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Words cannot possibly convey just how thrilled I am that the diabolical Warren Jeffs is finally being apprehended. Since reading Jon Krakauer's riveting Under the Banner of Heaven last year (read my blog post about it here), I've been haunted by the facts of the shocking, hideous goings-on in the world of the Fundamentalist Latter-Day Saints. The book mesmerized and frightened me and seeing an expose of Jeffs on some A&E show a while back infuriated me to no end. The man is an absolute monster and has done nothing but terrorize young girls and women in the most repulsive of ways: under the guise of religion. He deserves no less than a lifetime of rotting under the basest of conditions for the way he's destroyed so many lives.
On a positive note, his arrest may signal the demise (however gradual) of the isolated, backwards community his father started years ago. Finally, those thousands of women whom he brainwashed into thinking marriage at 12 was their duty will be free to lead lives of their own, without fear of being beaten for reading a newspaper or for refusing sex with their own fathers, grandfathers and uncles in order to produce more offspring than a feral cat colony.
From the AP: "Elaine Tyler, head of the Utah-based group HOPE, which helps people leave polygamist homes, hailed Jeffs' arrest.... 'He has broken up families. He has married off young girls against their will. It is time he started paying for what he did.'"
Amen, sister! I imagine there are prosecutors chomping at the bit to bring this guy down and I hope they are relentless in pursuing the most severe punishment possible. This is a case I plan to follow very closely.
Where have I done been for the past couple weeks? I have no excuses, except to say I've been inundated (in a wonderful way) with out-of-town visitors overlapping one another, along with rising excitement and trepidation at returning to school this week after a fabulously full and relaxing summer.
As I gear up for the return to studenthood, I will turn over today's post to the superbly articulate Barack Obama on this sad anniversary:
"This week marks the first anniversary of Hurricane Katrina, one of the greatest natural disasters to ever strike our shores. The images of Katrina are still seared in our minds one year later: mothers holding their babies above water, seniors slumped in wheelchairs, and bodies floating down American streets. We vowed then, and still vow today, that we'll never forget.
One of greatest tragedies of Katrina is that our government failed us. The people who are supposed to be there for us when the chips are down failed and forgot the hundreds of thousands of people who needed them the most—and left them to fend for themselves.
Out of all the sadness and despair, we were reminded of one immutable fact: America is great because Americans are good at heart."
(Well... most of them, at least.)
And it just gets nuttier by the hour. Now, the media are warning women to watch what they wear on flights. Seems those water- and gel-filled push-up bras might get your pretty little ass labeled "terrorist," seeing as how your lacy underthings can now be used to blow up aircraft. Oh, but those knitting needles, matchbooks and tweezers in your purse? Those are just fine--bring 'em right on board!
And... R.I.P., Clemenza. We so enjoyed your work over the years. (And I'm sorry the AP saw fit to select such a horrible photo of you for its article. Even worse than that wagon-wheel coffee table.)
Lastly... R.I.P., JonBenet. I hope your family will finally have some peace.
Not a good day for my little black cat, Phoebe, whom I shuttled off to the vet this morning to investigate a case of goopy eye with an ick factor of about 9. The poor thing has been walking around with one eye closed for a couple of days and let's just say, a one-eyed black cat staring you down with her good yellow eye is not the most comforting sight when stumbling to the bathroom half-asleep in the wee small hours.
Phoebe's vet at the lovely Nob Hill Cat Clinic informed me that goopy eye (not the actual medical name for her condition but one I'm sticking to for its sheer preciseness) could signal the presence of an ulcer. She then carted Phoebe off to the dreaded "back room" for tests, leaving me to wonder just how in the hell an indoor cat develops an ulcer? Is living with me so stressful that huge holes form in my pet's stomach as a result?
Turns out Phoebe's just fine; she just got something in her eye that caused the irritation and resulting goopitude. Of course, I was commanded to purchase a tiny, $22 tube of ointment, a dollop of which I was instructed to rub on Phoebe's affected eye twice a day. Oh, the hatred that will ensue. (And the vet, of all people, should know that--after the first application--the clever little bugger will learn to flee every time she sees me approach with evil tube in hand, primed to spread icky stuff on her face.)
