The Underbelly of Affluence

The NY Times has a really interesting article on state-sponsored AIDS drugs for the homeless and poor, and what happens when a state chooses, for whatever reason, not to fund those drugs.  It's interesting because it bring into harsh light exactly happens to those whom the private health care industry leaves behind (i.e. those who cannot afford health insurance) - they die.  Yet, at the same time, one wonders if paying $885 per month per patient for AIDS drugs is the best use of state resources and taxpayer money.  A state is charged with so many different tasks - educating the future, conserving what little wildlife we have left in America, keeping up infrastructure, etc., that state-sponsored health care inevitably drains money from those other resources.  What exactly is the best allocation of resources?  What do we want our legacy to be?  Do we want to fund education at the expense of the health of the less affluent?  Do we want to keep as many of our citizens alive at the expense of our environment and our education?  Or do we want to do as much as we can with as little as we have, thereby ensuring equal opportunity for all programs, but excellence in none?

We do seem to be moving to the point where health care costs are so out of control that some form of government regulation appears necessary.  The market is, frankly, not working.  But complete government ownership over the health care system comes with its own massive problems.  One need only take a look at the tangled web of Medicare, which doesn't even cover half of American's population, to realize that government health care would have massive systemic problems.  But what are the solutions?  America has never seemed to wholly believe in social Darwinism - the idea that those who fall by the wayside are better lost, yet America is also firmly against the prospect of wholly shared resources (the bare mention of socialism in some parts of the United States is enough to inspire McCarthy-like gesticulation and spitting).  We are capitalists with a conscience, but our problems our bigger than our resources.  What is there to do?

Arizona's Gut is Expanding

My home state is now the fastest growing state in the union, swelling tremendously thanks to displaced Californians, immigrants from south of the border, and the ever expanding retiree population.  Hmm...my decision to stay on this side of the country keeps looking better and better.

The Evils of Pop Culture

There are positives and negatives to being an avid consumer of pop culture. The positives including rocking the Entertainment category in Trivial Pursuit, being your friends' handy go-to guide for movie information (who the hell needs Ebert when you've got me?), and dreaming of Katherine Heigl (directly related to a recent overdose of Grey's Anatomy DVDs, no doubt - I need to do that more often). I'm not sure all those positives outweigh the large negative that happened the night before last, however - I dreamed that Britney Spears was my teenage daughter and I needed to help control her drinking and partying. Having Britney be present in a dream is a frightening enough occurrence, but actually being related to her is enough to want to make me move to the wilds of South Dakota and feed on nothing but root vegetables and the Outdoor Network. I thoroughly blame US Weekly (and MTC, who provided aforementioned illicit materials) for this hypothalamus horror show. The only saving grace was that Paris Hilton didn't show up in the dream. I'd rather have constant nightmares that the Taco Bell Chihuahua was eating me alive, toes first, while saying, "Yo Quiero Taco Flesh" than to have that woman show up anywhere in my ego, id, or superego. Gah!

God Before Country

It's a sad day in this country when Christian evangelicals can get inside access to the Pentagon to make a 10-minute, pro-evangelical video, but a pagan soldier who died serving his country can't get a Wiccan-themed headstone without much hassle and delay.  Your job is to serve your country and your fellow citizen.  Serve God on your own time, bucko.

The Brain/Hand Dilemma

Brr...it is motherfuckinggoshdarnnutbusting freezing here today!  Why is it again that I live in a place that has actual winter?  Oh right, it's because someone once told me that I looked hot in a turtleneck.  Screw the turtleneck, I look good naked, too, and could just as easily go to work naked if I lived someplace temperate, like Arizona, Florida, or Argentina.  Okay, fine, I'm a lawyer, I should dress up a little bit.  I'll wear a tie.

I'm getting a little fed up with the bureaucracy of my job...although I'm given a great deal of responsibility, I also have to write a memo for my superiors on just about everything.  Sometimes, when I go to the bathroom, I wonder if I should have sent up a memo on that, too, explaining the various pros and cons behind squatting or sitting, using a toilet seat cover or not.  Hmm...maybe next time I send a memo up, it'll be on that subject.  I wonder if anyone will notice.

I think it's time to think about other employment.  Perhaps I'll take my hands on a freak show tour of the United States.  After measuring my paws against a 6'5'' guy's hands and realizing that my fingers were only about a quarter-inch shorter than his, I've decided that I'm a certified freak of mammalian nature (since I only stand a mere 5'11'' 1/2 at last measurement).  Although, I'm not sure that the profit from selling tickets for freakishly large hands will quite cover my gym membership, let alone my rent, so perhaps I should just seek a job in which I could use my hands.  Hmm...massage school, perhaps?  Those guys make like $1 per minute, which is definitely more than my brain makes per minute in my current job.  Alas, my brain is the inferior breadwinner!

The Biology of Religion

Discover magazine has a really interesting article on researchers who are seeking a biological basis for religiosity.  From religious-leaning genes to hallucinogens that we produce naturally in our heads, these researchers seek to explain religion as a somewhat biological experience.  (The hallucinogen theory is my favorite, as test subjects who were dosed with the naturally-occuring hallucinogen not only reported mystical, religious experiences, but also visions of clowns, elves, robots, and being eaten alive by insectoid creatures.  Nice!)  That would totally debunk my theory that religion is an essentially human narrative, handed down through the ages as compensation for the fact that humans, for whatever reason (perhaps genetic or chemical), tend to feel incomplete when left all by their onesies.  We seem to have a deep, internal need to find some "other" that is not "self," as evidenced by Aristophanes' theory of split-aparts, Christians' search for knowing God through Jesus Christ, Buddhists' search for enlightenment, as well as the common conception of marriage and monogamy as an interweaving of two souls and lives (unity candle, anyone?)

Quote of the Day

"He needs much help who thinks he can compel others to do what seems right to him."

Santa's Butt, Trans Fats, and Breeding Cheneys

Maine is prohibiting the sale of "Santa's Butt Winter Porter," under the theory that beer named after Santa's posterior is sure to attract sugarplum fairies and wee ones.  Last year, Maine prohibited the sale of "Seriously Bad Elf" Ale from the same beer distributor because it depicted women's bare breasts.  Because, after all, those old enough to drink still aren't old enough to look at a woman's bare boob.  (Just ask Department of Justice attorneys under Ashcroft's reign of chastity.)  The beer maker is now suing Maine in federal court under a First Amendment freedom of speech argument.  Well, if the Supreme Court seems some artistic value in pole dancing, then I suppose there's some artistic value in a beer label.

Mary Cheney and her partner are on the cusp of breeding.  If it's a boy, I'm sure grandpappy will be happy to buy him a Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle for his third birthday. 

New York has decided to ban pretty much all trans fats in its restaurants, leaving places from McDonald's to Chez Swanky to figure out gustatory work-arounds.  While I fully support making restaurants disclose caloric counts and what items have trans fats, I'm not sure that forcing all restaurants to eliminate them is warranted government intrusion.  After all, if you simply provide people with all the info, and they tend to choose non-trans fat items, then the market will likely adapt.  If the market fails in that instance, then go for government regulation, but it seems like we're missing the middle step here.  Markets tend to work, so long as their is equal distribution of information.

