digit

How the old grouch received xmas:

A book with pages you can turn (with your fingers) or count (on your fingers).
A gift card (digital) for a bookstore.
Sunday New York Times subscription (digital) and Sunday Times crossword puzzle book.
Picture of deer by a road (oops, analog).
Illustrated rose festival calendar (digital).
Silk longjohns (knit).
Black leather belt (stitched).
Microfleece bicycling gloves to keep digits warm.
Music CDs: "I'm Not There" soundtrack, Benny Goodman-Jack Teagarden collection.
Nikon camera (digital).

Dig it all.

gifts, gifting, gifted

I hardly know where to begin. And therein lies the problem. When in doubt, make a list.

1. It is good to receive.
2. It is better to give.
3. It is best when the intent of the giver, the suitability of the gift, and the recipient's taste (for which there's no accounting) are in alignment, and some sort of connection is made through the gift.
4. It is equivalent to getting a hole-in-one to achieve that trifecta, that harmonic convergence of intention, spontaneity, and fit. Like the year Gven Golly told her friend Kate that she wanted red cowboy boots for Christmas, which Kate understood intuitively, and they laughed about it. Miraculously Kate came across some red cowboy boots in a store - in Gven's size - and when Gven unwrapped them they really laughed.
5. It is not the thought that counts. It's the gift that counts. If it were the thought, then we would all just send thoughts and dispense with the shopping, the boxes, the wrapping, the gifts. More thoughts, but less money, would be in circulation. The money economy would suffer, and the thought economy would thrive.

If one is gifted in the ultimate Amerikan art of shopping, finding the right gift for the right person becomes an interesting, mindful, creative act that materially and spiritually connects two people. Amazing, transcendent, and profitable! On the other hand, if one is obtuse, reclusive, and stingy, navigating this ritual becomes more difficult. For want of a better metaphor, it's a crap-shoot.

I can go to a store I don't hate, spend some quality time browsing the racks of merchandise, and eventually find an item that appeals to me and reminds me of a certain person on my list. If I'm extremely lucky, they will be delighted. If not, I've just projected my desire onto someone else and given them what I would like, or what I think they should want.

I'm reducing my gift-giving this year to bare essentials. Let's just call it a kind of minimalism. If you can't write an epic or even a sonnet, find it within yourself to take a deep breath and scrawl a haiku.

Windows 2008

We're talking hardware, not software. We're talking vinyl, double-hung, dual-pane with argon, Lo-E, tilt-in-for-easy-cleaning windows. We're talking to one salesman after another, and they all have either the best window, the best installers, the best guarantee, or the best deal going.

Andy (good ole boy w/ shaved head, no hat) didn't have that much to say, asked a few questions, explained the process, gave me a single brochure describing the product, and quoted a price, which turned out to be the lowest bid.

Dan (tall, black suit, white shirt, gold star of David) gave an intelligent, slick presentation punctuated by a whole series of glossy brochures about his business, Zen Windows, and customer testimonials to read at our leisure. He told us about his family (need a good dentist? his wife is a dentist) and quoted a comparable price.

Tony (big, gregarious black guy) had a good eye and interesting ideas about color but read his presentation out of a binder: all about Sears being in business forever and having the best guarantee. The price was approximately double the others. This was during the Michigan game, and neither one of us wanted to be there.

Tom (older, buttoned-down, all business) methodically explained how the windows are constructed of extruded "virgin" vinyl (not recycled), was cautious about promising any modifications, and quoted a price slightly higher than the lowest but in the ballpark.

Chris (goatee, has three daughters who, he points out, are more important than windows) worked his way through school installing windows for another company, and now has the best installers because they're employees, not subconstractors. The windows are good, too, but it's all about having the best-trained people. Price was competitive.

I kept getting calls but figured five estimates was enough. Gven and I talked about our options and finally decided on - you guessed it - the first one. Andy can replace the four oldest windows in the front part of the house for a little less money. Therefore, we can rationalize over-extending ourselves to get a new kitchen casement window facing the back yard and a larger bedroom window, too.

Andy came back to review the whole deal and write up a simple contract. His company, through another mega-company, will finance it, so we can take a year to pay for six windows. Let's see, that's about one four-paned sash a month. We're not getting top-of-the-line windows, but they are expensive. And worth it in the long run. And needed in the short run.

