Will he show up wearing a toga to match the fake Greco-Roman temple? Will they fly him in from the roof, like that guy in the Opening Ceremony in Beijing? Or maybe the stadium will be transformed into a cathedral of light, à la Albert Speer?
Whatever happens tonight with Senator Obama’s speech, Patsy and Sugar are ready.
Tune in to NQR after the speech for a special late-night edition of Our View with Patsy and Sugar (produced by me, Violet). I cannot wait to hear their take on this whole circus.
We’re planning to start at 11pm, but if the speech runs over, we’ll start the show whenever Obama stops.
P.S. I’m thrilled to announce that “Our View” is going to be a weekly program from now on. Tune in every Thursday night at 9pm ET to hear Patsy and Sugar!
Posted by Violet under Various and Sundry on August 28, 2008, 9:58 pm EST
My jaw dropped when I read that Obama’s text message announcement went out at 3am - 3am being the name of the Clinton ad that apparently really got under the Possum-in-Chief’s skin. Here he’s supposed to be riding the unity pony into Denver, and what does he do? Flips the bird to 18 million voters. Arrogant, immature, petty - we’ve had enough of that in the White House, thank you very much, we don’t need any more.
The 3am touch was pure possum.
But at least we know now that Obama’s movement will crumble. After all, the possums can’t possibly support Obama with Biden on the ticket, since Biden voted for the Iraq authorization and thus, like Hillary, is personally responsible for the deaths of thousands of Iraqi babies. Biden is also on record as saying that it was a “storybook” that our country should finally have a “clean,” “articulate” African-American running for President, remarks far more racist than anything actually uttered by any Hillary supporter during the primaries. I’m sure the possums will swarm Huffington Post and Daily Kos demanding that Biden be executed.
Posted by Violet under Various and Sundry on August 24, 2008, 12:08 am EST
Hey, everybody. It’s me, your long-lost host and ghost.
I am and have been extremely busy doing extremely secret and important things connected to the convention in Denver. No, really. I have a whole double life thing going here that none of you know about.
But there’s one thing I’ve been working on that isn’t a secret, or at least it won’t be anymore: I’ve started producing radio shows (podcasts, really) for NoQuarter Radio (NQR).
The hosts are Patsy of Soldier4Hillary fame (that’s her picture) and Sugar of Sugar N Spice (no picture — she’s reclusive, like me). Both Patsy and Sugar have been staunch Hillary supporters throughout this election season. For this show they’re teaming up to talk about the difficulties faced by African-American supporters of Senator Clinton and how this whole situation is playing out in the Black community. They’ll be discussing their own experiences and taking calls from listeners. The call-in number is (347) 677-0792.
It’s a livestream podcast, so what you do is go to the NQR link at 9pm and listen to the show on your computer. You may hear my voice a bit as the producer, but I won’t sound like my normal God-like Mopish self because I’m deeply exhausted from the Other Secret Things I’ve been doing. My voice is creaky and weak, like me.
Posted by Violet under Various and Sundry on August 21, 2008, 1:15 pm EST
As a commenter astutely notes, “These uniforms are going to make it very hard to focus on the game, because many players are going to be distracted by thoughts of how they look. And to think, while the men are preparing for their game by stretching, going over their techniques, etc., the women are waxing their bikini lines!”
Exactly. I think that could serve as a pretty damn good working definition of how patriarchy operates: men get to do stuff, women get to worry about their bikini lines.
I recall a study that showed how women’s ability to think clearly and to focus their minds drops dramatically when they’re wearing revealing clothes. The more revealing the clothes, the dumber they get. Test scores plummet, ability to answer questions nose-dives. That’s because they’re so goddamn anxious about how they look and whether their bits are hanging out.
I can attest to that myself; whenever I wore short-shorts or some other such foolishness as a young Sock, I was so flustered I could hardly concentrate. All I could think about was how much of me was showing.
