Angels, Saxophones and Maroon Velvet

Today would have been my mother's seventy-seventh birthday.  I'm missing her this year -- not the actual mom, you understand -- but the mom of my memories. The mom who lives in that photo above. The happy, beguiling, carefree mom, before she was a mom. Before she met my dad. Before things all went kind of pear-shaped in her life.

Last Sunday, Mark took me to a restaurant I'd never been to -- Cafe Cordiale in Sherman Oaks -- for brunch.  (Quick aside - this may be new favorite restaurant ever!) The restaurant was decorated for their annual traditional Dickens Christmas Eve dinner -- all gold ribbon and maroon velvet and nutcrackers, co-owner Margaret explained.

It's all terribly British and Dickensian and Victorian, even amidst the very sleek modernity of the restaurant's decor. It reminded me of Mom and all she loved about Christmas.  My mother could be the wackiest, weirdest, most demanding and difficult person on the planet. But at Christmastime, she was pretty much a gem.  There was something about whipping out our pipecleaner angel orchestra ornaments (the ornaments she bought for my first Christmas) that always set her in a good mood, as she smoothed out the little gossamer wings and straightened the packing-box-bent pipecleaner arms. Most of them are missing their little instruments now, but when, in my tweens, I pointed this out to Mom, she simply insisted that they had abandoned the orchestra because they'd discovered their true calling -- singing in the choir.

What care we for paper angel instruments?

That's the part of my mother I miss. When she was completely on her game, whole and reasonably healthy, she could be all things funny, charming and beautiful.  I wonder sometimes if she could have maintained that energy, that spark, if things might have been different between us.  I like to think so.  I was speaking to a friend briefly about my troubled relationship with my mother, lamenting that, after my adolescence, it just never seemed to be workable. I hope that in the next lifetime we share, we can both be charming and effervescent, and perhaps actually like each other for a change.

Happy birthday, Mom. The angels are still singing away, accompanied by the one violinist and a lone saxophone player.

A Blessed, Sacred Winter Solstice 2010

It's the last winter solstice of the decade, and it's the night of a full moon. The clouds will most likely obscure the moon from sight for those of us in L.A., but she'll be there.

This is what the sunrise looked like this morning at Stonehenge on this wintery day:

Winter Solstice 2010 at Stonehenge, by Buzzstation.net

It's the night after a full moon eclipse, it's a full moon and it's Winter Solstice, so I think today would be a great day to get some pagan on.

Blessed Solstice, all.

Not For Nuthin' Do They Call It Social Networking!

There is much valid discussion these days about how the Internet has "connected" us without actually connecting us.  I have participated in the discussion, arguing on both sides. On the one hand, e-mail, texting, social networking and Internet dating sites have resulted in people becoming more involved with their computers and phones, and less with each other in nose-to-nose interaction.

On the other hand, in a large city like L.A., it's difficult to meet people, because folks are on their beaten paths, moving from Point A to Point B, and don't stop to say "hi" to the strangers they pass along the way. It's that way, I think, in most large cities. I've spent time in New York and Chicago, too, both of which have much larger pedestrian populations than L.A., and it's often the same in those cities. Perhaps even worse, instead of the hull of a car surrounding them, New Yorkers and Chicagoans must construct a bit of an invisible, impermeable force-field to safeguard against the invasion of so many egos, so many energies packed so closely together. Sometimes, it can be difficult to let those walls down, even in the company of companions and friends. The computer and the Blackberry offer a safe way to feel connected without going out on a limb.

But going out on a limb is what's required of any real-life relationship. Networking -- any networking, cyber or otherwise -- is only for the purpose of making the initial connection. After that, you'll either let the connection die, or you'll take it "nose-to-nose".  I've met some fabulous people online -- people who have become real friends in the end. From my blogging buddy Alisa, to my cowboy hero, Jim, to the lovely man I'm seeing now, Mark... they all started as online connections. At some point, though, one or both of us decided we'd tear down the electronic wall and meet face to face, where you can look in someone's eyes and see them smile and take all the risks and reap all the benefits of real, live human contact.

The other benefits of social networking is reconnecting with folks who've slipped away from you. I've mentioned one of them on this blog before -- Christopher Lister, my half-brother.  (That's just in case he googles himself -- which -- yes, I'll say it -- he has been known to do!!) I've lost and found Christopher a couple of times on the internet. If it were up to me and Christopher on our own, we'd have fallen away from one another and never connected again. Fortunately, thanks to the internet, and Chris' wife, Traci, we might actually get to spend time together over the holidays. Social networking made that possible, so it's not to be taken lightly.

Look, I love my Droid.  I'm never giving it up (unless it's to get a better Droid). I want a laptop and a tablet and a Kindle with wireless broadband. I want the newest, biggest, fastest, baddest, broadest, widest bandwidth I can get. But I also want a hug every now and then, and I'm so grateful and happy that the people that I connect with are also so inclined.

It's comin' on Christmas, people.  Find someone you know and send 'em some love.

Land of the Beautiful (Squished Flat) People

A couple of days ago, I walked from the office where I'm temping to the Century City Mall.  It's warmed up in Los Angeles again, and it was about 90 degrees out. I had the iPod on, and that always has a strange effect on me when I walk. Usually, I walk in the city the way a city-smart person walks -- alert, aware of my surroundings, conscious of what the strangers around me are doing. When I'm wearing the iPod, I generally only pay attention to the city, not the people. The buildings, the street, any physical obstacles, walk/don't walk signals, automobiles (but not the people in them) -- these are the things that catch my eye in between the measures and the rests.

Two days ago, I noticed an inordinate number of dead things on the way to the Mall. There was something in the road that resembled a little hedgehog (probably a baby porcupine), prickly and crushed in the street. A few yards away, an earthworm that had gotten caught on a busy sidewalk in the searing Indian summer sun. And then a bit further down, a bird, fallen, crushed and decomposing in the carefully sculpted landscaping outside of the Sun America building.  All of these casualties can lead one to only one conclusion.

This city will run right over you, if you're not careful.