Financing approved, we made an appointment with the installer to measure everything and firm up details such as color, materials, dimensions. They missed the appointment, not a good sign I'm thinking, and good ole boy is starting to seem more like doofus. They showed up on time for the second appointment, and Larry the installer-subcontractor, took over from there.

Larry (red baseball cap) was twice as cool, twice as wise, twice as old, and twice as good ole boy as bareheaded Andy. Larry measured all the windows and brought up some relevant factors in how to fill the space below the window that once was a door, then became an air conditioner below a stained glass window, and soon will have a limestone sill to (roughly) match the stone lintel above. I think it will look good, as well as bringing much-needed light into the dining room.

Because we took our time deciding, there will be no big ribbon on this project in time for Christmas, New Year's, or anniversary number 29 (our Vinyl Anniversary). Now we have three weeks to wait for the windows to be built and delivered, then we'll see if Larry and his crew can get a couple of nonfrigid days in January to do the installation.

New year, new windows, something to look out, in, and forward to. Now, about that old furnace.

Happy Holidays, Family & Friends

Winter greetings from the Golly family. It has been a difficult year in many ways: a time to learn new things, to relearn things we thought we knew, and to cope with change, which, of course, is not new. We are grateful for the chance stay in touch with you and to be together when that is possible.

Friends and family are again the theme as we count our blessings at the end of the year. Consider a single 24-hour period in April when Gven and Sven drove to Cleveland to see their friends Angela and Rick. The occasion was a Chagrin Theater production, in which Rick played a pivotal role, called “These People.” Hold that thought. A block from the theater the car engine dies in the middle of a busy street. It revives long enough to get us to the theater, where we enjoy a spirited, community-minded musical and a fabulous cast party afterward. The Accord quits only once on the way to Rick and Angela’s house halfway across town in Bedford.

First thing in the morning, we talk to the Honda dealer, which is practically around the corner, and the guy at the service desk, who happens to be the son of a friend at their church, thinks it might be the starter, and if it is, it might be the model recently recalled by the factory. We cross our fingers and eat a hearty breakfast (travel tip: breakfast at the Coffee Cup rocks) and decide to make a day of it at the Cleveland Museum, which happens to have a Monet exhibit, which turns out to be an absolute visual feast. When we check with the service guy, he says the car is ready – no charge. Angela feeds us chicken salad, and we are on the road heading home, feeling like the recipients of multiple unbidden gifts.

The garden had a hard time with a late frost and a dry June, although the weather evened out over time. We picked no apples, no beans, no eggplant, and few tomatoes. Flowers were sparse. Yet the strawberries came through in spite of it all, and warm fall allowed us to keep picking peppers well into November.

Zelda is thriving in the book trade. After starting at Half-Price Books in January, she quickly acquired more responsibility, keeping order in the fine arts section and learning to receive and track shipments. Maybe her medium of choice is books! Zelda stays in touch with her friends in Kent and remains tight with the Clintonville Posse. In August, she took a road trip with her friend Stephanie and Steph’s sister Kristin to Hilton Head, South Carolina, with a side-trip to historic Savannah.

In June, Zelda accompanied her dad on a weeklong trip to Minnesota via Chicago, and, in the opinion of the elder Golly, it was a blast. In Chicago, Zelda visited her friend David, who took us to a nice neighborhood bar (travel tip: have a beer at the Map Room in Logan Park). Sven visited his longtime friend and mentor Donald in Rogers Park for some major catching up. Together Zelda and Sven explored the Field Museum, Museum of Contemporary Art, the ‘El’ system, and of course made a pilgrimage to the Heartland Café, still the coolest, earthiest, friendliest source of peace, love, and caffeine on the planet.

That was just the first two days. In La Crosse, Wisconsin, they joined the Anderson-Golly clan for a poignant celebration of the decennial Spring Grove Homecoming and the life of Sven’s uncle, A.B. “Chuck” Anderson. There were meals with brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, and parents at hot-spots like Schmidty’s and Fazey’s. There was a self-guided tour featuring a panoramic view of La Crosse from Granddad Bluff, our old house on Market Street, Hogan and Campus Schools, Asbury Methodist Church, Rudy’s root beer stand, and other old haunts.

