So bad .... so true

I was just forwarded this by a friend in a red state. I don't know whether to laugh or cry.

I hate [over-testosteroned] coworkers

It's the same with every male who sees all of life's tasks as an opportunity to prove how big their sack is.

Last Tuesday I was greeted by an e-mail in my company inbox alerting me to the fact that I had not yet turned in stats for the month of August:

Brian,
August Stats? – Routinely asking for a routine responsibility is something I do not relish.
-J/M

Just so the back story is clear, at my program I wear many hats that are commonly worn by at least four people in other [similar]ageny programs: Coordinator, Operations Mangager, Secretary, and ADL Specialist. For whatever reason, as time passes this list of responsibilities becomes longer and longer. The result is that new tasks may take a bit to become integrated into my routine. Such is the case with this census.

Weighing the options of addressing the author of this e-mail directly or reporting it to our administrator, I decided that the best option would be to forward the e-mail with an explination of my error to our boss and let it play out in her office.

Soon after recieving the forwarded message, my boss called and appologized for the condescending tone of my co-workers e-mail. As an administrator, she is very effective in chanelling criticism in an effective way so I was confident when she told me that she would address the situation. I voiced my concern that the feedback I recieved from Mr. Condescending is counter-effective and pointed out that this is the second time since June that I have received such treatment from this specific co-worker; the first being the hateful comment: " I just don't understand why Gays had to take a great English word to identify with. I mean Lesbians made up their own word, now I can't use the word gay without sounding like a bigot. Get your own word." Right. The gays made you a bigot. And lesbians made up the word. Right. Great logic Mr. Robertson.

I digress.

I became aware on the following Thursday that Mr. Testosterone had received a tongue lashing from the Boss-lady. The result was him storming off and hitting another co-worker's parked car in the company lot. Karma is a real bitch and her timing is impeccable because this little deboccle prevented him from addressing my whistle blowing. Until yesterday.

I was high on anxiety when he asked me to stop by his office. I was expecting something along the lines of an appology. I should've realized it was too much to ask from a man so chock full o' testosterone that he can shit standing up.

What I recieved was: "Brian... I was suprised when I found out that you had forwrded that e-mail to LM. You always claim to hate passive-agressive tactics. What you have effectively done is made it nessecary for me to go directly to LM everytime that I find you not doing your job."

When I picked my jaw up off of the floor, I let the a-hole know why I thought the e-mail was offensive and why I had made the decision to involve our administrator. His reply: "Well, not even speaking as a manager or co-worker, some advice that I can give you is to grow thicker skin." He then proceded to explain to me what sarcasm was and that it was not the intention of his original message to be sarcastic, followed by the editorial that the method of education of which I am a product ("touchy-feely") is slowly being shown to be ineffective.

So it looks like growing a thick skin is the only answer.

I think, had my blood pressure increased anymore, that my heart may have exploded. Instead of continuing to talk to this brick wall, I let him know that we should agree to disagree.

What I didn't say: "Everyone here hates you because you're a pompass asshole whose 'experiential' anecdotes are the reason you've been stuck in middle management you entire life!"

The more I revist the conversation in my head, the more I am tempted to file the formal complaint that I didn't when he made the "gays" comment.

It's scary to have people in the world that are full of themselves they fail to see other ways of doing things. Very scary.

I like prudes because I am one?

Ever get the feeling: "you're taking yourself way too seriously"?

(waits applause of agreement to die down)

One of the most painful things that any ex-beau has ever called me was "uptight." After cleaning the blood off of my hands and sinking his (scrawny and sexually inadequate) body in Lake Erie, I resolved to never be seen in such an unflattering light again. Or at the very least, to never aligned with those that may be described as pretentious/uptight/boring.

MAN-0-MAN! Way easier said than done. For whatever [tragic] reason, I am not only attracted to men who seem to take themselves too seriously, I fall into character like the helpless woman on a Lifetime Movie of the Week of your chosing. The result is the same in every movie and it's the same in every one of my relationships: A very close friend becomes alienated and I hole up trying to figure out what it was that I did wrong to make such a great, grounded, serious-about-life guy decide that I'm NOT the one.

I am not this serious, seriously uptight person that boring (albeit, cute) boys have the ability to turn me into.

Am i?

I am reminded of an incident at a bar not too long ago where an attractive and overly "popular" man who was what would be effectively interpreted as "flirting" asked me, "You don't really take yourself that seriously, do you?" So I proved him wrong. (read: a roll in the hay)

Maybe I do take myself seriously. Maybe this is why I so frequently find myself in [bed] with stoic and humorless men. Maybe I surround myself with enough friends that DON'T take anything serious.