Today, I had occasion to drive through Beverly Hills on my way somewhere else. You can't mistake driving through Beverly Hills.  The people have a look about them.  Even the ones in their cars look different if they're coming from Beverly Hills.  Walking down Rodeo Drive, you see the most beautiful women. They're all wearing the same uniform -- tight ponytails, calculated to show off the work of their brilliant plastic surgeon (and the work is beautiful -- not that hideous, rubbery-lipped, pug-nosed atrocity one usually sees as L.A. plastic surgery), tight t-shirts to show off their hours in the Pilates studios, expensive, well-cut designer jeans to show off the hours of yoga and spinning. Big sunglasses, wildly expensive jewelry, wildly expensive shoes, all of them seemingly desperate to be looked at, yet all of them looking exactly the same.

And all of them looking just ever-so-slightly unhappy.

I'm wondering where I'm going to be living in a month or two. I'm fat, I'm getting old, a plastic surgeon hasn't been within miles of my face, my shoes are from DSW, my shirt and jeans are from Target, I'm driving a banged up Hyundai... and... I think I can safely say that I am miles happier than the vast majority of these women.

Why?

Because they failed to be careful, and this city ran right over them.

L.A. will poison you if you let it.  It's a beautiful place, full of beautiful people, and it runs on one of the most glamorous industries around. The most beautiful people come here and they work to make themselves even more beautiful, by Hollywood standards. This city tells you there is one standard only for Beauty -- the Hollywood kind.  And maybe, if you're a studio executive or an agent or an actress, you buy into that lie.  But there are a lot of us for whom Los Angeles isn't an entertainment mecca.  It's home. It's not home because we came here with a suitcase full of dreams and a heart full of hope.  It's home because we were born here, raised here, just like so many of the emigres here call Duluth, Minnesota or Syracuse, New York home.

We're not here for the glamour.  We're here because here is where we have always been. We know this city -- know it like the back of our hands.  This city can't lie to us.  It can try, but we'll see right through it. This isn't a mecca for anything. It's just a place where people come, hoping their lives will be better and happier and more affluent than the place from whence they came. Or it's a place where people stay because it's everything they've known or want to know. Or it's just a place they move to so they don't spend the better part of every winter digging their way out of 22 inches of snow.

It won't make you happy, and it won't make you forever young. If you are beautiful, it might make you more so (with the right trainer, the right aesthetician and the right plastic surgeon), but it won't care one way or the other. It will tell you what you have to do to make it love you, you'll do it, but it still won't love you.

Let's face it -- L.A. is a bad boyfriend. If you let it, if you show it you care what it thinks about you, it will use you and abuse you, then step on you and leave your decaying, surgically enhanced carcass on the sidewalk, just like that baby porcupine.

Those sad ladies in Beverly Hills, wearing their little Rodeo Drive uniforms, with their Botoxed foreheads and their tight ponytails, will never understand that. Those of us who are from here, who belong here, who can survive here... we already know.

Writing, Then & Now (Writer's Block Journal, 11-03-10)

I used to be able to write. I used to be able to really write. The desire to write would come over me, or I'd get an idea for a short story or an essay, I'd sit down, hoping to start it before I forgot the idea. Then, before I knew it, I'd have a finished first draft. And a lot of it was pretty solid writing, too. Stuff you could work on, could shape, could turn into something meaningful.

Hell, I used to be god-damned prolific.

Then, it stopped.

This happened sometime in 2006, shortly after two potentially life-changing events. The first was that I was accepted and began an MFA program I'd desperately wanted to attend for years.  The second was that I moved back into my father's house. 

It had become clear over the past year that he was becoming increasingly incapable of living alone and caring for himself.  At first, the diagnosis was a damaged spinal nerve. We were told the prognosis was not great, that he would not regain what he'd lost, but that he might stabilize at some point. He did not. Nine months after I moved in to care for him (and had moved out for fear I'd kill him, or myself, or both of us -- out of sheer frustration and desperation), we received a new diagnosis -- Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis. ALS. Lou Gehrig's Disease.  There would be no stabilizing, no recovery.  He'd already been symptomatic for nearly five years before the diagnosis and the average life expectancy of ALS patients is about five years following diagnosis.  

To this day, I still get pats on the back for moving in with my father. Those who have known me well, especially those who also know him, and know of our history, see the move as nothing short of heroic. To say that my father and I had a tumultuous relationship would be understating the case.  The reason I didn't see his illness for at least two years into it was that I rarely spent time in his company. It was easier that way, for both of us, I think.  Let's just say that, of the three daughters, I was not his favorite.  I'm not sure if he had a favorite, truthfully, but if he did, I wasn't it. 

There was nothing heroic in the move. It was a job that needed to be done. Yes, I could have said "no." Yes, I could have begged off. There were times -- still are times, in fact -- I think I probably should have, for a number of very sound reasons. But the truth is, I know me well enough to know that, with all the regrets I have over what I lost that year, I'd have much more not going. Of the three of us, at the time he first became unable to live alone, I happened to be in the best position to care for him. One sister lived out of state, the other had a small child. By contrast, I lived only a few miles from him, and my only child had already moved out of the house, for the most part.  So, I gave up my rent-controlled, two-bedroom, two bath apartment in Encino, where I had lived longer than in any home in my life, and moved into the one house on the planet where I did not want to go.  My father's diminishing health had caused him to neglect his home completely, and the room where I was expected to live was barely habitable.  Thanks to the efforts and contributions of a few very close friends, the room was spiffed up sufficiently that the years of cigarette smoke and the tiny specks of burgeoning black mold were bleached and scrubbed and painted over. I went from 930 square feet down to about 30, my stuff went into storage, I turned in the keys to my lovely patio apartment, and I went into the darkness of my father's making.

At the time I moved, I was already one semester in to the MFA program.  It was a low-residency program, where students spend ten days, deeply ensconced in workshops, seminars, and readings, writing, talking about writing, reading about writing and generally being writers, 24/7, then run off to write for several months, receiving feedback from mentors via post or e-mail. That first semester was heavenly.  I have never been so happy at school in my entire life.  That semester proved wildly productive and fruitful, writing-wise. I couldn't stop myself from writing.

But after the move, I felt each passing semester less prolific than the previous one. Every semester that went by, though I loved and was inspired by my mentors and my fellow students, I felt less and less creative -- less and less like a writer.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that my writer's block was all my father's fault.  

I'm kidding, of course. I would never say he "caused" the block. But the events that precipitated this long and continuing dry spell were triggered by him -- not only by his illness, but by his nature, and by the strange and unhealthy nature of our relationship, which had less to do with how he felt about me, then with how he felt about my long-dead mother.  