There was a walking tour of Spring Grove, Minnesota, childhood home of Helen and Chuck. We ate ice cream at the new hangout on Main Street and looked at the art gallery that occupies the space that was once the iconic C&D (Chuck and Dunc’s) Café. Above all, there was a beautiful memorial service at Chuck and Marion’s church, where Chuck’s band played some of his favorite tunes and we were all reminded of his devotion to music and to his family. It was a classic happy/sad occasion to spend time with Marion, Kris, Lee, and Russ Anderson and to enjoy their hospitality.

Jessi and Alex visited us in Ohio for a few days in August, and as always it was great to be with them. They connected with Jessi’s friend Andy, and we all had a fun evening with our friends the Gormans just before Jessi’s protégé Tedy left for college. Abe took a leave of absence from Forbidden Planet in New York to harvest cranberries for eight weeks at Mann Farm, just outside Buzzard’s Bay, on Cape Cod. When he came to Columbus for Thanksgiving, he brought a huge box of cranberries, enough for turkey dinners and bread for at least the next year. We were glad to have Sven’s sister Jo Jo at our house again for Thanksgiving, and Kate, Jim, and Emma Gourmet also graced our table. Jessi returned to his house in Brooklyn and his job at the bookstore, but he’ll be back in time for a Solstice bonfire. Maybe cranberries will go with lutefisk and Grandma Helen’s lefse?! Oofdah!

Gven still manages and teaches at the Yoga Factory. This year she expanded the reach of her teaching to the Westerville Recreation Department, Columbus Health Department, Franklin County Courthouse, and State Farm Insurance, as well as the McConnell Heart Health Center. She still studies with Donna Winter at Balanced Yoga and with Ling's shaman training group.

Just in time for the Rose Festival at Whetstone Park and the Arts Festival downtown, Gven’s sisters Sharon and Annette came north for a few days in June. We had a convergence of important birthdays in August, so Gven and Sven took the opportunity to drive to Georgia. First we met Sharon, Jim, and family; Annette, Ron, and family; and their dad at a great restaurant in the historic gold-rush town of Dahlonega for Gven’s mother Nancy’s 75th birthday. (No, wait, she can’t be 75! She seems much younger!) It was a perfect afternoon in the mountains and a nice chance to see how Nancy’s grandchildren and great-grandchildren are growing up. Then we went to Jo Jo’s condo in Atlanta for her 60th. (No, wait, she can’t be 60! She seems much younger!) It was great to see Jo Jo’s new place, see her husband Burt, and visit a neighborhood garden around the corner from Abe’s birthplace. In an odd twist of fate, we were able to enjoy an awesome photography exhibit despite arriving at the High Museum just in time to get drenched by a thunderstorm, which was much needed in drought-stricken Georgia.

On the way to Georgia, we stopped overnight with Sven’s parents in Tennessee. Besides catching up on their many projects, we discussed a piece of property they had held onto in Michigan. Sven decided to have a look for himself and went up north to camp for a weekend in September. He was sufficiently taken with the setting – inland from Traverse Bay near a little lake – to take on the responsibilities of ownership for some undetermined future use… picture a cabin in the north woods with cross-country skiing, a sauna, a canoe…and dream on.

Meanwhile, back in reality, Sven got his red-pencil back in the freelance game after a few years’ hiatus, copyediting new books on subjects such as river ecology, phenomenology, anarchy, and he can’t wait to see what’s next. He is also the production editor for a high school Law textbook at Giant Publisher, Inc. Sitting at a desk too much exacerbates his general, gradual decline, although he hasn’t lost the capacity for sweeping generalization. Besides taiji and qigong, he seeks balance by riding his old Schwinn.

Best wishes for a bright, warm Christmas. Have a passionate, pioneering, and practical Year of the Rat.

Peace on Earth,
Sven, Gven, and Zelda
Dali (dog) and Isabel (cat)

The Holiday Letter

Show of hands. How many of you send an annual Holiday Letter? You know the kind - it's almost as infamous as fruitcake - the letter that people send to their friends and relatives bragging about their new yacht, their kid's Fulbright Grant, their vacation in Tuscany, and their lunch with the Dalai Lama.

I am one of those people. My family and friends have come to expect (dread) it, and they would wonder what horrible thing happened to me if they didn't get The Letter. Every year around this time, my compulsion kicks in, I spend an inordinate amount of time and energy writing and rewriting it, and it comes out just like last year's Holiday Letter: carefully worded to be informative enough to give the impression that everything is fine, yet not too informative. Most of the recipients don't want to know too many details.

