It's official; I am cursed

I am cursed with a douchebag magnet that activates at rock n roll shows. Sure, there are always douchebags dispersed around the crowd but I always manage to position myself right behind King Douchebag himself.

I mean, I'm glad when people get into music and are enjoying themselves, but do you really need to elbow me in the face as you pulse your fist in the air repeatedly, jump up and down on my toes, and spill your Coors Lite all over my arm to have a good time? I know you drove 4 hours from Johnson City, TN to be here, but does that really give you license to act like a total boner? And your homoerotic relationship with your buddies -- on whose shoulders you brace yourself as you jump up and down even higher, that is, in the few moments that you're not fist bumping-- could be an amusing distraction if I weren't already irritated.

If anyone has any ideas on how I can break this terrible curse let me know because I'm going on at least 6-7 shows in a row with this plague!! I don't know what I did to derserve this, but I am ready to repent for my sins if that will help. I'm even open to smudging and /or aura cleansings with crystals. Yes, that's how bad this is.

B-A-N-A-N-A-S

I literally could not find gas to buy yesterday. Everywhere I went I was greeted by gas stations that looked like vacant lots with blank prices on their marquees indicating they were fresh out.

I don't want to belabor the most thoroughly-covered Atlanta news story by writing about my experience in our gas shortage, but I am surprised by my own reaction to it. And I'm usually level-headed, okay, even inappropriately dismissive of the concerns of the consuming masses. For those outside of Georgia that cannot fathom what they are seeing on the national news, there are some great photos from the AJC of the long queues for car blood transfusions.

By the way, I followed what the newscasters said would help the crisis - earlier this week I had half a tank, I didn't have far to drive, so I didn't panic and top-off my supply. I drove slower and I braked less. And I got down to the red yesterday and there was still no gas to be found.

The anxiety permeated. I fell asleep thinking about gas, I dreamed about gas, I woke up before 9am on a Sunday and gas was my first concern. We Americans are so used to having everything at our fingertips and I was surprised at my own level of perceived crisis when I couldn't access what I wanted/needed.

Granted, I can rationalize it by saying that I needed to make sure I had enough in my tank that I would be able to get to death row in the event of a bad decision from the US Supreme Court for Troy Davis, but I'm sure we all can rationalize it for things that are equally important: getting kids to school, driving to work to have a paycheck so you can eat, visiting a loved one in crisis- there's a million justifications for panic.

I searched online for sites that said which stations had gas - mostly I found sites that told you where to find the cheapest gas which is totally not useful as price doesn't matter if there is none to be had. Finally, I came across the Twitter discussion where people were posting live updates of where they had found gas.

My story ends well, I have an almost full tank - the Kroger on Moreland station cuts you off at 10 gallons, and I have a 14 gallon tank. I waited for 30 minutes in a long line that went up and down the parking lot aisles - and this was at 9:30am on a Sunday. I think people were skipping church to get gas before it all runs out!

And now I find myself questioning the errands I had planned on running today - is it really worth it to expend my precious gas to go to the far north side of the city to get that painting framed? Wouldn't it be better for me to just stay home and organize my bathroom cabinets that I've been procrastinating on for 6 months instead?

This shit is bananas.

Outrageous. Awful.

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:
September 12, 2008, 5:30pm

Georgians for Alternatives to the Death Penalty Condemn Parole Board’s Decision to Deny Clemency to Troy Davis

Atlanta – Georgians for Alternatives to the Death Penalty (GFADP), Georgia’s umbrella coalition for organizations and individuals opposed to the death penalty, reacted to the decision by the Georgia Board of Pardons and Paroles to deny clemency to Troy Anthony Davis, even though seven of the nine witnesses against him have since recanted or changed their story. He is scheduled to be executed on September 23rd at 7:00pm at Georgia Diagnostics & Classifications Prison in Jackson, Georgia.

Said GFADP Chair, Sara Totonchi, “We are horrified and ashamed as Georgians to see our state revealing its bloodthirst by executing Troy Davis, when so many questions remain on whether or not he is innocent. Executing Troy Davis is callous, careless and irreversible. The state should be slowing down to address the well-documented, serious problems with a system that irreversibly takes human life, rather than rushing to carry out an execution of a possibly innocent man. This case is proof positive that the death penalty should be abolished.”

