effect. Crying
continues.
They call my cousin Ann who takes the direct approach: “Ma,
you realize it’s the 21st century-surely you don’t still believe in
bad luck omens!?”
Hmmm. This from Ann who was convinced ghosts surely haunted
the stately historic hotel, former hospital she stayed at in
Germany
.
The next day after work, (yes, masochist that I am I do work
Sundays) P and I go to visit. Aunt P is calm. Jaw set in her normal manner,
taking care of us, making spareribs noodles. We buy the Wii accessories for her to pack up for Ann’s sons. She laughs at P and I flailing our Wii
skills.” We tell her 30 times “you’re
going to do fine.”
P finally “guarantees’ that she will pass the citizenship
examination.
We promise a big celebratory dinner on Monday night.
“What if I don’t pass?” she says.
‘Aiyaigh” we all grumble, “you WILL pass.”
“No matter what, we drink tomorrow!” P and I proclaim.
After a restless weekend of spotty sleep, Aunt P and mum got
on BART at 7:20 and headed to SF on Monday for the examination. The appointment was not until 10:15, but they
wanted to be sure. They got out at
Montgomery
, were way too
early, and headed to a coffee shop awhile. Both lamented the ‘watery’, crap coffee.
Mom makes small talk and is met with intense spacing out or
“don’t talk to me right now!”
They went back in and settled in the waiting area for
examination. At 10:10 Aunt P suddenly headed for the loo.
“Right NOW??”, Mom hissed, and proceeded to wait anxiously
as the minutes ticked by. 10:15. Where in hell is Aunt P!?
10:16. she returns and sits down.
10:17, a white man calls Aunt P’s name, and it’s showtime.
A bit before 11:00 I get the voicemail from Mom: “Of COURSE
she passed. The examiner said her
English was so good, even ‘perfect’. Now
she’s smiling again.”
That night we ate steak and ordered her a Cosmo. Next step now- the swearing in ceremony
scheduled for the morning of September 11.
Form or function?
I’ve pondered with P and B (meaning, Pruth and my running partner B, not Peanut Butter as in PBJ) the conclusion I arrived at, which is that I am fundamentally less physically fit than I look. Good metabolism, kind genetics paired with a fabulous yoga instructor and mediocre work out schedule have been generous to my ego.
But I notice that amongst our friends there appear to be great misunderstandings as to my capabilities.
People have notions that I can kick hardcore butt, I get repeated entreaties to go on Survivor and Amazing race, and I have to remind folks that while I do Tri’s they are SPRINT Tri’s and there will be no Ironmans in this life.
After sending out our Muddy Buddy pics, mutual friends said, "P is a really lucky man!"
I pondered these photos too. Who knew being pumped up with miles of adrenalin and slopped with fresh mud could be so flattering? I sure don’t look that good when I look in the mirror each morn!
The whole situation frustrates me, because contrary to the myths about my function, I am literally painfully aware of my limitations. I’ve sworn never to full-marathon because I felt my hips give warning after the half. Surely, it’ d be best to save some joint cartilage for my 50’s and 60’s. My feet and legs have endured every bruise, blister, and cut I could have imagined, and I’ll never be as strong as I dream of, barring any apocalyptic scenario that reduces us all to leave our desk jobs and fight for a living each day.
These arms look good, I am finally mostly satisfied with that-but I still can’t handstand with the older yogis in class, still can’t rockclimb as I dream of.
"Well", said B ,"isn’t that better than having the opposite problem?"
Certainly I realize that that would suck too, to be one of those whose spare tire never budges, whose muscles lay in secret below a discreet layer of padding - but who can motor diligently and tirelessly up a hill like mighty elephants, stampeding over the wimpy young gazelles.
I’ve been in enough races now, to never underestimate the slightly tubby and gray.
Performance is about endurance, not appearance.
Last weekend a bunch of maniacs ages 10 - 70 (!!) race swam from Alcatraz to Chrissy Field, and only 1 mortality was had. (peace be with her, a 51 yr old visiting Texan).
