Max Yasgur's Farm

Nothing will make you feel older than having a twenty-something co-worker ask you if you were at Woodstock. My reply, "No, I was too young," was given a look of skepticism.

 

Forty-three years ago this week, hundreds of thousands of young people belonging to the hippie generation descended upon Yasgur's farm. And, although I was too young to go to the festival, I remember it like it was yesterday. Watching the movie that was released the following year was as thrilling for me as the live performance. Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Joe Cocker, The Grateful Dead, The Who, Jefferson Airplane, and Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young - all the biggest names in rock-n-roll history.

The movie altered my already liberal outlook on life and influenced my decision to become a budding flower child. I developed a school girl crush on Arlo Guthrie, Country Joe McDonald, and Alvin Lee, their posters were plastered on the walls in my bedroom.

Young Hippies, Tracy and Brother Steve 1971
Arlo Guther strumming guitar behind us

 The festival was a pivotal moment in the turbulent sixties, not only for the music, but because of the incredible demonstration of sharing and caring that was prevalent throughout the three-day peace and love fest. We may have Lollapalooza today, but we will never have another Woodstock.

An Insincere Apology

A watered-down apology from Rush Limbaugh to Sandra Fluke only solidifies my belief that he is a despicable misogynist. He started off by saying, “I did not mean a personal attack on Ms. Fluke.” And you know what? I believe that. I don’t think it was meant as a personal attack on Sandra Fluke, either. I know that it was an attack on all women.  Limbaugh then proceeded with his disingenuous apology by saying, “My choice of words was not the best, and in an attempt to be humorous, I created a national stir. I sincerely apologize to Ms. Fluke for the insulting word choices.” Limbaugh’s dark side is now fully exposed, his cavernous mouth continues to spew venom.

Humorous? Calling a woman a “slut”, a “prostitute”, and a “feminazi” is his idea of humor? Suggesting that she should have to make sex tapes and post them online so we can all watch is something that he thinks will amuse his listeners? By admitting that he meant to be humorous, he is verbalizing, once again, his sexist contempt toward women and by minimizing the impact of his choice of words; he is not apologizing at all.  His three-day rant goes beyond name-calling; it is an extension of his personal view on women.

Rick Santorum, on the other hand, refuses to apologize for his stance on birth control, particularly his support of the now defeated Blunt amendment, which would have allowed employers the right to deny contraception and other health coverage based on moral reasons. Santorum acknowledged that he believes birth control is morally wrong and that employers should be able to opt out of covering it. “I’m reflecting the views of the church that I believe in,” he said. His religious belief that birth control is morally wrong pushes women’s health and contraception issues back fifty years—an unthinkable setback for Women’s Rights and a horrifying glimpse at what could become reality if Santorum, who also does not believe in the separation of church and state, were to be elected as the President of the United States.

Right-wing Republicans are becoming increasingly bolder in their war against women. The 2012 election is becoming about women, and regardless of whether they are a democrat or a republican, women must stay informed about the political issues and the candidates stances. We gained the right to vote in 1920 and we should honor that right.

Sopapipa

 I love a sugary, crispy, deep-fried sopapipa with cinnamon and honey.  Oh... wait a minute, that would be a sopapilla. Something sweet and palatable. Something  that SOPA and PIPA are not.

We live in a world of acronyms that effortlessly  slip off our tongues and sometimes disguise or minimize the intent of an organization or group. Stop Online Piracy Act catches my attention while SOPA did not. Protest Intellectual Property Act (PIPA)  makes me wonder...what is this about? I'm sure there were a lot of people today who were unaware of these two House bills until they sought information from Google or Wikipedia and saw a blacked out Google logo and a shut down Wikipedia site. Google and Wikipedia are protesting the expansion of U.S. law enforcement to include online copyright infringement. The provisions of these bills would include requesting court orders to ban web search engines from linking to certain websites, and would require that internet service providers block access to the websites. The proposed law would have expanded existing criminal laws to include unauthorized streaming of copyrighted content, imposing a maximum penalty of five years in prison.

