The Voice of Treason

Every weekend I venture out and head towards the area where a series of shopping malls has sprouted over the last ten years. They weren’t here when we first arrived, but they’re here now. I drive past them as I go west, up the big hill, to the city where my mother is living. The streets are lined with nubiles hawking car washes.

There was a time that kids would stage these car washes to raise funds for some school project and they’d be out there in baggy shorts and T-shirts, earnestly flagging down cars to scrub. Now the kids are all Paris Hilton- wannabes. From age eight to fifteen, they line up on street corners and the median shrieking: “We wanna go to Nationals!!! Help us go to Nationals! Get your car washed so we can go to Nationals!!!!”

I’m suddenly reminded of Shirley Temple. Adorable child, all ringlets and dimples, but where was her mother? Film after film, where was that little girl’s mother? Inevitably, she attracted men who would protect her. All she had to do is flash that grin and sit on their laps. That kid sat on a hell of a lot of laps. In one film she was on an airplane with a group of men. She sang and danced down the center aisle, then a man would pick her up and set her down on his lap. After a bit, she’d be passed to another, and she’d sit on that lap. Then another lap. Lap after lap. She was always on some guy’s lap. Young good-looking laps, old grumpy laps, Jack Haley laps, all sorts of laps. No lap was left without Shirley’s behind.

And every time some guy picked her up to set her down on his lap, we got to see Shirley’s chubby little thighs and ruffled panties. Man, that kid wore some short dresses. Up she’d go — there’s her ruffly little butt — then down she’d go on another lap.

I don’t mean to sound like a prude, but even when I was little I found this somewhat disturbing. Why isn’t someone keeping an eye on this kid? Where are her parents? Why is she always with strangers? Why is she always on some guy’s lap? Why doesn’t someone put some clothes on this kid?

Well, duh.

Back to our little sidewalk hostesses. I imagine every weekend, men are telling their wives: “Hon, I noticed the discombobulator on the air conditioning unit is wearing out and I think I’ll need to pick up a couple gaskets for the dishwasher, so I’m gonna head down to Home Depot and get this squared away for you today.”

Then they jump into the car and head towards the car wash cheerleaders. This is probably the only time they don’t mind sitting at a red light. They’ve got half-time on the median. The little Lolitas are preening, jumping up and down, and begging “Oh, pretty please, won’t you help us get to Nationals???” to every vehicle with a guy behind the steering wheel. They ignore me. Obviously women don’t require car washes.

Each time I drive by I see them lined up on the sun-baked medians and I notice that there’s less fabric and more flesh. My first thought is: “I hope they realize that in thirty years their bodies are going to look like leather.” My second thought is: “This is a wonderful service they’re providing for local pedophiles.” The third thought: “I hope the guy next to me is paying attention to traffic because I don’t want a collision.” My next thought is: “Where the f*ck are these kids’ mothers and fathers?”

When I was their age I was heavily into the layered look. I rarely left the house without a long sleeve blouse, vest, and blazer. My sister bought most of my wardrobe and she made sure fabric covered every part of my body. I’m surprised she didn’t put me in a burqa, but good tailoring was important to her so I was spared. All the other girls my age wore halter tops. When I asked my mother and sister why I wasn’t, they told me I had too much to halt. True. There was that. There’s a modesty gene in our family so big that it was only very recently that I started wearing shoes that exposed my toes. And in the last year I actually wore skirts without stockings. Bare legs. In public. Hey, that’s a huge step for me, so shut the hell up.

Frankly, legs look better in pantyhose, feet look better in shoes, and breasts look better in bras. One-piece swimsuits look better than bikinis. A black turtleneck sweater can be more provocative than a plunging neckline. But that’s me. I’ve never gone braless in my life.

Well, there was that one time. I’ve mentioned that one reason I chose the college I attended was the climate. Rain, fog, a San Francisco-like sixty-degree range in the summer. One summer was odd. It was downright hot. Uncomfortably hot. I went into a little boutique and bought a teal top with spaghetti straps. I knew I’d be driving down the state in some 100-degree weather, so I wore the shirt in the car and headed home to the Bay Area. My family was mortified. My stepfather was disappointed. After I was interrogated about the choice and made to feel like the biggest ‘ho’ on the West Coast, I removed the shirt and never wore it again.

