Look, Miami/Dade government, this isn’t rocket fucking science. It isn’t like the MetroMover has never failed before and you have’t had to put buses on the street to take riders along the routes. And it is hurricane season, which increases the possibility that this service failure might actually take place. And you (and the high cost of gasoline) have done a great job of increasing ridership. So.

So why the ever loving fuck are you incapable of updating the public (hey! I have a radical idea! Use your freaking website!) on where the shuttle stations are and which routes they are servicing. I’m sorry. Is that so much to ask of my local government? Yeah, stupid question for a body that just voted to raise my property taxes by twelve fucking percent next year so that they can mow the street medians less often, repair the streets less often and cut hours of park and library services.

Yesterday, as readers of my Twitter feed are well aware, it took me forty minutes to go six blocks across town, because there was only one bus and it was servicing the Omni route. This meant I was treated to a tour of various halfway houses and homeless shelters (and in intimate proximity to their residents who were on the same bus, and frequently leaning into the same seat) during my 20 block detour north and then back south.

This morning, despite promises by the Miami Herald and the update on the MiamiDade.gov website, the MetroMover was NOT back in service, and there was just the one Omni bus again. Since we were going in the opposite direction, it only took me 15 minutes to get cross town. Tonight, as I left work, the government website informed me that the MetroMover will be out of service until further notice and to allow for longer travel times. Fair enough.

I crossed the street and took my place under the “emergency bus service for when the MetroMover is out of service” sign. And waited. And waited. I got on the first Omni loop bus, resigned to the ride from Hell, but was told, rudely I may add, that there were now two buses and that this wasn’t the one I wanted if I wanted to get to Government Center. I got off and waited some more. Another Omni bus. Two Aventura Mall buses.

Finally a random Transit Authority Person pulled up in a car. Huh, am I getting private car service, I wondered? No, he’s just there to tell me that I was standing in the wrong place for the Inner Loop bus. That bus stops on the other side of the street. In front of my office. Where there is neither a regular bus stop nor any indication that it is an emergency stop.

I am sweaty, pissed off and now at the end of my travel, waiting for the RLA to pick me up for a hot date with the Urgent Care Center to get my stitches out.

Somehow, I don’t think this is what Freddie Mercury had in mind. And I wish I could have gotten a shot of the 10 gold hoops running down the side of each ear, the black nail polish and the fact that the red jacket is a NASCAR jacket. Or that the woman is not a young thing. That may even be her daughter over there on the left.

This is the “crime against fashion” post to tide you all over until I can post my Project Runway recap.

Yesterday the RLA, the Number Two Surrogate Daughter and her squeeze and I all went to see the new Harry Potter movie. It was great. But that’s not what I’m writing about. In the interminable run-up to the interminable previews, there were any number of locally-produced commercials. They were for nutrition supplement vendors, cosmetic dentistry, cosmetic surgeons and a fundie church (the #2 and I debated who goes to this theater, if these ads are targeted to a demographic). The last one was for… a car dealership maybe? It featured a blue-eyed blonde little boy who was supposed to be a super secret agent, taking super important documents to the POTUS. And that, my friends, is when my brain imploded. Because there was a very believable Barack Obama impersonator in the ad. Believable, that is, until he opened his mouth, and then he spoke with a ludicrously perfect and stereotypical Cuban accent. And nobody in the theater seemed to notice this disconnect except the four of us. And then it was just jaw-droppingly horrendous.

Ah, Miami. My tropical home. But the movie was fun. Sad, and almost a Cliff-notes version of the book, but splendidly done. I can’t wait for the last two. The RLA and I want to re-read the whole series…again.

I have two train stories today.

On the morning commute, there was a college writing professor sitting across from me, reading papers. About two stops in, a burly young man wearing ID badges from the local VA, and those hung on a lanyard that said MARINES, sat down next to her. All of a sudden, through my earbuds, I hear her yelling at him that he’s touching her. I look up and she is pointing to where his jacket hem is in the crack between the two seats. I hear him say, quite calmly, “ma’am, you are touching me. He scoots forward on the seat, and folds his hands over the top of his cane. For the rest of the ride, that woman rode him, elbowed him and complained at him.

