You are reading http://viridianariverstone.blogspot.com/.
Dear Editor,
Please explain to Mike that behaving like the reactionaries makes progressives no better than they.
As to Ann Coulter's marital and motherhood status, I'm an unmarried woman and my only daughter died. http://viridianariverstone.blogspot.com
Does Mike mean to imply that childless, unmarried women are mentally unstable?
Or does he imply Ms. Coulter is Lesbian? Because many Lesbians I know have children and either are, or wish to be, married.
Mike hurt ME in his attempts to attack Drudge. I've never hurt him one bit!
In fact, apparantly, I'm more progressive than he!
Rogi Riverstone
http://rriverstone.com
Niagara Falls Reporter
MATT DRUDGE IS SO GAY, WHY DOESN'T HE SAY SO?
By Mike Hudson
Being a cyber-gossip looks like such an easy job, I'm tempted to take it up myself.
The great thing about it is that you apparently don't have to talk to any of your sources.
I used to be in show business and I've lived and worked with a lot of great gay people. My best friend from childhood and old bandmate, Tim, is queer, and has been open about it for the past 30 years. My sister, Linda, is openly gay as well, and lives in one of the "red" states, where that can be a big problem.
So when cyber-gossip Matt Drudge published half a dozen demonstrably false stories last week about Sen. John Kerry having an affair with a grown woman, I asked the question with no malice.
Because it's been my observation that no one is more interested in the heterosexual doings of grown men and women than repressed homosexuals.
Drudge, who made his bones reporting heavily on the various real and imagined sexual dalliances of former president Bill Clinton, has vigorously denied his homosexuality, perhaps because his largely Republican, right-wing audience would look unfavorably upon it.
I wrote him an e-mail and asked if he was homosexual.
He didn't answer.
Like I said, I don't care what a man and a woman do in a bedroom.
And I don't care what a man and a man do in a bedroom. Keep the kids out of it and everything's fine by me.
But Drudge seems to take great delight in peeking under other people's covers, while at the same time failing to fess up to behavior his political bedfellows might deem "unnatural."
Drudge's pals in the media -- the drug-addled Rush Limbaugh or the serially-married and estranged-from-her-family Dr. Laura -- have similar problems. So does the family values harpy Ann Coulter, who remains childless and unmarried, and has demonstrably lied about everything from Vice President Dick Cheney's resume to her own age on drivers' licenses taken out in various states.
Bill Bennett, former education secretary, drug czar and another one of Drudge's favorites, has proven to be a degenerate gambler, as records of his million-dollar losses in Las Vegas and Atlantic City show.
The worst of all is probably is Fox News pundit Bill O'Reilly, whose phony populist palaver seemingly has many convinced he's "looking out for you" when, in fact, he's a lying, racist coward. Sometimes, being in the media business is something you're almost ashamed to admit. Drudge's homosexuality doesn't disturb me.
Nor does Bennett's gambling degeneracy, Limbaugh's drug use, Coulter's obvious mental problems or O'Reilly's hypocrisy.
It's a free country and we're all pretty much allowed to go around saying whatever we want.
What bothers me is that these were the people who worked in tandem to get George W. Bush elected.
Somehow, Bush lost by a half-million votes and still got into the White House.
Somehow, when he did get in, he used every tool at his disposal to redistribute the wealth in this country from the poor and middle-class to the rich, throw three million people out of work and get about 550 brave young American men and women killed in a war we didn't have to fight.
Phonies and cowards like Drudge, O'Reilly, Dr. Laura, Limbaugh and Coulter facilitated this, and now have the nerve to call those who disagree with them traitors.
None of them served in the military.
Indeed, none of them were fit to serve in the military.
And yet, now, they presume to tell the rest of us who is and who is not patriotic.
The Federal Communications Commission, headed up by Colin Powell's kid, Michael, has launched an investigation into how Janet Jackson's breast -- its most interesting part covered by what looked like a sheriff's badge -- got onto television for a nanosecond during the annually abysmal half-time show at the Super Bowl.
The FCC would do better looking into shows like O'Reilly's -- which played the clip over and over again for a week straight in slow motion -- or Limbaugh's radio broadcast, which he's admittedly done high, a clear violation of the FCC Code.
In the meantime, I want to know whether the conservative slimemeister Matt Drudge is a closeted homosexual.
Since he won't respond, any of you ladies out there with any pertinent information may contact me either by phone or e-mail.
Niagara Falls Reporter www.niagarafallsreporter.com
February 24 2004
Wednesday, February 25, 2004
Dear Mary
You are reading http://viridianariverstone.blogspot.com/.
Vice President Cheney, your father, recently said he would support adding anti-gay prejudice to the US Constitution, making you and millions of other Americans second-class citizens. As an open lesbian who has worked for years as a public advocate for gay civil rights, you are in a unique position to defend yourself and your community in this dire hour.
Won't you join us in publicly opposing this bigoted un-American proposal?
Sincerely, A concerned citizen
______________________________
WEB VISITORS: Please replace ALL the text in this box with your own public letter to Mary, preferably signed with your FIRST name, city and state, then click "Submit." We will post as many of your messages as possible on this site, and with your monetary help publish them in newspaper and magazine ads and beyond. All emails submitted to DearMary.com are the property of DearMary.com, DontAmend.com and The Equality Campaign Inc. and may be edited for length and clarity and reprinted in any format including but not limited to newspaper and magazine ads for the express purpose of this campaign as decided solely by DearMary.com.
Vice President Cheney, your father, recently said he would support adding anti-gay prejudice to the US Constitution, making you and millions of other Americans second-class citizens. As an open lesbian who has worked for years as a public advocate for gay civil rights, you are in a unique position to defend yourself and your community in this dire hour.
Won't you join us in publicly opposing this bigoted un-American proposal?
Sincerely, A concerned citizen
______________________________
WEB VISITORS: Please replace ALL the text in this box with your own public letter to Mary, preferably signed with your FIRST name, city and state, then click "Submit." We will post as many of your messages as possible on this site, and with your monetary help publish them in newspaper and magazine ads and beyond. All emails submitted to DearMary.com are the property of DearMary.com, DontAmend.com and The Equality Campaign Inc. and may be edited for length and clarity and reprinted in any format including but not limited to newspaper and magazine ads for the express purpose of this campaign as decided solely by DearMary.com.
Tuesday, February 24, 2004
Choice
Ok, everybody out of my pants!
That means you, Mr. Bush, Mr. Roberston, Mr. Ashcroft, Mr. Schwartzenneger, Ms. Dunlap.
And you, too, Mr. Richardson, Ms. Madrid, Ms. Boxer, Mr. Kerry, Mr. Edwards.
