Certain Things I Just Don't Understand

I'm not a hatemonger. Nor am I a country music fan. But with the return of Mann C^#tler to television, I found myself asking: How is that tacky broad allowed on the airwaves after all the lies and despicable things she has said over the years, but poor Natalie Maines utters twelve little words and the Dixie Chicks were made pariahs?


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Sure, that happened in a different place in time. But so did this:


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Haven't we moved beyond this type of hype? Didn't November show that we have had enough of that? And yet, there she is.

I suppose the Left has better things to do than boycott "The Today Show" and "The View" or picket the bookstores who bring that thing in to promote her particular brand of ignorance and hate. I guess all those who chose to vote for a man of color with the middle name of Hussein are able ignore the rantings of a loon and accept her freedom of speech, no matter how offensive it may be. Maybe that's the difference between the Right and the Left. We have better things to do, like bring down Proposition H8, welcome in a new President and era, focus on solutions to our economy and environment, and work on coming together rather than dragging us apart. And Mann should be most grateful for that.

Karma, however...well, that's something we can't help her with.

Catching Up, Eventually

Holy crap. I am now totally convinced that I am living in a parallel universe. Malibu must have some sort of weird vortex. I see the most peculiar stuff driving to and from it. I realize some of the disconnect is from sleep deprivation (coming off the vampire hours has not been easy). Part of it might be from working in the Bat Cave all day without cable access or cell phone reception. I actually work at work, so there's no Twitter time or chance to hit the gossip and news sites. Sigh. I have absolutely no idea what the hell is going on in the world. When I come home, I TiVo (fast-forwarding through the commercials), eat, blog and sleep. I am out of the loop on so many levels (I am doing my best to keep up with the debates). Just imagine my utter shock when I finally heard that OJ was convicted.

I have to say, Karma is the sweetest bitch I know.

Yeah. I'm a Buddhist and I said that shizzle. It's my karma. I'll deal with it.

The rest of you not disconnected from reality know that the verdict came crashing down on the thirteenth anniversary of his acquittal. How sweet is that? It's utter poetry, if you ask me. Even better, his sentencing happens the day before Fred Goldman's birthday. You know it will be life with a big red bow wrapped around it. At least I hope so, for Fred and Kim, and the Brown family.

Of course, we can't forget the other victims: Nicole's children. They are adults now. I can't imagine what the last fourteen years have been like for them. Or the wounds this must open up. It's beyond sad in so many ways. Resolution is brought to one side; more pain to another.

Still, when I see something like OJ's comeuppance, I think the Universe is at work. You can believe in random coincidence if you want, or see the eloquence of cause and effect. Sure, that man was swimming in hubris for ages, and it was only a matter of time before it pulled him under. We've seen hints of it over the years. Seen it coming. Felt it in our bones. There was no way he'd get away scot-free, not with his level of douchebaggery. And, finally, his get-out-of-jail free card was pulled.

Way back in the day, I had a moment with George Clooney. He was reading the Newsweek with OJ on the cover, and I asked, "So, George, what do you think?" George got really impassioned (melt) and said, "Oh, he's guilty. But he'll get off." After I stopped swooning, I said, "No, George. You can't think that way. He's guilty. We have to believe justice will prevail." It seems we were both right. Typically, my timing was a little off. I only wish I could have seen Dominick Dunne's face when this verdict was read. I bet if there was a jaw-drop this time, it was followed with a smile.

Hope you are feeling much better, Mr. Dunne.

Rats

I've got a mouse. Yes, you heard me, a mouse. There is a mouse and he's in my house. I don't know whether he's brought a lout or a louse, but I'd rather have geese, even a grouse. I'll have to set traps or invite him to joust. Do what it takes to get him out out out! I just can't believe it, but there is no doubt. There is a mouse and he's in my house. I'd like a strong drink, to get good and damned soused, for who can relax with a mouse in their house? Once he is gone I shan't cry or pout. But, at the moment, I'm ready to shout. Take a gallon of bleach and give my kitchen a douse. Clear out the cupboards, throw everything out. For I have a problem I wish to turn about: THERE IS A FUTHERMUCKING MOUSE IN MY GODDAMN HOUSE!

WTF?!?

Now, while I might give the dust bunnies free reign in my home from time to time, I take care of my kitchen. That and my bathroom are always tidy and sanitized. The dust may collect in the rest of my roost when I'm in a writing frenzy, but the kitchen and cozzy are cleaned up daily. So imagine my surprise when I saw Mr. Mouse dart across my kitchen floor this morning.

