PROTEST DEMONSTRATION AGAINST PROP 8 TONIGHT AT 7PM AT SAN VICENTE AND MELROSE
SPREAD THE WORD WIDELY
OUR FIGHT FOR OUR EQUALITY, DIGNITY AND FULL CITIZENSHIP IS FAR FROM OVER
LET THIS DEFEAT ENERGIZE US TO TAKE ACTION - REACH OUT - BUILD STRENGTH ACROSS COMMUNITIES
WE CANNOT LAY DOWN IN DEFEAT - WE MUST STAND UP AND FIGHT
*************SPECIAL BULLETIN*************
Proposition 8 Protest Rally & Street Closures
Wednesday, November 5th
As deeply disappointed as we all are that California voters passed Proposition 8, we must not allow that disappointment to linger. This vote is a temporary defeat in the long march toward equal rights for all citizens in America.
Please join me for a protest rally tonight at 7 pm on San Vicente Blvd between West Hollywood Park and the Pacific Design Center (647 N. San Vicente Blvd. West Hollywood CA 90069) as we move forward towards restoring equality for all in California.
San Vicente Blvd, between Santa Monica Blvd and Melrose Avenue will be closed tonight starting at 6 pm. San Vicente south-bound traffic will be directed to make left or right at Santa Monica Blvd. Signs have already been posted to help divert traffic.
For more information about tonight's rally, please contact (323) 848-6460.
_____________________________________________________________________
This e-Newsletter is not paid for at City expense and reflects only the views and opinions of Mayor Jeffrey Prang and not necessarily the views of the City Council, nor does it necessarily reflect the official position of the City of West Hollywood.
"Mayor Jeffrey Prang Committee," 7985 Santa Monica Boulevard, Suite 109-590, West Hollywood, CA 90046, ID # 970426
This is where I spout my brilliance.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Monday, October 27, 2008
Resolutions
Every Monday morning is like the beginning of 7th grade.
"This time," I vow, "I'm going to keep organized. I'm going to get my work done on time, know where everything is and really stay on top of things."
By Wednesday, my Trapper Keeper is spilling its contents all over the place, my assignments are strewn about my room and my pencil box has emptied itself into the bottom of my backpack.
"This time," I vow, "I'm going to keep organized. I'm going to get my work done on time, know where everything is and really stay on top of things."
By Wednesday, my Trapper Keeper is spilling its contents all over the place, my assignments are strewn about my room and my pencil box has emptied itself into the bottom of my backpack.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Laundry List
September 12th: Awoke with bad knot in back, pain in neck and unable to move head.
September 15th: Knot still there. Shoulder begins to feel fatigued and achy.
September 16th: Knot still there. Unable to rest shoulder comfortably.
September 18th: Knot still there. Thumb and forefinger of Right hand begin to tingle and go numb.
October 1st: Knot still there. Epidural Steroid shot to C5 nerve.
October 7th: Knot still there. Fingers still tingling. Steroid shot ineffective. Lower back pain returned.
October 13th: Knot still there. Fingers still tingling. Rear-ended by a Semi. Muscles in back and hips seize.
October 18th: Knot still there. Fingers still tingling. Admitted into Emergency Room at Kaiser for Kidney Stones.
October 23rd: Knot still there. Fingers still tingling. Checking sky for falling anvils.
September 15th: Knot still there. Shoulder begins to feel fatigued and achy.
September 16th: Knot still there. Unable to rest shoulder comfortably.
September 18th: Knot still there. Thumb and forefinger of Right hand begin to tingle and go numb.
October 1st: Knot still there. Epidural Steroid shot to C5 nerve.
October 7th: Knot still there. Fingers still tingling. Steroid shot ineffective. Lower back pain returned.
October 13th: Knot still there. Fingers still tingling. Rear-ended by a Semi. Muscles in back and hips seize.
October 18th: Knot still there. Fingers still tingling. Admitted into Emergency Room at Kaiser for Kidney Stones.
October 23rd: Knot still there. Fingers still tingling. Checking sky for falling anvils.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
9:15 AM
There are two tall candles with pictures of saints on the curb. There is a black, plastic bag lying where her head was. There are two men in paint-covered clothes, laughing, waiting to cross the street where her body hit the windshield.
The windshield was shattered. The frame was dented. The man they were handcuffing looked calm. I thought I saw him curse at the officer. They stood next to the men who were crouching by the woman, pumping her chest. She didn't move. They pumped over and over. She didn't move.
Her shoes were off. I wondered if they came off as she flew off the hood of the car. I wondered if the men took them off her. I wondered why they would need to take her shoes off.
They lifted her on to the stretcher. Her stomach was exposed as her t-shirt slid up. I wondered if she had put thought into what she would wear. I wondered here she was going. I wondered about the people who needed to be called.