Maybe it’s a good thing I’m not watching the Olympics. I’m insanely swamped with Stuff That Must Be Done, so no Games for me. I did, however, watch the Opening Ceremony, and as soon as I have a chance I shall grace you all with my 10,000 word essay on the subject.
Posted by Violet under Various and Sundry on August 12, 2008, 2:07 am EST
A delicious comment from Horseloverfat over at the Mighty Corrente Building:
It is a mania, like with the Dutch Tulips. Obama is the biggest, bestest most wonderful tulip bulb there ever was - tulip bulbs being worth ever so much guilders because everyone agrees it is so.
O joy! Sing to me, horseloverfat, of tulipomania! At the nexus of my life-long passions for history, gardening, politics, art, books, and even the Dutch language, sits a jewel by Mike Dash, Tulipomania. If you have a similar nexus, here’s what you need:
“In the 1630s, visitors to the prosperous trading cities of the Netherlands couldn’t help but notice that thousands of normally sober, hardworking Dutch citizens from every walk of life were caught up in an extraordinary frenzy of buying and selling. The object of this unprecedented speculation was the tulip, a delicate and exotic Eastern import that had bewitched horticulturists, noblemen, and tavern owners alike. For almost a year rare bulbs changed hands for incredible and ever-increasing sums, until single flowers were being sold for more than the cost of a house.
“Historians would come to call it tulipomania. It was the first futures market in history, and like so many of the ones that would follow, it crashed spectacularly, plunging speculators and investors into economic ruin and despair.
“This is the history of the tulip, from its origins on the barren, windswept steppes of central Asia to its place of honor in the lush imperial gardens of Constantinople, to its starring moment as the most coveted–and beautiful–commodity in Europe. Historian Mike Dash vividly narrates the story of this amazing flower and the colorful cast of characters–Turkish sultans, Yugoslav soldiers, French botanists, and Dutch tavern keepers–who were centuries apart historically and worlds apart culturally, but who all had one thing in common: tulipomania.”
Posted by Violet under Various and Sundry on July 23, 2008, 10:09 am EST
Fashion, as my regular readers may have guessed, is not my thing. They may have guessed this because I’ve never posted on it. I don’t follow it, I don’t think about it.
But today — today, all that has changed.
I’m in shock and I don’t know where else to go with this. I need therapy; I need comfort and soothing explanations. I need a drink.
I’m a recluse, you see (allow me to direct your attention to the name of the blog), which means that I pretty much haven’t left in the house in five years. It’s been five years since I was in a business office or even thought about what female humans in 21st century America wear to such places.
But today for some reason I happened to open up the JC Penney sale circular that was crammed into the middle of my Sunday newspaper. And this is what I saw advertised in the “spring looks” for the office:
Sweet jesus, what the fuck is this? Half of a pink babydoll nightgown paired with the grey trousers from a business suit (freakishly truncated at the knee, though god knows why) and finished off with a pair of metallic silver…stripper shoes? What?
The combination of fabrics and styles here is so bizarre I can’t even make sense of it. Is it supposed to be some kind of edgy post-modern commentary on the fragmented nature of modern womanhood? I’m a business woman! No, I’m a disco queen! No, I’m a slumber party for 10-year-olds!
I realize that fashions change, but there has never been a century or decade in which this getup could possibly be flattering to anyone. The proportions, the lines — they’re all wrong for the human body. It’s like a cross between Japanese deconstruction and a dryer problem.
But what’s really upsetting about this outfit is the strings. I don’t want to be an alarmist, but the model appears to be wearing one of those blouson things with strings from 1978. Remember those? Remember when every goddamn blouse, sweater, and jacket had a fucking string in it? And remember how the nation prayed for healing once the reprieve finally came and all the blouson things were packed off to a landfill in North Carolina?
All I can think is that somehow the blouson things have escaped. They’ve escaped the landfill and they’re back, ready to wreak unholy vengeance. Because there is no fucking way anybody would actually re-create those garments. It’s beyond human imagination.
Sure, it looked good on Lamont in the first season of Sanford and Son, but is that really the fashion statement you want to make?
