Trick or treat

I know it’s early to be thinking about this, but for Halloween this year I’ve decided to go as the Cowboy Bomber from the State of the Union- er- Dr. Strangelove. Somehow, I seem to get those two confused…

The absence of outrage coming from Americans infuriates ME.

check out Little Red Shoes...

It’s amazing the power one voice can wield when soaring from the speakers into a chilly Chicago apartment. I spent the morning reading a magazine and generally feeling guilty about not working until I came across an article on theology- themed blogs. It’s sweet vindication when loafing magically begets RESEARCH. Decided to celebrate by listening to the new (to me) Loretta Lynn cd.

Rarely does a cd manage to make me this happy, but Van Lear Rose has led me to the instant giddy caffeine- fueled conclusion that more, MORE Country Goddess-Elders like fierce-tender Loretta should be encouraged, implored, compelled, bribed, begged- whatever it takes- to keep on recording. Would that Jack White vows to make it his life’s mission to ensconce the Grandeammes of country music in a loving embrace of thoughtful, refined productions like this one.

Runoff

A sopping wet day in Chicago. Winter took the day off, obliterating the grimy piles of snow that lingered for the duration of the first deep freeze. Walking home tonight I didn’t even need my coat. It’s practically sultry. I even got my key to turn in the front gate after two weeks of having to use my building’s back entrance. I love taking walks on days like this when so much moisture ssetles back into the earth. I have a thing for drainage, runoff, skirting the puddles, minding the paths worn in the snow, those invisible shifts to ice or slush. I like the patterns of exhaust and tire treads on white, the filthy gray crusts plastered to the curbs by snowplows.

On this strictly imitation spring day I just feel dehydrated, after an unantcipated season of Great Sex. Funny, I thought being in grad school would mean having little or none. What a relief that isn't the case.

Talk Show Mom

This morning I was unlucky enough to turn on the TV to find Oprah consoling the mother of Mattie Stepanek, the child poet and Oprah protige (or as the show’s website puts it, “Oprah’s special friend”) who died last year from complications related to a rare form of muscular dystrophy. Nestled between Oprah, John Travolta, and the other stars of Ladder 49, Mattie’s mom recounts the final tortured moments of her son’s life. Just as the shockwaves of disgust that now drench me begin to show signs of melting into sympathy, the camera angle shifts and I am stunned to see that, like her son, Jeni Stepanek uses a wheelchair.

I'm stunned because I cannot believe that a woman with a disability would subject her own child to the media’s faux- compassion mill, that gratuitous engine of exploitation that makes the larger portion of televised journalism unbearable.

I feel better now.

And, just what does John Travolta have to do with any of this? Turns out the kid liked firemen, and of course poetry, public speaking, girls, Jimmie Carter and... smoozing with big celebs. So I guess no one should mind that this memorial show should double as a promotional device.