Snarky, the Artiste

So, I'm assembling a frame today for my bar certificate, and my secretary comes by and says, "I bet you're really good at art."  Hahahahahaha.  I informed her that while I am perfectly handy, I was the kid who got a "B" in elementary school art, which loosely translates into "artistically retarded."  Every kid in elementary school gets an "A," except for those who are upstaged in their artistic expression by schizophrenic cats, i.e. me.

Oh well, artistic expression aside, I have now assembled a lovely little wall 'o Snarky at my office.  Now, my colleagues can come into my office and be assaulted by my various accomplishments, beaming down at them from behind my chair like a ray of light from heaven (or, perhaps, the fading, sputtery fluorescent beam of one who longs for the golden days of law school).  Now, I just have to decide whether to put up my high school accomplishment awards for perfect attendance.  Thoughts?

News of the Day

The Supreme Court heard oral argument in two cases yesterday, the issue being whether urban schools can use race-based classification systems to maintain racial diversity.  The New York Times is reporting that a majority of the new Supreme Court was decidedly antagonistic to the race-based classification system.  Evidently, the ends don't justify the means.  Take that, Machiavelli!

The District of Columbia got a little unexpected help from Utah, of all states, in moving a step closer to getting an actual, honest to goodness vote in the House of Representatives yesterday.  Evidently, massive political and racial divides don't matter when it comes down to getting another notch on the voting belt.

In an effort to make Snarky's nightmares come one step closer to reality, Senator Sam Brownback formed an exploratory committee to examine a potential run for the presidency.  Yes, this is the same man whose presentations to his peers in Congress have included animations of talking stem cells and family portraits that contain no gay people (that he knows of).  One can only imagine what kind of presentations we'd get from him once he had all of America as a captive audience!  If that man is elected president, I will happily jump into a vat of polonium and defect.

Charming Christmas Gifts

For those of you who are scrambling to buy last-minute Christmas gifts, Wonkette has a few choice suggestions, including Cold War Unicorns (screw My Little Pony - what happens when Commie unicorn takes on Freedom unicorn in a no-holds-barred contest of unicorn horn superiority? ) and a delightfully femme-y and pink "Bring Back the Crusades" t-shirt (because what this overpopulated world needs is a thorough cleansing of infidels!).  Remember, it is the giving season.

Holiday Flying Adventures

For those of you who may find yourself waylaid, delayed, or otherwise put out to pasture this holiday travel season, keep these tasty morsels of information in mind. First, if you happen to miss your connecting flight due to the error, idiocy, or general arbitrariness of the airline companies, see if you can strike sympathy in the heart of your new ticketing agent to get upgraded to first class. It really is better in the front of the boat. When I got delayed five hours on Thanksgiving Day, my upgrade to first class got me a three-course meal, a glass of wine that the flight attendant constantly tried to refill (from a real, honest-to-goodness bottle), and my own personal DVD player. I didn’t actually want to get off the plane when I finally reached Seattle!

Second, if your baggage should happen to get lost somewhere in America, be sure to call it in to the airline you last flew on, report it missing, and ask what the airline’s policies are on reimbursing you for clothes bought while your luggage was running amok. Usually, it’s a pretty small amount ($25 or $50 per day), but still, there was something awfully satisfying about making the airline who lost my luggage reimburse me for some panties I bought from a sex shop (Toys in Babeland, of course) to hold me over until I could get my bag, and hence access to my more boring panties. I hope that receipt made them smile as much as it did me.

And lastly, try to remember that while the holidays may seem like a more stressful time to travel, they’re just one day out of a lifetime. In the grand scheme of things, a few extra hours in an airport or a couple of days without any panties aren’t any big deal. It’s those kind of events that leave the door open for first-class, sex-shop-panty-buying fun!

It's in the Sauce

Evidently, 63% of those in the United Kingdom think that Arrabiata is a sexually transmitted disease. For those of you similarly deluded, Arrabiata is actually a spicy Italian red sauce commonly found atop spaghetti noodles. Perhaps this is why I had a hard time finding good Italian food in England...

Interesting News of the Day

Japan is bringing back the jury system to its criminal courts in 2009. Japan used to have the jury system in its criminal courts, but juries were abolished by the military government in 1943 and haven’t been heard from since. The Japanese juries will be composed of nine people - three judges and six citizens chosen by lottery - and the cases will be decided by majority vote.

Twenty-five conservative rabbis are convening to rethink their approach to gay sex. No word on whether there will be any movie screenings or live demonstrations to help them with their deliberative process.

Thought of the Day

"It's not easy being green."

- Kermit the Frog

Word of the Day

Merriam-Webster’s word of the day is poikilotherm (poi-KEE-luh-therm), which means an organism (such as a frog) with a variable body temperature that tends to fluctuate with and is similar to or slightly higher than the temperature of its environment. Had I only checked that before my delightful CLE training, I would have definitely been able to stump my classmates during the rousing game of hangman that ensued. Evidently, “exsanguinate” and “Sisyphus” were entirely too easy for them, and no little stick man ever got hanged.

An unenlightened soul might question my proclivity toward hanging little stick men during an educational outing, but I have discovered, through three years of law school, that there is a direct relationship between the amount of time I spend multi-tasking (that would be the politically correct term for playing hangman, passing notes, or spending time on instant messaging programs) and the amount of information I ingest during any particular training session. In short, the more I dicked around, er, multi-tasked, the better grade I received. I therefore view hangman as no mere frivolous distraction, but as an integral component of seasoning my brain cells to receive the bevy of continuing legal education launched at me this morning.

P O I K I L O T H E R M

Franken-Snarky

As many of you know, probably because I ranted and raved about the evils of high-velocity soccer balls, I broke my forearm rather fantastically in April, had it reset and then fall out of alignment over the next four weeks, and then had to have it surgically re-broken, wherein they added (a) a piece 'o my hip bone and (b) a lovely metal plate with accompanying screws. But did you all know that I was keeping photographic evidence of my travails? I bet not! A camera phone in the hands of a formerly pre-med, currently under the influence of Oxycontin individual is a beauteous thing.















One week after surgery. I about pissed myself when he took the temporary cast off. "Just a little scar," he said. Bull honkey - it looks like my forearm got raised from the dead in an altogether arcane fashion.















Now, we're at three weeks post-surgery. The scar is starting to looks less like I'm an undead zombie and more like I just tried to off myself with a razor blade. My favorite part is the waffling of the skin due to my water-proof cast. It gives my arm a certain International House of Scabby Waffles allure.















And here we are at present day scarring. The scar looks positively radiant next to the street atlas my veins form under fluorescent lighting. I've started to look at the bright side of the scar looking vaguely suicidal - I can use it to weed through the dating pool. If they seem to dig my scar without explanation, well, I can run away quickly.

CIA Goes High Tech to Recruit Cheerleaders

In an apparent effort to compete with military recruiters for 16-year-olds willing to forgo four years of drinking and drama in order to serve their country, the CIA now features a high-tech, yet low-IQ, personality quiz designed to appeal to the pimply-faced, "I watch 'Heroes' every week and wish I could fly" population. So, waste a few minutes and check it out. For the record, I tested as "The Thoughtful Observer," which means I'm totally ready to infiltrate evil lesbian nuke-smuggling rings in Eastern Europe. I got mad skillz.

