Morning Face or "It's not how I look, it's how I CAN look"

In keeping with the "naked" pictures being posted by various bloganistas, here are Feeney and me, not a scrap of make-up on either one of us.

Note the greenish patch near the outside of my eye. That's actually a shiner; a dog play injury. Feestie McBeastie has a hard little head.

Lucky for all of you, there's not a utility to share morning breath...

Free association and the (d)evolution of religion

OK, so yesterday's smorgasboard of pan-cultural Easter weirdness got me thinking...

Anyone who has done even the most cursory study of comparative religion knows that there are what can be tactfully described as "similarities" in the narratives of all major religions.

Example: Isis, with Horus at her breast, was the prototype for the Christian Madonna.

We all pretty much know that Christmas and Easter have roots in (gasp) pagan fertility rites. This we also know: the rabbit has been the mascot for Team Fertility since way back in the Way Back Time. Later, somewhere in sixteenth century Germany*, someone came up with the idea that a white bunny, the Oschter Haus, would lay colorful eggs in the homes of well-behaved children (thusly providing yet another opportunity for holiday-oriented parental coersion).

*Let us all share in a moment of thanks for the fact that we celebrate Easter with chocolate and jellybeans, rather than blood-sausage and zwiebelfleisch.

Somewhere along the line, we went from wild pagan hootenannies to, if you'll pardon the expression, a neutered, sugar-coated holiday that is manifested with an obsessive eye toward fuzzy bunnies. But when and how did the fuzzy baby chicks jump into the fray? I can't prove it, but my money is on the Hallmark Company.

Joseph Campbell observed that the interpretation of God(s) changes to reflect the changing character of society.

Oh mighty Isis, is this what we have become?

*************************************

Random tidbits for my foopeeps:

In my *cough* research for this blog, I watched a video about the pagan fertility origins of Easter on the History Channel website. The video was sponsored by Viagra. Effin brilliant.

I caved and finally took my first trip to the local sprawl-mart (eau de humanity!) in search of at least a few non-sugar-based items that could fit inside weensy plastic eggs. I discovered approximately nine billion and ten Hannah Montanna items as well as these adorable (gak) CAMO eggs. While I was not able to find a Jesus-as-Rambo action figure, I'm sure it's out there.

Lastly, while Isis can kick your ass, Jesus is way cool:

Pan Cultural Easter Weirdness at Foop's House

Pictures now, pithy and insightful comments forthcoming... uh, maybe...

My Little Piglet

Did anyone notice the moon tonight? I don't know what it looks like where you all are, but here in North Carolina, it is a full-on, Anne Rice vampire moon. It's huge and low and looks like it's about to bump into the earth and then drift off benignly in another random direction, like some impossible cosmic goth balloon.

I was out for a walk with Queen Feefertiti tonight when I gazed up and was caught, transfixed, for full minutes before I came back to my senses and wondered why my canine companion, usually a machine of terrieresque perpetual motion, had not tugged at her leash to get me moving along. I noted in passing that she had been occupied herself, whiffling frumoiusly at some small shrubbery.

Later, curling up with her on the carpet, I went to kiss her blocky head and found that it smelled overwhelmingly of rosemary.

Bliss.

Without a Net

Oh, my little brain has been bouncing around like the ball in a freakish, high stakes game of ping pong . My personal movie score changes second by second from the Rocky theme to World on Fire to Greatest Love of All.

OK, so I made up that last bit (Whitney Houston? Please.) but you get the picture. I have a burning question that plagues me. My constant inner dialogue sounds pretty much like this: Follow the money/follow the bliss? Follow the money/follow the bliss? Follow the money/follow the bliss?

On the face if it, such an easy question, but my optimism (glass half full) is usually tempered with an extravagant dose of realism - some might call it "pessimism" or "anxiety" or "vibrating too high". I call it The Glass Half on Fire.

Some dead existentialist once said that perception is reality (So, does he now perceive that he is dead? How do I know the color blue to you is the same as... ) Yoda said, "Do or do not do. There is no try."

Indeed, but platitudes do not shoes on the baby put.