But today, it’s different. I remember my sister complained for years that she couldn’t find appropriate clothing for her daughters in the department stores, so she found herself in second-hand stores buying what we call today “vintage clothing.” I glance at the store ads in the Sunday paper and ask: Why are we peddling our children as sex objects?

What got me thinking about this was that I saw a girl on the median who was creating somewhat of a hazard. There was honking and leering. I was anticipating a pile-up and was wondering if her parents were going to ante up for damages. She, quite simply, crossed that line. “The line” I’m talking about is difficult to describe, but we all know it when we see it. She was wearing a bikini top: two tiny triangles of fabric held together with dental floss. Her shorts were short. Tiny. I’ve worn headbands with more fabric.

And these shorts were low. Yes, I saw her belly button trinkets, but I also saw…well, I’m sure she had already started waxing, but these shorts were so low that her ass crack was plainly visible and her pubic hair - if it hadn’t been waxed off - would have been sprouting over the snap on her shorts. That’s the line and she crossed it. Everything about this little - and I mean little - outfit was shouting INAPPROPRIATE!!!! Get some clothes on - NOW!!!

Her parents let her leave the house to go hawk a car wash on a street corner? Damn. Why not put her on Central Avenue and let her pay the mortgage?

And then I felt like an old nun. I can’t even mention this to T, I thought, because he’ll tell me I’m a prude and I should lighten up. Then we went to Home Depot and he saw one of them on the median. And he had exactly the same reaction. It’s like Shirley and her little panties. Where is this girl’s mother?

Where are the mothers? Where are the fathers? Why are these kids out there half-naked, weekend after weekend, pushing their school car washes? And, quite frankly, why - with all the money we throw at public education - am I paying ridiculous property taxes to fund schools where I can’t even walk my dogs and why are these kids out raising money by jiggling at men on their way to the home improvement center?

If I had kids they’d be in Catholic school with the old nuns. And uniforms. With long sleeve blouses, vests, and blazers.

I’m totally with Kinky on abolishing it. A quick example from this week’s big news stories: Terrorists attack innocent Londoners. Yes! Terrorists. And at first the news coverage makes it look like Londoners recognize terrorism when it’s in their backyard and they’re not going to take it. The mayor himself gets in front of the cameras and sounds just like George Bush. He’s condemning these people, calling them evil, and promising they will not prevail.

Time passes.

Things are already quieting down and no one wants to say the T word. What irks me is that, despite some occasional irritation that is perfectly normal and very human, people in London represent a melting pot that rivals New York and appear to get along rather well. The list of dead and wounded reads like the directory at the U.N. So many different countries, colors, religions - it’s what it’s supposed to be: a collection of cultures mixing and mingling and just going about the business of getting up and going to work in the morning to pursue the same dream. Everyone’s on the bus and the train thinking: I’d rather be with my loved ones today, but I’m doing this because of them, for them. My sacrifice will make our lives better. Then BOOM! The dream is over.

The English are known for their stoicism: Hitler dropped bombs on their heads and they still got up in the morning and went about their business. Stiff upper lip, never give up, that sort of thing. Real Churchillian stuff.

But is it my imagination or what? There seems to have been much more fuss over the death of Diana. Weeks of moping, hand wringing, stuffed animals, and bouquets wilting in the sun. Where was the stiff lip then?

My fear is that we’ll adjust to the attacks. The hits will just keep on comin’ and we’ll keep on taking it on the chin. I’m with Dubya on this one. We need to hit back.

I was channel surfing and came across Tim Russert interviewing Kinky Friedman. He reminds me that there were people who said of Ronald Reagan, “America will never vote for an actor to be President of the United States.” I’m sure there were a few of those when Arnold Schwarzenegger was running for Reagan’s old job: governor of California. And then there was this guy named Jesse Ventura. Remember him?

But like Kinky’s website says: “Why the hell not?” Precisely. Why not vote for someone like Kinky?

There are many things to like about Richard F. Friedman. First, he was born in Chicago. Second, he’s Jewish. Third, his family moved to Texas when he was a little kid and he has this remarkable blend of Midwest and Texan sensibilities: a good heart, some semblance of reason, a wicked sense of humor, and a whole bunch of attitude. Moreover, he likes dogs. A lot. Kinky founded Utopia Animal Rescue Ranch; its mission is to care for stray, abused and aging animals. The ranch has spared more than a thousand dogs from euthanasia.