Please visit http://www.gfadp.org/ for updates on citizen actions in opposition to Troy Davis’ execution.

Why I had to Hit a Cop today

I don’t know what it is abut that square block the runs from MLK to Mitchell and Capitol Ave to Washington in downtown Atlanta, that gives dudes the idea that they can act like frat boys. And get away with it I mean.

Not 30 seconds after I sat down for my meeting this morning, a certain Sheriff (an actual Sheriff, not a deputy) comes over to greet me. He holds out his hand to shake mine then quickly reaches down and grabs my ankle- my ANKLE! He gestures at my tattoo and tells the woman next to me, “Look, she got my name tattooed on her ankle!” I wish I could embed a recording of this cuz his accent is something else.

I literally swatted at his hand over and over to get it off my leg. I repeatedly hit a cop today, people. It took him a while to finally let go. And what makes it even funnier is that he isn’t the first cop that I’ve had to swat away form my lower leg. Last session there was a certain Chief of Police who had a similar obsession my body art. He would usually announce loudly to those around us "looks like you got some dirt on your ankle!" Groan. Then he would grab my ankle. He even did it once when I was wearing pants- like lifted up my pant leg. Unreal.

And this, ladies and gentleman, is why I can never leave the house when I’m headed for the Capitol in a skirt without pantyhose. How funny is it that my Mother’s displeasure at my tattoo oh-so many years ago and her admonitions that I would regret it carried some weight because the tattoo subjects me to the advances of pervy old white Georgia cops!

I actually stared into my sock drawer this morning, lamenting the fact that my pantyhose stash had been completely depleted by the session. Because I was running late as usual, I had no time to stop at CVS to pick up a pair. And I thought to myself, the hell with it, what does it really matter if I'm barelegged or not? Now I know.

In other news, I’m finally getting the hole in my closet fixed to prevent future visits from Blossom the Possum. The dude who came to fix it out of the blue started talking to me about metal and haunted houses even though I was wearing a suit. Am I really that obvious to read?

Also my sister’s blog and report of what happened this weekend in Chicago is fantastic and hilarious and makes me feel like I should close up shop over here because she has got it covered. Here's a preview to entice you to go read it:

My family celebrated an early Mother's Day at a fancy french restaurant called Chez Joel. It's owned by these handsome Moroccan brothers, one of whom (probably my future husband, even though he's married, waa waa) is named Sufjan. Sexy. Anyhow, the food was delicious. The giant bottle of wine was delicious. And my father was drunk. He was hilarious; right before dessert, he stated "I'm going to try to stand up now," wobbled towards the bathroom, and waved his fingers at the waiter who stood aside to let him by. I can only imagine what he may have said to him. Plus, earlier in the evening, he was trying to think of the word for Metrosexual and could only come up with "Sexopolitan." That's right. Sexopolitan.

In bed with the rats

I had a set of awful dreams last night - the kind where you wake up, tell yourself it isn't real, then fall back asleep and dream the whole same damn thing all over again.

My dream was that I was in this courtyard and I was trying to get to a legislator's house. I don't know who the legislator is but there is a sense of urgency that if I don't get there something terrible will happen.

In the dream I'm wearing my super cute vintage green heels and I have to hop around all these dark spots on the path. As I move forward, I start to think that the spots are blood. Ick. As I get closer I realize that what I am seeing are the decapitated (for lack of better words) tails of rats. Vomit.

I am literally playing hopscotch trying to avoid the rat pieces that are multiplying by the moment, trying to keep my lunch down. Finally I reach a house that would otherwise be beautiful if it wasn't covered in dead rat mass. There was a veranda framed by wisteria- but hell, even the beauty and fragrance of wisteria can't cover up this mess.

When I walk inside the house, I feel a formidable sense of dread. There is nowhere to sit down or move to- as now I can see where the rat bodies previously attached to the tails have accumulated.

I am scared, nervous, apprehensive. I'm about to meet someone who is bad enough that they would actually live in this hellhole.

Around the corner of the room peeks Georgia Speaker of the House Glenn Richardson. That's when I wake up in terror, drenched.