I am a modest person and there's nothing down there that's any of your business.
I've been kidnapped! It's a coup! It's a coup! It's a coup!
I am bisexual. I'm comfortable understanding, and standing up for, every political and religious issue in this country, pertaining to reproductive organs.
There's nothing you've got that I haven't seen, or loved.
When my daughter was dying, I was handed a leaflet by the hospital.
It warned, "you are in danger of a miscarraige."
It went on to say what steps I needed to take to try to prevent losing my baby.
One of these emphatically stressed that I not allow anything to invade my body.
So, when the doctor started poking around, it was all I could do to keep from kicking him in the head to protect my child.
The maternal instinct, in my case, was a fierce and savage thing.
I'm feeling that way now.
Put down the speculum, camera, cross, patriot missle and walk away from the stirrups, before I kick your brains out!
For the first time in history, our so-called "representatives" have legislated against a necessary medical procedure.
This administration is calling for ammending the Constitution, contradicting their advocacy of states' rights.
Medical clinics get their funding jerked, if they advocate using protection!
Schools are forced, with federal funds, to preach "abstainance only," as though normal, human sexuality was the most depraved, perverse and twisted aspect of humanity.
A state governor, who assaults women, implies Gay and Lesbian marriages will cause civil "chaos," as if married Gays and Lesbians will behave like he has!
The current administration discovered feminism, for ten minutes, as a pretext for bombing Afghani women out of their burhkas, but have ignored women's plight there since.
And, rumor has it, the Senate may pass "Laci's and Connor's law," named for Laci Peterson and he fetus, which would make harming a pregnancy, even in the first trimester, a crime, potentially punishable by death.
Hello?
Look, I'm an ugly, old woman, with bad teeth.
I doubt reproductive or marriage issues will ever affect me directly again.
But that doesn't mean justice is none of my business.
I remember the sacred embraces.
I remember the healing of intimacy.
I remember patting my tummy and whispering to that flicker of life, whom I nicknamed, "tadpole."
I remember the hope and purpose I felt as I hung nursery curtains, researched parenting, tried to quit smoking.
If you think I don't know how to love, you don't know what love is.
I was, I suppose, lucky that my pregnancy ended before a much more traumatic, late-term procedure was required.
I barely survived the psychological trauma of what I did go through; I can't imagine the horror of anything worse.
I was lucky to have married twice.
My first wedding was to a Lesbian, on Venice Beach, California, at sunset, on my grandmother's quilts.
My second marriage, the only legal one, was to a man, in a Unitarian Universalist church basement, on the Vernal Equinox, during a rainstorm, wearing a thrift store wedding gown.
I know something about motherhood and I know something about love.
And regime change begins with my pants!
I have a dream that, one day, our children will be judged, not by the configurations of their genitalia, but by the content of their character.
I have a dream that, one day, little breeder boys and girls and others will be able to hold hands with little queer boys and girls and others and sing, in the words of the old, Drag Queen anthem,
"I am what I am.
I don't want praise;
I don't want pity.
"I bang my own drums.
Some thinks it's noise;
I think it's pretty. . . .
"It's my life that I want to have a little pride in,
"My life and is not a place I have to hide in!
"Life's not worth a damn till you can shout out,
'I am what I am!'"
Keep the U.S. out of my pants!
That means you, Mr. Bush, Mr. Roberston, Mr. Ashcroft, Mr. Schwartzenneger, Ms. Dunlap.
And you, too, Mr. Richardson, Ms. Madrid, Ms. Boxer, Mr. Kerry, Mr. Edwards.
I am a modest person and there's nothing down there that's any of your business.
I've been kidnapped! It's a coup! It's a coup! It's a coup!
I am bisexual. I'm comfortable understanding, and standing up for, every political and religious issue in this country, pertaining to reproductive organs.
There's nothing you've got that I haven't seen, or loved.
When my daughter was dying, I was handed a leaflet by the hospital.
It warned, "you are in danger of a miscarraige."
It went on to say what steps I needed to take to try to prevent losing my baby.
One of these emphatically stressed that I not allow anything to invade my body.
So, when the doctor started poking around, it was all I could do to keep from kicking him in the head to protect my child.
The maternal instinct, in my case, was a fierce and savage thing.
I'm feeling that way now.
Put down the speculum, camera, cross, patriot missle and walk away from the stirrups, before I kick your brains out!
For the first time in history, our so-called "representatives" have legislated against a necessary medical procedure.
This administration is calling for ammending the Constitution, contradicting their advocacy of states' rights.
Medical clinics get their funding jerked, if they advocate using protection!
Schools are forced, with federal funds, to preach "abstainance only," as though normal, human sexuality was the most depraved, perverse and twisted aspect of humanity.
A state governor, who assaults women, implies Gay and Lesbian marriages will cause civil "chaos," as if married Gays and Lesbians will behave like he has!
The current administration discovered feminism, for ten minutes, as a pretext for bombing Afghani women out of their burhkas, but have ignored women's plight there since.
And, rumor has it, the Senate may pass "Laci's and Connor's law," named for Laci Peterson and he fetus, which would make harming a pregnancy, even in the first trimester, a crime, potentially punishable by death.
Hello?
Look, I'm an ugly, old woman, with bad teeth.
I doubt reproductive or marriage issues will ever affect me directly again.
But that doesn't mean justice is none of my business.
I remember the sacred embraces.
I remember the healing of intimacy.
I remember patting my tummy and whispering to that flicker of life, whom I nicknamed, "tadpole."
I remember the hope and purpose I felt as I hung nursery curtains, researched parenting, tried to quit smoking.
If you think I don't know how to love, you don't know what love is.
I was, I suppose, lucky that my pregnancy ended before a much more traumatic, late-term procedure was required.
I barely survived the psychological trauma of what I did go through; I can't imagine the horror of anything worse.
I was lucky to have married twice.
My first wedding was to a Lesbian, on Venice Beach, California, at sunset, on my grandmother's quilts.
My second marriage, the only legal one, was to a man, in a Unitarian Universalist church basement, on the Vernal Equinox, during a rainstorm, wearing a thrift store wedding gown.
I know something about motherhood and I know something about love.
And regime change begins with my pants!
I have a dream that, one day, our children will be judged, not by the configurations of their genitalia, but by the content of their character.
I have a dream that, one day, little breeder boys and girls and others will be able to hold hands with little queer boys and girls and others and sing, in the words of the old, Drag Queen anthem,
"I am what I am.
I don't want praise;
I don't want pity.
"I bang my own drums.
Some thinks it's noise;
I think it's pretty. . . .
"It's my life that I want to have a little pride in,
"My life and is not a place I have to hide in!
