After the endurance event that was yesterday's wait in the general admission line for the U2 concert (sum total of waiting: 9 hours in line + 1.5 hours from the opening of doors to the start of the opening band + .75 hours of trying not to throw up at the nauseating opening band + .5 hours of waiting for my beloved boys to come sing to me = 11.75 hours), I was amply rewarded with the pleasure of having every band member pass within 6 feet of me.
For those of you familiar with the layout of this tour's concert set up, I was on the outside of the ellipse-shaped catwalk, at the point closest to The Edge's side of the stage. I didn't make it to a rail spot, but I was right behind the people at the rail, with a clear view of the stage. And at many points during the concert, one or more of the boys would walk the catwalk, often pausing right in front of us. Edge especially (yay!). And during "Zoo Station," Bono even handed a small Irish flag to the guy directly in front of me!
The concert rocked. Really, really rocked. And it was incredibly moving. After playing "Bullet the Blue Sky," using it as an obvious reference to the war in Iraq, Bono dedicated "Running to Stand Still" to the soldiers in that war. After that, a list of basic human rights principles (I need to find out exactly what the source was), started scrolling on the huge video screens...stark white on black. Then the words were joined by footage of a young boy reciting these principles. When he got to the part about the right to not be enslaved, I couldn't help it, I started to cry. Why is it so easy to forget how so many people, and so many children, around the world have hideous lives devoid of decency and respect.
Well, after that interlude, the band launched into "Pride (In the Name of Love)," dedicated to Martin Luther King, Jr., as always. God, more tears. And then "Where the Streets Have No Name." Again, tearfest. And then "One." As the band began to softly play the intro, Bono talked about how during the Zoo TV tour, he used to call the White House, but they would never take his calls. Now, they do take his calls, "but the problem is, they're used to me now. They're bored with me," he said. He asked us to take it upon ourselves to call the White House, to use our voices to help make a change. That's the basis of his One campaign. Each one of us has one voice, but together we can make a difference. He asked everyone to open there cell phones and hold them up. Then he had the arena lights turned off. It was so beautiful, all of these cell phones like stars. You guessed it...more waterworks. I was hopeless!
Fortunately, after "One" came an intermission, so I was able to pull it together. And then the rest of the show was rockin'. So rockin' that we got tickets for tonight's show. But no GA tickets. Seats this time, even though they are more than three times the cost of GA. GA was a complete experience that I'm glad I...experienced. Where else would I spend hours chatting with a mohawk-sporting fan half my age who missed his senior prom in central Washington so he could attend the concert, even though none of his friends would come with him. I was a fan for four years before he was even BORN! Now that is a concept.
Oh, almost forgot. We had a Bill Gates sighting. But not in GA. He had great seats about 20 feet from us. Bono thanked Bill and Melinda during the concert for all the money they had given for causes in Africa and other places, and for demanding that their money actually be put to good use. Cool.
Monday, April 25, 2005
Bono sighting
Exactly 30 minutes ago, I saw Bono. In the flesh. And on the street, as opposed to in a concert venue where I've paid for the pleasure.
After the fantastic experience at last night's U2 concert, we decided to try to get tickets for today's show. Yes, the show has been "sold out" since about 15 minutes after tickets went on sale back in January. No, we're not soliciting the services of a scalper (perish the thought). That's the beauty of U2: In order to thwart scalpers, they often release a block of tickets very shortly before the show. Yesterday morning...nothing available for today's show. Yesterday at 11:30 p.m....voila! Tickets. Good ones, too.
So, back to my Bono sighting. Thinking that the Key Arena will-call opened at 4 p.m., we showed up around 4:40, only to find that they don't open until 5:30. So before walking back home, we decided to make a little circuit around the arena.
We were walking down Thomas Street, which runs along the south side of the arena, when we noticed a huge crowd of people hanging out, hoping for a band sighting. As we grew closer, I heard a security guard tell the crowd to "Move back from the vehicle. You wouldn't like it if that was your vehicle."
As we passed the thick of the crowd, I saw that directly across the street, the big black security gates were open, and that a big black SUV was stopped just inside. "Wait a second," I told He Who Puts Up With Me. I watched the SUV, but couldn't tell if anyone was in it besides the driver.
