Easy as Pee!

(My Original Blog Post: http://www.annointedfig.com/easy-as-pee/)
A roommate had a knee replacement.  In constant pain, like he was forever on the verge of passing a kidney stone, the man had been on the fence for yeah-many months.  For just as many of those, he'd been bitching, so, I took the damn thing in my own hands, i.e., found a doctor, squared it away with his insurance, and voila, easy as pee, the man had a partial knee.

[caption id="" align="alignright" width="120" caption="A light at the end of the tunnel"][/caption]

The piss wouldn't come.  Apparently, in newly catheterized men, it can happen.  He shouldn't worry, all sorts out naturally, wouldn't you know?  How would you feel, all blase?

He would stand over the pot, straining, and I would be listening through the heavy hospital door.  No cigar!  We tried the old hand in the warm water trick.  Nothing.  Enter a more direct application of water to the spout itself.  Not even close!  The poor guy drank like a Bedouin camel fresh from a Safari jaunt.  Not even a flicker of an idea anywhere below the belt.  He even took a shower, thought expressly forbidden, his cut-up knee sticking out over the rim.  Not a chance!

Fresh from his surgery, he spent the better part of the next 24 hours trying.  Who woulda thunk how much I would miss that little tinkling sound?  And in light of it sorta being my fault...

Discharged now, cue continued trying.  Then, straight cath to drain the bladder distended to what the home care nurse said was a good 72-hour output.  Straight cath meaning a quick in and out, the wham-bam-thank you, ma'am, if you're into gory details.

More frigging trying.  More cath.  An emergency room.  A urologist visit.  Another ER trip.  A few uncertain drops making it out.  For volume measurement, piss being collected in the toilet brush bowl, one without a lid.  Did I mention the situation stank?

A permanent catheter put in to get the bladder down from where it got distended and now exhibiting the tendencies of a lazy relation mooching off a softhearted retiree.

Knee exercises a requirement at that point, they put a damn new meaning into jumping through hoops -- or, at least, over a catheter leash.

Another trip to a urologist on the far side of town.  Catheter out (about time, it being 3 days).  Da nada!  Zilch, for my non-Spanish speaking groupies.  A urologist visit.  Catheter in again, and hello, Thanksgiving weekend!  As you can imagine, a gravy boat-full to celebrate.  Or, rather, there was -- a more portable, even more permanent catheter.  Stop by after the holidays, and enjoy your Flomax and turkey!  Your prostate is losing its youthful figure, but you don't need a surgery, not yet, just check out this photograph obtained...yep, through more straight catherizations.  The one immediately proceeding the permanent cath.

The man's Thanksgiving came later.  6 days later, to be exact.  That very permanent catheter was out.

New batch of free-flowing piss started making it into a toilet brush bowl.  And the output left some to be desired.  But it was there, which yet another urologist visit proved via their benighted ultrasound.

And then, that sound resumed, the audible kind, the one I was actually missing (no, not a golden shower fan, thanks very much).  The melody of piss tinkling into a toilet bowl, hitting the water with a crystalline tone of a self-assured stream, the droplets drying on the black lacquer toilet seat into lemony polka dots.

I used to rage.  Used to demand the guy, at least, get the toilet seat UP, like a normal male persuasion pig, don't splatter the thing.

I am doing it, again, on the eve of the man's well-check urologist visit.  In fact, I will be doing it just as soon as I wash the seat clean and use it myself.  Well, I will as soon as he wakes up, because it is 2 in the AM, and I like my victim lively when I go all nuclear on their chauvinist ass.

But just then, for a few weeks following Thanksgiving, the man had a carte blanche.  I was too enjoying the sweet song of piss flowing free.

And now, let me post-face.  This ain't a Flomax commercial.  I am not even sure that is what specifically helped.  But it was there, as were the urologist, the nurses, the concerned surgeon, the toilet brush bowl, the re-baptized toilet, the catheters, the turkey, the...  So, everyone, please, take a bow!

H

Veg Recollections

(My Original Blog Post: -*http://www.annointedfig.com/veg-recollections/)
The very first vegan I ran into was my high school English teacher, and back then, I have to admit I just didn't understand the lifestyle.  Nor did I ever go to the trouble of trying.  A lot of it, certainly, had to do with my unwavering belief in supremacy of everything not in the roasted chicken, macaroni cheese, and fruit salad food groups enjoying no basic right to culinary existence.  But it is, unfortunately, true that a lot my early antagonism stemmed from the personality of the vegan in question.

[caption id="" align="alignright" width="192" caption="Hey, kids! How 'bout another Big Mac?"][/caption]

Only a decade later -- and I now realize measuring an entire lifestyle choice by a single practitioner is...well, abominably stupid.  Better later than never, some would say, and yes, they would be right.  But that was high school.

In college, studying health sciences, I learned the intricacies of bad cholesterol and good, of triglycerides derived from different food sources, of atherosclerosis contributing to the skyrocketing rates of heart disease here in the US -- and of inherent dangers and surprising benefits of raw, vegan, vegetarian, no-carb -- and fully integrated omnivorous diets.  There's latter in every one -- just as there is a former (these, mostly from uninformed food choices and bad decisions made by every slice of our foodie spectrum).  I suppose the only type of diet I would these days condemn off the bet would be a supersized Big Mac one.

Which brings me to Supersize Me, a single most illustrative (if somewhat preachy and pseudo-scientific) demonstration of what it is to live on clean, self-sustained cuisine vs. the self-indulgent God-knows-what-they-put-in-it dietary school of thought of a rather prominent chunk of American population.

Certainly, it bears to be said the sacrifices Morgan Spurlock went to are obvious to an even unconverted carnivore, but the movie's relevance to the vegan lifestyle lies actually in what was practically a movie's afterword.  Once Mr. Spurlock's self-appointed month was through and his vitals ascertained to be all over the place (which is a tad surprising, considering his binging hadn't lasted that long, though I am not at all disputing the validity of the findings), what did he turn to to detox?  And what actually helped?

You guessed it, the tasty and cleansing fare as prepared by his girlfriend, Alexandra Jamieson, the longsuffering vegan chief.

She didn't nag him (at least, not on camera), didn't quote him statistics to the tune of 40% decrease in heart-related deaths for those, practicing vegetarianism.  That glaring difference being further enhanced by purely vegan choices, not to mention the decreased incidence of colon and lung cancer, kidney and gallstones, diabetes, and even later-life sexual dysfunction, she would have had plenty of ammunition.  She didn't use it.

What she did was prepare him a going-away-to-fight-the-devils-of-consumerism feast -- and a purifying post-experiment regimen to gently get him back down from his perpetual sugar high and unclog the arteries unused to the onslaught of saturated fats.

Of course, that a man used to vegan cuisine responded so beautifully to reentering his comfort zone isn't much of a shocker, but that his is only one example of vegan detox and that it works just as well for those heretofore completely unexposed to this lifestyle, is.

As things currently stand, I am neither a vegetarian nor a red-meat-gobbling carnivore, but will I ever scoff at vegan food choices again?  I can safely say, never.

10 Questions to Ask a New Media Mogul (if you happened to corner one in a dark alleyway)

(My Original Blog Post: http://www.annointedfig.com/10-questions-to-ask-a-new-media-mogul-if-you-happened-to-corner-one-in-a-dark-alleyway/)
Me, I had it easy. Today, entirely via e-mail, I had the chance to pick the brain of a very curious cat –- an enigmatic new media pioneer, who, true to his (or her) milieu, thus far is remaining stubbornly anonymous behind their online avatar. Putting the "new" into New Media, this individual, known only as “Project Manager” or "AvZ,” plays a key role in bringing together the talent, funding, and direction behind an ambitious crossover Internet + Television show with the working title of Lombardi Street.

[caption id="" align="alignright" width="216" caption="Kick your old habit for a new one."][/caption]

Integrating publicity via virtual platforms, top of the line editing equipment, fan participation in the creation of a big-budget serialized show, and simultaneous release of the content through both the Web and regular TV makes Lombardi Street a rather different animal from the typical fare. The line between fans and the show's creators is blurred, as is that between the real world and that of the fictional characters and their nearest, dearest, and most hated. The glue connecting all these previously distant concepts is this newfangled thing known as the Internet, which for many of us has become quite the second life.

“Never follow the straight and narrow,” is the chosen slogan, and indeed, “Project Manager” stays true to these words, as do members of the writing team, drafted from the very same community of fans that follow the show's development. Constant vetting of creative talent keeps the cream of the crop behind the reigns and in front of the camera, and keeps the focus on the show's complex characters, not on plot-driven writing.

And now, let's get to the meat of this interview...

You mentioned countless cups of coffee as an inspiration. Where did you drink it? Whom with? Basically, do you have a big team in place or are you going it solo? How exactly did the concept come to be?

