My first feature-length story. I hope.

I may be working on my best and most important story so far. Hard to tell.

Since I don't want to scoop anything here when I went with KUNM equipment to gather it, I will be careful not to say *too* much. (I'm progressively working through the finer points of "the ethics of blogging on the one hand and reporting on the other", if you can't tell. It's still very much a "work in progress".)

This much I can definitely say.

The Public Regulation Commission (PRC) is arguably the most important elected regulatory commission in the State, and one of the least covered by the press. (Much as a hardened cynic might say "they don't want scrutiny", I am not *totally* sure of this. My first impression is to believe it isn't really their fault so much as the media's failure.) They regulate utilities', telecommunications', and insurance companies' rates and services (among other things). But they're almost painfully unsexy, and they absolutely, positively never bleed on camera. So they get very little, if any, mainstream media coverage.

But there's something they decided this morning which will very probably turn into a relatively biggish story, statewide, over time.

I was the *only* press person present.

Sat through the first part of their public meeting, which, as all things do at the capitol, started late. But they got right to what I wanted to hear and I recorded all the relevant proceedings. Then all the interested parties walked out and I followed shortly thereafter. Interviewed one interested party on the mezannine of the PERA building, which I realized (only once back in the in studio) is a *terrible* place to record *anyone*.

People go all apeshit over architect John Gaw Meem in this part of the world, and while I very much appreciate the visual *feel* of the space in the building in which I recorded, I can't help but wonder that this was possibly the worst space in which I have *ever* recorded *anything*. The airconditioner kept blowing out cool air from the big, heavy, but shamefully unsealed brass doors in the lobby beneath me. When I got back to Studio C at the station, I'll be damned if it didn't sound as though I were recording from the engine room of a flying saucer. I couldn't even do much with noise reduction on it, even with careful curve control, 'cause every time anyone unpredictably opened or closed a door, the pitch of the "whirring" sound changed, progressively, by several full tones, only to change back as the door slowly closed. So I'd capture a "noise profile" to tone down, double check it by cutting out everything *but* the noise, and then do it. But the instant anyone walked in or out, the underlying pitch of the whirring would change, quite dramatically. So even after careful, *very* careful editing, there's still this sort of "whoooooooooo--EEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAWWWWWWUUUUOOOooooo" sound effect running in the background.

That sort of thing is a *serious* editing challenge (though it beats editing sounds recorded in traffic, which is *way* more unpredictable). I don't edit injudiciously. And I absolutely *never* edit to change a speaker's intented meaning. But *if*, in the midst of an "uhhhhm" or a stutter, you *want* to cut something out to save time and deliver the speaker's message more clearly, the pitch of the building you're in suddenly changes, you have to choose between leaving in the "uhhhhm" or else cutting the whole phrase as it's been spoken to you in the place that you recorded it.

Then there were the questions I asked. Inane. At the legislature a few months back, everyone was spinning like mad, what with people running between committee rooms and the floor for key votes. I was under tremendous pressure to show interviewees that I understood their issues at least well enough to ask them halfway intelligent questions.

This time, there were no "floor votes" to consider, so things were considerably more relaxed, and I asked some goddamn stoopid questions, as a result! "My understanding of what we just saw happen in the hearing room is that such-and-such is so and so, and that so-and-so- is doing this-and-such. Would you care to comment?" To which I might get little more than "yes, basically, that's right". I'm not a commentator, I am a reporter. I thus screwed myself out of the best and most well-informed commentary on the issue by showing that person that I had simply paid attention ten minutes before.

Still got a few good quotes out in the lobby.

Then the best speaker of all about these things. He had forgotten his calling cards at home and I had none to offer him on my behalf, so I rip out a page from my reporter's notebook on which I've written down who I am, the station I'm reporting for, the number at which I can be reached, and the radio frequency at which he can hear whatever story ensues. I've got his name and who he works for, but I can't just casually call him up a few hours later and say "would you care to clarify this or that?". Why not? Of all things, because at some level I'm still operating in "gay bar" mode!

I'll give a stranger *my* name and number before I will *ever* ask him for his. I must get over this nonsense. It's got its place, but honey, this ain't it!

But between my inept questioning and number exchange, and the downright loony sound of the building, I didn't have near enough to really cover the story as it *deserves* to be covered.

So now I have to do a phone interview from the newsbooth. I've sat in on other reporters' phone interviews and even edited sounds gathered that way. But today it's as simple a matter as "I don't know what buttons to push, when". I've never *conducted* a phone interview, I've only *watched* it. But I *need* this interview, if this story is to have *any* meat on its bones.

