Annoying Christmas Newsletter, 2009

I know what you're thinking. 2009 was such a sucky year let's just be done with the holidays and get our game on into 2010. Well, in the interest of being a glass-half-full type of person (one of my New Year's resolutions from back in January when we still had some faint hope a of a year that didn't suck), I've determined that some things which, on the surface, seem to suck, may have the proverbial silver lining, and there are still a few things that don't necessarily suck at all. So, here's my list of things that didn't suck in 2009.

The Recession - Suddenly it's a lot easier to find a parking spot at the mall. Awesome.

Unemployment - As one of the millions who has enjoyed being unemployed for a good part of the year, I'm here to tell you that having a job is entirely over-rated. Sure a paycheck is nice, but what could replace the quality time we gain to cruise the internet, make new "friends"on Facebook, watch daytime TV, go on pointless job interviews, and bond with our pets? And what a wonderful opportunity to hone our people skills, fending off bill collectors and smoozing the folks over at the EDA. Seriously, it's all in the spin.

Stonehenge - Sure it's just a big pile of rocks, and it was wicked cold when we were there one day last winter, at sunrise, but it didn't suck.

Global Warming - So just what's wrong with wearing flip-flops and shorts all year long?! And, no down jackets forever! Besides, the jury's still out on that one, isn't it? At least that's what George W. Bush asserted about evolution a few years back, and I'm pretty sure the same principle applies to global warming.
Sarah Palin - OK, you're right, Sarah Palin totally does suck. And the fact that she may run for President in 2012 and is making gazillions on that fake "memoir" she "wrote" sucks too. But, if it weren't for her we wouldn't have Levi Johnston, who has proven to be an endless source of
entertainment and bemusement for all of us Pop Culture freaks, or pearls of wisdom like this: "It is as throughout all Alaska that big wild good life teeming along the road that is north to the future." (Extolling the virtues of Alaska in her last speech as governor, July 26, 2009.) This woman is truly a national treasure.

Canada - We went there in August. Went zip lining in Whistler. Survived. What's not to like, eh?
The Health Care Crisis - Just like having a job, affordable health care is entirely over-rated. Who needs health insurance when you can always sell your house, your car, and maybe a kidney to pay for that appendectomy! And besides, IF you somehow manage to make it to 65, it's free anyhow! So just settle back in that wheelchair and chill awhile. You'll be able to get that hip replacement you've been needing on-the-house before you know it. (What? You're only 39? Damn, that sucks.)

Death Panels -- Death panels don't suck because they don't exist. Think LSD babies, they didn't exist either, though back in the sixties they tried to scare us out of tripping with tales of our progeny as pin-headed monsters with fangs and tails. (On second thought, maybe that could account for my stepson.)

I haven't received a single cat calendar this year and it's already Christmas Eve -- Not that cat calendars suck per se, it's just that last year I got five of them. Nobody needs five calenders of any kind unless they're suffering from Multiple Personality Disorder, and even then it's highly probable that least one of them will be a dog person.

Medical Marijuana -- As if the weather alone isn't reason enough to move to California

Norwood Young's Christmas Display - Not one to let the recession dim his enthusiasm for the season, or the lights on his lawn, Hancock Park neighbor Norwood Young once again dazzles with an over-the-top extravaganza of tasteless excess and shameless self-promotion. This year's tableaux features, in addition to the usual African American Santas and festively fastooned naked "David" statues, an idealized, larger than life cutout of the man himself, looming over his domain. And did I mention there's a snow machine?

The Countrypolitan Kitchen - Speaking of shameless self-promotion, check out my food blog, The Countrypolitan Kitchen, which does not suck unless you're on a diet. Dieting definitely sucks.
Santa Claus -- OK, I know some of the elves might not agree with me, especially the ones who got laid off, but Santa Claus does not suck. Sure, it was a rough year at the Pole, cuts had to be made, and Mrs. Claus got a bundle after the big guy got caught with that bar hostess in Orlando, (not to mention how much it cost him to repair the sleigh), but how can you really hate a guy who still gives little kids guns for Christmas?!

Little "Johnny" from Georgia wants an AK-47, and I'm betting he get's it, especially since he's holding the teddy bear hostage.

Christmas at The Grove -- It kinda sucks that they didn't have the Top Hats dancing girls troupe back this year.
But then, who needs the Santa Sluts (RIP) when over at the Farmer's Market you've got Victorian Carolers and a Po' Boy sandwich?
Pet Photo Night at Santa's Workshop -- As the old saying goes, a picture really is worth a thousand words.