I thought about that very first moment on the phone. When they ask for her loved one and identify themselves and the person on the other end enters into a world that begins with panic and ends somewhere else very far away.
In that very first moment the blood rushes to your ears. Every part of your body pulls in. When thought returns, decisions need to be made. What do you need to do? What do you need to bring? Who will be there? Who should you call? How quickly can you get there? If she is alive, for how long will she be? If she is dead, how long has she been? What were you doing at that moment?
Molly saw a dead cat on 13th street. She walked by the spot every day. I don't know if that was supposed to remind her, or to help her forget.
I wonder how many times it will take me walking by to forget her blood-covered face.
The windshield was shattered. The frame was dented. The man they were handcuffing looked calm. I thought I saw him curse at the officer. They stood next to the men who were crouching by the woman, pumping her chest. She didn't move. They pumped over and over. She didn't move.
Her shoes were off. I wondered if they came off as she flew off the hood of the car. I wondered if the men took them off her. I wondered why they would need to take her shoes off.
They lifted her on to the stretcher. Her stomach was exposed as her t-shirt slid up. I wondered if she had put thought into what she would wear. I wondered here she was going. I wondered about the people who needed to be called.
I thought about that very first moment on the phone. When they ask for her loved one and identify themselves and the person on the other end enters into a world that begins with panic and ends somewhere else very far away.
In that very first moment the blood rushes to your ears. Every part of your body pulls in. When thought returns, decisions need to be made. What do you need to do? What do you need to bring? Who will be there? Who should you call? How quickly can you get there? If she is alive, for how long will she be? If she is dead, how long has she been? What were you doing at that moment?
Molly saw a dead cat on 13th street. She walked by the spot every day. I don't know if that was supposed to remind her, or to help her forget.
I wonder how many times it will take me walking by to forget her blood-covered face.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Just to get it "straight". . .
“And I just said to you earlier, town hall meeting after town hall meeting, parents come with kids, children — precious children who have autism. Sarah Palin knows about that better than most. And we’ll find and we’ll spend the money, research, to find the cause of autism. And we’ll care for these young children. And all Americans will open their wallets and their hearts to do so.” (Sen. John McCain)
As my father would say, "Let's examine this."
Firstly, Sarah Palin's precious child has Down Syndrome, not Autism. So, how does this mean "she knows about (Autism) better than most"?
Secondly, how does Mr. McCain intend on spending money on research if he's going to institute a complete spending freeze? And wasn't it him who said, "You can't just throw money at a problem"?
Thirdly, you'll care for those young children, but not the millions of other children this country ignores by not providing proper health care or education (not to mention support to parents in need)?
And lastly, you want us to open our wallets for this, whereas opening our wallets to help our fellow citizens get health care, bolster our crumbling economy, build better infrastructure, or help the hungry eat would be Communism?
It just doesn't make much sense, does it?
As my father would say, "Let's examine this."
Firstly, Sarah Palin's precious child has Down Syndrome, not Autism. So, how does this mean "she knows about (Autism) better than most"?
Secondly, how does Mr. McCain intend on spending money on research if he's going to institute a complete spending freeze? And wasn't it him who said, "You can't just throw money at a problem"?
Thirdly, you'll care for those young children, but not the millions of other children this country ignores by not providing proper health care or education (not to mention support to parents in need)?
And lastly, you want us to open our wallets for this, whereas opening our wallets to help our fellow citizens get health care, bolster our crumbling economy, build better infrastructure, or help the hungry eat would be Communism?
It just doesn't make much sense, does it?
Monday, September 29, 2008
A little too ironic.
I was thinking that for Halloween this year I would wear underwear and heels and go as "every girl in Hollywood on Halloween" but I'm starting to think that it may not translate well. That and I'm feeling a little too jiggly to pull it off.
It's 4 AM on a school night, folks.
It's 4 AM on a school night, folks.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
All we are is dust in the wind
For years we kept my mother's ashes in the tin they came in from the mortuary. It sat on the floor of our pantry. It had to be pried open with a flat head screw driver. The ashes, themselves were actually kept in a large plastic bag inside the tin. It may have been a ziplock, but I may have added that in post. I used the tin once or twice as a step ladder to reach the toilet paper on the top shelf.
When the decision was finally made to give my mother's ashes a more dignified resting place there was much rancor over who got what (the ashes of one person, you may be surprised to know, are remarkably varied in size and color). Much of her got spread in places that meant something to her. The rest of her got divided up between my father, my sister and myself.