Who requested that SOPA and PIPA bills be drawn up to put the squeeze on the sale of pirated United States products via the internet? The film and music industry,of course. SONY to be exact. Like these guys don't make enough money? Let's pick on the Kardashians for example. They can't sing, dance, or act, but are worth hundreds of  millions collectively, and we can only imagine what financial horrors might happen to their nine-digit incomes, or to BravoTV network, or NBC,  if a bored late-night viewer in Italy illegally downloaded one of their episodes. This is my own generalization, but this is what SOPA and PIPA are really about.  More money, more money, more money. The film and music industries make untold billions from lucrative royalties and they want more. Sony is not satisfied.

If the legislation were passed, a provision would be to enable federal authorities to block sites accused of piracy or copyright infringement. Not convicted, but accused. Sounds a bit Big Brotherish, doesn't it? The vagueness of the bill would definitely have an impact on online freedoms. Though not a supporter of piracy,  I am definitely a proponent of freedom of speech and expression and believe the government should not have the right to regulate the internet. Everyone should have the right to free internet material without having to pay for it. I am aware that there are some websites you have to pay for and rightly so. They are not for the general public, and are separate from the issues I am addressing.

The bold protest by Wikipedia in shutting down for twenty-four hours with the message -  "Imagine a World Without Free Knowledge." I can't. Contact your local Congressperson and let them know you do not support SOPA or PIPA. The First Amendment is worth fighting for.

The Shame of Penn State

A Pennsylvania Grand Jury has released a report alleging that sexual crimes against young boys were committed by Jerry Sandusky between the years of 1994 through 2009. Sandusky admitted in an interview that he took showers with the boys, touched their thighs, and “enjoyed horsing around with them.” In 2002, Mike McQueary, a graduate assistant, witnessed Sandusky sodomizing a young boy in the shower. Not touching his thigh. Not horsing around. A brutal rape. McQueary reported what he saw to Coach Joe Paterno, who in turn reported the abuse to Penn State’s Athletic Director. The result? Nothing. There was no further investigation by university staff, no police report filed, no trauma counseling for the wounded child.

As an advocate for victims of abuse, I was naturally disturbed when I heard about these horrendous allegations of child sexual abuse, but I was equally dismayed when I watched Penn State student’s reactions to the firing of long-time coach, Joe Paterno. It saddened me to realize that these young people did not understand the severity of the allegations.

The effects of sexual abuse are long-term, far-reaching, and devastating for the victims. Children who have experienced sexual abuse battle a multitude of psychological problems. They suffer from depression, anxiety, low self-esteem, and social and emotional developmental damage. They themselves may become sexual predators and perpetrators, continuing the demoralizing cycle of abuse. They practice self-medication with illicit drugs and alcohol in order to block disturbing feelings, forget disgusting memories, and numb emotional pain. In 1998, the National Institute on Drug Abuse reported that as many as two-thirds of people in drug treatment programs reported being abused as children. The child’s psychological problems often manifest into high-risk behaviors, including promiscuity and prostitution. In their adult relationships they struggle with intimacy and trust issues. Victims must receive counseling to deal with the emotional trauma and follow-up with psychological support throughout the healing process.

It is critical that any act, or suspected act, of sexual or physical abuse be reported immediately to the proper authorities. This is the shame of Penn State University. Their failure to act allowed a child molester to continue his systematic sexual attacks upon vulnerable, innocent young boys.

The grand jury indictment against Jerry Sandusky is very specific and graphic with credible witnesses. My hope is that the notoriety of this particular case will educate the public about the mandatory reporting laws that define state roles in protecting children from abuse.

