April

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain. - T.S. Elliot

OK. I don't wanna be a bummer. I know we're suppose to be making jokes all day. But. Things are bad.

I recently heard about a woman who had the surgery. She threw up almost daily. Now she has esophageal cancer. She'll be dead soon. But she's thin.

Ellen Goodman worked out with Jennifer. It's nice to have something good to put on the page.

This morning I'm just staring at the screen. I can barely concentrate. I've been in a CNN/MSNBC/KPFA trance for a few days. The rest of the time I'm on the Internet trying to find out what's really going on.

Sometimes if I do my morning blog crawl, I snap out of it and think of something to write. It's not working today.

When I was three months old, my mother and father separated and mom & I moved in with her parents. Mom had to get a job. I lived with the constant injunction, don't bother grandmom & poppop or they won't let us live here. And don't bother me, I'm tired from work. Don't bother anyone.

Yesterday morning I heard this on Democracy Now.

A 21-year old US Citizen, Suraida Saleh, is gunned down by Israeli soldiers in Ramallah, with her 9 month old baby on her lap. The state department knows, but does nothing. Her father buries her in the hospital parking lot, because the morgue is overflowing and under the state of siege no one can get to the cemetery.

Amy Goodman interviewed Suraida's father and you could hear the baby crying in the background. It just cut into my heart. I couldn't stop crying.

I couldn't blog it yesterday, since there was no news about it. Today there's a mention in the NYT's. The State Department has yet to contact the family.

I remember, in the days after 9/11, it seemed difficult to concentrate or speak. When I went to Green Gulch it was beautiful, peaceful. And I felt better. But I thought about the fact that while I stood there in all that peace and beauty, horror and brutality were occurring all over the world. It doesn't serve anyone for me to be in a state of misery. In fact I think the world is served by me finding a way to stay centered and peaceful. But there are days when I just don't have the emotional reserves. My own problems and the larger problems of the world seem to melt together and it's all too much. I feel helpless and hopeless.

Yesterday was like that. I got calls and e-mails and comments from my lovely friends. Thank you. I'm lucky to know you all.

Fingertips on ledge. Elbow up. Knee swings over. She's almost there ladies and gentlemen. Having plummeted into the valley of darkness I am inching my way back up onto the ledge. From there...well...one step at a time.

I can't really turn it all off. It's not as simple as wanting to be informed, it's like the time I spend learning about it all, is the least I can do. Having said that...I know I need to limit how much time I spend watching CNN. And even ...listening to KPFA. Although, yesterday was Caroline Casey day. And she can be pretty fun.

I keep forgetting to mention that there is a new poem on the MFA page. Now it's Kristina, Christine and me. And you can comment there too.

1. What are the first things that you do in the morning to start your day? Make coffee. Get some Cherrios. Turn on the computer. Read my favorite blogs. Write my own page. Publish.
2. What are the last things that you do at night before going to bed? Brush my teeth. Read (from a book).
3. What daily routine have you recently added to your day? I drank a bottle of water before anything else. But I forgot to do it today. So much for routine.
4. What routine do you wish you get rid of? I don't really have routines, other than the morning reading/writing thing. And I like that one.
5. What's the one thing that makes you feel like something is missing if you don't do it some point within your day? Read.

20/20 did an advertisement for the gastric bypass surgery. Nothing but pro voices. One of the things that I always marvel at is how the after surgery life is shown. People are always working out. So why can't they work out before they submit to this risky surgery?

The woman had a food addiction. She didn't deal with it. Instead she submitted to this costly and risky surgery.

"Long-term risks include stomach ulcers, problems with the connection between the stomach and intestine. And then there are the whole series of nutritional problems as well."

That's a quote from the doctor that does the surgery. Ultimately he says people have to change their lifestyle. Uhhuh. So...then...why not...change your life style?

Here's what I think. I think that fat hatred is so virulent and discouraging that fat people live in a constant state of depression and rage and they blame themselves for how bad they feel. Some choose to self medicate and some use food to do that. I wish I thought doughnuts would cure my depression. I don't. But people, who do eat doughnuts, in an attempt to feel better about life, accept the idea that they are bad people and they need to endure something punitive. This surgery is punitive. It is painful and risky. They lose weight because if they eat too much their bodies punish them. They puke. Punitive. I've mentioned hearing about a woman who had the surgery and vomited so much, for so long, that now she has esophageal cancer. If you were going to do something on a "news" show...wouldn't you mention that side of the story?