For example, while writing introductions for the members of a wedding party of an upcoming wedding, my cowriter and I were met with numerous roadblocks because the targets of our very funny descriptions would be too uptight to know that it is a fucking joke. As a result, the funny-because-it's-true descriptions hit the cutting room floor.

Ah, it's the little things - At least i'm not as uptight as the Bride's sister.

Anti-choice for a cause

Fridays, as I pass the Planned Parenthood I am angered to the edge reason. It takes every ounce of my rational will to keep from crossing the white line taking out an anti-choice protester with my small but willing Chevy Aveo.

And each Friday I have a silent monologue about what I would say to the protesters who make it nessecary to place a wrought iron fence around a health care clinic. As if the penitentiary fence isn't imposing enough, protesters attack anyone passing through the gates; they shout slanderous and religious banterg, displaying signs that are far more offensive than anything Howard Stern is joking about on my car stereo.

Each time, I think of the words to an Ani song that relates the horror she felt passing through a scene such as this. I was intrigued to see what would follow when Dana quoted the words that play in my head every Friday. Kudos to Planned Parenthood for finding the silver lining to these damaging anti-choicers.

The link in Dana's blog is for a clinic in Philly. I was unable to find out if each Planned Parenthood location is having there own pledge drive, but I figure that helping out one clinic is better than helping none - not to mention legal (when the other option is running anti-choicers over with your car). A simple search on the corportate webpage should give you answers to a local clinic and their participation in this fundraiser. If they aren't participating, send them a note and let them know you're interested.

It may just become reality.

I can't help but think that this era in American history is playing out like a biblicly influenced Shakepaerean comedy.

The faux election of our story's antagonist, Georege W., in 2000 was an apt start to the story of the decade to follow. The plot seems almost a product of intelligent design; the right wing pundits hiding behind the curtian much like the Wizard in L. Frank Baum's version of Orwell-ian fascism.

The tragic, but arguably orchestrated, timing of the "attack" on NYC and the American economic base was the first of many plot twists that would eventually be spun into just cause for [military]action taken to further advance the ideals, morals, and trust funds of those responsible for the 2000 electoral folley. In cunning fashion usually reserved for the New York Time's Bestseller List and soundstages in Hollywood, the auteurs of this decade instilled a fear system, color-coded for palatability, that allowed them to smoke and mirror their way into a middle eastern country rich with oil and just enough political unrest to make their democratic "intentions" resemble that beacon of light portrayed in political illustrations circa WWI/II (you know - the ones found in high school history/propaganda texts).

Cut to a dark alley somewhere in D.C.: The American media is picking up new manuscripts and a paycheck from the US goverment. For dramatic effect, the check is signed with the blood of thousands of US soldiers and the novelty slogan "Freedom isn's free" printed below on the memo line.

Of course, poetic license allows the designers of our story to edit the coverage given to those opposing Bush's administraion. The protests on the DC mall, the returning soldiers speaking out against the war, and the sub-culture of internet information are likely to hit the cutting room floor.

Enabled by the brilliant Homeland Security policy of never actually allowing the terror level to drop below yellow, Americans agree "unanimously" to turn the government into a paternal power in the name of safety and patriotism. This false sense of hope gives our antagonist free reign to cut taxes [for the wealthy], cut health care initiatives [for the poor], enact [christian] moral implications into constitutional law, win/rig another election, and modify (read: abolish) laws that protect the environment in order to rebiuld American industy (read: increase revenue without increasing jobs). All of this effortlessly done while vacationing at one of his family's million acre estates.

Along the way we see short montages of nepatism, including the revelation that a government actor/porn star was planted among the reporters in the breifing rooms of the White House. As a soundtrack that includes Bob Dylan protest songs played in the background, we witness the previously "unbiased" media begin to turn on the hand that once fed it fearing that this "plant" has somehow put their position on the lap of US government in jeopardy.

Enter the anti-hero of our generation: Cindy Sheehan - the proverbial pea in the wavering stack of matresses that our president had been lying upon.

As the story begins to unravel, we begin to see that the emperor isn't wearing any clothes. Fueled by the fear of not knowing where their next meal is coming from, a new generation of media seems to be coming forward to report the discrepancies evident in the Republican government. Coverage touts Sheehan as a great American hero and thousands of citizens are now visable in their protests.

