my jaundiced eye

benevolent sinning

I was just reading an article in the local rag about the observance of lent. The piece reported that Pope Francis, in his annual Lenten message to the faithful, said that just giving up something you like is not enough. You need to do something that benefits others. Well, as my loyal readers know, MJE is all about helping others, so I am celebrating the spirit of lent with extra zeal his year.

I totally get what Frank is talking about. For example, if I gave up drinking, would that benefit my local liquor store? They would lose substantial sales, perhaps have to cut employees’ hours or even let them go entirely. They might go smack out of business. Imagine the ripple effect that could have. Neighborhood sots would take to the streets, careening around half bombed trying to find someplace to get their trembling hands on more hooch, thus endangering the lives of every man, woman, child and dog in this zip code. Not beneficial.

Or chocolate, MJE even extends her concern to the Belgians, and I am probably the only person on the planet who gives a rat’s ass about them. Coffee? The struggling Columbians are in a world of hurt already, that seems like piling on. Soft drinks? Yes! but I have to think about all the old pensioners who own shares in Coca Cola Corp. or Pepsico, and rely on their paltry dividend checks to buy lottery tickets. Depriving a bunch of feeble geriatrics of the delusion that they might win the powerball doesn’t sound like a helping hand to me.

So, what’s a penitent to do? MJE’s advice is to embrace your sinfulness during this special time. In fact double down on it and save the world! A rising tide lifts all boats.

an embarrassment of riches

Just when I thought I’d won the political powerball with my invitation to participate in a tea party survey, yet another amazing thing happened. I received a personal missive from Juan Manuel Contreras, Ph.D., Senior Data Scientist, Democratic National Committee!

Of course I have received numerous emails from President Obama, and the missus, Joltin Joe Biden, Debbie “do something with that hair” Wasserman Schultz, the DNC headquarters and the DNC war room (hope Merkin Muffley and Buck Turgidson* are in there) but this is the first one from the senior data scientist. I thought I’d made some bonehead life choices but this doofus spent decades in school so he can spend the rest of his miserable existence staring at spreadsheets and computer screens all the livelong day. Get a life J Man.

But I digress. Juan certainly knows his data because he had me at “Hi, Martha-” I don’t want my readers to miss one word from Juan’s note so I’ll just paste some of it below in its original bold and underlined blue type and exclamation points:

Hi, Martha —

I’m in charge of tracking our online support — seeing which petitions supporters like you are signing, what issues you care most about, that sort of thing.

‘Anyway when I came across your supporter record the other day, I noticed that it’s really good! You’re in the top six percent of Democrats who are active online supporters, and we can’t thank you enough for that, Martha. Without your activism, President Obama and other Democrats would have a tough time doing what they do.

In fact, since you’re such a strong supporter, I have a guess that you might be interested in becoming a monthly sustainer — especially because for a limited time, we’ll send you a free sticker when you do. If I’m right, and you are interested, you can get started right here (it only takes a second).’

So, let me know! If you’re interested in taking the next step of support, and getting a free sticker, do it here. But no matter what, thanks so much for everything you’ve done, and will continue to do:’

I mean who can resist that pitch! Juan hits just the right tone, informal and folksy and totally nails the “we’re in this together” vibe. And I’m in the TOP six percent of Dems who are active online supporters. That means that 94% gave less than $25 which, if I were Juan, would be a deeply troubling bit o’ data. And boy does Juan know me, a free sticker, hell I’d rob a convenience store for one of those.

Sadly Juan started to go off the rails when he “guessed” that I might like to become a “sustaining member.” The only things I sustain are my hair coloring appointments, my Amazon Prime membership and my supply of gin. I just don’t have the time to sustain the Democratic party too. Even if it only takes a second! Juan, love ya, but I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck, the only thing that takes just a second is your last breath.

I really hate to be the one who makes it even tougher for el presidente and the other Democrats to do what they do. But if Juan could provide me with a detailed report of exactly what that is I might be inclined to be more supportive. And it was nice to be thanked for everything I’ve done but Don Juan started sounding like a creepy scientologist when he added “and will continue to do.” Back off buddy, MJE doesn’t like being rushed into any sort of meaningful relationship, not without dinner and a movie first.