And guess what. Some people, who have the surgery, manage to eat doughnuts, puking and all, and they gain back the weight.

"After undergoing gastric bypass surgery, people need to have support systems, and need long-term follow-up and annual visits for the rest of their life."

The good doctor again. How brilliant. People need support. Oh...and I wonder who benefits from the need for annual visits? They lose weight because they can't eat and they exercise and they get support. Why not get support, work on your food addictions, eat for health and pleasure, and work out?

I was depressed this week. You know what helped? I have people in my life that love me. Many have noticed I'm fat.

Fatshadow Reading Waiting
For the good doctor that
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I took Caltrain to visit Kristina. She told me what stop to get off at but I forgot. I only knew it had a funny rhythmic sounding name. So I was planning on getting off at Tamien, until I heard the conductor say Diridon. The minute I heard Di-ri-don, I knew I was wrong about Tamien. I jumped up and got off the train. And there was Kristina. Phew.

I released my first book. I had an extra copy because Kristina had purchased me one the same day I got my own copy. I left it in the Diridon station. My worse fear is that it'll end up in the lost n found. We'll see.

We went to a beach and walked around. And then she took me out to lunch. (Thank you) When I got up from the table, something in the back of my knee was just speaking to me. And it was not saying nice things. I hobbled to the car and took three Advil. It got better. I musta pulled something at the beach.

I forget I live in a city. SF has a small town feel to it sometimes. You travel on the same streets, day after day. But sitting on a train watching the skyline disappear, and then reappear, I remembered. It felt like a vacation. Being in motion is good for me. I remember that the world is big.

Write yourself. Your body must be heard. Only then will the immense resources of the unconscious spring forth. -H�l�ne Cixous

I was reading Mike Golby yesterday morning. I only read him when I have time to concentrate. He's an amazing writer and I love his perspective. He was angry/hurt about a comment that someone had left him. And he wrote a brilliant response. And then, there was a wave of comments in response to what he wrote, some of which took shots at the person who attacked him.

At first I was bugged. The person who attacked him has one of those blogs that is mostly fun, simple, personal. I've passed by it a few times and never book marked it. Mike's, on the other hand, I read often. But it bugged me that people were slamming this person.

One of the things I love about the net is the diversity. I love the mommy blogs, and the endless cat stories, and the goofy what-thus-n-such-character-are-you tests. I go to different blogs and journals for different reasons. And I didn't want this person to be jumped on by the "bigger,smarter kids."

But...Jeneane...added this comment. "Don't throw slurs around half-heartedly, and if you do, expect to be challenged."

Sigh. It's true. The person was careless with language. Mike is prolific and eloquent and care full.

We have leaders who put things in your either with us or against us terms. Lines are drawn everywhere. Sometimes I want to be in the debate and sometimes I want it all to stop.

I don't even know these people. I got caught up in a moment of their lives because of their language. When people ask me why I do my page and spend time reading blogs, I think about things like this. There is passion and humanity in abundance. This is a blog by a twelve year old. This is a story by Jeneane. And this...

I went to bed early. Woke up at 11 and could not sleep. Read until ... oh I don't know. I kept trying to sleep and when I couldn't I'd read some more. It drives me crazy when I can't sleep.

I may have emerged from this last bout of darkness with some new verve. It almost spooks me to write that - as if the minute I do I'll plummet again. But, I did some work on a writing project that I've had in the back of my mind for a while now, and did some writing for school.

It may also be owing to the fact that I'm reading a lot. I hadn't been able to concentrate on anything except the stuff that I read on line. Aaron told me to read The Song Lines and mentioned that he loved In Patagonia as well. Kristina bought me a copy of Winding Paths, a book of Chatwin photos. So, I've been wondering the earth with Mr. Chatwin. He writes some lovely sentences. In one section of In Patagonia, he write about the Yaghan language. Their word for depression was the same as the one used to describe the vulnerable phase in a crab's seasonal cycle. Works for me.

But I am trying to stay balanced. And, in my never ending attempt to eat more tofu, I made miso, tofu, kale soup and ate two big bowls of it. And drank water. And took my flax seed oil.