Gender-Queer Emo Smurf, Anyone?

Seattle has been an eye-opening experience thus far - my eyes are now open to the hippie, granola, veggie-bacon lovin' world that is the Northwest. In and amongst the reusable sea sponge tampons and essential oils for every potential medical affliction, there is the wonder of the personal ads from "The Stranger," Seattle's alterna-paper. My favorite ad -

"Gender-Queer Emo Smurf Seeking Freaks" (definitely a sub-species of human not found in the wilds of D.C.) - "mutual consensual brutality, anyone? approachably sarcastic dykes with soft spots for sci-fi tastic baby butch geeks encouraged to apply. craving female companionship - sick of being sorely lacking. just want to be all kinds of sore. P.S. I've got got great hair." (something tells me that this girl has been lost since Xena conventions went the way of the dodo bird).

Cat People Gone Crazy

I have seen few things more disturbing than the November 2006 edition of "Cat Fancy" magazine. To be fair to November 2006, it's the first edition of "Cat Fancy" that I've ever seen and I don't think I will be sending in my subscription card anytime soon. The magazine is like the sick love child of kitty Cosmo ("From FAT to PHAT - Give your tubby tabby a makeover"), kitty's Health and Fitness ("Take Charge of Inflammatory Bowel Disease!"), and kitty Playboy (there is a fold-out centerfold of a Chartreux cat, which is described as having a "robust body with finely boned legs" and a dense coat that is "mauve and blue like the breast of a ring dove"). The magazine failed to comment on the centerfold's favorite romantic activity or what she looks for in a tom.

Only Too True

A hilarious and all-too-true look at the dating world through the eyes of a lesbian...

Philosophical Rumination of the Day

I’ve been reading a lot of texts lately that talk about living “in the moment,” which is something that I’ve always been bad about. I’m always looking for the next moment, just over the hill, the next moment because it has to be better than this one. And I see a lot of wisdom in not taking this moment, or this day, or whatever feeling you have for that hour for granted. A lot of good comes from appreciating that life is a series of moments, linked only by our perspective of them. But I think it’s important to have a sense of future perspective, too. It’s important to remember that however we act in that moment, that hour, that day, we can’t do over once its past . We can never go back and change our moments, as much as we might like to do so. It should therefore be important, when we’re in the moment, to make it one that we won’t want to erase in the future. We can’t control the future, but we can at least control how we look back on ourselves, on our moments, when the future comes.

A Side of Marriage, Hold the Polygamy

Polygamists in Utah are evidently taking a page out of the gay playbook to start pressing for polygamy marriage equality, with some success. They’ve managed to persuade the Attorney General of Utah to stop prosecuting people for bigamy, and without a Supreme Court edict, I might add. Though, before we go too far in comparing gays and polygamists, a few important differences should be noted. The structure of modern marriage is currently (and has been for centuries) defined by a two-person, monogamous commitment. Gays seek the right to be allowed equal access to that system, and have proven over time that their entry into that system will not create negative externalities on society (i.e. almost all studies conclude that children fare fine in two-person gay relationships and gay marriage in Massachusetts hasn’t seemed to do anything other than prove that marriage will continue to exist as a hallowed two-person institution just as it does currently).

In contrast, polygamist are not seeking to enter the system that exists on equal footing, but are seeking to redefine the current conception of marriage. There is no doubt that one could make arguments that the current system of marriage is strange (human monogamy for 30, 40, or 50 years is not exactly most in-keeping with human desires and biology) and had many negative externalities at its creation (i.e. exchanging women as property), but it is one thing to argue that you should be allowed equal access to an existing institution that has proved its good and bad points to society, and arguing for the creation of a new institution. Moreover, as of today, polygamy has shown itself to have a huge number of negative externalities, including child rape, female slavery, the creation of armed, separatist societies, and a lack of gender equality (I have yet to see the polygamist society where women are allowed to marry multiple men).

So, let’s not go comparing the two quite yet, mmkay?

Of Bondage and Poor Taste

Uplifting note of the day - I am finally free from the bondage of physical therapy! My wrist is now fully cleared to engage in its regularly scheduled programming of bending, flexing, and strutting. The strutting is provided care of the small amount of hip bone that is now fused to my arm bone, giving a whole new lyric to that bone song - “The hip bone’s connected to the arm bone.” That’s alright...I already have a few other extra connections - I sneeze when I’m hungry, leading me to hypothesize that my nose and stomach are connected by more than a mere esophageal tube.

In less uplifting news, it appears that Michael Richards (most famous for playing Cosmo Kramer on “Seinfeld”) decided to unleash his inner KKK at a stand-up comedy routine in Los Angeles last Friday. After evidently tiring of a black heckler in the audience, Richards shouted, “Fifty years ago they’d have you hanging upside down with a fucking fork up your fucking ass,” and the repeatedly referred to the man as a “N-gg–.” The video of the outburst can be seen here. Now, if we could only get Richards and Mel Gibson on a stage, together . . .

Dictator Mitt

So, let me get this right...most conservatives think that we should leave the gay marriage debate to the legislature and away from bad, activist courts, but when the legislature decides to keep gay marriage legal, then it’s okay to use the courts to make the legislature rethink its position? Because why exactly? Because then it’s a bad, activist legislature? Or is it really because conservatives, when they use the “activist judge” lingo really mean to say that any judge who rules against conservative principals is an activist, and should be denounced as such, but any judge who rules in favor of conservative principals is an ardent defender of separation of powers? Actually, I think I’m going to go with choice (c) - because conservatives like Governor Mitt Romney, and to a lesser extent, President Bush are the kind of conservatives that believe that the executive branch should be judge, jury, and executioner. I think any person desiring to be the executive should have to read the Constitution and the Federalist papers, and then take a test. Call it the No Executive Left Behind Act.

Flipper is Fucked in Japan

So, every year in Japan (you know, the modern, industrialized country that owns a good deal of America?), the government sanctions an annual “dolphin drive,” in which it gives permits to Japanese fisherman to club and butcher thousands of dolphins (21,000 permits were given out this year). When asked to defend the process, the Japanese government could only come up with three excuses:

(1) it is an important cultural activity (I’ve seen this excuse before...where was that? Oh yeah...for female genital mutilation and Southern slavery.);

(2) the government issues permits only for the number of dolphins that can be slaughtered without threatening the species’ survival (It’s one thing to say that you’re issuing permits to hunt animals to keep ecological population balance, but another to say that you issue just enough permits to make sure the animal doesn’t go extinct.); and

(3) the practice is limited to economic development zones with struggling fishermen (Honestly, the ecology of the world would probably be improved by less human population - see point #2).

Importing Cultural Traditions

If Ethiopia doesn't respect Spain's cultural tradition of letting two consenting adults of the same sex marry each other, then I don't see why the United States has to respect some Ethiopians' cultural tradition of lopping off their female children's genitals with kitchen scissors. When in Rome...don a toga. When in Georgia, leave the kitchen scissors for coupon-clipping.