There has been a great deal of speculation as to who I am and/or we are. The reason that this is not revealed is rather simple. Most new shows flow from the top-down creating assumptions and expectations before even beginning the exploration of the project. If I were Stephen Bochco [writer and producer of NYPD Blue], there would be expectations entered before we begin.

If I were Robert Smith form Portland, Maine — the same thing — only with different expectations. The more important part of this question is how did this come to be. We have entered a whole new world of communication and personal reach, enabled by the Internet. This reach has opened every small corner of the globe and we wanted to insure that it reached into our industry — which is ripe for change.

What exactly is the main thrust of Lombardi Street, making it in the entirely transparent style or preparing it mainly for multimedia field. Are you planning to bypass television?

The primary point of Lombardi Street is to entertain. This is first and foremost a show that we anticipate will entertain its audience. The transparent style is in part based on the concept of entertaining and in part based on the need to bring the secrets of the industry to light. We do not operate in a vacuum; people want to know about the actors, the writers and more, so rather than having it appear in outside Web sites and magazines, we provide it here.

We do not intend to bypass television, but we also do not see it as the only presentational medium. We intend to have this show broadcast traditionally worldwide, but also intend to release it first on the Web. It is my firm belief that in the very near future, viewers will be watching Web-distributed shows on their regular televisions though the use of some new device that facilitates that, as well as watching on handheld (mobile) devices and PCs.

I know it has been answered to an extent in the writer's group, but for the benefit of the public, what is the proposed rating for the program? Or are you going the NR route?

We have not set, and will not set a rating. Life is not rated, neither is the show. The general production will be kept to the norms and conforms of society; however, there will be threads that expand well beyond that. They will be clearly labeled but available for viewing. This show is intended for young adults and up and we will adhere to the standards of the global collective.

Do you have funding already to the tune of $35 mil/year, which you are bringing up on the site, or are you counting on getting it once the word of mouth spreads across the Web and, possibly, the print editions?

We do not have $35 million. We do have investors, advertisers and others that will allow us to start this show, but, again, like any venture this must appeal to the public and draw an audience which will allow the funding, both from investors and advertisers to grow. The $35mm is the anticipated budget for the production for its first year.



[caption id="attachment_388" align="alignleft" width="150" caption="Never follow the straight and narrow."][/caption]

Your writers are all from over the place, and talent and directors are ranging even further. How do you intend to get them in one place? Relocation packages? Trips on-location? Or are you going to be doing this solely on the Web? How about a chemistry test, for instance? What if the actors ultimately chosen do well on their own, but lack that spark together that makes them a "supercouple"?

Many production positions can be handled remotely and will be done that way; however, while the technology facilitates long distance communication, it will never replace face to face interaction. Actors will all undergo screen tests and will be required to read with other candidates exactly to determine on screen chemistry. Writers will collaborate online but will still have to attend regular in person meetings and workshops. We have opened all positions to anyone globally and will select them based on talent, individual capability and perseverance. When filming begins, we will work with individuals to insure that they are where they need to be, whatever those requirements are.

On the topic of actors, do you mean to use any established talent or draw solely from those registered to the site? What if, say, Jessica Alba registers, would she be in the running? Or are you focusing on undiscovered actors for the time being? Same for directors, etc.

This has been a very hard fought answer. We have developed a policy that ALL personnel for Lombardi Street will come from the Web site. Selections will be based on individual participation and collective response to the Web-based activity. That will include even Jessica Alba. We do believe that talent is everywhere and that only the smallest portion ever has the opportunity to get discovered. Hopefully, Lombardi Street will change part of that by opening opportunity to all, even those who are already famous.

How do you intend to advertise on the show? During commercial breaks? Or via product placement? Or do you mean to do the adverts on the Micro-net once you extend the universe out beyond the filmed segments?

Advertising is an integral part of Lombardi Street. There will be sponsor pre-rolls on the web video and extensive product placement. Broadcast shows will probably have standard ads. The Web site will include banner ads and a new form of non intrusive pull-based advertising. One of the primary differences is that we will not attempt to hide or sneak in advertising. There will be product placement on the show, but rather than a hidden ad, we will laud and fete the support of the advertiser on the Web site, as well as show exactly how well the advertiser supported the show. We believe that if you like the show and the advertiser helps keep the show alive, then you will in turn appreciate the advertiser for its support. Open, honest and upfront.

How happy are you so far with how this thing is going? I notice you're beating your own estimates as far as signing up goes. How big do you envision your community growing before the show?

Lombardi Street in the Web is not quite a month old. It has surpassed expectations and we anticipate continued growth, but have not placed any specific milestones in place. Our advertisers and sponsors have key points which dictate the level of payment and we know the more members, the easier the continual quest for revenue will be. For me, a key indicator is not how many people we have when the first episode airs, but what the growth is once it is running.

Which brings me to, when do you think to start filming and then release it to the public?

Filming will begin in late August and the first show is to be released mid-September. It is a short turnaround, but this show is meant to be based on life, so we intend to bring real live events into the production in as real a time frame as possible. In addition, because of the unique nature of the integration with the audience through the Web site, we have designed the show to be responsive to the audience, not driven by it, but responsive. We anticipate extensive use of technology to shorten the time between filming and presentation.



[caption id="attachment_389" align="alignright" width="150" caption="Meet "Project Manager". Really."][/caption]

And, finally, is there a chance to see the man or woman behind the mask? Who are you, a writer, producer, director, Web junkie? All of the above? Are you yourself planning to contribute to the show other than through overall direction?

Yes. I very much look forward to the day that I get to personally meet the fascinating people that have begun participating on this site. Who am I? All of the things you said. A writer, a producer, a director and a web junkie. And yes, I firmly intend to contribute to the show directly, but not as a dictator. I have found a remarkable volume of prodigious talent exists in this world and I am thrilled to be a part of what we get to uncover and present.

----

I found our question and answer session with the mysterious “Project Manager” informative, and I hope you did, too. Lombardi Street truly brings television fans around the world together in not just enjoying a great show, but also participating in its creation; thus, anyone in its growing online community can be considered as a potential team member.

If you think I was just a tad biased, being a member of the writing team myself, well, I quite possibly am guilty as charged. It's not every day I can connect with all my fellow fans and creative minds around the world, much less shape the way the show develops!

I look forward to hearing from you all what you think about this new way of doing television, and what other questions you might like answered before Lombardi Street goes live, both in your living room and a global, virtual world that many of us call our second home.

Open Up and Let Me In - Transparency in the War on Terror

(My Original Blog Post: http://www.annointedfig.com/open-up-and-let-me-in-transparency-in-the-war-on-terror/)
Is there room for total disclosure when the stakes are this high? Is this the answer to the conflict, or merely more fuel for the fire?

We need openness, communication...don't we?  How are we to build a relationship -- or, for that matter, anything of value -- on lies?

[caption id="attachment_349" align="alignright" width="150" caption="Oh, honey, you lost weight!"][/caption]

But if you're a guy, and your girl has scrounged up on a new 1st anniversary dress, and you think it makes her butt look like it's grown a Volkswagen Beetle, will you tell her?  What if you're a wife, and your mother-in-law is a preachy twit who only flies in once a year for your daughter's birthday, are you going to corner her sniffing roses in your slightly overgrown backyard and make her SEE she just ain't welcome?

No, certainly, these are unfair questions to ask.  We MUST have transparency, so you would be brutally honest... NOT!   Well, some of us might -- and some wouldn't even entertain the notion.  But the point is, if we look one step ahead of where we are, of what we might poised on the brink of, it has a potential of changing our course.  Think before you step, right?

So, SHOULD we think before opening a can of wildly copulating worms that is Gitmo / Abu Ghraib / put-in-your-US-concentration-camp-of-choice?  Should we do some private housecleaning of those ultimately responsible for the failed policies while simply letting the detainees go, providing them and their families with lifetime psychiatric help (THAT ought to come out a doozy), and shelling out a hefty hush-hush fee.  Call it pain and suffering comp.  All politically correct and, mostly, no one the wiser.

See, I received a few thought-provoking comments yesterday, and the tattletale that I am, I can't wait to share them with the class.

First feedback...well, I guess, I already did.  See, can't keep my mouth shut, what did I tell you?  Certain someone I spoke to claims that the less visibility the ghost detainees now enjoy, the more peace the coming few years are liable to bring.  Why give anyone even more ideas, they say?  Why breed discontent, mistrust, outright hatred for a country that did already switch its course?  Why facilitate the birthing of a new generation of hotheads (from either end of political spectrum) by pointlessly publicizing the abuse some don't believe in -- and others would be willing to die for and kill to avenge?  Shouldn't we let sleeping dogs lie while not just avowing, but also demonstrating the resolve in our current intentions?

To which my gut reaction was - ...but the honesty, the change, the promises we accepted -- and made, the spirit of Democracy, the due process, the...   However, and I emphasize, that was my GUT reaction.  Just, unfortunately, as it had been the gut reactions of those that actually instituted the horrors.  Did they THINK of what would be lying ahead, would the waterboarding have ever made to the very top of the CNN-FOX-HUFFINGTON POST Billboards?

