Feline Warrior

There’s nothing, really, with the suicide theme, to be honest. I mean, there’s a thing, but then again, there’s not. It’s a wee thing if it’s a thing at all. {Forgive me, Professor D, for using “thing” so many times!}

You are wondering, “How do suicide and GW Bush relate to each other?” Well, there are many answers to that question. Or at least two that come to mind right now. One answer –the obvious one– is that one wishes, at times, that she were a Kevorkian niece. You know, some family ties can really pay off (just ask Dubya), and having a professional in the mix might be handy. And why die a slow and painful death under the Bush administration when Uncle Jack could send me to my maker in just a few drowsy moments?

{By the way, even though I am speaking of Dr. Kevorkian in a semi-humorous tone, I truly do admire him and believe in the work he did. Some day, when you are old enough to hear it, I will tell you my own Kevorkian story.}

So there’s that connection between suicide and Bush. And now that I think about it, having Dubya in charge of things around here is almost like assisted suicide, anyway. If you’re not a rich, white guy, that is. If you are a rich white guy, then you’re probably pretty stinkin’ happy right now and wish that someone would send me to my maker. To that I say, “WhatEVER!” {Note Valley Girl tone}

Another connection might be this: throughout our relatively short history, fine American folks have been taking off for other countries to avoid putting up with some of the crap that goes on around here. From James Baldwin and Gertrude Stein to Johnny Depp and a zillion others, people have said, “I’m not gonna take this anymore! Let’s head to France, where it’s more relaxed and the coffee is better.” So then the message, hidden though it may be, is that anyone sticking around is asking for it and basically signing up for a suicide mission.

These are just some of my thoughts on how the suicide-Bush connection might be made. Frankly, I just really liked the title, “ups and downs of suicide (burning bush)” and so I went with it. Sometimes a title is just a title, eh?

And no, I am not planning to take off for France or anywhere else. I have cats and it would be an enormous pain in the ass to have them quarantined for however long they make you do that. They’d be miserable and I’d be miserable, and our combined misery would chafe the buzzes of thousands of French people. I have too much stuff to be switching countries at this point in life. Visits, yes. Long-term or permanent moves, no. It is best for some of the discontented to stick around and yammer and holler and wave signs about in the air and blog and write essays and letters and shake their fists. Someone’s got to do it, right? Right.

Finally… and this is really away from the suicide-Bush thing… I do not hate my country. No. There are those who might interpret my words and actions as hatred, but they would be wrong. Those people don’t like anyone who thinks differently about, well, just about everything or anything! There are many events and policies that really stink, and that’s my opinion and even the opinion of many others. There are also many good events and policies, and far more than “many” good people, and so we hang on to those in order to maintain and build a better US. (That could be read as “US” as in “we,” or as “US” as in United States” - take your pick.)

Not agreeing with the government is hardly a new phenomenon. It’s always happened and it’s happening now. So snap out of it and listen up!

Aah, a fresh day with a fresh blog! What could be better? {Oh, world peace, a different president, more shoe sales…}

I work part-time, three days a week in the fiscal office on campus — the good people there deal with students who have various loans. One of the co-workers, who, just for kicks and giggles, we’ll call, “Lucifer,” is the Collections Man. If you went to my school on a loan, for example, and you haven’t paid it back, watch out, because Lucifer will be on your ass like a Pink Pony dancer on Jack Whittaker. (That’s a little local humor for you!)

So there I was today, at the front desk, innocently minding my own business, working on a project, when Lucifer came up to chat. You should know that he still cannot pronounce my name. It’s now a joke (to him) to say it like this: “Fran-ch-elbdleblde?” It’s supposed to be funny to me, too, but it’s really not, and I’m done trying to make him say it correctly.

In any case, he came up to chat with me, which was strange enough, seeing as how our “chats” thus far have been about the paper-eating copy machine located in the hall across from his office. His office would be the one with Rush Limbaugh screeching from the radio. Imagine how much I love making copies when Lucifer’s in.