Tipping My Velvet to Sofia Coppola

So, the buzz is that Sofia Coppola is going to direct a film version of "Tipping the Velvet," a well-written, yet luridly trashy Victorian lesbian novel by Sarah Waters. I'm very excited...Victorian pulp mixed with the angst and disillusionment of life that is Sofia Coppola's trademark could be a very intriguing mixture. And it probably wouldn't make me feel quite as guilty about liking the novel as the BBC's TV adaptation, which was a rollicking good time, but I had to shower the schlock off afterwards. Plus, it'll be fun to see how Coppola deals with the pivotal "servants disobeying the mistress by playing with the mistress' leather dildo" scene. I think that scene should be the make-it-or-break-it audition tape. Yup.

Thought of the Day

"Open me. Wide. Narrow. Pass through me, and whatever lies on the other side, could not be reached except by this. This you. This now. This caught moment opening into a lifetime."

Jeanette Winterson, "Lighthousekeeping"

My Chocolate Milk Obsession is Independently Verified

No longer can my friends mock me for pouring chocolate milk into my cereal in the mornings...I am vindicated! (Of course, to actually make use of of my morning pseudo-cocoa puffs, I will actually have to now work out instead of relying on post-breakup trauma for all of my weight loss. Damn.)

People and Their Consoles

I'm hoping that the new Playstation 3 has new games that simulate dates. Because I can't imagine a man who tells someone else that he's 31 and camped out for three nights to be the first in line to buy a new Playstation 3 is going to be getting a lot of actual booty.

Article II or III? I Can't Decide

There’s an interesting editorial today by a couple ex-Justice Department lawyers in the New York Times, arguing that the gay marriage issue shouldn’t be decided in the courts or by constitutional fiat, but exclusively by the legislature.

It’s an interesting perspective. To be sure, I’m sure that most gay marriage proponents would wish that legislatures would be progressive enough to realize what the parliaments of foreign countries are starting to get - that gay marriage isn’t the end of a great institution, but simply its next evolution. Yet that seems to be happening in this country at about the same pace that blacks were given equal access to schools and restaurants, and perhaps for very similar reasons - although a particular state or federal legislator might not have a problem with gay marriage, the gay constituency in any particular area (with the exception of perhaps San Francisco and D.C.) is going to be small in percentage, and certainly smaller than needed to get re-elected. Gay politics are not majoritarian politics. In the early part of the 20th century, black politics were not majoritarian politics, either. Legislatures work hard for the people, and can get do a lot of great work, but when doing what is ethically correct intersects with going against the grain of the majority, well, legislatures tend to be a little chicken, and for good reason - it’s hard to find a guy or gal who thinks that getting voted out for a noble cause is worth more than sticking in there, getting re-elected, and trying to change things slowly over time.

Changing things slowly over time sounds like a good idea, in theory, but what do you tell the gay person who wants to get married, start a family, be able to visit his/her partner in the hospital, leave his partner his estate if he dies intestate, etc. while the legislature is slowly changing things over time? “Sorry, buddy, it’s just not the right time for you?” The struggle between individual minority rights and majority rule has always been that the minority is put in the position of waiting until the majority is willing to be more inclusive. If you’re part of the minority who’s waiting around for the majority to get the right idea, well, it kind of sucks. It’s hard to be told to just wait a little longer to buy that ring or ride in the front of the bus or live one day without your lifestyle being mentioned on at least one political program.

That has been one place that courts have always stepped in throughout our history - to protect the minority, whether they be gay, black, Whigs, Communists, or Japanese-Americans, if the majority oversteps the boundaries of the Constitution. The problem arises, of course, in interpreting a document that people presume to be all-knowing and insightful, but takes up less space than a fancy dining napkin. The Constitution is a wonderful document, but it is not an instruction manual.

Moreover, the problem is that legislatures are created to deal with the population at large, while courts must decide the case of the individuals before them. Legislatures make decisions based no what most people want, or what they think most people want; courts make a decision about what the individual before is alleging, and whether such a claim is constitutionally supported. Legislatures and courts, therefore, work in vastly different ways and have wholly different considerations. But that’s what works about our system of checks and balances - the legislature has the right to pass a bill based on majoritarian needs, but the courts get to assess whether that bill unfairly burdens certain individuals that may not have been adequately considered by the majority.

I think the gay marriage movement has made the mistake of concentrating too much on the courts. Desegregation happened because the executive branch and the legislative branch backed up Brown v. Board of Education. Right now, there’s not a lot of legislative and executive support for some of the recent pro-gay marriage decisions. And I think that’s where the gay marriage movement has to go - appeals to the legislature and executive. But I can certainly understand the plight of the individual who says “enough is enough” and sues for his/her right to be treated equally. And though there has been backlash from the decision of the Massachusetts Supreme Court, legalizing gay marriage, the fact that at least one state in this country has gay marriage and hasn’t gone to hell in a handbasket is a nice example to show to other states’ legislatures - “See, the entire state won’t self-immolate and burn in a fiery pit for all of eternity if you do this.”

Calvin & Hobbes: The Real Story

Or, the funniest thing I've seen all week...

South Africa - 1; Roman Catholic Church - Negative 666

South Africa is now the fifth country in the world to legalize same-sex marriage, following in the footsteps of the Netherlands, Belgium, Spain, and Canada. It’s so nice to see the rest of the world, including a country that had legalized racial discrimination during my lifetime, kicking the United States’ ass when it comes to protecting citizens’ equal rights.

In less exciting news, the Roman Catholic Church (along with those crazy Baptists and Presbyterians) is cracking down on those within their ranks that might see gay behavior as anything less than sinful. America's Roman Catholic bishops recently declared that same-sex attractions are "disordered." Because, you know, after the Crusades and the Inquisition, what Roman Catholic bishops say should be given a lot of weight.

Quote of the Day

"We're here, there, not here, not there, swirling like specks of dust, claiming for ourselves the rights of the universe. Being important, being nothing, being caught in lives of our own making that we never wanted. Breaking out, trying again, wondering why the past comes with us, wondering how to talk about the past at all."

Jeanette Winterson "Lighthousekeeping"

Mid-Flight Boredom

No matter how many times I play my computer at chess, it kicks my butt every single time. I prefer the good 'ol Chessmaster 3000, when you could set it on the "novice" level (aka the computer plays like a drunken sailor who's only vaguely familiar with how to move a knight), thereby assuring yourself of a victory now and then. On my Mac, I only have two settings, "computer plays stronger," in which my assortment of royal pseudo-wooden pieces are massacred in the space of ten moves, and "computer plays faster," in which I last maybe 15 to 20 moves. I am still trying to find my inner prodigy, and it ain't Bobby Fisher.

In more positive news, my Mac's dictionary has the words "snarky," "snark," "snarkiest," "fuckwit," "ass bandit," "bitch-slap," "wanker," and "wonky" in it. Such are the electronic joys that I discovery when I'm bored on a night flight to Austin.

Zombie Sunday

There are certain things you should not do on a mere two hours' sleep.

(a) Laundry - lest you wash your clothes with your Burt's Bees lip balm, thereby effectively making your jeans smell pepperminty fresh;

(b) Working Out - lest your body decides to say, "Fuck this!" and thinks about passing out and throwing up at the same time. I have managed to avoid that combination of activities for 29 years now - I really don't want my first time to be all over the bench press in my shi-shi gym.