So tell me, people: if I were to go out into the world — into, say, an office — would I actually see this stuff? Is this actually what women are wearing now?
Posted by The Ghost of Violet under Various and Sundry on March 2, 2008, 6:42 pm EST
Juan Cole has a post up about the fact that Queen Elizabeth is descended from the Prophet Mohammed. He says:
I was surprised that the writers of comments over at Salon.com did not know the below. It is common knowledge to anyone interested in genealogy.
True.
But what’s also true is that pretty much everyone of European ancestry is descended from Mohammed. And from Charlemagne, and probably from William the Conqueror.
And everyone in the world is probably descended from Nefertiti and Ramesses the Great and all the other individuals who were around that far back and who have living descendants today.
It’s the magic of Most Recent Common Ancestor, and if you’re interested here are some articles about it:
I have absolutely no reason to post this picture. It’s just that occasionally (though not often) I grow tired of blowing smoke up my own ass, and the urge overcomes me to decorate the blog instead. Put up pretty pictures, new curtains, that sort of thing. And since I was thinking about the Chili Peppers last night, here’s the pretty:
Is Anthony wearing lash extenders there? Yeah. Totally.
Posted by The Ghost of Violet under Various and Sundry on January 24, 2008, 3:58 pm EST
Ella’s still a puppy in that picture; you can tell. Look at that face! And those ears. A good breeze and she’d lift right off.
Meredith is so proud of her, beaming big and happy, her arm around her girl. The diploma says Super Dooper Dog Training…something, can’t make it out. And the diplomate is Ella Emerson. Meredith’s doggie daughter. I bet it’s Ella’s graduation from puppy class. They’re so happy. Freeze them in that moment; keep them there forever. Don’t move.
Every time I look at this picture I cry. I know it’s in poor taste to pay too much attention to Yet Another Dead White Woman. There are a lot of dead people in this world. Lot of dead people, most of them not young white women. A whole lotta hurt in this goddamn world.
But it’s the dog. A woman and her dog.
A woman and her dog.
I’m a woman and I have a dog and I used to have two dogs and my girls are everything to me, oxygen and love and sweetness, and I’ve gone hiking with my girls in the woods and I know how Meredith felt, I know what happened, how it was out there with Ella happy and free and hi! what’s your dog’s name? and one time when I was a little younger than Meredith was when she died I was chased by a crazy man in the woods but I got away, I got away, but Meredith didn’t. And Ella barking, I can see her now, barking, Mom! What’s wrong! Mom! Mom! Mom!
I can’t help it. This picture destroys me.
Listen: it happened when I was 20 years old. I used to go hiking by myself in the state park near my house. It never occurred to me that this wasn’t safe. It was only a 6 mile hiking trail that looped around a reservoir; it wasn’t like being out in the middle of nowhere. I would park my car near the trailhead and set off, arms swinging, breathing deep, making up stories in my head about the Civil War soldiers whose bones and blood and bullets were sunk into the ground beneath me. I never once worried about being safe.
Until it happened. Until the day I needed to use the bathroom and couldn’t wait. There was no one else on the trail, but I moved several yards off the path into some bushes before I squatted down. When I stood up I saw him. I don’t know if he’d been there all along or if he’d been following me at a distance, but now he was standing a hundred feet away, staring at me. And I knew I was in trouble because he ducked down behind a tree. Like he thought maybe in that split second I hadn’t seen him. Like he thought maybe he was still hidden.
I turned back to the trail, deliberate-like, not running, trying not to be scared. Nothing very bad is happening here. I’m just going to continue on my hike. I will continue on my hike and I will drive home and I will make dinner. When I reached the trail I turned around. He was following me.