The man is the 2006 Independent candidate for governor of Texas who has kind things to say about both Bill Clinton and George W. Bush. He told Russert that he visited with Bush and they took a walk with Barney and Spot Fetcher. Says Friedman: “George Bush talks to his dogs like they were people. He has conversations with ‘em. And that’s a sign of a good person.”

I think Kinky’s probably a pretty good judge of character. I appreciate that he stands for the “dewussification” of Texas and against political correctness. For years I’ve thought about moving to Texas. I live in a state where Texans are despised, but I’ve discovered that the reason this state seems to be improving is because the Texans are moving here. I like them. And if I lived in Texas I might just have to vote for Kinky.

I mean, why the hell not?

Because there’s something in the air. A little Thunderclap Newman flashback there. Ever have those periods when you can just feel the planets lining up and there’s a big change just around the corner?

Could be!
Who knows?
There’s something due any day;
I will know right away,
Soon as it shows.

Could it be? Yes, it could.
Something’s coming, something good,
If I can wait!
Something’s coming, I don’t know what it is,
But it is
Gonna be great!

Or not. But a friend of ours - at a point when he was thinking he’d never be employed again — just got three job offers today, and I just got one, too. I’ve been unemployed for one week and I haven’t even had time to pull my bike off the hooks in the garage, and I start work on Monday in a building on a street I’ve fantasized about for ten years. It’s a tree-lined boulevard with exotic plantings and beautifully designed buildings. Quite simply, it’s a street that looks like it doesn’t belong in this city. When we first moved here we’d drive to the area, park, and walk the dogs. I was always asking myself: How can I get a job on this street in one of these beautiful buildings?

I haven’t yet unpacked my car from last Thursday when I loaded it up with three boxes from work. Mainly because, in the back of my mind, I fear that there might be a chance I’ll be bringing home the hamster-size cockroaches I’d become accustomed to working with. I went from an antiseptic state of the art high tech environment to a dilapidated old building in a neighborhood that was featured on an episode of COPS. And now I’m going to be in a building I’ve looked at for years, wondering what it was like inside. I want to savor this because I don’t know how long it will last.

Be careful what you wish for….

We shall see. But I already have a treat lined up for myself. I’m taking the car in for a wash and bidding the pigeon sh*t adieu. Time for a change.

This is one of those unusual days when there’s so much to write about. Both Ernest Lehman and June Haver have died. In reviewing Lehman’s career, I realized that he wrote the screenplays for some of my all-time favorite films. When he accepted his honorary Oscar in 2001, he told the audience:

“I accept this rarest of honors on behalf of screenwriters everywhere, but especially those in the Writers Guild of America. We have suffered anonymity far too often. I appeal to all movie critics and feature writers to please always bear in mind that a film production begins and ends with a screenplay.”

In college, my peers in the Theatre and Film Department regularly argued that their role in a project was the most important. The actors thought they were the most important because they spoke the writer’s words; the lighting people insisted that they were more important. “You’d be speaking them in the dark without us!” And the writers pointed out that without a script, there would be no need for any of these people. A good script is more important than anything else.

This could be true. There have been countless films in which fine actors have wasted their talents because they were working without a script. It’s easier to forgive a bad performance than it is a bad script. Thank you, Mr. Lehman, for providing screenplays that allowed the actors to shine.

June Haver never became the next Betty Grable, but she had a respectable career. When her personal life began to spin out of control, she quietly left the industry and entered a convent in Kansas. Eight months later she was back in Hollywood. At a party, she met Fred MacMurray, who had just lost his wife. In six months they were married and she concentrated on a new role: wife and mother. They were together until his death in 1991.

Also dead is little Evelyn Miller. After searching for her for nearly a week, her body was discovered in the Cedar River. She hadn’t drowned; instead, she’d been murdered and her body was dumped in the water. Her family searched for her, hoping they’d find her alive, but instead they found an abandoned puppy on the side of the road. They picked him up with the intention of presenting him as a gift to their daughter once she was back home. They were waiting for little Evelyn so she could give her new puppy a name.

