(Adapted and updated from a piece I wrote back in November 2009.)

This has been something on my mind for a while now. Something I’ve felt like sharing, but since I really haven’t been in a bloggity place it hasn’t really come out. It has to do with the volunteering I’ve been doing several times a month over the past half-year.

And it’s one of those things that people will perceive in very different ways: some of you will take a look at what I’m doing and cheer, saying that I’m doing a wonderful thing. Others of you might nod a bit and take a “hey — whatever floats your boat” attitude. There will be some who think what I’m doing is stupid, and some who will see this as a counterproductive abomination to society and the heavens above.

And you know what? That’s fine. I’m still going to do it. Not because others have given me their blessings — but because I feel that this is what I’m supposed to be doing. Because I feel that what I’m doing is right.

So — what exactly is it that I’ve been doing when I wake up early on certain Saturday mornings? When I hop on the Metro and cross over into downtown DC, huddling with a cup of coffee I buy on the way while I walk the few remaining blocks, where do I go?

There’s a simple answer to this: I volunteer by helping women get to their doctors’ appointments without being harassed and/or intimidated.

I suppose that leaves out a huge chunk about why this is so controversial: The women with appointments are coming to a clinic at which I “escort.” The clinic is Planned Parenthood in Northwest Washington, DC. Planned Parenthood provides medical care and counseling for women — primarily working class women in the District. Women can make appointments for gynecological exams. Their physicians can prescribe birth control. There are counselors on site to assist women in many ways — not just limited to discussions of sexual health.

And yes — Planned Parenthood is a place where, if a woman chooses to do so, she can have her pregnancy terminated by a physician. I’ll say this in no uncertain terms in case anyone accuses me of not being direct and straightforward here: abortions. Women can get abortions at Planned Parenthood. (At least they can at the branch where I volunteer. Contact your local office for further information.)

My job is not to judge. My job is not to ask women if they are there for the normal Pap Exam or for an abortion. My job isn’t to convince women that they are making the right decision by choosing to have abortions. My job is simply to help them get into the door without being harassed. It’s trickier than you might think: we have protesters lining the sidewalks and the common area leading up to the front door all morning. There are prayer vigils. Posters of babies — and of fetuses, in-utero and aborted. Self-described “sidewalk counselors” will find any woman walking down the sidewalk — even if she’s just walking on by! — and latch on with fliers, pamphlets, and non-stop talk about how murder is occurring in that building. Some of them mention that there is always another way — and that people can help take care of their babies. It can get rather intimidating.

Here’s how a typical morning usually goes for me: we (the escorts) get there at about 8:15 or so. By that time, some of the protesters are already out front, some of them engaged in prayer vigils and mass. Some of them have their banners and signs up prominently. Many are clutching rosary beads and crosses, one of them being on the lookout to “counsel” any women who might be going to Planned Parenthood. A few of them are polite and responsive when I smile and say “good morning.” We’ve both been there for weeks; we’re simply soldiers standing guard on different sides of the battlefield. We simply have very, very different ideological differences. Others don’t acknowledge when we greet them. I’m okay with that.

We get buzzed into Planned Parenthood’s front door by Rita (not her real name), the security guard on duty. Each of us puts on an bright orange vest stating that we are clinic defenders. The phrase that sticks out the most, in big, capital letters: “PRO-CHOICE.” Some would feel that this is a misnomer, but it’s a surefire, quick way to let people know that we are with the clinic, and we are here to help those who choose to use it.

There is a coordinator on site every week — and that person is “the boss,” letting volunteers know the skinny on what might be going on that week and where to stand. Some of us are at the front door, waiting to open it quickly when a patient needs to come in — and closing it just as quickly so the protester following inches behind doesn’t have his/her shouts bellowing into the vestibule. Others are lined up on the sidewalk — sometimes playing zone coverage, other times covering individual protesters who roam around. When women (and companions) are approached by protesters, we walk alongside and ask if they need help getting in. With a smile. If we’re needed, we often talk about anything — or nothing at all — drowning out the voices of protesters and alleviating the tension. The same thing happens once someone exits the clinic: we ask if an escort is needed, and we’ll walk alongside the patients as far as they need us to go. Usually the protesters won’t go more than a block or two (but I’ve seen it happen on occasion). We do not raise our voices; if anything, our job is to diffuse any potential violence. We won’t get into a screaming match with protesters; if the patients get emotional and start yelling at them, so be it. We’re a strong, quiet force. Not there to preach, not there to argue. Just there to escort.