Then there was a commotion where the largest crowd was gathered. And who emerged from the crowd? Yes, Bono himself. He was wearing Army-green pants, a matching cap, and a bright purple button-down shirt (untucked, of course). Can't remember what color sunglasses, as I was a little stunned. He waved at the crowd, walked through the gates, and hopped in the back seat of the SUV.
And just think, if will-call had been open, I would have missed it. Whoo-hoo!
After the fantastic experience at last night's U2 concert, we decided to try to get tickets for today's show. Yes, the show has been "sold out" since about 15 minutes after tickets went on sale back in January. No, we're not soliciting the services of a scalper (perish the thought). That's the beauty of U2: In order to thwart scalpers, they often release a block of tickets very shortly before the show. Yesterday morning...nothing available for today's show. Yesterday at 11:30 p.m....voila! Tickets. Good ones, too.
So, back to my Bono sighting. Thinking that the Key Arena will-call opened at 4 p.m., we showed up around 4:40, only to find that they don't open until 5:30. So before walking back home, we decided to make a little circuit around the arena.
We were walking down Thomas Street, which runs along the south side of the arena, when we noticed a huge crowd of people hanging out, hoping for a band sighting. As we grew closer, I heard a security guard tell the crowd to "Move back from the vehicle. You wouldn't like it if that was your vehicle."
As we passed the thick of the crowd, I saw that directly across the street, the big black security gates were open, and that a big black SUV was stopped just inside. "Wait a second," I told He Who Puts Up With Me. I watched the SUV, but couldn't tell if anyone was in it besides the driver.
Then there was a commotion where the largest crowd was gathered. And who emerged from the crowd? Yes, Bono himself. He was wearing Army-green pants, a matching cap, and a bright purple button-down shirt (untucked, of course). Can't remember what color sunglasses, as I was a little stunned. He waved at the crowd, walked through the gates, and hopped in the back seat of the SUV.
And just think, if will-call had been open, I would have missed it. Whoo-hoo!
Saturday, April 23, 2005
Dumb as a box of rocks
OK, I realize that tow truck drivers are not hired for their personality and intelligence, but honestly:
Earlier today, we had just parked in front of our apartment building and were in the middle of getting some crap out of the back seat, when I looked up and noticed a tow truck sitting across the street. And the driver was looking our way.
He yelled at us, "Hey, is there a ticket on your windshield?"
I knew there wasn't, but I admit I flicked a quick glance at the windshield anyway. "Uh, noooooo," I said. "We just parked here."
"Is there a ticket on your windshield," he yelled again, quite rudely. "Yes, or no."
That last little bit he said way too loudly and a little slowly, like he thought I was stupid or something. "No!" I bit back, with my best drop-dead-mother-f----- glare. I was nearly stunned at the extent of this bozo's stupidity. First, we had just parked, which the fact that we were moving crap out of the vehicle kind of indicated. Second, the only time cars are towed from where we were parked is if they are parked there from 3-6 p.m. Monday through Friday. Third, even if we did have a ticket on our windshield, why in the hell would we tell that to a tow truck driver. Moron!
We walked toward the building, and the guy got out of his truck and appeared to be following us. Fine, if he wanted to pick a verbal fight, I had the full ammunition of righteous indignation at my disposal. But no, he asked He Who Puts Up With Me what the street address of our building was. Oooops, looks like he was barking up the wrong building. Come on now, say it with me: MORON!
Earlier today, we had just parked in front of our apartment building and were in the middle of getting some crap out of the back seat, when I looked up and noticed a tow truck sitting across the street. And the driver was looking our way.
He yelled at us, "Hey, is there a ticket on your windshield?"
I knew there wasn't, but I admit I flicked a quick glance at the windshield anyway. "Uh, noooooo," I said. "We just parked here."
"Is there a ticket on your windshield," he yelled again, quite rudely. "Yes, or no."