And speaking of puppies, there was a news story this week that revealed what I’d always suspected. We’ve been told that humans have evolved from apes. We are, essentially, chimpanzees. Well, if you remember my baboon story, I am one person who doesn’t find apes all that appealing. In that sense, maybe humans did evolve from these obnoxious, cannibalistic little creeps. Yeah, yeah, I’ve seen all the films about the dignified gorillas - don’t give me grief. And baboons are, technically, monkeys. But a primate is a primate is a primate. So there.

Christians bristle at this theory of evolution and insist we are not apes. Some experts think we’re pigs. For years I felt guilty eating Italian sausage because of Charlotte’s Web and the studies that determined that pigs were pretty darned smart, would prefer a neater environment, and were so intuitive that they would tip off the other animals in the slaughterhouse about what was in store for them. And, if you cooked a human, he would taste just like pork - our makeup was that similar.

But now this new study says that we are, genetically, closer to canines than we are to apes or swine. One chromosome away. The religious implications here are staggering. Christians now have more ammunition when Darwinism is the topic of conversation. And when a certain religion teaches that dogs are dirty and that their saliva should be avoided at all costs, it starts to make sense that those who believe this would feel no worse about killing humans than they would dogs.

And so blowing up a double-decker bus and trains full of people would be no different from kicking a stray dog to death or shooting it for fun. I was happy to hear, after George Bush was mocked and criticized, that British leaders came forward to call this what our president has been calling it since September 2001. Evil. Just plain evil.

I had a friend who worked for the news department on a local TV channel. My complaint to her was that every time I turned on the news to find out what was happening in our city, I’d get hit with either child or animal abuse stories without any warning. Like yesterday. I surfed to that channel to find out if the clouds I was seeing develop over my house were going to produce any rain. No sooner had I landed on the station, the anchor jumped right to a story about dog torture. No warning. I scrambled for the remote the second I realized what was coming, but I heard “dog” and “torture” and “killed” in the same sentence before I could switch back to FNC.

“Why do they do that?,” I’d asked my friend. “Ratings,” she said. “The two things that get viewers’ attention and response are child abuse and animal abuse.” I guess the same is also true in radio, because first thing in the morning I am often subjected to a horrible abuse story.

The one getting national attention, of course, is the Shasta Groene story. Here’s a little girl whose mother and brother were murdered, then she and another brother were abducted and repeatedly molested by a registered sex offender who should never have been out on the street. Her brother was probably murdered because she’s told authorities that he’s “in heaven.” She saw him being molested; did she also see him murdered?

When FNC’s Geraldo Rivera asked the girl’s father, soon after they were reunited, if he had gotten any specifics out of her, her father said he wasn’t pushing her for any information. Then he said something that sounded like: “what happened to her was sort of personal and she just needs to deal with it and work through it in her own way.”

Huh? Her family was massacred and she was sexually abused for six weeks. This isn’t something that she’s going to “work through” on her own in her timeframe. I appreciate that her father seems like a laid back kinda guy, but when is he going to realize the enormity of this situation? His family has been destroyed.

I’m sure he’s working through it in his own way. Godspeed.

You find yourself living in an apartment in Queens with two elderly aunts and another aunt who has been dead and decomposing for weeks. It’s summer. It’s an apartment building in New York. If you can smell the neighbor frying fish in his kitchen in 2B, chances are someone’s going to be able to smell your decaying aunt in 3C. It was the building superintendent who called authorities to come down to investigate. No one opened the door so they broke it down.

This is one of those stories that just sort of flits by. I caught a little bit of it scrolling across the bottom of the TV screen, but didn’t hear it reported. But then, I spent a lot of time watching other things over the weekend. I caught the last part of Grand Canyon on WGN before a Cubs-Nationals game; I watched The Great Escape, Singin’ in the Rain, and The Wizard of Oz on one of the movie channels, then T poured me a glass of champagne on America’s birthday and we watched Under The Tuscan Sun. I was in the mood for escapism.

But first thing this morning I thought of the women in that stinking apartment. They never called the authorities or told anyone that the aunt had died and needed to be removed. They kept quiet and left her body on the floor outside her bedroom.

Maybe one of the women knew something was wrong with this and wanted to report it but couldn’t; maybe none of them found anything wrong with the situation. Either way, the three women were taken to a hospital for psychological evaluation.