This happened once before about two years ago. I came home from a long day at work, walked into my kitchen and saw a little rodent shoot across my floor from my stove to under my sink. I didn't scream or curse, I simply turned around, went to the store and purchased rubber gloves (to replace the old ones I'd use), bleach (I only had that special fabric-safe kind and wasn't going to waste that), a mask (breathing in their waste can kill you), sponges and D-Con.

Save all your cruelty comments for someone without a mouse. I'm a Buddhist. I'll deal with my own karma, thank you.

I cleaned out every drawer and cupboard, threw out a bunch of dishtowels and table cloths (wouldn't really want those near my food even with several hot water washes and ample servings of Clorox), scrubbed it all down with bleach and hot water. Soaked all of my utensils in bleach and hot water...twice. I strategically placed the D-Con and then waited for the little bastard to be no more. It didn't take long. It was done in day. Quick and easy. That's the way I like it. When it comes to killing rodents, that is.

But now, another little bastard is back. Breading where I eat. I called my management office and could clearly hear the implied yawn. Someone will be by next week. NEXT WEEK?!? WTF again? So, now I'm off to buy more D-Con, new rubber gloves, a mask and sponges. It's going to be a long day. But, later, I'll throw a little goodbye party for Jerry. May he and his rest in peace. And may the rest of them have the foresight to stay the hell out of my house so they can be free to live a long a happy mousy life.

Bu-Duh

For an A-type personality to take on Buddhism, it borders on ludicrous. Opinion and judgment forming are as natural to me as drawing breath. It’s effortless and happens often without conscious thought. The opinion just — poof! — pops into my head and then generally flies right out of my mouth without passing Go or collecting $200...leading me directly to jail for tactlessness. This isn’t catty action. I’m not walking around comparing myself to others all day. I couldn’t imagine anything more tiresome. Could you? Exactly. I’m much more fascinated by how people behave, use or ignore logic, or carry about their lives without much introspection. These are the attributes of a bored and narrow-thinking philosopher, not a Buddha.

Being one who momentarily minored in Religious Philosophy (it gave me a chance to argue — I mean, “debate” — for a grade) before going off to film school, I’ve had the opportunity to study the major religions and their dogmas. Remove the politics and egos from them, and all religions are basically the same. Hate to break it to those who think theirs is “the only way”...they are all the way. We simply need to find our own road, whether you believe in a deity, higher power or simply yourself.

Buddhism has always rung truest to me. And the neat-o thing about Buddhism is that you aren’t supposed to believe it on someone else’s word. You are to believe it if and when it works for you. I find that to be a bit ballsy, and totally appealing.

For a long time now, I’ve been told to meditate. “It will do wonders for you,” they said when I would double over from ulcer pain. Yet, the only thing more ludicrous than an A-typer not forming an opinion on something is to sit in silence. Quieting this mind isn’t going to happen. I’ve tried silent meditation many times, and one of two things happens: 1) I fall asleep, or 2) I keep repeating to my brain, “Shut up. Will you please just shut up?!?” Realizing that wasn’t the kind of mantra one should have, I looked for another. Ohm was just too predictable. I harkened back to What’s Love Got To Do With It and went the Nam Myoho Renge Kyo route. It worked for Tina. And, yes, Courtney and I have chanted together. Chanting for me is relaxing and centering, and it does help me let go. Although, second nature does creep in from time to time. After all, I’m A-type down to my blood type.

Buddhism is pretty direct. Karma isn’t complicated; it’s merely cause and effect. What you put out, you get back. What you fail to learn will hit you upside the head at some point, or will certainly bite you in the ass. This is not to say one should walk around in a panic. It means we are meant to be aware of and take responsibility for our thoughts and actions. It really is that simple. It’s Buddhism, not rocket science. It ain’t Mormonism, either.

Recently, when I mentioned having wine at a study group, I was given the down-the-nose-and-over-the-glasses look by one of the senior members. Let me be clear; I wasn’t suggesting getting liquored up before chanting. Even I’m not that sacrilegious. I thought it would be nice for after. Another member suggested that my affinity for grabbing some Buddhies and going to happy hour after our weekly meeting might not be proper practice. Excuse me?

Let me just tell you that the last person I’m going to be judged by is a Buddhist. Come on. That’s like Shakyamuni 101.

But, if judgment is on the table...let’s talk about those who keep their cell phones on during meetings. Make noise during the silent prayers. Interrupt when others are speaking and fail to pay for their share of the appetizers at happy hour. Buddhist or not, that’s simply rude. And the A-type in me can’t turn a blind eye to that. Although, she is learning to bite her tongue.