I proceed to call myself up from my cellphone and leave messages on my own voicemail saying "Testing! One! Two! Three!" until I understand how it works. You don't *have to*, but *should* "pot up" when you want to talk and "pot down" when you want to listen. And the newsbooth is set up for right-handed people, so I'm simultaneously finding myself in a lunatic tangle of wires that I'm going to have to learn to navigate before calling up people with lawmaking power.

Steve has already helped me out figuring out what is and what isn't important in this story, but come three o'clock, when I'd promised the Secretary and Personal Assistant to the Commissioner from District Five that I'd call him back, Steve has "left the building". 3:01 rolls around and I find myself hoping that Public Regulation Commissioners just don't follow the clock *as* carefully as radio people do. (They don't, thank gawd.)

I call up the commissioner and almost die when I overhear him joking to his assistant that he'll call me back, 'cause I have *no* idea how to capture an *incoming* phone call. Only *outgoing* calls. (I'm an incall, not an outcall, I guess, though likely not in a sense that would make any sense to anyone who "gets" what I just said.) She transfers me to him, and to my relief, everything goes smoothly. I get a *lot* of good sound.

I edit all my clips, and start rewriting my own script and the host's, because I'd already started writing when the scheduled 3-o'clock phone interview rolled around and gave me *way* better sound than what I'd started out with determined to make *something* out of, if I absolutely *had* to.

The story starts to gell.

And then I find out that I've spent something like six straight hours in studio C because the news department's got some hours already requisitioned, and the "Grassroots New Mexico" never showed up for their time. But now those hours are up and other people need the studio. No problem. I need a break, anyway. Just lemme close this out, save that, and here ya go.

I'm at home now, relaxing, and will go back either later tonight or *very* early tomorrow to finish the story.

It's going to air tomorrow.

My first feature-length story.

Weird dream.

Got a "mailed at taxpayer expense" piece of literature from Representative Heather Wilson's office. Very slickly produced, all about how she likes wind energy and blind people. Struck me as *way* close to being campaign material.

Anyway when I go to sleep I dream she's come up to my door and rung the doorbell. I'd point out the "no solicitors" sign but I want to talk to her. So we greet eachother cordially, and she asks if I need any help pulling weeds. Of course I need help pulling weeds, they are out of control. So she goes over to my next door neighbour's front door and starts pulling *their* weeds. After a minute of being profoundly embarassed at the sight of my congressional representative pulling my neighbour's weeds, and realizing there's no camera crew around, and wondering if this isn't some sort of campaign stunt, I ask her to stop. But she's totally into it by now, and she just keeps pulling weeds.

Then I wake up.

Bizarre.

(BTW, Rep. Wilson, if you read this, I *could* use some help pulling weeds, but my own, if you please. Thank you.)

Broadcast training, part one.

Had my first class under Rachel Kaub in Studio C. After I'm done with the classes I get tested. If I pass the test I'll be board certified -- meaning I'll basically get to be in the Control Room on my own.

It was very helpful. There's a lot yet to learn but it makes a lot more sense, to me, seeing someone do it than just looking at diagrams of faders, knobs, and buttons. It's ingeniously laid out and very sensible. Getting familiar with default settings seems to be the first hurdle. I swear, the first time you set foot in Control it just looks like the board of the Enterprise. Once you start to understand what controls what -- inputs and outputs, mostly -- where the sound's coming from and going -- it makes *much* more sense. Little frustrations aren't a problem like they used to be. Like knowing how to switch input functions. That -- literally not knowing which button to push -- once screwed me up, bigtime, on downloading a news story. There was no one around to ask at the time so the story just didn't get done.

Learned to cross-fade smoothly, which I guess is the accomplishment for the day.

Also cooked courgette soup. Delicious. Used yellow squash rather than zucchini and put in generous lashings of heavy cream at the end. Divine, and it'll feed me for a week.

Made ratatouille the other day, too, from Julia Child's recipe, which is identical (but just a lot more thoroughly detailed) as Paulette's. (Paulette's the lady in the south of France who gave my mother the recipe for courgette soup. Amazing stuff. Very festive. Utterly delicious.

Time to clear out of the studio.

The miracle of mayonnaise.

May the blessings of the Lord rest for all eternity as laurels upon the head of St. Julia forevermore.

I understand the Roman Catholic church requires two verified miracles for anyone to be declared a saint.

I humbly submit what may be the first miracle for consideration, on behalf of Ms. Julia Child.

I have made MAYONNAISE. Without her intercession, this miracle would have never been possible.

I have tried making mayonnaise -- or if you prefer, "Mahonnaise" -- at least a dozen times before. (See, I *do* know my food history). With a whisk and mixing bowl, with a hand-held blender, with a countertop blender, with a food processor, and with numerous different recipes. *None* have worked, 'til now. Substitute lime juice for lemon juice for this or that vinegar for whatever else curdling agent. Whatever. It has *never* worked out.