Where Disappointment and Regret Collide

First and foremost, I would like to congratulate my home state of Arizona for being the only state in this election that did NOT pass the same-sex marriage ban. I’m proud of you, baby! Finally making bollo ties and aquamarine shirts look good! (Unlike Colorado, who not only passed a same-sex marriage ban, but struck down a domestic partnership law. I hope at the next Colorado rodeo, all the bulls line up, tie a rope around all of your testicles and ride you, Coloradans.)

I was also excited that the Democrats took back the House (and perhaps the Senate), though I was underwhelmed to see the rise of the socially conservative Democrat in this election period. I probably agree with Lincoln Chaffee (former Senator - RI) a heck of a lot more than Brad Ellsworth (new House member from Indiana). What party does a girl have to sign up for to get the socially liberal, yet fiscally conservative candidate?

In less inspiring news, I’m at day 13 post-breakup (but who’s counting) and have now lost 7 pounds in that time period. It’s a toss up between best diet I’ve ever gone on and cruel and unusual punishment to my body. But what is there to do? Food has lost its appeal and it makes me sick to eat it, anyway. I feel like I’ve become an after school special for anorexia.

There’s really nothing more heartbreaking than realizing your own part in a relationship’s death. That perhaps you could have saved the relationship long enough for it to work out had you only been able to do this thing or that behavior. It doesn’t even seem to matter much whether you couldn’t bring yourself to do this or that because its not in your permanent psychological makeup or because you simply lack emotional maturity and depth. Either way, it plays with your head and makes you wonder why you haven’t learned more in your 29 years on this earth. It seems like you should have. In my case, I found most everything I wanted in one person and I was so very scared that I would lose it, that I crushed her with the weight of my expectations. In the end, my own fears led to the very thing I was most afraid of - pushing her away. And now there’s nothing there. No relationship. No friendship. Just a lot of sleepless nights where disappointment and regret collide. (Yes, that’s a reference to a great Death Cab for Cutie song - “Title and Registration.”) And the painful realization that despite the fact that I’d cut off a body part to have her back, I can’t give her what she needs right now. I just don’t have it in me for some reason. Heartbreaking.

When in Doubt, Deflect Onto the Disenfranchised

President Bush has his panties in an uproar over the recent New Jersey decision paving the way for gay marriage, or its’ separate-but-equal version thereof - civil unions, to go forward in New Jersey. It’s a sad state of affairs when a man attempts to get his and his brethren’s numbers up by browbeating a subject that (a) is none of his business under federalism principles and (b) is hardly comparative to the issues he might otherwise occupy his time with, like civil war in Iraq, nuclear testing in North Korea, the state of torture 60 miles south of Florida, etc.

I have my panties in an uproar too about why the NJ Supreme Court would release its opinion two weeks before a crucial election, rather than after, but then again, it’s not like any of the candidates running anywhere are in favor of gay marriage, even if they happen to be hiding a big, bad gay partner in their closets.

And then, of course, there’s Senator Brownback, who’s not happy unless he’s got talking frozen embryos on his giant board and gays and lesbians (and their evil accomplices!) firmly ensconced in their closets. This week, his tirade is against district court candidate judge Janet T. Neff, who is evidently a fine legal scholar and judge, but just so happened to attend the “wedding” ceremony of a lesbian who had been her neighbor for more than 20 years. How dare she even be seen among such muckrakers! We’ve had Congressmen who were KKK members, use racial epithets, make sexist remarks, and support interrogation techniques bordering on torture and what we’re really worried about at the end of the day is whether some district court appointee put in an RSVP at a wedding that has no legal standing. It makes me wonder what “values” the “values voters” who keep Brownback in office stand for.

Jane Austen is the Pinnacle of Ethics

Evidently, the shaping of a future Andrew Fastow or Kenneth Lay starts in school, business school that is. A recent study by Donald McCabe of Rutgers University found that 56% of business grad students fessed up to cheating (and most of those admitted to cheating three or more times in the previous year - evidently, crime does pay). Lest you start thinking better of the pocket protectors located across the street from the business school, engineering grad students admitted to cheating 54% of the time and physical sciences grad students said they cheated 50% of the time. The Leaning Tower of Pisa is starting to make corner-cutting sense now.

What about the most hallowed profession of medicine? A not so hallowed 49% admitted to cheating. Evidently, the Histology for Dummies books don’t help much. And our children - the future of America - will be happy to note that 48% of education grad students cheat, if only so that they can have ammo to win a potential plagiarism argument with their high school English teacher, thereby spawning a yearning interest in law school, where only 45% of the students cheat. That’s veritably saintly compared to those MBA pukes. And finally, the least likely to cheat, the repository of ethics in a cruel and shallow world? Humanities and social sciences grad students. As Mr. Slave would say, “Oh, Jesus Christ.”

A Tale of Two Credits

Credit reports are strange beasties. They are individualized reports of financial worthiness run by private companies who don’t know you from Adam (or Eve or Steve), yet these faceless monoliths of corporate culture can keep you from getting a job, a car, or a house. Well, unless you want to get around that by paying 25-30% interest. Trust me...I’ve been there and it sucketh mightily. Thanks in part to a horrid upbringing on the cost of real items in the “real” world and to the non-existence of laws keeping vultures (aka college credit card representatives) away from college campuses, I got a front row seat to a morality play about the horrors of fucking up one’s credit and the long path of redemption necessary to restore it.

It starts with a long fall from the grace of seeming financial equanimity, a journey through the wastelands of high interest rates with your BFFs, Experian, TransUnion, and Equifax, the climax of your 25-year-old self attacking you late at night with a large hatchet and threatening to beat you silly if you don’t get your head out of your arse so that your 30-year-old self might have a shot at home ownership and respectability someday, and then the less-than-climactic denouement of paying off all your bills at once (thanks to your loan-happy fairy aunt). The play closes with a shot of you checking in with your BFFs every 3-6 months to make sure that they are reporting accurate info, because, like a lot of friends, they are prone to holding grudges and making up exaggerated stories about you.

Some of the various lies that my BFFs have said about me include reporting that I was dead (thanks, TransUnion! I love you too!), reporting that I had a spouse named John (not bloody likely), reporting accounts that were closed as open and accounts that were paid as unpaid. My BFFs’ really suck at accounting. Luckily, though, they are prone to the art of persuasion...if you argue with them enough, and for long enough, eventually they’ll pretty much back the hell down and start telling the truth and nothing but the truth. Well...sometimes they get a little ahead of themselves, like this year...my BFF Experian (whom I now only check in with once a year, as we’ve grown apart somewhat), was reporting that my spouse’s name was “Scooter.” (Okay, well, it reported her real name, but you get the idea.) Dude - either wait until I actually pop the question or move to Massachusetts, mmmkay? One joint Storehouse credit card does not a marriage make!

(By the way, everyone can pull free credit reports for themselves yearly at www.annualcreditreport.com . Just do it.)

The Values of Freedom

I love it when the administration gets on its hobby horse and starts telling the American public that they’re a bunch of Benedict Arnolds for opposing (or even questioning), the administration’s Iraq policy. Even the very suggestion that America should withdraw its troops from Iraq “validates the strategy of the terrorists,” according to Cheney. Evidently, Cheney gives greater weight to the terrorists going “nanny nanny boo boo” to our governmental ideals (the ability to have a debate on whether a war is justified - shocking!) and its possible side-effects than he does to the possibility of America becoming a communist-like regime where freedom of speech and of the press is only tolerated to the extent that it pats the current administration on its ass and says “Good job, boys!”