* see Dr. Strangelove

welcome to my tea party

Disclaimer: Dear readers, some of the opinions expressed below may not square with your political views, but MJE has never been one to hide her lefty light under a bushel so you probably already know that. Read no further if you think it might cause a rift in either our personal or virtual relationship.

I just got one of the most unexpected telephone calls of my life! One I never thought possible. No, I didn’t win the Publisher’s Clearing House Sweepstakes, and no MJE’s 45 year old daughter didn’t finally get a job. (but thanks for bringing up that painful situation), and no our son hasn’t repaid the $10,000 we lent him for a down payment on his house. No…. wait for it….it was from the TEA PARTY!!!!!!!!

I couldn’t believe my eyes when “tea party “popped up on the caller ID. Usually I ignore political phone calls or tell them I’m dead but this was one I just had to take.

A very nice man asked if I might like to be part of a survey for the Tea Party. You bet your pitiful excuse for a job I would!

Let the games begin.

Q: What do you think about Mr. Obama’s inability to get anything done?

A: Kinda tough to get much done when it’s 301 against 1. The fact that the country has been in a legislation- free zone since 2009 sits squarely in the laps of the self-aggrandizing numbskulls in congress who put their political futures before what is good for the country. As far as I can tell all they do is sit around with their thumbs up their asses, pointing their fingers across the aisle and clacking their jaws whenever a TV camera comes into view. Oh and wasting time and taxpayer money trying to kick out a gazillion illegal immigrants (they better start learning how to mow their own lawns and throw up sheetrock.)

Q: Why hasn’t Mr. Obama done anything in the last six years to improve the economy?

A: Oh, you mean like bringing the US back from the edge of the financial abyss that arrived on his inaugural day doorstep like a bag of dog doo in a burning paper bag? Or reducing the unemployment rate by about half, or overseeing an impressive increase in GDP and industrial production, a rebound of the housing market and a stock market that is up hundreds of points…oh and BTW ending our misguided war in Iraq which cost billions of dollars and thousands of US lives and god knows how many Iraqis’? Would you like me to continue? And make sure you get this all down. Not a problem, “it was being recorded”, and probably forwarded directly to the NSA.

Q: What do you think of Sarah Palin? (That question alone made me rethink my not believing in god.)

A: Sarah Palin is an uneducated, intellectually lazy, narcissistic imbecile whose greatest achievement was getting a man like John McCain to abandon his principles and tarnish both his reputation and a lifetime of service to his country by putting her on the republican ticket as his running mate. That and giving me a reason to watch Saturday Night Live for the first time since 1983.

Q: What do you think of Ted Cruz as a possible presidential candidate?

A: Ted Cruz is a dangerous ideological crank who behaves like a petulant child when he doesn’t get his way. Unwillingness to compromise is his signature move, increasingly alienating his fellow legislators and hindering any congressional action but beloved by the hard right. His “my way or the highway” mentality is antithetical to the democratic values of this country and the US Senate. He is also a dead ringer for Joe McCarthy which is reason enough not to want to be in the same room with him.

Q: Well how about Rand Paul?

A: Rand Paul is an antigovernment nut job who doesn’t want to have the US government intruding in people’s lives, unless you are an unborn fetus. And despite being a physician who knows full well the benefits of vaccinations he shamelessly pandered to the anti-vaccination fringe, citing some anecdotal bull crap about normal children being turned into cretins as a result of vaccines. For that he should have his medical license revoked. And he looks like Spongebob Squarepants.

Q: What do you think is the best solution to the deficit?

A: Well that’s a no-brainer, cut government spending, specifically the salaries, benefits and staff of the 535 members of congress. With their abysmal performance record, they would be booted out of any private sector position, after which they better not count on unemployment benefits.

At the conclusion of the survey the caller chirped “It sounds like you’d be a great addition to our tea party team!”

Even MJE couldn’t make this stuff up. God bless America.