As Bush and Co. ignore "Camp Sheehan", the screen fades to black.

We hear wind and rain and screams.

In quick, dramatic fashion via NBC's must see favorite "ER", we are given glimpses of what appears to be a hurricaine sweeping through a beloved and secretly poverty-stricken American city.

In the ensuing weeks, stones are thrown from both ends of the bipartisan arena; And in geurilla reporting not seen since Vietnam, Americans are force fed the facts that Uncle Sam and the uni-partisan government aren't the people they seem to be - the wizard behind the curtain is not actually a wizard at all.

Heads roll, lipservice is paid, and just as it seems blame for Katrina is being securely placed into the hands of the local government of New Orleans and homosexuals around the country (read: Ellen Degeneres), a storm slowly fueld by the politically warmed waters of the Gulf threatens to evoke an answer to a question that has been but a whisper in many social circles since Katrina touched down and destroyed the socioeconomic equivalent of America's black sheep:
"What would have been the reaction of the government if this region had been a region full of upper middle class anglo-saxon christian conservatives?"

It seems the longer the story goes on the more cautious we should be with rhetorical ideas.

Since 2000, we have been victims of a power hungry leader and a room full of his extremely talented script-writers. I am afriad to ask the questions now floating around in my head, because although they seem to be a step behind on many things, the once-fictional images found on the golden screen and words once limited to the pages of the Bestseller List are, unquestionably, only a scene or a page turn away for the good old boys writing the history of this decade.

My heart goes out, in a period of impending destruction, to those about to live through the most immediate horrors of three more years in a story that has become just too gruesome to watch, yet just scary enough to be the reality of this Bush era.

At the time of this posting, Hurricaine Rita is trucking along at 140+ MPH on a direct course for the western Gulf coast of Texas and surrounding areas already hammerred by Katrina. My thoughts are with all of those in that area (including those at Rita Blogapalooza).

Better times are ahead.

Hopefully Bush's auteurs will catch wind of that rhetoric.

Truth

I was reading the witty observations over at I Moved You Cheese, Moron and couldn't help but smile at the implications her new policy would have:

Not to knock estrogen , but ....

...I'm glad to not have any [measurable] amount of it coursing through my veins.

For the past few days I have been paying extra close attention to my health. Long story short, I have been having chest pains and have been waking up at night due to shortness of breath. Suspecting (as all hypochondriacs do) that I was having multiple, daily heart attacks, I went to my wonderfully compliant/accomodating doctor last wednesday and he ordered a stress test and blood work in order to find a cause of the symptoms. And in case we're dealing with something a sinister, he also ordered me to stop running for the time being. Eager to get my running shoes back on, I scheduled the tests ASAP.

Yesterday I had a Stress-echo test. Basically they made me run and run and run and then quickly lie on my side while they took sonographic pictures of my heart. It was quite painless and from my [limited] knowledge of what the human heart looks, sounds, and functions like, things looked relatively normal. The lasting effect of this test will most likely be the four patches of chest hair that were shaved to make space for the diodes; My chest hair is a very odd creature in that it doesn't always grows back after shaving. (see: patch that has been missing since that diving-into-very-shallow-ocean incident).

Today was the blood work portion of the battery that Doc. Bergenstock had ordered. Arriving at 7:45am, I signed in as instructed and took my place among a room full of females aged 30-50 years old. Before I was called at 8:45 for my 8:15 appointment, I was witness to no less then five women storming the receptionist's window demanding answers to questions like "Why haven't I been called yet?", "What's the point of making an appointment?", and, my favorite "How long does it take to draw blood!?"

What a scene these women were making! And no doubt their uproar and constant barrage of interruptions was contributing to the back-up.

There is something to be said for patience. There is also something to be said for self control. I won't lie by saying that I wasn't a little ticked about being made to wait an extra thirty minutes, but thankfully I was able to control myself and become immersed in the entertainment that was undoubtedly caused by the increased levels of estrogen in such a small room.

Now, lest I put my foot in my mouth, I hope that the tests of the past few days rule out estrogen [at the least] as the catalyst for my recent symptoms.

Absentee

I feel guilty.

Like an absentee landlord.

Like a parent that works late hours and forgets to pick up little Johnny after school.

There are so mant thoughts that pass in a 24 hour span that seem like they may may good fodder for this blog, but for one reason or another I never get around to documenting them, and by the time I actuall sit down to write, those things are not relavent to me or anyone else. I guess I can thank DSL and Cable TV for my irreversably affected attention span.