I wanted to like The Court. The first two shows were OK, despite a scene in which Ms. Field has a laughing fit that sounds like she's choking. It seemed like it might be a good show to wind down with after school. But last night they did a show on the death penalty. They seemed to be saying that yeah, innocent people are murdered by the state, but who we should feel sorry for is the poor folks in the legal system, the judges who follow the letter of the law and ignore the heart of the law. Yuck.

But I'm eating my tofu and burying my head in a book. Jeneane blogged this article on Blogsisters and it stirred up a bunch of thought for me. The central concept, for me, was that these women identify as deaf.

A few years ago I heard something about a poll in which folks were given a list of potential "problems" that their baby might be born with and asked if they knew ahead of time about the "problems" would they choose to abort. The poll tallied the numbers of - if your child had ____ and you knew, would you abort. One of the _____'s was fat. Many people would choose to abort their babied if they knew they would be fat.

I'm not a statistician and this is my web journal not a thesis, so I can't site it and I don't remember the numbers. I just remember the feeling I had when I heard it.

If you were born deaf you've never known what life without sound is like. How can those of us who can hear say that our experience is better? It seems arrogant. Obviously, I love my hearing, damaged as it is from my days in rock-n-roll. But I do not presume that my experience as a hearing person is better.

It brings up the debate in my own life - if I could be thin would I? My position on this is clear. No.

I've always been fat. The thinnest I've ever been was still fat. I've been thinner than I am now but I've always been fat. And since I live in a culture that hates fatness I've lived as a person with an attribute of physicality that the culture tried to convince me I should be ashamed of and try to change.

Much of who I am has been shaped (pun intended) by that experience. So, why would I want to work to reject that? If I knew my kids would be fat would I chose not to have them? And my kids would be fat, like my mother and her mother and her grandmother were fat.

I've learned a bit about deaf politics from my friend's Karen and Ari-Asha. Both are hearing women who do translation. I've seen many parallels in deaf political identity and fat political identity.

It seems to me that any individual life experience has its specific gifts. I don't know the gift of a deaf life, but I know the gift of a fat life.

Drat! Comments were down yesterday. I really can't feel mad about it. The guy that runs YACCS does it for nothing. But I wanted to read what people thought about deafness as identity. Comments were back up when I returned from school and I got a few.

I remember when I read She's Come Undone I was struck by the way the character refereed to her fat, as if it was something separate, not really her body. It's like women (and more and more men) have these mental exacto knives that they use to slice of the parts of their bodies that extend beyond a perceived line of acceptability. People do talk about their fat as if it's a separate thing.

For me, fat is an attribute of who I am. Being fat has influenced the way I am received in the world and so it has influenced the formation of my identity. I think it has given me the experience of being seen as "an other." Not normal.

I argue for a broader sense of what is considered normal, not because I think normal is that great of an idea, but because if things like fatness, or deafness, were read as normal expressions of diversity then we wouldn't look for ways to avoid or change them. We'd celebrate the experiences that they engender.

If you have a deaf friend you have to become more aware of how to communicate. You can't assume that they hear what is going on around them. If you are with them you notice the ways in which your experience is shaped by your hearing. You begin to hear with consciousness. That would be a gift of having a deaf friend.

When I was nineteen I was in an accident in which my foot was pulled under the wheel of a truck. It was pretty bad and I have a huge scar, but the doctor said that, perhaps, because I was fat, my foot was protected and not damaged to the extent that it could have been. That's a tangible gift of being fat. Other gifts are gifts of experience and a bit more difficult to describe. But they are about consciousness.

I think there is a way in which you can protect diversity and enjoy diversity but not read it as ... not normal. I'm all for throwing out the word normal all together.

I'm worried that all this sounds very abstract. It is about language and how we talk and think about things. But, for me, these women choosing to have a child who shared an attribute of their identity was not necessarily ... wrong. If they had been a deaf man and a deaf women choosing to have a baby who would likely be deaf I'm not sure they would get as much notice. Although, they might get some people telling them not to have a baby. I don't know. But these women had to get sperm from some where and they made a choice to get the sperm from someone in their community of identity.

Speaking of comments, I added them to the refrigerator door and the MFA page. Heh.

I was dusting. I have a collection of perfume bottles. Not as big as my salt-n-pepper shaker collection, but there are a few. And as much as I like all my little things...they are dust gathers. Anyway, I was dusting and I noticed the little perfume bottle that I bought for my mother when I was a kid.