To be continued.....

Four Days Late

Okay, so NaBloPoMo started on November 1st, and I missed it.  I can't possibly take part in NaNoWriMo this month, seeing as how my life is collapsing in around me, financially speaking.  But the blog? The blog I can write.  A post a day, I should be able to accomplished.  I didn't find out about NaBloPoMo until a day and a half ago, and I was caught totally unawares.

I have hideous writer's block at the moment. Oh, how I used to scoff at writer's block. My old, prolifically productive self used to roll her eyes at writers who said they'd lost their mojo and couldn't write.  How can you not write? If I didn't write back then, my head felt as if it would explode.

Now... actually writing makes me feel that way.

So I've been writing -- not at the computer, but by hand, with a pen, on paper -- about not writing.  How it used to be.  How it is now.  How it started. Why it goes on. And on. And fucking on... forever into goddamned infinity.

For my birthday, my daughter and her boyfriend's mother, Stephanie (the other grandmother to Sylas), made me a gorgeous copper necklace with glass and copper beads and a beautiful copper and malachite pendant.  I've been wearing it ever since.  I looked up the gemology of malachite, and it's supposed to be good for unburying secret fears and guilts, even if you don't remember what's caused them, and sending the away.  It's also supposed to be good removing blockages.  Savannah didn't know about these properties when she and Stephanie put the necklace together.  But the Universe is wise and guides us with unseen hands, I guess.

The long and the short of it is that I owe The Chron three posts after this in order to do right by her.  She's been good to me over the years -- introduced me to some great friends, gotten me into some wicked hot arguments, made me think and given me a place to rant and rave and tell my story.  I owe her.  Three more blog posts, to be exact.  So I'm going to try and post a couple a day, until I'm caught up.

Then, I'll go on posting.  I'll write what I've written about in the journal on my writer's block.  Write it down, then let it go.

Welcome to November.

Still, I Rise a poem, by Maya Angelou

 Still, I Rise

by

Maya Angelou

You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may trod me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?

Why are you beset with gloom?

'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells

Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?

Bowed head and lowered eyes?

Shoulders falling down like teardrops,

Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?

Don't you take it awful hard

'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines

Diggin' in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I've got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame

I rise

Up from a past that's rooted in pain

I rise

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear

I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise

I rise

I rise.

A LEFT TURN ON MEMORY LANE

You have got to love the WayBack Machine, the website that taps into internet archives and pulls up old -- and I do mean, OLD -- pages.

March 19, 2003

My country went to war today. A deadline passed, a stand-off persisted, and then came the rockets.

If I had to sum up how I feel, I'd call it sadness. I'm so, so sad. I'm sad it's come to this. I'm sad that my feelings of overwhelming cynicism made me believe that it always would come to this. And I'm sad that so many people will not be satisfied, will not have had enough, until blood is spilled and people are dead.

When I was a child, I used to think that if we could just find a way to get out of Viet Nam, we would live in peace. After all, hadn't we learned our lesson about war? Now, nearly thirty years later, here we are again, sending troops to fight for something that vaguely resembles liberty. Something that's been dressed up in noble cloth and made to look like a noble cause. But try as I might, I can't see the Emperor's clothes. I have a sneaking suspicion that the Emperor is, in fact, naked.

My country went to war today. I pray that things will happen quickly, with a minimum of bloodshed and casualty, and then we'll bring our soldiers home in one piece. And maybe this time, we'll have learned our lesson.

The right lesson.

The part of all of this is that kills me is that, once again, I thought I was being a little hyperbolic for emphasis, and, once again, my prediction has come true. We now know we will not leave Iraq soon, if ever. And we're tied up in Afghanistan for even longer. This will be a 20 year war, I fear, and that's just the way most folks want it.

Here we sit, seven and a half years later, having learned absolutely nothing. And I still feel sad. And I still feel like crying. Now more than ever.

Since This Still Seems to Have America Up In Arms...

I'm utterly baffled by many of my otherwise intelligent friends who have utterly lost their freakin' minds over the "mega-mosque"/"monster-mosque"/"super-mosque" which is supposedly being built across the street from/in the shadow of/on the site of (and, yes, I heard that from one of the blonde airheads on Fox News just yesterday) Ground Zero, so that Muslims can continue thumbing their noses at us by insisting that we put our First Amendment money where our mouths are.

The most baffling part of it for me is that at least two of these people are NEW YORKERS!!! They know where Ground Zero is. They know where Park Place is.  And yet, they persist in using some nine-year-old grudge as an excuse to promote hatred and intolerance.

No. 1 - We don't use 9/11 as an excuse to espouse MORE hate and MORE intolerance.  I realize we were all raised to (soto voce whisper) hate the brown folks. And, because we do have a First Amendment, I suppose you get to do that, as long as you keep it to your own damn self. The people who died on 9/11 do deserve the respect... they deserve enough respect that haters don't use their deaths as an excuse to hate more.

No. 2 - THE MOSQUE IS ACTUALLY NOT A MOSQUE, it's a combination cooking school and community center (complete with a basketball court) that just happens to include a prayer room (what with Muslims needing to pray three times a day and all, this is a matter of practicality).

And, finally...

No. 3 - (And this is rather an irrelevant point, since even if the misnomer "Ground Zero Mosque" were accurate, it would still be Constitutionally protected by the First Amendment) THE PARK51 COMMUNITY CENTER IS NOT WITHIN SIGHT OF THAT SACRED OF ALL AMERICAN HOLY PLACES, GROUND ZERO, but actually located two blocks away, on Park Place. (see map below)

Rest easy, haters... your precious Ground Zero is protected from the desecration of a mosque in its sight-lines.  You'll still only be able to see the Burger King and the souvenir stands which profit off the tragedy by selling memorabilia from 9/11 (because I guess that's okay, huh).  Not to mention the nudie bars and OTB storefronts that punctuate the neighborhood.

Not that that really has an effect on property values in the area.  What was once a thriving residential and commercial area has nearly become a ghost town, with residents and retailers having fled years ago.  And with no new Trade Center project in the immediate future, the fortunes of those who have remained behind are in doubt.

