Let’s help kids for real

Jubilation was what I felt at the Golden State Killer’s capture thanks to his relatives’ DNA, even though I did not know any of the victims or their families. Concern is what I feel now that the ACLU says it’s worried about privacy. I am more concerned for the millions of other victims the world over, whose abusers and killers have gotten away with their crimes not just for decades but through the ages.
Women have borne the brunt of men’s hostilities since, well, forever. I think my brothers and sisters in law enforcement should avail themselves of all applicable DNA technologies with all due haste, to ensure the men who left behind unwanted pregnancies, unsupported babies, and impoverished women will be forced to account for their crimes against humanity.
Let’s say a man off on an Indonesian sex jaunt was found to have left behind a fertilized egg (or several), and that the women were in any way forced to carry the pregnancy/ies to term, or were physically harmed. New international laws, preferably through The International Court of Justice (at the Hague), which forced the careless, negligent, or deliberately hostile at-fault men to pay for the children, would mean women all over the planet can get at the very least financial relief, which could enable them to lift themselves out of poverty.
Anyone who says he despises abortion but is pro-child can then put his money where his mouth is, because seed money will be necessary, for collecting and maintaining the victims’ children’s DNA. When a match is found and the male perpetrator has his check garnished as recompense for the shattered lives he left behind, a portion of the money can also be used to replenish a small portion of those coffers, and grow them.
Sure, some men who will shriek that their own fathers weren’t around to teach them how to be real/manly men, or their own pop was just the sperm donor the mother knew and who would only come by when she got her check. Not a reasonable or legal excuse!
A guy who’s old enough to risk sex with someone he’s not committed to? Sooner or later the tests will come back, at which he should be of age to get his wallet out. And if those men can be forced to get jobs, the taxpayers will no longer have to pay for children not theirs/issues they didn’t cause.
Unscrupulous organizations that steal donors’ money could be put out of business. International agencies could switch from saving the children to replanting farmlands and forests. Pimps who feel entitled to rape virgins, claiming, “We’ll get married, but you need to sell yourself to get us money” might become a thing of the past, and if those evil men kill themselves at the scope of the harm they already caused? Oh well, no great loss, and the DNA coffers can be allotted to help get their victims on their feet..
At last, a war chest can be put toward making up for the war on women.
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The new Junk Kings

Some politicians clamor for welfare recipients to be barred from using food stamps for soda and candy, while others try to have taxes imposed on sugary drinks, to the great consternation of beverage distribution giants, who call the taxes an infringement on our “rights”.

Fair enough, in its perverse way – everyone ought to know how to make their own poison (sorry – cakes and cookies). But then — since thousands of hectares in the USA are merely corn and beets destined to become syrup for that candy or soda — rural enterprises so involved shouldn’t get any government farm benefits.

But, you cry, part of your place supplies your family’s actual food! Okay, you can deduct that food-producing portion only, whatever it is: an acre, a quarter acre, a thousand square feet. No sugar beets (and yes I know beet greens are very nutritious, but who grows beets for greens?), no sugar cane, no corn-syrup crops.
If the government has to pay for corn on the losing end, namely the health costs associated with too much sweetened junk food, too many sodas, too much too much – why should it have to subsidize the people and companies making the problem?

The sweeteners in diet sodas are believed to be be associated with obesity. Being overweight and especially being obese puts tremendous strain on one’s joints and heart. People want help for their health problems, and Medicare for all is a noble pursuit. But then why should the government support the weapons of our self-destruction? Why shouldn’t we help society instead, by taxing bad behavior?

Chicago recently caved, buying into Big Sugar’s siren lure and claims that the tax would prevent consumers from making their own choices about foodstuffs. This isn’t food we’re talking about taxing (I believe raw foodstuffs shouldn’t be taxed at all) — neither is the sweetened-beverage industry paying, by and large, fair market value for the water they need to make this $#!T.

Sugar is known addictive substance, just like alcohol, just like tobacco with its repugnant additives. Sugared drinks and candy have no fiber and no nutritional value; even 100% orange juice isn’t as good for us as an actual orange with a glass of water. Sugar was discovered to be harming human health decades ago, when the industry took its playbook straight from Big Tobacco, and was successfully able to steer attention away from itself by blaming fat, see:


Tobacco is bad for us, alcohol in excess is bad for us, sugar is bad for us. Sugar of all sorts has been oversold to us in the same way cigarettes were, and all sugar/corn syrup products (and the never-degrade plastics they usually come in) ought to be taxed to the hilt too. Because fair’s fair!