Geronimo, Union Workers, and General Miles: Six Degrees of Separation

On September 4, 1886, Geronimo surrendered for the final time to government troops, ending three decades of war between the Chiricahua Apache leader and the United States cavalry. Between 1874 and 1886, Geronimo had been captured and/or surrendered several times, and each time, he escaped and continued to fight for ownership of his native land. His surrender in 1886 was to General Nelson A. Miles, who had recently replaced General Crook in the quest to bring in the Apache chief. General Miles pursued Geronimo over three thousand miles of scorching desert terrain and deep into the treacherous Sierra Madre Mountains before negotiating a surrender that exiled Geronimo and his followers to the state of Florida.

Tomorrow, September 5th, is Labor Day, a holiday first celebrated in 1883 in New York City. In 1885, the Central Labor Union designated the first Monday in September as Labor Day and the observance spread from city to city and from state to state. In 1894, with the approval of Congress, it became a legal holiday honoring American workers for their contributions to the economic prosperity of our developing nation. The holiday was first proposed by the labor movement, but disagreement persists to this day as to which union leader can take the credit—Peter McGuire, Brotherhood of Carpenters and Joiners, or Matthew Maguire, International Association of Machinists. McGuire, also the co-founder of the American Federation of Labor (AFL), gave a moving speech proposing a federal holiday to credit those “who from rude nature have delved and carved all the grandeur we behold.”

The epitome of grandeur at this time was the Pullman Sleeping Car, a luxury rail car designed and manufactured by entrepreneur George Pullman. The sleeping cars were a lavish display of rich décor - patterned carpets, tasseled draperies, gold-gilded accessories, and velvet upholstered furniture. Some cars came with separate libraries and sleeping quarters and offered the services of a porter, known as the Pullman Porter, which led to the creation of yet another union; the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters, comprised of African-American males.

Congress passed the Labor Day Federal Holiday act after the workers at the Pullman Company, along with the American Railway Union (ARU), staged a strike against the Pullman Company for cutting factory worker’s wages while continuing to charge high rents to the workers. Pullman had created a city outside his factory and all his workers were required to live there and rent from him, even purchasing their food and gas from his profitable stores. The embittered workers and the ARU began a boycott of all Pullman sleeper cars. In four days, 125,000 workers on twenty-nine railroads across the country refused to handle Pullman cars, the factory workers walked out, and the first nationwide labor strike in the history of the United States was underway.

Edwin Walker, Counsel for the Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul Railway, obtained a court injunction that prohibited the union leaders from supporting the boycott. The ARU ignored the injunction and continued with the strike. President Grover Cleveland then sent in federal troops to force a shutdown of the strike. Thousands of U.S. Army soldiers descended upon the strikers; killing thirteen and wounding fifty-seven others. The Pullman Strike came to a bloody end.

Who was the U.S. Army Commander who led the U.S. soldiers in their attack against the Pullman strikers? General Nelson A. Miles.

I came, I saw, I retreated.

I experienced a twenty-four hour sensory extravaganza in downtown Denver this weekend where the sport of people-watching rivals that found in Times Square. I was on a mission: to determine whether or not I could live in a metro loft above crowds of people bustling about day and night and endure the dissonance of car horns, sirens, multi-genre music, and seasonal roar of Coors Field spectators. I would also test the waters of the twice daily bumper-to-bumper rush hour commute on I-70.

After checking into the Sheraton Hotel for a complimentary stay (see Categories/Travel/Feb 07, 2011/Beware! Vampire Bugs) and studying the map the concierge gave me, I started out on-foot for the LoDo District. Five blocks later, sweat trickling down the back of my neck and knees, I boarded the 16^th Street Mall Shuttle en route to Union Station.

Within minutes, three teenage boys jumped on, cursing and maligning someone who was, by now, out of sight. Obnoxious and vulgar, armed with attitudes meant to intimidate, they were intent upon dominating the shuttle’s small space as they blocked the rear door, ignoring the physical shifting of apprehensive tourists and apathetic locals. I observed the trio of angry adolescent males and noticing that each had a slight physical disfigurement marring their appearance, I speculated that they had been fighting for their rank in life since they were young school boys.

