Twirling my inner disco ball and celebrating 20 mugging-free years...




I Want You by Cabaret Voltaire

From the collection of Crap I Still Have On Vinyl, Dude.
This video is a sort of Nosferatu goonie who's coming in to menace females who are up to their own business, including fitful sleeping, fit-throwin' and dancing in the dark. In the end, the creepula-type is menaced by the females and slinks, shamed, back into his coffin.

We likee!

* side note - once I was chatting in IM with FatHairyBastard and he sent me links for stuff he likes which largely ran to Floydus Digitalis and I sent him this. He apparently practically spewed beer out of his nose and fell over himself to type back that this was the kind of music they tortured Noriega out of his house with.

Rilly? Noriega couldn't hang with my kind of stuff? What a wimp.

Teach your children well.

One thing that's really jumped out at me from the comments on my 20 year muggiversary is all you wonderful men who are concerned about the females in your lives. This is an issue in which reality has a stark, cold break with the inanity of popular ideology: to lie back and think of England is not an option. If you can not teach your daughters to defend themselves, it is incumbent upon you to get them to whatever martial arts/self defense training best works with their learning methods, and when possible, arm them with the ultimate of equalizers. I'm not being politically correct there, either - I'm an audio/kinesthetic learner. I retain more of a lecture if I'm doodling and listening. You need to help your girls recognize what style works for them, and as one particularly astute blogger noted, find a self-defense teacher or system that works with the way their particular brain is wired.

One of my favorite movies is The Edge, and it cites an aboriginal legend of a rabbit and a couger. It asks why is the rabbit unafraid of the cougar and the answer is the rabbit is smarter than the cougar. Women need to find the way to tap their inner strengths and make the most of them, because we do not have size and strength on which to rely.

I have to say your belief in and encouragement of the strength and cunning of your daughters and wives is the best investment you could make. Thank heaven for little girls, eh? The balance between what's great about men and what's great about women is a profound thing.

Thank you for the validation of the young woman I was who felt very alone 20 years ago. I was so sure I was right.

May your women kick every bit of ass that trifles with them.

This is going to be an odd post for me, and if it's boring or terrible, then I apologize in advance, but this won't be my usual ball-of-fluff. It's just that I have a story I've never mentioned here (I don't think) and it turns out this is the day to post it, if ever there is one.

Though I'm not one to hang a lot of significance on dates, leap day brought itself into sharp relief for me forevermore on February 29 of 1988. I'm probably one of the least superstitious folk you'll ever meet, but when leap day comes back around, I always remember 1988.

I was 22 and working for the US Post Office at the Bulk Mail Center, armpit of the greater Dallas metro area. I had some office details, but mostly I threw around 70 pound sacks of mail for a living. Yes, I was fit and healthy, but then again, at 5'2" I was still no Linda Hamilton. I was paid well and liked the work itself, if not the way the place was run. I went to Europe occasionally, went to every concert that took my fancy, and I was having the proverbial fun a girl was meant to have, very carefree.

I generally didn't hang out with co-workers, although I found some to be passably nice and even pleasant to talk to. One couple I liked in particular kept asking me to meet them out at a bar in a large entertainment district at the west end of downtown. One day, I finally agreed and I showed up-- leap day. I was wearing ballet flats, olive cotton pants and a white tank shirt with little purple lilacs. Oddly, I carried a small purse that night with a long strap crossed diagonally from my right shoulder to my left hip-- I normally didn't carry a purse, finding them cumbersome and a general pain in the butt. The olive pants had no pockets, though, so the catch-all accessory was a must that night. There were a lot of people around, and I felt fairly comfortable, even though I wasn't that familiar with this complex of bars and restaurants. It was still early enough to be light outside.

I walked around the corner where the couple said they'd meet me and instead of my colleagues I saw two tall black men walking toward me. They were memorable because they were both wearing very tight white jeans and white t-shirts, also tight. Strange to coordinate in such a way. Hmm. Whatever. I've always been the never-met-a-stranger type, and I made eye contact with one of the men and started to say "hello," but I instantly sensed menace(?!) in his gaze and I averted my eyes. I heard the words come out of his mouth as if they were shouted from the other side of a field:
"Give me your purse."

