I sipped more ginger tea. I thought about the Tea Party demands; I thought about the progressive demands; I thought about my own budget (or lack thereof); I thought about religious demands; I thought about corporate demands, and I started to gasp for lack of oxygen.
Two cups of ginger tea later a spicy idea landed. Start my own party, the Ginger Tea Party.
Today this wildly off-balance pendulum struck my personal life. Oh, there was no catastrophic tragedy, just a realization that things aren’t like they were or how I want them. Yes, I’m one of those former middle class Americans trying to find my way through the maze. I feel like Jack in the Jack in The Box commercial who whines, “I am so tired of this recession.”
Then I received a gift. An absolutely free gift—probably from bird poop.
My first black friend was in high school. We teamed up because, like me, irreverence surfaced to her tongue and she hurled some pretty funny commentary about school and life. Our skin wasn’t an issue. More important was our shared teenage angst—you know, boys, make up, zits, bras, and cars. Last names and skin tones made no difference in my youth. I wasn’t raised that way. The person who influenced me most was my godfather, a tap dancer with deep Irish roots. […]
Maybe because the magnetic North Pole has shifted closer to Siberia than what my world atlas indicates, we’re shifting into Mr. Well’s likely interpretation of “ Inception.”
Our iconic date of September 11 nears. The hate that darkened that historic day proliferates and I fear that I’m slipping into some nightmarish rabbit hole with twisted reality and tangled nonsensical tales.
It is as if the Ten Commandments are turned inside out and what is good is bad and what is bad is good.
My passion for the whale began in the early 1980s when an editor assigned me to write a feature story on the “new” whale watch tours.
To say that my heart dropped to the lowest ocean depths possible with the BP oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico, and to say that my fury with loud mouthed hypocritical politicians and their pundits has raised my blood pressure to blast me out from the lowest ocean depths, is more than a marginal metaphor.
Route 66 traverses my American life. My father bought a canvas radiator water bag for the blue and white 1955 Chevy wagon. We packed fried chicken, buttered white bread, hard-boiled eggs and Oreo cookies in a basket, and left California behind to see the USA in our Chevrolet eastbound on Route 66. When school returned each September, the iconic “What I did Last Summer” essays by classmates told tales about live lions, snake pits, dancing Indians, and buffalo burgers all experienced along the […]
There you go again politicizing and “religious-cizing” the natural disaster in Haiti. From here on out I will not purchase anything advertised on the broadcast/print media that help fund these old idiotic white men.
“…And then there was our former Miss California, Carrie Prejean , who during her hormonal rampant teen time, videotaped some solo sport which she “innocently” sent to her lonely boyfriend. It wasn’t sex. And one must also understand that because she’s a model, sexiness is her job…”