That last little bit he said way too loudly and a little slowly, like he thought I was stupid or something. "No!" I bit back, with my best drop-dead-mother-f----- glare. I was nearly stunned at the extent of this bozo's stupidity. First, we had just parked, which the fact that we were moving crap out of the vehicle kind of indicated. Second, the only time cars are towed from where we were parked is if they are parked there from 3-6 p.m. Monday through Friday. Third, even if we did have a ticket on our windshield, why in the hell would we tell that to a tow truck driver. Moron!
We walked toward the building, and the guy got out of his truck and appeared to be following us. Fine, if he wanted to pick a verbal fight, I had the full ammunition of righteous indignation at my disposal. But no, he asked He Who Puts Up With Me what the street address of our building was. Oooops, looks like he was barking up the wrong building. Come on now, say it with me: MORON!
Queing up
This morning, we headed up to the FlorAbundance plant sale, a heavy hitter in the Seattle-area gardening circuit. It's held in a big old former hangar at what was once the Sandpoint Naval station. We arrived shortly before the sale began at 10 a.m., and, as expected, the line to get in stretched around two sides of the large building.
"I think lines are my theme for this weekend," I said to He Who Puts Up With Me.
"Huh?" he responded.
I gave him one of my best "What, are you stupid?" looks. "Tomorrow..." I prompted.
"Oh, yeah, duh."
Duh is right. Tomorrow I will be spending at least 8 hours in line outside Key Arena, all in the interest in getting as close as possible to my boys (U2) when they rock the place tomorrow night. It's random whether we get inside the ellipse-shaped catwalk, but even if I don't, at least I can be certain of a good spot against the rail on the outside of the catwalk.
Excessive behavior? Mais, non! It's been eight years since I've seen Bono, Edge, Adam and Larry live, and then it was from the vantage point of half a football field at Giants Stadium. Damn it, I want to be up close this time! I want to see sweat drip! Hell, I don't care if I even see nose hairs! (Not that they have any, of course.)
Now, excessive behavior was displayed, I'm afraid, at the aforementioned plant sale. "Oh, all we need to get is a few tomato plants, and maybe an artichoke plant if they have them."
Hah! We walked out with enough tomato plants to feed Italy (so many heirloom varieties, each more seductive than the next...sigh), a green and purple artichokes, four lavender plants, and a lemon verbena plant. I don't know who we thought we were kidding. And for the record, he's just as bad a plant-a-holic as I am.
"I think lines are my theme for this weekend," I said to He Who Puts Up With Me.
"Huh?" he responded.
I gave him one of my best "What, are you stupid?" looks. "Tomorrow..." I prompted.
"Oh, yeah, duh."
Duh is right. Tomorrow I will be spending at least 8 hours in line outside Key Arena, all in the interest in getting as close as possible to my boys (U2) when they rock the place tomorrow night. It's random whether we get inside the ellipse-shaped catwalk, but even if I don't, at least I can be certain of a good spot against the rail on the outside of the catwalk.
Excessive behavior? Mais, non! It's been eight years since I've seen Bono, Edge, Adam and Larry live, and then it was from the vantage point of half a football field at Giants Stadium. Damn it, I want to be up close this time! I want to see sweat drip! Hell, I don't care if I even see nose hairs! (Not that they have any, of course.)
Now, excessive behavior was displayed, I'm afraid, at the aforementioned plant sale. "Oh, all we need to get is a few tomato plants, and maybe an artichoke plant if they have them."
Hah! We walked out with enough tomato plants to feed Italy (so many heirloom varieties, each more seductive than the next...sigh), a green and purple artichokes, four lavender plants, and a lemon verbena plant. I don't know who we thought we were kidding. And for the record, he's just as bad a plant-a-holic as I am.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
On your mark, get set...
...run to Krispy Kreme. Because now you can eat all the yummy glazed, frosted, or kreme-filled lovelies you desire.
Huh?
Because it turns out the Centers for Disease Control badly botched their data when they came out with the proclamation last year that obesity was the second leading cause of preventable death in the United States, barely trailing behind smoking.
When the study results were first released, the CDC said being overweight or obese contributed to 400,000 deaths a year. Then, in January, they backpedaled a bit, reducing that number to 365,000. Now, they are issuing the "whoops" heard 'round the country: turns out that being grossly overweight only contributes to 25, 814 deaths a year.