It’s only because I have been less than on my best game that I didn’t think to say to her “Don’t make me separate you two. I’ll turn this train around if you don’t stop.”

What I did do was this: when the train stopped downtown, and all three of us got up to leave, the woman made eye contact with me. I pulled my earbud out and said, conversationally, “You know, even with the headphones on, I could hear you bitching at that man.” This made her think I agreed, apparently, because she immediately launched into the “he was sitting too close to me” rant, but I interrupted her. “No,” I said. “You were rude. It would have been rude to talk that way to anyone, but the man is a veteran, fer Christ sake. Show a little respect and appreciation.” She started to squawk, and I interrupted her again. “No. You were wrong. You were rude. Period.” And stuffed the earbuds back in and stalked off the train.

The ride home could not have been more different. I was sitting near a young black couple and their adorable son (corn rows and a Miami Hurricane jacket). I was working on one of my nellyphants, and she asked me what I was knitting. I pulled a finished-but-for-his-ears nellyphant out of my bag, and she grinned. “It’s an elephant, but he doesn’t have ears yet. Still, if you wouldn’t mind…” Oh, no, she said, she wouldn’t mind at all. So I gave the ear-less nellyphant to her son. He dug it and started playing with it immediately. The father kept telling the little boy to say thank you, but he was too busy playing. “It’s OK,” I said, “he’s too shy.” They told me that he had just turned three on Valentine’s Day. What a great present he was, I said and the mother smiled. Then the father said “he may not say thank you, but he can say the President’s name.” We asked the little boy who the president is, and he piped up, loud and clear “OBAMA”. I just about cried.

You know how much I love, love, love watching women on the train perform their morning rituals… moisturizing, plucking stray eyebrow hairs, applying foundation. Hell, applying their entire make-up routine in the middle of a public space… a crowded, un-hygienic space. But today I saw a woman, a young woman do something truly horrific: she shaved her mustache. To be more accurate, she didn’t shave. Nor did she pluck. She used a pair of scissors to cut the hair on her upper lip down to skin level. I suppose that would be considered trimming her mustache. Either way. It was a WOMAN. TRIMMING HER MUSTACHE IN PUBLIC!

There. I hope she’s happy. Not only did she scar me for life with this performance, but she also caused me to post in all caps. And bold. Gah. The humanity.

I tried to watch the Veep debate, I really did. I played Palin Bingo, and was a single “Working Mom” away from winning when she delivered the punchy soundbite she’d set up the minute she walked on the stage and asked Senator Biden if she could call him Joe. That zinger, that you know McSame pundits just pissed themselves over was this: “Say it ain’t so, Joe”.

“Say it ain’t so” is a line from baseball legend, the apocryphal tale of a small fan asking Shoeless Joe Jackson if he had, in fact, been involved in the plot for the Chicago White Sox to throw the 1919 World Series. Yeah. 1919. Except for baseball junkies, and movie goers who saw the film “Eight Men Out” (which was the movie we went to see the night the Anti Christ and I split, and he moved out, and which, in my head will forever be “Nine Men Out”), who knows what that phrase referenced? In terms of archaic humor, this little guy is a whiz-banger. Twenty-three skidoo!

Next, instead of saying “yer darn tootin’” or one of her other patented down-homey colloquialisms, Ms. Palin will be exclaiming that her running mate is the bee’s knees. I can’t wait to see them cut a rug, maybe doing the Turkey Trot or the Charleston. Good lord, how pathetic is this? And they’re claiming that Obama and Biden are out of touch? Let’s practice speaking McSame, shall we?

“That Sarah Palin is a bearcat in cheaters.”
“She tried to sound like she knew her onions, but it was all a load of chewing gum.”
“John McCain is a flyboy who keeps saying things are jake, but he can tell that to Sweeney.”

Your turn. To help, a list of Jazz Age slang can be found here.