It is our government’s responsibility not only to protect the bodily integrity of its citizens, but to protect the constitutional freedoms and liberties that are the essential building blocks of a just society. The denigration of these building blocks are not only an affront to the great men and women who founded this nation, but to the memory of every individual whose life has been lost in serving this nation or at the hands of terrorists. A life lost on behalf of America means little if we allow the presence of terrorism to close our eyes, ears, and mouth. We endure because we see, because we discuss, because we listen. Ignorance is the heart of terrorism and we lose the war on terror when we allow it to pervade our government and citizenry. Precaution in an age of terror is a social good (please - take my liquids before I board that 747!), but our government’s insistence that its methods are not to be openly questioned is a sign that they no longer deserve us as citizens and that we, as citizens, deserve much better than them.

America the Beautiful

It’s good to see that America. is much the same as I left it - the Potomac River is as polluted as ever and spawning intersexed fish (a whole new meaning of “it’s in the water” is soon to follow); Bush’s interest in human rights has shot up markedly given the impending election season, and the relative idiocy levels of Florida Republicans is intact. Oh America, how I missed thee!

Evidently, America missed me too, or at least that small sub-section of America known as my co-workers and bosses. I arrived at work yesterday after a wonderful month of steadfastly ignoring time, date, and responsibility to find hundreds of e-mail messages in my inbox, a thick stack of papers on my desk, and my calendar filled with depositions that my co-counsel had scheduled for me in my absence. It’s nice to have been missed, but even better to be ignored. Ignorance of my general existence in my office would be bliss - the kind of bliss that would allow for all kinds of time to pleasure read, write, pontificate, and make bikini waxing appointments. You know...the important things in life.

Speaking of pleasure reading, I did plenty of that on vacation. In the total absence of legal briefs and Westlaw (and in the absence of my usual panoply of magazines), it’s amazing how many books one can plow through. I managed to knock out “Fast Food Nation” by Eric Schlosser (yes, I will still eat McDonalds on rare occasions, but I’m off the non-free range beef for the foreseeable future), “1984" by George Orwell (which tied in nicely with my trip to the Museum of Communism in Prague), and “A Long Way Down” by Nick Hornby (which led to my overuse of the British insults “tosser” and “git”). I also started “Never Let Me Go” by Kazuo Ishiguro, but my prospects of finishing it have been lessened by the approximately 50 magazines and catalogs that were delivered to my residence during my month-long absence (evidently, Pottery Barn is not sufficient with four seasons, but must have both an early Fall and a regular Fall catalog...tossers). It’s ever so hard to choose between a Booker Award-winning author and finding out the details of Kate Hudson’s adulterous fling with Owen Wilson, dont' you think?

Stereotypes are Efficient

Scooter and I have landed in the big, bad ´ol city of Berlin (and by "big and bad," I mean that the damn city is roughly eight times as large as Paris.) I´m guessing this ain´t gonna be no walking tour city. As you may have noticed, my English grammar has taking quite a nosedive of late - I can attribute this solely to the extreme stress placed upon both my tongue and brain by the verbal calisthenics of "getting by" in Portugal, Spain, France, Italy, Austria, the Czech Republic, and now Germany. Unlike all of the Aussies, Canucks, and Brits that I´ve met, who seem content with the fact that most Europeans speak at least some English and therefore see no use in embarassing themselves with poor tildes and umlauts, I really have tried to learn at least one phrase in every language I´ve encountered and to use that phrase at least once (to be fair to myself...I tried learning multiple phrases in every language but Czech, where I only learned how to say "Mluvite anglicky?" aka "Do you speak English?").

My attempts at sounding suave in the romantic, germanic, and slavic languages have produced a wide variety of responses, depending on my navigational position at the time. By far, the most common response to my verbal utterings was to respond to me in English. In Spain, I could comfort myself with the notion that the general populace simply didn´t like my Mexican Spanish, and preferred to speak to me in English, despite the fluidness and grace of my pronunciation. During the rest of my trip, however, I could claim no such delusions - my tongue is evidently more talented in my mind than in actual practice. The French, true to stereotype, were by far the most rude about my lack of proficiency in their country´s language - almost every English interaction was preceded by a less-than-amused smile or grimace on their part. I would perhaps feel slightly guilty about my lack of communication, except that I observed a French woman today asking a Czech man, in French, where she could find the bus to the airport. When he appeared to not understand her inquiry, she repeatedly yelled it at him...in French. Any compunction I may have had to bother with learning French pleasantries has now vanished completely, only to be replaced with a desire to state something arcane and utterly indecipherable the next time I run into a Frenchie (Perhaps, "I need más Anglicky shingles for your weinerschnitzel. Cuanto korunys bitte?).

(Helpful sign, but I could use the help more after I leave the American sector, thanks...)

When in Rome...

...do your darndest to get kicked out of Vatican City. Yet despite our kissing in St. Peter's Square, St. Peter's Basilica, and in the Sistine Chapel, Scooter and I only received stern words from the guards once - in the Sistine Chapel for simply looking at the pictures on our camera (not actually taking pictures). Oh well, I feel better for having given a symbolic "up yours" to the pope anyway. (Even if he wasn't actually in the Vatican City today...it's like rooting for your favorite player on tv...he/she can't hear you, but it still makes a difference, of course.) Speaking of Vatican City - it is, I must admit, quite stunning. Although a great deal of the materials responsible for its stunning nature were thieved from the neighboring ancient Roman ruins by the various Popes (almost all of the copper came from the Pantheon and much of the marble came from the Colosseum). I hereby suggest that the Catholic motto be changed to "beg, borrow, steal, and gloat."

Rome, in general, has been a mixed bag. Some of the sights are among the most fascinating in the world - the Colosseum and the Sistine Chapel are incomparably gorgeous. But the city of Rome itself is dirty (a great deal of the city has smelled like pee on any given day), trashed (a combination of the fact that Rome has close to 1 trash can per square mile and the general nature of droves of tourists to be evil beasties), and somewhat inhospitable to public transportation (it has only 2 metro lines, most of which don't go near the most beautiful parts of the city and the bus situation is splintered and confusing). Lastly, it's not a city I feel very safe in - there are only a handful of stoplights (for some reason, the city planners just trust all cars in Rome to learn how to yield gracefully) and Scooter and I observed a uniformed police officer notice an abandoned duffel bag placed near a bus stop, and then blissfully walk on by. Nice. Add that to the Vatican Museum x-ray tech, who was watching the people and not the bags, and well, it almost makes you want to warm up to the Department of Homeland Security's stupid Advisory System. Almost.

Scooter and I are catching the train to Venice in about an hour and a half. Only four more cities to go! (Venice, Vienna, Prague, Berlin).

Nice is Nice

Here I am, in Nice, about halfway through my European adventure, and I am just now beginning to relax and settle in to the life of a vagabond expatriate. Damn, the skin of a stressed-out lawyer takes a while to slough off. Those who compare my kind to snakes might have a point.