Gee, that's a pretty big mistake. Actually, the new number would have been 111,909, but the CDC also discovered that people who are moderately overweight are actually less likely to die than are normal weight citizens (provided that they eat right, exercise and take care of health conditions like high blood pressure). So they had to subtract those people out, leaving only those who were severely overweight.
So here is the new list of leading preventable causes of death, in order: tobacco, alcohol, germs, toxins and pollutants, car crashes, guns, obesity (caused by poor diet and inactivity), risky sexual behavior, illicit drugs.
You are now officially more likely to die in a car crash or gun fight than by tippling too many pints of Ben & Jerry's. Go figure.
Huh?
Because it turns out the Centers for Disease Control badly botched their data when they came out with the proclamation last year that obesity was the second leading cause of preventable death in the United States, barely trailing behind smoking.
When the study results were first released, the CDC said being overweight or obese contributed to 400,000 deaths a year. Then, in January, they backpedaled a bit, reducing that number to 365,000. Now, they are issuing the "whoops" heard 'round the country: turns out that being grossly overweight only contributes to 25, 814 deaths a year.
Gee, that's a pretty big mistake. Actually, the new number would have been 111,909, but the CDC also discovered that people who are moderately overweight are actually less likely to die than are normal weight citizens (provided that they eat right, exercise and take care of health conditions like high blood pressure). So they had to subtract those people out, leaving only those who were severely overweight.
So here is the new list of leading preventable causes of death, in order: tobacco, alcohol, germs, toxins and pollutants, car crashes, guns, obesity (caused by poor diet and inactivity), risky sexual behavior, illicit drugs.
You are now officially more likely to die in a car crash or gun fight than by tippling too many pints of Ben & Jerry's. Go figure.
Vive la bellydance!
It's a not-uncommonly heard saying that to get energy, you have to expend energy. Well, I have been needing a shot of energy lately. Seriously. My baking and pastry classes took a sharp turn toward hard last weekend, I haven't been getting enough sleep, I have a bridal shower to plan for my kid sister, yada, yada, yada.
So as I sat on the floor stretching before my weekly (used to be twice weekly, but no time for that anymore) bellydance class, the last thing I actually wanted to do was stand up and dance. Because that would involve moving.
But there is no resisting the dynamic presence that is my teacher, so move my butt I did. The rest of me, too. And to say I felt refreshed, invigorated and, yes, energized when class ended an hour later would be an understatement. Wow!
Once again, I bow in reverence to the keepers of the bellydance flame. Because bellydance is one of the very best things in the world. Hands down. It raqs!
So as I sat on the floor stretching before my weekly (used to be twice weekly, but no time for that anymore) bellydance class, the last thing I actually wanted to do was stand up and dance. Because that would involve moving.
But there is no resisting the dynamic presence that is my teacher, so move my butt I did. The rest of me, too. And to say I felt refreshed, invigorated and, yes, energized when class ended an hour later would be an understatement. Wow!
Once again, I bow in reverence to the keepers of the bellydance flame. Because bellydance is one of the very best things in the world. Hands down. It raqs!
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Safety zone
According to my usual online news outlet, "more than 10,000 fugitives, many wanted for violent crimes, were rounded up over the past week in a coordinated nationwide effort led by U.S. marshals."
Let's see, 10,000 divided by 50 states...that's 200 potentially violent fugitives per state. It's not unlikely that at least a hearty handful of those were hiding out in semi-sunny Seattle, so, gosh, I feel safer already. Thanks, Operation Falcon!
The only thing that would make me feel safer would be to have the power to turn back time and do something (anything!) to make it not true that Britney S. and her pimp-wannabe husband are with child. I'm still quaking with horror from yesterday's news. I mean, the woman (and I use the term loosely) buys chandeliers for her dogs and can't consistently get herself dressed in the morning. I'm sorry to invoke this photo as proof again, but I feel I must. To add more fuel to my flame, I send you here. (Yes, I know it's a spoof site, but come on, admit it, it kind of rings true. Yeah, you know it.)