When questioned by BBC Hardtalk's Tim Sebastian on whether he was prepared to blow himself up in Palestine, Dr. Azzam Tamimi (spokesman for Muslim Association of Britain [MAB] and head of London's Institute of Islamic Political Thought) replied: "If I can go to Palestine and sacrifice myself I would do it. Why not?" What scares me is hundreds, even thousands, with the similar lines of thought.  We did make sure to provide plenty of fuel to the whole "Westerners are EEEEEVIL" selling point without dipping into our can of worms.  Now, out of those thousands, most will continue sitting on their hands and grouch, something like "if I could do this, and this, and that, oh, I would, sure, you can believe it, but me, I can't, I'm too important, I'm needed too much, so, you know, I just can't.  But I can sure cheer from the sidelines".

Unfortunately, for every hundred VIPs, there will be one, or two, or...well, I guess the ultimate harvest will depend on just how well we'll fertilize that ground...who will NOT stumble through the stock response.  They will just run for political office and become the new Ismail Haniyeh, an embattled ex-Prime Minister of Palestine Authority still exercising prime ministerial authority in the Gaza Strip.  Or they can just pick up a pilot's license and fly a plane at...well, sky literally is the limit.  Or they can far less glamorously blow themselves up and take a couple of kids, a few kosher-chicken lugging grandmas, and a score of their own brothers in faith making their living on the infidel market right along with them.

[caption id="" align="alignleft" width="230" caption="Is it Apocalypse, yet?"][/caption]

And so, it brings me right back to that Restaurant at the End of the Universe.  One step, and the gameworld changes.  Did people in power think, truly think of what their decisions may usher?  Not even will, MAY.  And isn't the very possibility already too much?  Or did they react -- out of the very best, although misguided, intentions, greed, our countrywide certainty that because it suits us, it surely is on the side of the angels?

And if react they did, do we -- now, picking our tattered pride out of the ashes of global firestorms that is our failing economy, mind-boggling deficit, shaky relations with the famished Russian bear, Al Qaeda leaders still roaming free and thus handily winning our self-styled war on terror -- have the luxury of doing the same?

Crickets chirping.  An empty beggar's cup.

Anyone, please, anyone, throw your 2 cents in?  Me, I'm all out.

But I do have a new piece of information thanks to another responder that has given me hope as nothing had in quite a while.

You see, I just found out about Ed Husain, otherwise known as Ghaffar Hussain, a British national, a former radical Islamist, and now -- a head of Quilliam Foundation, a respected UK think tank seeking to combat extremism (which it calls a terrorism precursor) and made up of...no, can't say it better than it had itself, so, I'll just let it introduce itself, shall I?  "...our founders are former leading ideologues of UK-based extremist Islamist organizations – organizations that are still active today".  So, how d'you like them apples?

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend" mentality is what he blames for the rise and, indeed, continued existence of radical Islamism. By having a  "foe in western capitalism, which it can conveniently blame for all of the world's ills", it's flourishing -- and picking up support in the unlikeliest places.  This is basically a gist of the man's own op-ed piece.

A similar reasoning comes through loud and clear in Husain's latest interview with Salon's Yassin Musharbash and highlights, to me, anyway, that there is in fact a solution other than the escalating war on terror -- or the encroaching Jew-loving West, or whatever it is the ideologues from either side will undoubtedly call it.  But before the Koran, and Bible, and Torah-justified healing can begin, must there be a blanket blank slate or a no-holds-barred, no-relationship-is-pure-without-one, uncompromising disclosure?

[caption id="attachment_353" align="alignright" width="150" caption="Stop pestering me! Gotta assertain my position."][/caption]

There are certainly pros and cons for either path, opinions are like holes stuffed with multitude of donkeys, but, hey, at least, in this case, I CAN BE SURE mine don't stink - for now, I just don't think I'm ready to have one.

Wall Street Bull Ousted. Can We Bear it?

(My Original Blog Post: http://www.annointedfig.com/wall-street-bull-ousted-can-we-bear-it/)

This is bull!

The Wall Street Bull, and, yes, that's me, taking it by the horns -- and hoping it doesn't turn into a bear mid-bonding.

[caption id="attachment_344" align="alignright" width="150" caption="Bull's...eye"][/caption]

How many times have we heard of it, saw it, fondled its rump? And how many of those times have we been silently comforted by its immutable bulk signaling these few city blocks’ importance to the global markets?

Not so much these days. The much-touted Stimulus Bill is finally signed into law – and yet, as the stocks are at their lowest in the last 5 years, the oil is unexpectedly up, dollar back in its nosedive, and unemployment benefits hovering at 5 million claims, give or take, the public, according to an Associated Press – GfK poll, is growing increasingly concerned about losing jobs, not having enough money to pay the bills, and seeing their retirement accounts shrink.

Small wonder then, that NYC is a global economic capital no longer. According to the leading experts, the bulk of stock trading is slowly but surely trickling out of Wall Street to pool in London, Tokyo, Hong Kong. The best in the foreign currency exchange have for a long time now been found during London trading. Some of it is attributable to our current economic chaos, but given many first-world countries suffering the same, it would be merely a pat response, not an altogether true one.

More, the same experts predict that even once US economy stabilizes, Wall Street bull shouldn’t count on resuming the lead. Best it could hope for is remaining competitive in the herd of its fast-emerging contenders.  Not an altogether comforting thought, in fact, not at all.  But, perhaps, one that would spur it on.  Horses are said to do marvelously under a whip, perhaps, so do the bulls?

PS.  Just so we're clear, if I saw it happen in my immediate vicinity to a non-metal beast, the rider had better have a substitute at home, because the one I'll be getting my hands on will be SO getting broken.

...and Hopefully, a Small Step Back

(My Original Blog Post: http://www.annointedfig.com/and-hopefully-a-small-step-back/)
No, not touting my own horn.  In fact, not in much of a party mood, am I?

[caption id="" align="alignright" width="146" caption="Don't you just hate when that happens?"][/caption]

To plagiarize from myself, "as long as the left hand does not know what the right is up to, groups like Amnesty International and CCR will not be among those laying off workers for the global unemployment queues", and well, thanks to the commenter on my post, I just found out I was right.  The good folks at Amnesty International USA aren't out of a job yet.  At least, partially right, anyway, and now, as an Obama supporter, all I can say is, I had better be right on the remaining half, too.

Yes, I would abhor a government where there is no accountability because no one knows what everyone around them is doing - including the top echelons of power - and the only light at the end of the tunnel is that of the retirement bennies.  But honest to God, I would much rather take that over the other sort, the one where our new Commander in Chief who had gotten his landslide victory precisely on the promise to do better, is signing off on the orders to close down Gitmo with the same pen, with which he later bestows on Mr. Letter the constitution-unsanctified right to persist with the governmental coverup of atrocities committed in the name of our continued safety and freedom.

Because, you see, per New York Times, questioned whether the new men on top are aware of the government attorney's motion to dismiss before the US 9th Circuit Court of Appeals on the case of Mr. Binyam Mohamed and four other detainees against a Boeing subsidiary for arranging flights for the Bush administration's "extraordinary rendition" program on the grounds that even trying the suit would result in the security leaks, the man replied with  "No, your Honor."  The stand he was taking, he said, was "thoroughly vetted with the appropriate officials within the new administration," and "these are the authorized positions" .

Considering that according to Mr. Mohamed's own diary obtained by Telegraph, he was systematically tortured, shuttled from one hellhole of a prison to another, denied the basic rights accorded, at least nominally, our worst serial killers and sex offenders, and bearing in mind he is now well into the second month of his hunger strike, doesn't it stand to reason that the more expeditiously the case is tried, the better its chances of wiping clean  the accusations of cruelty and violations of the tenets (if not the letter) of the Geneva Protocol staining our nation?

And yet, famous for its call to change, the new President's administration is following in the bloodied footsteps of the last.  And leaving this disappointed voter, at least, hoping for a lesser evil.

A Giant Leap for Mankind

(My Original Blog Post: http://www.annointedfig.com/a-giant-leap-for-mankind/)
February 13th, 2009. Circuit City is gone, heretofore invincible Starbucks is floundering in the stock markets, President Obama has just scored his first major victory in Congress -- and I have a blog. Who knew? Life does change, don't it?

[caption id="attachment_314" align="alignright" width="150" caption="This REALLY makes me see red!"][/caption]

But let's rewind back less than 2 years ago. June 7, 2007, to be exact -- and the group of brave independent-minded folks at The Center for Constitutional Rights, in collaboration with Amnesty International USA and Washington Square Legal Services who had gone against Bush-Cheney executive privilege screen and filed a Ghost Detention and Extraordinary Detention suit under the Freedom of Information Act. And yesterday, I was privileged to be among the first few to learn the details of what their victory against the Department of Defense, Department of Justice, Department of State, Department of Homeland Security, and the Central Intelligence Agency actually entails.

