This is an email I sent to an author at the National Review:

Sir, I wish there was a way at this time for the little people to tell their side, but since there is not I hope that telling you might help. I want Ms. Rice to know that the people of Houston and the suburbs are busting their tails for the refugees. Little old ladies are staying up 24 hours a day doing laundry and cooking at their local churches, men and women are taking off work to volunteer at shelters, poor people who can’t afford to drive very far are volunteering at local donation spots with sorting, and everyone in this area is donating everything they can possibly muster up from their homes and donating things they buy at the store. I do not know one single person who isn’t doing something. I have not heard of one single person who hasn’t done something. This city is scrambling to help the people of the affected areas.
What worries me is that morale is declining every time a celebrity accuses us of racism or neglect. Houston is working hard – very hard. What are the celebrities doing to help besides pulling things down further?

It is in reference to the following article, which I encourage you to read in full at the National Review website.

We Failed You? Try Again.
Anne Rice blames America, not local officials.

“To my country I want to say this: During this crisis you failed us. You looked down on us; you dismissed our victims; you dismissed us. You want our Jazz Fest, you want our Mardi Gras, you want our cooking and our music. Then when you saw us in real trouble, when you saw a tiny minority preying on the weak among us, you called us “Sin City,” and turned your backs.â€? — novelist and New Orleans resident Anne Rice
Let me get this straight.
Ms. Rice, you live in (what was) a very attractive city which lies below sea level. On one side you have a giant lake; on the other side you have the Gulf of Mexico. Running through the middle is the Mississippi River. All of which are above you.

For more, read the rest of the article here

And what is the question that is so important, and of such import, a red taped letter floating freely in manilla up the courthouse steps to arrive out of it’s case torn from the side of the bovine lady minding her business, her cud, the green grass of a pasture in Yorkshire, a fly on her back, a swift flick of her tail; to arrive out of its case to be judged, to be questioned, by a man not so astute as yourself, waking just this moment from a midday dream about buying new socks as the one’s he is wearing, socks loosing their fit; so important is this question that we cannot just idly wash it away on a summer’s day and hang it to dry in the crisp sunlight on the porch of some clapboard cottage in need of painting, chipped, dried, and gray just it as was did fifty years ago when our mother’s hiding, blushed behind the railing at the young milkman delivering his goods winking at her; because it is so important, and the question, asking why, why must this prose twist and taunt our tounges with such verbosity that our minds wend this way and that in search of Cairo or a pyramid or back to the country cottage looking for some connection to all of the words pattering forth out the pen, used twice by Gates, as it isn’t really a pen at all, being fashioned of plastic hewn on the Mississippi, pouring out of stacks the horrible stench of petroleum on the poor tourists looking for beauty in old architecture, the great alleys, hoop skirts; the connection that puts this at once in mind of old Virginia, spewing forth with nonsense of every kind, ignoring the greatness of the story and of causing her audience, aged though they may be now, to drift off on some fantasy of their own about where are the cigarettees, and what’s for supper, and who’s to be seen this weekend? Tell me, tell me, what is her point, her purpose, if being only to commit to page, another page? I dare say, I’m afraid of Virginia Woolfe.

Does anyone remember me complaining about a certain church and their luau, conga line baptisms? Well, they had it again this year. Here is the picture from the paper and a few excerpts from the article. The pastor is one of the two bald men, front and center. He’s the one on the left.

I will refrain from commentary and just give you the excerpts:

“People are desperately trying to fill up the “God Hole” . . .”

“490 believers participated in the annual event”

” ‘What was equally meaningful, was that there was a live cam there taping the event . . . (M)y family and friends can now go to the church website and see me getting baptized.’ ”

“The church sems to have a community appeal beginning . . . with a paltry membership of eight into . . . 13,000 attending every Sunday.”

The church “has been featured in many publications and news outlets including Fox News, NBC, PBS . . .”

The church “is one of the 25 largest churches in America”

The preacher “invites the community to ‘experience a casual and relaxed atmosphere with innovative messages and presentations’ claiming that they will enjoy ‘the best hour of your week’.

Well, that’s all. I will not rant. I will say that the kicker is “the best hour of your week”. Sounds like a commercial for Friends.

Excerpts taken from The Villager, Thursday, June 23, 2005, Wick

Last Thursday night the local Denny’s was in chaos. One waiter, thirty tables, a shit manager. Things were altogether too sour.

Fast forward to Friday night . . .

Our waiter, Garrett, the waiter from that night, gives Sean, Smokin and I comment cards because Sean wants to complain about the smoking policy. Smokin wasn’t there on the night in question, Sean complains about smoking policies, and I, well I “go there”. I make a full complaint about the manager and her shiftlessness.

Fast forward to Saturday night . . .

The three of us walk in the door and nearly run into the manager in question pulling the comment cards out of the box. “Ohhhh this is going to be bad” think Smokin and Sean. I luckily don’t notice. I’d have run.
She reads the cards. Her face distorts and twists and yellows. She shows the waiters the card, my card. She complains to the woman behind us “I guess they didn’t see that 18 top!” Nope. Sure didn’t. Luckily she thinks the card was left by some rowdy girls that were also there on Black Thursday. The waiters know - they praise me. I’m scared she’ll notice. Sean fidgets. Smokin and I try to seem occupied when she’s talking about it, as though none of us care or know about what she’s saying.