Let's see, 10,000 divided by 50 states...that's 200 potentially violent fugitives per state. It's not unlikely that at least a hearty handful of those were hiding out in semi-sunny Seattle, so, gosh, I feel safer already. Thanks, Operation Falcon!
The only thing that would make me feel safer would be to have the power to turn back time and do something (anything!) to make it not true that Britney S. and her pimp-wannabe husband are with child. I'm still quaking with horror from yesterday's news. I mean, the woman (and I use the term loosely) buys chandeliers for her dogs and can't consistently get herself dressed in the morning. I'm sorry to invoke this photo as proof again, but I feel I must. To add more fuel to my flame, I send you here. (Yes, I know it's a spoof site, but come on, admit it, it kind of rings true. Yeah, you know it.)
Monday, April 11, 2005
I feel petty, oh so petty...
A major source of aggravation last week was the fact that one of our neighbors (and I'm pretty sure I know which one) complained to our apartment manager that we were, gasp, doing laundry during quiet hours. 10:30 p.m. on Tuesday, to be exact.
Now, one of my biggest pet peeves is being accused of something I didn't do. And I wasn't doing laundry at 10:30 p.m. on Tuesday...I was taking a damn shower.
Use of any appliance is restricted during 10 p.m. and 8 a.m., as is any other "unacceptable" noise. Showering, is not. If it was, there would either be a lot of rule breakers, or a lot of smelly people heading into work.
Adding fuel to my fire are three things:
1) I have had friendly, casual conversations with both of my neighbors, which makes it extra offensive that they ran off and tattletaled to the apartment manager.
2) I have overlooked an awful lot of noise from both neighbors, on the grounds that it was brief or infrequent, and that if it isn't important enough to talk to the offending party directly, then it isn't that important.
3) I had already imposed even tougher restrictions on myself, such as not using my very, very noisy Kitchenaid mixer past 9 p.m., a full hour before quiet hours start. Because I was trying to be a nice neighbor.
So, after being so clearly wronged, I felt a little righteous revenge was in order. Yesterday, I got up at the obscenely early (for a Sunday) hour of 7:30 p.m., to meet some visiting family for brunch at 9. These family members were planning to come "see our apartment" (code for "perform a spot inspection") afterward. I didn't have time to vacuum on Saturday, so....at 8:01 a.m., barely but clearly outside the quiet hour ban, I not only put a load of laundry in the washer, but I whipped out my trusty Dyson vacuum and started cleaning up a storm.
Now, I legitmately needed to launder my culinary school uniform that I wore to class the night before (which, golly, gosh, gee, I wasn't "allowed" to wash when I got home after 10 p.m.) and I legitimately needed to vacuum (don't want the family to think I'm a slob). But, before last week's Vicious Unfounded Allegations, I would have at least felt guilty about vacuuming, et al, so early on a Sunday morning, when most normal people are sleeping in. But not this time. No, I really don't think I've ever enjoyed vacuuming more. And if I lingered a bit when I was near the wall I share with the tattletale neighbor...all I have to say is, THEY STARTED IT!
And damn, a little passive-agressive revenge can be tasty!
Now, one of my biggest pet peeves is being accused of something I didn't do. And I wasn't doing laundry at 10:30 p.m. on Tuesday...I was taking a damn shower.
Use of any appliance is restricted during 10 p.m. and 8 a.m., as is any other "unacceptable" noise. Showering, is not. If it was, there would either be a lot of rule breakers, or a lot of smelly people heading into work.
Adding fuel to my fire are three things:
1) I have had friendly, casual conversations with both of my neighbors, which makes it extra offensive that they ran off and tattletaled to the apartment manager.
2) I have overlooked an awful lot of noise from both neighbors, on the grounds that it was brief or infrequent, and that if it isn't important enough to talk to the offending party directly, then it isn't that important.
3) I had already imposed even tougher restrictions on myself, such as not using my very, very noisy Kitchenaid mixer past 9 p.m., a full hour before quiet hours start. Because I was trying to be a nice neighbor.