But that's okay.  Make sure we keep those dirty Allah-worshipping foreigners (many of whom are native-born Americans, not that the haters care) from opening a community center across the street from what used to be that OTHER holy American icon destroyed on 9/11 -- The Burlington Coat Factory (What? They destroyed the Burlington Coat Factory? BASTARDS!!!) It might actually begin a revival of business and breathe life into the surrounding community, but don't you mind about that. That shouldn't concern you.

I've had enough... I have been patient with you long enough.  The facts of this situation are ridiculously easy to research, and the fact that the haters haven't done it, but just plunged in to hatred full-bore has now worn through my last nerve.

Got it, haters? Do you understand now? Can you visualize your blind ridiculousness and folly? Can you put your racism on hold for about two and half seconds to take a look at the map and realize you're being manipulated by the right-wingers to do their hating for them?  If you want to be a puppet of the Right, be my guest (this is also Constitutionally protected). But you should know that's what you're doing.

Just don't do it in my presence. Because I warn you, in a war of words with me, you'll lose.  And I'll crush you.  Crush you.  I have now decided to hate the haters. I realize that that goes against the principles of my Buddhism. But I hate the haters so much, I'm willing to brave the horrible karma just to do it. Shut your mouths. You're not helping.

(The map was pulled from this article by Foster Kramer at The Village Voice blogs.)

Operation: Iraqi Freedom is Over.

As of this writing, MSNBC reports that the last 440 combat soldiers, accompanied by embedded MSNBC correspondent, the remarkable and incredible Richard Engel, are less than a half an hour from the Kuwaiti border, thus ending Operation: Iraqi Freedom.

All remaining Americans are strictly on an advisory capacity, mostly technicians and office workers, as well as independent contractors overseeing the restoration of infrastructure and utility service.  Unlike Viet Nam, Americans are operating under strict orders not to engage in combat, other than in self-defense.

MSNBC has complete coverage, including Engel, embedded with the troups, and Rachel Maddow in Baghdad.

To mangle a well-known line from literature: This is not the end of the beginning, but merely the beginning of the end.

P.S. Keith Olbermann just used my "beginning of the end" line. Stealer....

History, In All It's Shapes and Sizes

Today is a day of anniversaries.

Historically, it is the 65th anniversary of the day the atomic bomb, nicknamed Fat Man, was dropped just outside of Nagasaki, killing nearly 40,000 Japanese. Nearly a week later, Japan's emperor, Hirohito, agreed to accept the terms of the Potsdam Declaration -- full and unconditional surrender -- which finally led to the end of World War II. The Emperor officially surrendered to General Douglas MacArthur on September 2nd, 1945, closing out a sad chapter in world history that left all of the main players with a mixture of relief and regret for the rest of their lives. It's important to remember this event -- to never forget it and the events that brought it about -- because it is important to remember that there truly is no such thing as "moral war." War is hell, as well it should be, and can never be -- should never be -- sanitized for our protection. (Are you listening, President Obama?)

On a more recent and local historical front, today is the anniversary of the murder of Sharon Tate and five others (including her unborn child) in her home on Cielo Drive, by members of the Manson family. I believe this is also an important event to remember, since members of the Manson family who participated in this murder and the subsequent killings of Lino and Rosemary LaBianca seem to think that there should be an expiration date on their penance. To their way of thinking, they've suffered enough after their many long years of imprisonment, and so should be paroled. To which I say... have always said... will always say.... The day the victims climb up out of their graves and start living again, you ladies can get out of prison. Until then, just chill, bitches.

And, finally, on a personal note -- today is the nineteenth anniversary of my mother's death. It was sudden and unexpected, and left us both with many things unsaid. We might never have been able to say them, given her debilitating illness, but it would have been nice to have had the chance to try all the same.

Okay, so maybe these aren't the happiest of anniversaries to contemplate. But I believe all of our history -- the happy and the sad -- can teach us what we need to know to get through our days. If nothing else, these events can teach us that we should never let a day go by without doing our best to connect with each other on a compassionate and personal level. We should take neither peace nor freedom for granted. We should understand that human nature, while capable of the most brilliant displays of love and generosity, can also be capable of inflicting great pain and evil, and we should always be on our guard to prevent it.

Mostly, these events should be a lesson that life is precious and easily vanquished, and no word of love should go unspoken, no act of affection go undone.

So that's the story of this day in history -- histories, personal and public.

Happy August 9th to you all. May it be a day of peace and tranquility.

Photo credits: Nagasaki photo from Life Magazine; Sharon Tate publicity photo; publicity still of Lynn Bailey during rehearsal for "The Starcross Story", photographer unknown.

Introductions

World, meet Sylas.

He was born on July 9, 2010. He was 8 lbs. 8 ozs., 21" long.  He also had a wicked little lung infection that necessitated a stay in the NICU, where he seems to be doing well.

Unfortunately, it meant my daughter was forced to leave without him once she was discharged yesterday. All the time since has been trekking back and forth between home and the NICU, so that we can see him and spend time with him, his parents can feed him... He's increased his food volume tenfold in the past 24 hours, and he looks less like a newborn and more like he's around two or three months old.

Exhausting.

Hopefully, he'll be home this coming Saturday or Sunday.  All his tests have been coming back clean, and he's responding well to the antibiotics.  He started developing a little baby jaundice today, but nothing a trip under the bilirubin lamp won't fix.

Meanwhile, I have a job interview tomorrow, so I'd better get to bed.

Just wanted to share a Nana's joy.

So, World, meet Sylas.  Sylas, meet World... And remember Nana loves you more than... chocolate. Yes... even more than chocolate....

(cross-posted at Naked Voodoo Chicken Dance)

Enough is Enough... We Hope....

In the vast sea of possible dreck jobs I've applied for, there came this little gem, and... well... I can't tell you about it.

I'm very superstitious these days, and I don't want to jinx it.  But trust me -- it's a gem.  I didn't realize how much of a gem it was until after I sent my resume to the outside recruiter.  Then I really began to look up the company, including magazine articles about the founders and the company objectives and such.  And I fell a little bit in love.

So I sent a follow-up letter to the recruiter, telling her how interested I was in the position and the company.  And I heard... nothing.

I want this job, people.  I mean, I want any job. I just applied online as a barista at Starbucks, so yeah... there's that.  But this job... this job... I want to work for this company. Really, really badly.... So, rather than leave it to some recruiter who will surely leave me on the trash pile for any number of reasons (my age, the length of my present unemployment history, etc.), today, I went straight to company's website, and sent them an e-mail directly, telling them, in effect, that this was kismet, I was made for them, they were made for me, and the Fates must not be denied.