Is this the byproduct of three months living day in and out in the Georgia General Assembly? Or is it because prior to my sleep I had a wonderful dinner with my sister nonprofit lobbyist friends who have been fighting this battle with all their hearts for so long yet still having to deal daily with the white male power structure that to this day decides what happens?

Or maybe its just because of this brilliant Creative Loafing Cover for the Wonderful Annual Golden Sleaze Awards:

Possum Love?!?

My friend Lori is a crazy person I think. Like Bjork or Amy Sedaris or maybe my sister during long Wisconsin winters.

Lori writes lovingly about her own encounter voluntarily petting a possum on what would have otherwise been a lovely trip to North Georgia.

When I call her out on this sick, sick behavior and point her to my own personal experience with marsupial americans, she posts this picture in response. Not just petting the possum, but hugging it.

I just vomitted a little in my mouth. Sick dude, sick.

And now to change the subject from giant rodents to something far more pleasant for both me and you, my dear readers, here's a brand new Blah Girl shot by the lovely Ela on Wylie Street in Reynoldstown. I can't wait to see her live!

The Sad Side of the Capitol

In addition to political, geographic and faith-based distinctions between folks at the Georgia State Capitol, those of us who spend the legislative session under the Gold Dome are also defined by which side of the Capitol we inhabit. The Mitchell Street side is where the corporate, rich, for-profit lobbyists spend their days. The MLK side –by the double elevators of course- is where my folks, the progressive nonprofit types hang.

I learned today from a republican legislator that the side of the Capitol where my allies and I spend our time is known as the “sad side of the hall.” Apparently we are known for standing in front of the monitors while watching what’s going on inside the chambers with big ol’ frowns on our faces. Hell, can you blame us? We spend our days watching perfectly good legislation tank and awful, hurtful legislation crossing the finish line faster than Dale Earnhardt Jr.

I never felt like our side was sad at all- I love the people I’m surrounded by on a daily basis on that side of the building: women’s advocates, environmentalists, advocates for gun safety, immigrant rights folks, people who watch out for the well-being of children’s education, safety and healthcare. Essentially, the folks that share my own values and views.

These are the people who do not have teams of people keeping their eyes on their legislation, interns to fetch bills or beverages, or assistants back at their offices keeping their practice running while they are gone for 3 months. They spend hours upon thankless hours advocating for what is right but likely doesn’t have a chance in hell of getting anywhere under our current conservative regime. There is incredible solidarity on our side of the hallway; I’ve been lucky enough to make wonderful friends there.

Not sad at all, really.

Today was the 30th day of the Georgia legislative session- the notoriously long crossover day that is the deadline for bills to pass out of the House from which they originated from. At around 8pm after many hours of debate, the Speaker announced that they would break for dinner for 30 minutes. Shelley and I quickly run out of the building to find some sustenance to help us make it through the final hours.

Much to our dismay, the one place that is open within a block of the Capitol closed at 8. As we watched the guy lock the door I could here the sad, mocking music in my head “wa, wa, waaaaah”. So we schlep another few blocks to awful Atlanta Underground and wait too long for too expensive too greasy sandwiches that we have to get to-go and then run back up the hill to the Capitol. At least we got cocktails in to-go cups too. A girl’s gotta take care of herself in these difficult times you know.

We get back to our side of the hall which now seems quite dark. Our comrades are splayed about on metal folding chairs dragged underneath the monitor so we can rest our tired feet. Everyone looks exhausted and yes, a little pathetic.

From where we settle down to eat our crappy dinner, we can see through the center of the Capitol on The Other Side. And then we hear music. And see musicians. And dancers.

The Other Side has an effing bluegrass band playing for entertainment and there are children dancing in circles for the amusement of lobbyists- to keep their spirits up, you know. How lovely for them.

Upon further exploration, we also determine that there are boxes from the Varsity filled with hot dogs, hamburgers and fries being passed out to all the folks standing around. You can almost see a golden orb circling the dude in the paper Varsity hat who stands on top of the mound of bright red and white boxes, tossing them out like Santa Clause sharing gifts. Ice is clinking in cocktails. Angels are singing for god’s sake. Okay so maybe I’m exaggerating- but its my blog so suck it.