This time I hear the blender/food processor motor slowing down progressively and *know* it is a miracle. Emulsification happens.

Until I read her recipe for it in "The Way to Cook", I'd never achieved it. She's one step closer to sainthood, if you ask me.

This is a very basic sauce. So very much depends on it. It *shouldn't* be that hard. Now, after reading her 1989 tome, "The Way to Cook", I have finally managed it.

I didn't have the luxury of mixing oils. I don't have any olive oil. you see, so I had to use all peanut oil (unless I want to risk mixing in one or another toasted sesame oil). In a lesser cookbook such a minor substitution would doom me to complete failure. In her own, it winds up meaning just that I have to correct the seasonsing and texture. So what, the result tastes downright nutty. But it's MAYONNAISE. No denying that fact.

And it's MINE.

And it tastes NOTHING like what you buy off the shelf. NOTHING. I've got twelve ounces to play with for now, which is fine for using on sandwiches and stuff, and plan to whip up another batch soon, which I'll use in actual recipes. And once I've got it *down* I'll just multiply the recipe as needed.

In the meantime, if anyone finds themselves in need of miracle healings, I'm willing to sacrifice teaspoonfulls of my homemade mayonnaise for the purpose. While making no promises, I don't doubt it might cure the most intractable medical problems.

It *is* a *bit* thick. It *is* a *bit* underseasoned. But you know what? It *still* beats the ass out of the mass-manufactured, mass-marketed product masquerading as "mayonnaise". I'm free to change the recipe as suits the recipe I plan to use it in. And I know how to perfect it, too.

My next batch will be better.

Way better.

God damn, I love Julia Child.

Update

Am reading Kenneth D. Ackerman's "Young J. Edgar". Ackerman's the same fellow who wrote the amazing biography of "Boss" Tweed I mentioned months ago, after I got all those original Thomas Nast prints. This book focuses on one young John Edgar Hoover in his years of ascendancy inside the Department of Justice's Bureau of Investigation (the precursor to the FBI). Fascinating read. Exceptionally well-researched and -written. (Of course, it's a library book, as are most good books I read, these days.)

It's all about (so far, at least) the Palmer Raids, about which I'd read plenty from the likes of Zinn et al. But this is a whole new perspective. In depth, from within the various bureaucracies involved. I love Zinn, don't get me wrong, but he's a generalist: a guy who can sketch out, in broad terms, vast areas of history that haven't been researched. It is entirely thanks to Zinn that I can appreciate Ackerman, but Ackerman fills in the blanks, and does so compellingly. It's mostly thanks to Ackerman that I'm now seriously entertaining the idea of issuing FOIA request for any information the Bureau may have had collected on my own grandfather.

Worked a good full week at the manor and have taken the last two days off. It's getting to where I feel the place looks *good*, and I take immense pleasure walking around the place like I've controlled all the weeds, 'cause I pretty much have.

Went around to all the farmers' markets in town today and a handful of other places besides and I'm *cooking*, and enjoying the hell out of it. Such is the effect a cartoon movie -- like Ratatouillie -- can have on me. (I've seen it three times, and plan to see it again. First time? Enjoy the movie. Second time? Appreciate all the animation-type work that went into it. Third time? Focus on all the crazy details regarding cooking. It is *that* good. I haven't tired of it, yet.)

I'm managing my burnouts infinitely better these days. These days I get way the hell to deep into a news story I *know* doesn't constitute local or regional news and when I see it, I step back for a week or so. But I'm heading back into the station this week to get something else meaningful *accomplished*, though I won't know what that is until I see it in the daybook. I just needed to step back from the tunnel-vision I'd gotten myself into. Yes, I took *everything* personally. That's one of the nice things about volunteering, though -- people appreciate it when you show up, as long as don't fall totally flat on something you've absolutely, positively promised them by such-and-such a time and date. It's very decent, really.

Mr. Israel wrote back quite civilly, and I wrote him back, quite civilly, discussing all sorts of specific bible verses and stuff, but I never got around to sending my reply. I'd love to, but it's a probable black hole, if I do. I just have to accept at some level that neither of us will *ever* convince the other to our own satisfaction. We interpret the same exact passages of the bible quite differently, and since I really have no interest in becoming christian again (the only benefit of which I can see would be the ability to argue these things endlessly), it's not worth my time to follow up on. We can argue the finer points of personal salvation 'til we're both blue in the face, but meanwhile, the coal-fired Desert Rock power plant will get built and shipments of radioactive waste to WIPP will continue.

Fag stories are, let's face it, just *not* that important. Stonewall was, but that was 1969. Right now we're all a bunch of queers all full of shit, pretending like passing "civil unions" legislation won't open the way for the Gloria Vaughns of the world to redefine marriage as a "legislative compromise" where most of the wishy-washies in state legislatures are concerned. We do know how to hide. We might prefer not to, but we know how to do it. And our going into hiding isn't half as important as building another coal-fired power plant in the four-corners region, for the time being. The issue is one of abstract legal rights versus the continued existence of the human race as a species. And any fag organization who disagrees is invited to respond, in comments, or by email.