Nice is a fairly urban beach town (population of 300,000 - 400,000) that reminds me a heck of a lot like South Beach, except with potentially more money. The sky has been a lovely baby blue over the last few days and the water has been a delightful azure color. The Mediterranean is easily the most beautiful stretch of water I have yet seen (not that we're talking about many - heretofore, I have only seen the Atlantic, the Pacific, and the Gulf 'o Mexico). The weather could not have been nicer, except of course, for today, when Scooter and I decided to head to Cannes (home of €1,000,000 plus homes and the International Film Festival) for beaching and jet skiing.

After a 40 minute train ride, we discovered that Cannes, in fact, has no jet skiing (what resort of the rich and infamous doesn't). Then after another 20 minutes or so of attempting to sun ourselves into Grecian gods, we decided that the French Riveria had more clouds and wind in mind for today that actual sun. So much for our attempts at topless tanning. (I could justify my interest in topless bathing as a way to erase my bikini-top lines, but as most of you are aware of (a) my normal bleached flour complexion and (b) the number of times per year I am generally caught wearing a bikini top, I'll admit I did it for the novelty.)

We are headed to Florence at 10 'o clock in the morning to see if we can storm the Uffizi and ogle David's package.

Snarky's Undead Yearnings

For those of you over the age of 25 who might value your sleep...do not stay at a hostel! They are the cheap, yet evil playgrounds of the undead youth. One night in my Barcelona hostel, a hostel that believed it a good idea to put 12-14 people in each sleeping room, I was awakened at 1, 2, 4, 6, 8, and 9 in the morning. I felt that I had been through some cruel sleep deprivation experiment designed to get me to desire to sustain myself solely on rioja and the brains of my young sleeping companions. Luckily, Scooter dissuaded me from such a ghastly repast (and the hostel in Barcelona has dissuaded me from staying in anything other than a private room in the foreseeable future).

But I digress...where were we...back in Lisbon, I believe. Lisbon is a quaint little town - cobblestone streets, little cafes serving Fanta Naranja (the cousin of Orange Crush, and ubiquitus in Europe) lining the streets, terra cotta shingles, and every so often, the random local offering tourists hashish and cocaine. I observed the drug peddlers going up and down the main tourist strip in Lisbon, asking random cafe eaters whether they were interested in the little packet in their hands. I'm not entirely sure how the peddlers marked their prey other than to say that Scooter and I were offered drugs only once - when we were holding hands and being snuggly late at night, while a bloke we met from Australia who hadn't shaved in 6 months was offered pot about six times during his stay in Lisbon. I therefore deduce that hairy and/or lesbian = druggie. I can only imagine what a find a hairy lesbian must be.

Ahhh! My Internet time is running out. Until next time...

The quaint town of shingles and drugs...

Live From Lisbon

I´ve only been in Lisbon a total of six hours, but I have somehow managed to find the local cyber cafe already. I´m ahead of the curve. (I am, however, way behind the European keyboard curve - every time I try to insert a "´", I end up inserting a "º". Let´s not even get into the French and British symbols that mock me from the number row.

The flight to Lisbon, outside of being a tad late leaving Philly, was uneventful. Scooter and I were lucky enough to have an entire row to ourselves, all the better to watch the kooky couple across the aisle from. Aforementioned kooky couple were an elderly man and woman who also had the entire row to themselves, which was evidently just too much for Mr. Kooky to take - all the way until take-off, he kept switching his seat from the window to the middle to the window and back again (Mrs. Kooky was firmly planted in the aisle seat.) Perhaps he was prepping his legs for the long flight with some side-to-side stretches. Mrs. Kooky eclipsed her husband´s curious behavior, however, once the meals were served - she was so delighted by the US Airways repast placed before her that she ate the pat of Fleischmann´s butter provided right out of the aluminum foil, sans bread, in two delightful mouthfuls. She followed that with a chaser of dipping sauce, served into her discerning gullet via spoon. Mmm mmm good.

As for myself, I chose to skip the act of buttering my tongue, and upgraded my meal by purloining some first-class chocolates that were just hanging out on a tray near the first-class bathroom. Life in first-class is not only roomier, it is downright yummier!

Lisbon, thus far, is beautiful. It was about 78 degrees Fahrenheit, sunny, and dry when we landed. We made it to the hostel safely (although an accordian player who cleverly had his pet chiuahua clasp a change bucket in his mouth managed to "cute" (yes, that´s a verb now) Scooter into spending her first euro (picture is below). Alright, back to the hostel for me...I have to see if Scooter has slept off her jet lag yet...we have trouble to get into!

Bohemia is Dead

It’s days like today where the whole notion of being a lawyer sounds about as appealing as having Britney Spears for a mother (unless you value having your childhood playmates refer to your mum as "Trucker.") The day was an exercise in inefficiency - spending all day on a plane to get to a five minute court hearing that opposing counsel didn't even bother to phone into, much less show up. These are the days when you wish for (a) a Star Trek-like transporter, (b) a doppelganger with an interest in the mindless minutia of everyday working life, or (c) the balls (proverbial, of course) to call it quits and live the bohemian lifestyle of your dreams.

The good thing about dreams is that they rarely involve the matter of money (really – when was the last time you paid for something in your dreams?) Then again, there’s reality. In reality, I make far more per year as a purveyor of uncontested court hearings and conference calls than I probably ever could as a writer (my particular bohemian dream). Let’s face it…less-than-gripping novels at $1.99 per download ain’t going to fund my new membership at the fancy, mosaic-tiled, gay boy-laden downtown gym/hair salon/smoothie parlor, a membership I’m forced to pay out of the memory of my cheap, but ghetto gym in Phoenix where the “straight” men who sang George Michael at the top of their lungs while wearing pink muscle shirts would come show me their hernia scars without provocation. A monthly blood sacrifice would be worth avoiding that fate.

Don’t get me wrong…being a so-called litigator (the worst misnomer in the legal world) hasn’t been all bad. I did have that one shining moment where I got to write a brief about a novel issue of attorney-client privilege law. It is those moments, seated behind a large flat-screen computer monitor with a caffeinated beverage in one hand, combing through Westlaw for case law to support my well-articulated position (well, at least I think so), in which I am insanely happy. Sick, I know, but I am a bookish geek at heart, despite my penchant for smack talk on the softball field. But then again, that case settled, so I’ll probably never get a ruling on my brief. Such is the life of a lawyer – clients tease you with the promise of a good fight and then they wuss out and settle for the nearest million. Babies.

But until I can use my smooth-talking litigator ways to get me a book deal, a sugar mama, or a wealthy benefactor with a liking for smart alecky Amazon women from Arizona, I must remain the conference call bitch and enjoy my unmolested time at the gym. In the whirlpool tub. With the mosaic tile.

The Least Surprising News of the Day

I think Lance Bass' family might be the only ones shocked to hear that he's finally come out of the closet. More surprising is that he's not dating one of the New Kids on the Block (or, Old Adult Firmly Entrenched in the Suburbs, as is more appropriate these days).

Caught Between Aphorisms

"It's wrong to speak ill of the dead."

"If you can't say anything nice, then don't say anything at all."