The U. S. to New Zealand currency exchange rate - At $1.40 NZ to every $1.00 US it's not as good as it used to be, but it doesn't suck either. That's our excuse for spending the remainder of the holiday season in the Cook Islands. That and the fact that we celebrated our 15th anniversary this year and want to return to where we spent our honeymoon. So, while you guys are freezing your butts off New Year's eve back east, up north, down south, or wherever you're parking it these days, we'll be soaking up the sunshine on a blue lagoon in Rarotonga. Which brings me back to why global warming may not suck so much after all.
My Posse -- friends, family, and pets; you are all, quite simply, the best. And if any of you sucked at all this year, (Hank, you SO ripped that hole in the back of the sofa), I didn't notice, or at least pretended not to, because I love you so much.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS! MERRY CHRISTMAS! Shalom. Peace. May your days, be merry and bright, and I hope your new year doesn't suck.

Free Guns

BANG! It's Halloween. (It sings so much better than "BOO," don't you think?)

Sometime around the first of October I usually start looking around my neighborhood for something REALLY scary to head and inspire my Halloween post. This year that wasn’t necessary. I found my “scares me shitless shot” way back in June, just south of Milledgeville GA, on U.S. Highway 441. Fishing Creek Outfitters is offering FREE GUNS. (Was then, still is.)

Granted, it wasn’t hard to find something that sends shivers down the spine in what has been a very scary year, what with the economy, the health care crisis, Sarah Palin (still), and a bat-shit crazy landlord who has totally gone off the farm, but, putting all that aside, or, even more to the point, with all that in mind, the one thing none of us needs right now is a free gun.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not one of those peacenik anti-gun nuts running around advocating confiscating everybody’s weapons. (OK, I am a pacifist, but I try not to let it get in the way of reality.) I don’t have a problem with anybody having a gun for hunting. I even lease property in the homeland to a hunting club so they can kill all the Bambi Mammas they can catch. And I’m not really worried about those who feel they need a personal weapon to protect home and hearth from harm, (although I do contend the second amendment is overrated and misinterpreted, but that’s another post). No, I’m most concerned about the God and guns, Lock ‘n Load Jesus crowd --

those folks who think it’s their God-given right to own as much firepower as they can afford, beg, borrow or steal.

Frankly I just don’t think everybody needs a gun, and almost nobody needs an automatic weapon or an assault rifle. Least of all this chick.

Or this one either. (Can I say I find all this scantily clad women and guns imagery really scary in itself?)

I mean they’re not likely to be calling up a state militia anytime soon, regardless of what you think. And let’s face it; if Satan’s on your tail, you’re going to need a lot more than an AK-47 to bring him down.

And that Uzi won’t be much help against a herd of flesh eating zombies either.

Might as well get down on your knees and pray, for all the good it’ll do.

If it weren’t for my inherent loathing of firearms, I could totally get behind a gun. I can recall any number of occasions, thousands perhaps, conservatively speaking, when I would’ve just loved to have been packin’. There was that asshole in the Range Rover who cut me off as I was entering the I-10 at LaCienega back in January, and then flipped me off when I blew the horn. If only for one moment would that horn had been the trigger of a Beretta Tomcat .32.

(I would’ve aimed for the finger, but I’d likely have missed.) Then some skinny blonde bitch in a Cadillac with a poodle and a cigarette just about runs me down in the Petco parking lot as I struggled to load 20 pounds of kitty litter into my car. Fumbling in my purse for my keys, I fantasized finding a little Lady Derringer with personalized ivory cameo grips inside.

At the very least I would’ve shot out her tires, or her eyes.

This summer, when a Starline Tours bus full of German tourists ripped the bumper off the husband’s BMW in the CBS parking lot? Well, if he'd had a Luger semiautomatic loaded with 9mm cartridges, he would've shot the driver for sure, and probably a few of the tourists, at least the ones who had gotten off the bus and were taking photos.

I can’t count the number of occasions when we’re on the road and the hubby turns to me and says’ “You forgot the Glock again, didn’t you, Honey?" Joking, sure, but who’s kidding whom?

That Iranian jerk from across the street who brings his big drooling mongrel over here to defecate on our lawn and doesn’t pooper scoop, the loud, obnoxious co-worker who listens to death metal on iTunes and eats fish tacos at his desk every day for lunch, the pinched faced little Korean twit at the dry cleaners who lost my leopard-print cashmere sweater when I was PMSing, the Jack-In-The-Box drive-up clown? All gone. As would be the Earthlink tech support guy, “Stephen,” who left me on hold for 20 minutes while he “consulted his supervisor “ about my problem and then told me I’d have to call Microsoft, (except I’d probably be cooled off by them time I got to Delhi). Same with the prissy queen in the shoe department at Nordstrom's who suggested that the silver Jimmy Choo slingbacks I was looking at might be a bit much for the "more mature foot," and maybe the parking attendant at Café Sushi, who I’m fairly certain dinged my left front fender back in '04. My husband’s ex-wife for sure. Hell, my husband isn’t always safe!