Meanwhile, the test they use to determine if an ulcer is present consists of instilling drops of iodine in the affected eye in order to "stain" the cornea. The fun part of this is seeing a black cat with bright green teardrops dotting her tiny face, looking like someone washed her eyes out with anti-freeze. Yes, the wee one hates me, alright.
...but I won't be lining up for your new film. While I have appreciated some of your films in the past, Mr. Stone, I must tell you that every time I see a poster for World Trade Center I become nauseous. No offense.
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And, from an AP article on today's code-red terrorism alert brouhaha regarding banning liquids and such:
"...An exception was made for baby formula, even though in powdered form it could easily disguise explosives."
So now we're just GIVING them ideas? Is that really advisable? Behold this witty bit of dialogue I've crafted to illustrate my point:
Terrorist #1: Hey, Ahmed, did you know we could easily disguise explosives in powdered baby formula?
Terrorist #2: No way, Mohammad! Where'd you hear that, dude?
Terrorist #1: It says so right here, in today's New York Times.
Terrorist #2: Excellent, bro!
Me: Oy.
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I do sympathize with all those people traveling today and in the coming weeks (including myself--internationally, no less). I suppose we're all learning every day just how the world is changing. We learn and we adapt. And we stop carrying little bottles of tequila in our carry-on luggage.
[SF's] fine
But it ain't home
New York's home
But it ain't mine
No more
Sorry, Neil Diamond--I simply had to paraphrase you a bit there.
Well, after four days in the sweltering concrete jungle of NYC, I've returned to the cool, comfortable embrace of San Francisco. Happily donning a sweater, I am pleased to report I have relearned what my face looks like without beads of sweat covering it and pouring down its pale, smooth slopes.
The past week of my life has been a veritable tornado of activity, emotions and surprises. I'd expected some measure of bittersweetness in my visit to NYC, but I was unprepared for just how powerful those emotions would turn out to be.
After four days surrounded and engulfed by the love of family and friends, touched by how many went out of their way to spend time with me, moved by what NYC itself still means to me, I returned to the city I now call home, only now I have new perspective on what the word "home" really means. This perspective has shaken me deeply and yet it is not a complete surprise to find I feel this way.
No home remains from my childhood other than my aunt Miriam's in Brooklyn, where I took some of my earliest steps and where I spent a wonderful Saturday afternoon surrounded by family. Once my grandparents left Brooklyn in 1985, followed by scores of great aunts and uncles, there remained only Miri's house. And it is, by far, more my permanent home than anywhere else. 20 years in Los Angeles and I have as much emotional attachment to that city as I do to the impressive booger I affixed to the bottom of my airplane seat as a gift to the next traveler in 16D.
New York is where my roots are, where the majority of my family is, where many of my dearest friends live, where I spent the most significant years of my adult life, where my dreams take me. There is a reason why I left and I do not regret that difficult decision. The path I've been on for the last two years is one of tremendous growth, discovery, creativity and, most of all, contentment. But San Francisco is not home. It is a fabulous city that I am enjoying immensely, waiting to determine just how long my residency here will last and where the next chapter of my life will unfold.
I do not idealize New York City; on the contrary, I fully acknowledge the struggles I faced there and appreciate having been able to toss them from my weary shoulders. I am not the adult girl I was when I called the streets of Manhattan my home. It took leaving for me to become the woman I am now, the woman who now knows how to rise above the day-to-day struggles and see exactly how fucking far she can go now that her attitude matches her abilities and her strength matches her smarts.
My visit with loved ones (among them the city itself) was an extended look into an enormous mirror held up to my changed face, body and mind. It takes looking at yourself through the eyes of those who truly know you and deeply love you, entrenched in a city that plays on your every emotion, letting down your guard and allowing those emotions room to explode--that's what it took for me to recognize and truly appreciate this remarkable person I've become. This is the person I want to be if and when NYC ever claims me again. And this is the person who is on a thrilling path, no matter where it ends up taking me.
P.S. Thank you Christopher, for dragging your ass all the way to LAX just to buy me a cup of coffee on my brief layover and for reassuring me--with your infinite clarity about who I am and what I'm trying to do--that I am indeed getting there.