Okay, I couched in more professional verbiage, and my letter was more me than any cover letter I've ever written for a resume (by which I mean that I just flat-out went for the laugh). Still, the overall groveling, begging undertone in the letter will not be lost on them, I'm sure. And I believe that, when confronted with something which you truly believe is your destiny, you should run at it headlong, and let the Devil take the hindmost. Even if it means you end up with a big lump on your forehead.

Wish me luck....
-

In Defense of BP

Rep. Joe Barton (R - Texas... shocker, I know) offered his heartfelt apologies today to BP in his opening remarks at the investigative hearing into the Gulf Oil Spill.  No, wait... let me clarify... he offered the apology directly to Tony Hayward.  Tony Hayward.  The Kaiser Soze of corporate insensitivity. Congressman Barton referred specifically to what most people have characterized as the fairly brilliant move on President Obama's part of convincing BP not to pay dividends this month, but to put the $20 billion dollars into an escrow account that would be used to fund clean-up efforts in the Gulf, and to compensate businesses and individuals who would bring claims against BP for business and personal losses suffered as a result of the spill.

“I’m ashamed of what happened in the White House yesterday,” Mr Barton said, referring to President Obama’s announcement about the liability fund. “I think it is a tragedy of the first proportion that a private corporation can be subjected to what I would characterize as a shakedown, in this case, a $20 billion shakedown.”

A shakedown?  Really?  Apparently, Congressman Barton doesn't feel that BP has a responsibility here to clean up their mess.  Apparently, he'd just as soon use taxpayer dollars to do this, so that the oil money that he's accepted over the years to get himself elected to Congress (presumably because he's so stupid as to be virtually unemployable in any other field of endeavor) doesn't get spent now on reimbursing the losses caused by their carelessness.

As expected, Barton took immediate hits during the hearing from Democrats about his statements.  But certainly his fellow Republicans supported him and agreed with his comments, right?  Errr... uh... not so much.... Fellow GOP Representative Jeff Miller, who represents the Florida panhandle, an area likely to be very hard hit by this spill, called Barton's statements "reprehensible" and called for Barton to step down as ranking Republican on the House Energy and Commerce Committee.  John Boehner (R-Ohio) (who took his own knocks last week by implying that President Obama was using the Gulf oil spill to make political hay at BP's expense) joined with Eric Cantor (R-Virginia) and Mike Pence (R-Indiana), calling Barton into a closed-door meeting during a recess in the hearings (for what one can only assume were a few well-chosen words beginning with the rhetorical, "Are you out of your fucking mind?"), and later released a statements saying Barton's statements were wrong and that BP should pay for all damages.

So, at the very least, BP supported Barton's characterization of the escrow fund as a "shakedown" or a "slush fund," right?  Nope.  Nope.  One of the few questions that Hayward actually answered was that he didn't feel that the escrow fund was a "slush fund" and would not have characterized the meeting as a "shakedown." 
Later, Barton tried to apologize, but seemed to lose his ability to speak English.  I guess his ability to speak operates in direct proportion to which ass he's kissing at the time he's talking.

Along with Michele Bachmann, who called the escrow fund a "redistribution of wealth," and the fifth incident today where Republicans blocked the lifting of the ceiling on BP's financial liability, it's become clear that the GOP is firmly on the side of the oil companies.  I'm curious how well that's going to play, come November.

Doing The Right Things

In the last couple of days, I became engrossed in the trials and tribulations of young Abby Sunderland, the 16-year-old sailor from Thousand Oaks, California, who was attempting to circumnavigate the globe by herself.  Abby hit rough waters in the Indian Ocean a couple of days ago, and yesterday, two of her emergency alert beacons went off, sparking a rescue search for the teenager.  After several harrowing hours which included some jurisdictional spats and the efforts to secure a plane that could cover the distance required of a search (she was 400 miles out to sea), Abby was located early this morning, her boat still sound, but minus a mast. She reported to the airplane crew that spotted her that she was fine, and had not been badly hurt.  She has not yet been rescued, since her little sailboat was tossed into the middle of nowhere, and she now sits about 2,000 miles off the coast of Australia.  Australia, France and the US are dispatching a rescue vessel.  Thirty miles of some fairly choppy seas sit between Abby and the nearest rescue boat, however, so she's not entirely out of the woods yet.

I've been conflicted about Abby's story for the last couple of days.  My thoughts have wavered between, "What a brave thing for a 16-year-old to try!" (knowing I would never have had the guts to attempt it myself, regardless of how good a sailor I might be), and "What were her parents thinking, letting her attempt it?" (knowing that, at 16, a person's sense of danger and mortality are highly impaired... which is why we have parents who will keep us from killing ourselves until we come to our senses).  I wasn't the only one who felt this way.  Reading scores of Twitter posts and comments to the news stories, many, many people chastised Abby's parents for letting her try this, even after she encountered some mechanical issues a week or so ago.The implication that somehow the Sunderlands were bad parents for not keeping Abby at home were adamant and explicit.

After some serious thought, I really can't join that chorus.  I still think what Abby Sunderland tried was brave, and -- yes -- a little bit crazy.  Most brave acts of accomplishment usually are. Death awaits us all, and adventure and challenge do not necessarily mean a person will die young. Take Steve Fossett, the adventurer who went solo around the world not only in a sailboat, but also in a hot air balloon and two types of fixed-wing aircraft, survived all of those adventures, including several unsuccessful attempts, only to die in what was supposed to be an afternoon flight from one point near his Nevada home to another. Conversely, Paul "Red" Adair, the dashing firefighter who took on burning oil wells all over the world, including Kuwait and Iraq, after Desert Storm, died at 89, safely in his bed, surrounded by friends and family.

The thing that Fossett and Adair... and our intrepid Abby Sunderland... have in common is that they lived lives that they loved, doing what suited them and what challenged them.  And really, isn't that why we're put here?