"Life's not worth a damn till you can shout out,
'I am what I am!'"
Keep the U.S. out of my pants!
Monday, February 23, 2004
March for Women's Lives
You are reading http://viridianariverstone.blogspot.com/.
To demonstrate overwhelming majority support for a woman's right to choose safe, legal abortion and birth control, the largest pro-choice majority in history will march on Washington on Sunday April 25, 2004.
For the first time ever this pro-choice march is a collaborative effort - seven leading national women's rights groups have come together to organize this momentous event.
The AMERICAN CIVIL LIBERTIES UNION, BLACK WOMEN'S HEALTH IMPERATIVE, FEMINIST MAJORITY, NARAL PRO-CHOICE AMERICA, NATIONAL LATINA INSTITUTE FOR REPRODUCTIVE HEALTH, NATIONAL ORGANIZATION FOR WOMEN and PLANNED PARENTHOOD FEDERATION OF AMERICA are the principal organizers of the March for Women's Lives and have pooled efforts and resources to lay the groundwork. Other progressive organizations have signed on as CO-SPONSORS - offering everything from member participation to help spreading the word and help defraying costs.
The march will begin at noon on the national mall, although participants may begin assembling on the mall, between the Smithsonian museums (between 3rd St. and 14th St.), as early as 10 a.m. After marching on Washington, a rally will be held from 1-4 p.m. on the National Mall. Special seating will be available for people with disabilities. The rally program will be signed for the hearing impaired. The route is wheelchair accessible and transportation will be provided for those who cannot negotiate the route.
SIGN UP NOW!
http://www.marchforwomen.org/
To demonstrate overwhelming majority support for a woman's right to choose safe, legal abortion and birth control, the largest pro-choice majority in history will march on Washington on Sunday April 25, 2004.
For the first time ever this pro-choice march is a collaborative effort - seven leading national women's rights groups have come together to organize this momentous event.
The AMERICAN CIVIL LIBERTIES UNION, BLACK WOMEN'S HEALTH IMPERATIVE, FEMINIST MAJORITY, NARAL PRO-CHOICE AMERICA, NATIONAL LATINA INSTITUTE FOR REPRODUCTIVE HEALTH, NATIONAL ORGANIZATION FOR WOMEN and PLANNED PARENTHOOD FEDERATION OF AMERICA are the principal organizers of the March for Women's Lives and have pooled efforts and resources to lay the groundwork. Other progressive organizations have signed on as CO-SPONSORS - offering everything from member participation to help spreading the word and help defraying costs.
The march will begin at noon on the national mall, although participants may begin assembling on the mall, between the Smithsonian museums (between 3rd St. and 14th St.), as early as 10 a.m. After marching on Washington, a rally will be held from 1-4 p.m. on the National Mall. Special seating will be available for people with disabilities. The rally program will be signed for the hearing impaired. The route is wheelchair accessible and transportation will be provided for those who cannot negotiate the route.
SIGN UP NOW!
http://www.marchforwomen.org/
Sweet Bitter Love
Sweet
Sweet bitter love
Sweet
Sweet bitter love
The taste still lingers
Going through my helpless fingers
You slipped away
Sweet bitter love
Sweet
Sweet bitter love
Sweet
Sweet bitter love
What joy you brought me
What pain you've taught me
So sure is day
You slipped away
Sweet bitter love
Sweet
Sweet bitter love
Sweet
Sweet bitter love
Sweet
Sweet bitter love
Sweet
Sweet bitter love
My magic dreams
Have lost their spells
And that was lost
There's an empty shell
Sweet bitter love
Sweet bitter love
Hey
Sweet
Sweet bitter love
Sweet
Sweet bitter love
What have you awaken
And then forsaken
A trusting heart like mine
Ooh like mine
Sweet bitter love
Sweet bitter love
In the middle of the night
I want your sweet sweet sweet
Sweet bitter love
Sweet bitter love
Sweet
Sweet bitter love
You slipped away
Sweet
Sweet bitter love
Sweet bitter love
Sweet
Sweet bitter love.
Van McCoy
Sweet bitter love
Sweet
Sweet bitter love
The taste still lingers
Going through my helpless fingers
You slipped away
Sweet bitter love
Sweet
Sweet bitter love
Sweet
Sweet bitter love
What joy you brought me
What pain you've taught me
So sure is day
You slipped away
Sweet bitter love
Sweet
Sweet bitter love
Sweet
Sweet bitter love
Sweet
Sweet bitter love
Sweet
Sweet bitter love
My magic dreams
Have lost their spells
And that was lost
There's an empty shell
Sweet bitter love
Sweet bitter love
Hey
Sweet
Sweet bitter love
Sweet
Sweet bitter love
What have you awaken
And then forsaken
A trusting heart like mine
Ooh like mine
Sweet bitter love
Sweet bitter love
In the middle of the night
I want your sweet sweet sweet
Sweet bitter love
Sweet bitter love
Sweet
Sweet bitter love
You slipped away
Sweet
Sweet bitter love
Sweet bitter love
Sweet
Sweet bitter love.
Van McCoy
Sunday, February 15, 2004
Right to Life?
Offer your feedback and comments at Rogi's Kitchen Table.
What do you hypocrites know about rights to life? Here's your inheritance:
MARY TURNER
In May, 1918, a white plantation owner in Brooks County, Georgia, got into a quarrel with one of his colored tenants and the tenant killed him. A mob sought to avenge his death but could not find the suspected man. They therefore lynched another colored man named Hayes Turner.
His wife, Mary Turner, threatened to have members of the mob arrested. The mob therefore started after her.
She fled from home and was found there the next morning. She was in the eighth month of pregnancy but the mob of several hundred took her to a small stream, tied her ankles together and hung her on a tree head downwards.
Gasoline was thrown on her clothes and she was set on fire. One of the members of the mob took a knife and split her abdomen open so that the unborn child fell from her womb to the ground and the child's head was crushed under the heel of another member of the mob; Mary Turner's body was finally riddled with bullets.
She was still alive when her baby was killed.
Document 7: "The Anti-Lynching Crusaders: The Lynching of Women," [1922], NAACP Papers, Part 7: The Anti-Lynching Campaign, 1912-1955, Series B: Anti-Lynching Legislative and Publicity Files, 1916-1955, Library of Congress (Microfilm, Reel 3, Frames 570-73).
What do you hypocrites know about rights to life? Here's your inheritance:
MARY TURNER
In May, 1918, a white plantation owner in Brooks County, Georgia, got into a quarrel with one of his colored tenants and the tenant killed him. A mob sought to avenge his death but could not find the suspected man. They therefore lynched another colored man named Hayes Turner.