So, me –innocent, minding own business– when Lucifer came up to chat. Somehow he had determined, by looking at me, that I am not “like that.” Here’s how it started: After asking me who my American Government professor is, not recognizing the name so asking for a description, {”he has a kind of fu-manchu beard thing, pony tail, favors those snappy little driving caps…”} and then frowning at the description, Lucifer said, “Don’t you think that people dress too casually these days? In my time we wore at least a tie with our shirts, even to college.” He interrupted himself to say , “You know, Fran-ch-elbdleblde {laughs}, I can tell that you’re not… like that, so I think I can talk to you about some things.”

{Me: HUH?!}

“What do you think about that? About how liberally people dress?”

“Well…” I had to think quickly, realizing that I need this job and literally cannot afford to get myself canned for being honest at this point in time. “What do you mean ‘liberally’?” Ask for more information, that’s how to get out of it, I thought. Maybe he’ll forget his idea while explaining himself.

“Oh, the kids and even the teachers here, they dress so liberally. Ratty jeans, tee shirts, tennis shoes - they don’t look like the kind of leaders we want for our country tomorrow, do they?” He leaned over the counter at me a bit, looking genuinely concerned.

“People do dress more casually than they did when I was a kid, it’s true,” I answered. “I remember when you’d get dressed up to go on an airplane or a train, for example.”

“Exactly!” Lucifer’s ruddy cheeks deepened in color. “And these people, these liberals, I can’t even stand that word, when people say it in connection with politics! It’s horrible!”

Now I had to think really hard because, frankly, I wanted to bonk him on the head like Little Bunny FuFu, but deep in my heart knew that violence is not the answer. Violent war is not the answer, not even little tiny wars with simple head-bonking.

“Do you really think that there’s a connection between liberal thinking and casual dressing styles?” I asked, hoping that my widened eyes looked to him like astonishment and not what they really were: the pressure of keeping my hands in my lap had caused my eyes to bulge out.

“Oh, absolutely! Those liberals, the way they think, they want to make this whole country casual! I want our country to return to being conservative - that’s why I’m a Republican,” he said proudly, not even considering for a speck of a moment that maybe I’m one of those evil liberals. “Everything is different, even the language. It disgusts me when I’m walking down the hall out there and hear one of those little girls {aka: female college students} use that four-letter word! That word has become… regular… usage… of the language… that people have!”

I was worried, just a smidge, that Lucifer was about to have one of those scary Right-Wing orgasms, right at the front desk - like the kind that Dubya has by the minute over his war. But I digress…

“It’s true that language has changed and that people dress more casually these days. But don’t you think that our whole society has changed over time? Look at daytime programming, for example — all those shows that feature people telling their deep dark secrets on national television. People are much less private about things these days. People seem to be casual in many areas of life.” That would be me trying to not exactly disagree but not agree, either.

“Oh, Fran-ch-elbdleblde, that’s just part of it. Those liberals are bringing the whole country down. Without saying their names, I will say that the last president and his wife brought the image of the White House down completely. Just trash!” I was afraid that he was getting closer to the ejaculation.

He continued,”Now, you look at the President and what’s her name? Laura Bush. She’s the best First Lady we’ve had since… I don’t know when. Isn’t she the greatest?”

{Me, thinking: Dear God in heaven, why have you forsaken me?!} “She seems very sweet. Very interested in literacy,” I manage.

“Yes, yes!” he cried, ruddy cheeks now an almost-plum color. “She was a lie-bear-ean, you know! Yes, a lie-bear-ean! And didn’t go on her first date until she was 30-years old!”

Aah, yes — I recalled the Christian-fundamentalist-Right-wing-conservative virgin fetish. {”Just Say No” motto replacement: “Virgins At Any Age!”}

“Did you know that I once met the President’s mother, Barbara Bush, in person?” Of course he had no way of knowing this, but I threw it into the mix, hoping to steer this conversation towards meeting the mothers of famous people… or something… anything… else.

“She’s great! And a lie-bear-ean, Laura!” It became clear that Lucifer was following his own version of this chat, and I wondered if he thinks of Laura Bush bending over a book cart while having sex with his wife. Ewww, gross.

“Well.” I’d now moved down to one-word statements that have no meaning.

