Caterwauling

A window, a river and a crossroads

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

So what if I’m beating the horse as it’s being processed at the glue factory?

Everyone’s telling me it’s time to let go. I know that. But if it were me, I sure as hell wouldn’t want the world going back to normal 24 hours later. I’d want an advocate, damn it. As many of them as I could get!

Perhaps as proof of my altered state, I wrote to Nancy Grace. (I know, WTF, right?) I am shocked to say has grown on me in the last two months. BOMBSHELL!

Anyway, I said thanks for pushing for justice for Caylee Anthony — now it’s time to move on and give a voice to the rest of those who don’t have one.

I know Foghorn Leghorn Cheney Mason faults the woman for beating the drum for three solid years and, probably, until the end of time. But irritating though she may be, she has the ability to give people the smackdown in a way the rest of us can only envy.

In an ideal world, I wish I had her advocating for my mom. Maybe she wouldn’t be so sick and in so much pain all the time — she deserves to be well and to live FAR more than “Tot Mom” does.

That’s what I’m maddest about. That four therapists have offered to help the psychopath from Orlando. How about somebody donating some services to someone who isn’t famous?

I don’t have kids. I could, of course. I’ve employed all forms of population control and, therefore, don’t. And I worry if would be as bad a mother as Casey was. I don’t do a lot but I don’t want to have to give that little bit up. Plain and simple.

Caylee became America’s little girl and, thus, mine. I fell in love with her. But the thing we all have to remember is that child, in death, became more-loved than she ever was in life.

I wish we could spotlight the good parents, as well as the people who give their children to better homes where they’re wanted. I hate it that we focus on the crazies.

But that’s just it — I’m sure my Extra Ultra Mega Uber Extended Houseguest from Outer Space has given me FAR more reason to put her on the Space Shuttle than Casey had reason to kill Caylee. I know my ass would FRY if I did what she did.

Of course, now that murder has been declared legal in Florida as of July 5 (verdict day), well, maybe I have some protection under “Florida v. Anthony.” I could only hope for a similar set of jurors who don’t understand that “thinking she did it” does NOT mean “not guilty.”

Anyway, friends, I won’t be a vigilante for that homely hobag to the north. Although she said she wants to move to South Florida — maybe we can send her to Little Havana (in Miami) and strap a $50 to her (with Henkel duct tape, of course) and see what happens.

And I won’t be tossing the Mega Uber roommate into a swamp, either. But none of this will ever stop me from praying for a world where everyone will be wanted and loved, at any age and in all circumstances.

Too bad my pudgy pork roast ass is too big for me to run for Miss America. I want world peace, damn it!

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Janeane Garofalo’s nerdy, nervous “Janis” character on 24 is simply not cocky or confident enough to fill Mary Lynn Rajskub’s “Chloe’s” clearly too-tight shoes. She cannot triangulate on command — ergo, what good is she to Jack Bauer? Damn government employees.

I probably won’t be home from work to see tonight’s episode of “24.” (We pack three meals for work on Monday, or else we will have our grubby mitts elbow-deep in Candy Corner.) But so far, the season’s looking promising, with great shots of D.C. landmarks and even a “news” clip featuring Fox5DC’s Brian Bolter. I give the producers props for paying attention to the little details like that.

Of course, those seem to be the only details they got right. C’mon, people. Skyscrapers? In D.C.? Parking lots? No gratuitous Potomac River shots, not even from National Airport?

I’m going to try to give credit to them for basing their layout of the city on wishes and dreams, so as not to compromise our “real” national security. But go check out WeLoveDC.com’s liveblog from the first two hours of Jack Bauer’s latest case of the Mondays for a much-more-detailed look at the geographical anachronism that is the new season of “24.”

If I were younger or dumber or looking to get fired, I would write about my day. But let’s assume that I’ve just spent the last 5,000 words describing every tool in the box, and we can all move on from here.

I feel better already!

Actually, you know what’s been making me happy in my captivity these past few days? VH1′s 100 Greatest Hard Rock Songs of All Time countdown. Who knew that all the songs that defined my youth would appear in a five-hour retrospective special on the former Video Hits One, where adult contemporary once went to die?

I had to giggle when one of my F-book friends from high school became a fan of Poison. We were all such wannabe hoochies, dressing up like Madonna as we went to all the heavy metal concerts we could afford from our summer camp job money. She was going to marry C.C. Deville while I was lusting after a three-way with Jon Bon Jovi and Kip Winger.

My dreams haven’t changed all that much.

I’d say “seriously, though,” as a transition to the next thought, but I ain’t kidding … not one bit!

Nothing makes me happier than either dancing around Metro stations with R&B on the iPhone (check the security cameras at Metro Center from last weekend. You’d be amused), or listening to all that “devil music.” At a time when I’m feeling particularly lost and devoid of the bulk of life’s pleasures, it’s weird how I rediscovered my soul while listening to Megadeth and Dio and Dokken and Ratt and Motley Crue and Alice Cooper and all the other music that is now too loud because I’m too old.

I don’t have any deep epiphany beyond remembering when I was a wee lass, scribbling my early books in my spiral-bound notebooks for school, while listening to that music. Dreaming of those rock stars, of being the one they pulled up on stage for a song or two, of being a rock star someday myself and traveling the world and living the shit out of every day I was lucky enough to have been given.

I wrote my first book 20 years ago. It wasn’t any good and I’m sure I lost it about 85 moves ago (one hopes). But man, the dreams I had and the stories they inspired.

Wistful. I was so wistful. Now I’m nostalgic for that wistfulness. Funny, that. I always figured that, in 20 years (from then), I’d either still be partying like a rock star or I will have done all my partying and then I’d be settling down a little bit into a real life.

Not that I ever saw myself as a corporate type — I figured I’d be wearing flip-flops to work and being a cool mom who wasn’t embarrassing for the kids to be seen in public with.

And I do wear flip-flops to work — the better for sitting barefoot and Indian-style in my ergonomic chair — I just shove on “real” shoes for meetings lest anyone see my flagrant disregard for things like rules and decorum!!

I wonder if my Poison-loving friend would be shocked to know how many different kinds of music I follow these days. How I’d rush to the next Lillith Fair, were it ever reprised. How you might never catch me country line-dancing, but I know all the lyrics. How when you see me grooving and lip-syncing on the Orange Line, I’ve got some Montell Jordan/Next/Rico Love jam going on. And in the middle of it all, a little Christian/gospel for good measure?

Anyway, I totally get why older folk listen to the “golden oldies” station. It’s not really that they don’t like “that rock ‘n roll music” — it just didn’t define their dreams, their memories, their generation the way it did mine.

*making the ‘devil horns’ and headbanging, and then taking an Excedrin ’cause OW!*

SNL’s Hillary/Palin sketch:

From the Grey’s Anatomy blog:

“I feel for (Rose) though because when a man meets the love of his life, there is nothing else out there for him, no matter how great the girl.”

I believe that’s true for women or, at least, for me. You find someone and you’d probably forgive them downright anything and you’d wait for them if that’s what it takes and you’ll hide your heartache till the end of time because it seems like he’s got to be the one to come to his senses, to find you waiting there all along.

And all the while that you’re wondering whether you’re good enough for him, you squelch back every fleeting thought of, “Well, is he even good enough for me?”

In any case, maybe I just haven’t met the type that “could” settle down, even if it’s the love of his life. Or maybe I have and I just don’t know it yet.