In one of my former lives as a dancer, we looked down on anyone who looked too good. If you spent a lot of time on your hair or gear you obviously weren’t a serious artist/athlete. Pride was taken in the holes worn through ballet slipper leather, callouses around half soles, tights and leotards worn thin. God forbid you show up in a new, color coordinated dance outfit, with an official dance bag - those get ups were for cheesy dance schools with stage parents clustered at the back door, hokey and glittery performances, and (gasp!) bad form.
Which is all very silly since who’s vainer than someone whose entire body is an expression of the tension between passions and discipline? Whose joy is to take the stage over and over? But we’d toss on our little ballet wraps in that carelessly calculated way. Hair never too perfect, hard-earned sweat, joint braces, and banged up gear in tow.
Besides, let me offer this analogy:
Would you like to eat mediocre food, fabulously presented, in lovely ambiance?
Or would you prefer luscious, textured, fragrant and delicious food served on a paper plate in a joint with bad decor?
I’ve had both experiences.
I know my answer in a heartbeat: gimme that damned, heavenly good food from the Taipei hole in the wall, Taco truck, street vendor, camp stove. Function , flavor has stained my memories and haunted me tantalizingly for years. My life’s memories are all steeped in food. All those beautiful places I have eaten forgettable, uninteresting food in photo-shoot worthy settings?
please. no contest.
Best I can hope for, is that my form is a temporary state, and with luck, in another stage of life to come, I’ll develop the discipline & stamina to be a woman of function.
warm fuzzy
I am utterly depressed and paranoid after that last blog, or more accurately, recent events in my adopted ‘hood. I also happen to live with someone who has never known the love of a small fuzzy creature in his home, hence I have been in state of animal companion withdrawal for the past many years.
I am sharing with y’all the temporary remedy to a bad/paranoid/snippy day:
http://cuteoverload.com/
There is almost nothing in this universe that nuzzling up to a warm fuzzy won’t cure. be it a kitty, hammie, puppy, or feathered friend, they tend to be far more beautiful, sincere, and soothing than humans!
Acerca calle Alice
There are times one gets the feeling that a noose, a trap,
is drawing tighter; circling closer.
When my 70+ years young aunt from
Taiwan
announced that she was going
to take BART with a friend and enroll in citizenship/ESL courses in Oakland
Chinatown, I took my mom aside.
“Look, you have to MAKE her take off all that jewery &
stop carrying wads of cash like a typical Chinese.”
Mom sighed, “I know, we always tell her that but you know
she’s stuck in her ways…”
“Mom, I am serious. It is NOT safe. Even the few blocks from
Lake
Merritt
to class.”
She looked at me and knew what I meant.
“It’s getting worse, mom. I can feel it getting worse over the last few years.” I used to park on 8th and Alice, for the past 7 years.
I am sure mom remembers when we had a booth at a little
Oakland
retail mall,
around the time I was in 4th or 5th grade. My greatest joy in those days was to head to
the arcade and play Centipede and DigDug with Ben, or better yet- feed birds at
the park until they were utterly tame & perched on my arms.
Until the day a man from a neighboring
business had pulled up his shirt to show us the knife slashes he received while
being mugged for a measly $5. I can still envision my mom standing next to him,
gawking with horror at the jagged, scabby gash down his pale chest and stomach.
Mom had a talk with Aunt P.
Thus, for what is probably the first time in my entire life,
I have seen my glamorous auntie without a pirate’s chest worth of treasures
adorning her. Turns out she is more beautiful without all that distracting glitter.
Two e-mails came in the agency inbox last week:
1) heads
up everyone, on 8th and
Alice
someone had their purse forcibly snatched
2) heads
up everyone, our staff have had their cars broken into twice
This followed by some advice to stay alert and walk to BART
or our vehicles in pairs.