54

Not to be an alarmist, but it's 12:30 pm, do you know where your senator is?

do you see what i see?

Am I the only one willing to comment on the fact that our President was on television last night, addressing the country in a button down, pseudo jean shirt?

Is the rest of the nation buying this facade of him being knee deep in shit and corpses? I'm sorry, but this man has been knee deep in both of those things for a very long time, and the fact that he has resorted [again] to what is essentially a tv costume is further evidence that he will hide behind anything!

I hate him! Where are those snipers and looters when you need them?

And can we please hear something about the military rule that has taken over this region. I hear echoes of checkpoints and roadblocks ... can you say Bagdad? I'd hate to be another liberal accused of drawing similarities for politic's sake, but come on. Look at the pictures:



Can you pick out which one is the civilized nation?

File under:

So, the dude from about a month back that was having severe mixed signal issues has struck again.

Being that we are collegues, we're destined to see each other at least once a month for as long as we are at our respective jobs. Yesterday was one of those days. And like any normal human being I was looking forward to how both he and I would react given that the first time we were to see each other [since he decided to stop calling me] would be in a room with fifteen other collegues.

A few things: man-o-man did he look good! And god dam it!!! I HATE when they look good! In a perfect world, they would age ten years, gain thirty - not wait -- forty pounds, and have given up on routine bathing. Instantly I know that this isn't going to play out like any of the senarios that I had created in my head.

Boy was I WAY off.

He, dressed to the nines in a business suit, gallops across the room to where I was seated and proceeds to reach out shake my hand and proclaim [loud enough for the entire room to notice]: "HI, Brian. It's good to see you." I, and everyone in the room, was speechless. There may be a god and she may like me, becauase a fellow board member jumped in to save me from whatever I may have said. (Which would probably fall somewhere in the eat-shit-and-die genre.)

Not only did he look like a complete idiot, he tried to make matters worse by continuing down the table and shaking the hand of everyone -- like he was running for public fucking office! Although, driving home from that meeting I was able to find the humor, in that momennt I was FUMING. I mean, who the hell does this guy think he is?

Anyway.

So today, like the fool that I am, I sent him an e-thank-you-card: something along the lines of: "thanks for making an ass out of yourself yesterday. it put my crappy day into perspective." To which he replies:

"I was going to kiss you but was not sure if you would kiss me back! I am happy to have have brightened your day at the expense of looking like an idiot! Please know that I am also available for hire to perform at birthdays, weddings and re-unions!

Seriously - it was good to see you yesterday Brian. I really missed you! I had forgotten how cute you are. I hope you are having a good week. Maybe we can do something sometime soon?? Was not sure if you were mad or not."

ARE YOU KIDDING ME!? Can you say narcacist?

I guess you can file this one under clueless-asshole-that-would-not-know-sacrasm-if-it-punched-him-in-the-face-and-raped-his-mother.

not missing a thing

I have formed the new habit of watching TV in bed.

Before I am judged for allowing Satan into my boudoir, let me explain why this has been allowed.

Until about two weeks ago I lived alone and being that i own only one television, the box was found in the living room. Now that my roommate has a splendid new flatscreen HD box, it is in the living room and my faithful box has found a new home at the foot of my bed.

As a general rule, I'm not a big TV guy. Sure, I like football and Desperate Housewives, but I limit myself to about 4 hours a week. However, having the beast in my room FORCES me to flip channels until i fall asleep. And, as I am an insomniac and infomercial-phyle, the flipping sometimes continues into the wee hours of the morning.

The point is, in the year since I've last bedded down with a tv, not much has changed except for the increased visibility of pseudo-democrats on MSNBC and FOX. Prior to Katrina I remember tuning straight to HBO or Comedy Central to meet my liberal needs, tuning to FOX and MSNBC only to "keep thine enemies closer". Now I'm a realist so I realize the networks are just paying lipservice to the neglect that resulted in the situation on the gulf. But nonetheless (cast in whatever light) it's alway nice to see family on tv. (See: the time i was filmed walking out of the library for a piece on the local news.)

And since I seem to be taking an inventory of lessons learned in my past relationships, I prefer hitting the hay with pseudo-liberals rather than the three or four gay conservatives that, for the past year, have filled the void where a TV should have been.

a new stage

At the tender age of twelve I recieved a Sony Walkman for my birthday. This was an important event for a number of people and reasons.