Yup, stories like this just flit by. A few people will be interested enough to bring it up to coworkers on Monday morning and the response will be “Ooh, gross!” Then a few jokes will circulate. Then it will all be forgotten.

But I’d like to know why they kept their aunt in the apartment. Was there a language issue? Were they so poor they couldn’t afford to dispose of the body properly? Was it a cultural thing? Was she receiving government benefits and they were afraid the checks would stop coming? Were all three nuts?

I don’t believe stories like this are all that unusual. When I was in college I always chose to stay in the area during the summers because the temperature was usually around sixty-six degrees. Everyone else would take off for home, so I was pretty much living in a deserted town from June to September. Too often I’d find that I’d hole up in my apartment and I wouldn’t leave until I was completely out of food and getting desperately hungry.

I suspect, based on that observation and knowing what I know about other family members, that there’s an agoraphobic gene somewhere in the pool. You don’t feel you need to go out, so days go by and you don’t leave the house. You don’t answer the phone or open the door when someone rings the bell. Days turn into weeks.

It’s why I feel the need to get a job that forces me to leave the house. Dogs have to go walking, so I leave the house. I have a home so I can go outside to the backyard - I’m not trapped inside an apartment. The trees and flowers require water, the birds require water and seed. I purposely pile these responsibilities on myself so I have a reason to leave the house.

It’s not an everyday thing. It comes and goes, and there are days when I can feel that I don’t want to go out. So sometimes I don’t, and other times I force myself. Then there are days when I don’t want to be home at all and I want to be out and about. But I’m always thinking about that weird gene. And thinking about all the reasons I have created that force me to go outside to mix and mingle with the world.

Quite simply, let’s stop calling today the Fourth of July and start speaking the truth. It is Independence Day. It’s insulting and sacrilegious to call it anything else.

Tonight I’ll be able to see the fireworks display from my driveway, at the top of my hill. I can see the entire city from there. I’ll watch the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air, and remember the men and women who made all this possible. And I’ll wonder what I can do that could even compare.

I have to find a job that’s dog friendly, and I know that will be next to impossible unless I go work at Petsmart. (Frankly, I haven’t been too happy with Petsmart lately. The two that I go to to buy one dog’s food are becoming real schlacherhauses. They’re a mess, and no one bothers to stock the shelves. Sometimes I can’t even get what I’m there to buy. And that new PetPerks card. Gak. I refuse to put another card in my wallet. Sorry, I just needed to vent. And if someone can give me the correct spelling for schlacherhaus, I appreciate it.)

Anyway, I’m spoiled now, having spent three years in an environment where it wasn’t unusual for employees to bring their dogs to work. This past week was nice for me because people brought their dogs in to say goodbye. A coworker brought her two in and I gave them the biscuits and kisses that they’ve become accustomed to getting when they stop by. Before I left I made sure I had one last empty jar of peanut butter for them to take home and clean out. They are a spectacular pair.

A coworker who resigned at the end of May had brought her dog to work everyday for two years. A little black Pomeranian who would find his way from on end of the building to my office on the other end of the building - almost a city block away. He’d look up at me and I’d give him treats. It broke my heart when he had to go on a strict diet of what looks like guacamole, and I was forced to stop slipping him biscuits. He couldn’t figure out why I cut him off so abruptly, but it was for his own good. I miss my coworker and I stay in touch with her. But I miss her dog, too. My preference is for much larger breeds, but there’s a lot of dog in this little package. I’m envious that she can pick him up and take him everywhere. A portable dog. It must be wonderful.

Another person brought her Taiwanese street dogs to see me. Years ago she was in Taiwan and decided to rescue this pair and bring them home with her to America. The Taiwanese authorities were baffled. They asked her why she’d even want to go through the trouble to take this debris home with her. She had to go through their office of agriculture, as if these two dogs were livestock.

What’s remarkable about them is that they always look like they’ve just been groomed. They’re beautiful, wonderful dogs. One has a perfect heart shape on its side. One woman’s garbage is another woman’s treasure. The woman who saved this pair adores them and the feeling is mutual.