The point I'm trying to make, in my rambling, parenthetical way, is that my entire view of the question of whether to keep the money job or go for the bliss job changes so dramatically and thoroughly depending on which way the wind is blowing. I have my head up my navel, searching the universe for a guarantee that everything will be OK. I've asked my parents what they think, my friends, my dogs, fortune cookies, the In Style horoscope page, random bumper stickers, the set list at Friday's Ani DiFranco show. Surely the omens are out there trying to guide me. Why can't they speak up???

The fact is that there is no guarantee. Clinging to the notion that I can find it somewhere will simply result in my dying the thousand deaths of the proverbial coward. According to Zen, it is this desire to always avoid pain and seek out security that causes suffering. In Zen, it is only by embracing groundlessness, by swimming so far out to sea that you no longer have the reference point of the shore, that you can become awakened.

Really? 'Cuuuz that sounds like it would make me rilly, rilly, uncomfortable.

Perhaps another analogy would be that, in the great trapeze act of life, you have to let go of the one trapeze in order to catch the next one. Otherwise you just hang there, swinging and running of momentum, eventually calling "A little help here?" to an empty circus tent. And no, you don't get a net.

I tell myself that the decision would be easier if I didn't have a child to consider, but maybe that's disingenuous. I'd agonize about it in any case. The real question is this: Is it a better life lesson for him to see his mommy following her dreams and standing up for her convictions, or for him to have a miserable corporate mommy who buys him lots of crap but hates her life?

I gave notice at my corporate gig yesterday.

**********

PS: On the topic of religion, I give you Eddie Izzard's Church of England.

All about... All About Eve

I am positively buzzing with scratch-your-eyes-out catty joy, as I have just finished watching All About Eve, arguably my favorite movie of all time. Well, "watching" is perhaps too passive a term. "Reciting along with" may be more appropriate. The dialogue is so wickedly.. well, wicked. It's not campy, really, but it never fails to brings out my inner drag queen (my drag queen/tranny fixation may be fodder for a future post).

I mean, really, the whole movie is just a smorgasbord of one zinger after another. Here are just a few that make me as deliriously happy as John Waters in a condemned trailer park:


Addison DeWitt: "You have a point. An idiotic one, but a point."


Also Addison DeWitt: "You're maudlin and full of self-pity. You're magnificent!"


Eve Harrington [throwing door open]: "Get out. "
Addison DeWitt: "You're too short for that gesture."


Miss Caswell (Marilyn Monroe in her first bit part): "You won't bore him, honey. You won't even get a chance to talk."


And of course, the classic, Margo Channing (Bette Davis): "Fasten your seatbelts, it's going to be a bumpy night."

For the record, I do a mean Bette Davis impression. I think it beats my lip-synch version of "Ain't No Mountain High Enough", but not by much.

Have I mentioned that I'm a drag queen trapped in a woman's body? (Stay with me, I know it's confusing).

Next up, Sunset Boulevard. Oh, snap!

Jeff Tweedy is trying to break my heart.

It's a beautiful, sunny day. I'm painting my son's room an impossibly cheery color, listening to Wilco and trying not to cry.

For the last 9 months or so, I have been preparing to leave my fat corporate job and go to work for a non-profit foundation that I adore. I mean, if they made baseball cards of these people, I would have all of them. Framed. I don't think I could have dreamed up a position that would better suit my skill set as well as my passion. They actually created the position just for me! It's a big drop from corporate money to a non-profit salary, but there was no question in my mind that I would rather cut corners and follow my bliss.

Of course, my financial picture has changed somewhat since X left. X is thirty-nine, by the way, and he left me for an eighteen year old girl. And yes, you're damn right I'm bitter. As a matter of fact, I will henceforth refer to him as XS. Extra small, indeed.

Anyway, last week, I met with my financial advisor, who told me in no uncertain terms that I cannot afford to take my dream job unless they're willing to give me significantly more money. I have explained my situation to Dream Job, Inc., and they are looking into it but I'm not holding my breath. Well, actually, I am holding my breath, but I'm not optimistic.

For the last ten years, XS has lived completely off of my largesse. I funded several album projects and an entire recording studio (none of which made a dime), and then paid all the bills so that he could go back to school full time, finish his bachelor's and get a master's degree. After years of waiting for my frog to turn into the prince he kept swearing to God that he was, he finally got a job... and then he left.

Fine, I thought. At least he's done fucking up my life, I thought.

My bad.

"Just shouldn't ever have to be this
hard"

Amen, Brother Tweedy.