For starters, my mom no longer had to listed to the music that fell outside of the genre which she most identified with (which I believe at that time was somewhere in the realm of Kenny G, Michael Bolton, and Meatloaf). The headphones served my mothers fanstasy that her boy had great taste in music. She imagined me listening to tunes that were both unobtrusive and wholesome - very unlike the music that I had begun to play on an increasingly regular basis: Prince, Guns&Roses, and various Pop/rock bands that were arguably better dancers tha musicians whil;e still managing to be 100% offensive to the over thirty crowd. I can only assume this also save my mom from explaing to visitors why she allowed her son to listen to Cher and prince at such high volumes -- or at all.

For me, the Walkman marked my metamophosis into a character actor, performer, and resident of a deep dark closet.

The privacy associated with the foam headphones granted me access to [flamboyant] artists such as INXS, George Michael, and Paula Abdul. As well, I was now allowed to take the elaborately self-choreographed performances from the practice studio known as my bedroom to the wider audience inside my head and the larger stage known as: "The field behind my house".

Before my mom came home from work, which she did religiously at 5:30pm each evening, I strapped on my headphones and took to the stage. It was a powerhouse show everynight; with performances by Madonna, [a dancing] Billy Joel, and the one man version of Ace of Base, it was Live Aid every night!

Now, I tell this story not as a reminder that I was fabulous even in my youth, but to highlight the fact that I have always been able to find an outlet for creative urges that may serve as an embarassment to those close to me. Although I have grown into my genre-bending taste in music, there are other aspects of my personality that i still stiffle with "headphones".

I have recently been having [characteristic] insomnia. I refuse to use the phrase 'sufferring from insomnia', because I see it as a blessing that I get a few extra hours to avoid missing the things I fear that I may miss if I were to go to bed at a decent hour each weeknight. Last night's insomnia resulted in me partaking in some naked time that I have been unable to practice in daylight hours due having a roommate.

Not only was I able to prance (is there any other way to walk without clothes on?) around the apartment naked, I was able to sit down at the dining room table and bang out four pages in my handwritten journal. How can I explain how rejeuvinated I felt? How can I put into words how cathartic it is to have been in a place that would have been uncomfortable for anyone to share with me, doing something that only my eyes would see, at an hour out of sync with the rest of the world?

I can say this ... you don't know what's in the journal and my roommate has no idea about this blog. Nudity is my new inspiration. Who knew what my mom would start when she paid $50 for that Walkman.

Thanks Sony.

china, here i come!

Finally, an answer to that question: "Where will I be if I dig a hole straight through the earth?"

Thanks M/A.

good news, bad news, news(?), and stupid shit i say when i drink whiskey.

"Always start with the good news."

Isn't that what they say? Who cares. I'm starting with the good news because i want to get it out of the way before it ruins my bad mood.

The good news is that -- ah fuck it. I was just going to make something up so that this wasn't just a bunch of me pissing and moaning, but I really don't care. If you need good news go somewhere else (i warn you that straightforeward good news may be neither as informative or entertaining as my bitter fag ranting).

Onto the "so good it must be fattening" stuff:

As if waiting for the first ninety minutes of my day in a [180 degree farenheit] City Hall office to kiss ass in the name of good politics wasn't humiliating enough, on the ride back to my office I was met by the news that Governor Terminator has vowed to protect the rights of heteros in California (read: continue to bend over for the big rich cock that is the right wing). Way to go Mr. Schriver! If only you had that kind of power in Canada and Spain you could have saved them from a societal crumble. I will stop there. I'm sure you can see where this is going.

Item number two: Jesse Bradford may be a straight!? Now, I plan to do my American duty of turning my head in opposition of this rumor. >>raises right hand<<

I vow to watch swimfan until i run out of tissues with the hopes that if there is a god, she will not allow my DNA to be wasted on yet another straight man.

(Amen.)

Three: what will bush do now that a good portion of the nation's poverty stricken will not be registering for the army due to other issues (read: loss of life and everything associated with it to a chick named Katrina)? Is it too early to be having ideas like this? Isn't it fact that the majority of boys and girls targeted for military recruiting are below the poverty level? I think I have read that somewhere, or maybe I'm just drawing from observation. The probable loss of future warriors of "democracy" should be enough to motivate George et al. Maybe not. That would require a certain amount of inductive thought. (i've also had the budding theory that our fearless leader isn't actually on the gulf coast at all: could all of this footage simple be a soundstage? There has to be a reason why rescue helicopters are being shot at while Bush can just waltz through without so much as a bad word thrown his way.)