What? No! He didn't say that. Brain can't process this.
Yes, it happened very fast but I could chart and graph every scintilla of the experience.
I kept moving forward and the man nearest me reached and grabbed the part of my purse strap over my sternum as he said
"Give me your fucking purse."

I have less than a fraction of a second to process what's happening, I flip through my memory bank of their attire, and considering the tightness of their clothing, I decide they are not carrying guns, and I plan my course of action and move forward with it. I give him the only response which made sense in my universe:

"No fucking way."

People all around. People everywhere. Every direction I look there are people. How can this be happening?

my hands go instinctively to my purse grasping at the corners, a strap extending from each desperately clutching palm as they push me down.
I am in a foetal position around my purse, on my knees. They each are beating with one hand on the back of my neck and on my spine, each pulling on one side of the purse strap with the other hand. I see people standing around in an ovine stupor, useless. I see Madras plaid shorts with hideous tourista white socks. The fists on my spine surprise me - in a way they don't hurt, I feel the force of the blows but it's not that bad, for some reason. I'm on my knees looking around for any help, any port in a storm, and I see a silver BMW sedan with two white couples, men in front, women in back seat, stopped in the street, staring gape-mouthed. "Muffy, look! How quaint-- a mugging!"

Isn't anyone going to help me? A mere female chick being beaten up by two big goons? What in Hades is wrong with this picture?

When will this stop? I earned the privilege to have this purse and all it contains, you sniveling piece of shit-- I busted my ass, I sweated, this is mine. I'm hanging on for dear life, and I can hang on for an hour, if need be. Someone has got to stop this. this must stop. SOmeone will come along. Someone...

my heart sinks as the leather betrays me and one side of the strap snaps free from the bag. as if this were planned - as if they'd been practicing this very move for weeks, the instant the strap breaks free, the guy on the other side grabs the little bag from the underside and pulls the straps clean out of my hands, free, and they are off and running. For hours I won't feel the rope-burns on my palms. I run into the street after them immediately and they run into a parking lot. I stand in the street, screaming yelling an inarticulate babble of rage and despair - what just happened to me?

A big Irish cop comes on the scene and gently guides me out of the street onto the sidewalk by the parking lot where the goons both ran. He was the beginning of the universe setting itself aright. A security guard for the parking lot who "saw the whole thing" came over to lend a hand, acting like the calm voice of reason to my sputtered, breathy regurgitation of events. Thanks, pal. Really.

The goons pull up in a 70s car and out of the parking lot exit. The officer does nothing to stop them. They drive away. We get make, model and license plate number.

Emergency room, bruising, no serious injuries. In coming weeks I field an array of variations on "why didn't you just give it to him?" and am told by all and sundry that I'm a moron for not just handing my stuff over on demand.

My dad got in touch the detectives who were handling the case. My dad is the same kind of salt-of-the-earth man they were - the men who make things right. I felt they were as committed as my dad to the objective of holding these dirtbags accountable. We were told it was highly unlikely a mugger would ever be caught, and even more unlikely he'd be positively identified in a lineup. I could see their faces, though, and I still can - identification would be a snap.

In late April, I got a call from the detective: the car was pulled over in connection with another robbery, and could they bring some photos by the BMC for me to look at? I identified the man who was driving the car. The detective would later testify that I shuddered when I saw his photograph.

His pubic defender insisted I identify him in a live lineup - I had named the wrong guy. Again, I had no difficulty in fingering the excrescent congregation of flesh which matched the image seared on my brain.

The trial was set, and so began a pattern: I'd take the day off, meet my dad at the courthouse, then the pubic defender would ask that the trial be postponed at the last minute. This happened about 4 times.