Walking back to the hotel, I came upon two young black men, around ages 18 or 19, talking to two very young white girls - one with spikey dark purple hair and the other with pink and black streaks mixed in with her long blonde locks. I could easily overhear their conversation.

“See ya, later. Nice meeting ya.” The taller of the two grabbed his friend’s arm, pulling him away from the girls.

“What the fuck was that?” his friend protested. “They were hot. They wanted us, man. What the...”

“Yeah, right. That’s what you call trouble. If I called my mama at work and said, ‘Hey, Mama, I just picked up two fourteen-year-old white girls and I’m bringin’ ‘em home’, she would say, ‘The hell you are! Are you crazy boy?’ An, she right. That’s trouble, man. That’s what that is.”

“So, don’t tell her they white!” his friend argued.

“It’s not the color man, it’s the age, the age. Forget about them. They trouble. C’mon, the night is waitin’ on us.” His overall manner was in sharp contrast to the three on the shuttle; he had an air of confidence and sincerity, characteristics that his mama had undoubtedly instilled in him by taking the time to teach her boy the importance of values and the existence of right and wrong.

I had several appointments to view lofts and when I finished with that, I sauntered down the city blocks - watching street performers, chatting with a roadie setting up an outdoor stage for a rock-n-roll band that would be performing for a charity benefit, and finally selecting the outside patio at Willie G’s Steak and Seafood to rest and eat dinner. After all the walking and eavesdropping, I was famished. Willie’s signature seafood trio salad called out to me – shrimp remoulade, smoked salmon, and cold jumbo shrimp served on top of beefsteak tomatoes. I downed a bottle of Pellegrino water and savored a glass of Moet & Chandon champagne while continuing to watch the pedestrian parade. Couples strolled by hand-in-hand, their  eyes locked and chemistry sizzling, while others walked with a foot of space between them, unaware that their body language indicated to others that their passion for one another was waning. I watched as the homeless trudged by with downcast eyes, burdened with heavy backpacks and sorrow. Teenage girls shared secrets that made them giggle at the awkward, boisterous boys who vied for their attention. All would be my neighbors if I chose to become a downtown dweller.

The lofts I viewed were amazing with exposed brick walls, granite counters, wood floors, and private courtyards or rooftop swimming pools, but after one day I was ready to head northwest, back to my son’s apartment with its unobstructed view of the Rockies and uncongested streets. Saying a prayer of thanks as I turned onto Highway 36 West, I retreated to the mountains.  My housing search continues, but the lofty fantasy of downtown living is over.

Denver or Bust

I am in the midst of a move to the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. My weekend was spent sorting clothes, shoes, coats, and toiletries into piles of yes, no, and maybe. How many bottles of shampoo and conditioner does one woman need? I didn't realize how out of control my fragrances had become, either. Expensive designer perfumes and lotions purchased over the past twenty years that I have been stubbornly hanging onto even though they probably smell like hell now. Three contractor bags later, I feel like my personal belongings are manageable and moveable.

After move number seventy, I vowed to quit counting...and I did. This move is hovering somewhere around ninety, but I am not sure. The very first time I left my home state of South Dakota I was nineteen years old and I landed in Denver. I am now moving back. Have I come full circle in my travels? Is this where I will weather out my final years? I have no way of knowing at this juncture. Oglala Lakota nomadic blood still courses through my veins, pumping adrenaline along with red and white blood cells, promising excitement, challenge, and change. Where will I unpack this time? House? Condo? Townhome? Apartment? I don't prefer the latter, yet a tiny voice keeps whispering "Downtown loft"—a lifestyle I have yet to try. This thought has been nagging me since my trip to New York City in January. Moving to Manhattan is not financially feasible, but the notion of not having to drive everywhere appeals to me. I can see me walking out of a newly renovated historical warehouse into the heart of the arts district, drinking mocha latte and reading the morning news perched upon a stool in the local java house, returning after work to eat Eggplant Parmigiano at an Italian bistro, and then walking a block to my spacious loft to watch the sun slip behind the Rockies. These romantic ruminations fuel the fire that is necessary to perform the drudgery of purging and packing.