It's part creative writing assignment, part essay exam, and part editing test. The purpose is to keep in touch with more people than you have time to write to personally, and therefore runs the risk of coming across as impersonal, which it is. It's supposed to bring folks up to date on your family news, and therefore runs the risk of disclosing more than Aunt Myrtle really wanted to know about your colonoscopy.

Like golf, it's guaranteed to be either too long or too short or otherwise off the mark, and someone is sure to take something the wrong way. Some people avoid saying the wrong thing by making their letter a photo essay and saying very little. Others play it safe by saying the same thing every year, updating the kids' ages and the specifics of their vacation. If you're smart, you realize that brevity is the soul of wit, and you don't include every 'A' on every report card, every athletic trophy, and every science fair blue ribbon.

Then there's the dilemma of to whom to send this tome. I have reduced my mailing list over the years to those who bother to send a card or write back. For reasons I will never know, people drop off the Flat Earth of correspondence, move and leave no forwarding address, by omission or commission decide to break it off. So Brett in Prudenville is gone. Brucie in Chicago is gone. Karen in Indianapolis is gone. Most, but not all, old girlfriends are gone. Most, but not all, old pals and roommates are gone. For most of them I must take responsibility for not holding up my end. This year, while addressing envelopes, I decided to do a little demographic study and track where they're going. The geographic breakdown is:

1. 18 Ohio
2. 5 Michigan
3. 5 Illinois-Wisconsin-Minnesota-Iowa
4. 6 Georgia-Florida-Tennessee-North Carolina
5. 4 Missouri-Kansas-Texas
6. 5 Washington-Oregon-California
7. 2 New York

What conclusions can be drawn from this statistical blip? Not much. My network is very limited, midwestern, provincial, domestic, parochial. I can live with that. I'm looking forward to getting a few choice words back from that relatively small circle.

save water, shower with a friend

Somehow that old rallying cry doesn't sound as daring as it once did, but that's okay, maybe it's a good thing that the social revolution made such things commonplace. Now, according to Slate.com there's a corollary:

Are you a real environmentalist? If so, you might want to consider staying with your spouse long after the love is gone. Turns out, divorce is just one more thing that is bad for the environment. The LAT and WP report on a new study that reveals couples who live together use energy and water much more efficiently than those that have split up. In one year alone, divorced households were responsible for using as much as 61 percent more resources per person than before they split. "If you don't want to get remarried," the study's author explained, "maybe move in with somebody you like."

Will this this awareness spark widespread cohabitation by friends who just want to save the planet? Will it keep couples from splitting just so they can reduce, reuse, and recycle their irreconcilable differences? Will it spawn a wave of urban and rural communes populated by green post-hippie post-feminist post-boomers?

I doubt it. Yet it does make strange bedfellows of so-called social conservatives and so-called environmentalists, although the latter are probably the more conservative in a literal sense. And yes, it adds another dimension to the old family-values argument - another phrase that seems to have lost traction - to know that material, moral, and ecological 'values' coincide. In short, breaking up is expensive.

Be lean and mean it

Warning: the following contains a confessional diatribe in which I castigate myself for inviting a cold virus to take me hostage, which it did.

It has been a couple of years since my last confession - and a couple of years since my last cold. I say this, not to brag about how healthy I am (the good ole boys used to say if it's true it ain't braggin' but that's bullshit), but to make the observation that these things aren't random. I brought it on myself. I have sinned, and when one strays from the path of righteousness, clean living, and daily workouts, one pays the price by reaping a harvest of head congestion, runny nose, frequent fog-horn blasts into a soggy handkerchief, and horribly mixed metaphors.

I sowed the seeds of the first cold of the year by spending the time I woulda coulda shoulda been moving around out in the fall weather but instead sat at my desk hunched over an editing project that was due. Make that overdue. I consciously chose to do the sedentary yet profitable task of vigorously moving a pencil around a two-dimensional surface instead of going outside, riding my bike, tai-ing my chi, walking the dog, balancing the internal energy - and instant karma's gonna get you.

And so it did come to pass that my body welcomed the ever-present virus, which made itself at home in the warm, moist cellular environment of my weak, vulnerable mucous membrane, where the virus and its progeny lived a long and healthy one-week lifespan disrupting the normal healthy functioning of my upper respiratory tract, making me blow my nose every hour on the hour. All because I skipped a few workouts. Like I needed further evidence that nobody gets away with anything in this life.