On my side of the hallway, people are eating chocolate-covered raisins that the sweet House aide who pities us passed out, referring to them as “fruit”. And I reflect on our ridiculous journey to get food and make it back in time to make sure that our bills don't get hijacked by sneaky legislators. Oh, yes. I see it now. We ARE sad!

Jeez, yet again a Republican tells me accurately what my reality is – before I even know it to be true- during this m-effing Georgia legislative session.

I could speak from my heart and say something sappy that would wrap up this blog nicely. Something along the lines that I would take chocolate-covered raisins, metal chairs, and Shelley, Sandy and Alice a million times over free food and politics for profit.

But I think I’d rather remind folks that Rep James Mills thinks there’s a country called Irania. And that half the people up here use the words “fiscal” and “physical” interchangeably. And that they want to pass laws to allow them to bring their guns to church. And ban birth control pills for all women.

Yeah, I’m happy by the double elevators.

Brilliant Minds at Work

Yesterday, the Georgia House of Representatives approved a bill that would allow for cars to be confiscated from people whose crime is that of having no immigration papers. During the debate, Rep. James Mills made obvious his deep understanding of geopolitics:

"The state of Georgia's door is being kicked down," Mills said. Immigrants are coming from "Iraq, Iran, Irania, Jordan. We don't know where they're from," Mills said.”

I'm taking my post-session vacation in Irania. I hear it's lovely there this time of year.

Liveass Possum Chasin'

I was settling in for bed to try to get a good night’s sleep in preparation for what I’m sure will be a long day at the Capitol, when I hear my roomie Anne’s voice from the living room.

“Sara! There’s a po-[something something very high pitched squealing] in the living room!!!” Huh? There’s police in the living room? I headed out towards her to see what was going on.

I saw I immediately: a liveass possum scurrying about in my living room. Holy God.

I’ve always seen possums in my yard; I’ve even given them cute names, like Blossom the Possum and her son, Awesome the Possum. This liveass, cat-sized, ghost-faced possum in my living room, however- not awesome.

After a couple minutes of squealing and carrying on – in which time the possum got itself nestled all snug-like up against the wall under a table – we started strategizing.

We considered the cat, then he waltzed in the house and right past the possum without batting an eyelash. We deemed him fired for failing to protect us from the beast and must now be locked in the craft room as a pre-emptive measure. I then called and text messaged the boy, aka the many-home-owner-landlord-type to see what suggestions he would have. No answer from him- he too is fired. This situation was clearly being left up to us girls.

Now I’ve had birds in the house that I’ve had to chase out, and the cat has brought in tiny garter snakes in that I yanked from his teeth and tossed out the door—but this was a whole different universe.

We started by opening the front door, the side door, and the back door. We decided to hurl a couple paperbacks (The Best Democracy Money Can Buy and Caramelo) underneath the table to try to startle him out. Nothing. It appeared…dead. Oh yeah. Possums play dead. Hmm. Perhaps we should shove it out towards the open front door with something with a long handle.

Armed with a broom and a mop respectively, Anne and I screamed a bit more and proceeded to try to push the possum out. Of course we should have known it wouldn’t be that easy when it instead ran further into the house and hid behind a couch. Pardon my language but fucking HELL. You would be cursing too if you had a liveass possum sliding around on your hardwoods.

So then we decided to create a barrier-wall out of the furniture to try to guide it out the front door. We again persuaded it to move with the broom- out the door it did not go. It ran further back into the house and straight into my bedroom and under my bed. Oh it is ON.

I am SO not having any liveass possum sharing pillow talk tonight. Oh HELL no.

That’s when she came out, emerged from my soul, my chest: Possum Warrior Princess. Armed only with a broom and a tenacity to purge her lair of all things giant and rodent-like, I ran, chasing that little bastard from one corner to another back and forth in my room until it ran out the door. My heart was pounding and I felt the wheezing coming on- Warrior Princesses sometimes have asthma afflictions, unfortunately.