It was Christmas and a department store (maybe Gimbals or Kaufmens) did a thing for kids. It was a little elf factory kinda thing and you went in and picked out the present that you wanted to buy for your parents. I found the perfume bottle and I was so excited. It's blue crystal, three sided, very sweet. I didn't have enough money and I went to ask my grandmother for more. She tried to talk me out of it and was all mad because they were selling a perfume bottle with no perfume. She didn't see the beauty. After much fussing, she did give me the money. My mom said she liked it, but I don't think she really understood a perfume bottle with no perfume. I come from practical women.

It wasn't a big trauma but I do remember it. I remember the feeling of wanting to get this beautiful treasure for my mom, and my grandmother's irritation with the store for selling a kid a high priced bottle, and mom trying to be happy about the gift. I was visiting her a few years ago and she gave it to me. She wasn't mean about it. She knows I have these perfume bottles and that I like that sort of thing.

My heart is blown open. I did a Day Pop search on Michael Lerner and Cornel West because I wanted to write about their demonstration in front of the State department. The only thing I had been able to find was this insulting Salon article. And I saw Mike Golby's page in the links. I wanted to see what Mike had to say about it so I clicked and ...there is my name and my words. Pow. I bit my lip. Felt a wave of worry that I had written badly and said something that Mike might have taken in an unkind way. But no. He writes about me in a way that I only hope I am.

Oh yeah...and Lerner and West did a demonstration in front of the state department. I'm still in a swoon from seeing my name on Mike's blog so I'm not even going to try to write much more except to say, in response to the salon article, who needs a microphone when you have a blog.

bobbi is celebrating her site birthday. Celebrating by giving us her amazing art. Thank you, bobbi!

I've been negligent. I shoulda talked about this earlier in the week in case anyone might want to go. There was this Examiner piece. I've been irritated by the fact that I couldn't find the poster on line. Big Dance has a site, as does Big Moves, but not with this poster. I'm never sure my scans work, since I don't take the time to understand pixel counts. But I scanned the postcard so it could be seen on line, even if only by the folks that stop by for my silliness.

Some of the comments about the poster, as read in the article, made me cranky. "Oh ...they're really fat!" Gee da ya think?

Oprah did a repeat of her whatit'sliketobefat show, featuring the women from The Size of It. I don't know why I watched it since it pissed me off so much the first time.

Can I just say one thing? (Why yes Tish, it's your page...you can say as many things as you want.) If every women who had ever been molested was fat...there would be many more fat women. Women don't get fat because they were molested. They get fat because 1, they have a genetic predisposition to be fat and 2,3,4,5 etc., there are a multitude of things that happen in a body. No one knows why people get fat. Diet and exercise are not the only factors. Even Oprah says diets don't work.

If you haven't read much of the health at any size material and only hear the surgeon general you may be scratching your head thinking what is she ranting about?

I just get so bugged with Oprah looking for "the reason" people are fat in their psychology. It may be a factor, but fatness is an attribute of physicality. People are tall and short. People are a gender. People have nose shapes, skin colors, eye colors, moles, toes that curl up in different ways. People are fat.

And the show was full of fat hatred that went unchallenged. A mother buys kitchen chairs that her daughter can't fit into and professes ignorance. A "best friend" is honest enough ( I'm choking now) to admit that she is embarrassed by her fat friend's weight. A mother says she is embarrassed by her fat daughter in public. FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU.

I'm going to see the fat dancers tonight. I'm hoping it's going to be fat Xanadu. I'm going to watch fat women do art in a way that they have been told they can not do it...with their bodies.

The Dancing was great! The naked fat girl image from the poster was from a piece in which they strike a variety of poses and look like a live sculpture or a painting by Rubens or Titian. It was art.

Fat Chance Belly Dance was great, as always. And the group from Big Moves were wonderful. Marilyn was the cutest! I guess I could be more descriptive but ... it was just great to see fat bodies in motion.

How bout Venezuela? They have the president they want. Not the one chosen for them by the oil companies. Hmmm.

Elaine and Jeneane both wrote about not wanting to write about world affairs or take sides. I rarely feel incompetent to opine on these things but I do have strong feelings. When I came home last night I clicked on CNN and heard about Venezuela and Powell's visit with Arafat. I watched the video of the suicide bomber. It all enters my heart and I have strong visceral reactions. I run to the places I trust for insight, knowing that they have their bias. I figure I get the other bias on CNN. It doesn't seem as simple as taking sides. It doesn't seem simple at all.