My body (and probably yours) is like a small but complex ecosystem, in which organ systems, like little cell cities, take in nutrients in order to do their work. Some of what they produce is toxic sludge that must be disposed of or it will poison the environment and make the system break down. The thing is, once the organs are conditioned to a certain amount of internal cleansing through daily exercise, fresh air, water, and the occasional habanero pepper, any interruption of that cycle causes a bad reaction. Ergo, if I don't work out, my usually clean system reacts more than one might expect, because it expects the toxic sludge to be gone.

It also happens to be getting colder outside, but that's not why I "caught a cold" - the misnomer that keeps people inside in the winter. On the contrary, my experience is just the opposite: I'm less likely to get sick if I go outside every day, rain or shine, hot or cold, and condition my internal ecosystem to adapt to the external elements. Typically I'm a little chilly (hands, feet, nose) for the first ten minutes, and then the internal furnace kicks in and I warm up.

The warmed-up body, pumping blood and breathing deeply, brings energy to the limbs and releases toxins to the atmosphere (thank you, trees and other flora for taking over the clean-up at this point). Voila! Mobile immune system in action, warding off bad karma by playing outside.

Just for the record, I'm feeling much better now. My message to the universe: wake-up call received, will not skip any more workouts than absolutely necessary, whatever that means, because the margin for error is as thin as the insulating fat layer on my skinny body.

I'd like to thank...

"...God and my family and my teammates." That may not be an exact quote, but that's the gist of what the young man said to the TV announcer after leading his team to victory. He went on to describe what went right for Illinois and what a long way they've come since they lost to Ohio State a year ago.

As postgame on-field interviews go, it seemed harmless enough. The kid, Juice Williams, had played remarkably well, making smart plays at crunch time in a huge win against the number-one-ranked team in the country. Considering that he is a college sophomore, probably 19 years old, playing quarterback in the Big Ten, getting this kind of attention on national TV, I thought he conducted himself well. Rather than acting like God's Gift to Football, he gave all the credit to the people around him and his notion of a higher power. What's not to like?

I was somewhat stunned the next morning in church when Rev. Susan, whom I like and respect for her depth and humor, voiced her superficial and humorless objections to the young man's remarks. What she heard - that he thanked God for His help in defeating the other team, for blessing the Illini instead of the Buckeyes - was quite different from what I heard - that he credited others for his success, that he was grateful for being able to play so well. I guess it's a fine line.

Back in the days when the Boston Celtics ruled pro basketball, their center was an enlightened being named Bill Russell. Besides being an extraordinarily quick and strong six-foot-nine, Russell was a defensive genius and a team player par excellence who had a knack for raising the performance of everybody on both teams to another level. After his retirement he wrote an article describing the fleeting joy of taking part in the kind of competition (LL "seeking together" according to Web10) where who wins or loses is almost beside the point.

Almost - not quite - because everybody is trying; otherwise they wouldn't be "seeking together" or raising each other to a higher level of performance. Dig?

Blessing and being blessed are complicated, and to Rev. Susan's credit, she went on to unpack some of the complexities of giving thanks, and it is that time of year. What I find irritating is the assumption that the big jock sure can run, he sure can throw, but he's too simple-minded to conceive of anything more subtle than "Please God Help Us Win" - the sports equivalent of "God Bless Our Troops." Righteously indignant nonathletes are quick to judge those who actually play the game (rather than sitting on the couch) and quick be appalled at the silly tribal behavior of both players and fans.

To be fair, I too rage at some of the gifted assholes who get rich and famous while abusing their bodies, their opponents, their peers, the public, their spouses, and their drug of choice. The sports section of the paper is full of their names and their egos. I also have major theological differences with the Illinois quarterback, which I hope to discuss with him while we throw the ball around.

But it's not the theological question of where the blessings come from that has me steamed up. It's the distribution of blessings. When warmonger patriots proudly plant "God bless our troops" in their front yards, they are explicitly directing their pious request at the armed forces attacking and conquering another country, implicitly excluding Iraqi troops (evildoers) from that blessing. When liberal intellectuals decry the sophomore quarterback's thanking his god for a good game, they can't conceive of a universalist deity showering strength, speed, and agility on 22 undergraduates at one time and enjoying the game.

Thank you, earth and sky, wind and water, birds and beasts, flowers and trees, all cells of one body.

gang colors

Yo, where's your gang colors?

