Steve & I had to do a major smackdown of Krista Swan awhile back. We had to. She’s a friend of child rapist Neil Goldschmidt, and was trying to rally support for him.

No.

No, no, no, no, no.

So when I saw that the Oregon Zoo has decided to raise the (already too high) prices for its annual Zoo Lights festival, I said two words. No, four.

“No, no, Krista Swan again.” OK, that’s five.

Sure enough, she’s quoted in the article, blah, blah, too many people! The lines are too long! So we’ll raise the prices and fewer people (ie — the hoi polloi) won’t show up.

You’re talking about my crowd now, baby. Because there are a lot of working poor, and poor, and kids who are impoverished on the west side, and the east side (the south side, the north side)… And part of their taxes? Paying for the Metro bond that is keeping the elephants enclosed. And sick. On exhibit. (Not in a sanctuary, as promised by the Oregon Zoo when they floated the bond.) Did you stop to think, maybe Zoo Lights was just barely affordable for some families, as it was? It’s a tradition. People like it. That’s why it’s crowded. So why not do timed tickets or something like that? Not oversell tickets. (Where’s the fire marshall when you need him? This venue is over capacity!)

It makes no difference to me, per se (rich people’s phrase) cuz I frickin’ boycott (poor people’s words) the zoo. (See: “elephant sanctuary” bond measure. See: “Free all the animals from their cages!/No matter how new or modern!” — Raffi) (also, see: Krista Swan, zoo publicity flack, Neil Goldschidt fan, etc.)

I want all community events (and Zoo Lights is a community event, in a public facility, largely taxpayer-funded, not just for rich people) to be open to all, not just those with money.

Peace.

wm

Let’s end with a quote, shall we? Wise words, from the film “Pretty in Pink”:

Blaine, to Stef: “You couldn’t buy her, though, that’s what’s killing you, isn’t it? Stef? That’s it, Stef. She thinks you’re shit. And deep down, you know she’s right.”

(Photo by Steve Rawley)

love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love

peace peace peace peace peace peace peace peace peace peace peace peace peace peace peace peace peace peace peace peace peace peace peace peace peace peace peace peace

I think about what it’s maybe like in Heaven. My cousin, who shot himself in the head; my uncle (his father), who wrapped his car around a tree; my Dad (my uncle’s friend, and the man my cousin loved most next to his own father), who jumped off a bridge; my Grandpa (who loved my cousin, my uncle, my Dad, so much) who kept threatening to shoot himself, until my uncles took away his guns. So he went off dialysis and stopped eating and was gone in a week.

Yeah, I bet that’s a real g.d. interesting conversation they’re all having, about their rights and how much easier everything is, now that they’re gone.

Now, how about you tell me that suicide is painless, while I’m sitting here alone, with their pain and mine, on a Saturday night. When people kill themselves, that pain doesn’t go away; it just gets transferred to someone else is all.

That’s all. Someone else carries it.

This is all getting stirred up for me in a kind of huge, ugly way, because of Newtown (Clackamas Town Center, Columbine, Springfield, Jonesboro, on and on). All the Yosemite Sams are jumping around, shooting themselves down both legs at once, no gun control bs, “gotta stay safe!”, loading up on new guns and ammo, going to gun shows, taking shooting classes, taking out concealed weapon permits, NRA bs, 2nd Amendment bs, on and on until I want to scream from it, really.

You know what people like to shoot with guns? Themselves. And children. And their wives. Women, in general. Wait. And men. People like to shoot men, too.

No more guns. They’re not worth the cost.

This song always makes me feel a little better. I’ll just play it twelve more times and try to get some sleep.

Peace, love, peace, love, always.

nancy

Listen. I invented this, not you, Real Simple. hahahaha…

(photo by Steve Rawley)

(photo by Steve Rawley)

i had a dream last night that we left the suburbs (where, oddly, it takes me five minutes to walk to the woods. even tho it’s the suburbs — i can walk up the hill, down the hill, or up the *other* hill and find… woods. #myneighborhoodhasdeer). where was i? we moved back to our old neighborhood and everyone and their chickens were happy to see us. that’s how i knew it was a dream. hahahahahaha…

seriously.

they were all, Don’t let the door hit yer ass on the way out. Sort of like when i left Thee Oregonian.