Buddhists are human and flawed — but at least we are aware of that. Ann Coulter wouldn’t like us because we aren’t looking for perfection, or bothering to force the world into becoming what we are. Which is groovy. No. Like I said, each person needs to find his or her own road. Nam Myoho Renge Kyo is the one I’ve chosen. It works for me. I know I’ve racked up some karma, both good and bad, and I own it. Perhaps one day, through this practice, I will have indestructible inner peace and complete acceptance of all things. Oh, wouldn’t that be nice. If not, I just hope to be around for the day that Coulter’s karma comes a calling. It will be worth coming back as a dung beetle just to watch that happen, with popcorn and champers, and TiVo replays. Like I said, human and flawed, with a wicked sense of humor and justice for all.

The Bitch is Back

Every once in a while, a girl needs to take a break. A little time off. Like, say, three months or so. A respite of sorts. And, sometimes, she doesn’t even know she needs it. It just sort of happens.

The hiatus I took was not planned. (Nor was it a stint in rehab. Please. I’m so not a twenty-something celebutard high on hubris.) April brought much more than expected. I took on a new old job for one thing. An impromptu dinner led to an offer to return to a previous position and, a week later, I started the new old gig while finishing up my old new job. I juggled the two posts for the next six weeks and, during that time, I made a ten-day journey to New York where I attempted to function in both time zones. Needless to say, I failed at that. Miserably. The jetlag I was attempting to avoid hampered me through the end of May.

I had made the mistake of making out with the wrong guy and got a nasty flu accessorized with a hacking cough, which boarded the plane with me. I’m sure flashbacks of Outbreak were running through my seatmates’ heads during the long flight to NYC. At least this was before the TB dude ran amok, or I fear I would have been sequestered. What kind of guy says, “Man, I think I’m coming down with something,” right after he thoroughly verifies your tonsillectomy? So glad it stopped with a kiss and something curable. This is where not being completely slutty comes in quite handy.

I’m a pretty tough broad who runs at a fairly kinetic pace, even with an active bout of Epstein-Barr Virus, but the bug combo’d with the lag and the new work+work schedule just knocked me on my ass. At the end of the day, I had nothing left. By the time May rolled around, the act of balancing two jobs, multiple projects and working six weeks straight with no time off, seemed to rob me of my usual stellar personality. My social life took a nosedive. Phone calls went unreturned, emails piled up in my inbox, plans were often cancelled or reschedule for a time when I had more time. I’m still waiting for that. After work, I would simply pass out shortly after inhaling dinner, only to wake up a couple hours later and start working again. Work work, not my work.

I get really unpleasant to be around when I don’t write. By June, the malaise reached a pretty intolerable level. It’s sort of like a version of PMS, as in: Please Miller Sit-down-and-write-something-for-the-love-of-God-and-all-that’s-holy! I found the creative flow blocked by the lack of verve required to transform a thought to something tangible. There are many half-written, semi-started columns, but my train of thought would easily get derailed. And what a time to run out of writing steam! Look at all I missed! Blohan on video doing blow (and I am so intentionally leaving out “allegedly” since Venice neighbors Santa Monica and its Police Department), Blohan in rehab, Paris in jail, Blohan extending her stay in rehab, Paris leaving jail for a hot minute before getting tossed back in the clink, Blohan spending her 21st birthday in rehab, Paris getting out of jail and Lindsay SCRAMing around after being released from rehab. At least until yesterday.

But, please, there are so many more important things to address: The war, the troops who are dying daily, getting wounded by the minute and being deployed yet again for their fourth, fifth or sixth tour all sidelined by celebutard news. I mean, didn’t we celebrate “victory” there about two years ago? And two years before that? Yet, in spite of W’s victories, we keep losing. What about the Shrub telling his bitch Harriet to stay home; after all, it’s only a pesky subpoena...look what Scooter was up against. The Dub has your back. As long as your back is one of a glad-handing, money-grubbing crony. The rest of us are screwed. How that futhermucker and his Beelzebublican cohort have not been impeached is effing beyond me. Nixon must be cursing up a storm somewhere. Where’s Ken Starr when you need him?

Then there are some people you just don’t have use for. Ann Cuntler showed her wax face and lived up to her nickname. Seriously. You make fun of someone’s dead kid and you have sailed way beyond bitch status and deep into the C. When will she do us all a favor and forget that you shouldn’t blowdry and take a bath at the same time? Yeah, I said it. It’s my karma. I’ll deal with it. I’m not afraid. She should be, though. Her public disgrace has got to be on its way. Karma is one thing; hubris seems to bite you in the ass even faster. Especially if you are a blonde celebutard.

Finally, there was the earth-shattering news that the “Sex and the City” movie was finally a go! And I couldn’t help but wonder if this wasn’t about five years too late? Are you like me and will be so totally excited to see it...the night it premieres on HBO? I am setting my TiVo, let me tell you. You bring the Tasti D-Lite and I’ll make the Cosmos.

Yeah, I’m back.