MJE mardi gras

There is one exception to MJE’s ‘hate the holidays’ rule and that is Mardi Gras, well not the actual day but its spirit of irreverence and disdain for the mind numbing conventions of everyday life

As in the past, our three ring Mardi Gras circus, Apricot, Seymour and of course Decibelle, arrived on Thursday night before MG and we rocked the parade routes nonstop until Sunday dinner time. Their parents, our son (SOB) and his long suffering wife (LSW) were both sick, SOB with a ticklish cough (“persistent and extremely debilitating, possibly life-threatening”) and LSW down for the count with a full blown cold. (“Thanks for coming!” bring the measles next time) Of course she got barely a mention as the drama of the ticklish cough was duking it out with Decibelle’s fortissimo for everyone’s attention.

The OB&C and I had already assembled the parade essentials: boatloads of iced beer, wine, bloody marys and margaritas, go cups, and unhealthy snacks and sweets. Prioritizing whose needs are foremost is key to success at Mardi Gras (and life) and obviously MJE’s are #1. But being mindful of the under-aged amongst us who require non-ethyl alcohol-related hydration I did squeeze in one bottle of water for the young folk to share. And of course we had Big Bertha, our rickety relic of a wooden parade ladder with child seat atop. If we showed up in California with that death trap we’d have child protective services on us faster than you can click a pic with your cell phone and tweet #childendangerment.

Transporting all of this stuff involves black op worthy maneuvers: pre-dawn reconnoitering of the the parade route, locating and commandeering a suitable site, unloading gear, securing it with yards of heavy chain and returning to base camp hoping that any of it will still be there when you return. Generally Mardi Gras manners prevail, at least in the 1 percenter viewing venues we favor. Ladders and assorted paraphernalia are left unattended for hours and remain largely unmolested (although one year the OB&C had his crappy little conference freebie cooler lifted from in front of the port-o-let while he was briefly indisposed, and he has never forgotten it). People give beads and other junk they’ve caught to little kids nearby (gee thanks, our bead midden at home is only eight feet high and we’re hoping it gets huge enough to land a spot on the mardi gras episode of “Hoarders”). Locals know it is bad form to show up when the parade starts and stand in front of people who have been wasting hours waiting there and that if two people catch the same pair of beads you call on your better angel and let go first. However, politely maneuvering through the impenetrable maze of plus sized people, chairs, ladders, ice chests, bead bags, wagons etc. that line the parade route makes patrolling the back alleys of Falluja look like a cake walk.

Best of all, Mardi Gras gives everyone full license to pretend for a time to be who they are not. The OB&C and I believe in taking full advantage of that opportunity and consider masking to be a sacred part of Mardi Gras tradition. The SOB et al (Apricot was the exception, keep an eye on that dark horse) on the other hand, apparently have no desire to be anything but what they are and dressed up like a yuppie family from Atlanta.

anyone seen my funny bone?

MJE has been back in New Orleans for about a week and has been feeling a bit out of sorts, unable to concentrate on the inherent idiocy of life. That’s ironic because people in New Orleans appreciate and practice idiocy more than anywhere else on earth. Look no further than Jazz Fest and Mardi Gras. Jazz Fest, touted (or “trouted” in the local vernacular) as the best music festival this side of Uranus is absolutely beloved by locals. In reality it is akin to the Bataan Death march. You tramp miles from where your car’s parked to the fairgrounds in the broiling heat loaded down with lawn chairs, ice chests, umbrellas, picnic blankets and bulging tote bags only to find that 100,000 people got there before you did and there’s no room left.

And Mardi Gras, despite its reputation as “the greatest free show on earth” is in fact a grueling endurance contest. By the time Fat Tuesday rolls around most locals, including the OB&C and I, are stupefied to the point of watching it on TV like a bunch of shut ins. After a couple of weeks of non stop gras, the Sunday before Mardi Gras day is our personal Waterloo. As an example, late one such Sunday afternoon a couple of years ago, I, having perhaps overindulged in parade-related imbibables, headed home like a cow to the barn. Bedtime for bonzo. I awoke refreshed and ready for yet another day of riotous fun, showered, got dressed and swanned into the living room where assorted family members were knocking back cocktails. I looked at the clock, which read 7:00 and exclaimed that even for me it was a bit early, to which they responded in unison “It’s 7:00pm.” Sunday.