our last day in the old house (for reals, this wasn’t in the dream, it happened), Steve and I were making a final check and there were two of the neighbors — neighbors I had known well. Who we had had over for meals. Whose parties we had gone to. Hell, we even threw some parties together! there they were, staring at us from across the street. just having a little hen party and being weird. was it raining, or did it just feel like it? It was raining. No waves, no coming over to say goodbye, just the hard cold stares. I finally waved, and yelled, Guess we’re not going out for that drink you were talking about, after all! (steve: be nice. me: i cannot.) they were not friends, turns out. just asshole neighbors. our real friends from the old neighborhood we still see.

we’ve met some nice people out in our new neighborhood — neighbors, friends, co-workers, parents from the school where I was assigned last year, parents from my kids’ schools. we’ve settled in, it feels good.

seriously. i woke up this morning from that dream in a cold sweat.

This Sunday it will be ten years since 9/11 happened. I wrote this on 9/11/2006. It’s worth a re-run. Cuz things are worse in this country now not better.

Tears.

Tears and anger. I’ll say it because a lot of people aren’t: Right now America is at war with Iraq, Afghanistan and Libya. By “at war” I mean, “our country is bombing the shit out of these countries, just for the hell of it.” (video babies go boom boom boom, it’s not real, right? It’s real.) Writer and peace activist Grace Paley called it, “wars that men plan for their sons, our sons.”

We need to pull out, we need to end the wars and the bombings, and we need to work for peace. They need to stop planning wars for my children, our children.

Maybe we would have money for jobs, to build up the economy, to pay for schools, to help subsidize health care, if we weren’t spending money on a bunch of war toys, bombs and planes. Then the vets come home and they have post-traumatic stress, their health problems are out of control, and they’re committing suicide at record rates. Then the U.S. government says, PS that was a pre-existing condition, we’re not gonna pay your health insurance anymore. PS there is no GI Bill and we’re not going to help you put a down payment on a house or pay tuition for school (that is, if you’re healthy enough to be in a position to buy a house or go back to school).

PS thanks for the help, U.S. Government. Thanks for a whole fat lot of nothing. PS Wacky Mommy loves and supports our soldiers; i want them to all come back home right now. Oh, I’m sorry. I meant to say right fucking now.

If, after 9/11, we had all, as Americans, collectively grieved, buried the dead, given aid and love and support to the survivors and families, imagine (john lennon imagine, remember?) (do you remember that at all? i do), imagine that we had all said:

Enough deaths. Enough.

Imagine we had learned from the bombings and the deaths. Imagine we had never retaliated. Imagine it had all been taken to the Hague, instead, and dealt with by international authorities.

The way it stands, I feel that everyone died in vain. eyeforaneyeeyeforaneye.

And now? I can’t talk about it anymore. Cuz it takes me down, it brings on my fierce anger and my tears and I, I want to lash out, too. I can’t. I have work to do.

Peace work.

Amen.

— wm

some days are good, sweet, filled with chocolate bon-bons and kisses and more love than you ever thought you’d receive.

Other days?

“Just another hurdle on my way to the grave,” in the words of Joey’s Grandma Pigza.

Hey! you know what I did for fun, though? Made a bunch of posts on here “public” and not “private” so… it’s like an Easter egg hunt, kinda. (Clue: check the “remodelling” category. hahahee!)

“Gavel him down!”

Oh. My. Heck.

Aw, Steve Clark, you shouldn’t have!

On the Portland Trib dropping to one edition per week:

“We fully expect that there will be those who will criticize our strategy. Through the years, we have routinely been scorned by some, including bloggers who are prone to vitriolic negativity.”

Vitriolic negativity? We are playful around here. C’mon, Steve. We’re just clowning around. (Mostly not for Jesus.) And making fun of the local politicos. And tucking our children away in large wooden shoes. Are we pillars of society? Please discuss amongst yourselves. I have no opinion on that one way or the other, but you know. The devil does make work for idle hands.

Just think, if you were a blogger, you could have just called us all “douches” and moved along to your next post.

kisses,

WM

My pie would be called The-Why-Doesn’t-BlogHerAds-ever-ever-ever-
include-me-in-links-anymore-do-I-say-the-word-
fuck-too-much Pie

Alternately:

Love-Love-Love-No-Arguing-With-Assclowns-on-the-
Internet-Day-Only-Full-of-Love Pie

I would like to remind everyone, especially me, myself and I, that today is NAWACOTID. Woot!

(No, the site still isn’t up and running; we’re building it, though.)

love,

WM