What happens on any given Saturday depends on a few factors: the weather is one of them. Protesters still come out on rainy and snowy days, but not in full force. (Patients are also sometimes dissuaded by bad weather.) Washington, DC is a unique place in that it’s a hotbed of political activism. There was a huge rally on September 12 of this year which had many conservative opponents of President Obama come down — many of whom passed by Planned Parenthood and decided to spontaneously join in with their own protests. A campaign called 40 Days for Life took place from the middle of September through November; we had shifts of protesters there specifically for that cause. On most Saturdays during the school year we have groups come down from Catholic University (in DC) and Christendom College (in Front Royal, VA) for their own student prayer vigils. Rumor is that students can get school credit for attending. EDIT: I have been informed by a reader that no college credit is given to Christendom students for participating. Some Saturdays we can have only a handful or protesters; other Saturdays we can see crowds into the hundreds.

Escorting at the clinic used to be a much tougher job until 1994, when the Freedom of Access to Clinic Entrances (FACE) Act was passed. This is a US law passed which makes it a crime to block the entrance of an abortion clinic. I’ve spoken with some of my fellow escorts who remember the days when protesters would sit-in on sidewalks — or even park cars there. We don’t see this happening nowadays (at least I haven’t). Most of the protesters are well aware of the extent of the law. They also know exactly where our rights, as escorts, end: we can’t “assault” them (meaning we try not to touch them in any way). We make sure to travel in pairs to make sure that there is a witness to any possible accusations. Sometimes we will state the facts to protesters: “You’re not allowed to block the sidewalk.” Usually they comply pretty easily.

In fact — there is some civility there on both sides — perhaps because there is enough legal information on both sides. Example: one day we noticed a film crew shooting patients coming in and out of the clinic. One of our escorts asked them to stop — not that there was a specific legal prohibition against it, but it was seen as harassment. Almost immediately, one of the protesters asked them to stop filming as well — and they did. It’s interesting to see that, although it can be easy to see them as simply “the enemy,” they have the same type of goals that we do: they want to make their position heard in a civilized professional manner. (Some of them.) We, too, want to make sure that women are aware of all of their options, and we feel that Planned Parenthood will be a far better place for them to become better informed than pamphlets being shoved in their faces.

Usually it’s pretty clear that we’re not going to convince each other of our own views. But I have been approached by protesters in a very friendly way, trying to get me to change my ways. I mention, right up front, that I’m certainly okay to “agree to disagree.” That I’m not here to change their minds, and I’m not going to be swayed either. But some of them just won’t quit. I’ve had one protester take out a box of plastic models of fetuses of different sizes (I kid you not), lecturing me on gestation. I’ve had protesters say that my position aligns me with Planned Parenthood founder Margaret Sanger who had some nutty opinions about eugenics and culling the herd. Other times I’ve had labels thrown at me: godless. accessory to murder. Murderer. Racist (in that our clinic serves primarily African-American women). Misogynist. Child-hater. (Only the ones who run around shopping malls with no boundaries — and I hate those parents more than I do the kids). Evil. I’ve even been called a “tool of the devil.” (I certainly won’t argue with being a tool; I’ve been called that many times before.)

I’ve marched in DC supporting women’s reproductive rights. I’ve supported Planned Parenthood in petitions and donations. I have voted for candidates who feel the same way I do about the right of women to choose what happens with their bodies. But this is different: This goes against the grain a bit. I suppose it’s potentially dangerous (although the chances are very small that I’d be in a situation where I would risk my life). It begs the question if this is something I really feel is right. It’s easy to march among thousands for a cause. But what happens when you’re one in a sea of others who feel differently from you? I’ve determined that yes — this is where I’m supposed to be. This is what I’m supposed to do.

And I get my share of thank yous from people passing by. I smile at them. I also get a lot of stares from those who don’t condone what I’m doing or who think I look foolish in a bright orange vest. I smile at them as well.

When I go home at the end of the shift, however, I feel like I’ve helped make a difference. And that’s what counts for me.

If you’re interested in knowing how to get involved in clinic escorting. In the DC area our organization is called the Washington Area Clinic Defense Task Force (WACDTF). I happened to read about Clinic Defense through a blog — and had found it to be intriguing since my Mom and I had spoken about it years back. (She was a strong supporter of Planned Parenthood). If you’re interested in volunteering, you can do a web search on “Clinic Defense” and your local area.

Note about comments: feel free to post whatever replies you’d like. Praise me. Condemn me. Compare me to Hitler. Whatever. Just know that I’m not going to engage in a debate about abortion rights. This isn’t a post to try to convince anyone that my viewpoint trumps the opposite one; I’m just chronicling what I’m doing and how it makes me feel.