I started to run lightly, just lightly, just kind of speeding up here a little, not panicking yet, okay? I’ve just decided to jog the trail today, that’s all that’s happening. I will run today instead of hike. But I could hear him behind me. I turned around and he was running and his face was contorted and he was chasing me now, yes, he was chasing me
I ran. I put my head down and ran like I never knew I could run. I was the wind. I was an Indian brave, I was in a western from my childhood, just run, swift and silent, you’re the wind, you can do this, you must do this you will do this you will get away you can do this just run run run run run
I whipped my head around and he was behind me, thudding, pounding
run run run run run run run
I don’t know how long it took me to reach the reservoir. I don’t know how long I ran. I don’t know at what point I finally lost him. It couldn’t have been more than a couple of miles, and running at full speed it could only have been a matter of minutes. How long did it take? Half my life, at least. That’s how long.
When I reached the reservoir I collapsed on the wooden bridge. There were other people in the distance, chatting, looking at the birds, the kids bouncing up and down on the planks. I watched the woods, waiting for him to come out.
He didn’t.
Now here’s the funny thing, the reason I know that people become insane when they’re in shock: I didn’t tell anybody what happened. It was like I still had to be silent and secret to get away. I walked to my car like nothing had happened. I drove home and went inside my apartment and lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Only then did it occur to me that perhaps I should report the incident to the police. And I hesitated because I thought — I actually thought, in my crazy shock-addled brain — that somehow I had brought it on myself by squatting to urinate in the woods. Better not tell the police that. Totally insane.
No, nothing ever came of it. No, he was never caught, and no, I never heard anything more about it.
And I never went hiking alone again.
Oh, women can’t do that my sluggish brain finally processed after some 20 years on the planet. Oh. I see. I thought I was a normal person. But I’m a woman.
It was only later, when I got a dog, that I felt safe again. My Katie and I went everywhere together. We toured the national parks and deserts and wild places west of the Mississippi, hiking everywhere we could. Almost ran out of gas on Pine Ridge, me gripping the wheel on the gravel road, and Katie watching me watch the gas gauge, a zillion miles from the nearest station. I have a picture of Katie in the Badlands, facing into the giant prairie wind ruffling her fur, eyes narrowed against the blowing dust. At the Bonneville Salt Flats I worried about her feet — is salt okay for dogs’ feet? — but she liked it. Salt is cool to the touch. Still, when we got back to the car I bathed her paws with the water from our jug. She watched me wash and dry her feet, the way she watched me do everything. Patient, curious. My daughter.
She used to tell me when she wanted a drink during a hike. I’d sit down on a rock and open my little bottle of water, and if she wanted a sip she’d nudge me and sort of lick her lips. If she didn’t, she didn’t.
On the beach at Carmel Katie herded the waves. She’d never seen the ocean before and the whitecaps excited her to a frenzy. Did she think they were sheep? Did moving white things stimulate some genetic switch in her brain? Must herd moving white things. I would sit in the sand, my heels dug in, savoring a hot coffee, while Katie wore herself out, running up and down the beach, barking at the surf. Bark. Bark. Bark. She’s gonna get it under control, people would say, giggling, friendly. Strangers videotaped her. She was a star.
That was the apex of my life, though of course I didn’t realize it at the time. I bet nobody ever does. My dog, my love, on the beach of the Pacific Ocean, my feet in warm sand, long glinting rays of sunlight in late afternoon.
In the deep pine forests of the north ridge of the Grand Canyon, night fell and we were alone, but I wasn’t afraid. Even Vegas at night on the strip — it was just another hike for me and Kate. Some Lakota boys I met dubbed us Woman And Dog. Woman And Dog, safe and strong and happy.
Then Molly came along and we were three, three girls out for a hike. In the woods of North Carolina. In the woods of Maryland and Virginia. In the woods. See, when you have dogs, the world is a good place. And other people with dogs, they’re good too. Dog people are good people. You smile at each other, big expansive smiles, arms open to the world. You let your dogs play together.
Is that a boy or a girl? What’s his name? Dandy? Hey, he and Ella like each other!