Finally, the day of reckoning came about. The assistant district attorney was a pistol-of-a-woman and one of my personal heroines. On a pound-for-pound basis, she whupped him way more on the stand than he had done me on the street on February 29. She had the most fetchingly homey east-Texas drawl you ever heard - her voice was the aural equivalent of a big, old comfy leather chair - HOME! When the sentencing phase came around, I'll never forget the words with which she admonished the jury:

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we have asked for a sentence of 20 years and a $10,000 fine, but you do not have to issue that sentence: you may sentence him for more if you think it is appropriate."

I was elated. Props to the lady in shining armor on the white horse! Finally, someone steadfastly in my corner, someone who agreed and said for the record that- dammit- this was my purse to which I had sole right.

In the end he got 7 years and $5,000 fine. He did a plea bargain on all the other charges against him, including raping another inmate, so he probably ended up cooling his heels in lockup for at least a couple more leap days. Happy endings.

It was an incredibly strange adventure. I wish it never had happened, but I learned a whole lot. I learned that bad crap can happen to you and that you can still survive. I learned that other people are very afraid. I learned that other people will try to shame you into validating their fear-based approach to life. I learned that you can not shrink from threat and just hope it will go away. I learned that if you have no plan to react to a physical attack, you won't really know what to do when faced with that situation. I learned that in the moment of real crisis, no one is going to step in and save me: I'll have to save myself.

If I'm ever in that position again-- unarmed and under attack -- I mean to come away from the experience(even if dead) with at least the trophy of one eyeball from my tormentor with which to festoon my trophy case. Next time would/will be tooth-and-nail. If I have time to access it, my weighty little Leatherman will be slammed forcefully into an accommodating temple-- I will do my best to kill with my bare, immaculately manicured hands: no more Mr. Nice Bitch. There are kneecaps, eyeballs, shins, insteps and wedding tackle among the array of vulnerable areas on an attacker, and I'll set about my business if I must.

I didn't believe in just handing it over, and I don't even moreso now than ever. I'm still no Linda Hamilton, but I think this is a principle that applies not just to possessions or your life, but to our very freedoms and rights as human beings. Don't just give it away without a fight. Passivity gets you nothing but soundly and thoroughly ensconced in the bitch-seat, and you teach the aggressors they were right to disdain you.

Yeah, it's possible someone will divest me of a handbag in the future, but next time, I'm going to take something in exchange, including a heaping helping of their DNA.

ΜΟΛΩΝ ΛΑΒΕ, and all that stuff.

Thanks for the recommendation, rabbit!

I haven't talked a lot about the doglet lately, but she's not been feeling very well. She turned 16 on Halloween, and while that's not an un-heard age of for a Jack Russell Terrier, she's definitely an old lady now.

The problem is that she's been puking her food up every time she eats. Sometimes it's many hours later when this happens. Anyway, I took her to the vet and had bloodwork done, but haven't gotten an answer from them about what's going on. I spent about $200 on this visit, and I've called twice and asked the Dr. to call me back. Once one of her flunkies called back 2 days later and left a voice mail asking me what the problem was.

I adore my Vet and I think she's fantastic (if expensive) but the staff at her clinic lately are beneath sucking. For example, the day I took her in 2 weeks ago, I splained why I set the appointment, and when I arrived with her, I told them the catalog of complaints. The person who checked us in asked again "now what was wrong with her ears?" and I said I hadn't mentioned her ears, and went through the laundry list again. I was dropping her off and would pick her up at the end of the day. That afternoon, the vet called and left me a message and said doglet looked good and seemed okay, and she couldn't find anything wrong with her ears. So the dimwit at the check-in heard me catalog her ailments TWICE and proceeded to ignore what I told her and wrote something about her ears on the card. I tried not to act impatient when I explained to the vet what had been happening, and she decided to do a blood panel and make sure everything was working properly.

I spoke to a receptionist on the phone Wednesday morning who said she'd have the Dr call me before the day is over. I never heard from the doctor. Meanwhile, it's hard for me to get a full night of sleep when my little dog pukes on me at 4ayem. I had to exile her from the bedroom, and it distresses me not to let her sleep on the bed when I suspect she's feeling poorly. I don't want to make her sad in addition to sick.