I have kept her in a tiny calico pot I found in an antique shop outside of Sawanee, Tennessee. It's been fun to watch unsuspecting people come across it on my bookshelf. "What's this?", they would ask upon inspecting the contents. "My mother," I'd reply. At that, most would simply replace the lid and slide the pot back into its place, though one person did exclaim, "Daisy!" Incidentally, this is similar to the reaction I often get when I reply to the question, "What would your mother think?" with, "She wouldn't. She's dead." People take offense to my frankness, as though I have insulted them. Perhaps, in this culture, in which death is just not something anyone seems to be able to deal with with any sense, it is insulting to be so blunt about it. I find people need to be coddled with the information. "Oh, I am so terribly sorry to have to tell you this, but my mother passed over to the great Beyond. She's with the angels now." My suggestion is, if you're the type who is easily offended, you should not spend much time with me.
At any rate, in my efforts to purge myself of all items associated with my ex-husband (except for my beautiful Le Creuset dutch oven. And while we're on the subject, anyone in the market for a Sapphire engagement ring?), I decided it was time to find a better recepticle for my mother's ashes. I found a beautiful little black bowl with a pineapple shapped lid at a garage sale. I snatched it up with a fantastic handmade glass necklace. After cleaning it and deciding on the right place for it, I finally took the time to make the transfer, months after actually buying the bowl. I think the hold up was about my fear of my mother's ashes flying away as they slipped from the tiny pot to the bowl. After 15 years I worry that I have so little of her left with me that the risk of losing more was almost too much.
So, I sat on the edge of my bed, last Sunday evening, with the pot in one hand and the bowl in the other. I took some time looking at my mother's ashes and thinking about the kinds of things one thinks about in moments such as those. After a breath, I tipped the little blue and white pot over and watched the ashed slide. The room was still and nothing of my mother flew off into the wind. When the pot was empty, without thinking, I ran my finger around the inside of it, scooping out whatever might have stuck behind. And there I was, left with ashes coating my index finger. What else was there to do but wash my hands and move on?
As I ran my hands under the tap I thought, "This is not my mother. This is the remnants of her shell."
Really, she has passed on to the great Beyond. I'd like to think she may, in fact, be hanging out with the angels.
When the decision was finally made to give my mother's ashes a more dignified resting place there was much rancor over who got what (the ashes of one person, you may be surprised to know, are remarkably varied in size and color). Much of her got spread in places that meant something to her. The rest of her got divided up between my father, my sister and myself.
I have kept her in a tiny calico pot I found in an antique shop outside of Sawanee, Tennessee. It's been fun to watch unsuspecting people come across it on my bookshelf. "What's this?", they would ask upon inspecting the contents. "My mother," I'd reply. At that, most would simply replace the lid and slide the pot back into its place, though one person did exclaim, "Daisy!" Incidentally, this is similar to the reaction I often get when I reply to the question, "What would your mother think?" with, "She wouldn't. She's dead." People take offense to my frankness, as though I have insulted them. Perhaps, in this culture, in which death is just not something anyone seems to be able to deal with with any sense, it is insulting to be so blunt about it. I find people need to be coddled with the information. "Oh, I am so terribly sorry to have to tell you this, but my mother passed over to the great Beyond. She's with the angels now." My suggestion is, if you're the type who is easily offended, you should not spend much time with me.
At any rate, in my efforts to purge myself of all items associated with my ex-husband (except for my beautiful Le Creuset dutch oven. And while we're on the subject, anyone in the market for a Sapphire engagement ring?), I decided it was time to find a better recepticle for my mother's ashes. I found a beautiful little black bowl with a pineapple shapped lid at a garage sale. I snatched it up with a fantastic handmade glass necklace. After cleaning it and deciding on the right place for it, I finally took the time to make the transfer, months after actually buying the bowl. I think the hold up was about my fear of my mother's ashes flying away as they slipped from the tiny pot to the bowl. After 15 years I worry that I have so little of her left with me that the risk of losing more was almost too much.
So, I sat on the edge of my bed, last Sunday evening, with the pot in one hand and the bowl in the other. I took some time looking at my mother's ashes and thinking about the kinds of things one thinks about in moments such as those. After a breath, I tipped the little blue and white pot over and watched the ashed slide. The room was still and nothing of my mother flew off into the wind. When the pot was empty, without thinking, I ran my finger around the inside of it, scooping out whatever might have stuck behind. And there I was, left with ashes coating my index finger. What else was there to do but wash my hands and move on?
As I ran my hands under the tap I thought, "This is not my mother. This is the remnants of her shell."
Really, she has passed on to the great Beyond. I'd like to think she may, in fact, be hanging out with the angels.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Monday, August 25, 2008
Am I missing something?