I hate to think I’ve lost my zest for life. Without that I’m just some middle aged (if I live 128 years) self-absorbed sot. I guess that’s not so bad compared with being say an inmate at Gitmo who hasn’t got a snowball’s chance in Haifa of ever getting out of there. Or being married to Chris Christie. But last night whilst listening to the local news I was heartened by a couple of pieces. In one segment on the crime rate in New Orleans the perky newscaster, as a visual aid to the viewers, brought up her “Murder Map!” with a wide smile and a sweeping Vanna White arm movement. This was to help us better understand that some parts of town might be high on the dangerous to downright deadly scale. Areas similar to what our esteemed governor Bobby “Bobblehead” Jindal referred to as “no go zones” for non-muslims in certain parts of Birmingham England, a place to which he has never traveled.

The next bit was an even better mood lifter. A bombastic local pol, referring to his constituents’ outrage over too many turds on the sidewalk or something, told the reporter that “their hair was up in arms.”

A mixed metaphor of that caliber is an elixir for the soul. I think I’m on the mend.

OB&C and the egg

The other day the OB&C awoke with an overwhelming urge to start his day with a bit of Conecuh sausage, a slice of toast and a perfectly fried egg. He announced this as I was catching up on the latest beheading in the faint hope that I might get up and actually cook it for him. Realizing that this was highly unlikely he shuffled over to the refrigerator in search of some sausage and an egg. I personally subscribe to the old adage not to keep all of your eggs in one basket. Therefore, I keep the uncooked poultry ova in a country-cute basket (which would be the envy of every woman who has a mountain house and loves gingham and bear motifs) and I give any hard boiled eggs free range (better late than never) and scatter them haphazardly around the fridge. Seems like a pretty straightforward arrangement, but the OB&C’s steel trap of a mind operates on an entirely different plane. Perhaps you remember a prior post regarding his tendency to “overthink.” In willful ignorance of my system of ovapartheid he opened the fridge door and peered intently at the contents, mulling over his strategy. He then eased into a crouch and cautiously clawed his way into its deepest recesses, threading his arm through a maze of outdated jams, jars of pickled okra, sardine cans, molding olives, pigs knuckles, a small packet of mouse feces (don’t ask), odd bits of cheese and several containers of earthworms, bypassing the basket of eggs that was smack in his face. Finally he pried out one lone egg and like the archaeologist who has succeeded in his ultimate quest to unearth the fabled tomb of King Salami Salami Boloney, triumphantly held it aloft as if it were some priceless artifact.

After all that exertion he decided he’d better calm down and read a few of the endless adolescent emails middle aged men send to one another. After perusing a few of these soporifics he was finally up to cooking a bit of sausage and popping a piece of bread into the toaster. Now, the piece de resistance, an egg fried to perfection! He gently picked up his egg that had required such an herculean effort to procure and with a flourish cracked it on the edge of the skillet. I had been monitoring his laborious pursuit of the egg closely, anticipating this moment when, like Wiley Coyote falling off the cliff, the OB&C would come down to earth with a thud. He turned the egg over in his hand and examined it carefully. Slowly he turned to me with a look of amazement mixed with despair and declared “This egg is hardboiled!”

“Yes it is.”

what the follywood?

MJE volunteered to let some film students shoot a short movie in her house for two days this weekend. If I knew then what I know now I might have been a bit more cautious. I’d been told there’d be 8-10 kids, turned out more like 15-20, all with endless needs and bottomless stomachs. They arrived at about 7:45am in a fleet of cars, a UHaul truck filled with gear and toting a bag of bagels. They set up a little food table outside, followed immediately by what would become standard operating procedure. Would I happen to have a toaster? Hot coffee? Sugar? Cream? Soy milk? Lox? Eggs benedict? I cooked enough lunch to feed the homeless population of San Francisco and even that wasn’t quite enough. One of the vegetarians requested a meat free tomato sauce for the spaghetti and followed that with a hope that I would accommodate the glutenophobics in the group. “Listen kiddo, tell those cretins that tomatoes don’t have gluten and not to eat the goddam pasta.” Capiche?