Now, let's backtrack a little more, to April 2004 when 60 minutes broke for television audiences a New Yorker story, revealing some truly horrendous torture and prisoner abuse that has been going on in a little piece of heaven called Abu Ghraib. Turns out that this is just the tip of the iceberg - people have been disappearing abroad, being tortured and held without a trial or even being charged with a crime, with no access to their families or legal counsel, for an indefinite amount of time. No, this wasn't the Soviet Union - this was good old US of A.

In those "Mission Accomplished" days, when waterboarding - no it's not a fun thing to do at the beach - was an accepted interrogation technique, along with being stripped naked and assaulted with angry guard dogs, the only means of combating such abuse - which was always shrouded in secrecy and under the guise of 'securing the homeland' - was to bring it to light. And the good people at CCR and Amnesty did just that.

During a conference call held on February 12, 2009, representatives from the plaintiff groups involved in this case spoke to journalists regarding the case and their findings.  It had been revealed that the documents obtained via the favorable court ruling confirm the existence of secret prisons; affirm the Department of Defense's cooperation with the CIA’s ghost detention program; and show one case where the DOD sought to delay the release of Guantánamo prisoners who were scheduled to be sent home by almost two months so as to avoid the bad press.

“These newly released documents confirm our suspicion that the tentacles of the CIA’s abusive program reached across agency lines,” said Margaret Satterhwaite, Director of NYU International Human Rights Clinic. “In fact, it is increasingly obvious that defense officials engaged in legal gymnastics to find ways to cooperate with the CIA’s activities. A full accounting of all agencies must now take place to ensure that future abuses don’t continue under a different guise.”

Though the vast majority of the documents obtained from DOD's   Transportation Command, among others named in the suit, are the reprinted news articles, there is one internal email dated February 17, 2006—relating to Guantánamo detainees scheduled for release—that is of particular significance to the CCR. It recommends “hold[ing] off on return flights for 45 days or so until things die down. Otherwise we are likely to have hero’s welcomes awaiting the detainees when they arrive.” The email also recommends transfer in a smaller, more discrete plane and has attached a reference to the United Nations (UN) report released around that time criticizing Guantánamo.

Despite filing under the FOIA, however, the groups' efforts were undermined by heavy redactment, foot-dragging, and outright violations of the law.

“Out of thousands of pages, most of what might be of interest was redacted,” said Tom Parker, Amnesty International's (USA) Policy Director for Counterrorism, Terrorism, and Human Rights. “While the sheer number of pages creates the appearance of transparency, it is clear this is only the tip of the iceberg and that the government agencies have not complied with spirit of President Obama’s memo on Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) requests. We call on Attorney General Eric Holder and the Obama administration to put teeth into the memo and work actively to comply with FOIA requests.”

It is telling, that throughout the years during which the fate of the suit was being deliberated in courts, these so-called 'ghost detainees' have been shuttled around from country to country, to avoid the legal entanglements of keeping these individuals imprisoned without due process.

As shameful as it is to hear of such gross violations being perpetrated by agents of my own country, one that is supposedly the belweather of Democracy, it will be comforting to learn that with President Obama's change of political direction, such 'black sites' like Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo Bay will have finally -- and forevermore -- ceased to exist. But as long as the left hand does not know what the right is up to, groups like Amnesty International and CCR will not be among those providing contingent for the global unemployment queues.

Back to the Future

(My Original Blog Post: http://www.annointedfig.com/back-to-the-future/)
My cat is 2.5 years old.  In cat years...let's round it to 20.

Masha is a purebred.  Top of the line Traditional Siamese.  Seven generations of her ancestors have documented pedigrees.  Her mom's a breed standard, check the Wiki.  And no, this isn't a cat personals post -- though considering she will soon be going back in heat...  Hmm, hold that thought.

[caption id="attachment_294" align="alignright" width="150" caption="Cattus Interruptus"][/caption]

But for now, where I was going is this.  She's my baby -- who will need to be bred.  It's just good sense, healthwise.  But boy, am I not ready to be a grandmother!

Sure, there are youthful grandmas, but by and large, the stereotype is still the apple-crisp-baking church-going dog-walking Thanksgiving-feast-whipping Paula Dean (without the line of cookware to supplement her dwindling retirement income).  And that just doesn't seem fair, not when you're contemplating being measured against that particular yardstick.

Can you live up to it?  Will you?  Why, in our age of post-feminism, would anyone want to excel at something so...Christmas Carol?

And what about the 40, 36, 32-year old grandmothers?  Are they having it all?  Are we, as a culture, as individuals too used to our own Paula clones shrewdly sizing us up from inside flowerette-studded picture frames proclaiming, "Love, Grandma"?  Can we accept seeming youth (only to become more apparent as our lifespans increase) being mature enough to offer the young mothers of our generation the guidance they received from their own?

My own mom is 60, looks between 50 and 55, and nearly the day my son was born, she started calling herself "old woman".  What do 40-year olds with children all of 13 begetting their own living dolls call themselves?  What would I, once Masha pushes out her kittens?  (Yes, I AM still contemplating that cat personals ad, don't hurry me along, will you?!)  I asked her, but I'm still not sure how Mom is handling her new role -- which has nothing to do with what my son calls her (Grandma, Mimi, Maman, Lisa - I never understood that fear of being named what you really are -- doesn't it STILL amount to the same thing? And no, my mom is perfectly OK with that part.), and has everything to do with how she sees herself.

I wonder, do we immediately assume a persona we feel is inherent to any role we take on -- voluntarily (when we find a new job, get engaged, leave a bad marriage) or through no conscious action (get called to jury duty, drafted, canned, become grandparents)?  Are we so preconditioned to losing our sense of self that we must play to what we we see as everyone's expectations?  Or is it our own?

And are these very expectations responsible for letting yourself go?  Heeding unneeded advice?  Committing atrocities in what we think is the name of our country?  Our Lord?  And would either of those really want that?

Do we have to act in the certain way just because generations before us have?  But if we had, where would have all the progress come from?  And if we are able to shed preconceptions when it comes to literature, and medicine, and atomic bombs in place of chariot combat, then perhaps it just might be time to accept that we, as human species, as a civilization have changed sufficiently in the past handful of decades that we might start viewing ourselves through just ours, just today's perceptions?

Back in Bleck... Zander Bleck.

(My Original Blog Post: http://www.annointedfig.com/back-in-bleck-zander-bleck/)
I love HIM!

You know... His Infernal Majesty? Ville Valo has the talent, the voice, the
hair...the low-riding pants. Well, hey, I am a girl! But up till now, there hasn't been anyone I've ran into here in the US that had the same flair - and catchy songs (albeit in a distinctly more uplifting style).

[caption id="attachment_280" align="alignright" width="150" caption="Bringing man, child, and camel together."][/caption]

You see, I had the chance to preview a few singles from an as yet uncut CD by an up-and-coming crooner - Zander Bleck. And it snowballed from there.

Or, in this case - sandstormed? On a dry Saharan backdrop, with a couple of camels for decor, Zander looked untamed, and dare I say - untamed. In the middle of recording a music video for his new single "Beyond the Horizon", he was kind enough to take some of his time to speak to a newly minted fan.

And no, before you ask - we did not delve into Zander's relationships. But our conversation did give me a helpful glimpse into the mind and the voice of a fiercely independent artist. Eschewing the controlling influence and backing of the corporate record industry, Mr. Bleck, 24, is determined to retain creative control, even if it means going it alone.

"I have contemplated American Idol since it is such a dominant spring board to world wide fame," he confided.  "But I look at myself as more of an all around artist instead of just a "singer"  They are looking for a diamond in the rough who would be nothing on their own and they can "shape" anyway they want.   I want that freedom in the art that i am producing."

Born and raised in rural New Jersey, young Zander was surrounded by music since he was a child. Inspired by his father's unfailing determination and God-given talent, and stories of a grandfather he'd never met, he began developing a musical taste of his own. With it, came a decision to grow it into a full-fledged career.

But what's a musician's lifestory without a few bumps along the road? Zander had to buckle down and keep himself going. Of course, in his case, it was with a flourishing modeling career. What was merely an opportunity to see the world for him resulted in reaching this rather competitive field's topmost tiers.

And then, Zander quit. Oh, at some point, he would be willing enough to endorse some products, but looking to the forewater of the industry, he doesn't want to be just a buff body or a handsome face.

An artist inspired by Led Zeppelin, Queen, and Coldplay, he is self-taught. And his sound is just diverse enough to appeal to quite a wide range of fans. That might be because he sees visuals when he is writing, and never does it come true clearer than in his debut single "Get Up."

"When I write or sing my songs, I find more often then not, I am singing to people like myself," Zander clarified.  "Those searching for more in this life, who want to open their minds, I want to motivate them to pursue their wildest dreams, fall in love, travel far, embrace the unknown and fantasize, and just enjoy, and reflect every aspect of this beautiful life."

