~~~
Tell me, and I may forget.
Show me, and I may remember.
Involve me, and I will understand.
~~~
Chinese Proverb
Friday
Thursday
What Would Jack Do?
Time to play.What would Jack do ABOUT HEALTH CARE?
A) Nothing. Have you seen those teeth?
B) Kidnap a doctor, have Will leeched just for fun, pretend not to watch Annamaria get checked for venereal disease, then steal all available vials of laudanum for himself?
C) Gnaw a bullet out of his own leg, splash some seawater on it, and then pillage Tortuga?
D) Raid the Governor's mansion during a political meeting, steal everyone's purses, shoot Elizabeth in the butt, insist health care be provided to all citizens, then buy Barbossa a really big hat?
Cast your vote, then tune in tomorrow for the results.
Wednesday
Mommy, call the doctor
Had I watched Michael Moore's SiCKO before blogging yesterday, I would have told Chou Chou's doll Mommy Make Me Better that she had a high fever. Little Chou would have been raced by ambulance to the nearest hospital where Mom is told she has an infection and needs medicine, but that the hospital couldn't treat her because her insurance was Kaiser and Kaiser wasn't approving treatment at a Non-Kaiser hospital. While Chou's temperature reached brain-damage levels, and following a screaming match between doctors and Mom, urging them to just treat the child, a second firm denial would have been uttered and security called. Mom and Chou would be 'escorted' to the parking lot. Baby Chou dies after going into cardiac arrest at Kaiser, miles across town. Unfortunately, this is not an isolated incident. It's a statement about health care in our country.
If you haven't seen Michael Moore's SiCKO, do yourself a favor and rent it. You don't have to like Moore to appreciate his perspective, insight, and style of film making. Stories abound about people (people you and I know) who haven't fallen into the cracks but were jammed there by poor decision making, delayed care, and a greedy health care system that cares for nothing but its ability to make a buck.
If you haven't seen Michael Moore's SiCKO, do yourself a favor and rent it. You don't have to like Moore to appreciate his perspective, insight, and style of film making. Stories abound about people (people you and I know) who haven't fallen into the cracks but were jammed there by poor decision making, delayed care, and a greedy health care system that cares for nothing but its ability to make a buck.
It's sad, and it's sick.
If you're considering marrying a Canadian for free health care, start your search here: HOOK-A-CANUK
Tuesday
Smarm Factor
All the sunshine a body can handle
Yesterday I spent about two hours pouring over 2786 window shade colors/styles/fabrics at the venerable smith + noble. All I really want is a top down/bottom up plain linen shade in creme with a wide red border stripe for the master bath. I've ordered samples to save what is left of my sketchy sanity. Nuff o'that.
Other sunshiny tidbits
~~~
Mommy Make Me Better
If you want to gag on your bagel and shmear, see the commercial
here
ty-mga-chou_make_better-seg
Sunday
If you haven't heard the buzz, the Six Word Memoir project is in full swing at Smith Magazine.
In their own words:
Legend has it that Hemingway was once challenged to write a story in only six words. His response? “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” Last year, SMITH Magazine re-ignited the recountre by asking our readers for their own six-word memoirs. They sent in short life stories in droves, from the bittersweet (“Cursed with cancer, blessed with friends”) and poignant (“I still make coffee for two”) to the inspirational (“Business school? Bah! Pop music? Hurrah”) and hilarious (“I like big butts, can’t lie”).
You can read more about the memoir project at http://www.smithmag.net/
In their own words:
Legend has it that Hemingway was once challenged to write a story in only six words. His response? “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” Last year, SMITH Magazine re-ignited the recountre by asking our readers for their own six-word memoirs. They sent in short life stories in droves, from the bittersweet (“Cursed with cancer, blessed with friends”) and poignant (“I still make coffee for two”) to the inspirational (“Business school? Bah! Pop music? Hurrah”) and hilarious (“I like big butts, can’t lie”).
Here is a sample of Lady Emma's contributions.
Sell yourself, don't sell yourself short.
110 stories crashing sounded like death.
You can read more about the memoir project at http://www.smithmag.net/
You can view mine by scolling down and clicking keyword baby, then look for Lady Emma.
Saturday
Daily Dose
Methadone for the mind
a beautiful legacy, Teddy. Thanks.
Other sport
Did she say femicide?
Mensa Approved. Whew!