Then on a bulletin board at job # 2 work I noticed yet
another “Teen shot” newspaper article photocopied in place. With a sigh I glanced at the name, then felt
my heart freefall. I just met with that
handsome young man for an hour a few weeks ago. Now I imagine him dead, picture it in my head as I know it is true. Multiple gunshot wounds, a homicide with no
one apprehended, little hope for justice nor resolution. The muy grande cuidad de
San Jose
has suffered fewer than 20 homicides
thus far in 2007.
Last week as we all now know, journalist Chauncy Bailey was
murdered in a targeted “hit”. 19 year
old suspect linked to Your Black Muslim bakery, who did not act alone to off
the journalist that was evidently airing a bit too much of their dirty laundry. Mr. Bailey died on Alice and 14th. Also by our office. Near the McDonald’s serving the world’s saltiest salad and the big library and the courthouse for juryduty.
Tragic, tragic, in every way. Horrible
to lose a respected local leader and journalist, awful that this 19 year old
has dug his own slow grave so early in life’s bloom, so painful to see a
hopeful urban notion as Your Black Muslim Bakery go down. I used to be a fan. I loved that bakery’s
Oakland
airport kiosk. Prior to the recent
fancy schmancy gentrified re-model of OAK, Black muslim bakery was the only
airport food I could eat: fish sandwiches, carrot honey muffins, sweet potato
pie. Mmm. The gentlemen who staffed the kiosk were always friendly, the goods
always tasty. I thought it odd that the
one time I stepped inside Your Black Muslim bakery’s storefront, there was
barely anything on the shelves, and the staff were most decidely unfriendly.
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/20149399/
Last weekend as we now know, seven other lives ended
senselessly on these mean streets. I
believe we are on our 79th homicide.
“get out, get out” urge my husband, my father.
This noose around our little community is getting tighter
and it isn’t safe to stay much longer. I
see it in the preponderance of graffiti creeping onto buildings that were clean
for years. In the droves of children I
meet who have dropped out of school-and no one cares enough to call and see
where they are. In the ones I have met
who brightened my office with their jokes. We bear witness to them climbing out and falling of sexual exploitation,
group homes, juvie. We advise them how about
safe homes, hiding from pimps, about continuation school and vocational rehabilitation.
I met with another handsome young African American boy and
his mother today. “I want to get out”, She
said, “this is too much.”
She’d taken the day off work to get started transferring her
son to another school, another city, somewhere with kinder streets and less
hopeless residents.
I wished her luck. It’s easy to talk about staying to fight the good fight. But not when you’ve a handsome, doe-eyed, big baby boy to protect and pray that he sees adulthood in one piece.
O’Reilly goes pink in the head
Bill O’Reilly is seriously going off the deep end of the canyon…
Southern Poverty legal Center is an anti-hate organization which effectively mobilizes the law against hate groups and monitors the activities of hatemongers. Meandering about their site today, to pay yet another tribute to a kind soul departed for a better place, I came across this news blurb. I love the title of this: "The Oh-Really factor".
I couldn’t make this stuff up-he has "experts" on FOX claiming that folks nationwide are being terrorized by pink pistol packing lesbian gangs.
Really.
http://www.splcenter.org/intel/news/item.jsp?site_area=1&aid=274
I gotta say, this is a first: a total fit of laughter for me via Mr. O’Reilly. Normally he kinda scares me and ticks me off but this is so damned stupid and non-sensical that laughable is an understatement. Honey, we got gangs to worry about but pink guns and gay groups are not among my concerns.
What is he gonna say next? Gays are taking over all the hardcore Prison gang empires too? Does he think Nuestra familia or the Crips are trembling with fear at these lesbians packing pink heat?!
Sounds like some lame, titillating, white, hetero, male porno fantasy/fear about who lesbians really are and what they actually care to do in their spare time. In case you haven’t noticed-the people going about sexually assaulting young teens & committing petty crimes are overwhelmingly hetero males.
The reminder for the day: when you hear "news"-consider the source.
Now I gotta find out where one gets a pink firearm…