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Trains? Yes, please! Planes – not so much

Peace of mind has its price. For me those twelve years ago that seem like just yesterday it was $551.

Some people just shouldn’t fly. I should’ve remembered I’ve long been one of them, but it had been 15 or more years since my last flight, and I didn’t have much time to spare between Girl Scout leaders’ training and the start of my daughter’s school.

“Do not go gentle into that good night – Rage, rage…” Dylan Thomas’s adage gripped me as I gripped the armrests and would not let go.

Aboard that plane heaving through turbulence, my rage was raving and impotent, the plane indifferent. Nowhere to get off, no turning back, no relief — nothing to it but get though it. Seeing the flight attendants in no way concerned, just busy in their ordinary ways, in no way lessened the trauma within.


I wanted to kiss solid ground when the plane finally did land in Miami as scheduled, but I didn’t, trying to save face in front of my little girl. On the drive to his family’s home, my brother-in-law admitted he feels the same about flying. As soon as he left to pick up his own kids from school, I burst into fresh tears and lunged for the phone: 1-800-USA-RAIL.

Even though she was only four, my small one and I had been on trains cross-country a few times before. Fingers crossed, I managed to navigate the phone tree to a real person.

Yes, they had a sleeper for the day I wanted — two actually: one on Train 92 for the Miami-to-DC leg, and then, let’s see, yes, another for DC-to-Chicago. My relief knew no bounds, and when the agent asked if there was anything else she could do to help me, I sobbed “Thank you for having a sleeper, and for being there!”

When I got off the phone I was still crying. Morgan took my face between her hands and said (gravely? – bravely?) “Don’t worry, Mommie – you don’t ever have to go onna airplane ever again!” This caused fresh tears, for wasn’t I the adult here?

Jose came home with his children and the girls chased off together, my sister-in-law arrived from work, dinner was made and eaten, just like they always do. Next day my dear one refused the clothing I suggested (“No ‘sorts! Pants!”) despite the 80+-degree heat. We went the flea market to look for size 4T pants (none), but she and her cousins  would ride the ponies. We stopped at Doris’s dad’s farmette, where we drank juice straight from the coconut and held baby goats. All along, I kept my emotional turmoil to myself, then and the next five days. We swam in their pool. It was a good visit.

I’ve visited churches and temples, yet never known the degree of peace that enveloped me when, the breeze blowing warm, we were given a ride on an Amtrak people-mover/golf cart-sort-of-thing, and the train pulled up, on time. In boarding, we told car #9211’s attendant, Thanks – we know the way to room 5, see you up there. This was better than any merely familiar spot, like my mother’s favorite kid-friendly bookstore-cafe. This was our home-away-from-home.

Relief flooded me as we set our bags under the seats and settled in for the ride. Long distance travel, especially when somebody else drives, somebody else cooks (in the dining car), and somebody else cleans up, is fabulous. I wanted to hug the whole process, but I tipped everybody instead.

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Women, men, and incel hell

Let’s say you’re anti-abortion. “No abortions, ever, that’s the sanctity of life.”

Can you prove you are? Not with signs, or rallies, or even your words. Prove it with your own actions.

Because you resemble a white-right extremist. You say you are no such creature? But they have, in their credo, something about how whites are supposed to “out-breed” them; you know, them, the other, the unwanted; the wrong color, religion, whatever — what the Nazis espoused.

Are you just there to do a man’s bidding? He says “Jump,” you have to ask how high, he tells you “We’re makin’ babies” and you’re supposed to meekly say “How many?” Did he get a (better) job or health insurance, check references on nannies or build a mother-in-law apartment so somebody can be there to help you? Is he helping you go back to school?

You might be young and fertile and healthy, you female. Does that mean your destiny is to wear flowy skirts and stay barefoot and pregnant, to be a breeder, like a sow or doe — some bitch? These men are (supposedly) happy if you are a broody hen! Oh, except for the “good” Christian male who gets his mistress pregnant, then demands she get an abortion — because the l’il woman is supposed to listen to the man.