I’m telling you true. The state of California would be littered with bodies, and additional carcasses scattered throughout the continual U.S. and parts of Canada and Western Europe. And there are a whole lot of people like me out there. We’re not particularly mean or violent, certainly not evil, and not likely to harbor more than one or two grudges worth killin’ for, but we’re decidedly short-fused, a little edgy before we’ve had our coffee, and maybe off our meds. We should not, under any circumstances, have guns. Good thing is, for me anyway, actually having to go out and spend money on an object the primary purpose of which is to end another life just didn't seem worth it. But if said object of death and destruction was FREE, hey, that opens up a whole new firing range.

Which brings me back to Milledgeville and Fishing Creek Outfitters, where a benign enough sounding young man answered the phone and explained that for every $25 you spend you get one chance in their once-a-month drawing for a free gun. That’s right, they give away twelve free guns a year, presumably to anybody whose name get’s pulled out of the chamber. Could be you, could be me, could be a serial killer named Dave, or a hamster named Pete. But this month I'm betting on myself. The mister and I don't camp, (I like to say my idea of roughing it is the Holiday Inn Express.), but someday we might, and, if we do, we'll be well equipped. Tent, check. Sleeping bags, check. Coleman stove, check. battery lanterns, check. His and hers portable latrines, check. Mail order, don't forget the drawing tickets. If it doesn't work out for Halloween, Thanksgiving's coming and I may want to take up scuba diving, or maybe fly fishing for Christmas. Sooner or later, me or somebody like me. It's just a matter of time. And it won't be pretty.

So that’s why the notion of FREE GUNS scares me to death, pun totally intended, and why it should scare you too. HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Juror Number 3486 May Be Excused

My husband says it’s the price we pay for living in a democracy. He’s right, of course, but I still don’t like jury duty. That’s not to say that I’m not as self-righteous and judgmental as the next guy, I just don’t like being put in the position of maybe sending somebody to prison or worse, all the while locked up in a room with a bunch of sweaty strangers, none of whom is any happier to be there than I am. Hey, I vote, I work for candidates I favor, and I give money to the parties and causes I believe in whenever I can. Screw jury duty.

That being said, I’ll pretty much do whatever is necessary to avoid service, and while I’m not exactly proud of the fact, I’m not exactly ashamed of it either, although last time I did come close, when, on the cusp of being chosen to sit in a civil case, I actually implied that I had “cultural issues” with a certain ethnic group, a gambit that, although effective, left me feeling icky and uncomfortable for weeks.

Determined it would not happen again, I believe I have perfected a system whereby my annual foray to the Los Angeles County Halls of Justice will come to a quick and painless conclusion. The trick is to dress so that one appears to be a decidedly undesirable juror while remaining just within the accepted court dress code and not so over-the-top as to appear costumed for the occasion.

Earlier in the week, as the dreaded day approached, I considered my options. Religious Zealot seemed like a winner – One Way t-shirt, What Would Jesus Do book bag, (both gifts from well-meaning relatives who fear for my eternal soul), crammed with copies of The Watchtower and a Bible, a big honking cross around neck – until I realized it would clash with my chosen reading material of the day, Club Dead, Volume 3 of the Sookie Stackhouse Southern Vampire series.

Over-The-Hill Hooker was a definite possibility, ruled out only because the mere thought of walking four blocks (downhill, and needless to say back uphill) from the parking lot to the courthouse in sling-backs with four-inch heels and then having to wear them all day was almost as painful as the reality would've been. There’s always Blissed-Out Old Hippie Chick, but I’ve lived that one, and just can’t go there again. Alcoholic Housewife was a non-starter.

Finally, I settled on Crazy Cat Lady, a classically off-putting ensemble featuring my beloved Chairman Meow t-shirt, a really dreadful I Love Cats tote bag, (What was I thinking?), and an opportunity to pile on all the truly tacky cat motif jewelry people continue to give me although, hint, hint, they never see me wearing it. I take a couple of cell phone photos of the home pride, stuff a few snapshots of former cats, friend’s cats, God only knows whose cats, into my purse for show and tell, and I’m good to go, fully prepared to bring up “the kids” in any conversation anyone cares to engage. (This is Tiger with his first cockroach, and here’s a nice shot of Miss Muffin at her cat mitzvah when she turned 13.) And I’m particularly looking forward to voir dire, when I’m asked to introduce myself. (“I don’t have children, your honor, but I am the proud kitty mom of four – or six, eight, however many seems like too many in the moment – precious fur babies.”)