After emerging from my room, the possum nestled itself back behind the couch. Now Anne and I were wise to its tactics so we had a better idea of strategy: I would push it out from the couch and based on our now wealth of possum-behavioral-experience, we knew that it would likely run toward the back of the house where Anne would guide it out the door with the mop.

What really happened is that I pushed the possum from out of the couch, it ran towards Anne who screamed. So I screamed. And then we both screamed and started running after it shaking our weapons in the air. And we chased that little fucker straight out of the back door!

High fives, hugs and giggles were abundant. We sat at the dining room table and caught our breath and thought that perhaps a couple shots of liquor might help to settle the nerves for sleep. We did it- with no help from anyone!

We are Badass Possum Warrior Princesses and succeeded in protecting our home from being ravaged by the string-tailed, small-dog sized, creepy as hell invader.

Here are the Lessons learned from the Great Possum Invasion of 2008:

Close all internal doors, especially bedroom doors, before starting the hunt;

Hurl heavier books than politically right on / magically real paperbacks, something that might actually make an impression on something pretending to be dead – try an unabridged dictionary;

And finally, I am simply too damn old for liveass possum chasing.

What the Huck??

My sister blogged today about her experience listening to NPR this morning and hearing yet another doozie from Mike Huckabee. He said that the reason we need to "import" immigrants to fill all our jobs is most likely because we've aborted over a million "people" in the last 30 years, people that could have filled those jobs. In my head I imagine her choking on her coffee or perhaps turning off her radio in disgust and opting for some Pantera instead of the dismal news.

Rebecca was thinking along the same lines today and sent around a quote from an article called "What the Huck?" a April, 2007 interview with the Des Moines Register editorial board: "There are some forms of birth control that really are the destruction of a fertilized egg." One of the editors offered a follow-up question, "Should the government ban that sort of birth control?" Huckabee replied, "Yeah, I personally think there are better ways to deal with contraception than destroying a human life. So, again I'm going to say that I'm always going to make my position on the side of protecting human life."

I’m not just writing this to highlight his horrifying position on abortion, but to share what Huckabee was doing in Georgia today, which was speaking in strong favor of HR 536. This proposed Georgia law would ban not only abortion, but many forms of birth control including the Pill, the patch, the ring, IUD, etc. Yes, you read that right, ladies Every day last week one of HR 536’s sponsors would go to the well in the House to speak in its favor. And that's when I would have spat my coffee- if I drank coffee that is. Ok, so maybe I choked on my protein bar. And the crumbs went down the wrong way. And there was lots of coughing. You get it.

I have been on the Pill for years because without it, my menstrual pain is so severe that I struggle to stand, much less run around in heels on those hard-as-hell marble floors at the Capitol. It would be an understatement to say that I am deeply, urgently appalled and offended that this is a "legitimate" proposal to be considered this year.

I feel the outrage particularly today, the 35th anniversary of Roe v. Wade. Today is a personal anniversary for me as well, the 15 year anniversary of my first leadership role in a political action. In high school in Chicago, I worked with a group called the Emergency Clinic Defense Coalition (ECDC- great acronym). We did clinic escorting, helping women seeking health care (from breast exams to birth control to abortions) to get inside the health clinic safely with as little harassment by anti-choicers as possible. The anti-choice activists were crazy, yelling things in the couple years following the Persian Gulf War like "You're killing our future troops!" Absurd.

In any case, I was 16 years old on January 22, 1993, the 2oth Anniversary of Roe. Parental consent and notification laws were rearing their ugly heads throughout the country, and the women at ECDC encouraged and supported me in stepping up into the role of being the Coalition's media spokesperson for the day, because I was one who would be most effected by these laws if they did indeed pass. I attribute much of where I am at and what I am doing with my life now to those women who took a chance on an odd, stripy haired girl with a vampire obsession.

It was such an awesome experience; I'll never forget sitting in the family room of my parents' home later that evening watching the TV coverage which my non-English-speaking grandfather. He had no idea what I was saying when my face came on the television, but his eye shone with pride nonetheless.

My 16 year old mind never entertained the thought that 15 years later reproductive freedom would be in dramatically worse shape. That a man making such inane statements would be a viable candidate for president-ok, maybe based on the last 8 years that doesn't surprise me so much. That we would be fighting a proposal from the radical right to take our medication away. Its heartbreaking and outrageous. Sick.

