Hanging at the Gallows

The Triumph of Death by Pieter Bruegel

I can't decide about the death penalty. I've thought about this for so many years, and I've switched from one side to the other so many times (ditto for abortion, the existence of God, wanting to have children, and peanut butter (how did I ever not love peanut butter?)) and I wonder if I'll ever actually make up my mind.

On the one hand, I believe in compassion. I whole heartedly believe in compassion. I think it is the single most important driving force in a life well lived. The Dalai Lama says compassion does not come from feeling sympathetic to your friends when they are in distress. That is attachment. Sure, it can be compassion too, but he was talking about compassion on a larger scale and so am I. I'm talking about compassion for strangers. Not just people you walk past on the street, not just the homeless man begging for change on the L Train. Compassion for people you will never see face to face. Compassion for the world in general, for all humanity, for all life.

I struggle with this, of course. I hate people! I hate the crowded subways; I hate the men that leer at me when I walk down the street; I hate the people who won't get the F out of my way when I'm walking on the sidewalk! I eat meat. I use too much paper. But every day I start with the greatest intentions of living life as a compassionate being. It's easier to be compassionate to people you know because there is some direct benefit in doing it: they may, in return, deal compassionately with you. It is harder to exert the effort with someone you do not think will have substantial effect on your life. This is something I will have to work on in this life and the next.

When I think about compassionate living, I think the death penalty is wrong. It does not deter crime any more than prison deters it. It may help keep the honest people honest, but anyone bent on doing evil, will do it regardless of consequence. I do not think it is within the jurisdiction of any human to take the life of another. I do not think it suitable retribution for any crime; killing the murderer doesn't bring back the victim. And on a metaphysical level, I think it is bad karma for a society to wantonly kill others.

But I also believe in justice. Not necessarily an eye for an eye. I feel that philosophy is immature. But I believe that everyone must own up to their actions, even if they're accidents (Rebecca Gayheart runs over a kid and serves no time; Martha Stewart sells her stock on an inside tip and goes to jail for six months...yeah, that seems fair). Does motive really count for anything or is it only the end result that matters? Hypothetically, if a man rapes and kills a girl, such an action not only affects that girl's life, but also the lives of those who knew the girl. The girl will never grow up, fall in love, have children, have a career, drive a car—anything. And her parents will never really overcome the loss of their daughter. It seems fitting that he should die for such a reprehensible offense. Not only as punishment, but as prevention. What if he is paroled or escapes and kills again? How many chances does someone get? Doesn't "life in prison" where you don't have to worry about food or shelter (hey, I'm not saying it's Club Med) seem like a rather picayune trade off for ending a girl's life?

A friend once said he believed in capital punishment because if a person is in a community pool and starts bullying the other swimmers, that guy loses his pool privileges. This makes sense to me. But do we just put him in a pool with other bad kids or do we never let him in another pool again?

I wish we all got exactly what we deserved. I often wonder, if I did get what I deserved, would my life be better or worse than it is today? I feel like it would actually be about what it is. I think I'm a good person most of the time, but I also feel like I am a long way from being the kind of person I would like to be.

I believe is compassion and justice equally and I'm not sure how to reconcile the two. When it comes to capital punishment, it seems like they are at opposite ends of the spectrum. How far does compassion go? Does it go on infinitely? Even when someone shows no remorse, no sense of wrong-doing, no desire to mend their ways? The Dalai Lama would say yes. Compassion should be infinite. And for that matter, Jesus says it as well: Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, "Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother when he sins against me? Up to seven times?" Jesus answered, "I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times." (Mark 18:21-25) But we're cynical people; we don't want to be duped. When we forgive someone, when we give them a second chance, it is so they can prove to us they have learned a lesson. And if they don't learn it, if they only repeat their offenses, we will feel taken advantage of. We hate being taken advantage of. It seems like it's just easier to kill them, than to risk being humiliated.

At least I know how I feel about peanut butter.