So, basically, it's wrong to talk trash about anyone at any time after fertilization throughout the entirety of civilization. Methinks that Miss Manners left out some most important verbiage:

"It's wrong to speak ill of the dead [at their funeral. Anytime thereafter is open season on the not-so-dearly departed.]"

"If you can't say anything nice, then don't say anything at all [unless you're in the company of those who can appreciate a good bitchfest. Sharing is caring.]"

Much better.

Sidewalk Interlopers

Summer in D.C. is a special kind of hell. Not only is one prone to the joys of rashes one can’t scratch in public and mosquitoes thanks to the ultra-humid 90 to 100 degree weather, but one must suffer the ultimate minions of evil – tourists. They come in trains, planes, and chartered buses to boost our economy, take pictures of themselves riding underground public transport for the first time (look at me on the Metro, ma – it’s so very urban!), and to get in every D.C. denizen’s way. Normally, the average D.C. gal can avoid Interloper touristus normalis (a pack animal identified by its possession of a disinterested-looking mate, 1.5 children, the .5 of which is always crying, and a camera firmly attached to one eyeball) through a combination of defensive weaving and offensive backpack wearing.

Yesterday, however, my tourist-avoiding game plan was foiled at the hands of the Women of Faith “Contagious Joy” conference at the Verizon center - a convention evidently, for those who believe in Disney (or at least, the value of wearing Disney characters prominently on one’s body) and the joys of not working out. After crossing F street (which was blocked off due to the sheer amount of holy roller buses), I was awash in a pack of pastel fat rolls with bags advertising Curves as far as the eye could see. I briefly contemplated the merits of screaming at the top of my lungs, “Lesbian coming through. Make way or succumb to the gay plague!” but the last shred of humility I possess intervened. On the bright side of life, I’m now thoroughly humility-free should the Promise Keepers decide on D.C. as their winter conference site.

2006 Booby Award - Zidane

So, we learn that Zidane infamously drove his Mr. Clean-orb into Materrazi's chest in the World Cup final because he insulted Zidane's mother and sister repeatedly. Yeah, because making an ass of yourself in front of millions of people worldwide really protected the sanctity of your mother and sister's good name. Sticking around to actually help your team score a goal might have done more than putting your noggin' into Materrazi's boobs. Repeat after me - "sticks and stones..."

Wolfitis - It's Not Just For Circus Freaks Anymore

Okay, well, it’s been a while since I’ve updated you all. I know, I know...I promised you the moon and the stars and to update you all once a month. Whaddya gonna do? Spank me? (Please.) I am finally in possession of two typing hands, though my daily cartwheeling is still on hold. The second cast came off last Friday. My priorities after the case coming off were the same priorities that most American males feel toward their automobiles: (1) wash; (2) rinse; (3) wax. Little known fact - wearing a cast can cause temporary hypertrichosis (aka “wolfitis), which is the presence of excessive (and dark) body hair where the cast was located. Not quite Teen Wolf, but hey, I have always been proud of being relatively free of body hair despite having 23 chromosomes from a bearskin rug. Wolfitis met Nair wax strips and the wax strips won. The skin, however, lost.

Now with all that extra hair out of the way, I am free to concentrate on rehabilitating “Chicken Little” (as my left arm is now less-than-affectionately called) to do such big and butch things as doing circles with my left wrist and attempting to hold up a wall (which usually requires a 90 degree bend in the wrist, but alas, I can do it with a mere 20 degree bend!). On the positive side of life, my scar no longer looks like Dr. Frankenstein attached a dead hand to my body. On the negative side, it now looks like I tried to commit suicide and chickened out halfway through. I can’t decide which is the better first impression.

In other news, its’s a mere 16 days before Scooter and I leave on our European vacation (but who’s counting?). Let me tell you - I need this vacation badly. Work is starting to get to me...in the past week, I have bitten off the head of both a paralegal and an investigator (you were thinking live chickens, weren’t you?). Now granted, both of them deserved a little nibbling from a land shark, but still, I think the French Riviera will do wonders for my chi, my karma, my superego, all of it. An entire month without a shred of work, the annoyance of constant conference calls (or any calls for that matter), or, well, Americans for that matter. Bring it on, baby. I am so ready for it, I may cave and become one of those expatriates who gives up her day job, starts writing about the passion of French wine, and frequents naked beaches. It could happen.

Getting My Bionic On

...and by bionic, I mean that I not only will have some metal in my arm, but a wee bit ‘o my ass as well. Okay, probably more likely my hip, but it sounds much cooler and freakier to say that my arm will be part-wrist, part-ass (yet, all woman) than the alternative. I wonder if my arm will get a bit more wiggly when Shakira pops up on iTunes?

I learned today that a “bone graft,” the medical term for making my arm part-wrist, part-ass, is a procedure that not only helps to fuse a fractured bone, but aides in stimulating healthy bone growth. In fact, one medical website with more of a sense of humor than most referred to a bone graft as “fertilizer” that would help speed up the process of bone regeneration and growth. Pelvic fertilizer. Awesome.

The technical name for my lame-ass healing process is called “malunion.” Though it sounds like something one of those stupid “O.C.” kids would say about a particularly unwholesome hookup, it actually means that my dumbass bone healed, but incorrectly. Bad bone. Bad. Causes of malunion include the original doctor screwing up the setting of the bone (not likely...bone looked set well and good after the good ‘ol tug and lift); the second doctor not casting the fracture properly (a possibility, my second doctor was kind of a spend-five-minutes-a-patient ass), soft tissue contracture (I think that means the surrounding tissue pulled at Ms. Weak Bone); and gradual collapse of the fracture due to a splintered fracture (also a possibility - my bone was a wee bit splintered on initial x-ray). Damnit...there are entirely too many intervening causes for me to sue any of my doctors. I hate it when that happens.

The good news is that my third doctor seems to know what the hell he’s doing - he’s a wrist specialist and his “take a little hip here, take a little wrist there” approach is backed up by some websites and articles I read today. Always good to know that your surgeon is not just a cut-happy gent looking to bump up his billables to my insurance company. (Gee...I wonder if my job has jaded me?)

I’m debating the relative merits of committing this fiasco to digital film. And by debating, I mean that I’m weighing my amusement value versus the desire of my friends’ stomachs for medical irregularities. Unfortunately, I missed the best picture - the wrist immediately after fracture. There is no better Kodak moment than an S-shaped wrist. Bugger.

Here’s the my last week of tying my own shoelaces and showering without a plastic baggie and a rubber band! Life is sweet.

Snarky Meets Mickey

Mickey Mouse should live anywhere but my house. Here's an e-mail I recently sent to my landlord on the Maus House situation...

Your Majesty,

Sir, it is with my humblest regrets that I must announce that the Mice, those most foul creatures not worthy of being eaten by mutts, have once again invaded your most dignified territory, leaving behind them droppings which befit their low status. I also happened upon one of the most undignified lot last night, but like a cur, he ran away before I could heap upon him the slanderous musings that he so richly deserved. Indeed, I have set out traps, by which I hope to capture the lowly creature so that I may berate him for his unlawful entrenchment in your fine abode, but alas, the creature has escaped my most ingenious clutches so far. I simply write you to inform you of the state of your kingdom.

Your most humble subject,

Lady of the Basement