His wife, Mary Turner, threatened to have members of the mob arrested. The mob therefore started after her.
She fled from home and was found there the next morning. She was in the eighth month of pregnancy but the mob of several hundred took her to a small stream, tied her ankles together and hung her on a tree head downwards.
Gasoline was thrown on her clothes and she was set on fire. One of the members of the mob took a knife and split her abdomen open so that the unborn child fell from her womb to the ground and the child's head was crushed under the heel of another member of the mob; Mary Turner's body was finally riddled with bullets.
She was still alive when her baby was killed.
Document 7: "The Anti-Lynching Crusaders: The Lynching of Women," [1922], NAACP Papers, Part 7: The Anti-Lynching Campaign, 1912-1955, Series B: Anti-Lynching Legislative and Publicity Files, 1916-1955, Library of Congress (Microfilm, Reel 3, Frames 570-73).
Saturday, February 14, 2004
Little Potato
Offer your feedback and comments at Rogi's Kitchen Table.
Written by Malcolm Dalglish, Oolitic Music, BMI, and recorded on Metamora, Sugar Hill Records, SH-CD 1131
You're my little potato, you're my little potato,
You're my little potato, they dug you up,
You come from underground!
The world is big, so big, so very big! To you, it's new, it's new to you!
You're my little potato, you're my little potato,�
You're my little potato, they dug you up,
You come from underground!
Let's talk about root crops (they dug you),
And lamb chops (they chew on you),
And things to eat...like apples and cheese and 'nanas and cream,
Jellies and butter, it's late at night, I hope this little bottle helps you go to sleep!
They must have grown you wild, you make a grown man a child,
I'll go and play in the mud to be with you my spud (potato).
When you came out looking red as a beet,
You had wrinkles on the bottoms of your feet!
Oh, you are so sweet potato!
You're my sweet potato, you're my sweet potato, dug you up!
You come from underground!
You smile, a smile, a little smile!
The world is small, so small, it's very small!
You're my little potato, you're my little potato, you're my little potato, they dug you up,
You come from underground!
You're my little potato, you're my little potato, you're my little potato!
just some of the things I missed and miss.
Written by Malcolm Dalglish, Oolitic Music, BMI, and recorded on Metamora, Sugar Hill Records, SH-CD 1131
You're my little potato, you're my little potato,
You're my little potato, they dug you up,
You come from underground!
The world is big, so big, so very big! To you, it's new, it's new to you!
You're my little potato, you're my little potato,�
You're my little potato, they dug you up,
You come from underground!
Let's talk about root crops (they dug you),
And lamb chops (they chew on you),
And things to eat...like apples and cheese and 'nanas and cream,
Jellies and butter, it's late at night, I hope this little bottle helps you go to sleep!
They must have grown you wild, you make a grown man a child,
I'll go and play in the mud to be with you my spud (potato).
When you came out looking red as a beet,
You had wrinkles on the bottoms of your feet!
Oh, you are so sweet potato!
You're my sweet potato, you're my sweet potato, dug you up!
You come from underground!
You smile, a smile, a little smile!
The world is small, so small, it's very small!
You're my little potato, you're my little potato, you're my little potato, they dug you up,
You come from underground!
You're my little potato, you're my little potato, you're my little potato!
just some of the things I missed and miss.
Friday, January 16, 2004
Life Matters
Offer your feedback and comments at Rogi's Kitchen Table.
Independent Lens
"Life Matters"
Tuesday, January 20, 2004
10 - 11:00 pm
A straight-arrow rural Texan Pentecostal/Baptist minister, Curtis Boyd relinquished the pulpit in the heat of the social changes of the 1960s and became a doctor who provided thousands of safe, illegal abortions prior to Roe v. Wade. (CC, Stereo)
Learn more about Dr. Boyd and go behind-the-scenes of this film at the companion Web site.
Life Matters
Independent Lens
"Life Matters"
Tuesday, January 20, 2004
10 - 11:00 pm
A straight-arrow rural Texan Pentecostal/Baptist minister, Curtis Boyd relinquished the pulpit in the heat of the social changes of the 1960s and became a doctor who provided thousands of safe, illegal abortions prior to Roe v. Wade. (CC, Stereo)
Learn more about Dr. Boyd and go behind-the-scenes of this film at the companion Web site.
Life Matters
Tuesday, December 23, 2003
I want my daughter back
Offer your feedback and comments at Rogi's Kitchen Table.
SHe would have been seven this Christmas. That's a good age for lots of fun.
Cookie baking, snowflake making, tree trimming, story telling....
Look, you took my health. You took my employability. You took my dignity. You took my independence. You took my mobility. Did you have to take her, too?
How do I continue to survive, year after year, with no family, no future?
Why did you take her, too?
SHe would have been seven this Christmas. That's a good age for lots of fun.
Cookie baking, snowflake making, tree trimming, story telling....
Look, you took my health. You took my employability. You took my dignity. You took my independence. You took my mobility. Did you have to take her, too?
How do I continue to survive, year after year, with no family, no future?
Why did you take her, too?
Monday, December 01, 2003
Count to 14
Offer your feedback and comments at Rogi's Kitchen Table.
Fourteen seconds. Count.
There. Another person is infected with AIDS.
Count another fourteen seconds. There. Another person is infected with AIDS.
Did you have a hard day?
I did. I'm emotionally exhausted, from telling a new friend, Stu, a little of my experience with homelessness and with losing my daughter, all the while being socially ostricized.
I'm physically exhausted from trying to do too much work outside, too fast, while the weather holds out.
I'm in a lot of pain.
But I am not an infant child, dying of AIDS, orphaned because BOTH my parents, and most of my siblings, died of AIDS, too.
I am not a raped woman in India, whose husband gave her the virus and then threw her out when she showed symptoms.
I am not dying of AIDS, alone, socially ostricised, hungry, homeless and helpless.
Count to fourteen. There. Another person is infected with AIDS. Every fourteen seconds.
Now, go here and donate one little dollar: 46664. That's Nelson Mandela's prisoner number.
You think you had a hard day?
DO IT!
Thank you,
Rogi A. Riverstone
Fourteen seconds. Count.
There. Another person is infected with AIDS.
Count another fourteen seconds. There. Another person is infected with AIDS.
Did you have a hard day?
I did. I'm emotionally exhausted, from telling a new friend, Stu, a little of my experience with homelessness and with losing my daughter, all the while being socially ostricized.
I'm physically exhausted from trying to do too much work outside, too fast, while the weather holds out.
I'm in a lot of pain.
But I am not an infant child, dying of AIDS, orphaned because BOTH my parents, and most of my siblings, died of AIDS, too.
I am not a raped woman in India, whose husband gave her the virus and then threw her out when she showed symptoms.