I'll quote Mr. Israel one last time, on possibly the only thing I *do* unequivocally agree with him 100% over: "You need a little humour or you'll get bitter. We have conversations with people at Mardi Gras that last two years. It's almost like a family reunion coming here." (Times-Picayune, 25 Feb., 2004).

Replace "Mardi Gras" with "DNC 2000" or "Albuquerque Pride 2004-2007" and "two years" with "seven years" and that's about where I stand where Mr. Israel's concerned: I love shouting him down as much as he loves shouting me down, but I've got *way* bigger fish to fry, the remaining 364 days per year, than whether he hates me (and my kind) or not just 'cause I love my own kind, much less whether we read specific passages of a *very* complex quasi-historic text differently.

Anyone reading remember my ASARCO days? (Maybe the palacers.) Now THAT was a burnout! I had *no* support, as far as the issue was concerned. I was putting in 16 and 20 hours a day just understanding the issue and getting the word out. My parents fed and housed me, 'cause that's what parents do (at least the good ones), and there was one amazing retired lawyer who knew the issues in such depth they made my head spin, but he was more an "information" man, and made no secret of it.

I was the *only* one out there, each day, designing and distributing flyers and posters, making the issues "fit" in "three inches", issuing overly-complex press releases (which all got ignored), and venturing onto dangerous slag heaps in my car in order to take damning pictures of things ASARCO thought were closed to public view. Attending far-flung EPA hearings and asking way-the-fuck-too-complex questions when most people living right over test wells barely understood the issues well enough to say they didn't like what they saw going on (most didn't speak English, and none of the EPA folks spoke Spanish, and there was *no* translation available). Then getting sniped at 'cause I was a white guy who didn't speak Spanish, asking all the questions. Arranging student meetings for groups that had never drawn more than birdwatchers before. Blah blah blah. Any wonder I dropped out of college this last time?

It was worth it. Last I heard they had a whole busload of people go down to Austin to protest TNRCC's proposed issuance of an air quality permit to ASARCO which would allow it to start up again. Yeah. I wasn't there, but I *do* take partial credit for it. It's out of my hands now, which is *exactly* how it should have been, all along.

I trust I do not overindulge my own ego by saying, on seeing this *finally* happen, that one person *can* be effective.

So killing a story I'd spent a couple of weeks on, researching in my spare time, isn't "burnout". It's frustration, yes. But I can come back from frustration. I know my limits now like I didn't back then.

And if I ever forget, I have to remember that my limits (at least as far as airable stories go) are *very* different from the limits my body and spirit can withstand when buffered from all sides from high winds. I'm not out just to survive. To not get run off the road or not have my car vandalized.

My job, now, is just to get certain stories on air in somewhat greater depth than they'd get on air otherwise. That's more valuable than anything I've ever been offered before. It's in my own best interests, and the best interests of whatever the cause of the day is, if I don't put my whole, complete being into it. These stories resurface, repeatedly. My job is to figure out when they do, and cover them.

The situation I am in right now is still tricky but it's more than I ever dared hope for. I don't plan to jeapordize it.

My first ever disclaimer:

The views and opinions represented in this blog are those of their respective authours, who accept full responsibility for such statements, and not those of KUNM 89.9 FM in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

I make this statement of my own volition. If I knew how to code it properly to work cross-platform, it would be in flashing *and* scrolling eight-coloured rainbow text with lightning bolts emanating from all around. Today's the first time I got the slightest hint I *might* do well to say something like a disclaimer, though really, I have known I *should* since I was recording floor votes from the Press Gallery above the Senate of the NM legislature. My disclaimer, btw, is fully retroactive.

After my recent online adventure with Mr. Israel -- what with me casually saying "he said this and that", complete with my "bitches corner" personal tone (taken straight from Foxes), then interpreting his statement in my response to him, which I made public, and then letting him respond -- and then my responding privately to his private response to me (which I didn't cover here, though I continue to consider whether I want to or not), and his responding to my responding to him, it has become more than abundantly clear that I really *can't* use *his* cause as a radio story, myself, although that was the original reason I began to research him in considerably greater depth than most who quote him in the mainstream press.

The story, as I see it, isn't actually him, as interesting as he is -- it is the failure of the mainstream commercial press in covering dissident voices, to such point that they don't double-check their sources when the voice they cover opposes whatever seems to be the issue of the day. They just relegate the "dissident" to a throwaway line or two regardless whether what he's saying is defensible or not, regardless whether the "dissident" is credible or not. I understand given deadlines it isn't always workable, but *hundreds* of nearly identical hits in Lexis? Mr. Israel quoted, repeatedly, next to anti-breast-feeding activists outside the DNC in 2000, as though he and they orchestrated alone orchestrated the mass events? Puhlease.