Upon my arrival yesterday in Juror’s Room 323 (at the ungodly hour of 7:45 AM) I see that I have chosen wisely. There was more than a handful of old hippie chicks and chaps, (this is California after all), mostly schoolteachers and the chronically unemployed. Reeking of patchouli and stale marijuana smoke, earth-shoed and tie-dyed, bless them all, they got called onto panels quickly. Religious zealotry was well represented too. There was a Biker for Christ, or so proclaimed his denim biker jacket. Embroidered with a flaming cross on the back and pulled down over his considerable beer belly, it was fashionably sleeveless to better display the tattoo of Jesus on his upper arm, which, unless I miss my guess, used to be the Zig Zag Man before our biker found the Lord. My personal favorite though was a guy wearing monk’s robes and sandals with an Indian weave bag slung across his body. His name isn't Siddhartha something, as one might have imagined, but, as I learned at roll call, James Smith. He is reading a biography of General George Patton and eating a hard boiled egg so pungent I can smell it across the room. There were no obvious hookers present, but there was a buxom young blonde with blue streaked hair, blue nail polish, and a blue rose tattooed on her shoulder. (Note to self, next year put temporary “Hello Kitty” tattoo on forearm.)

Juror orientation goes on for more than an hour while some poorly paid civil servant reads the entire Trial Juror’s Handbook aloud for our edification and erudition – as if we can’t be trusted to read the handout ourselves, which is a good point. After being informed that there may be emergency evacuation and/or earthquake drills sometime during the day, same poorly paid civil servant demonstrates the duck and cover posture suggested in case of the latter, and refers to the handbook’s recommendation that under ones seat would be a good place to do so, a genuinely crowd pleasing notion seeing as how the rows of connected chairs are approximately one foot off the floor and there’s not a single midget in the room.

There is a deaf person though, a potential juror whom the county has thoughtfully provided with not one, but two, sign language interpreters, at a cost of at least $35 an hour each. (I know because I saw a listing for interpreters on the job opportunities board.) I only mention this because in light of the cost saving measures evident in the California courts today – like courts are dark the third Wednesday of each month and all employees must take an unpaid holiday – maybe this isn’t the wisest use of my taxpayer dollars. Or consider this. We had been instructed to bring our own black ink or lead pen or pencil to fill out our juror forms. Those who forgot to do so were directed to purchase one in the snack bar, writing implements no longer being provided in the juror room. More's the pity, the deaf guy probably doesn’t want to be here either.

During the course of what otherwise might have been a productive day, I did note a few improvements since my last tour of duty. There’s free WiFi in the juror room now, for those who want to bring laptops, (not that anybody bothered to tell us in advance), and a bank of six computers for the rest of us to use, within limits of course. A list of inappropriate and proscribed site content posted by each computer includes, mature themes, nudity, pornography, dating, gambling, and, go figure, “intimate apparel and swimsuits.” I will shortly discover that my favorite celebrity gossip zine, TMZ.com, is blocked as well.

At 10:05 AM we have a drop and cover earthquake drill. (I'm still mulling the possibility that this may have been a misguided joke on the part of one of the less thoughtful juror minders, because it was just too bizarre.) At 11 they call a the first panel. I'm not on it. At 12:30 we break for lunch. I treat myself to Mac and Cheese at Koo Koo Roo and a minor shopping excursion at the Disney Hall Gift Shop down the street where they are having a sale. Back in the juror room two more panels are called, until I remain one of about 25 people left, along with the Biker for Christ, James “Siddhartha” Smith, and the deaf guy. (I lost sight of blue-haired Barbie, but I think she got called the second round or so.) And so it went until they finally dismissed us around 4 PM. On the way to the parking garage I overheard James Smith telling somebody that he was glad he hadn’t shaved his head, as he’d considered, to complement his Buddhist priest drag.

I'm done. Juror number 3486 is free for another year. My Chairman Meow t-shirt totally rocks.

The Blog Is Back

Really, after a hiatus for which I have no acceptable excuse, the blog is back, and it's spun a spin-off. Instead of posting recipes with my rants, I've deemed it appropriate that they deserve their own forum, so I've started a food blog -- The Countrypolitan Kitchen -- which you can find at countrypolitankitchen.blogspot.com/. No politics, no ranting, no snarky personal opinions, just all food all the time. Please check it out. And Happy Eating, and all that!

Of course if you want to know what I'm thinking about you, the state of the world, and just about everything else -- and believe me I have LOTS of opinions -- you're welcome back here at Blood and Chocolate anytime. Please visit both blogs often and add your comments too, so I won't think I'm all alone out here in cyberspace.