Reality TV gets a little too real OR Me + Bret = 4Ever

I don't want to admit it but I have to because its just too good: last night I dreamt that I was competing for Bret Michaels' affection on Rock of Love. It wasn't just one dream either- I tried to use my womanly wiles to lure Bret in two separate dreams last night! Mica was also competing in the first dream, and wearing a fabulous tan lace kinda army looking dress- it doesn't sound cute but I promise it was super cute. And even though we were technically against each other I was still all "hos over bros, yo". The second dream was all me on my own with all the typical blondy blonds that are on the show.

In the dream, Bret and I stepped away from the group for our "one on one" time and I realized at this point that I actually had to think of something to say that would impress him and make him want to keep me around. OH the stress! My mind raced, should I tell him about my work and the terrible outrage that the criminal injustice system wages against poor people and people of color? Should I charm him with my natural hilarity and stories about my family? Should I ask him my old reliable first date question of what-are-your-top-five-favorite-live-concerts-you've-ever-seen?

I settled on telling him a true story about how he and Poison made all the difference in my world after one of the hardest weekends of my life. Some serious shit, real trauma, went down in my life and as a result, I was going to skip the Poison show in Atlanta even though I had been looking forward to it for months. At the last moment, I decided to buck up and go, and Mica jumped in her car to pick me up. The show was totally chill and perfect. About 50 steps from the car I look down and there's a redtail hawk tail feather on the ground in front of me. I knew I made the right decision then.

My Poison boys were just wonderful- working the stage and performing like hell. Bret and Bobby did the backwards kick thing in sync and CC did an electric guitar and piano version of Ray Charles' "Georgia". They played every song I wanted to hear. And Mica threw her first devil horns and I nearly cried with joy! (At this point Mica was back in the 2nd dream because I was trying to make sure Bret knew that she was a great contender for his love too.)

So after telling him about this day, I thanked Bret for the many many times he and his band and his music were like salve on my wounds, from times when I was 14 years old through my current ripe old age of 31. And he was sweet and supportive and humble and I knew this was the beginning of the love of my life. That I would get a backstage pass that night at elimination. That we would be deliriously happy and rock the eff out forever and ever. Me and Bret FOREVER. Best dream ever! But I probably need to chill on the old reality television for a minute.

At least it wasn't a dickey

For once in life, the Wisconsin judicial system is slightly more laughable than Georgia's.

The Associated Press reports that Milwaukee Circuit Judge William Sosnay held up court for three hours because he was outraged that a prosecutor showed up wearing a eye-popping red ascot instead of a tie. The prosecutor's fashion faux pas was not only apparently a blatant violation of court rules, but according to the Judge, "bordered on contemptuous".

Never fear though, the prosecutor is taking it all in stride and promises to continue his kicky neckwear rotation of long ties, bow ties and ascots- but leaving the latter for non-court days.

Never Underestimate the Power of Speed Metal

What is it about the legislative session looming that makes me listen to nothing but speed metal? I can't seem to get enough of Anthrax or Megadeth. It makes me feel like I'm 15 again and rebelling against the first day of school. It also makes me feel strong and like I'm secretly giving the finger to the jerks that I will soon be smiling and laughing politely with. God, how's that for deep-seeded angst?

If anyone has any Slayer or Helloween, holla at a girl. I also need a recording of the Anthrax/Public Enemy collaboration of "Bring Da Noize."

Falafel, Zeytoons, Baba Ghannoush, oh my!

From today's Democracy Now!, the FBI was monitoring sales at Arab grocery stores as part of its assault on terrorism:

Congressional Quarterly is reporting that the FBI sifted through customer data collected by San Francisco-area grocery stores in 2005 and 2006, hoping that sales records of Middle Eastern food would lead to Iranian secret agents. The idea was that a spike in, say, falafel sales, combined with other data, would lead to Iranian agents in the region. The program was the brainchild of top FBI counterterrorism officials Phil Mudd and Willie Hulon. The datamining operation was eventually stopped after FBI officials determined it was possibly illegal to place someone on a terrorist list because of what they ate.