Which is why I’m reminded of another happening this past Sunday — an exchange between Hilly and myself  where a bit of foolishness manifested itself. In typical fashion, Hilly urged me to post this adventure for all to see! For you, the audience, to read, chuckle and mock the foolish party involved! And so — in the sole interest of entertaining you — I’m posting the incident here. I’d like to give it a lighthearted title. Like “The Divine Nature of Modern Day Prophecy Through Didactic Symbolism In A Chaotic Realm.”

Now — before I begin — I know Hilly quite well. And I’m sure that, no matter what I write, she’ll comment on this story and say something like “Really? You remembered it that way?” Or “Shiny, what the hell is the matter with your recall ability?” Or something else which will get her all into a tissy because I have something minor wrong. Like an exit number or mile marker. Or, heaven forbid, I might describe a different variety of palm tree than it actually is.  Simply take this as a forewarning to take her almost certain corrections with a grain of salt.

So anyway…

We decided to drive up the shore a bit after spending some time at Daytona Beach. This was a nice opportunity for us to explore the different types of beach experiences people have in Florida.  Daytona was very touristy. Lots of gift and souveneir shops. Hotels on every block. Relatively crowded beaches with bike and chez lounge rentals all over the place. Planes with banners unfurled overhead.  But we wanted to see some of the less touristy places. We drove up I-95 a bit near Flagler Beach, and then hit up A1A, the road on the Peninsula which (on the most part) parallels the shores of the Atlantic Ocean.

And drive we did. It was fascinating to see the off-the-beaten path rentals. The beach houses on stilts. And, evem further up, the secluded beachfront mansions which were beautiful. And the occassional biker bar to the side of the road.  There was one called “Finn‘s” which we were going to take a picture of — but the light turned green too soon.

It was around this time that Hilly noticed that she was running low on gasoline. The light had just come on on her dashboard. I mentioned that this meant we probably had about 20 miles or so to go and not to worry. In fact, I believe that I was quite chill about the whole thing.  But she was quite intent on finding a gas station right then.

We didn’t have a working GPS in-dash — but we did have our iPhones! A simple search for “gasoline” was able to pull up some results. I advised to keep driving; a gas station was sure to come up shortly.  She agreed and we kept driving.  But there weren’t actually any gas stations — despite what Google Maps was telling us.

I remained calm as Hilly started to panic a bit. She looked at the iPhone and was very afraid that we would run out of gas in a secluded stretch of A1A in the middle of an almost deserted, backwards looking town a few miles south of a place called “Hammock.”  While I simply decided to have faith that something would turn up, Hilly was becoming a bit hysterical. “We need to turn around,” she gasped. “I don’t see any gas stations on the map beyond this point. We need to go back!”

I decided that it would be best to choose my battles and not let this be one. We drove for a few more yards and, while I remained cool and collected, we turned into the parking lot of a dilapidated Orthodox synagogue at the side of the road.  We circled the parking lot to exit and make our U-Turn — and that’s when I saw something crucial: a gas station only a few more feet up the road! It even took Hilly a few moments to see it for herself!

After all this time — after all of  Hilly’s worries that we would get stuck because of something probably misread on Google Maps — there was what we were looking for after all! “And all because of this Orthodox synagogue out in the middle of nowhere!” I laughed. “I suppose this is a sign — a sign that my God (the Jewish one)  is superior to your God (the Christian one) because… um…”  And then I said something witty about having only found the gas station after Divine Intervention through the synagogue parking lot! I suppose you had to be there.

“Ah, Shiny” she replied, “you’re just so darn witty. And smart! And clever. I think you should blog about this and demonstrate the prowess of your God through such miracles.”

And so I did. And I got most of it completely right. I think…

So — that’s the story. Wasn’t it fun?

–

Oh — while we were walking around Daytona, we came across this dude whose money-making scheme was to find peopl and put rare, tropical birds on their shoulders and take pictures of them for money. We decided to do this.

And the picture turned out quite lovely. At least I thought so. Hilly was not happy with the way she looked in the photo and made it abundantly clear that I was not allowed to post the photo to my blog or to Twitter.

But it bugged me a little. Only a little, of course, because I was pretty sure I would ignore her directive very early on.  That notwithstanding, I was concerned because I truly felt it was a good picture and she didn’t.  I eventually bugged her enough to the point where she agreed I could post it if I cropped her out.

But come on! The symmetry of the picture only exists when there are two birds! And the bird on my shoulder was (and I don’t want to sound too snooty here)  very monochromatic.  It simply wasn’t something I felt comfortable doing.