The more I think about it, I realize that Abby's age is only a footnote in the story. It might have been interesting had she been able to beat the record as the youngest person to circumnavigate the globe alone, but it isn't the brave thing about Abby.  The ocean is a big and lonely place. It also really doesn't give a damn about you.  My ex-husband was a sailor who loved (still loves) the sea, but was perfectly aware that his love was thoroughly unrequited..  The ocean can kill you in a million different ways, he has said.  Not intentionally. The sea isn't angry with you.  It's just busy being the ocean, and doesn't have time to be bothered.  It's as if it were swatting a gnat away from its massive face.  The ocean doesn't hate you.  It just doesn't care. To choose to put your fate in the hands of such a gigantic and indifferent entity is a pretty courageous thing, regardless of your age.

Abby Sunderland is, by all accounts, a gifted and thoughtful sailor.  The fact that she'd been pummeled by hours and hours of rough water, was having engine and electrical issues, and managed, when things finally became unmanageable, still set off her alert beacons, stayed with her crippled ship, avoided panic, shows some serious guts that most adults wouldn't have displayed.  She was found because she kept her wits about her, and did all the right things. Should her parents have let her go? As I've said many times, if parents were allowed to set the limits on what our children did in adolescence, kids would never leave the house without a full compliment of Kevlar, bubble wrap and duct tape.  The Sunderlands have seven children, and so far, thankfully, none of them have been misplaced or damaged too terribly.  I think they have this parenting thing covered.  A friend of mine who goes to the same gym as Abby's father, says that Mr. Sunderland made what Abby was attempting (she'd only just begun her journey then) "sound so simple and safe" -- which, if you're a parent, is really what you have to tell yourself.  I had to tell myself that putting my teenager behind the wheel of a car six years ago was "simple and safe", or I'd have gone out of my mind.  And she was just driving from Reseda to Encino. 

Should Abby have been allowed to start this wicked adventure? Should her parents have pulled the plug when she experienced mechanical difficulties? I don't know.  I'm not a sailor, and I'm not Abby Sunderland's mother.  Did her parents consider ending the sojourn at every turn? I can honestly say that they thought about it a million times, not because they didn't have faith in Abby, or her abilities or her good sense, but because they're parents. The natural instinct of a parent is to protect your child, ferociously, viciously and with every last ounce of strength in you.  The hardest thing in the world is to realize that some children need to be let go, set free, to do what they need to do.  All children need that eventually.  Holding on to your children is easy.  Letting them go, so they can grow up and be who they were meant to be, is a bitch and a half, and everyone has to figure out how to do it their own way.  I can also guarantee, though I've never met Laurence and Marianne Sunderland, that they've had to mull over this question seven different times, because every one of their children is different and must be handled differently.

As I sit here, waiting for my daughter to become a mother herself, negotiating the twists and turns of adulthood, of relationships, of responsibility, I have, on a daily basis, to hang my motherly instinct on the hook, and let my daughter figure it out, work it out, fight it out for herself. Because it's her life, and I want her to be the pilot of it.  Trying to run your child's life seems natural and normal. It's what we've done since they were born.  Letting them go and butting out, so they can figure out how to run it themselves, seems freakish and against every instinct we have.

But often times, letting go is the right thing to do. When Savannah was a child, I used to say that parenthood was the only job where, if you did it right, you would most certainly render yourself redundant and obsolete. I'm realizing that my planned obsolescence is now a fact.  I'm needed as a friend, a mentor, an advisor, a sounding board.... but as a mother, the way that mothers are with their very young children? Not so much anymore.  It didn't really happen overnight. Each vestige of motherhood fell away a particle at a time,

I'm far from a perfect parent. I would like to think that I've done enough of the right things that my daughter still seems to enjoy my company and want my advice. But I've put my adventurer in her little boat and let her set sail on a big, uncaring sea, hoping that she can keep her wits about her and do the right things on her own.

Here's hoping that Abby Sunderland is pulled from the water safely, and that she is back in the arms of her parents as soon as possible.

Buried Treasure

One of the reason I buy used books on Amazon is that, occasionally, you can find really good deals. When you're buying upwards of 60 to 100 books a year for school, those savings can add up.  It doesn't always work out that way, once you add the exorbitant $3.99 shipping charges to the used book cost.  But sometimes, you can find a used book in good condition for a dollar or so, making the entire cost of the book with shipping a bargain.

Nice, right?

Yeah, but I confess that it isn't the only reason I buy used books on Amazon.  One of my little secret pleasures is opening the front of the book and looking for inscriptions on books that were given as gifts.  I find them more than you might imagine.  "To Carrie: This book made me laugh out loud. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. Love, Marti. Jun, '01".  "To John, Happy 29th birthday. Love, Mom".  There is a little thrill in holding a book that someone thought highly enough of to give as a gift to someone they cared about. 

I just recently ordered some books for the class I'm hoping to teach on memoir and life story writing.  One highly recommended book among all of my writer friends was Writing for Story: Craft Secrets of Dramatic Non-fiction by a Two-Time Pulitzer Prize Winner, by Jon Franklin. I opened the book this morning and got a lot more hand-written inscription than I'd bargained for.  It went as follows (with punctuation and writing style preserved as much as possible):

Dear Luke -

A few years ago, at a lovely luncheon, a woman asked the three editors there:

"There is a young woman who graduated from Tulane who is volunteering at the Jr. League thrift shop with me. She'd give anything to be a writer. What advice would you have for her?"

The other two said something polite, like read & write.

But I tackled the Q head-on.

"If a young man with a Tulane degree said to you, 'I'd give anything to be a doctor, what should I do?', you'd think he was too stupid to be a doctor. It is very clear how you become an MD - you take pre-med, you get into med school, you graduate, you do an internship & learn more; you do a residency & learn more... You are a doctor and you keep studying what the best are doing.

"Writing is the same thing. It's not a magic muse that teases you with its ellusivity. It's a craft, with best ways of doing things. Like magic, there are creative ways of creating the illusion, of moving scenes from one time & place to another.

"So you become a writer like you become a doctor. You study, you practice, and you do an apprenticeship and you keep studying and practicing."

I love this book. It's the most useful book on writing that I've ever read. I want to share it with you.

And finally, when people ask how you'll make a living with a major in creative writing... tell them that you come from a family where there is a tradition of earning a living with words.

Love, Aunt Cathy
Xmas, '02

 On the next page, is an additional little note: "Luke -- You're doing the right things. :-)".

Aunt Cathy, I'm officially adopting you.  You're not just Luke's Aunt Cathy anymore.  You're my Aunt Cathy. My faux Aunt Cathy. And the faux Aunt Cathy of every budding writer out there who feels at times as if we're trying to catch quicksilver. I'm not sure if your words were what Luke needed to hear, but they were what I needed to hear.