Whether it's the New York Times, the Washington Post, the Toronto Star, or ABC Radio News, Mr. Israel's repeatedly quoted in ten-second soundbites -- exactly the same way I quoted him in my recent "Pride" story -- as though he spoke for vast swaths of society. This criticism cuts both ways, let me point out: I wouldn't have gotten involved in this, at all, if I hadn't come to see that I'd treated him the same exact way every other mainstream news outlet does. Out of laziness. And it makes me *crazy* -- not that they would repeatedly do it so much as that I would do it *just once*, just because he *does* sound good, playing off ambient sound, when I'm just starting to work with ambient sound in my newspieces. I'm a rank amateur. And I'm a volunteer. (I doubt the New York Times, Washington Post, Toronto Star, or ABC Radio News reporters can claim amateur volunteerism in their defence.)

To be fair to all concerned, I responded with a fair dose of what I'd call "self-deprecating humour" to Mr. Israel's response to my response. He, in turn, was perfectly civil, indeed, almost charming -- to his eternal credit. There is a lot that I respect about him, not least of which is his willingness to explain his views *to* me as though I were, in fact, at least partly a human being, in addition to being a ho-mo-sex-u-al. Take away "the fat man's" bullhorn and he, too, becomes less of a caricature and more of a human being. There's some feminist theory in application going on here that I am frankly at a loss to explain perfectly. But we seem to be, dare I say it, *communicating*, however imperfectly. If he didn't insist that I was going to burn in hell, I swear, I'd almost *like* the man. (Yes, in *that* way, as though this weren't complex enough already.) And maybe he'd like me at least a little bit more if I were just a bit more interested in coming over to his way of seeing things than in -- nevermind. Who knows.

Still, I very publicly called him a far-less-than-flattering name, which I will do neither him nor myself the dishonour of repeating here. I *could* say "he started the name-calling". I won't. It wouldn't serve any purpose to go down that road. (His name brings up over a hundred hits on Lexis-Nexis, if you ever care to look into it beyond what I say he says.)

Getting into an online flame war about who called whom what first is *not* journalism -- not even advocacy journalism. Since I am perilously close to getting into just such a shouting match, I regret that I can not credibly report on Mr. Israel's public doings on air.

What's more, Mr. Israel has my personal apology for calling him what I did, just a few posts back -- simply because such comments are -- or at least *should* be -- totally beneath me. (What can I say? The doorman in me still comes out, from time to time.)

I have a *very* deeply vested, *personal* interest in this ongoing story, to such a point that my emotions run away with me. I would be lying if I said I *don't* want to "catch him" in *something* indefensible.

My calling him on the McVeigh quote is just such an attempt; and he still has not explained it to my satisfaction. The point is, though, if this were *solid* journalism, my "satisfaction" wouldn't matter just one whit. Instead of letting his explanation stand and letting readers/listeners make up their own minds, I *deeply* want to pester him about it, further, until either he convinces me or flat-out falls apart, weeping on my doorstep, begging for mercy.

That shit ain't journalism. BDSM fantasy, maybe. But journalism? No. Even *I* know that.

Either outcome may be blogworthy. Maybe. Or maybe not. But it's *not* worth the public airwaves, which are beyond price.

He never *will* satisfy me, and I know it.

I never *will* satisfy him, and he knows it.

Too bad he doesn't do the whole gay sex thing. I happen to think we'd make a pretty solid couple. (Ink Spots lyric coming on...)

I can write about him all I want in here, but I can't cover him, on air. Much as I wish I could, I can't. As my last statement may have indicated, it's *deeply* personal, between us (though I'm guessing he would say it's anything *but* personal, being biblical). I can research him and the organizations he mentions 'til I'm blue in the face, but I simply can not be fair to him, nor can he be fair to me.

WE BELIEVE DIFFERENTLY. Period.

And he's kinda cute, too. Rruff.

Between that gulf, the best thing I've got going (I can't speak for him) is a thin but already deeply convoluted and conflicted string of emails going both directions. Not one of which makes for a decent drivetime headline.

This is my own failing. Not his.

At the same time, his is a dissident voice, in a manner of speaking, and I can do justice neither to his worldview nor to mine, on air. At least, not now.

There will be no news story, by me at least, involving Mr. Israel's interpretations of the bible.

Which is a shame, because I think he *is* really a *very* interesting person, and deserves *far* more attention than the one-liners which make up his Lexis-Nexis dossier, however much I disagree with him, or he with me.