In reality, where I live in the Denver area will depend on where I find employment. I have numerous resumes floating in cyberspace and have had several promising phone interviews. There will be no change in my career path. I am sticking to what I know and where I excel—construction, architecture, and design—and with Denver currently booming in the energy market, ranking fourth in the world after Dubai, Calgary, and Rio de Janeiro,* there are new positions being created in my field.

The job market may be hot for me, but the decision to relocate to Denver came from my heart. I miss my little family who moved here earlier this year. In their absence, my inner joy has gradually subsided. I can’t bear to be separated from my granddaughter’s smile, laughter, and contagious enthusiasm for life, and I know the cure for this temporary melancholy. And so, a new chapter unfolds.

* Colorado Energy News, July 5^th, 2011. Denver Top Five Hub for Oil and Gas Professionals. Staff reporter.

"Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn"

 

Has there ever, in Hollywood history, been a more handsome rakish man or enticing manipulative woman? Has any other onscreen couple engaged in so many passionate squabbles? I don't think so. Entranced with the love story at age fourteen, I made this movie an annual "must watch" for many years, never tiring of watching Rhett Butler's devilish smile as he pulls  Scarlett to his chest, "Scarlett! Look at me! I've loved you more than I've ever loved any woman and I've waited for you longer than I've ever waited for any woman. Here's a soldier of the South who loves you, Scarlett. Wants to feel your arms around him, wants to carry the memory of your kisses into battle with him. Never mind about loving me, you're a woman sending a soldier to his death with a beautiful memory. Scarlett! Kiss me!"

That is all that we saw in the film—grasping, kissing, and morning-after gloating, but it was enough for me, and for the millions of other women who have watched the movie "Gone with the Wind" in the past seventy decades. I'm sure there have been almost as many men who have watched the film (at the insistence of their significant other) but I don't think they find it as titillating as a woman does.

Margaret Mitchell's Pulitzer Prize winning book, one of the best-selling novels in history, was published in June 1936, supposedly on this very day, and remains a timeless classic. David O. Selznick, Hollywood producer, knew a winner when he read one and wasted no time in purchasing the film rights to her book for $50,000.00. The production cost of the movie was 3.9 million and in 2010 (with inflation adjustment) had grossed 2.9 billion dollars. The classic film won ten academy awards. Vivien Leigh won Best Actress, but Clark Gable, up against Robert Donat for "Goodbye, Mr. Chips", did not win Best Actor. Humph. Hattie McDaniel won Best Supporting Actress, which made her the first African-American actress to be nominated and to win.

The accolades do not stop there. Mitchell gave us the unforgettable line, "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn," which was voted the #1 movie line of all time in 2005 by the American Film Institute.

Sadly, Mitchell did not live to write another novel. In 1949, at the age of 48, she was struck, and killed, by a drunken driver while crossing Peachtree Street in Atlanta, Georgia. The driver was convicted of involuntary manslaughter and served eleven months in prison. I am grateful she was on this earth long enough to write her glorious tale of the old south.

My Father's Shoulders

1956

 In America, we set aside the third Sunday in June to honor our paternal clan members. Although the statistics are hard to come by because the US Census Bureau has not gathered data on divorce or remarriage since 1990, it is assumed that there are now nearly as many stepfamilies as there are biological families. A quick look around at a family gathering will often confirm how prevalent blended families are in today's society. In 2011, it is not uncommon for a man to be both a father and a stepfather, but it wasn't the norm back in the 1950s when my mother, a divorced woman with three children, married my dad.