Himself one of the earlier Obama groupies, Zander, too, wants to get the world to turn on its lights. With his Jamie Fanatic's dance remixes, performances in one of the newer Big Apple hotspots, The Greenhouse, his trip to Mali to capture the primeval glory of the Essakane for his desert-themed Beyond the Horizon song, he might just do that.

As work on Beyond the Horizon was finished, Zander showed me his latest work:

[youtube]http://ping.fm/T8AkV[/youtube]

I was blown away - the song is ever the more haunting before the stark contrast of the Saharan lifestyle to the urban ways we call our own. Artistic quality aside - the visual production of the piece was top notch, making it easy to forget that that was a self-made talent, producing his music and videos without the financial backing of a label.

This musician is definitely going places. And this fan will certainly be bookmarking his website and MySpace page for further updates.

Hope to see you there, too!

Who Let The Dolls Out?

(My Original Blog Post: http://www.annointedfig.com/who-let-the-dolls-out/)
She collaborated with Buffy's avuncular Mayor on destroying the world — and helped one reporter's mother overcome cancer. She is a darling of the gay community worldwide — and, through no desire of her own, an inspiration to Death Row inmates still penning her love letters.

[caption id="attachment_272" align="alignright" width="150" caption="Eliza Dushku - what a doll!"][/caption]

Meet Eliza Patricia Dushku, a self-admitted tomboy, a friend of the Albanian president, a star of the gritty Alphabet Killer, a woman in the business of entertaining millions for the past 15 years — and an executive producer, not to mention face, of FOX's new high-profile sci-fi drama Dollhouse.

Today, Eliza and a group of journalists (read: fans) hooked up for a candid interview about her free-spirit ways, her enormous responsibilities, and her hopes for, at least, a five-year run in an admittedly difficult 9 PM Friday timeslot.

Eliza charmed us with her self-depreciating ways. "I am pretty adaptable," she said. "Throw me in the water, and I will hopefully learn to swim." And she gave away quite a few tantalizing glimpses into the fate of TV's new intrepid — yet curiously childlike — heroine known to her handlers as "Echo".

As for example, this season, there are only 13 episodes, and they have all been shot. In fact, the filming wrapped up last week. Now, Eliza and Joss Whedon, the hand behind the pen, are doing the promotional blitz while looking forward to returning to the writers' room.

Yes, that's right. Eliza is in the thick of things. Not satisfied with being merely a... doll, she's been there from that first lunch up, when Joss and she, decade-long friends, reconnected and came up with what is widely touted as one of the edgiest, most controversial series to come on the boob tube in  recent times.

"It deals with enslavement of people, of erasing their identity", she laughs. "That's pretty out there, right? But we're trying to keep it to the boundaries of our 9 PM time."

Nudity, violence, "that '40's over-coiffed, pinned-up updo" that turned out to be one of ever-capable Eliza's stumbling points, a blind cultist, and a 50-plus-year-old woman that are all the mercurial Ms. Dushku's alter egos, a possible lesbian twist that hadn't made it into this season's roster, but is in the works for the upcoming ones, and what we have here is a recipe for some roaring good fun that is sure to echo all around domestic — and if Eliza and company get their wish — soon, even the foreign watercoolers.

Dollhouse premieres Friday, February 13, 9 PM EST/8 PM Central.

The Rivers of Milk and Honey (and Jam)

(My Original Blog Post: http://www.annointedfig.com/the-rivers-of-milk-and-honey-and-jam/)
I am a mom.

Unlike a gaggle of my acquaintances, can't say as I had wanted to become one since getting my very first doll, because by and large, I really didn't like the critters.  They never laughed at my jokes, never participated in keeping the play area clean, and for sure, they didn't make good storytellers.  They were a waste of puzzle-board-embroidery-gear-Lego-sets-fillable shelf space.  And they INEVITABLY got between my cohorts and I.

[caption id="attachment_266" align="alignright" width="150" caption="Taking care of business!"][/caption]

Not that I held anything against fellow braided, ponytailed, combed-to-within-an-inch-of-our-lives, uniform-sporting twits going googoo over the latest trend in Amish chic or streetwalker anonymous, courtesy of Mattel (read, the whole flock of girls born within the same couple of years in our condo complex, and no, it wasn't anything flowing through the brand new pipes, just the reality of life, a newly built condo ---> newly minted, fairly comfortable family moving in ---> and the baby makes three, or four, or...well, you get the idea).

But man, why did the ENTIRE flock consistently opt out of bowling, and books, and hula hoops when there was a new doll to be mock-fed, and mock-changed, and mock-disciplined, and mock-put-to-bed under a canopy of flowering jasmine?!  I used to ask myself,  the concept of X chromosome and genetic memory and societal conditioning largely lost on even a most dedicated 7-year old bookworm, were girls born instinctively knowing for every Barbie, and Martha, and little Cab-bitch Patch creep, there's supposed to be a little mommy out there begging for the privilege to get a leg on those chores grownups eked out a living out of -- if little Molochs they were doing them for weren't a result of their own failed contraception methods.  Masochism, a 7-year old bookworm would have said, but kudos for my parents' criminal records, I wasn't yet familiar with that term.

In the hot bone-dry months before my eighth birthday, I still hadn't learned the meaning of the word, but I did find out there was something to be said for motherhood.  Hey, hey, minds out of the gutter, kids, I didn't set any Guinness Book records.  No, I'm referring to the Summer of Baby, it a lifesize, heavy, realistically wrinkled, bald-headed infant-doll that swept my mind along with those of every self-disrespecting female in the city under the age of 12 and every carat of loose change out of Baby's "grandparents"' wallets.  Those lucky "grandparents": within days, Baby became the area's most glaring shortfall, and if the makers only demanded an arm, the speculators charged an additional leg and swore they just beggared themselves extending the discount.

Baby -- not specifically MY Baby, I am not sorry to say, my parents having been singularly unable to find an altruistic speculator willing to ship his own brood to the poorhouse -- needed to breastfeed (don't ask, I THINK it came from one of us girls with a freshly popped-out brother), have his nappies changed, painstakingly burped, and at all hours of the day, have one of our cabal happily babysitting the little monster.

That's when I learned to bite my nails counting minutes till one of my co-parents brought him in (as opposed to biting them for other various and sundry reasons), and prepare him a timely snack, and cater to the incessant demands that would have had a Tamagotchi pet shake its pixelated head region.

And that's when I, also, learned not to take anything related to anyone's care for Gospel.  "Constant vigilance," catechizes Harry Potter's Alastor Moody, and he's right.  Boy, is he ever!  You see, Baby could pee -- and if you don't think that's important, you haven't lived as a tween girl in the throes of her first toy obsession.

Baby, as stated previously, was as close to lifelike as 6 pounds of rubber with a pair of...well, baby-doll blues was likely to get 20-odd years ago (yes, I am that old).  It could drink, close and open its eyes, all its body parts moved -- and for all it was gender-neutral, it could pee, authentically soaking everything through, JUST LIKE A REAL BABY.  In Baby's particular case, it really wasn't a bug, it was a feature.

Which my grandmother didn't appreciate.  What she did appreciate was the sanctity of our new coverlet, the furry one, with plump stoned-looking deer frolicking in the foreground.   It was a souvenir my dad brought my mom from one of his trips to the hinterlands, and at my grandmother's insistence, it was ever only trotted out to impress the guests.

It so happened, that one day, it was.  It was, also, the day one of my co-parents, Yulya, grudgingly dashed down eight flights of stairs to hand Baby to me.

"Did he eat?", inquired the reformed bookworm.

"Tea with milk and honey, plus raspberry jam.  He had a sore throat."

Yes, Yulya took his temperature.  Ditto his pulse.  And no, he hadn't yet gone number 2 (Baby had permanent constipation, but hope sprung eternal).  He did, however, go number 1.

"Gotta run, Mom's been calling me to dinner so many times in the past 10 minutes, like you wouldn't believe.  If I don't see you tomorrow outside, that's it, I'm like grounded till our next Grimm fairy tales recital." (ours was an intense German-emphasis school, and the teachers wouldn't leave us alone even in the dog days of Baby)

"But he did go OK?  There was no blood in the pee?" (my grandfather had been a doctor)

[caption id="attachment_267" align="alignleft" width="150" caption="Now you're really in a jam!"][/caption]

Having assured me that pee had been clear as glasses lined on our dining table for the big event, and no, this description coupled with an earlier one of raspberry jam raised not a single red flag, Yulya ran off.  Her mom really didn't like waiting -- while Yulya couldn't tolerate relinquishing Baby to me until the appointed second.  While I still can't fathom our fascination with the dratted thing, I do understand that.  It was a point of honor.

One-on-one with my duties, I trickled a spoonful of warm water down Baby's gullet, rocked it -- and under pressure inherent in playing good host, succumbed to every harried parent's escape clause.  Putting the little tyke to bed is beneficial, it isn't abandoning it to properly say hello to your guests.  And you had to say this for Baby, if ever there was a sound sleeper, it was this one.