Many years ago I was a very peripheral member of a devout Christian group. That is, until I realized it was almost always the women caring for the kids while the men played soccer and guitars, both of which I was interested in. So church wasn’t my cup of tea. Maybe they were, in fact, gentle beings – although, much later, child abuse going on within the group would be revealed.

Then again, maybe they were simmering cesspools of hostilities like so many “incels,” involuntary celibates, who think women owe them attention and sex, who have increasingly been shooting innocents when they decide they’ve had enough of uppity females rejecting their advances. Maybe? Probably.

And while we’re on the subject of toxic masculinity, let’s go to Texas’s lieutenant governor and the NRA, who claim prayer in schools is what’s lacking, plus laid blame on the schools (for having too many doors), and on video games. Too bad they don’t seem to be kidding — or reasonable.

Schools have many doors because they, schools themselves, have been known to catch fire. Anyone who wants a repeat of the notorious, needless fire (December 1958, Chicago) at Our Lady of the Angels grammar school, in which children were told by the nuns to pray — not to run out — and which resulted in ninety-two kids dead from flames and smoke – you go right ahead and listen to Mr. Patrick and Mr. North. Praying didn’t help those little children of God, and fewer exits won’t help future scared students get away from shooters.

If they want to talk violent videos? Start long before video, at the beginning, with football. Football has until very recently encouraged young men to crack each other in the head with their own helmets, knock ’em down, pile on, binge-drink afterward. Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy has increasingly shown up in football’s victims, causing some to have violent outbursts and/or to commit suicide. Hello Danny? Ollie? Why no “credit” where credit is due? Getting your sports bet ducks in a row for whenever that travesty descends on us?

So let’s not tippy-toe around toxic masculinity anymore; let’s call misogynists what they are. Start with a look in the mirror: do you boss your wife or girlfriend around? Do you refuse to listen to her, change the subject to shut her up, and/or enjoy making her cringe, then tell her she’s too sensitive? Did you get her (or maybe multiple hers) pregnant, then duck out? That doesn’t make you a partner or a real man, it makes you a gaslighting bully and/or coward!

Feminism is the “radical” belief that all people (not only women) are equal under the law. Feminism has started no wars, starved no-one, tortured no-one, killed no-one. Feminists help women control their own destiny.

The belief or implicit expectation that our daughters owe attention to any unpleasant men is the trouble, and more dads, coaches, teachers, and other leaders — all adults really — are overdue to correct that nasty misperception. Toxic masculinity is the root evil. Its adherents call the miscreant who went hunting (hunting for sorority girls in May, 2014, in California’s Isla Vista) a “supreme gentleman,” when nothing could be further from the truth. Anyone who blames everything BUT this vile attitude, that men get to do whatever they want, allows this disease to fester and replicate.

And you know what else replicates and festers? Cancer!



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Grief, two years out

I was there at the end of August 2011 when my mother breathed her last. She’d been brilliant, an MD, but deteriorated mentally as well as physically, the way nobody wants to but too many will. My only siblings resided on the other side of the country, with their jobs/spouses/kids; I was the night nurse.
I dreamt of Mom after she was dead, and cried more when I realized it was just a dream. Or was her spirit really there, as in there there?
After my child, graduated grammar school in June 2016 — across the street from Mom’s house, where I too had gone to school, where we’d been living, with Mom, since dear daughter was born — we had to move out. All my bargaining for more time came down to nothing, since the executors were (overly-?) anxious to sell the house. And so I was moving furniture and boxes every day, to storage and the charity and to my husband’s and my house 5 miles and several neighborhoods away. It was traumatic and exhausting. I lost twenty pounds and cried and grieved my mother and the homestead every day and all over again.
Now I’m more able to handle some task involving Mom which I’ve set myself — like going through the pictures she left, or making a photo collage of her (as I’d long mentally promised). If I start feeling like it’s too much, I make a conscious decision to be gentle with myself, and put the project aside.
There was a post somewhere which compared grief to being pounded by ocean waves, unbearably at first, knocking us off our feet with no time in between to breathe, but over time more manageable, if sometimes unexpected still. I think if we are processing the grief, little by little we become stronger – imperceptably, we put on another layer of that psychic bark, which, like a tree, protects us. Two years on, I still feel overwhelmed by grief, but not as often.
I admire those able to stand up to pharmaceuticals; that is some strength there. If it’s spring and not storming where you are, I hope your garden gives you solace. Maybe there’s a friendly dog nearby, even one you simply visit at the home of someone you know (who might become new friends). One foot in front of the other, one minute/second/breath at a time, one (or 2, or 3… okay, however many) dog kiss(es) at a time. Because we experience oxytocin when we gaze into a dog’s eyes, and they into ours, or inhale it, and oxytocin rocks, and a paw on my lap and that urgent gaze as I sit sobbing does much to turn around a wretched wrenching heart, even if only for a few seconds at a time.
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Tagger? Get over yourself!