So I decided I would post the picture anyway.  A quick substitution was made for Hilly:

I only wish he had smiled a bit more. Yummy…

So — my original post sans hint was a bit… shall we say, improbable.  Who could simply guess a name in my head?  I did, however, get some pretty good guesses.

I decided to give you all a hint — one which I felt might likely give it all away rather quickly. And I was correct — it took someone all of three minutes to guess the correct answer from my hint.

So – what was the name in question? What did the hints mean? For at least one of you, the hints were a type of quaero totus lacuna, which is Latin for “copy what I put on the blog to help people out into Google and look for something remotely relevant.”  But for those of you who got it right off the bat, you knew that these three “hints” were actually the first few lines of dialogue of the repressed peasant in Monty Python and the Holy Grail:

Direct YouTube Link

The first among you commoners to guess “Dennis” was Avitable.  He gets the t-shirt expressly made for the crew of The Wolfman. Coming to theaters this November.  Kudos to LeSombre, whall, Finn, and Janelle for also coming up with the correct name.

I must, however, give honorable mentions to the following individuals for some dreat guesses:

• B. E. Earl guessed that I would be named Romulu He cleverly took into consideration the Wolfman movie flair I was giving away. He chose Romulus over Remus because Romulus is the name of the town where the Detroit airport happens to be. Or something like that.
• LeSombre guessed “Joseph” for a variety of reasons, most of which escape me aside from that it means “he will enlarge.”  Oh really… ::whistles::
• NYCWD and Cissa Fireheart both chose the name “Sam.”  Cissa cited a fact that, on this day in history, Sam Houston led a Texan army to independence in San Jacinto. And Samuel Clemmens (aka Mark Twain) died in 1910 on this day. Dawg just chose it because he knows that I don’t eat ham. (Jury is still out on the green eggs.)
• Dave2 was close: taking a page out of one of the best TV sitcoms of all time, he decided to delve into the quintissential hottest supporting character from that show.  And he guessed Skippy — based on Alex’s buddy and Mallory’s geeky somewhat stalker Skippy Handelman on “Family Ties.”
• Hilly just thinks that I should be called “Dick.”
• Iron Fist thought that my name might have to do with the Jewish holiday which falls today called Yom HaShoah. Which is Holocaust Remembrance Day. Way to keep it light…
• MySpaceBarBroke and Miss Britt both decided on “Sir.”  Both of these lovely ladies are younger than I am; SpaceBar is incredibly sweet and respectful towards me. She always has been. Britt, on the other hand… well, she’s also been very nice to me, I suppose.  But she called me old.

• Finally, another tip of the hat to Dawg who took the “37″ reference to the other movie which references it: a wonderful film called Clerks. Kudos to you on this one; yes, I’ve aged all 37 years in a row.  I’ve decided that I will bestow NYCWD with a package of snowballs (yes, the confectioned donut treat and not the other stuff) the next time we meet in person.

Today was really amazing for me.  I began this blog slightly over a year ago and was new to this specific blogging community.  Since then I’ve become close to many of you.  Thanks for all of the birthday wishes and for being such a great community.

But wait — there’s more! While I’m revealing answers about stuff, why the heck not give you the answers to that 80s music quiz on my blog about three weeks back?  Here were the snippets; see if you can hear them now that you know what they are:

Download: MP3 OGG

“Head Over Heels” by the Go-Gos and “We Didn’t Start the Fire” by Billy Joel.  Nat and Hilly identified the Go-Gos, but the Billy Joel intro was a bit tough for you all. Don’t the two intros go quite well together, though?

Download: MP3 OGG

Many of you (Faiqa, Janelle, Hilly, B.E. Earl, Sybil and my brother) got The Fixx’s “One Thing Leads To Another.”  Nobody got that the eerie piano chords belonged to the intro for the Boomtown Rats’ “I Don’t Like Mondays.”

Download: MP3 OGG

Yes. “Obsession” by Anomotion. Practically everyone had that one.  The other? “Oh Sherry” by Journey frontman Steve Perry. Yankeebird got that in the round before the last one in which four songs were on top of each other. Go Yankee!

Download: MP3 OGG

A few of you got “Safety Dance” by Men Without Hats. Nobody figured out the opening organ slide to “Hip to Be Square” by Huey Lewis and the News.

Okay — let’s hear them all together one last time!