I recently stumbled across the concept of Otherkins. Wikipedia has a very thoughtful and respectful explanation of what they are, or purport to be. But that’s not me. Excuse me here, but a much more convivial (to me) description is found on Encyclopedia Dramatica, which is itself a much more flippant version of Wikipedia. Allow me to offer you two quotes:

From Wikipedia:

Otherkin are a subculture of people, primarily Internet-based, who identify in some way as other than human. Otherkin often believe themselves to be mythological or legendary creatures, explaining their beliefs through reincarnation, having a nonhuman soul, ancestry, or symbolic metaphor.

Common creatures otherkin identify as include angels, demons, dragons, elves, fairies, vampires, lycanthropes, and extra-terrestrials, among others.

Outside of their own subculture, otherkin beliefs are often met with disbelief.

(You think?)

And from Encyclopedia Dramatica:

Otherkin are pseudointellectuals who believe they are reincarnations of non-humans. Similar to how all furries have their fursona as either foxes, wolves, or blobs of giant penises, most otherkin all believe they are either dragons or elves.

Otherkin differ from furries in that furries like to dress up and pretend, while otherkin believe they really are non-human and don’t usually dress up. Also furries generally pick real (usually furry) animals, while otherkin go for mythological creatures, almost always with wings.

Despite how there’s thousands of creatures from folklore and cryptozoology in cultures around the world, like the humanoid Ebu Gogo of Indonesia (proven real), every single otherkin only gets their creatures from the European mythology, and only the most popular, and only from some modern retelling of a myth that has lost all semblance to the original mythology.

At some point, otherkin lost track of what’s from mythology and what’s made up and there became otherkins based on anime characters (Otakukin) and Hubbard science fiction.

You got that? These are allegedly normal human beings, allegedly educated, and allegedly sane, who fervently believe, with their whole hearts and souls that they are really fairies, elves, centaurs, werewolves and vampires (oh, pardon me—vampyres) trapped in human form. Uh-huh. Right. And all of their past lives involve being Cleopatra or Napoleon.

Now, I’m into the arcane and the cosmic whoozitz as much, if not more, than the next fellow, but I do not believe I am an elf. Nor a fairy. Which is not to say that I don’t believe in fairies. But a five-foot six, 200 pound fairy? Who works in Hot Topics and dresses in mall-goth wear? Not so much. What’s wrong with just being different? Why do we need a second life? I have never fit in, I will never fit in. But I have never had a need to explain my otherness by being an otherkin. It’s just brain chemistry and personality and, if you need a deeper word for it, soul. OK? Just because I see things that others don’t, that doesn’t make me a fairy or possessed of anything other than very fine powers of observation. Or maybe a touch of ADD.

In any event, having heard about them, I cannot stop thinking about them. Are otherkin an American phenomenon? Because that would just reinforce my belief that we are living during the fall of Rome, when decadence rotted the empire from the inside out. Of course, I’ve been thinking that since bars started offering shots from the bartenders cleavage, or funnel shots.

Whatever.

And people, if you are going to vote that none of my suggested names for the little Screaming Yellow Smartie is any good, suggest something better in the comments. Really. I’m begging you, because I got nothing.

Finally, because it seems appropriate to this entry, and because I have no freaking idea why I got started with this: dragon eggs.

Yesterday I won a skirmish in the battle for public civility: there was a young man on the MetroMover, examining his face in the mirror back of his i-pod. He checked his immaculate goatee, and then (quel horror!) began picking at his zits. Or something. So I whipped out my camera and started to take a picture. He noticed, shot me a look of loathing, and stopped. He put his i-pod in his pocket. After about 30 seconds (some people have shorter attention spans than others) he pulled it out again, and again started to pick at his face, using the pod as a mirror. I refocused. He moved out of my line of vision. I moved to put him back in. Again with the stink eye and again he pocketed his i-pod. And then, the doors opened and he got off the tram, prevented by me and my camera from picking his face in public. I feel very virtuous, even if I would have liked to have posted an equal opportunity bad public behavior picture.

This morning we reached an new low in public grooming: the woman on the seat across from me on the train applied her deodorant as I watched. ON THE TRAIN people. Reached her Secret under her shirt and into her pits and scrubbed it on. Then gave me a challenging look, like what the fuck are YOU lookin’ at, bitch?