“Now, I’m not going to ask you what religion you are,” he said, “but I’m guessing Catholic” {pause, wait for acknowledgement from me that does not come and then…} “and so you know how important it is to dress nicely when you go to church. Why would you dress any differently at college?”

“Gee, I don’t know. Maybe people spend long hours on campus and feel they learn better when they’re dressed comfortably.” I was straining to stay with the tour but not pay too close attention to the guide.

“It just wasn’t like that when I was in college. Now, my people were farmers, and after working in the fields, they would come in, clean up, and put on nice clothes again - just for supper! That’s how we did it! Country people are just like that.” This is a fact, apparently, even though it does not quite jive with my own experiences with “country people.” And either way, who gives a fluffy rat’s ass how people dress for dinner in their own homes?

“Yes, these liberals,” he continued, “they’re trying to bring the whole country down and it’s just awful.”

“Wow, that’s a pretty powerful statement,” I replied, as I tried to will my eyes back into their sockets while nearly pulling my fingers from their rightful place on my hands.

“Powerful, that’s true. I just wish our country would be conservative. Things would be a lot better. Well, Fran-ch-elbdleblde, I’m glad we had a chance to talk. I just wanted to talk to you about conservatism a little bit.”

And off he went, back to his office, where his good buddy Rush Limbaugh was, no doubt, spouting diarrheic fountains of idiocy.

Well. I was sure that I’d sent Naomi and a few others more fascinating email from my first days of school, but apparently I did not. Only two old posts are included here, since it would be dishonest to make things up and give them old dates. (But I considered it!)

I’m working on an essay right now (taking a break to write this, obviously) about one of my professors and I’ll post that when it’s all edited and such. It’s for my English class but about the speech professor. I’ve discreetly named her “Professor Lily White,” and the story is about her lessons in racism, homophobia and stereotyping. Truly a how-to lesson! No, i am not making that up!

Here I am in West Virginia, where no “h” will go unpronounced and being openly racist in class is just jim-dandy for the professors!

AlterNet: Bush’s Other Lies

Great article, but one pauses to wonder {pause–pause–pause} if David Corn isn’t pointing out the obvious.

I’m kidding, don’t throw your empties at me! It’s nice to have so many of the lies catalogued and in one tidy place. Makes it easier for me when pointing out the obvious to others.

MmHmm.

Yahoo! News - Bush Defends Change in Environmental Rules

Please someone, stop the madness! There is no foresight here, this man cannot see beyond his nose. First sends our people marching into Iraq, starts a big huge deadly fight, then with a finger up his nose, realizes he don’t have a PLAN. Or friends. Or anyone who is nodding approvingly. Oy, vey!

Now our boy Bush is lifting everything but common sense (which is soon to be outlawed, just you wait and see) and saying, “Hey, polluting corporations! Go ahead, pollute! ‘Sno big deal, ’cause, see, we’ll be helping the economy!” Except for the part where hundreds or thousands of citizens will develop pollutant-related illnesses which they won’t be able to have properly treated because they can’t buy medicine from Canada where the prices are regulated, and those very same medications are ridiculously priced in the USA!

And is this war not the priciest hard-on you’ve ever witnessed?! Puh-leeze! Why can’t Dubya visit one of the public bathrooms at Dupont Circle (in NW Washington, DC) and wank off with some boys? Wouldn’t that save lives and money and good air and… Well, you get the picture. It’s just about more than I can stand. It really is.

ARG!

This is the first in my old school girl posts. Naomi asked me to keep a weekly journal of the adventures of my return to college and I am following her directions!

I’m not really “old school” so much as I’m old(er) and going back to college to finish up a degree that, by the time it’s wrapped up, will have taken somewhere in the 22-year range.

Of course, I haven’t been in school all this time, silly! In fact, the last time I was a full-time student, the year was 1979. There were no CD’s yet, MTV had not yet aired, and ecstasy was still something that you experienced with a really intense orgasm… or a good ice cream cone. Either/or. (I can say that I’ve now had all manner of ecstasy, including the illegal kind, and it’s still a toss-up as to which is the better choice!)