Carefully, so as not to startle the temperamental beast, I carried him over, placed him on the furry coverlet -- and this being summer, only lightly covered him with my mom's gauzy scarf, a gorgeous one, with iridescent lilies.

To make a long story short...oops, too late now...let's say in an effort to keep it from turning into War and Peace, my dad came in at some point, pulled out his dress shoes off an upper shelf, and...well, he ain't no Shaq, but he did manage to land them on top of the scarf.

I had been building up to it, but no, this wasn't the explosive finale.  The shoes found their lawful place on my dad's feet, and while Baby started to copiously bleed, it was considerate enough to do so in silence.

The explosion came after, when I responsibly went to check on the thing -- and gurgled just loudly enough to call the attention of the Nemesis...er, I meant to say, grandmother.

Yulya never did own up to not doing her best by our collective cross, and maybe, she had, but the reservoir got too distended from our incessant use and didn't completely empty itself the first time around (that -- or it was a "miracle" along the lines of indigenous Florida-countryside Madonna tours).  Most importantly for me, this was the day my Baby-slavery ended.

And most importantly yet, I hope I am a better mother myself, thanks to that coverlet and Yulya's mom going all dictatorial on her daughter's ass in defense of her chicken Kiev.

I hope, faced with someone telling me they fed my kid, I would be careful to check what, how much, and at what time (yes, there's a story).  I hope to have the presence of mind to ask why my son is staying quite this late for his church choir rehearsals (unfair example, yes, but there's way too much crap being flung about this particular topic for it not to stick to my psyche just this one little bit, just enough to have me asking -- and repeating -- questions).  I hope never to fail to demand my son's hall monitor and teachers tell me exactly how many times he's been on the receiving end of the stick-the-nerd-into-the-locker shtick and how many -- the giving.  And I hope to God not to have a patronizing hospital employee refusing to admit that selfsame son (to make up for its own snafu, no less) -- but if I did, to be hell of a lot more assertive about taking matters into my own hands than simply calling them up every few days pleading for help.

Other than Baby, I was a terrible, cuckoo-kind of mother to my dolls, but maybe, the idea behind having them is not to imitate their unattainable figures or dress, but simply to use up our worst sorts of mistakes on them -- and then, come our own kids, do our best not to have too many repeats.

Dmitriy Maximov: A Surreal Sunrise

(My Original Blog Post: http://www.annointedfig.com/dmitriy-maximov-a-surreal-sunrise/)
Another day, another positive review.  Like a kinder, gentler American Idol Season 8 Simon, I seem to be losing my touch, but oh well...

Behold Dmitry Maximov, and no, I have NOT been retained to sing any paens in the man's name.  It's just that this Russian-born artist seems to exist in a world of his own.  And who among us doesn't love a peepshow?

A passing glance at his works, and you can tell that they are at once as human — and humane — as you or ANYONE peeking in from the outside, yet altogether surreal.  That they are fashioning a land that is not so much a caricature of ours, but, perhaps, its shadow, a whisper of a possibility of what we could have been.  And, thankfully, are not.  More humane, perhaps, more painfully lonely, more different from one another in a way, we, who have our race around us, our country, our city, our family, our very culture, should ever fear to be.

But we can still speculate, and marvel, and worry -- and drink it all in like the best, though none too sweet, champagne.

The artworks seem to have no names that I could find, so, I will just say that this one, over here, is the one that struck me the most.  This strange, gingerbread man critter is taking the time to appreciate the dawn of a new day.  Shouldn’t we?

Click here to visit Dmitriy Maximov's gallery. And here are a few more of my favorites:

Affirmative Inaction (or, Sudden Onset of Foot-in-Mouth Disease)

(My Original Blog Post: http://www.annointedfig.com/affirmative-inaction-or-sudden-onset-of-foot-in-mouth-disease/)

Soapbox! Loudspeaker, stat! Full glass of raw eggs (supposedly does marvels for the vocal cords)! All right, we’re set.

In November, the student association in Ottawa, Ontario, voted to eliminate a Cystic Fibrosis organization from the list of the charities it supports, explaining that since the condition almost exclusively afflicts white people, it wasn’t “inclusive” enough to merit student funding.

[caption id="" align="alignright" width="216" caption="Sorry whitey, you're the odd one out!"][/caption]

Um, OK. Let’s talk Tay-Sachs? How about Gauche? Both of these the provenance solely of the Jews; more, Jews of the Ashkenazi descent. In their severest forms, of their kids under 5. Which is to say, by then, those kids, progressively more retarded, will have done their parents’ insurances a favor and already died off. So far, incidentally, other than genetic pre-testing, neither condition has seen a major scientific breakthrough. Any charity there? Surely the labs could use some updated sequencing equipment. Oops, sorry, no racial diversity there, they’re plum outta luck.

Now, let’s break out our redheaded stepchildren. Which is what the carrot-tops have been treated as, though unwittingly, by the anesthesiological branch of Western medicine. Turns out, same DNA fragment responsible for the wild hair color is, also, one that makes them more resistant to even the “best” stuff. Recent research shows they might need twice the normal doses. But if they are so hard to knock out, maybe they’re, also, less prone to getting addicted to drugs? There should be a far-reaching study. Then again, the subjects will be exclusively white. Nope, doesn’t work.

Progeria, then. Can that foundation count on the Ottawa students' largesse? It prematurely ages children of all races, creeds (still predominantly Caucasian, but that might be because it’s so rare, and in the first-world countries, where the timely diagnosis and patient management are possible, the majority of the population – and thus, the affected children – is white). But nah, not “inclusive” enough. It affects people only under 20. How’s that catering to a wider clientèle?

How about…oh, Familial Mediterranean Fever, a minor genetic abnormality affecting Armenians, Turks, Sephardic Jews. It amounts to a disruption in a single protein and becomes a doozy only if both parents carry the mutated gene. In which case, the unlucky offspring gets unbearable stomach cramps, testicular pain, unnecessary surgeries, spiking fever, renal failure, suicide possibly chosen over a lifetime of pain. How about extending these louts a hand? Ha, too uniform a color, what the hell you’re doing here with that collection plate?!

So, then, let’s tackle sickle cell anemia demographic, mostly our black populace’s problem, stemming from a genuinely beneficial adaptation protecting Africans from the malaria spores. Over millennia, red blood cells got misshapen, so, the choosy germs have nowhere to attach. Conversely, these cells have hard time making it through the capillaries. End result: pain, muscle weakness, debilitation, inability to so much as travel by plane. But repeat, most sufferers are black. And, really, the affirmative action does say what’s good for the goose doesn’t necessarily extend to his nest-mate.

I mean, what the hell?! I voted for our half African-American leader. I am glad we finally have a Native American governing a state. I envy French for even THINKING of legalizing alternatives to one-male-one-female unions to protects second, third, etc. wives of its Middle Eastern immigrants. And then, I get to hear this.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not about to dig out my KKK hood, but I do think the silly, inconsiderate, ASSinine, white-men’s-burden decisions the likes of this one are what’s largely contributing to still-lingering racial unease. Come on, those whites harboring Aryan Nation ideals will have it much easier recruiting yes-men if these people feel they are being ignored to make up for the misdeeds of yore.

“I have a dream”, confided Martin Luther King, Jr. Somehow, I don’t think it extended to white children being denied the best medical treatment, charity-funded or not – or even admittance into prestigious college by virtue of a better grade because of the “black quota” not having been met.

Arranged Marriage (Syndication) Rights

(My Original Blog Post: http://www.annointedfig.com/arranged-marriage-syndication-rights/)
"Who gives this woman away to be married?"

"I do," replies a self-satisfied father, having cashed in his investment...sorry, daughter, for a lucrative position at court.  No, this is not a scene from a Jane Austen book - look for it in your local TV guide, under "Arranged Marriage", please.

I wonder, ARE there any women execs at CBS?  And if there are, are they perfectly fine with reverting to...I don't know, pre-suffragette days?

[caption id="" align="alignright" width="169" caption="Thanks a lot, dad. I hate you."][/caption]

Even modern Yemeni courts grant divorces to 8-year old girls given in unlawful marriages to 28-year old grooms.  "I am happy that I am divorced now. I will be able to go back to school,'' one Nojud Mohammed Ali beamed after a public hearing in Sanaa's court of first instance.  In a fit of magnanimity, the jilted husband decided not to contest the ruling -- after earnestly responding to a judge's question with a "marriage was consummated, but I did not beat her".  What's gotten into that girl, anyway, the man was a gem?!

But hey, don't get me wrong, arranged marriages worked.  So does farming.  You only need a docile cow, a dependable cowherd, and you're set.

Oh, a small percentage of those unions blossomed, and flourished, and eventually borne a fruit of true love.  A somewhat bigger percentage simply learned to coexist in an uncomplicated roommate/servant/fuckbuddy/friend/companion of waning years kind of way.