    Download: MP3 OGG

Now do you hear each of these eight song?  No? Only me?  Okay…

A quick tip of the hat to my brother who calls himself, affectionately, Shiny’s Brother. I prefer the name I’ve given him in the blogosphere, Captain Awesome. I especially like it because I can almost feel him cringe at the thought of me calling him that. And imagining him in a tight superhero suit with tights and a bright orange codpiece and all.  Yes, he continues to be an inspiration for me, and he really had a lot to do with my obsession for 80s music.  Thanks, CA. Keep your feet on the ground and keep reaching for the sky.

And now, for no good reason whatsoever, here is a picture of someone’s butt. With a full color tattoo on one of the cheeks. Of a unicorn. A very special unicorn. One with rainbows. And a swastika armband. Spreading the rainbow-clad, unicornial message of white power.

On the other hand, you’re probably not interested. Tell you what — if you’re reading this in your feed reader and you actually want to see it, click through for the full blog post.  If you’re not, I certainly don’t blame you.

… and you thought I was kidding…

Thanks to my friend Becky who brought this to my attention from this website. This was truly the best gift I received all day.

Which, I suppose, was one of the elements which led up to my mom finding this big-ass grocery bag full of condoms in the summer of 1993 amongst my stuff.

I suppose this warrants an explanation: The previous two summers were spent on campus at the University of Maryland as an orientation advisor. This was a combination paid job (albeit not very much — but it did come with some free room and board) and academic experience (there was a three-credit course as a prerequisite) which had me doing more than just giving tours of campus: we were assisting as academic advisors and peer leaders in many different aspects of student life.  We also talked to the incoming students about certain resources on campus which could help them out in a bind. And made them aware of some of the aspects of independent living that might require them, to, um…

Oh, screw it. We showed them a movie about AIDS and HIV and talked about safer sex. And then passed out free condoms, courtesy of the University Health Center.

I already had a standing relationship with the Health Center coming into this — as I was already a peer educator regarding issues of sexual health, sexual communication and sexual assault awareness.  And because of this, I was good friends with Mary, the gatekeeper of the free condoms. Instead of just going to the Health Center to pick them up for each subsequent orientation program, Mary just gave me an industrial sized box and had me divvy them up for the other orientation advisors during their “let’s pass out free condoms to anyone who wants them” sessions.  Which I did.  There were always plenty; this was a very, very big box.  And it turned out that there were a good several hundred extras at the end of the summer.

So I kept them. Passed them out to friends during the school year. Hell — used a few myself. (Yes, they were in bulk packaging, but they had a recognized name brand.)  And in moving my stuff back home at the end of the school year (as I would be out of the country all summer), a bag of them happened to come home with me.

… and was found by Mom a few weeks later.  Who brought them up in conversation with me at that time.

You see, my Mom and I had a truly wonderful relationship — one where we could have possibly talked about anything and it would all be okay.  Or at least both of us felt that we were progressive enough that there would be no subject taboo enough to bring up.  But it was more of an understanding rather than one which was actually used in practice, as we discovered on an eerily awkward car trip one fateful August day.  She brought up the condoms. I laughed and told her about the peer education stuff I had been doing with them. She laughed. We were laughing. It was very casual, care-free. And then I made some comment about how having this supply saved me some money in the long run. She laughed. I laughed. We were laughing some more. And then we spent a good thirty-five minutes in the car not saying word one to each other.

I suppose she was cool talking about such things with anyone. And I was cool talking about such things with anyone.  We both had no problem with the subject matter.  We just didn’t feel like continuing the conversation.  The conversation between us was kind of like getting store-brand ice cream: there’s really nothing wrong with it. In fact, it’s all good. But after partaking of it, in hindsight, you realize that maybe it would have been better if you went in a different direction.

I brought up the conversation with my mom about the bag of condoms when I was chatting with my dad’s girlfriend. I was going through some of the old boxes — this one happened to have old emails and pictures of women with whom I had relationships during my college years.  It was weird seeing a box of my past — memories of who I was in my late teens and early 20s. How I looked, how I acted, and how I treated other people was still a work in progress towards where I went with it a decade and a half later.  There were certainly memories in that box that I wasn’t proud of, and others which I wish I had brought with me along the journey to the present day.

Much of this I choose not to share with others — whether on this blog or in person.  I don’t think anyone would have a problem hearing or reading it.  Perhaps I don’t want it to cloud what people think of me in the here-and-now. Either way — it’s a choice I have made on a case-by-case basis: some things I share, some things I don’t.