Almost cut my hair
It happened just the other day
It was getting kind of long
I could have said it was in my way
But I didn’t and I wonder why
I feel like letting my freak flag fly
And I feel like I owe it to someone
Must be because I had the flu for Christmas*
And I’m not feeling up to par
It increases my paranoia
Like looking into my mirror and seeing a police car
But I’m not giving in an inch to fear
Cause I promised myself this year
I feel like I owe it to someone
When I finally get myself together
I’m gonna get down in some of that sunny southern weather
I’m going to find a space inside to laugh
Separate the wheat from the chaff
Cause I feel like I owe it to someone
*Actually a cold with sinus infection for New Year’s, but that doesn’t rhyme.
I had a great Christmas but then God struck me down for New Year’s and I’ve been mostly sleeping for the past couple of days. Turned on the computer today for the first time since New Year’s Eve. Hope you’re all well.
P.S. I still need a name for our new religion. Ideas?
Posted by The Ghost of Violet under Various and Sundry on January 3, 2008, 11:45 pm EST
I know we’re still creating the religion, but I can’t hold off on this: the Rev. B. Dagger Lee has already composed our first carol. It seems the Rev. Lee is a Charles Wesley type, combining song-writing with preaching. In truth I don’t think she actually had our new religion in mind when she wrote this, but as soon as I saw it (on another board) I begged her to let me co-opt it.
Voilà:
“The Little Hummer Toy”
Spend they told me,
pa rum pum pum pum.
A new charge card, low fee,
pa rum pum pum pum.
Cash registers CA-CHING!
Pa rum pum pum pum.
They take the dough we fling,
pa rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum.
So our wages go,
pa rum pum pum pum.
We are numb.
Little dollar,
pa rum pum pum pum.
Is destroyed by now,
pa rum pum pum pum.
I have no say-ay-vings!
Pa rum pum pum pum.
To feed me in the spring,
pa rum pum pum pum
rum pum pum pum
rum pum pum pum.
Shall I go bankrupt?
Pa rum pum pum pum,
or steal some?
Cheney nodded,
pa rum pum pum pum.
He took my last last dime,
pa rum pum pum pum.
I prayed the bum would burn!
Pa rum pum pum pum.
I prayed the tide would turn,
pa rum pum pum pum
rum pum pum pum
rum pum pum pum.
Then he cursed at me,
pa rum pum pum pum.
And called me scum.
–The Obtusely Rev. B. Dagger Lee
Posted by The Ghost of Violet under Various and Sundry on December 21, 2007, 2:32 pm EST
If you look over to the left you’ll see that I’m running an ad from the Sassafras Collection, the first time I’ve done any ad stuff in over a year. The women behind the Sassafras Collection really are feminists, though it doesn’t say that on the website (apparently that sort of thing isn’t a good idea in retail, unless of course you’re a wingnut selling red-white-and-blue bald eagle Support Our Troops beer coasters with matching “Footprints” wall plaque, but I digress). The Sassafras folks are nice people and their stuff is amazing, so check ‘em out.
Posted by The Ghost of Violet under Various and Sundry on December 18, 2007, 7:08 pm EST
Oh, I think we need a new religion, where those of us who are worthy get to spend the afterlife (and if we’re really good, the next year or so) drinking wine of our choice in the Spirit Lounge with Dr. Violet either in Holy Ghostly of Fleshly Incarnate form. I’d follow most commandments (except any requiring me to give up chocolate or most pleasurable things for that matter) to have that opportunity.
Okay, we got wine, we got chocolate, we got the Smoking Lounge. What else do we need? What should be forbidden? What should be commanded? Do we need priests and/or priestesses? Do we need churches, temples, votive candles, golden idols, 3D bobble heads to hang from the rearview window? Do we need Sai Baba? What about rituals and holidays? Oh, and beliefs — should we have some beliefs?
Add your suggestions in the comments and we’ll see what we come up with. Don’t be shy — put in anything you like. I’ll wrap it all up, sprinkle in a little Dr. Socks bullshit magic, and have our new religion all ready in time for a Christmas unveiling.
Go!
Posted by The Ghost of Violet under Various and Sundry on December 17, 2007, 11:12 pm EST
Hey, everybody. It’s me, your long-lost host and ghost. 