I am not dying of AIDS, alone, socially ostricised, hungry, homeless and helpless.
Count to fourteen. There. Another person is infected with AIDS. Every fourteen seconds.
Now, go here and donate one little dollar: 46664. That's Nelson Mandela's prisoner number.
You think you had a hard day?
DO IT!
Thank you,
Rogi A. Riverstone
Saturday, November 29, 2003
No Promises
Offer your feedback and comments at Rogi's Kitchen Table.
I'm listening to The Children's Hour on KUNM fm radio.
John Lennon, singing, "Beautiful Boy."
The monster's gone and Daddy's here....I can hardly wait to see you come of age, but I guess we'll both have to be patient....life's what happens to you while you're busy making other plans....
We can't make promises. As much as a parent's heart swells with love for a child, as deeply as we commit to making something happen, as hard as we wish for it, we can't make promises.
We can, but we can't make them happen, simply by sheer force of will.
He recorded that song right before he was shot down on the sidewalk in front of his home. Wanting things to be so doesn't mean they'll be that way.
I promised Viri Diana that I'd try everything I could think of, not to impose my agenda onto her, but, instead, to provide her with enough options, resources, security and support to find her own way.
I promised her I wouldn't hit her, call her names, play mind games on her, manipulate her or in any way make her my victim, as my mother had done to me.
I promised her I'd always care for her.
I almost didn't go through with the surgery because of that last promise. If she were going to die, I felt, it wasn't my place to kill her. Let nature take its course and kill both of us.
Besides, what would be the point of living, if she were dead?
I never know when something will remind me of my pain, as this song did this morning. I never know when eight years' time will be washed away in an instant, and I'll be transported back to the horror, the self-loathing, the shame, the fury and the grief of her death.
I'm never safe from it. I always forget it's still there, dormant, and that it will resurface whenever the thin veneer of forgetfulness is brushed open. The slightest breeze of association, the most offhanded comment, the tiniest reminder can send me back there, helpless and frantic, blind and howling.
So, I sit in my bed on a sunny morning. And I'm back in the emergency room. I'm alone on that dark sofa, late at night, alone after the surgery, guts ripped open, aching in my shoulders and neck from the carbon dioxide gas they used to inflate my belly. I'm bleeding from my belly and vagina. I'm mute in the overwhelm. I'm frantic to keep a roof over my head, now that the father has abandoned me, when I can barely pick a dropped fork off the floor.
To this day, I don't know if I made the right decision when I had the surgery. I escaped death, true. But I didn't escape life. And life IS what happens while I'm busy making other plans. I feel I've cheated death, done something completely unnatural and forbidden, and I'm to be punished for it from now on.
Nothing changes that. Therapy, meditation, commitment to goals and projects...nothing changes it.
Deep down, it's as though my body, my psyche and the visceral, primative, protective mother animal in me can not forgive me for living after my child died.
It's torture.
I'm listening to The Children's Hour on KUNM fm radio.
John Lennon, singing, "Beautiful Boy."
The monster's gone and Daddy's here....I can hardly wait to see you come of age, but I guess we'll both have to be patient....life's what happens to you while you're busy making other plans....
We can't make promises. As much as a parent's heart swells with love for a child, as deeply as we commit to making something happen, as hard as we wish for it, we can't make promises.
We can, but we can't make them happen, simply by sheer force of will.
He recorded that song right before he was shot down on the sidewalk in front of his home. Wanting things to be so doesn't mean they'll be that way.
I promised Viri Diana that I'd try everything I could think of, not to impose my agenda onto her, but, instead, to provide her with enough options, resources, security and support to find her own way.
I promised her I wouldn't hit her, call her names, play mind games on her, manipulate her or in any way make her my victim, as my mother had done to me.
I promised her I'd always care for her.
I almost didn't go through with the surgery because of that last promise. If she were going to die, I felt, it wasn't my place to kill her. Let nature take its course and kill both of us.
Besides, what would be the point of living, if she were dead?
I never know when something will remind me of my pain, as this song did this morning. I never know when eight years' time will be washed away in an instant, and I'll be transported back to the horror, the self-loathing, the shame, the fury and the grief of her death.
I'm never safe from it. I always forget it's still there, dormant, and that it will resurface whenever the thin veneer of forgetfulness is brushed open. The slightest breeze of association, the most offhanded comment, the tiniest reminder can send me back there, helpless and frantic, blind and howling.
So, I sit in my bed on a sunny morning. And I'm back in the emergency room. I'm alone on that dark sofa, late at night, alone after the surgery, guts ripped open, aching in my shoulders and neck from the carbon dioxide gas they used to inflate my belly. I'm bleeding from my belly and vagina. I'm mute in the overwhelm. I'm frantic to keep a roof over my head, now that the father has abandoned me, when I can barely pick a dropped fork off the floor.
To this day, I don't know if I made the right decision when I had the surgery. I escaped death, true. But I didn't escape life. And life IS what happens while I'm busy making other plans. I feel I've cheated death, done something completely unnatural and forbidden, and I'm to be punished for it from now on.
Nothing changes that. Therapy, meditation, commitment to goals and projects...nothing changes it.
Deep down, it's as though my body, my psyche and the visceral, primative, protective mother animal in me can not forgive me for living after my child died.
It's torture.
Wednesday, November 26, 2003
Cycles
Offer your feedback and comments at Rogi's Kitchen Table.
After a three month break, I have my menses again. Darn! I was hoping that was over with.
A neighbor had to move suddenly, over in the war zone. She had a bunch of merchandise at her house, to sell at the flea market.
As she was leaving, she hollered out to me that the house was unlocked and that I could take everything they'd left, except the television and the microwave, which went to another neighbor.
I brought home at least two pick up trucks' worth of stuff, including a case of sanitary napkins. I thought at the time they might last me through menopause.
Well, that was about a year and a half ago. I've still got about a hundred pads left.
I literally moaned as I pulled another package out of storage, eyed the few packages remaining, and thought, "I don't ever want to have to buy these damn things again!"
So, maybe the assault to my body from that has weakened me.
I never had any trouble with my menses, not since puberty, anyway. Not until my baby died. Since then, it's been very VERY painful, especially on the left side of my abdomen, where my fallopian tube is missing now.
Every menses since has been torture and a hideous, physical reminder of the loss of my daughter. It's not nearly as painful as the first time was, but it's bad. Close enough.
So, maybe that knocked the wind out of me.
After a three month break, I have my menses again. Darn! I was hoping that was over with.
A neighbor had to move suddenly, over in the war zone. She had a bunch of merchandise at her house, to sell at the flea market.