I’ve been wrestling with this recently as I’ve gathered more people who are closer to me in real life who follow my blog and/or Twitter.  In my blog’s  previous incarnation I kept things carefully guarded so my identity remained a bit of a mystery. But now? Things are a bit more open. My Dad follows me on Twitter and has read my blog. So have other relatives who have known me since I was an infant, as well as others who have known me on a far less intimate level.  Can I share everything here? Do these people really want to hear about my big bag of condoms and my prophylactic usage in the early ’90s?

Probably not.

But I’m going to post this stuff anyway.  Some of it may cloud your already pre-conceived constructs of me.  It may make for awkward periods of silence. That’s fine. Besides — most of the stuff I write will still (hopefully) be funny, and it’s always okay to laugh at something which may be rather inappropriate.  Please read (or refrain from reading) what you’d like. I’m totally cool with that.

But I must warn you: if hearing about the bag of condoms made you a bit skittish, you’re probably going to be queasy once I blog about the cabhinet full of dildos…

I’m not simply taking credit for an idea which wasn’t mine in the first place.

Nope. All I’m doing is being a guest blogger for today.

I’m doing it for Miss Hilly of Snackie’s World. While she’s relaxing in Florida, I suppose she could have just shut down her blog for a couple of days. (“Oh no! Snackie’s world is closed!”)  Instead, her blog remains open for business with me behind the counter. Which means the register will likely be quite a bit short by the time she returns.

So — join me, won’t you? Let’s go on over there together and answer today’s Snackie Sunday question of the week…

(cc) 2008, nycwatchdog's flickr stream: http://flickr.com/photos/nycwd/

We miss you, Lisa.

My first  interaction with Lisa was a snarky insult right to her face.

It was TequilaCon 2008 — and I had heard of her. I was one of many across the blogosphere who supported a trip for her and her family to visit Walt Disney World.  She had never heard of me before.

I introduced myself — and told her that I had featured her in my “List on the 3s” for that day: Things I shouldn’t say at TequilaCon ’08 if I want to be welcome at TequilaCon ’09.

So I told her about this.  Within 30 seconds of meeting her. And the Dude.

And her reaction to this madman coming up to her — someone she didn’t know who was throwing Chutzpah in her face about her being selfish about taking her kids to the Happiest Place on Earth? A smile. “You do know why I’m going, right?”

And I told her that I did.  And she (and Dude) refrained from punching me. In fact, it was all hugs just a moment later.

Throughout her battles with cancer (and this is a woman who certainly brought a ferocious battle), she didn’t lose her sense of humor, her wit, or her beauty.  From day one she reminded me of one of my favorite songs by a favorite artist of mine named Peter Himmelman.  He wrote it for a woman he had met who was in the late stages of ALS — but also kept her own sense of self and her sense of humor and perspective on everything.  I’ve included that song (and an intro about it) below.

It’s how I will always think of Lisa – a woman who, through this all, had amazing strength and courage.

You are loved and missed.

Direct YouTube Link — Song Intro

Direct YouTube Link – Woman With the Strength of 10,000 Men

Woman With The Strength Of 10,000 Men
From the album From Strength to Strength (1991)

From the moment I saw your face
I knew I could never take living for granted
I froze right in my place
As I became aware of the ground on which my feet were planted

And as your eyes were focused on the alphabet in your video screen
I stood there and stared in disbelief

I was speaking to you with my voice
You were speaking to me by choosing letters with your eyebrow
You didn’t have no choice
And yet you had an attitude like that’s just the way that it goes now

I started talking to you about the fish swimming in your aquarium
But all the while I wanted to take away your pain

Susan I owe you an apology
Susan I owe you an apology
For all the days I just let slide right through my hands
You are the woman with the strength of 10,00 men

From the moment I saw your face
I knew all my so-called troubles were nothing
You put me in my place
I knew right then I better start living for something

There ain’t nobody alive that can keep your spirit down
No one can keep you from changing what just ain’t fair

Susan I owe you an apology
Susan I owe you an apology
For all the days I just let slide right through my hands
You are the woman with the strength of 10,000 men

And the words come ticking out
And the words bring us together
And the words come ticking out
And the words must keep you sane

Susan I owe you an apology
Susan I owe you an apology
For all the days I just let slide right through my hands
You are the woman with the strength of 10,00 men

I’ve also certainly fallen short of other blogging goals: I’m simply terrible at replying to those of you who have left comments on blog entries. Perhaps it’s because I feel like I have to come up with something impressive to write to every single person. Or it could also just be a time constraint. Or pure selfishness.  It’s something I’ll try to work on a bit more as I continue with my next 200 posts.