In a way I am grateful that I'm now free to deal with his statements here, rather than having to vet everything I look up on him for potential air. Not that I resent having to do so. I am drawn to KUNM's News Department precisely because there are enough caring people with differing perspectives around the table to offer viable, and sometimes downright brilliant alternatives before allowing the reporter choose to kill his own half-baked story, without pressure.

This story is dead. It was half-baked. Mr. Israel and I have something going on that just ain't news. Period.

It's personal.

I have chosen to kill this story on air, 'cause I frankly think I can cover it better in here, where nothing has to be news.

But if anyone less directly involved ever wants to get in touch with me, or Mr. Israel, well, I can give you a couple of pointers.

My mother visited this weekend.

On Friday night, when she arrived, we went to see the Dolls -- the local theatrical drag troupe -- perform in "Revolting Drag Queens: A Stonewall Story" at the Vortex. I'd wanted to see it since they marched in Pride, since their promo for the play was the *only* mention of Stonewall at that increasingly commercial event (not counting those I elicited by asking). Their show was *outrageously* funny, though an audience member might do well to understand a thing or two about drag shows before going.

Since we didn't have reversations and got to the theatre late, we didn't get to sit together. Just as well -- I could sit behind my mother and judge by her reactions whether she was scandalized or not. I think that she was not, judging from how she laughed hysterically at precisely all those moments I was just considering covering her eyes with my hands. (The extended dildo sequence, for instance, which just incidentally provided the comic climax to the show.) As for myself I loved it, but felt myself turning bright red. Thank goodness the audience was darkened.

At the same time she left the theatre more mystified than ever as to "the Judy Garland thing", *despite* more than one briliantly lip-synced (and exquisitely staged) Judy Garland scenes. To which all I could say, with all my love, is that there are some things she just will not ever "get". To my surprise and delight, though, the things she doesn't "get" are cultural references specific to a certain time and place, and have nothing to do with me, directly.

At the same things my mother laughed at just plain made me wonder. I told her after the performance that she clearly had a filthy mind and it seems, somehow, we're still on speaking terms.

Then on Saturday we went to see "Ratatouille". The palacers know how I feel about feature-length animated films post-Pinnochio, and about digital animation, and the studios, Disney in particular, blah blah blah.

I *loved* it. Start to finish. *Great* movie. Not just a great cartoon movie, either. I haven't had suspension of disbelief in *any* movie like I had watching Ratatouille in ages. Do yourself a *huge* favour and see it on the big screen before you go still-framing through the DVD release. I dreamed about the movie after coming home and going to bed. I plan to see it again, at least once. It is *that* good. And anyone who's ever worked in a restaurant kitchen will understand why all the characters ring true -- even the most incidental, even the "villains", which in cartoon movies tend to be 100% 2-dimensional, in the worst possible sense of the word. If there was even just one hint of genre convention in this film, I failed on my first viewing to find it, and it wasn't for want of walking into the theatre with a critical mind, either.

Though in retrospect, I wonder whether the film might not be getting decent critical reviews precisely because of the role of the restaurant critic within the film.

I don't care.

I loved it.

I'm going to see it again. Short of finding some Moersian way of turning me into a red corpuscle within one of the characters' bloodstreams, that's the best I can do. I *must* know every frame.

On the way home, about five blocks from home, there's a lizard in the street. We drive over it. Literally -- it goes between the wheels of the car. I look back in the rearview mirror and see it's still got its head up. I figure it must have been a toy, when suddenly he tilts his head -- a tiny bit. I slam on the brakes and run back to get him. He's lucky we didn't kill him. And still, he hasn't moved half an inch.

He's *covered* in spikes. Looks downright primordeal. Very evil in appearance with a head like a rattlesnake's, but with spikes, as though rattlesnakes heads weren't evil-looking enough. Cars keep coming, and my mother runs out in traffic to explain to passing motorists why I'm chasing a lizard through oncoming traffic. (This isn't something we'd *planned*, mind you, it just *happened*.) I touch him down the back to make sure he won't bite or spit venom or something similarly theatrical, and when I figure he won't, I pick him up.

We walk him back to the house (complete with weird looks from passers-by, like they stand in a place they can judge) 'cause my mother won't drive the car and also won't touch the lizard. We put him in a box and I take him back to the car, then out to Clark's Pet Emporium where I walk in with a box with something audibly squirming inside and a single, simple question: "is there a lizard person I can talk to?". (A worthwhile experience, just for the looks that I got, though the Clark's staff looked as though this were a totally routine thing.)

WInds up he's a Bearded Dragon. Not native -- obviously somebody's pet who got out. I think they come from Australia or something. (They retail for between $150 and $200 -- I'll *never* understand "exotic" pet owners.) He eats mealworms (but not often, 'cause they're high in fat), large crickets (but not larger than the space between his eyes), and collard and mustard greens (though not kale, 'cause it makes him gassy), and sometimes strawberries.