He adopted my older sister, brother, and me two years after their marriage; four biological children followed, and we were raised as one family. Father provided food, shelter, clothing, wisdom, and comfort throughout our childhood and this continued into our adult years if the need arose.  I have never looked upon my father as a stepparent—he is the only father I have ever known. Some biological fathers do not accept their child-rearing responsibilities or acknowledge their own children and a child is fortunate when a stepfather assumes the role. Often, it is not the bloodline, but the decency, integrity, and trustworthiness of the adoptive parent or stepparent that forms and solidifies a lifelong bond with the child.

Although, our family has had many challenges—family dynamics are difficult even for flesh and blood kin—we all recognize and honor one father; the stoic man who worked for the federal government for twenty-eight years to provide for and care for his family. We are blessed that he is still with us and I am grateful to be going to my sister's house today to celebrate his contribution to our lives.

Happy Father's Day, Daddy. I love you.

They Play Music in Heaven

For sweet baby Bionca. A song for a child from a child.

Video by RollercoasterMania

Quinn Sullivan and Buddy Guy at the Egg in Albany, NY, March 31, 2100

Devasting news today. I am at a loss for words, so I will post this video for a little angel who no longer walks with us. There is a time and a place for Blues and never has that time been more appropriate than today.

Yesterday, driving home from Colorado after visiting my son and his family, I was listening to BB King's Bluesville on Sirius XM. Bill Wax was interviewing the legendary bluesman, Buddy Guy. With Buddy was his protégé of four years—Quinn Sullivan. In 2007, Quinn went to a Buddy Guy concert with his father and was asked to come up on stage by Buddy. When Buddy heard the eight-year-old play guitar there was no turning back. They have been jamming together ever since. They played this live recording on Sirius in the studio and I was deeply moved by this young man's talent—his tender voice and amazing guitar riffs. I want to share it with you.

If you are reading this post, please say a prayer for a father and mother who tragically lost their little girl today. Hold your children and grandchildren extra tight tonight, be patient with them, give them a kiss and tell them how much you love them. We never know what tomorrow may bring.

Osama bin Laden's Death Does Not Bring Closure for Everyone

I interviewed a friend this morning who was an FBI agent during the 9/11 terrorist attacks. She agreed to talk about her experience and requested anonymity. I will call her Ann.

*

Tracy: The death of Osama bin Laden is a significant event and I wanted to talk to you because you were involved with the clean-up after 9/11. The media is reporting "a sense of closure." Are you feeling a sense of closure?

Ann: When I watched the news last night, I didn't feel a sense of closure at all. I felt numb. I thought that maybe it was because I was tired and I would feel differently today, but I don't feel any different. I still have no sense of closure. I hear that people are dancing in the streets, but I don't feel like dancing.

Tracy: Why do you think that is?

Ann: I am grateful that a very evil man is no longer alive, but I can't help but feel it is still not over. He has loyal supporters who are still very much alive. But, it's more than that.

Tracy: What is it?

Ann: I worked the night shift at the Pentagon. We worked twelve hour days, seven days a week recovering body remains and important government and military documents. Beside the Pentagon building was a large platform. We would bring the debris out of the hole and lay it on the platform to sift through it. The hole was lit up with enormous light fixtures that turned the night sky into day, enabling us to work around the clock. Families of the deceased and missing would come by at all hours of the day and night and they were allowed up on the platform. The Red Cross and Salvation Army had tents set up with food and water for the agents and workers. One night, during my shift, I had an overwhelming sense of fatigue and hunger and, you know, just burn-out, and I was on my way to the tent. Golf carts shuttled us back and forth. Sitting in the golf cart, I had a clear view of the platform. On the platform, with the bright lights behind them, stood a little boy and little girl - I would guess they were ages four and two. The boy was dressed in a suit and the little girl in her best dress. Their mother was taking a picture of them. This was a moment of clarity for me and I forgot all about being hungry and tired and remembered why I was doing this. It was so obvious that these children had lost their father in the Pentagon attack. They stood there, solemn, out of respect for their father who had suddenly been taken from them. This photograph would define their lives. (Long Pause) And the injustice of what this man had done..(her voice breaks)...this psychopath who ordered this horrific attack on the United States... I'm sorry...(heavy-hearted sigh).