But on the whole...  Isn't it telling that arranged marriages were the norm when one half, more recently female, had no more status than a favored household pet that is expected to run said household?  And then, push comes to shove, there was always an option of really teaching the beast to play dead.

Certainly, it wasn't for eternal love or even minimal trust that chastity belts became the fashion statement du jour.  Nor, for that matter, a law that if a woman crosses the line, she should hope there's a nunnery at the end of the road.

Seriously, can those lady execs tell me -- if these types of arrangements worked, why were females made to stay in their quarters while their lords and masters tomcatted their way through the keep dairymaids?  Why, in the slightly more enlightened times, were wives only expected to produce an heir and a spare before being allowed the freedom of the same questionable sort?  Why even nineteenth-century couples had to bear a dark-of-night, no-foreplay, hole-in-the-bedsheet-for-access, thank-you-ma'am, going-back-to-my-own-lair kind of thing, while when cheating with equally highbrow partners, that hole-in-the-bedsheet technique never came up?  Why, among the modern old-money elite, only a very few (before you bring them up, Paris Hilton's parental units so glaring an exception that they exist merely to prove a rule) don't end up going their separate ways while keeping unto each other only in the eyes of the boards of directors and the properly awed interns at Page 6?

How exactly is it that there's still thinking that Arranged Marriage could and SHOULD work?  Heck, how many of us didn't, at least, once cringe, and count the minutes, and resort to the emergency "call me up so I can get the hell outta here" services, and dreamed of suffocating our well-meaning friends / parents /insert your own matchmaker of choice for settling us with this barbie-wannabe / pompous buffoon?  Yes, I am talking about blind dates.

So, unlike a two-week long Wife Swap, how is a lifetime of this supposed to be all right -- and filmed, to boot?!  Consider the Bachelor's rate of success.  But, at least, its cameras stop rolling at the "will you accept this ring" part.

Because doesn't a reality show of such a narrative, protracted format actually sheds its definition by the very virtue of what it's trying to portray?  If you are looking at something, it's going to behave differently.  I understand a rightfully disgraced quantum physicist by the name of Shroedinger proved just that with his unfortunate cats.

And, finally, a warning for CBS, the late and very unlamented Kid Nation was a dud.  If this one wants my share of the Nielsen ratings come sweeps-time, it had better deliver something to make me believe marriages are made not in heavens, but in the high-tech cutting rooms.

NOW Who Has Got a Dirty Mind?

(My Original Blog Post: http://www.annointedfig.com/?p=173)
What a week!  The January frost has just set in, and already things are heating up beyond the melting point. Put your seatbelts on, kids, cause its gonna be a wild ride!



[caption id="" align="alignright" width="216" caption="Get ready for a hoe down, y'all!"][/caption]

Day 1:

• 6:00am - What's the world coming to? Startled awake by noise from our son's room. He was spanking his monkey. Gave him a stern talking to.


• 10:00am - Aah, Saturday. So nice to sleep late, especially after the 'spanking' incident. But even rest doesn't stop me being all hot and bothered! Where's that husband of mine?


• 2:00pm - Finally got around to beating my man's meat. He was glowing with enjoyment long after we finished - its good to know the key to his heart.


• 6:00pm - Husband whips out the summer sausage. Hasn't he had enough? Stuffed me again, that slick bastard, and you bet I didn't say no.


• 9:00pm - Watched some boobs on the boob tube. I enjoy keeping hubby company, even if I personally think I am much more well-rounded.  No, this ain't sour grapes.

Day 2:

• 9:00am - Woke up to my pussy needing some TLC. Gave it a generous rub-down.


• 9:30am - Out with the rubbing, in with the stuffing. Where's my husband when I could use a hand.. or two? Snuck out early to polish his wand, I bet.  Just leave his wife in a lurch, wouldn't be the first time!


• 12:00pm - Husband came back, wand a-polished. And showing it off too, as if I care. Not gonna speak to him till he apologizes.


• 12:15pm - That was quick. Its a miracle what a tossed salad will do to your vocal chords. He's such a suck-up.


• 5:00pm - Joined the hubby for his reading session. I missed this so much the whole week.


• 9:00pm - Monday's coming - waking up bright and early tomorrow, so after some very good necking, have to put our libidos on hold for tonight.

Day 3:

• 8:00am - woke up all hot and bothered, AGAIN!  could use a cold shower or no telling what will come about!


• 9:00am - broke down, and took some precious minutes to stroke my pussy before heading off to work.


• 12:00pm - eating lunch in the cafeteria, wondering about the sex lives of historical figures. A strangely arousing topic.


• 3:00 pm - spent my coffee break browsing my favorite site on my smartphone.  No, AnnointedFig.com never disappoints with a...fresh perspective.  You'd think that would be enough.  But it's not!


• 7:30pm - came home a bit late to catch my husband there already, practicing his Shakespeare. I knew I had my work cut out for me tonight... But it is all worth it!

Day 4:

• 8:00am.  Hot and bothered?  You guessed it.  Consider the situation. Nope, can't go on like that, my husband is just going to HAVE to clean my pipes.


• 12:00pm - took lunch out at the cafe with my girlfriend. She was telling me about how she and her husband have a cock two ways every weekend. Hope she didn't notice my mouth watering!


• 6:00pm - barely made it home before the rain started pouring in earnest... but I was already wet. Glad my husband was home already! Creamed his corn right quick.  There IS something to that married life.


• 8:00pm - decided to check in early tonight, for some much-needed together time. Didn't happen - cattus interruptus. Wouldn't you know?

Day 5:

• 6:30am - Woke up to a cruel, early alarm clock, hot-and-botheredness notwithstanding. A shower would do me good, but ends up making me only more frustrated!  And I am running late!


• 7:30am - Riding the bus to work today - husband got the car, while another is getting lubed at the mechanic's. Rubbing against random people - or were they rubbing against me? What's their story?


• 10:00am - Coordinating over the phone with my husband about his grocery shopping - big day today. Relatives coming over for our son's birthday. I guess I shouldn't wish I was buying oysters instead..


• 2:00pm - On the way home.  Have some tunes coming loud and clear through my earphones.  Whoever he is, he's hot.  Domestic version of HIM, you know, the big Finnish rock star.  Thinking how rock stars get their rocks off.  Lucky SOBs is all I'm gonna say.


• 4:00pm - The whole mishpuha arrives and birthday boy is gifted up and down. His uncle even brought a hoe. I can see this getting dirty before long...


• 11:00pm - Everybody finally leaves. Boy are we beat! But not too beat to put off getting wet together by the kitchen sink.

Day 6:

• 08:00am - You guessed it, hot and bothered. A cold shower later brought me back down to earth and ready to deal with the day.. if only temporarily.


• 12:00pm - Ogled a coworker by the vending machine, and had to resist fantasizing about how many licks it would take to get to the Tootsie Roll center of his Tootsie Pop. Man, that cold shower wears off fast.


• 2:00pm - Hooray! Going home early today. Stopped by that little store to pick up some 'fun' toys. Got to buy American, you know :)


• 4:00pm - Can't wait for my husband to get home. I bet his wiener is just about ready to burst!


• 4:30pm - Still waiting! Stroked my pussy to help calm me down. It always works.


• 5:00pm - Finally, hubby walks in from the rain. Barely knocked boots, when cattus interruptus strikes again.


• 7:00pm - Well, at least I have his help with stuffing my pussy this time. Thought I can't help fondly remember his last apology... wouldn't mind another go.

Day 7:

• 07:00am - Telecommuting today!  Maybe, will have time to work on my blog.  But seriously, hubby needs to look at the heater pipes. Its WAY too hot in here. Its winter and its over 80 indoors. WTF?


• 07:30am - The pussy is meowing loudly in the hallway - is my little baby hungry? Put out some cat food for her to stuff herself on - though she prefers my husband's company, as do many females - him being an amateur theater actor, and all.


• 7:45am - Husband is up early today, reciting Macbeth - his big day is coming soon. What a role - he's playing one of the witches. At least she'll have the cleanest wand of them all.


• 8:10am - Got a call.  Have to go to work, anyway!


• 8:45am - Handed off my 1-year-old son to the grandparents, favorite toy monkey in tow. He continues spanking it - its getting to be a cruel little habit. At least his toy gardening set, hoe and all, are still intact.


• 12:00pm - Again, I meet that coworker by the vending machine. Stop tempting me with those Tootsie Pops, kid! I'm trying to lose weight here. Maybe you should too?


• 3:00pm - Called my girlfriend for her 'cock two ways' recipe. Not difficult at all - my husband would love his chicken being fried AND baked!


• 6:00pm - Sat down with my son to play with his new toys - he's loving them! American-made is definitely paying off - he can't stop chewing on them, so its nice that I don't have to worry about lead poisoning.