Yes, strawberries.

If I want to keep him, I'll need a 40-gallon terrarium, a heat lamp, *and* an ultraviolet lamp, unless I aim to keep him outdoors, which is probably how he got out in the street to begin with. And I have to make sure that he doesn't eat dirt with the crickets, 'cause that impacts his digestive tract, complete with his 4-compartment stomach. But they assure me, he's one of the more highly desirable lizards as far as pets go, which, combined with the fact that I've just picked up a stray lizard, makes me think "people who keep lizards as pets are INSANE".

Leave aside the slightly creepy personality type who falls in love with *anything* covered in spikes. Leave aside the kind of person who might *want* to commit to feeding pricey, out-of-season strawberries and *certain* greens (but not others) combined with *certain* insects (but, again, not others) to their pet, *and* maintain not just a certain ambient temperature but certain wavelength of light combined with carefully controlled temperature *and* humidity, if they -- get this -- don't want the sex of their pet to change. I don't mean that my lizard would go all Foxes on me, I mean he would become biologically female, if I don't keep his living conditions "just so".

I'm in love.

As it is, I'm transferring him twice a day between different rooms of the house and watching what he eats. And his colour has changed several times already. More often than one of the Dolls in the same time period. And he has not even shedded. Yet. But he will.

They give him -- *give* him -- some worms and crickets, because he "looks thin". (They weren't bullshitting, either -- I had no frame of reference, last night. Now I do.) There's no telling when he got out. I then buy three bucks worth of crickets to take home with me, even though they're officially "out of crickets" and have just spent half an hour dealing with this crazy fag fresh in off the streets, himself, with a street lizard ten minutes before close.

They clearly care about my given animal's well-being more than they care whether they get home ten minutes late.

Any wonder this is *the* only pet store I deal with in town? There's a *reason* I pay what I do for cat litter! Besides being the best litter in town, I wouldn't know where else to turn for something like this scenario. A vet? Hell no! They'd pull the "he needs 600 dollars worth of shots and surgery, now, for which we'll charge you double since it's after five on a weekend; otherwise we'll let him suffer and die slowly for two days, then euthanize him (when we get a chance, between scheduled appointments during normal business hours) and cremate him for you for 800 dollars, thus saving you from jailtime" gag. (I distrust veterinarians just about as much as I distrust people-doctors, if you can't tell.)

As for "feral lizard" rescue organizations? Uhm -- are there any? (If there are, HEY! HEY! I'M OVER HERE!!! OPEN TO RECOMMENDATIONS!!!)

Still, I wonder: what the hell have I gotten myself into, now?

Anybody want a pet lizard?

Sick thing is, I swear, once we've fed him and put him in a translucent plastic rubbermaid container from Dollar General he's makin' eyes at me like he loves that he's gotten fed since I picked him up whereas he had not been fed for days. And I'm debating whether I want to try and place him, or get him a 20-gallon terrarium, or the 40-gallon terrarium which I know he'll grow into.

And how I'd clean it. And feed him. And hide it all from my landlord. Or break it to him.

Better lizards than hustlers, I guess. ;^)

Still.

Anyone want a pet lizard?

Mr. Israel, "the rube", responds.

And I respond to him:

On 7/2/07, Ruben Israel wrote:

> xeltifon I do not know if you are just dumb or just plan stupid?

I don't know myself. Probably at least a little of both.

> What you
> quoted me saying during the Timothy McVeigh is a part of a quote.

I don't doubt that, since I don't work for the Toronto Star and didn't ask you the question that made you say what you did, when he was executed. Yet you quote the entire quote I provided without adding anything new to what you're actually reported as saying, in that particular paper. You do, however, contextualize your quote:

> The
> context of that quote is when asked if I am happy someone is getting
> executed and how could anyone be a Christian pro-life yet pro-death penalty?

Which I wonder, myself, and which question remains unresolved in my own mind, at least.

> My reply was "This isn't the 4th of July, here. I'm not going to do a tap
> dance. It's a sad morning".

I provided my few readers your whole quote, as you provide it to me above, as it was reported in the Toronto Star on 12 June, 2001. I appreciate your contextualizing it, and would be willing to hear anything more you have to say regarding what you were asked, or why you answered as you did.

But you *have* answered at least *part* of my question, for which I am grateful. The Toronto Star didn't say what they asked you to make you respond as you did; they simply proffered your quote regarding Mr. McVeigh's execution, in response to the event, along with many others.

Given only your soundbite, however, even given what you say they asked you, I wonder just what you actually *meant*. My feeling remains that you did not actually answer their question, as you have now told me, they actually posed it. The question, at least as you say they posed it, wasn't whether it was a happy morning, nor was it about what kind of dance you might do. But I won't repeat the question. You're not stupid.