In any case, here it is, the beginnings of something. I may add my posts to Naomi here, for posterity. You know, keep things in one tidy place and all of that. And now, old school girl really must go to sleep, so that she’s prepared for a full day at college tomorrow!

It seems to me that one of the biggest downsides of suicide is that you don’t get to observe the effects of the deed. So many people must imagine, at some point in the planning of their own demise, that alarming moment of discovery; the pain and agony that their untimely end will bring to those left behind must flash magnificently in his or her mind.

I’m not talking so much about the evil thought, “Ha-ha! Now they’ll be sorry!” because I really think that’s cliche. Think about it - there’s no glamour in such a quip. No, there must be at least one rich scene played out in the mind of the suicidal one; something like watching an overly dramatic play, wherein a note is read, tears are shed, hands wrenched, and so forth.

But alas, even those dramatic scenes played out in the mind prior to suicide are dismally sad because, as is clear at least to me, there will be no balcony seat from which to watch (smugly, perhaps) the aftermath of the suicide. Maybe the joy of the suicide is in knowing that it’s over –life, pain, a certain situation, something– and not really in the observation of reactions to the findings. By “findings” I mean a body, hanging, perhaps, or with wrists shredded red, or appearing to be asleep but really cold and dead. Or even the colorful yet horrifying brain matter spattered about a room, the top of a head blown off. You see my point, though.

The other big –perhaps bigger– downside of suicide is that there are no second chances. Whatever was wrong cannot be set right because it’s over, that life is done. There are no balcony seats for observation purposes and there is no encore or second act. Once you draw that curtain shut, it does not open again.

In my film appreciation class, we are seeing “Cinema Paradiso,” which, believe it or not, I saw when it came out. In… 1989…?! We have to see it in 2 parts because the class isn’t long enough to see it whole, but it’s amazing to me how bored these kids act! Maybe they really aren’t and just have to act that way (but why…??) - either way, they’re a bunch of goofballs.

Oh, and this skinny girl (oh, like THAT tells you which one I could be talking about!) was telling the prof after class, “I had a really hard time following it because who is Sal-vuh-torry and who is TOTO? It’s so confusing!” I thought the professor was going to belt her across the mouth, but she restrained herself, much to my chagrin.

Naturally, I was weepy when the lad was pulling Alfredo from the fire. I did it the first time and I did it again.

Next week we see “Citizen Kane.”

Technically, my degree is in Communications. My covert degree is, of course, “Observation of Youthful Undergrads: Beyond the Tongue Ring.” My thesis will focus on the correlation between the shrinking bodies of youthful undergrads in direct relation to their lack of knowledge of (or interest in) the world beyond the body piercings that decorate their emaciated frames.

MmHmm.

Yes, it’s grand. I’m taking one class, an English class, in which I will get to do some writing, so that’s good. And the professor, who is younger than my oldest compact disc, now shares knowing glances with me. She has seen that she cannot outsmart or outwit me, so she’s decided to play nice with the grownup lady in her class.

And yet some of the kids –I mean, my fellow students– seem to have no clue that I’m their parents’ age. I think my youthful appearance and general lack of maturity in some areas has them fooled. Oh, they don’t think I’m their age, but they don’t think I’m 40. (Hell, I don’t think I’m 40!)

Mostly they are cool. In the English class, I’m making friends with the lad who always (after two weeks, it’s already “always”) sits behind me. Sean (that’s “Se…” not “Sh…”) is one of those quiet lads who is thoughtful (thinks a lot, not sure if he’s polite yet) and will do well in his young life if he uses me as his model for girlfriends. The sober me, not the young, drunk me, mind you. That would be a disaster and young Sean would
never finish college. I’m kidding, by the way, about my being the model for girlfriends. It’s not an entirely bad idea, but I don’t see how I can convince young Sean to follow this advice.

My campus job… of course you want to know about that. I’m working in the office of my advisor. I liked her already, but she earned bonus points when she read a Dr. Seuss book to the entire group at orientation. Yup, a woman who will not be moved from her agenda, no matter how many bored sighs and shifting hineys can be heard during her page-turning pauses.