But there’s more! Would I happen to have sheers for the windows to filter the light? And tape. Batteries, a smallish statue in the style of Jane Austen, a lighter, extension cord, tweezers, pliers, a cordless drill (sorry, why do you need that?) magic markers, white board markers, zip lock bags, rubber bands, toothpicks, staplers, Xanax. Would I happen to have an old timey- looking file box, and files? And a dark and scary place to “hide” them? How about some firecrackers or maybe an air horn to scare off the birds who were making too much birdish noise. Could I also turn off the heat and AC, too noisy. How about unplugging the fridge, ditto. I watched aghast as five kids struggled to carry a massive dolly upstairs and damn near had to knock back a double nerve steadier on the spot. Fortunately I’d carried around my coffee cup all day to maintain my composure. Ever the perceptive smartass, Bandoleira-Saturnalia remarked “Whatever you’ve got in that cup I know for sure it’s not coffee.”

Between moments of hyperactivity there stretched eons when the kids slouched all over the house, feet up happily clacking away on their little devices. Or alternately tipping back in my tiny French dining chairs or hunching over the 18^thc table which they covered with spiral notebooks, wads of production notes, assorted writing implements and clunky bits of equipment. At one point I spied an open bottle of acetone and could have won the olympic100 meter dash with the my sprint to grab it.

They hired a third rate hack and flew him in from LA to play the main character. He neglected to tell them that he was hypoglycemic and needed to sit down and eat every 15 minutes (which adds up when he works for eight hours and not a minute longer) and couldn’t tolerate the cold. And he was deaf. In one scene he was to come in from the porch and it took the entire houseful of people screaming his name to get him to open the door and make his entrance.

He chewed so much scenery that I thought he was going to collapse after every take. The student actor they hired for the second character was clearly not ready for primetime either. Between the two of them there wasn’t a moment when there weren’t tears of every stripe: streaming tears, tears being choked back, desperately squeezed out tears, tears being wiped away. When they did manage to be dry eyed they delivered their dialogue at a decibel level to rival the sounds of the munition explosions wafting over from Parris Island where they probably heard it and wondered what all the weeping and wailing was about.

When Ethyl Merman belted out that there’s no business like show business I get it.

fuzzwords

MJE is bewildered as to why perfectly good words in the King’s English are abandoned and replaced with flaccid alternatives. It’s as though the entire American populace is trapped in a perpetual yoga class. I wonder whether the same phenomenon is occurring in other cultures and languages. If you find out please shoot me a soothingly worded note.

There are any number of egregious examples but these are some of my favorites, meaning the ones I hate the most.

“Be mindful.” Does that translate into paying attention, like the recording on the subway that tells you to “mind the gap.” The last time I heard that bit of verbal dryer lint it was uttered by a humanoid blessed with the mind of a gopher.

“Be present.” Does that mean not being absent? Well if you’re there you are obviously present, and if you’re not you are absent. The benefit of being absent is that you are out of earshot.

“Stay in the moment .” It’s only 60 seconds, do you really need a reminder? Plus, isn’t that a conundrum? If you are consciously making an effort to stay in the moment then by that very action you are in fact outside of the moment?

“Get in touch with your feelings.” Frankly, I have no idea what the hell that means.

“Start a conversation” That used to mean extending your hand and introducing yourself to someone and trying to find a topic which you and your new pal can discuss. Like, “Is it just me or does Mitch McConnell look exactly like a turtle?” which you could follow up with “and don’t you think that guy, Mike Pence the governor of Illinois, the one with the white hair has SS officer written all over him.” Now that’s what I call starting a conversation.

“Reach out.“ The lyrics to “Reach Out I’ll be there” by the Four Tops immediately come to mind. “Come on girl, reach out for me, and I’ll be there with a love that will pull you through.” I don’t guess that’s what he means when some television bobble head intones “we reached out” to the head of the terrorist group El Kabob regarding its recent beheading of a hapless American tourist stupid enough to be wandering around Syria but did not receive a reply.