In today's Los Angeles Times is an article about George Damaa, a California man who killed 3 people in a car accident (one of which being his girlfriend). He suffered from "post-concussion syndrome, which affected his memory and changed his personality." He could not remember the accident, nor could police put together strong evidence that Damaa was at fault. He was found guilty of several misdemeanors despite the lack of evidence. He has been unable to work since his release from prison. His psychiatrist, Dr. J. Victor Monke is quoted as saying, "It remains a mystery why he can't let it go."
Now, I may not know too much. I don't even have my B.A. and the Psychology courses I've taken have largely been undergraduate level. But even with my cursory knowledge of the human psyche and trauma I can say, fairly confidently, that Mr. Damaa's inability to "let go" of his own involuntary murder of his girlfriend and two other innocent people, followed by amnesia, a crappy trial and spending 2 years in prison is hardly a mystery. I mean, come on. That one is fairly clear-cut, wouldn't you say?
Now, I may not know too much. I don't even have my B.A. and the Psychology courses I've taken have largely been undergraduate level. But even with my cursory knowledge of the human psyche and trauma I can say, fairly confidently, that Mr. Damaa's inability to "let go" of his own involuntary murder of his girlfriend and two other innocent people, followed by amnesia, a crappy trial and spending 2 years in prison is hardly a mystery. I mean, come on. That one is fairly clear-cut, wouldn't you say?
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Amuse Bouche
I am forging a new relationship with my brain.
Many cats are assholes.
I am happier when I don't listen to public radio incessantly.
My mother listened to public radio incessantly.
My mother was not very happy.
It's time to take all the Ringo Starr songs off my iPod.
Puking, while excellent for the figure is not a very pleasant reaction to stress.
All men between the ages of 27 and 35 love Batman.
Most of life is covering for other's ineptitudes.
Just this moment I realized that Jim Dine used spray paint to make "Look at".
I sometimes wonder what men with small genitals think about on first dates.
It is extremely freeing when you realize that the people whose opinion you have been relying on are not people whose opinions you value.
My assertion that people should not marry before 30 can be backed up by hard science.
Sometimes family is best 3000 miles away.
When I was young I liked boys who looked like girls. Now I like men who are very masculine. And women who look like boys.
In defense of models everywhere, it's very difficult to learn things on an empty stomach.
People who laugh at the end of every sentence make me nervous.
Looking back, I think getting fired from a "psychic" phone service and a pole dancing studio in the span of one year is actually an accomplishment.
I sincerely hope my fellow Americans will seek to redeem themselves this November.
Why buy a brand new drafting table for hundreds of dollars when you can get one for 35 bucks from a tweaker in Sherman Oaks?
When I think of my womb I imagine the theme from "The Good, the Bad and the Ugly" and tumbleweed blowing by.
Forgiveness does not equal reconciliation.
My apology does not depend on your forgiveness.
I could have done without about 98% of the men I have had sex with in my life.
Do not turn on red when the signs says "Do Not Turn on Red"; There is a cop across the intersection.
If you have a boyfriend who buys you a Carvel cake on an ordinary Tuesday night because you asked him to, hold on to him as tightly as you can.
Many cats are assholes.
I am happier when I don't listen to public radio incessantly.
My mother listened to public radio incessantly.
My mother was not very happy.
It's time to take all the Ringo Starr songs off my iPod.
Puking, while excellent for the figure is not a very pleasant reaction to stress.
All men between the ages of 27 and 35 love Batman.
Most of life is covering for other's ineptitudes.
Just this moment I realized that Jim Dine used spray paint to make "Look at".
I sometimes wonder what men with small genitals think about on first dates.
It is extremely freeing when you realize that the people whose opinion you have been relying on are not people whose opinions you value.
My assertion that people should not marry before 30 can be backed up by hard science.
Sometimes family is best 3000 miles away.
When I was young I liked boys who looked like girls. Now I like men who are very masculine. And women who look like boys.
In defense of models everywhere, it's very difficult to learn things on an empty stomach.
People who laugh at the end of every sentence make me nervous.
Looking back, I think getting fired from a "psychic" phone service and a pole dancing studio in the span of one year is actually an accomplishment.
I sincerely hope my fellow Americans will seek to redeem themselves this November.
Why buy a brand new drafting table for hundreds of dollars when you can get one for 35 bucks from a tweaker in Sherman Oaks?
When I think of my womb I imagine the theme from "The Good, the Bad and the Ugly" and tumbleweed blowing by.
Forgiveness does not equal reconciliation.
My apology does not depend on your forgiveness.
I could have done without about 98% of the men I have had sex with in my life.
Do not turn on red when the signs says "Do Not Turn on Red"; There is a cop across the intersection.
If you have a boyfriend who buys you a Carvel cake on an ordinary Tuesday night because you asked him to, hold on to him as tightly as you can.
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