Different cultures have different ideas about dogs. It’s one reason I left California. The Asian population had become a powerful political force in the state, but one issue made me pack my bags. I worked with many Filipinos and I admired their generosity. Every time they returned from trips home, they brought gifts for everyone. At lunch, they had enough food to feed every person in the breakroom, and they always shared what they’d brought. People were happy to accept the adobo, pancit, lumpia, and cakes made from a native purple yam called ube, but they weren’t as excited about balut. Who wants to take a bite out of and egg and see a little duck face staring back at you?

Anyway, there was a push before I left California for legislation that would allow the sale of dog meat in supermarkets. Yes, I know, I’m a hypocrite because I eat animals, but this is one animal I don’t want to see at a grocery store meat counter. Is this racist? I don’t think so. But I got out. And now I live in a state where the natives are determined to keep a part of their culture intact: cockfighting. I know dogfighting exists here, too. I also know in my heart there’s a place where evil dead people go. The child and animal abusers, the torturers, the murderers. I’m just hoping there’s a place for the rest of us. And my hope is that I’ll be reunited with all my canine friends there.

I don’t have a ONE wristband. I didn’t invest the ONE minute it takes to sign the ONE Declaration on www.one.org. I didn’t order ONE T-shirts off store.one.org. I haven’t e-mailed a friend to tell him to sign the ONE Declaration. I haven’t added my TWO cents to the ONE blog. I won’t be hosting a ONE banner on my site. I won’t be getting involved in any local, grassroots ONE festivities. I also won’t be telling my president to solve all the poverty and starvation issues of the Third World with the help of my tax dollars. And, even though The Who would probably be making an obligatory appearance, I didn’t watch Live 8.

Am I a coldhearted, mean-spirited right wing extremist, or what? They say “We don’t want your money. We want your voice.” Well, here it is.

I think it’s wonderful that we live in a world where people can get so worked up about something that they can organize a movement. Of course, the Third Reich was a movement and that didn’t work out too well. But what I’m saying is that people can come together and accomplish great things. Like creating a document that declares a new country’s independence. They can sign it, risking their futures to do it. They can fight for it, and end up losing all their possessions, their loved ones, their lives. Or they can create a few dozen websites, stage some concerts, and sell little plastic wristbands.

A few men got together in a steamy room in Philadelphia in 1776 and changed the world. Two hundred twenty-nine years later we still celebrate their courage and determination, their intellect and foresight. These men were heroes. They accomplished the unthinkable.

Today we have marketing. Imagine if our Founding Fathers were in that room in Philadelphia today. Well, of course, they’d be sitting in air-conditioned comfort, and I’m sure there would be PowerPoint presentations a plenty. No doubt there would be coffee - both caf and de-caf , a selection of herb teas, juices, bagels and schmear, and an assortment of fresh fruit cut up in convenient slices. Outside the room long tables would be stacked high with commuter mugs and T-shirts: “Vote YES!” “Independence NOW!” “King George sucks @$$!” “Ben Franklin rocks!”

They’d meet and assign delegates to different task teams. Jefferson would tell a group of delegates to go “feel-out” the folks in Virginia and surrounding colonies and “get a feel” for public opinion. There would be polls. Someone would be there with designs for the new army’s uniforms - something modern, but comfortable. Armani-inspired, but in wrinkle-free cotton. In azure. They need to look good - actual combat isn’t an option in this New Revolution, but tailoring is key.

The press would be there. And I suspect nothing would get done. But what an event! People would feel good about themselves because they all got together and brought independence to the public’s attention. It’s a start.

I know people are suffering horribly in the world. Some of them live in this country. Africans, who seem to be getting the most attention, have suffered and will continue to suffer no matter how much food, how much money, how many doctors and medicines, how many educators and reformers we throw at them. Their governments are corrupt. The ONE campaign casually mentions this, but that should be the focus. Change the government, change the policies. Americans can forgive all debts tomorrow and it won’t change a thing. Africans will still starve, die from disease, and be slaughtered by other Africans.

I lost interest in watching the Live 8 concerts when I heard that the performers would be receiving goodie bags filled with trinkets and toiletries worth $12,000.00. Although well-intentioned, I’m sure, a concert is not going to save the world. A few men - and possibly women - with a dream and a document can accomplish much more.

You may say I’m a dreamer,
but I’m not the only one,
I hope some day you’ll join us,
And the world will live as one.