-->Even better.
Friday
Friday Odds and Ends; mostly odds
American Idle
Very Karaoke
Last night's American Idol opened like a sixties variety show with the top twenty-four performing Bend Me Shape Me. Wide stripes and go-go boots on eighteen year olds who probably didn't know until Thursday that patent leather comes in white. It smacked of the episode of the Brady Bunch when Greg fancies he's a rock star named Johnny Bravo. Was that a midget I saw in the orchestra pit?
Is Paula Abdul on a bender or what? based on her 'comeback' it would make sense. All those studio hours, ravaged by a mixture of speed and booze. The song and her performance held no surprises.
Very Karaoke
Last night's American Idol opened like a sixties variety show with the top twenty-four performing Bend Me Shape Me. Wide stripes and go-go boots on eighteen year olds who probably didn't know until Thursday that patent leather comes in white. It smacked of the episode of the Brady Bunch when Greg fancies he's a rock star named Johnny Bravo. Was that a midget I saw in the orchestra pit?
Is Paula Abdul on a bender or what? based on her 'comeback' it would make sense. All those studio hours, ravaged by a mixture of speed and booze. The song and her performance held no surprises.
More odds...
last night my son asked me what a groupie is. He later went on about how mature he is.
Thursday
The difference between genius and stupidity is that genius has its limits.
Coke certainly has an appetite for destruction, and they’d like us to come along for the ride. With flagging sales, last year’s expensive acquisition of Vitamin Water, and Buffett bailing, Coke is scrambling for the next big thing.
Diet Coke with vitamins, a quasi-healthy fruit-flavored beverage, is nothing more than a calcium leaching stomach rotting method of tricking the American public. Can the vitamins actually live long enough to be absorbed by the body?
Mmm, mm. Taste the refreshment.
Coke certainly has an appetite for destruction, and they’d like us to come along for the ride. With flagging sales, last year’s expensive acquisition of Vitamin Water, and Buffett bailing, Coke is scrambling for the next big thing.
Diet Coke with vitamins, a quasi-healthy fruit-flavored beverage, is nothing more than a calcium leaching stomach rotting method of tricking the American public. Can the vitamins actually live long enough to be absorbed by the body?
Mmm, mm. Taste the refreshment.
Wednesday
I did a bad bad thing.
I wrote a snarky comment at the Avon romance website. Here’s how it all played out.
I’m not a fan of marketing sites and their patrons, particularly the romance sites which purpose is to create fan buzz. ‘I’m so hot my shit melts before I take a crap’ kinda thing. It’s littered with authors, newly pubbed writers, and annoying gushing fans.
While innocently poking around, I found it. The chirpy editor question o’the day about Alpha vs. Beta heroes. My ass twitched. My blood turned white. I felt my face freeze into a mask worthy of Tobin Bell.
For those not in the know, here’s the skinny. Beta heroes are the ‘humble sexy good guy finishes first’ type of hero. Alphas are the 'com’ere, wench, and I’ll bite the hooks and eyes off your bodice’ type. Get it?
So, Gushing Fan One wrote, I just love Beta heroes. Other Gushing Fan wrote, give me an Alpha any day!
My hair turned red. My breath seized. I hated them more than I hated my own failures as a writer. I was sick of the tired discussion A v. B and especially sick of what Avon considers publishable. It’s dreck. It’s been dreck for years. I tried to change things a bit, but alas, it wasn’t to be. I’m at the mercy of the house.
So, in keeping with my personal motto, if you can’t poke fun at yourself, poke others till they bleed and you feel better I took up my pen and starting posting.
I arrogantly told Avon’s chirpy editor that Alphas needed to make a comeback, and gosh couldn’t they do that without raping twelve year olds?, and that it was time to consider the toe-curling, clitty-plumping bodice ripper again because the new shit stank like yesterday’s diapers.
So be it. I haven’t won any friends. But I feel better.
I wrote a snarky comment at the Avon romance website. Here’s how it all played out.
I’m not a fan of marketing sites and their patrons, particularly the romance sites which purpose is to create fan buzz. ‘I’m so hot my shit melts before I take a crap’ kinda thing. It’s littered with authors, newly pubbed writers, and annoying gushing fans.
While innocently poking around, I found it. The chirpy editor question o’the day about Alpha vs. Beta heroes. My ass twitched. My blood turned white. I felt my face freeze into a mask worthy of Tobin Bell.