Tracy: That's okay. Take your time. (I dab my eyes.)

Ann: That little boy and little girl are burned into my memory and when I recall what happened on 9/11, this is the picture I see. It was an honor for me to recover the victims' remains and treat them with the respect and care they deserved. (Pause) I don't feel like celebrating or dancing. Today, there is a twelve-year-old girl and fourteen-year-old boy who have been raised without a father. Every person who lost a loved one that day will have their own closure. When the time is right for them. Bin Laden's death closes a chapter, but it does not bring a total sense of closure. His followers...what are they going to do?

Tracy: That was my first thought as well. I'm sorry I've brought up painful memories, but I truly appreciate you sharing this with me. You have provided a personal perspective for the tragedy ten years ago and to what happened yesterday.

Ann: No, that's fine...it's okay. I'm glad to do it. This memory is the human side of FBI work. We're trained to close off emotion and to distance ourselves from the case and this memory is what I carry with me as an emotional, feeling person.

Tracy: Thank you so much.

Ann: Of course.

Tracy: Is there anything else you would like to say?

Ann: The fact that he was killed while hiding out in a mansion disturbs me. He was too...comfortable. He used a woman as a human body shield to protect himself. I hope his followers will see what a coward he was. He died a coward. That's about it.

*

New York City, the World Trade Center, the Twin Towers, the North Tower, the South Tower, Ground Zero. These are all landmarks we have heard mentioned time and again when referring to the terrorist attack on September 11, 2001. Some of us may forget that one hundred twenty-five civilians and military personnel lost their lives while working in the Pentagon that day. If anything, the death of Osama bin Laden should humble us, remind us to pray once again for the thousands who lost family members, friends, and co-workers and to also say a prayer of thanks to the thousands of dedicated behind-the-scene workers who cleaned up the carnage wrought by an evil man. There may never be closure for them. I thank my good friend for her words today and for her work ten years ago.

Plant a Fruit Orchard - Vote for Manderson, South Dakota

For the past two weeks I have been voting daily for a cause that is dear to my heart and near my hometown. It is a nationwide contest for a deserving community to win a fruit orchard. A non-profit organization on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, "Sustainable Homestead Designs," has entered and needs all the votes they can get. They are up against much larger communities and have been holding their own at 4th place, which is a remarkable feat for such a small community as Manderson, SD. Chicago is in first place, with Colorado and Minnesota communities in 2nd and 3rd. Sustainable Homestead Designs is working diligently to acquire votes and have even put up a new website to help those with the voting process. I commend all who have been working on this project. You can go to their website at http://www.naturalhomes.org/ or you can go directly to the contest website at http://www.communitiestakeroot.com

Click on Vote Now, List By State, Scroll down to SD, Manderson, Plant My Vote. It will ask you to register the first time, but once you do, it takes less than a minute to vote each day. Round 1 voting is until May 31st and the finalists will go into Round 2 voting beginning June 1st. Help bring fresh fruit to the Rez! Your vote is an easy way to keep on giving year after year. Thank you!

NOTE: I am building a writing website and will be integrating my blog. I decided to do a cohesive look for both so I have changed my banner for my blog to resemble my website. My blog content will remain the same...tidbits from around the world and unsolicited opinions from yours truly.

Lady Gaga versus Cinderella

I posted a comment on facebook expressing my disapproval of Lady Gaga's devil horns at the Grammy Awards. My post generated other comments so I made a journalistic decision to find out more about this self-proclaimed performance artist. I don't want to be accused of talking out of my you-know-what.