To which I can only say…well, nothing, really. Just bang my head on my desk repeatedly.

I’m trying not to obsess about my brother, Biggus Dickus’ latest actions, but I am obsessing. Answer me this: why did he send a letter to the owner of the home in which we have our mother complaining that she never sends him reports about Mummy? And why did he tell me that he was sending such a letter, but neglect to mention part B, which is that there is a “very dear friend of the family” (of whom I have never, ever heard) who often has business in Miami and will be coming to see Mummy from time to time, to give Biggus Dickus reports on her, and that he wants this person to be granted every courtesy the owner would grant a family member. And why, if he is concerned about Mummy or her confines, does he not A) ask me, who sees Mummy almost every week, or B) get his ass down here and see her for himself? Why would he hide this visitor from me; why wouldn’t he ask me to meet with her and take her to see Mummy.

Who is this third person? What business is it of hers? Why didn’t he tell me? Why isn’t she contacting me? Why doesn’t he call me to find out about Mummy? And really, and come on, what is there to say about a 90 year old woman with end-stage Alzheimer’s? She gets 3 home-cooked meals a day, which she eats with assistance. She gets a bath every day, and her hair shampooed. She has regular bowel movements and her diapers changed promptly. She naps. She talks. She still has hallucinations, we think. Her blind eye is still blind. She still can’t walk without assistance. She still doesn’t remember anything nor is she aware of much. She’s otherwise healthy as an ox.

Does Biggus Dickus think I’m lying about this? Does he not want to talk to me because I sound a tad judgemental about his inability to see his mother in this condition? Dude. Not only are you a professional mental health specialist, you are a 60-year old man. Sack up, ho. Buy yourself some powder milk biscuits and get the strength to do the things which need to be done: i.e.: see your mother. Does he think I’m stealing money? That I’m not taking good care of her? That I don’t actually visit her regularly?

What the fuck is wrong with him? What band of wolves dropped him at my parents door because he was too antisocial and irredeemable to be part of the pack? At what point did he forfeit his humanity? His soul? What am I supposed to do?

Arrowmont was fabulous. The women in my class were (are) fabulous. My instructor rawked. The food at art camp was spotty, but the morning oatmeal was fabulous. After the snow on Monday, the daffodils and jonquils and narcissus and wood violets and forsythia and wisteria bloomed. I saw a single tufted titmouse. I love them, and they don’t venture south to Miami. However. Gatlinburg itself is scary. If Niagara Falls had butt sex with the cheap end of International Drive in Orlando, and the resulting love child was birthed by Las Vegas, that love child would be Gatlinburg proper.

It is a single long road, bordered on two sides by Elvis impersonator shows, haunted houses, museums dedicated to the automobiles of dead celebrities, chain restaurants, themed miniature golf courses, taffy and fudge shoppes, multiple offerings of “vintage” photography studios (the kind where you dress up like old west hookers or gun slingers and get a sepia toned 5x7 for $45), multiple iterations of Ripley’s Believe it or Not “museums”, a Hard Rock Cafe, an aquarium of some repute (“Hah. Fish in tanks.” says my friend Diana) a scattering of nutjobs preaching the Word from atop bus benches, tacky tee shirt and tchatcke shops,  windows with ticket hawkers reminiscent of hookers in Amsterdam, and the random banjo player looking for hat change. And then there are the tourists who find all that a desirable destination. Good lord. If I hadn’t already had a drink, I would have needed one.

And yet, turn left at the Hard Rock, go up a shallow hill, and you are in an art school. A fine craft wonderland. I’ll go back, and I might even wander down to the joint where we had some great micro-brews and amazingly good pizza. Just, please, don’t make me go back down the gantlet to get there. I don’t know if I’ll be able to say no to the vintage photography set ups.