"It's a craft, with best ways of doing things."


And how.  Thank you for your sensible words of wisdom, Aunt Cathy. See you at the faux Fourth of July family barbecue.

P.S. If you are interested in buying the book from Amazon, please use the tag to the right for my Associate store.  It won't cost you anything, but I get a bit of dosh. Thanks.

A Unique Opportunity

First, let me just start by saying that I think Dr. Rand Paul is probably a decent, principled guy. I also do not believe that Rand Paul is a racist.  I think what Dr. Rand Paul is, and I'm pretty sure he'd agree with this, is a true-blue, dyed-in-the-wool Libertarian.

This is why I was happy to watch his interview with Rachel Maddow after his primary win this week, where he was called by Maddow to answer for past remarks he made regarding the Civil Rights Amendment of 1964 in general, and the Fair Housing Act (a provision of the Civil Rights Act, which was enacted in 1968) in particular.  I'll wager even folks who voted for Paul were a bit taken aback when he said there were provisions he'd try to "modify" if he were voting on this legislation.  He clearly stated that he felt, while he felt that the parts of the Act that prohibited "institutional racism" (a redundancy as racism is institutional by definition) were appropriate, but that the provisions that prohibited private businesses and clubs from discriminating on the basis of race or religion as over-reaching by the government.

In a letter to the editor of the Bowling Green Daily News in May of 2002, Paul was much clearer about his position with regard to governmental attempts to ban racism:

A recent Daily News editorial supported the Federal Fair Housing Act. At first glance, who could object to preventing discrimination in housing? Most citizens would agree that it is wrong to deny taxpayer-financed, “public” housing to anyone based on the color of their skin or the number of children in the household.

But the Daily News ignores, as does the Fair Housing Act, the distinction between private and public property. Should it be prohibited for public, taxpayer-financed institutions such as schools to reject someone based on an individual’s beliefs or attributes? Most certainly. Should it be prohibited for private entities such as a church, bed and breakfast or retirement neighborhood that doesn’t want noisy children? Absolutely not.

Decisions concerning private property and associations should in a free society be unhindered. As a consequence, some associations will discriminate....

...A free society will abide unofficial, private discrimination – even when that means allowing hate-filled groups to exclude people based on the color of their skin.

"A free society will abide unofficial, private discrimination -- even when that means allowing hate-filled groups to exclude people based on the color of their skin."

You know what? He's right. A free society will do that. An absolutely free and unfettered society, with absolutely no restrictions or universally acceptable code of behavior will tolerate and embrace such discrimination. You know what we call that?

Anarchy.

You betcha, by golly. That's what anarchy is. Anarchy is a society that has zero universal controls. There is no government. None. It's the strong and powerful who ride rough-shod right over the subjugated and powerless.  You know what we call that kind of society?

The Lord of the Flies.

I'm not going to give anyone who hasn't read the book a lesson in literature. Suffice it to say, it's a world you don't want to live in. And even if you do want to live in that world, I don't, and I'm pretty sure most Americans would rather not, either.

Now, here's why I say that what has been happening with Dr. Paul the past couple of days is a unique opportunity.  "Libertarian" has been bandied about as an option to Republicanism, lo, these past couple of years, when the truth is, most folks have no idea what the strict Libertarian philosophy is.  Libertarians don't believe in small government. They believe in NO government.  No governmental controls or restrictions on discrimination, on housing inequities, on the free market (we've just spent the last two years dealing with that fresh hell, haven't we?), and absolutely no restriction on personal or private behavior whatsoever.

Obviously, every self-identified Libertarian doesn't believe every premise of the party, anymore than I believe in every aspect of the Democratic party.  I am, in fact, a little too far to the left to be considered a true Democrat.  I'm probably closer to a Social Democrat or a full-blown Socialist.  But I believe enough in the Democratic party, and am willing to support their efforts sufficiently that I'm registered as a Democrat.  People who identify themselves as Libertarians must sympathize sufficiently with the party's beliefs to continue to support them.  But I think the vast numbers of people who say they're Libertarians really don't know what Libertarians stand for.  If you are a Libertarian, you yourself may not be a racist. But you must be prepared to support individual racists in their racist beliefs, and uphold their rights to engage in acts of hate and discrimination. In societies that have engaged in mass crimes against racial or religious groups, the success of such operations depended upon a marginal group of people willing to stand by and allow such crimes to take place.

Dr. Rand Paul has an idea of the kind of America where he can live free of government interference in how he lives his life.  As a wealthy white Anglo-Saxon male, he has little to fear from such a world, since his folks are the ones running the show, for the most part.  I, on the other hand, am a woman who makes .75 to the $1 what my male counterparts make in the workplace, who would not have been allowed to vote until 1920, who could have legally been raped by my husband repeatedly with no legal protection or recourse until less than 20 years ago. For reasons that should be self-evident, I am not quite as enthusiastic about living in Paul's America, thank you very much.

All that is necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.

Under A Waxing Crescent Moon

There's a waxing crescent moon tonight.  The New Moon is past and a sliver of light is peaking around the moon, waiting to come full circle again.

Wiccans and psychics will tell you that this is one of the best times to perform spells of initiation -- blessings for new things, and incantations for starting new beginnings and new phases in one's life.  Renewal, revivication, rejuvenation and reunion... this is what the waxing crescent moon means.

Today, for the first time in about four years, I went to church.  I went to see my dear friend (and quasi-brother-in-law) Chris Harrison preach as a pastor candidate at the Presbyterian Church he's been interviewing with for the past year.  For ten years, Chris and his wife, my godsister, Rebecca, have lived in Arizona. Since they moved there, we've all been conspiring to get them back here, in Blue Country, and a milder climate.  Chris, who finished seminary this year, and is due to be ordained in Mesa next month, applied to a church in Southern California a year ago last March.  After a long and detailed interview process, he, Rebecca and their children were finally brought to So. Cal. for a weekend of whirlwind meet-and-greets with the entire congregation, to spend the weekend getting to know everybody, and to give Chris the opportunity to preach a Sunday service.  I think he was awesome.  But I'm biased, so take it with a grain of salt. 

l to r: Marck, me, Jenny, Rebecca, April '72

Afterward, they ushered all of us out so the congregation could vote, right then and there (if you're familiar with the Presbytery, you'll understand how the process works. It's a very democratic church.)  After less than half an hour, the elders tallied the votes, and the membership gave Chris an overwhelming welcome as their new pastor. So Chris and Rebecca will be moving their family back to So. Cal. this summer, in time to be a part of Sylas' life from the beginning.  They'll also be expanding their family in a few weeks with the addition of Desmond, the ten-month-old Ethiopian baby they've adopted and are waiting to pick up, and we can be a part of his life as well.