Holly's sent me her vet's contact info, and I'm going by my vet's office Thursday morning to pick up all her records and the bloodwork from the 15th and taking her elsewhere from now on.

Do you think I'm over-reacting? I suspect that what's wrong with her is not enormous, but you never know. I hate to think of how frantic I would be in this case if I thought my dog were at death's door. Tell me if I'm being a drama-queen. I think waiting nearly 2 weeks for a clear answer is asking a bit much of a concerned pet devotee.

Photoshop gone wild?

Garsh! I think it's great that, like little parrotfish Nemo, this woman with the gimpy fin has found her place in the world and is even celebrated as a pin-up sort of person.

Seriously - GQ must have one of the most esteemed art direction staffs of all men's magazines, so why this wonky cut-up of her right leg, the mangling of which fairly jumped off the page at me? D'ya think they thought she was fat and needed to be pared down a bit before publishing? I don't get it. On the other hand, it's rather refreshing to see prison-tattoo perspectives on such a high-end publication.

I don't know what all this means, but I think I like it!

Anyone else having trouble accessing Hotmail? I tried it about 4 hours ago, and it's still not working. Harumph.

Update: Okay, 6:20 pm here and it seems to have been back to normal for the past few hours. That was weird, though. I wonder if it had to do with the Florida blackout thingie?

Your babies' caddy...

Perhaps Loretta Lynn said it best when she sang "One's on the way."

Brangelina are specking another froot to spring from they loins.

Gallery of the Absurd posted this fabulous illo of a hands-free multi-baby caddy for the mom-on-the-go. Circling the bowl, as it were...

Did you year about the 44 year old diabetic woman who died on an American Airlines flight from Haiti to NYC?

Of course, only her intimates and physician know the true nature of her medical history, but in my opinion, if this fragile woman was likely to die from a lack of oxygen on an airplane, she should not have traveled via that means of conveyance. Seriously. The article mentions that in addition to diabetes, the woman suffered from heart disease. How often do we hear of 88-year olds dropping dead on commercial flights? Not very often. Um, if you're unhealthy, maybe you should keep your ass home and not burden non-medical-professionals with the dilemma of how to treat your medical crisis at 37,000 feet, ya think?

Of course, it's a sad, heart-rending story, and it's sad for someone to expire so early in life. However, if the airline had caused this woman's death, then you'd be hearing stories like this in the news every day of the week.

I feel for the cabin crew, and I feel for the airline, because they'll never hear the end of this. The fact is that unhealthy people fly all the time and don't drop dead in transit, generally speaking. In fact, every person who travels via commercial aircraft is statistically more likely to die in the car to- and from- the airport than they are on the plane.

I just hope this doesn't end up in a lawsuit thing. I can just see a spate of Weekend-at-Bernie's style copy-cat hijinks wherein scheisters try to capitalize on gravely ill associates in order to bilk airlines in wrongful death suits.

The Nineties had the $3 million dollar McDonald's coffee spill. This could be the new thing for the Oughties. *much eyerolling here*

A couple things have always confused me. Yes, I could look this stuff up on a series of toobs, but I'm a bum, so I come to you sexy people for answers.

Is it "all tolled" or "all told?"
"All tolled" is what I always thought the expression was-- that everything had been accounted for and metered.
"All told" would connote the final word had been spoken on a subject.

Which do you think? (I'll bet Breda knows.)

The other thing is an expression I've heard but never seen in print. Okay, yes, I'm lazy. "To damn one with __________ praise" -- meaning to give a backhanded compliment. Do you fill the blank with "faint" or "feigned?"

I'm just wondering.

Isn't it funny that you can hear an expression or a name of something all your life and you never question it?

My accent is fairly mid-western with the occasional southern twang and colloquialisms out the wazoo. However, I realized about 6 months ago that I have all my life pronounced "binoculars" with 2 r's. Yes. It's embarrassing to admit, but these days I stop myself an instant before I try to utter "ber-noc-u-lurs."