As she was leaving, she hollered out to me that the house was unlocked and that I could take everything they'd left, except the television and the microwave, which went to another neighbor.
I brought home at least two pick up trucks' worth of stuff, including a case of sanitary napkins. I thought at the time they might last me through menopause.
Well, that was about a year and a half ago. I've still got about a hundred pads left.
I literally moaned as I pulled another package out of storage, eyed the few packages remaining, and thought, "I don't ever want to have to buy these damn things again!"
So, maybe the assault to my body from that has weakened me.
I never had any trouble with my menses, not since puberty, anyway. Not until my baby died. Since then, it's been very VERY painful, especially on the left side of my abdomen, where my fallopian tube is missing now.
Every menses since has been torture and a hideous, physical reminder of the loss of my daughter. It's not nearly as painful as the first time was, but it's bad. Close enough.
So, maybe that knocked the wind out of me.
Friday, October 31, 2003
"The Alternative Fix"
Look, "mainstream" medicine scares me to death. I watched "ER" last night and burst into tears. I never do that; I see most of the characters on the show as enemies. But when Lukah decided to triage the waiting room to prevent deaths, I burst into tears. A patient, it seems, left after waiting, unexamined, for eleven hours. She died. Lukah spent time in Africa, in a civil war. He returns to find this inefficient, smug, beurocratic system that's killing people in the most affluent country on earth.
I walked out of an ER after four hours unattended. I was having SERIOUS abdominal pain, in the approxemate location of my right ovarie.
How do I know this? Because I had suffered an ectopic pregnancy on the left side which required removal of the fallopian tube. This pain was a mirror of the other.
I still don't know what was wrong. I still get pain there at times.
But I had to leave, as my ride could only come at a certain time. He had to go to work. I couldn't possibly have negotiated the bus.
It took me four more days to recover enough to walk without pain.
So, alternative medicine scares me to death. There are so many fakes out there, exploiting the suffering of the desperate.
"The Alternative Fix"
Thursday, November 6, 2003
9 - 10:00 pm
Through interviews with staunch supporters, skeptical scientists and observers on both sides of the debate, this documentary examines how complementary and alternative medicine (CAM) treatments are facing increased scrutiny as the first real studies of their effectiveness are published, and questions whether hospitals that offer alternative therapies are conferring a sense of legitimacy on these largely untested and scientifically unproven treatments. (CC, Stereo)
At the companion site, access a compendium of fact sheets and resources to learn more about alternative therapies, get tips and safety precautions for those considering alternative treatments, watch the program online, trace the history of alternative medicine's conflicts with conventional medicine and much more.
here
(Available Thursday, November 6)
I walked out of an ER after four hours unattended. I was having SERIOUS abdominal pain, in the approxemate location of my right ovarie.
How do I know this? Because I had suffered an ectopic pregnancy on the left side which required removal of the fallopian tube. This pain was a mirror of the other.
I still don't know what was wrong. I still get pain there at times.
But I had to leave, as my ride could only come at a certain time. He had to go to work. I couldn't possibly have negotiated the bus.
It took me four more days to recover enough to walk without pain.
So, alternative medicine scares me to death. There are so many fakes out there, exploiting the suffering of the desperate.
"The Alternative Fix"
Thursday, November 6, 2003
9 - 10:00 pm
Through interviews with staunch supporters, skeptical scientists and observers on both sides of the debate, this documentary examines how complementary and alternative medicine (CAM) treatments are facing increased scrutiny as the first real studies of their effectiveness are published, and questions whether hospitals that offer alternative therapies are conferring a sense of legitimacy on these largely untested and scientifically unproven treatments. (CC, Stereo)
At the companion site, access a compendium of fact sheets and resources to learn more about alternative therapies, get tips and safety precautions for those considering alternative treatments, watch the program online, trace the history of alternative medicine's conflicts with conventional medicine and much more.
here
(Available Thursday, November 6)
Tuesday, October 21, 2003
Dear House of "Representatives,"
First, let me say you don't represent me. Most of you are pure Caucasian. Most of you are men. Most of you are wealthy.
Most of you have never had a life-threatening pregnancy.
Now, you've passed legislation which states some late-term abortion procedures are "never" necessary to save the life of the mother.
Only one of you has a medical degree, and his neck is redder than a penis in a stew pot.
How would you know what is medically necessary?
How DARE you impose yourself on such an intimate, heartbreaking decision? This is between the mother, her physician and her family. It is NONE of your business!
You'll never have to endure the agony of submitting to killing your baby to spare your own life.
You'll never know the vicious guilt and self-blame the mother must endure, in addiion to grieving for her dead child.
You'll never know.
Yet you think you have some right to impose your smug arrogance on the reproductive organs of every woman in this country?
You are not divine. You're not even decent representatives of humanity.
You are caving in to a tiny minority of FUNDAMENTALISTS. Like the Taliban.
You have put my womb in a burkah. You are beating me for making a sound. You are stoning me to death for knowing I have civil rights.
SHAME on you!
YOU DO NOT REPRESENT MOTHERS OF DEAD AND DYING CHILDREN!
Go to hell!
Most of you have never had a life-threatening pregnancy.
Now, you've passed legislation which states some late-term abortion procedures are "never" necessary to save the life of the mother.
Only one of you has a medical degree, and his neck is redder than a penis in a stew pot.
How would you know what is medically necessary?
How DARE you impose yourself on such an intimate, heartbreaking decision? This is between the mother, her physician and her family. It is NONE of your business!
You'll never have to endure the agony of submitting to killing your baby to spare your own life.
You'll never know the vicious guilt and self-blame the mother must endure, in addiion to grieving for her dead child.
You'll never know.
Yet you think you have some right to impose your smug arrogance on the reproductive organs of every woman in this country?
You are not divine. You're not even decent representatives of humanity.
You are caving in to a tiny minority of FUNDAMENTALISTS. Like the Taliban.
You have put my womb in a burkah. You are beating me for making a sound. You are stoning me to death for knowing I have civil rights.
SHAME on you!
YOU DO NOT REPRESENT MOTHERS OF DEAD AND DYING CHILDREN!
Go to hell!
Soap Opera Therapy
I'm in bed, with the soaps on.
Soaps are relatively mindless and funny. And cathartic, really; only on the soaps are there frank discussions about dead children, hearts broken by betrayal, etc. In real life, one is expected to pretend the dark side of life doesn't happen, lest one upset the complacent. So, soaps are good for a cleansing weep now and then.
For instance, Carley on General Hospital miscarried a baby a few years back and she's about due with another baby now..six more weeks, I'd think. Sonny's other pregnant wife died in a car bombing, meant for him (he's a gangster, sort of). So he's convinced Carley's gonna lose this baby, if he sticks around. Guilt Guilt.