> That someone like McVeigh is put to death in
> the early morning and not at noon for all to witness. Timothy murdered
> 168 lives, THAT constitutes execution.

I got the death count cited in my blog post from wikipedia. I take it as a compliment that you would quote the number that I got from them from me.

> If your going to quote me at least
> get it right and try to keep context into it.

Fair enough. Here's your unedited response to what the Toronto Star said you said, and my response to your response to their reporting of your words, which you do not contest. If you have anything to add, I'll gladly take it into account.

> Get the news clip from CNN
> and watch for yourself.

I'm going on what several different searches in the Lexis-Nexis database says you said in the Toronto Star in its 12 June 2001 edition.

No transcripts whatsoever came up from CNN. Perhaps you know a better way to search Lexis-Nexis databases for broadcast transcripts. I'm open to suggestions.

> The church does not execute people (thank God for that), that is the job of
> government (see Romans chapter 13 for details).

May I safely assume that you refer to the King James Version of the bible?

> I am consistent, see
> McVeigh, Paul Hill, Tookie and other murderers that were executed, I am
> there to herald what the God of the Bible thinks and not what is politically
> correct.

This is precisely what interests me about you: you seem not to be 100% in favour of or opposed to death penalty cases, in general. I'm deeply curious why one execution is "right" and another is not. As for St. Paul's epistle to the Romans, well, I admit I have yet to read it in light of what you are saying now. But I intend to. Like, as soon as I stop writing this.

> I guess if someone really read your little blog that matters I
> would have my legal representative contact you for slander

Lucky me, my "little blog" *doesn't* matter, as I have just a handful of regular readers.

Lucky me, I have attributed nothing to you that you haven't been quoted, in the public record, as having actually said.

Be well,

[real name]

Mr. Ruben Israel may be reached at irebukeu@earthlink.net.

On motivation, cont'd.

Need to pay rent, go by bank, and mail a check today, work a couple of hours at the manor, and call the lady's banker so I can get paid.

What do I do instead? Come in for the News dept. mtg. only to find it's been cancelled since I last checked my email. No problem -- I get to use the fast connection here and Lexis-Nexis to research Ruben Israel, you know, the Jesus Queen who's at Pride every year.

Winds up we go way back. He was the one outside the DNC in 2000 on the second day of protests where he got into a ten-hour shouting match with protestors. Found out lots of good stuff on him. It's not easy. He's repeatedly quoted by the media (myself included) as though he spoke for a certain group or organization of people. It seems, in fact, he's unaffiliated with anyone besides himself. The few times a reporter asks who he's with he gives a different group name every time, and most of those don't check out with the IRS.

But the point is this year wasn't the first time I got him on tape. I got him on tape back then, and it was actual tape in those days.

When Timothy McVeigh was executed for bombing the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City, killing 168 and injuring over 800, Ruben Israel responded to McVeigh's execution saying "This isn't the 4th of July, here. I'm not going to do a tap dance. It's a sad morning".

But when Paul Hill was executed in 2003 for the murder of a doctor who performed abortions, Israel counterprotested the pro-lifers who were protesting Hill's execution, saying "Hill became precisely what he preached against -- a murderer". For this, he was widely represented in the national and international press as representing the "mainstream" pro-life position, as opposed to the "terrorist" pro-life position.

So Paul Hill murdered one person, and that makes him a murderer. At the same time, Mr. Israel praises Florida governor Jeb Bush for doing the right thing in carrying out the death sentence. And again, Israel is saddened by the execution of McVeigh.

I wonder what Mr. Israel thinks McVeigh *is*, if not a murderer and terrorist. (A hero, perhaps, gone off into the belly of the green bird?)

So according to the Gospel of Rube, murder is wrong, except when it isn't. To determine when it is and when it isn't, you need to ask the fat man with the bullhorn, who knows God's will directly through the bible.

This guy's got some serious "issues". But every time there's a Pride march, he gets his soundbite in the paper, on the radio, on TV. What makes him credible enough to quote? Nothing that I can see, but I plan to give him a chance to respond, when I get that far along with my story. Perhaps he misspoke at the two executions.

Yesterday I came in to poke my head in and gawk at the new volunteers in the volunteer orientation just so I'd recognize their faces and the other way 'round. Studio C was empty, and there's nothing I like as much as being free to mess around in Studio C. Figured out how to copy 78 rpm records and spent a good eight hours copying some *great* old fox trots and the like. Now I get to play with cleaning up the sound. Got a good thirty of so 3 minute, 20 second songs. Enough for an hour of programming. Not all airworthy but a lot of it is. Funny, seeing as I'm not even a music person. But it sure was fun, after the initial baptism by immersion into construction worker Ruben Israel's twisted world.