Good lord, how do people live? How does the average asshole I have to interact with day by day remember to breathe in and breathe out? To stand erect and not scratch themselves? I honestly don’t know. If I could, I would just go on a rampage today. I hate Verizon, and I’m not too happy with ATT. My beloved husband, the Renowned Local Artist, is a hair away from becoming my beloved husband of blessed memory. The computer guy at work set up the creative director’s computer, and checked a few things, but not the important ones, and consequently, she can’t work. Did I mention there’s a deadline and that she and I are going off to art camp next week, so if this job isn’t done by close of business tomorrow, it won’t be done at all? And she can’t work on her computer? I can’t find the internal IT guy, and my emergency call to my outside techies isn’t getting me help either. I have even called my old co-workers from Apple and not a damn one of them is answering their phones. I am ready to throw myself (and several other people) out of a window. And this is me on Prozac. Can you imagine what state I’d be in without it? Did I mention that it may snow up at art camp? And that we’re driving a vehicle that gets about 12 miles to the gallon. And gas is nudging $4 a gallon? And it’s (to the best of my computations) about 10 tankfuls, there and back? And that I HAVE NO FUCKING MONEY????

Yeah. Good times, people, good fucking times.

First thing I saw on the train this morning was a woman plucking her eyebrows. She did not want me to take her picture. For the millionth time, I ask: What the fuck is wrong with you that you would perform a personal and private grooming function in public… in fact, on public transit.

I’m minding my own business at the office today, when a little plink announces that there is new e-mail. It’s from a member of a Green committee that I’m on, so I open it. Only, it isn’t about our committee, it’s an invitation (forwarded with other e-mail stuck to it) to join her in a new Bible study group that she’s forming. It will meet in the break room on my floor at lunch time. It will be non-denominational, she says, because there are so many of us of so many religions. To which the attached reply has responded, and I pretty much quote: “Praise the Lord. What a great way to spread His word.”

I choke on my coffee. I type the following reply (paraphrased): “Dear Cow-orker, I’m more than a little offended by your invitation. I find bible study in the workplace highly inappropriate. Although you claim that this will be non-denominational, it has been my experience as a Jew, that when people like you say “Bible”, you are not referring to the Pentateuch, (my Torah) or even the Old Testament. You will be reading the story of Jesus, the New Testament. Please remove me from this mailing list.”

But I didn’t send it. Why offend someone I have to work with? I rewrote it, substituting “I’m uncomfortable with your invitation.” Then I took out the “people like you” part. Then I called the HR office and spoke to someone in Employee Relations and trashed the e-mail entirely. I mean, come on. My name is so typically Jewish that I often joke that it’s Jewish for Smith. Or Gonzalez. What makes her think I want to join a bible study group that includes people who say “Praise the Lord” fer fuck sake? Of course, this is the woman who told my Hindi friend that Jews don’t read the bible. She told my friend when she overheard us having a conversation about borrowing one of my prayer books. So she said it to my face. And I corrected her then. Sigh.

Anyway. I work for a business whose business is death and dying. We are, as individuals and as a company, acutely aware of spirituality and how that manifests in a million ways. We are very careful in our Chaplaincy to not promote or endorse any one religion, but all spirituality. And I have some wanker asking me to partake in lunch time bible study. On site. Um, thanks, but no thanks. And I think HR explained to her how, if she wanted to read the bible with her friends at lunch, it would be better to do it informally among friends, rather than sending out a blanket invite to all and sundry.

I’m skimming the news about the tornadoes and I run across this sentence:

President Bush, who said he called the governors of the affected states to offer support, plans to come to Tennessee on Friday. “Prayers can help and so can the government,” Bush said.

Prayers can help? Help what? Help who? They did a splendid job of keeping the winds out of the area yesterday, because that statement surely means that the people in the nearby towns that didn’t get destroyed must have prayed harder than the people who died…right? That’s what the Idiot in Chief was saying, wasn’t it? Or do I just not (being a Jew and therefore bound for Hell) understand how that Christian prayer thing works.

And if his idea of the government helping is New Orleans two years later? Then count me out. For the love of all that is sacred and holy (in Bush’s case, that would be oil, money and power) what is he going to do? Send in the trailers and tents that are affectionately known as “Hurricane Magnets” in my part of the woods and “Tornado Magnets” elsewhere?

Is he going to send in the prayer squad or is he going to actually send in food and generators?

I just really need to stop reading the papers.