In real life, idiots say things like, "it's not your fault; it was an accident; you couldn't help it..." and the dreaded, "you can always have another baby." Well, it doesn't work like that. One may understand, intellectually, that one is not responsible. But if one is truly a Parent, something visceral and primal blames one for the death of the child. It's not rational; it's instinctive. Logic has nothing to do with it.
ONLY on the soap operas is this phenomenon addressed directly.
Soaps are relatively mindless and funny. And cathartic, really; only on the soaps are there frank discussions about dead children, hearts broken by betrayal, etc. In real life, one is expected to pretend the dark side of life doesn't happen, lest one upset the complacent. So, soaps are good for a cleansing weep now and then.
For instance, Carley on General Hospital miscarried a baby a few years back and she's about due with another baby now..six more weeks, I'd think. Sonny's other pregnant wife died in a car bombing, meant for him (he's a gangster, sort of). So he's convinced Carley's gonna lose this baby, if he sticks around. Guilt Guilt.
In real life, idiots say things like, "it's not your fault; it was an accident; you couldn't help it..." and the dreaded, "you can always have another baby." Well, it doesn't work like that. One may understand, intellectually, that one is not responsible. But if one is truly a Parent, something visceral and primal blames one for the death of the child. It's not rational; it's instinctive. Logic has nothing to do with it.
ONLY on the soap operas is this phenomenon addressed directly.
Saturday, October 18, 2003
She Would Have Been Eight This Year
I'm watching "Toy Story II."
An eight-year-old is about a fun as it gets. Full of questions, excited about life, discovering amazing things in normal life, every day, silly, conversational, creative.
I can imagine us, curled in this bed with the cat and dog, a big bowl of home-made peanut brittle, cuddling and LAUGHING at this silly movie.
I can imagine the smell of body oil on her scalp, the rubber of her sneakers erasing my leg hairs, her bony elbows in my ribs and breasts, the heat of her pressed against me.
I can imagine us.
It's the hardest feeling in the world.
An eight-year-old is about a fun as it gets. Full of questions, excited about life, discovering amazing things in normal life, every day, silly, conversational, creative.
I can imagine us, curled in this bed with the cat and dog, a big bowl of home-made peanut brittle, cuddling and LAUGHING at this silly movie.
I can imagine the smell of body oil on her scalp, the rubber of her sneakers erasing my leg hairs, her bony elbows in my ribs and breasts, the heat of her pressed against me.
I can imagine us.
It's the hardest feeling in the world.
Saturday, September 13, 2003
Wanting To Die
I tried to get someone's attention. I was having trouble making any sound. All the lab coats ignored me. I was getting very dizzy. The room was going dark and out of focus. I was crying. I couldn't lift my arms. I felt paralyzed. It was hard to breathe.
The woman lying in the chair noticed my distress and called out loudly for help.
Finally, a short-tempered child came up to me, checked my pulse and said, "Oh, stop being a baby! It's just blood!"
Then the cramping started. I felt an overwhelming need to defecate. It was so painful, like a punch in the gut combined with food poisoning. The cramping continued in strong waves, through my abdomen, around to my back, through my genitals. It was agony.
I whispered, "I need to use the restroom. Will you help me?"
"You'll be done in just a second! Damn! Just wait, will you?" the girl huffed.
She took her time unhooking me. I couldn't sit up. I floundered and grabbed for the arm rests, trying.
At this point, the child got the hint that, perhaps, I was in real, physical distress.
I couldn't see more than a few inches in front of me; everything was dark and out of focus. The pain in my belly was real torture.
My mind was panicking. I had the sensation that I was dying. My body was begging me to please, give up, lie back and go to sleep! Get me out of this pain! The terror in my mind kept me from being seduced by my body and I scrambled to move, though, from an observer's point of view, it wouldn't have looked like I was moving much.
The child called for an assistant. They got me out of the chair and walked me. The child was angry. I don't remember much, but I got to go to the employee's restroom, as they needed the client restroom for urine drug testing. The child was angry about that, too.
I sat slouched on the commode, trying so hard to pass whatever was causing so much pain. I was so dizzy, I just slumped against the wall and tried to maintain my balance. I tried not to close my eyes; I didn't want to die on a damn toilet -- not in THIS hell hole.
I was in there a long time. They'd keep knocking, angry that they had to use the clients' bathroom.
Finally, the cramping began to ease. I was spooning water from the sink into my hand, washing my face, neck and chest, sipping it.
I was starting to be able to see.
After awhile, I could stand and leave the bathroom.
The angry child led me to the doctor's office. He said I'd had an allergic reaction to the chemicals, that I'd only get $25 that day, as I'd caused them so much work and the procedure hadn't finished (they got most, but not all, of the usual pint). He told me never to come back.
I was handed $25 in cash and admonished to leave out a side door. Seems I'd alarmed the other donors!
I was ushered out into the bright sun. I was alone.
I had to find my truck and drive quickly; I was late for my appointment with the rental agent!
I was still dizzy and partially blind. I was wobbly and weak, but I had to drive. Fast.
I just went to Google, to try to find out what had happened to me. I think I went into anaphylactic shock. It would explain why I had the sensation I was bleeding to death, getting weaker and colder by the minute. I could have died. The MERK Manual: Transfusion Medicine
The woman lying in the chair noticed my distress and called out loudly for help.
Finally, a short-tempered child came up to me, checked my pulse and said, "Oh, stop being a baby! It's just blood!"
Then the cramping started. I felt an overwhelming need to defecate. It was so painful, like a punch in the gut combined with food poisoning. The cramping continued in strong waves, through my abdomen, around to my back, through my genitals. It was agony.
I whispered, "I need to use the restroom. Will you help me?"
"You'll be done in just a second! Damn! Just wait, will you?" the girl huffed.
She took her time unhooking me. I couldn't sit up. I floundered and grabbed for the arm rests, trying.
At this point, the child got the hint that, perhaps, I was in real, physical distress.
I couldn't see more than a few inches in front of me; everything was dark and out of focus. The pain in my belly was real torture.
My mind was panicking. I had the sensation that I was dying. My body was begging me to please, give up, lie back and go to sleep! Get me out of this pain! The terror in my mind kept me from being seduced by my body and I scrambled to move, though, from an observer's point of view, it wouldn't have looked like I was moving much.
The child called for an assistant. They got me out of the chair and walked me. The child was angry. I don't remember much, but I got to go to the employee's restroom, as they needed the client restroom for urine drug testing. The child was angry about that, too.
I sat slouched on the commode, trying so hard to pass whatever was causing so much pain. I was so dizzy, I just slumped against the wall and tried to maintain my balance. I tried not to close my eyes; I didn't want to die on a damn toilet -- not in THIS hell hole.