For those not in the know, here’s the skinny. Beta heroes are the ‘humble sexy good guy finishes first’ type of hero. Alphas are the 'com’ere, wench, and I’ll bite the hooks and eyes off your bodice’ type. Get it?
So, Gushing Fan One wrote, I just love Beta heroes. Other Gushing Fan wrote, give me an Alpha any day!
My hair turned red. My breath seized. I hated them more than I hated my own failures as a writer. I was sick of the tired discussion A v. B and especially sick of what Avon considers publishable. It’s dreck. It’s been dreck for years. I tried to change things a bit, but alas, it wasn’t to be. I’m at the mercy of the house.
So, in keeping with my personal motto, if you can’t poke fun at yourself, poke others till they bleed and you feel better I took up my pen and starting posting.
I arrogantly told Avon’s chirpy editor that Alphas needed to make a comeback, and gosh couldn’t they do that without raping twelve year olds?, and that it was time to consider the toe-curling, clitty-plumping bodice ripper again because the new shit stank like yesterday’s diapers.
So be it. I haven’t won any friends. But I feel better.
People I've Known
Stacey K.:
When I was a kid, Stacey and I lived in a townhouse complex. We played kick-the-can at dusk, rode the rapids of Wyomissing Creek in an innertube, and picked buckets of berries from a farmer's field. Her dad, who later turned out to be her uncle, was the maintenance man at the apartment complex. After four kids, her mother gave her up to her sister to raise. Stacey was 15 when she found out. At sixteen, she applied to become an emancipated minor, had a child, and moved in with her boyfriend in a trailer park outside Sinking Spring. We lost touch. It was for the best.
Cathal:
The hottest Irishman bar none. Red curly hair, vibrant blue blue eyes, and a schlong that wouldn't quit. 24, cultured, compact, athletic, funny as fuck, Cat had it all. I think of him a lot, but usually not in a good way. He went back to Ireland when we broke up.
Paulette:
When I was sixteen, the ever-cheerful Paulette and I worked together at Spencer Gifts. She was the Assistant Manager, I the second assistant. Paulette had two kids, a cheating car salesman husband, and bees in the walls of her ancient rental house in Berks County. She helped me open, even understand my psychic ability. I miss Paulette.
My second grade teacher:
She told me my writing was terrific, put lots of cheery stickers on my papers, and hugged me when the school year was over. I wish I could remember her name.
Pat:
An injured man who collapsed at my feet during the terrorist attacks on 9/11. He couldn't wait to find a phone to call his mother, to let her know he was alive. God bless, Pat. I hope you found a working phone.
When I was a kid, Stacey and I lived in a townhouse complex. We played kick-the-can at dusk, rode the rapids of Wyomissing Creek in an innertube, and picked buckets of berries from a farmer's field. Her dad, who later turned out to be her uncle, was the maintenance man at the apartment complex. After four kids, her mother gave her up to her sister to raise. Stacey was 15 when she found out. At sixteen, she applied to become an emancipated minor, had a child, and moved in with her boyfriend in a trailer park outside Sinking Spring. We lost touch. It was for the best.
Cathal:
The hottest Irishman bar none. Red curly hair, vibrant blue blue eyes, and a schlong that wouldn't quit. 24, cultured, compact, athletic, funny as fuck, Cat had it all. I think of him a lot, but usually not in a good way. He went back to Ireland when we broke up.
Paulette:
When I was sixteen, the ever-cheerful Paulette and I worked together at Spencer Gifts. She was the Assistant Manager, I the second assistant. Paulette had two kids, a cheating car salesman husband, and bees in the walls of her ancient rental house in Berks County. She helped me open, even understand my psychic ability. I miss Paulette.
My second grade teacher:
She told me my writing was terrific, put lots of cheery stickers on my papers, and hugged me when the school year was over. I wish I could remember her name.
Pat:
An injured man who collapsed at my feet during the terrorist attacks on 9/11. He couldn't wait to find a phone to call his mother, to let her know he was alive. God bless, Pat. I hope you found a working phone.
Welcome
My name is Shira. Welcome to my new blog, PLAIN BROWN WRAPPER. I hope you're a convert from Lady Emma Speaks, my former unruly blog. Come in and take a look around. What can you expect? All of the titillation, none of the shame. After all, this is the freewillcafe.
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