Sorry, I'm not in uniform today. My OSU hoody shrank from XL to M ten years ago, and I last saw my only remaining Michigan T-shirt when using it to wash windows some time in the eighties. My old Oberlin T-shirt is a threadbare shadow of its former self, and it's too cold to wear a T-shirt anyway. I still have some Kent State gear, but I wore that last year, prompting one compassionate conservative co-worker to inform me, "That's where they kill students."

Thank you, B, I didn't know that.

That covers most of my college allegiances. So I chose to wear a dark green plaid in honor of Oregon. I never went to school there, but I have a friend who did, and one of my Ann Arbor roommates now lives in Eugene - does that count?

I'm tempted to wax philosophical about the significance of adorning our bodies with totemic symbols of group affiliation, but I don't have the energy. I guess the warrior archetype got beat up in the parking lot by the worker-drone archetype, and the shaman archetype just looked the other way. And no, I'm not packing heat, unless the Swiss Army knife in my briefcase qualifies as a weapon and is therefore banned on school, um, company property.

Hey, where's your school spirit? (I left it at the office.)

Parker

I have a secret crush. Promise not to tell anyone? She is the cutest, funniest, strongest, smartest, most adorable, honest, fearless, clever...

Actress.



I realize it's not the same to have a crush on a movie star as it is to have a crush on your ninth-grade Spanish teacher (remember Mrs. Forrest in Garden City? Woo-hoo!) or the co-worker half your age (doesn't everybody over a certain age?) or the debutante-dancer-Platonist of the first midlife, um, event (which is another story), but still, crushes are harmless infatuations, right? It might as well be Parker Posey as Mrs. Forrest. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely a figment of my overactive imagination.

The fact is, I am now able to declare openly that for several weeks, in the privacy of Om Shanty, in the company of the mostly-tolerant Gven Golly ("He's going through a phase"), and under the bemused gaze of Zelda Golly ("Whatever"), I've been staging, attending, and enjoying a Parker Posey Film Festival. A brief, critically annotated filmography of what I've seen of her oeuvre so far:

Adam & Steve - Slightly gross (to get your attention) and well-intentioned coming-out story about oddly matched gay couple, with Parker as supportive friend.
Best in Show - Hilarious send-up of dog owners with Parker as yuppie control freak.
Blade Trinity - Live-action comic book action hero Wesley Snipes and mod squad fight archcriminals, including Parker as twisted villainess.
Broken English - Probably her best work to date, as a grown-up urban sophisticate learning to deal with jerks, idiots, nice people, and the difficulty of all relationships.
Clockwatchers - Cute, ironic tragicomedy of alienated office workers' loyalty and spite, with Parker as spite.
Daytrippers - Remarkable ensemble cast as urban family with issues, with kooky sister Parker alongside Hope Davis, Liev Schreiber, Stanley Tucci, Ann Meara.
Fay Grim - Sequel to 'Henry Fool' with aging actors reprising roles with remarkable finesse, but you should see 'Henry' first if you want to follow a narrative.
For Your Consideration - Over the top movie-making character types.
Frankenstein - Strong role as police investigator in weak movie that's mostly dark, damp, industrial atmosphere.
Henry Fool - Oblique drama of family dysfunction, outsider art, domestic violence, survival, and coffee, with Parker as brittle sister.
Laws of Attraction - Never mind, Parker typecast as crazy rock and roll girl.
The OH in Ohio - Brilliant, how you say, coming with age comedy with help from Danny DeVito and other devices.
Party Girl - Delightful urban coming-of-age comedy in which Parker has an epiphany with the Dewey Decimal System.
Personal Velocity - Three short films of great power, with Parker in the middle as a conflicted editor working through tough father, mother, and other issues.
Scream 3 - Never mind, Parker typecast as superficial Courtney Cox wannabe.
Superman Returns - Disappointing in so many ways, even Kevin Spacey's Lex Luther with Parker as sidekick can't salvage it.
Waiting for Guffman - Forgetable, forgotten.
You've Got Mail - Never mind, Parker typecast as teddy-bear Tom's evil girlfriend and foil for good-girl Meg.

There's even a decent interview with her in the current issue of Bust, in which she says "Hi" to the man staring at her in the restaurant, and gives the following enlightened answer to the age-old professional woman question of whether she wants to have kids: "If it happens, it happens. I just want to have interesting experiences."