I’m also noticing that I’ve fallen short on some of the serial entries I’ve attempted. I still haven’t revealed the exciting ending to Operation: Enduring Tofu, the search for the girl for whom I became a vegetarian nearly twenty years ago so I could come clean about my possible transition from herbivore to omnivore. I used to have rotating header pictures on my blog, and I was going to finish my Shiny Stakeout contest asking you all to identify the pictures for neat prizes.  I’ve neglected a “List on the 3″ on occasion.  These are certainly things I need to improve upon as well — if you guys want me to. (Is anyone still interested to find out about my conversation with Robin the vegetarian girl? Has she deterred me from eating hamburgers? Anyone?)

I do want to let you guys know, however, that I’m so grateful that I’ve found a wonderful community filled with crazy cool cats like you all who stop by my blog every now and again.  I was fortunate to meet many of you at TequilaCon last year in Philadelphia, and I hope the opportunity arises again sometime in the near future. (If any of you happen to visit the Washington, DC area — well, you know how to reach me.

It has come to my attention that a good friend named NYC Watchdog has bestowed an award upon me — the Great Buddy award.  I’m touched — literally, in fact, if you take a look at the image as re-interpreted by LeSombre:

This, of course, means that I would do wonderful things for NYCWD — including pretending to give an innocent victim a foot massage as to distract him enough so Dawg can slip off his Rolex for a quick resale.  And I would, too — even though I’m not so fond of feet. Yuck. The things I do for buddies…

I would give one of these back to NYCWD if I could since he’s such a wonderful, stand-up guy. My brother from another mother who enjoys cereal even more than I do. Alas, the rules of this meme are that I pay this forward to up to ten other bloggers whom I consider to be great buddies.

Anyway, here is how this Great Buddy thing works :

1. Put the logo on your blog.
2. Add a link to the person who awarded you.
3. Award up to ten other blogs.
4. Add links to those blogs on yours.
5. Leave a message for your awardees on their blogs. Na. They’ll figure it out.

So –here are the folks who make it onto my list:

Hilly: This lovely lady and I met at TequilaCon and became fast friends ever since.  She’s been a great source of inspiration for all things bloggy on the Takeout. In fact, she’s the one who did a complete redesign of the blog a few weeks back — and did a fine damntastic job of it.  I’d urge you all to read her blog — but chances are that if you’ve found me — you’ve already read her.

hello haha narf: Possibly my first friend in this new community. The impetus for me attending TequilaCon. Just an awesome person in general. Kind of like the big sister I never had.

Avitable: This guy isn’t really a great buddy to me as much as I am a stalker to him.  I found his blog and thought “Christ on a stick!* This is the type of blog I want to have!”  From his “Lazy Sunday” contests to his own brand of satire — he’s been the source of inspiration.  And he’s an all around nice guy.

Princepessa: Here’s a great person who truly knows how to be a great buddy. She’s been a supportive friend through and through, caring about the welfare of others.  She’s kind of like the glue that holds the world together. And if you sniff her, you get all woozy and stuff.

Finn: You know how sometimes you have acquaintences who call you up at least twice a month asking you for favors — which you’ll gladly grant — but when you want to get together with them they simply disappear into the ether as if you’re a common stranger? Finn is nothing like that. In fact, she’s very warm and friendly. Great writer, great photographer, great Mom, great person.

Faiqa: She’s a new addition to my list.  She’s funny, sweet, and has an interesting perspective on everything and anything.  She’s always willing to say something encouraging. Faiqa and positive motivation go together like Mike and the Mechanics and cheese. And you can’t simply say that about just anybody…

whall: There is a DC area radio producer with the name of “Wendell Hall.”  Because of this, I always simply think that whall’s true first name is not Wayne, but Wendell.  He and I don’t agree a lot on many political issues, but Wendell’s been a true friend to me nonetheless — always happy to share his expertise with all things Internet and networking, and allowing me to live vicariously through his experiences (almost) attending Yes concerts.

Dave2: Just a great, friendly guy. Helped me feel at home at TequilaCon. And I gathered that if I mention him here, he’ll make a trip to DC. Davestrict of Columbia in 2009!

Dessie: This one is a bit unique — Dessie’s public blog at Mindsay is no longer being updated.  But she’s been a friend through the blogosphere for years now — and someone with a special place in my heart.  I hope we get the chance to meet up again — the last dinner we had with our families was great, but that was several years ago.

Miss Britt:  She’s like my twin. Except that I’m Jewish and she’s not (yet). And she’s a woman and I’m not (yet). And she’s blond and my left arm weighs about the same as she does.  But she’s a parent of kids around the same age as Avi, and some of her parental instincts are right on the mark to my own. Granted, we’re very different in other ways as well — which makes her opinions worthy of reading.  But it’s always great to see what she has to say.