I was in there a long time. They'd keep knocking, angry that they had to use the clients' bathroom.
Finally, the cramping began to ease. I was spooning water from the sink into my hand, washing my face, neck and chest, sipping it.
I was starting to be able to see.
After awhile, I could stand and leave the bathroom.
The angry child led me to the doctor's office. He said I'd had an allergic reaction to the chemicals, that I'd only get $25 that day, as I'd caused them so much work and the procedure hadn't finished (they got most, but not all, of the usual pint). He told me never to come back.
I was handed $25 in cash and admonished to leave out a side door. Seems I'd alarmed the other donors!
I was ushered out into the bright sun. I was alone.
I had to find my truck and drive quickly; I was late for my appointment with the rental agent!
I was still dizzy and partially blind. I was wobbly and weak, but I had to drive. Fast.
I just went to Google, to try to find out what had happened to me. I think I went into anaphylactic shock. It would explain why I had the sensation I was bleeding to death, getting weaker and colder by the minute. I could have died. The MERK Manual: Transfusion Medicine
Donating
I walked in to a dreary place that smelled stale and medicinal. Young, indifferent employees in tattered lab coats ran the place. I was examined by a doctor after a blood draw. I was asked about my sexual and drug habits. I lied and said I was heterosexual. I didn't, of course, have to lie about drugs.
I read the disclaimers and waivers. Something about the chemicals used to separate platelets from plasma: some people have allergic reactions. I'm never allergic to anything.
I sat in a "Captain Kirk" chair: heavily upholstered in the plastic barbers and beauty shops had, fully reclining, with, of course, large arm rests. I was daubed with betadine and an IV was inserted.
I seem to remember them telling me the whole procedure would take about 2 hours. I pulled out my book to read.
The blood is drawn from the body. It is then chemically "washed." The plasma is stored in an IV bag; the platelets (red blood cells) are returned to the "donor."
One can "donate" every three days, rather than the 30 days required to replenish blood cells for blood donation.
Each visit pays $25. New donors get a $10 bonus the first time. Donors who recommend other donors get $10 bonuses per person. If one donates consistently, one also receives bonuses.
My fellow donors were Mexican immigrants, homeless guys of all races, white students.
Near the end of the procedure, I heard the sound of the machine change.
I had the oddest sensation. I felt my head sinking into the chair back. I felt that, if the sensation continued much longer, my entire head would be swallowed by the chair, which enter my nose and mouth, and I would drown in the chair.
I read the disclaimers and waivers. Something about the chemicals used to separate platelets from plasma: some people have allergic reactions. I'm never allergic to anything.
I sat in a "Captain Kirk" chair: heavily upholstered in the plastic barbers and beauty shops had, fully reclining, with, of course, large arm rests. I was daubed with betadine and an IV was inserted.
I seem to remember them telling me the whole procedure would take about 2 hours. I pulled out my book to read.
The blood is drawn from the body. It is then chemically "washed." The plasma is stored in an IV bag; the platelets (red blood cells) are returned to the "donor."
One can "donate" every three days, rather than the 30 days required to replenish blood cells for blood donation.
Each visit pays $25. New donors get a $10 bonus the first time. Donors who recommend other donors get $10 bonuses per person. If one donates consistently, one also receives bonuses.
My fellow donors were Mexican immigrants, homeless guys of all races, white students.
Near the end of the procedure, I heard the sound of the machine change.
I had the oddest sensation. I felt my head sinking into the chair back. I felt that, if the sensation continued much longer, my entire head would be swallowed by the chair, which enter my nose and mouth, and I would drown in the chair.
Money Hustle
I was running out of time. I was supposed to meet with the rental agent in less than a week. I was $25 short on the deposit.
I'm from Los Angeles. I'm still accustomed to scarce, affordable housing. One does NOT make a bad impression on potential land lords by showing up without enough money.
I have no credit; I had no leases in this town over 1 year old. I had no local references. I had little income. To me, the task of finding a place to live was, at best, daunting -- if not completely impossible. The 2 places I'd already rented in Albuquerque had vicious, chemically-dependent neighbors. I wanted a house.
So, I felt duty-bound to hustle that $25. Now, of course, I know the agent would have let it slide. Then, it seemed essential.
I can't do day labor any more: show up at an agency, early in the morning, get packed onto a truck to demolish buildings, tar roofs, landscape, etc. for minimum wage, paid in cash at the end of the day.
The other temporary agencies would take too long: forms to fill, placements to make, 2- and 3-week waits for pay checks.
I never even considered panhandling: begging for change from passers by on the streets. I've since had to resort to that, but I really HATE it.
What was left? The plasma centers. So, I started making calls.
I had consumed one, lousy beer (something I rarely do any more)the night before I called, so I'd have to wait 2 days. Shoot! Oh, well.
The nearest center was near the University. I got directions and instructions on what would be required. I got in my truck (now long-gone) and drove there, so I'd know where it was and where to park.
The day I was going was the day I'd have to meet the rental agent. It would be tight, but the plasma center assured me that, if I could be there when the doors opened in the morning, I'd be done well before my noon appointment at the house. It's only a ten minute drive. It would work.
I'm from Los Angeles. I'm still accustomed to scarce, affordable housing. One does NOT make a bad impression on potential land lords by showing up without enough money.
I have no credit; I had no leases in this town over 1 year old. I had no local references. I had little income. To me, the task of finding a place to live was, at best, daunting -- if not completely impossible. The 2 places I'd already rented in Albuquerque had vicious, chemically-dependent neighbors. I wanted a house.
So, I felt duty-bound to hustle that $25. Now, of course, I know the agent would have let it slide. Then, it seemed essential.
I can't do day labor any more: show up at an agency, early in the morning, get packed onto a truck to demolish buildings, tar roofs, landscape, etc. for minimum wage, paid in cash at the end of the day.
The other temporary agencies would take too long: forms to fill, placements to make, 2- and 3-week waits for pay checks.
I never even considered panhandling: begging for change from passers by on the streets. I've since had to resort to that, but I really HATE it.
What was left? The plasma centers. So, I started making calls.
I had consumed one, lousy beer (something I rarely do any more)the night before I called, so I'd have to wait 2 days. Shoot! Oh, well.
The nearest center was near the University. I got directions and instructions on what would be required. I got in my truck (now long-gone) and drove there, so I'd know where it was and where to park.
The day I was going was the day I'd have to meet the rental agent. It would be tight, but the plasma center assured me that, if I could be there when the doors opened in the morning, I'd be done well before my noon appointment at the house. It's only a ten minute drive. It would work.
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