So, after being so clearly wronged, I felt a little righteous revenge was in order. Yesterday, I got up at the obscenely early (for a Sunday) hour of 7:30 p.m., to meet some visiting family for brunch at 9. These family members were planning to come "see our apartment" (code for "perform a spot inspection") afterward. I didn't have time to vacuum on Saturday, so....at 8:01 a.m., barely but clearly outside the quiet hour ban, I not only put a load of laundry in the washer, but I whipped out my trusty Dyson vacuum and started cleaning up a storm.
Now, I legitmately needed to launder my culinary school uniform that I wore to class the night before (which, golly, gosh, gee, I wasn't "allowed" to wash when I got home after 10 p.m.) and I legitimately needed to vacuum (don't want the family to think I'm a slob). But, before last week's Vicious Unfounded Allegations, I would have at least felt guilty about vacuuming, et al, so early on a Sunday morning, when most normal people are sleeping in. But not this time. No, I really don't think I've ever enjoyed vacuuming more. And if I lingered a bit when I was near the wall I share with the tattletale neighbor...all I have to say is, THEY STARTED IT!
And damn, a little passive-agressive revenge can be tasty!
Thursday, April 07, 2005
Testosterone overload
So I'm walking to work this morning, at my usual speedy pace, when this guy in a badly fitting business suit passes me. It takes him a while to pass, because he's barely walking faster than I am, and he seems to be struggling slightly.
He finally cuts in front of me. I notice that he has a cigarette in one hand. Crap, I know what's coming next. Yep, sure enough, he takes a drag on his cancer stick and blows out a huge cloud of smoke, which naturally drifts directly into my face.
Since second-hand smoke makes me cranky indoors OR out, especially when it lands directly on my person, I cough loudly. Either he doesn't hear, doesn't make the connection, or doesn't care, because he does it again.
Jerk. I console myself with the fact that he has a girl ass (never good on a guy), and he appears to be wearing some sort of low boots with his suit, and the back hem of one pant leg is caught in the top of the boot. Hee!
Of course, I'm not going to walk my last half-mile breathing Bozo's smoke, so I slow my pace enough to create a buffer zone. And not just from the cig smoke. From the testosterone, too.
This happens all the time. I'll be walking quickly along, minding my own business, when some guy decides he has to one up me. There are two basic scenarios:
1. I'm waiting at a stoplight. A guy approaches from behind me and moves to stand right in front of me. If I'm actually standing ON the curb at the time, he'll go so far as to stand in the gutter. What he's thinking: "I'm a guy, she's a girl, therefore I'm faster. I'll cut in front of her because I don't want her slowing me down." What actually happens: The light changes, I step around him, pass him easily, and have him eating my dust before I'm halfway across the street. All without breaking a sweat or chipping a nail.
2. I'm actually in motion when a guy musters up everything he has just to pass me. Ocassionally, I'll even hear wheezing. I am not alone in observing this particular phenomena. A work chum of the male persuasion is a regular runner. He said he has frequently noticed a female runner breeze past a male runner, only to have the male nearly cause himself a heart attack trying to rally his bruised ego to pass the speedier, and obviously fitter, female. We both chuckle over that one. Laughing at other people's stupidity knows no gender lines.
Now, just to clarify the status of my own ego: I do occasionally get passed by someone who is legitimately faster than I am. Almost without fail, these people, male and female, have much longer legs than I do AND are quite fit.
He finally cuts in front of me. I notice that he has a cigarette in one hand. Crap, I know what's coming next. Yep, sure enough, he takes a drag on his cancer stick and blows out a huge cloud of smoke, which naturally drifts directly into my face.
Since second-hand smoke makes me cranky indoors OR out, especially when it lands directly on my person, I cough loudly. Either he doesn't hear, doesn't make the connection, or doesn't care, because he does it again.
Jerk. I console myself with the fact that he has a girl ass (never good on a guy), and he appears to be wearing some sort of low boots with his suit, and the back hem of one pant leg is caught in the top of the boot. Hee!
Of course, I'm not going to walk my last half-mile breathing Bozo's smoke, so I slow my pace enough to create a buffer zone. And not just from the cig smoke. From the testosterone, too.