I know that I’ve probably forgotten many of you — and I apologize if I did.  This entire community is important to me, and I thank you all for being such a wonderful part of it.

Here’s hoping the next 200 are just as much fun…

___

* Technically, I belong to a denomination of Judaism where we hold dear the Gospel of the Jesuscicle — a frozen son of God sold in a variety-pack. So it’s totally kosher when I use this expression.

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Yes. Today happens to be the birthday of Randy and Jason Sklar, otherwise known as the Sklar Brothers! You’ll either find them extremely funny or extremely annoying.

But aside from that — it has been deemed that today is a day to appreciate and recognize a special subset of my readers: those of you who read what I have to say (or simply look for videos of me auditioning for American Idol or showing off my balls) but decide not to leave any comments.  Today speaks to you.  And I want to welcome you to Shiny’s Takeout in my own special way.

So — if you’re one of those lurkers who never comments — let me know you’re out there! Write in and say hi.  Let me know how you heard about Shiny’s Takeout. What brought you here? What do you like? What suggestions do you have? Are you one of my fun Mindsay compadres? Would you think that a puppet version of me would be just plain creepy?

Tell you what: as an incentive to you — if this is your first time commenting, or if you’ve commented on my blog less than four times — if you reveal some information about yourself, I will write a haiku about you.  It’s the least I can do for my loyal lurkers.

Comment away!

Python came up with a rule of thumb: if a scene is starting to go on too long, drop a cow on somebody.  (You can see where they went with this in Monty Python and the Holy Grail.)  The early seasons of Saturday Night Live apparently would drop a plastic cow from the rafters once a scene was ready to make a quick exit.  The premise, however, is a good comedic one: Get in, set up your joke, hit ‘em with the punchline, get out.   I like to adhere to this as much as possible.

But herein lies the problem: when blogging it’s very challenging to “drop the cow.” At least it is for me.  Perhaps it’s because people have the ability to review my writing after the funny has been presented. And then I fear it simply won’t be as funny. Or interesting. It’s an insecurity of mine, I know. But tonight it plagues me just the same.

Here’s my dilemna tonight:  I’ve started a blog entry which is titled An Open Letter to Wil Wheaton. The premise: My blog entry on January 3 of this year links to a funny video from the sketch comedy show The State where smooth operators Lavon (Michael Ian Black) and Barry (Thomas Lennon) start seducing and getting down with $240 worth of pudding. My rationale for linking to this was because of my overuse of the phrase “Aww yeah.”  And because it’s simply a silly sketch from 15 years ago.

Fast forward four days.  Mr. Wheaton has decided to dedicate a post to the exact same video.

The funny: my letter would kindly ask him to stop stalking me — even though he’s the celebrity and I’m not. And it was likely just a coincidence — two people who happen to find The State pretty damn funny.

And then? I’ve got nothing.  I’d have to drop the proverbial cow right there and then.  My setup is fine — I even talk extensively about his role in Toy Soldiers as the son of a mobster played by the late Jerry Orbach.  But after the punchline — of what I now see is a pretty weak joke — there’s simply nothing.

I just thought you guys deserved an explanation as to why I didn’t bring the funny.

Fetchez la vache!

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And it got me thinking a bit. No, not about the topic at hand. But just about the folks in the community who were listening and participating along with me. It’s a great group of folks.  Fun. Witty. Caring.  People with whom I can have a good time — even if online.

And it also got me thinking of my roots — and another resolution for 2009 which came to mind: I used to be part of a weekly online radio show myself, back in the Mindsay days.  It began as a show hosted by two of our blogging friends, a married couple, who would make it an interactive experience for the community. I was a fan and an attention whore (still am!) and found myself making promos and bumpers for the show. I eventually guest starred on the show and ultimately found myself co-hosting along with socKs and some others.  We had a lot of fun — until we didn’t have as much fun and decided to call it quits.

Sometime in 2009 — I’m putting the band back together. We’re going to do a WTF Radio reunion show. With all of the original hosts and casts of characters. Well, as many as we can find.

I’ve got 357 days to make this happen. Wish me luck!

In the meantime — here’s a video of just two guys who are having a good time, courtesy The Lonely Island. It’s the group that hatched Andy Samberg — but alsoSNL writers Akiva Schaffer and Jorma Taccone. (Incidentally, I just found out that Jorma will be playing Chaka in the new Land of the Lost movie.)

Party over here!

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Oh — by the way: They like Sports.

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