I'm not exaggerating. Yes. I'm just that fancy, lavishing my orations with unnecessary consonants and diphthongs not found in nature.

Finally, they gave an Oscar to someone who performed brilliantly in a film. I don't just approve of this one because she looks like the twin of my baby sister, but that doesn't hurt, either.

*le pout*
Does this mean my head is mostly empty? I hate to argue with very scientifically obtained data, but...

...and it can't be that I keep my mouth shut about, well, about much.

For Thud (a Pratchett reference? You must be a superior human being) I found this site which lists active Drive-In theaters in the USA. There I found this page on which you may click for a particular state and see the currently active DI's there. I hope you get a chance to visit one - though it's a less common thing these days, the Drive-In theater was a big part of the great American love-affair with the automobile, and was a golden moment, in its way. With names like Starlite, Astro and Apollo, even their names were somewhat romantic, in a lot of cases.
I noticed that this theater in the Texas panhandle (thanks for the tip, LawDog) is not listed on their site, though, so it may not include all drive-ins which might be in your area. I'd say an extensive search might yield more theaters than listed here, and would definitely be worht the effort.

Happy hunting!


When we first moved to Texas, our family went to see Superman at the Astro drive-in in Dallas. This was a massive Drive-In with 3 huge screens. In the back seat, I made free to look out at the other screens at 4- and 8- o'clock. I don't remember 8 o'clock, but 4 o'clock was featuring Kentucky Fried Movie. Of course, I couldn't hear what was going on, but it looked completely insane, so I was naturally much more interested in that than the Christopher Reeve action. The image from KFM which seared itself on my brain permanently was a shot of what appeared to be poop landing on the head of a babydoll. Do I mis-remember? I've never watched that movie, which is a funny thing, considering what arcane and bizarre movies I've consciously sought out in my adult life. Anyway, at one point, I laughed out loud and Mom realized I wasn't watching the same film as she, and she scolded me soundly. I kept watching to see what was going on in the other films. I've always been a multi-tasker.

Tuesday nights at the Astro were $5 for a carload, and scores of cars would arrive and disgorge themselves of uncomfortable amounts of humanity.

In the summer, one night a week at Victory Park next to American Airlines, they show a classic or cult film on their big screen. You can bring lawn chairs and a picnic. I haven't been, but I'm told it's pretty neat.

Also, sometimes in the Observer, I've seen an ad for a rogue drive-in thingie where they project a film onto a building or solid surface and people just show up to watch it. They don't advertise where for obvious reasons, but everyone gets an email sort of at the last minute telling them where to convene. I'll try and get more information on that - it always sounded fun to me.

And speaking of Drive-In theaters, remember those coil incense-type thingies you could light and stand on the dashboard to repel mosquitoes? (Does anyone call it a dashboard anymore?) Those things were prolly outlawed by the FDA. It might be fun, though, just for giggles, to burn some coil incense at a drive-in just for the sake of nostalgia. I personally love some incense, but I'm very olfactorily-oriented, and things I find stinky can send me right 'round the bend. I thought those insect repellent coils were a right stinky lot. Funny thing is, though, now I'd sort of like to smell one again.

***************************************

One odd thing I always LOVED the smell of was leaded gasoline. (Can we blame any of my warping on that, perhaps? Actually, I'll give leaded gasoline credit for my rapist wit.) Remember that? It had a smell that was tremendously appealing. Today's gas smells not-so-nice to me. When I was a kid on road trips and we'd stop to re-fuel and re-stock moon pies and RC, I'd sorta linger a bit near the gas pump before getting back in the car. *bliss*

Okay. Maybe not that near the pump - I didn't get high or anything - just liked it.

******************

Oh, and schnoobie's comment reminded me, and yes, I've mentioned it before, but I was utterly besotted with the smell of freshly printed mimeograph "ditto" sheets - Nice! They felt wet and cool to the touch, and that lovely pale indigo ink was wonderful. I would always volunteer to help pass out anything mimeo'd. Sweet!