This happens all the time. I'll be walking quickly along, minding my own business, when some guy decides he has to one up me. There are two basic scenarios:
1. I'm waiting at a stoplight. A guy approaches from behind me and moves to stand right in front of me. If I'm actually standing ON the curb at the time, he'll go so far as to stand in the gutter. What he's thinking: "I'm a guy, she's a girl, therefore I'm faster. I'll cut in front of her because I don't want her slowing me down." What actually happens: The light changes, I step around him, pass him easily, and have him eating my dust before I'm halfway across the street. All without breaking a sweat or chipping a nail.
2. I'm actually in motion when a guy musters up everything he has just to pass me. Ocassionally, I'll even hear wheezing. I am not alone in observing this particular phenomena. A work chum of the male persuasion is a regular runner. He said he has frequently noticed a female runner breeze past a male runner, only to have the male nearly cause himself a heart attack trying to rally his bruised ego to pass the speedier, and obviously fitter, female. We both chuckle over that one. Laughing at other people's stupidity knows no gender lines.
Now, just to clarify the status of my own ego: I do occasionally get passed by someone who is legitimately faster than I am. Almost without fail, these people, male and female, have much longer legs than I do AND are quite fit.
Friday, April 01, 2005
Never-ending battle
And the battle over poor Terri Schiavo still goes on in the world of partisan politics.
My daily dose of Web-based news brought me this little tidbit that made me grit my teeth and vow once again to move to France, or some other similarly civilized country:
"House Republican Leader Tom DeLay condemned the state and federal judges who refused to prolong her life, and he warned that lawmakers 'will look at an arrogant and out-of-control judiciary that thumbs its nose at Congress and the president.' "
I empathize. I myself condemn the arrogant and out-of-control Congressmen and alleged president who thumbed their noses at legal precident and the judicial process, all in the interest of guaranteeing a continued influx of political contributions from the conservative and religious right.
And Tom continues:
" 'I never thought I'd see the day when a U.S. judge stopped feedling a living American so that they took 14 days to die,' he said."
Tom, I couldn't agree more. I am appalled that when legal authority is given to remove a feeding tube or other life support, that some drug can't be given to hasten the inevitable end of life. But then that gets into the realm of doctor-assisted suicide, an even stickier wicket.
He Who Puts Up With Me knows very well my wishes if I should ever be so unfortunate as to land in a permanent vegetative state. And I feel fairly confident that my family would not fight him on his attempts to carry out those wishes (especially since, many years ago, my father was instrumental in having his stepfather taken off life support following a heart attack that deprived his brain of oxygen for too long, leaving him in a state much like Terri Schiavo's). But one never knows what one's family will do in the face of grief. I really should get a living will and power of attorney in order. And if you're reading this, so should you.
My daily dose of Web-based news brought me this little tidbit that made me grit my teeth and vow once again to move to France, or some other similarly civilized country:
"House Republican Leader Tom DeLay condemned the state and federal judges who refused to prolong her life, and he warned that lawmakers 'will look at an arrogant and out-of-control judiciary that thumbs its nose at Congress and the president.' "
I empathize. I myself condemn the arrogant and out-of-control Congressmen and alleged president who thumbed their noses at legal precident and the judicial process, all in the interest of guaranteeing a continued influx of political contributions from the conservative and religious right.
And Tom continues:
" 'I never thought I'd see the day when a U.S. judge stopped feedling a living American so that they took 14 days to die,' he said."
Tom, I couldn't agree more. I am appalled that when legal authority is given to remove a feeding tube or other life support, that some drug can't be given to hasten the inevitable end of life. But then that gets into the realm of doctor-assisted suicide, an even stickier wicket.
He Who Puts Up With Me knows very well my wishes if I should ever be so unfortunate as to land in a permanent vegetative state. And I feel fairly confident that my family would not fight him on his attempts to carry out those wishes (especially since, many years ago, my father was instrumental in having his stepfather taken off life support following a heart attack that deprived his brain of oxygen for too long, leaving him in a state much like Terri Schiavo's). But one never knows what one's family will do in the face of grief. I really should get a living will and power of attorney in order. And if you're reading this, so should you.
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