“Unpack.” Often used in conjunction with the following as the first of a two part process of newsgathering.

“Drill down.” After you have “unpacked” it is then necessary to “drill down.” Get it?

I am deeply disappointed to hear even veteran newscasters use this term, trying to appear hip and appeal to the all-important 20-30 year old demographic.

Yo, geezer news nation! Those guys are not watching you, they get their news from John Stewart. Duh.

twelfth night, the lord of misrule and the art of the “get up”

Twelfth night, January 6, is traditionally when the guilt and anxiety-provoking season celebrating the birth of the lord of peace ends and the freewheeling, rowdy, drunken reign of the lord of misrule begins, culminating in the bacchanalia of mardi gras. But then, dontcha know the very next day, Ash Wednesday the old wet blanket’s back and we all have to feel really guilty about how much fun we’ve been having without him around and repent, hard time. And lent is even longer than the xmas season, or at least it used to be, until walmart decided it starts the day after the 4^th of July.

Once again we can thank those fab pagans for another christian custom. They celebrated 12^th night (or thereabouts) too except they called it Saturnalia, which is what I would have named my first child if I’d known then what I know now. And in various cultures through the ages it has been ruled by the aforementioned LOM, or in France “le prince des sots” (of which I am particularly fond) or the Abbot of Unreason in Scotland (boring). Whatever the moniker, come twelfth night she (okay, maybe he) reigned over the Feast of Fools (which is what I am calling the cassoulet I am making for dinner, for it is truly a fool’s errand, longer and more intense than a 12 step program but with a really good meal at the end). During the rule of the LOM, the proper nature of things are turned on their heads, or kicked in their asses, depending on your point of view. Peasants rule the kings, slaves their masters, etc. and during this period the LOM has the power to command anyone to do anything her fickle mind comes up with.

My fickle mind came up with a bash to celebrate the season and commanded all the guests to create a “get up” for the evening. A “get up” is familiar to anyone from New Orleans. It is not a costume, it is an improvised fanciful sartorial creation. However, most of my dinner guests hail from lands far far away from New Orleans and trying to explain what it meant was nigh on to impossible, like asking Helen Keller to sing an aria from La Traviata. So just as Annie Sullivan, Helen’s teacher, had to start somewhere, I began with goodwill. No not that kind. The goodwill store. So we made a journey over to the land where dreams are born.

There are not words to describe the vast sea of possibilities. Every one funnier than the one before. The other patrons, seeing us sobbing in hysterics underneath the mens’ pants rack probably just took us for employees having a little setback on our road to recovery. In the end we walked out with, among other things, one choir robe, three sets of “drapery sheers”, some furry stuff, a lab coat, a tiny necktie, a pair of men’s white slip-on shoes with a huge gold logo, a couple of appropriately gaudy polyester shirts and a pair of silky maroon double knit leisure pants.

And so the LOM has decreed: Let the “get up” games begin.

no nappies

Can you believe it, 2014 just up and came and went. MJE is trying to remember if anything of note happened over the past 12 months and all I can think of is that I am still above ground. I guess that’s better than the alternative, although there have been moments when I’m not so sure. Like when Decibelle lets loose that earsplitting howl, which unfortunately would probably still be audible in the hereafter. Talk about bum luck, totally dead but not totally deaf. The OB&C doesn’t have that particular problem, he’s deaf as a post already. I swear, I’ll say something like “Want a cup of coffee?” and he’ll say “Why in the hell would I want to waddle clay in a coffin?” And it is only downhill from here. Why just yesterday some friends and I frittered away what could have been a productive day on a long walk, and somehow got onto the subject of the appropriate time to have “The Talk” with one’s beloved. You know, the big one. The trickling sands of time, red sails in the sunset talk. When you look back on your long winding journey together, the successes, the disappointments, the tedium, and confront the reality of the waning years. The time to finally share with your life partner your most deeply held conviction.

“Just so you know, I am not changing any diapers.”