Fast Forward to Tonight . . .

She’s not there tonight. I ask Steve, our waiter for the evening, if I’ve caused a ruckus, if the staff is mad. “No, you said what needed to be said. By the way, she threw it away and I got it out of the trash and gave it to tonight’s manager.”
Wow, she’s a worse manager than I thought . . . Later, Steve says tonight’s manager wants to talk to us about that night. Great. I get nervous. Now I’ve really started something. He comes to the table later, much later than Sean would have liked. Oh well. I tell the story . . .

One waiter, thirty tables, a shit manager. Garrett is doing everything that is humanly possible to keep things going. It’s impossible. Rowdy girls are going behind the counter to refill their drinks despite his protests that he’ll get in trouble. Then the truckers follow suit. He’s running back and forth with huge trays to tables in the back stopping with the heavy trays along the way to take more requests for more things. He runs to the back to get coffee, only to be stopped all the way back, time and again. The manager sits in her booth smoking and watching. He stands at the computer trying to make sense of all the tickets. The computer freezes. He runs to clear tables. He runs to fill coffee cups. The manager sits in her booth smoking and watching. Another order up, he runs to the back to get more heaving trays. A couple comes in, they stand at the front waiting to be seated. He’s occupied at the table, slinging hash. The manager sits in her booth smoking and watching. The couple stands there for five minutes. Finally the manager seats them, because they’ve begun to stare at her. Meanwhile, chaos reigns. Another couple comes in. She ignores them until they seat themselves, five minutes later. She also refuses to cash people out. At one point the waiter waves a man on and pays his bill later with his tips. The manager watches from her booth and doesn’t care. She knows what is happening and doesn’t offer to help. I ask her to refill my coffee. This she does, I’m only in the next table over. Any further than that and she makes him do it. He doesn’t have the time. He’s still trying to fix the computer, and she stacks dishes under his feet. When they topple over, she claps, starting the whole of Denny’s into applause. Then she yells at him. This is what Thursday night was at the Denny’s - anarchy and cruelty. This is the story I tell the manager. The waiters stand around as I tell the story. I’ve caused a ruckus.

She did take an 18 top that night after we left. For the money. It was the only respite he got all night, but he could have used the money. He had already earned it.

Due to a little mis-firing in the brain this morning, which was my own fault entirely, I was stuck in the 70’s all day. I don’t just mean remembering little things from the 70’s or songs from the 70’s. No, what I mean is, is that I was having some weird perception shift where every little thing made my entire world and existence seem like I had traveled back in time. Sean said that happened to him early last week with his MF Crisis post. That’s all well and good, but if you know me, you know that I have a severe distaste and near phobia of the 70’s.

It all started with this one innocent little book.

Yes, I know, the title says 80. However, I think everyone will agree that 1980 was a little closer in resemblence to 1975 than 1985.

I read the book while I waited for Amazon to quit, well, nevermind, and so there I was reading about CHIPS and Gary Coleman and then I landed on Eight is Enough. That prompted an internet search to find all of the children and what had happened to them and what I found wasn’t pretty. I won’t go into it except to say that that’s where I think the perception shift started. Here’s a tip: if you don’t like an era as much as I don’t like the 70’s, don’t go messin’ around with it. Stay clear.

For the rest of the day, every corner I turned, even every direction my eyes turned, there was the 70’s. Sean’s clothes on the floor, dust motes in a sunbeam, Milton painting his trim (which isn’t that far off from the 70’s anyway), the old nasty books I was shelving, etc. A table mat on Sean’s bedside table that I thought was attractive yesterday, today seemed like it was about to be a new home for Sue Ellen’s whiskey glass.

That’s getting 86′d tomorrow.

Ok, so maybe I’m totally wacked out from reading the last of the Incarnations series, but this shirt is f’kin ridiculous:

That shirt isn’t from the junior or adult section of Smokin’s favorite store - it’s from the girl’s section. Do you see how low that neck goes? Almost to the navel! Sickos!

Yeah, like I said, Piers has me freaking out a little. I am thinking there is no way Epiphany read that entire book. I am having the worst time reading it. He’s gone into a three or four chapter diatribe about why it’s okay for middle aged men to date 14 year olds. I’m not exaggerating. This man had two teenage daughters when he wrote this. Yuck.

These two look to0 much alike not to be related. Think he’s the father?

Hey, didn’t someone say I needed photoshop or something? Too tired to care now, anyhow. That’ll do.

Sometimes it’s difficult to relate to our friends when they act differently than we expect them too. This week my friends have been reticent to spend time with me, because I’ve been a little on the moody side. I guess they don’t want to ruffle my feathers? You know, of course, that all people go through rough times, right? Even happy people should be allowed to have psycho episodes now and then. If we didn’t let loose sometimes, well, we might be even more creepy. Like the Welch’s juice girl.