STRIKE

A writer friend has brought up a subject I haven't heard mentioned in a long time. I also haven't read Harper's in a long time, so maybe it's just my being out of touch. And to many people just the words general strike sound very Sixties French New Left. Anyway who has the time? Who hasn't bought into the the neofascist security state, if only by silent submission? Can they send all of us to Guantanamo?

If someone were to suggest, for example, that we begin a general strike on Election Day, November 6, 2007, for the sole purpose of removing this regime from power, how readily and with what well-practiced assurance would you find yourself producing the words “It won’t do any good”? (Garret Keizer, Harper's, October 2007)

Correct me if I'm wrong, history geeks, but my understanding is that groups of people go on strike when they are excluded from other means of influencing policy, either public or private. When workers have no leverage because their interests are not represented, when prisoners are silenced or otherwise treated as objects, or when students without rights are herded like livestock through the diploma mill. Everyone can draw their own conclusions about whether voters fall into that category.

An Election Day general strike would set our remembrance of those people free from the sarcophagi of rhetoric and rationalization. It would be the political equivalent of raising them from the dead. It would be a clear if sadly delayed message of solidarity to those voters in Ohio and Florida who were pretty much told they could drop dead. (Keizer)

Tell me to get over it, but is anyone really convinced that the electoral process was served in Florida 2000 and Ohio 2004? And remind me again how it helps the general public to accept unquestioningly the results of a rigged election. (Chorus offstage: It's a terrible system and far better than European multiparty chaos or any other current system. It isn't perfect, but it's stable, and changing the election process would be too disruptive. Elections and the illusion of majority rule have always been corrupted by money and influence, so how is this any different?)

But we don’t have to do it, you will say, because “we have a process.” Have or had, the verb remains tentative. In regard to verbs, Dick Cheney showed his superlative talent for le mot juste when in the halls of the U.S. Congress he told Vermont Senator Patrick Leahy to go fuck himself. He has since told congressional investigators to do the same thing. There’s your process. (Keizer)

Maybe what I should do it let other's make their case. Here are some other voices on this issue

My frustration shows whenever I speak about this maimed democracy, as it did the other night in an otherwise calm conversation about the ghost of stolen elections past. I think what is most damaging is the complicity of the losing parties - both the political party that loses the election and the voters who vote against their own interests, e.g. tax cuts for the wealthy - in this perversion of "free elections."

Grant me the energy to do what I can do, the serenity to sleep at night when it doesn't work, and the wisdom to wake up and smell the coffee. Or something like that.

lies, falsehoods, prevarication

Smells just as foul by any other name.

We are all capable of halting and even reversing the aging process. Exercise in general, and strength training in particular, has been scientifically proven to help achieve such results. In this seminar, participants will learn the basics of designing and performing an overall exercise program, with an emphasis on strength training; there will be an overview of major muscle groups of the body. With the fitness skills and nutritional guidelines taught, participants will learn how to condition themselves so that they can live each day as though they were 10 or 20 years younger.
(promotional blurb for a well-intentioned, deceptive, manipulative corporate program [my emphasis])

Did you know that aging can be stopped or reversed? It's been scientifically proven! Don't believe me? Just ask an ignorant hack writer of PR blurbs for the benevolent, altruistic, worker-friendly corporate program. Conclusion: If I join the program, I won't get any older; if I join it wholeheartedly, I'll get younger. All this plus an overview of major muscle groups! I (heart) corporation.

The Prophet Clint Eastwood sayeth: Some people believe you should exercise less as you get older, but you should exercise more. I subscribe to that belief. I also believe that one must exercise more carefully, more mindfully, i.e. more responsibly as the years go by. But Clint doesn't claim that exercising more will make you less old, that time and its physiological effects magically shift backward. The Prophet Clint doesn't think we're all idiots.

So where does a person find reliable information? TV, of course, where the totally truthful drug ads tell you to "Ask your doctor whether red Lebanese hash is right for your unexplained sensations, the urge to move, or other disturbing symptoms of RLS (gasp!)." One of these days I'm going to put my restless leg through the TV screen.

Which reminds me of the Gestalt therapist Fritz Perls, who said (or is said to have said), "Half of what people say is lies, and the other half is bullshit." Unless it's the kinder, gentler department of human skill-sets, which always tells the truth.