I've known Rebecca since she was twenty-two months old.  I went to her second birthday party.  We grew up together, spending summers in the swimming pool, and playing with make-up and, later, attending acting classes together. We've sung together, and laughed and cried together. We said good-bye to my mother and her mother, my godmother, together, and scattered both sets of ashes in the blue Pacific. We said hello to our children.  Weddings, funerals, christenings, birthdays, Christmases, Easter Egg hunts and more Thanksgivings than I can count.  She knew me as "Tina". I knew her as "Becca."

Rebecca and her husband, Chris

As I told her today, "We're sort of stuck with each other.  Like family.  You just can't shake us."  Family is like that.  You can get mad at them, get fed up with them, have enough of them, have too much of them. You can part with them for long periods due to logistical circumstances.  But you will always end up back with them, as if you were never parted.  That's what family is -- especially your "family of choice."  Because they're the ones who know you, and love you for all your flaws and your wonderful qualities. Sometime this summer, the family will be back together, after a long, long separation. New children, new holidays, new birthdays, new memories.

There's a waxing crescent moon tonight.  And today, it has delivered on all its promises.

Oh, Wal-Mart... Wherefore Art Thou... Wal-Mart?

Wal-Mart settled a class action suit agreeing to shell out $86 million dollars to about 230,000 California employees who had sued, claiming they were underpaid by the corporation.  Wal-Mart admitted no culpability (no shocker there).

Two things about this NPR caught my eye.  First, check out the last paragraph in the article.  It reads:

"In a statement on its website, the company says the settlement will not affect results of the first or second quarters of fiscal 2011."

Let me see if I understand this. Wal-Mart is shelling out $86 million dollars on this suit, and that amount is so paltry that losing it won't "affect the results of the first or second quarters of fiscal 2011"? Seriously?

Wow.

The second thing I noticed was that NPR had added link to what it calls "related articles." The link title?

Wal-Mart To Donate $2B In Aid To Food Banks

Oh, sure... to you and me, it would be a food bank donation. To Wal-Mart, they're just subsidizing the company picnic.

(sigh)

Did This Guy Just Threaten to Kill Us Because We're Liberal?

According to several news sources today, including the Tracy Press, Vineyard owner and seriously messed up GOP candidate for California's 11th District Congressional seat, Brad Goehring, posted this as his Facebook status briefly early this morning:

“If I could issue hunting permits, I would officially declare today opening day for liberals. The season would extend through November 2 and have no limits on how many taken as we desperately need to ‘thin’ the herd.”

He cleared the status line when the response he got was... uh... less than overwhelmingly supportive, but not before it had been seen be darn-near everybody on Facebook and the adjacent internet. From there, Keith Olbermann picked up the story, threatening to refer henceforth to such monumental gaffes as "making a Goehring."

When asked for comment, Goehring's campaign manager, Carl Folgiani, said that it was a "joke" and it was all a big misunderstanding and anybody reading the status could clearly see that Goehring was using hunting as a metaphor for voting.

Hunting liberals? Thinning the herd? See, now... I'm not a hunter by any stretch, but when you go hunting for reals, it doesn't tend to involve the civilized, constitutionally sanctioned process by which citizens of a representative government cast ballots to determine precisely who shall represent them in either part of a bicameral legislative body. That thing I just described there, that's what we liberals like to call "voting." At least the way we do it here in a America. I've gussied it up a bit, but you get the idea.

"Hunting," on the other hand, is the act by which people deliberately set out to stalk prey, with the stated intent of killing said prey. I'm pretty sure even Ted Nugent would agree with that description.

As I said, I'm no hunter.  But I am a writer. Degreed and everything  While I haven't the first clue about the joys of hunting, I know all about metaphors.  A metaphor is linguistic device by which you substitute one action for another because the two are closely related enough that the substitution becomes descriptive and poetic.  Voting.  Hunting.  Not closely related.  At least not by sane people in a civilized society.  Hunting. Stalking. Killing. Shooting.  Harming.  These things are all closely related.

Since Mr. Goehring has trouble defining things, I thought I'd like to help him out with another definition -- a legal one:  Terroristic threat.  Here's how the website US Legal Definitions defines it:

"A terroristic threat is a crime generally involving a threat to commit violence communicated with the intent to terrorize another, to cause evacuation of a building, or to cause serious public inconvenience, in reckless disregard of the risk of causing such terror or inconvenience. It may mean an offense against property or involving danger to another person that may include but is not limited to recklessly endangering another person, harassment, stalking, ethnic intimidation, and criminal mischief."

Then the site goes on to give an example of the language in one state's statute of same, which reads as follows (note, in particular, the highlighted provision):

A person commits an offense if he threatens to commit any offense involving violence to any person or property with intent to:

1. cause a reaction of any type to his threat[s] by an official or volunteer agency organized to deal with emergencies;
2. place any person in fear of imminent serious bodily injury; 
3. prevent or interrupt the occupation or use of a building; room; place of assembly; place to which the public has access; place of employment or occupation; aircraft, automobile, or other form of conveyance; or other public place;
4. cause impairment or interruption of public communications, public transportation, public water, gas, or power supply or other public service;
5. place the public or a substantial group of the public in fear of serious bodily injury; or
6. influence the conduct or activities of a branch or agency of the federal government, the state, or a political subdivision of the state.

Just as a minor point of interest.... The state that US Legal Definitions uses as it's example? Texas.  The state that actually is pretty supportive of people being able to say whatever they damn well please. Even Texas thinks that free speech ought to be controlled sufficiently that someone shouldn't publicly threaten to harm others.  

I've said this so many times before, but I feel compelled to say it again. A note to political pundits, reporters, and politicians.... If I promise not to tell you how to cover a party convention or stage a filibuster, will you promise to quit trying to be literary satirists?  I'd be so grateful. Comedy is best left to the professionals.