Case in point:

Love me when I least deserve it, because that’s when I really need it. — Swedish Proverb

Last night, Smokin, SeanMC and I were driving by the Woodlands Mall and we saw a coyote cross the street. This is the fourth coyote I have seen in four months. Growing up around here, I always heard them, but never saw them. Lately, since all of the building has been going on, I’ve been seeing them a lot. What worries me is this: they are being run out of their woods, their prey is running out of their woods, and assholes like this will start doing things like this:

I was educated about the true nature of the coyote after reading Barbara Kingsolver’s

Prodigal Summer

. Here are some facts about coyotes from reputable sources: Coyotes are opportunitic feeders and will eat almost anything, alive or dead, garbage, meat, fish, vegetables, berries or whatever they can find easily. Their natural diet consists mostly of rabbits, rodents and carrion. They do not normally pose a threat to livestock, however hungry coyotes may occasionally take small domestic animals or poultry. - Texas Parks and Wildlife
However, they do hunt either singularly or in relays with other coyotes. They do not usually hunt in packs as some may think. It is believed that coyotes mate for life. - Big Bend River Tours
The animals have been shot from airplanes, injected with chemicals, trapped, run down with snowmobiles and buried alive in dens. - Colorado Division of Wildlife.

Chutzpah, and Christie’s dogs are descended from coyotes. Coyotes are very nearly dogs. Can you imagine Chutzpah taking down a bull? I can’t. You wouldn’t make Thanksgiving dinner to eat all by yourself, neither would a coyote, hunting alone (which is the norm) kill a cow to eat by himself.

I was going to do this post about all of the wildlife in danger of losing their homes to the SuperWal-mart and other building in the Woodlands until I saw all of the pics on the net of guys with machine guns smiling over their prizes. Sick.

Just remember to be on the look out for animals crossing the road late at night. It’s not their fault some jerk had to have a brand new 2 bedroom box in what was once a forest, instead of buying a four bedroom house with a pool for the same price in an established neighborhood. Thanks for your patience with me while I stood on my soapbox.

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If my family has been through nearly this exact situation, then I would assume that this has happened in America more than just those two times. Why is there such an outpouring of hate about it now? First of all, before I proceed, we did not end my aunt’s life by removing the feeding tube, she contracted pnuemonia in her 11th year of the ‘vegetative state’. Therefore be rest assured I am not speaking from the corner of guilt. Both my aunt and Terry had apparantly problematic lives. I know my aunt’s story and Terry was bulemic. Now imagine this: you go from your crappy life to suddenly being in a room that smells like a diaper, has flourescent lighting, and a big naked woman masturbating and teaching the second grade at the same time in the bed facing yours. You haven’t been outside in 12 years. Conceivably they could put the TV within your line of sight but you get angry when it goes on so they don’t. You haven’t tasted good food in 12 years, you haven’t spoken your mind in 12 years, you’ve been in a diaper or had a catheter, you have gross mean jerks giving you spongebaths, you have no dignity, you can’t ask for what you want. All you have to look forward to is the next visit from a family member. You light up like a candle when they walk in the room but you thrash with fits and grunts when they leave. For 12 years saliva has collected at the corners of your mouth drying and bleeding and hurting. Your mouth is always open so it is always dry and hot and painful. When your nieces come to visit they bring lollipops and q-tips soaked in water so you can taste something else besides the dried spit, but no nurse here is going to do you that favor.

Now imagine a prison. TV, baseball, magazines, books, food, cigarettes, sunshine, the ability to move around, relationships with people even if they are prisoners, conjugal visits with your spouse, the ability to read the letters from your kids or parents. Most people think prison is terrible.

Now imagine Heaven. Imagine Heaven from my Aunt’s point of view when she got there. Now do you think we should have kept her on that respirator for ten years like my grandparents wanted her to? When my aunt got pneumonia, she was put on a respirator and began to decline. The doctors said they could keep her alive like that indefinitely if we wanted. For 13 years my family had weighed this decision. It is a horrible, terrible, gut wrenching decision to make. You think about it (even I, as a young person growing up to adulthood) every day for those 13 years. It is not an idle decision. Parents hate losing their children. My grandparents, Sean’s grandparents, Terry Schiavo’s parents. Sean’s mother had a sneak peek at the lives of Terry and my aunt, being in the hospital for over 6 months and she was quite clear when she said she wanted to go to Heaven. I fully stand behind my next statement. It is sometimes selfish to enforce life. I am not taking a position per se on this case. I am not a member of her family. But here is what I have to say about the Schiavo case to the fanatics (on EITHER side): It is an incredibly tough decision that takes decades to make, not just a few months, and takes information to pour over and examine, not just news stories, and also personal experience with the person in question. The media just needs to leave the family and the situation alone, and the government doesn’t need to be making split second decisions that could effect so many other different things.

Now, imagine my family going into Heaven and extracting my aunt and putting her back in that bed. Would that not be the most heinous thing you could imagine?

One more thing. Mary Baker Eddy would certainly not agree with the right on this one. God’s will is not necessarily being respected. Oh, and I’m not a liberal or a leftist. I’ve just been through this.

See these articles for some info. Not necessarily the best info, but from a different source:
This Website
and This Website