And now the whiskey part:

Okay ... when was the last time that you, after drinking five [or ten] Jack & Cokes, professed to a former flame that you would like to get back together? (Man, I hope that at least one person is shaking their head in agreement with that statement.)

It's easy to believe that you can keep up this charade the morning after, but, my friends, you can't. Trust me. I have been avoiding said flame's phone calls for the past four days. I do intend to call and appologize for the Jack Daniels incident, the subsequent making out in the parking lot, and the irreparable damages caused by the alcohol induced promises of fidelity, but I think I may need a few shots first.

He should just stop calling and resolve to hate me (like I have resolved to never go to another Black Party in this town). That would save us both the $3.50 on coffee that we will inevitably have this conversation over. Problem solved (crosses fingers and hopes he reads this.)

whew! ok. back to work.

living situation

Recently, i moved into a new apartment with a friend. I sit her after our first rommate fight: where should we put the couch?

I think we should go for an asthetically pleasing arangement whereas she thinks we should go for ... well, something boring.

GRRRRRR. I hate having to share space [all of the time].

Flash back to reality: people without homes. Ah ... perspective is such a healer.

Why bother?

I spent most of this morning at planning meetings. Planning what, you ask?

Planing services that will help people who are at a societal disadvantage due to their HIV status. Planning fundraisers and transportation and support groups.

And I LOVE that part of my job. I love being on the front line and having my ideas heard and hearing the ideas of genuine thinkers.

What I hate that the people that we are advocating for treat what we do like something they deserve and they EXPECT all of their needs to be met ... and met immediately.

I am a die hard humanitarian. I am also a die hard believer in empowering people to help themselves. My beliefs are equal parts Darwin and Socialist. That said, I don't think anyone desrves anything more than what they earn, but i also think that everyone should have the same advantages.

It's times like these that I struggle with where to draw the line for services. Is that my call to make if I feel that able people are manipulating services which are the fruits of my hard labor, while at the same time using up resources that aren't garaunteed to be replenished? Where do we, as human service professionals cut the ties and let natural selection take over?

What about the guilt that follows when said individual dies because the only reason he was living in the first place was because of those ties? What about the people that have reduced access to those services that are dying on a daily basis because they don't know how to "work" the systems? Is that just Darwin?

Grrrr. I just get frustrated about the apathy in this country. Grrrrr.

The vacation that I didn't know that I needed.

After deciding a few weeks back that i would let the floodwaters of my feelings and thoughts flow onto this blog, i made the unspoken commitment to write SOMETHING on a regular basis. The thing is, this decision came at a time when inspiration was running low. (see: git down gurl, g'gead, git down).

Then, BAM!

Last Firday the world tragically lost another wonderfully uncomplicated person to HIV. Though, everyday, I work intimately with people advocating and educating regarding HIV, each related death is a "bring-you-to-your-knees" blow to the psyche - both personally and professionally. Throughout last weekend and the week that followed I was able to express myself in avenues apart from writing. I took a lot of time to concentrate on the living people that were/are still in my care. I also took a good look at how effective the system fighting HIV is and began tayloring my energy so that i was/am/continue reaching the right people effectively. (Which will hopefully catch on with my staff and continue to grow and be part of my legacy.)

And of coure: Katrina. High on a wave of anger at the current administration for lack of attention to HIV, i was exponentially irritated and saddened by the response to the natural destruction of an American legacy and the people that make that area famous for hospitality. We'll see where the next few months take us. I have hopes that this will shed light on an administration scarce of leaders and decision makers helping to blaze the way for true americans that will foster a new fad in politics: educated thinking.

It has been a week filled with reading and informing myself ... and crying until i couldn't breathe. I need to feel like i'm doing something. I need to feel like i'm talking everyday about the things that make me angry. I feel like i can get caught up in making myself so happy that i forget about the rest of humanity and the choice that i made two years ago to be an advocate for those who share my beliefs, feelings, and thirtst for equality, but do not share the access that i have to the catylists of change (money, education, drinking water, a t-cel count over 200).

So that's been my week. Sounds heavey, but i think i got through it with a mission and a renewed belief that one person can make some sort of change. And i have hope that the ripple effect works much better than "trickle down".

Thanks T-yank for lifting up the rock that i have been hiding under. Know that you have been a constant since 8/26. thanks.

oh ... and I did do one thing pleasurable this week:Coldplay live on 9/1. If you ever get a chance treat yourself. Those Brits have their shit together and they ROCK!

Good to be back.