For two years, I have been listening to her songs on the radio and, at first, I thought they were catchy (until they became annoying earworms), but I had never watched her videos until my two-year-old granddaughter brought one to my attention. I was in the kitchen fixing her something to eat when I became alarmed because she was so quiet. I bolted into the living room, nearly knocking her over because she was standing right there, in front of the TV, innocent blue eyes glued to a Saturday afternoon performance on VH1featuring Lady Gaga in her bra and panties squatting over a nearly-naked male tied to a bedpost wearing black high heels.  Alejandro, Alejandro, Ale-Alejandro. I was horrified. Bad grandma, bad grandma.I had no idea the video was so sexually explicit, but then, I had no idea what any of Lady Gaga's videos portrayed until that day. Listening to the song, I would never have connected the electro-pop tune with the disturbing video.

For the sake of research, I subjected myself to an hour of Lady Gaga voyeurism and found sadomasochism, futuristic mind control, misandry, and death to be the predominant thread linking her "short films"  that conclude with someone (usually male) being killed or burned. In Telephone, Beyonce kills a man in a diner and then Gaga kills everyone with her Cook'n'Kill poison recipe. Mass murder in the diner...lovely. All of her videos are saturated with S & M, anti-christian symbolism, and the "all-seeing eye" is so obnoxiously prevalent that it lends credence to The Illuminati Puppet theory. Another quirk she demonstrates is her love of licking, or being licked, in the face. I don't know what this symbolizes and I don't want to know. I am now even less of a fan after investigating this artist and uncovering her grandiose depiction of herself - "my destiny is to be a storyteller for the world" - "my destiny is to provide for my fans" - "my fans protect me, it's now my destiny to protect them"  - "I have a lot of fans, and they're spreading the book of Gaga around the world" - "my Haus of Gaga"." Her Haus of Gaga now simply refers to her as "the Lady." She doesn't seem to realize that she is a mere mortal and her naive little monsters, as she affectionately calls them, proliferate her fantasy. One thing that is consistent about Lady Gaga are her perpetual contradictions. She can't keep anything straight because as she has admitted in several interviews, "I lie profusely..."  The media claims that she is a fashionista, bestowing her with the title of fashion icon. That is so ridiculous, I refuse to comment. However, I loved Justin Bieber's remark about Lady Gaga's arrival to the Grammy's in an egg. He told Chelsea Handler, "People say it's artistic or stuff. I'm just like, "You're an egg!"

With all the gaga sickness being spread around the world, I think parents of young girls have a lot more to worry about than the princess complex. Peggy Orenstein, in her book, Cinderella Ate My Daughter, voices her concerns about the possible negative impact that pink frills, tiaras, and magic wands have on little girls. I am guilty of buying a Disney Princess Gown for my granddaugher and she is adorable in it. She serves me tea and cake and flounces about like a ballerina in her layers of crushed velvet, pink tulle and sequins. Am I worried about her? No. It is an unbelievably sweet phase and it will pass. Her father counterbalances the multitude of pink with Frolf and basketball, I am trying to teach her to not be afraid of bugs, and her mother is an ambitious, hardworking, college-educated girlie-girl.

I am more worried about the impressionable tweens and teens who idolize Lady Gaga and her monster act. The symbolism is so complex and they are not emotionally prepared or mentally mature enough to sort through the distortion of intimacy and myriad of sexual innuendos. Diehard fans of Gaga cannot agree on who she is and what she represents. Some say she is not involved with the occult or the Illuminati, while others admit she may be, but they don't care. Still others insist she represents art in its purest form.  Lady Gaga, the artist, is not very original. She refuses to stray from her redundant themes of mind control, satanism, and death laced with liberal doses of homoerotica and, she is a copycat. Camille Paglia of The Sunday Times, said it best. "Gaga has borrowed so heavily from Madonna...that it must be asked, at what point does homage become theft?...she is a ruthless recycler of other people's work."

I say, let your child choose the color she wants to wear - it may not be pink. Provide toys and activities that represent both genders and why be alarmed about childhood phases that are based on "good"?  Then, when they dive into the world of pop culture - fine-tune your parental controls!