It's hard to write about Tapas and dancers and not mention that while I have a lovely night in SF with lovely friends, the world is engaged in something large and horrifying and fragile. Mentioning it doesn't do much. It may be my way of reassuring myself. Imagining that being aware of it all is enough.

Shelly wrote about thinking about it all while waiting to cross the Golden Gate bridge.

"With these thoughts in my mind, I look up and see that the fog still lingers at the Bridge, but decide to hell with it -- if I wait for clear days I'll never cross Golden Gate. As I start to cross, I am met with a totally unexpected view: the fog has somehow formed a tunnel over and around the Bridge, but the road itself is clear."

One of the dancers from Big Dance, Terryl Atkins, went swimming with us. It was great having a chance to talk with her. She's very cool.

My head has been full of thoughts about fat identity. There is a moment in life when a fat person decides that they aren't going to go on a diet for the 800th time. They're going to attempt to accept their bodies and get on with life. But, generally, they still want to be thin.

I've talked about hearing the line "there will come a time when you won't even be ashamed if you are fat." in a Frank Zappa song. I was fifteen and it was thrilling. And there was Cass. Hippie culture gave me these kooky ideas about my body. My body was beautiful and loveable at any size. I didn't really belive them but I hoped they were true. But, I also hoped I could be be thin.

I had my rock-n-roll band, Fatshadow. I tried to be bold and exude self acceptance. But, I was still hoping I'd be thin.

I worked out in gyms, lived on pineapple, hiked though the mountains of India, shoved cocaine up my nose. I processed my inner pain. I wrote affirmations about loving my body. I stayed fat.

At a certain point hoping for a size positive world and pretending I loved my fat body became the louder voices and I started questioning my desire to be thin. And there was this inner click. It was decades in the making. I am fat. It is an attribute of my physicality. The reasons begin in my DNA and are layered with the effects of my attempts to be thin. I am not to blame. I am not ashamed. In fact...I'm proud.

It's an odd positioning when substantive parts of your identity form around an attribute of your physicality. Odd and essential for those of us who are shunted to the margins. We won't stay in those margins any more.

But those of us who come out of the margins bear a different kind of weight. The first dance company of fat dancers, the first fat Olympian, the first fat aerobics teacher. When people challenge the assumptions of popular culture, especially those assumptions that prop up a cash cow, those people become icons. The hopes of so many depend on their success.

Swimming and having lunch took an inordinate amount of time. I didn't really get much done when I got home. So today I must write and write.

So....hours ago...I finished writing a lovely little page... if I do say so myself.

I don't think I can reconstruct the original. I don't even know if I want to. I was writing about writing, since that's what I did most of yesterday and I was feeling pretty pleased with myself. But it was a little hyper meta, I suppose.

"When people are humiliated, and have no homes to return to because the homes have been destroyed by the occupying army, When people are humiliated, and have no family to hold them in their arms because they have been shot and unable to get medical care, When people are humiliated, and have no hope for the future, They see no alternative to violence."

"Nonviolence is also about not judging people as we perceive them to be � that is, a murderer is not born a murderer; a terrorist is not born a terrorist. People become murderers, robbers and terrorists because of circumstances and experiences in life. Killing or confining murders, robbers, terrorists, or the like is not going to rid this world of them. For every one we kill or confine we create another hundred to take their place. What we need to do is dispassionately analyze both the circumstances that create such monsters and how we can help eliminate those circumstances. Focusing our efforts on the monsters, rather than what creates the monsters, will not solve the problems of violence."

"How can working with the "dark side" help here? Again I submit that if you believe darkness is a given part of our nature, then denying that is meant to be a part of our lives can leave us unbalanced, less than whole. Everyone knows someone who has gone to extremes in their lifestyle or belief system; the pendulum swing from angel to devil -- from atheist to zealot. When all around us is evidence of polarity in the wholeness of nature, denying our other half can be neurotic folly."

All this came together for me as I faced the prospect of rewriting my page. One of my responses to the misery of listening to CNN is to make some kind of attempt at understanding my own violence. I'll let ya know how that goes.

There may be a person, or two, who stop by my page on Wednesday to see if I'll write about the lockjaw expression on my face from the night before. Or maybe they didn't notice. Maybe I masked it well. There may be a time when concealing your emotions keeps you out of jail. Heh.