• 8:00pm - Fixed my husband some more of his favorite creamed corn and sausage. Tenderized some meat patties for burgers too.  Look at  me, who knew I would turn into such an exemplary wife?  ;-)


• 9:00pm - Sat down to watch the boobs on the boob tube - Could those Marx Brothers be any more ridiculous? What a bunch of silly boobs.


• 10:00pm - Finally have some one-on-one time with my husband. No cattus interruptus this time - kitty-cat locked out of the bedroom tonight! After a week-long dry spell, we finally get to enjoy a wonderful and romantic time together.

When you wait for something you want so badly, for so long - everything around you seems to remind you of it!

And if you thought this was a dirty story, its YOUR mind thats dirty, sicko!

Well, maybe mine too...

When the Pigs Fly

(My Original Blog Post: http://www.annointedfig.com/?p=139)






[caption id="" align="alignright" width="173" caption="The bacon comes home to roost"][/caption]

If you are a long-suffering wife married to a gruff household tyrant making up for certain physical deficiencies by demanding unfailing obeisance, chucking beer cans at a family cat, cheating right on his executive desk, or lubing up his muscle truck, I guarantee you have, at least, once said to yourself, "Men Are Pigs!"  And, probably, more than once.

Did it help?  It is, after all, a truism.  It is designed to make us feel better, the wisdom of the ages ingested with our mother's milk - or recently, the Enfamil.

But what if you are a woman who had risked and lost your family's regard for a sweet, tall, kind, testosterone-unencumbered love of your new lesbian life?  Do you still suffer pangs of wanting to take a sledgehammer to your partner's unreasonable self-involved head?  Further clarification, you are slightly overweight, favor double-breasted suits, wear narrow modish glasses, watch American Idol and the Casablanca reruns, had a perfect 4.0 in college, clerked for a most respected family court judge while working your way through law school.  You just got rid of your Invisalign braces.  You are anal-retentive about timely Valentine's and Happy Hanukkah cards.  You like to cook, but never have the time.  You are now a judge yourself, one of the youngest in your division.  And you and your partner decide to adopt.

In your state, it remaining illegal for two women to marry, the lawyer in you plays it smart.  Certainly, your wife the UPS pilot isn't home often enough to look like a good candidate.  So, it's you who applies for the fostership gig.  The adoption is to be the next logical step.  You have a stable income, opulent living conditions, the child you fall in love with is over 7 years old (it's healthy infants that are all the rage), so, despite your ostensibly single status, no colleague of yours in the world who would say no.

As a matter of fact, your new son is 9, and he personifies traumatized.  His family died of carbon monoxide poisoning, while he had a sleepover with a school friend.  He opened the door with a spare key behind a planter, ran in, screamed himself raw -- and didn't speak since.  He was not an easy adoption sell for the State.  His mom, dad, and a big sister died over two years ago.  And his godmother, well, apparently enforced goodwill only takes one so far.

But wouldn't you know it, slowly, your boy starts to thrive.  He is learning piano -- and relearning to talk.  Another year, another hearing -- from which you two emerge a law-sanctified mother and son.

Your partner's training him in basketball and bowling.  And looking at yourself in the mirror, sweet latkes!, aren't you a Jewish mother through and through?  Instead of making you cringe, the thought makes you laugh -- and look for gray hairs.  A waste of time.  You, growing old?!

One day, you wake up to a sharp pain under your diaphragm.  You are rushed to ER, then under a knife.  You have a perforated ulcer.  All those nights cramming for exams, poring over the thornier cases.  Coffee is a hell of a drug, but there's always a price.  Or, maybe, you're just lucky that way.

You develop a bleeder, but overall, the surgery is a success.  You bounce back, and life is proceeding apace.

And then, you catch pneumonia.  Another ulcer.  Pneumonia, again.  Persistent headaches.  Flu-like symptoms that wouldn't let go.  Your toothbrush bleeds red.  A painful-looking dark discoloration springs seemingly overnight on the underside of your arm.

Discussing your diagnosis, the doctor is carefully skirting the amorality of a partnered non-hemophiliac lesbian developing AIDS.  A chronic condition like any other, you never realized even for an enlightened you, the first A in the moniker is a scarlet one.  A stigma, it isn't there to let you escape.

In an effort to keep yourself from going insane -- which, your doctor warns, you, possibly, could -- you throw yourself headlong into investigation.  That it really isn't your fault doesn't help.

What does it matter to you if it was a bleeder?  That in an effort to save your life, they unwittingly pumped in a contaminated pint?  That somebody was either making money through paid plasma donation or even freely giving their blood and didn't know they had HIV?  That the Red Cross workers serve for a pittance while inundated with do-gooders and hospitals demanding their share?

All good intentions, but reality is, it's your hell.  At least, this particular road has a shortcut.

Your son spends hours playing you Czerny's etudes.  You try to get in touch with your family to mend bridges, but the termites of time have done too thorough a job on the logs.

And then, comes the cherry on your spoiled cake.  Your unfailingly nice, unfailingly supportive partner sits you down and tells you, in the kindest possible terms, the spark, that unidentifiable something, was gone even before the first pneumonia scare.  She stuck around, though, working to get you back on your feet, she's that kind of girl.

"But...," you begin.

"This," your wife patiently explains.  "Is chronic.  You are not getting better.  Yet, who is to know when...  Well, you know what I mean."

"Yes, but Alex..."

"I had been meaning to talk to you about that."

The talk reveals a standard-issue midlife crisis.  Your now-ex wants freedom to re-explore herself.  And your son...  "Well, he's not strictly MY son.  But, you know, I'll be sure to stop by."

You tell her not to.  That she doesn't beg you to reconsider...  "Women are pigs!"

You want to rage.  Cry.  Kill her.  You want to beg her to stay and look after your kid.  You want to remind her of your trip for the formal handfasting in Hawaii.  You want to tell her how much you missed her hands on your breasts.  You manage nothing.  Your breathing's a pain with another sore throat.

Alex starts to revert back into stupor.  It's too late not to have to be honest with him.

"You are not going to be alone, sweetie!  We'll..."

"Yeah, when the pigs fly!"

Your ex calls you one day and says, she's moving.  Could you, please, forward any mail to Louisville, a UPS hub?

You frantically visit acupuncturists, healers.  You aren't buying a lifetime, just a couple of years, until Alex's eighteen.

There is a drug testing place nearby, an acquaintance tells you.  Supposedly, there's revolutionary stuff.  Free, incidentally, not that you'd fibble over the cost.  You come in, sign the release forms.  New.  Stage 3 testing.  Higher risk of stomach upsets.  And ditto suicides.  Suicides?  You look in the mirror, and you don't laugh, and you don't trawl for gray hairs.  Suicides?!

Half-year study starts.  You feel better.  But AIDS isn't cancer, it doesn't really have a remission, once you have it, symptoms simply wane and wax.  Besides, until FDA approves the formulation, once the study ends in four more months, you are back on your regular meds.

You don't care.  It will have bought Alex 6 months.

And if the study caveat is, you have to come be evaluated once every week, no big deal.  You religiously come, let yourself be pricked with needles, prodded, illuminated, your slowly growing tumor measured, answer questions as to your bowel movements, general well-being, suicidal thoughts.  You get to know fellow study subjects -- a divorced schoolteacher, a 15-year old ex-druggie, a flamboyantly gay stage hand, a dapper surgeon, an old infectious ward volunteer, a hemophiliac 12-year old, a happy-go-lucky woman cop.  Some have HIV and are in the holding pattern, some -- they're like you, and every hello is goodbye.

Months pass, and the scarlet tint to the letter A disappears.  No one deserves it, no matter the past.

"Hey, hey, hey, I do," laughs the cop.  Ex-exotic dancer, ex-street walker, ex-cocaine hound, she came by her virus honestly -- and now, she is  a university senior, pre-law.  "I am so making detective, girl!  Me, I'm applyin' to vice squad. I gotta know my beat!"

You and she become friends.  She regularly visits.  Healthy as she is, she gives Alex hope.  He is a boy, he needs more than music.  They play catch.  He teaches her chess.  Slow to trust behind a gregarious facade, eventually, she opens up.

You like to read.  She only tolerates schoolbooks.

She fries cheeseburgers.  You do vegetarian takeouts.

You don't have much time.  She is doing fine.

She's lean as a post.  You have lost weight, but you're still pear-shaped.

You are a 21st century Luddite.  She is a gadgets freak.

She rocks out.  You are a classics chick.

You drink champagne.  She is a recovering addict.  "Six years!  You know what sucks?  I actually used to love the fucking TASTE of bourbon."

She trades jeans only for a policewoman's garb.  You used to love dressing up.

You're gay.  She would fuck anything that was human.  "Something's gotta be there.  Mechanics, though?  That takes care of itself."

She craves a kid.  You have got one.

"Alex, Alex, Alex," you ruffle his hair, tear up over his class treasurer nomination.  "Check it out, pigs fly!"