Who picked the article “Train Painting” (Utne Reader c. Sept/Oct2000) which should’ve been titled what it is – train wrecking? Allan Abel regaled us with tales from the “defacers’ hall of fame,”and that, too, should’ve been called what it is – the hall of SHAME.

The writer thought vandals feel “it unites them with hobo tradition.”  Ugh, romanticizing property damage. Times aren’t even less safe now than they were then. In many cases hobos did odd jobs or waited for charity, while taggers admit that when they lack cash, they will steal what they need, meaning what they want. So, poor taggers, they shoplift to feed their addiction? That’s called compounding the crime!

Why should we care about their purported “needs” when they care nothing for ours? They couldn’t care less about the wishes/needs of the rest of society – to see our garages and alleys and favorite manner of transport (trains), as we, the owners, intended them.  Too bad for us, I guess, boring old train- and home-owners (read: slow-moving/stationary targets) who can hardly keep pace putting a clean coat on, so quick and prevalent are the defacers.  No one “needs” to spray paint.

These immediate-gratification junkies, these immature punks, apparently are to be pitied: they can’t be bothered to put paint on canvas where it belongs, they can’t wait for a gallery to show their so-called “art” — that’s for squares! They claim none of the artists have any control of where it pops up. What they really mean is they do not want to control themselves and we’re supposed to shrug and be okay with that, for them to be too.

One defacer claims to “love trains, because he even bought tickets.  Wow, such a regular guy. My nephew loves trains for real, not like these swooned-over criminals. Trevor and I (and all ordinary folk) would never dream of using so much as fingerpaint on them – because they aren’t ours.

An important point Abel totally ignored is that, as every officer knows, graffiti is not only to say “I was here,” but to say “I own this” and “I did this, and you didn’t catch me – SUCKER.” Unlike anything written that is wanted, an autograph perhaps, no normal person is are pleased at finding drivel sprayed or etched on their property, or where they work. These morons don’t always stop at tagging with ordinary paint. They scratch bus windows with sandpaper and damage telephones in subways with padlocks, for example, when their painting spree runs dry. I’ve seen the commuter-rail people cleaning trains for a living (their salaries paid for by the increasingly-expensive tickets we buy, dumb taggers!). I feel their anger and pain – not taggers’ alleged angst.

These wanna-be artists bring to mind unneutered male cats, also unwanted by homeowners. Taggers also yowl a lot about what they consider their turf, marking up what they want for territory.

But impulse does not equal instinct: the human toms have no excuse. They should know better, and they should use all that energy to plant trees or do something – anything – useful. Waahh, too ordinary! Bo-ring! Too bad for intact surfaces or trains and the folk who like it that way!

Shame on taggers, and shame on all their apologists who give them space/credence.

(adapted from a letter to the editor, Utne magazine, 05OCT2000)

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Keep fish on our side of the pond!

I fail to understand how Alaska salmon, transported to “China, where it is processed into steaks, bulk packaged and stored frozen by a secondary processor… later repackaged into retail units for the U.S. market” (Sunday Tribune, April 25,2010) is better for anything except the pocketbooks of the companies allowed to commit this travesty, and perhaps the Chinese, or whoever keeps the fish guts and bones.
You can’t tell me there aren’t enough people in Alaska to do this kind of work for pay.  I’d be willing to wager there are still plenty of underused packing and processing plants on this side of the pond capable of handling all that food.  The fuel used to transport the Alaska salmon to China and back to the U.S. could be put to better use here, or never dredged up in the first place.
Taking North American fish thousands of miles overseas to save a few pennies on U.S. or Canadian labor costs may be what big corporations call “the bottom line.”  Reasonable people and I call it an undue ecological burden, madness, and greed.
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