Kelly Rock Hill sent some poems for the MFA page. You can leave her some lovely comments. Or send her e-mail to tell her how wonderful her poems are. So far the only people who send me stuff are the poets.

"This is what facile comparisons do--they nullify understanding the complexity of the observed phenomena by a rush of outrage heating the throat and staining the adversary with the vomit of borrowed or vicarious condemnation." - Breyten Breytenbach

In class last night we were discussing The Things They Carried. I found it difficult to jump into the conversation. For the most part, I agreed with everything people were saying. It's a well written book that, for me, accomplishes one thing. It sustains complexity. It neither glorifies war nor does it take an anti war position. It is an anti war book for me but that's just my reaction to hearing about young men with guns, far away from home, trying to stay alive. But the book is about telling a war story and the tenderness of that task.

So, how do we do this? How do I wake up and check for news from the front and then write about how annoying my bus ride to school was? The only thing that I want to write is the thing that makes it stop. But I'm not that inspired.

I support a two state solution. I support the right of return. I support the existence of the Jewish homeland. I can't imagine how these two peoples are going to live together after all they've done to each other. But someone has to imagine something.

I get nervous when things are divided by two. You're either with us or against us. You're pro Palestinian or pro Israeli. You're a war blogger or a peace blogger.

I was awake late reading The Song Lines. I'd was just about bored with it (which says more about my state of mind than the book) and then in the middle of the book Chatwin is temporarily stranded in the middle of Australia. He sits down at a desk and pulls out his note books. Then a section of the book is from those note books. It's pretty amazing. It's about writing. It never says...this is the way to write...but it shows the things that Chatwin thought important enough to make note of, and the ways in which he does that.

Chatwin is almost absent as the narrator in In Patagonia and The Song Lines. He's the one seeing and hearing and asking the questions and through those things you know a bit about how he feels. But, really, you are just seeing though his eyes and words and you are left to your own responses.

So entering into his notebooks is like entering into his heart. His concerns are about being perennially restless. He writes about being on the move and the metaphysical implications and the variety of things that one witnesses and how that all adds up and feeds a personal theology, or mythology, or pathology.

I've moved around a bit. It always felt like I was moving to avoid suicide. My helplessness became overwhelming and I moved. I put all my hope in the catalyst of movement. In the first days of travelling I feel free. I can feel the tension of who ever I have been slipping away and I feel free to recreate who I am.

But who I am has consistent patterns some of which I've deconstructed, some of which still tyrannize my heart, some of which I value.

Reading the Chatwin notebooks settled me into deep ruminations. And I noticed a synchronisity in his reverence for walking and Wanderlust. Since I don't drive I have always walked. But as my knees deteriorate I walk less and less. And I feel the loss. So I was determined to walk this morning.

Then, in the middle of the night, I rolled over and my knee popped. Gawdfuckingdammit. It hurt so bad. And I woke up having dreams that I had moved back to New York.

KPFA did a day of reporting on the Middle East, featuring reports from Jenin. I sat in paralysis listening to it all. After reading Mike's blog and because of some discussion in The Song Lines of Aboriginal notions of the land, their rights and song lines, I am rethinking my support for the two state solution. I think I just want some acknowledgment of the rights of both Jews and Palestinians to live where they live. And, sometimes, I am foolish enough to imagine that can be delineated by the demarcation of land. Clearly that does not work. I am still clear about the right of return. So, then how do that many people even fit in a small amount of space with limited resources? And how does the state encourage truth and reconciliation?

What's your favorite TV show and why? I like the West Wing. I like to pretend that it's the real White House. I like Dark Angel, (a fact that confuses me). But the truth is I mostly watch the Supes all week and Book TV on the weekend. I don't so much watch it all as I have it on in the back ground while I'm reading blogs. Heh.
Who is your favorite television star? Camryn Manheim.
What was your favorite TV show as a child? I watched movies on Saturday with Shirley Temple. And then I would dance and sing around the house.
What show do you think should have been cancelled by now? Uh...I don't have enough web space to start that list.
What new show do you hope escapes the axe this season? I...um...just don't care.

Television is a good drug. I'll be the first to admit that I enjoy zoning out with a little shiny story. And I often have the television on in the back ground, a particularly bad habit. I have the radio on in the morning and switch to the TV in the afternoon and evening. I do listen to many of those kooky