SAG Awards

Real quick:

Best Dressed: Rachel Weisz in Rochas. Pregnant and beautiful.


Worst Dressed: I was going to say Teri Hatcher, but upon further inspection, I must give it to Frances Conroy. The frizzy uncombed hair is bad enough, but I cannot believe she would actually wear an unironed shawl to an awards show. So low brow!


Best Dressed Plus One: Josh Holloway's wife, Yessica Kumula. She's hot stuff, no?


Worst Dressed Plus One: Harold Perrineau's wife. She looks like a piñata.


Worst dressed male (I know, it goes against my rules, but it's too hideous to ignore): Terry O'Quinn. As if it's not bad enough we have to look at your man-boobs on Lost every week, now we have to see your gnarly toes as well. I mean, really? Flip flops? Maybe Perrineau is just a bad-clothes magnet.


Well, I guess I should do a Best Dressed Male too, shouldn't I? I'll just give it to Josh Holloway since I've already posted a picture of him and he looks nice.

This is post #200! Let's celebrate!

Clue #14 I'm Getting Old

Snowman bought me a pair of Heelys for Christmas. I'm actually surprised he bought them for be since he is hyper-protective of me doing anything with wheels—cycling, roller blading, tire swings. He said he didn't think they seemed that dangerous.

Boy was he wrong. These things are tricky! They're actually harder to master than roller skating because you have to have a much keener sense of balance. The first time I tried them on, I was kind of terrified. I calmed myself with thoughts of Well, if a ten-year-old can do it, then so can I. I was practicing in the kitchen for awhile, but I actually took them out yesterday and Heely-ed my way to the movie theater.

This was difficult for the following reasons:

1) Pavement in Queens is wildly uneven.
2) Pavement in Queens is covered in dog shit.

Heely-ing is a much easier affair inside, as I discovered at the movie theater, at the diner, at the Walgreens.

My legs are so sore today and I have to wonder if I don't look like an idiot trying to roll around the neighborhood. The truth is, there are a lot of things a ten-year-old can do that I can't. Like eat an entire pizza for dinner and neither gain weight nor feel sick afterwards. And wear sweatpants that have "HOTTIE" emblazoned on their asses.

My Heely career may be over before it's even started, but if you do see me gliding around the 'hood, do me a favor and don't laugh.

Happy Robert Burns Day!

As I'm sure most of you already know, yesterday was Robert Burns Day, which is well nigh the national holiday of Scotland. In honor of the poet, I ate some haggis. You can read about it here. If you'd like to learn more about the man, you can read about it here.

Also in honor of the poet, here is the modern English translation of his poem "Address to a Haggis." I must say, I like the poem a good sight more than the meal.

Fair is your honest happy face
Great chieftain of the pudding race
Above them all you take your place
Stomach, tripe or guts
Well are you worthy of a grace
As long as my arm

The groaning platter there you fill
Your buttocks like a distant hill
Your skewer would help to repair a mill
In time of need
While through your pores the juices emerge
Like amber beads

His knife having seen hard labour wipes
And cuts you up with great skill
Digging into your gushing insides bright
Like any ditch
And then oh what a glorious sight
Warm steaming, rich

Then spoon for spoon
They stretch and strive
Devil take the last man, on they drive
Until all their well swollen bellies
Are bent like drums
Then, the old gent most likely to rift (burp)
Be thanked, mumbles

Is there that over his French Ragout
Or olio that would sicken a pig
Or fricassee would make her vomit
With perfect disgust
Looks down with a sneering scornful opinion
On such a dinner

Poor devil, see him over his trash
As week as a withered rush (reed)
His spindle-shank a good whiplash
His clenched fist.the size of a nut.
Through a bloody flood and battle field to dash
Oh how unfit

But take note of the strong haggis fed Scot
The trembling earth resounds his tread
Clasped in his large fist a blade
He'll make it whistle
And legs and arms and heads he will cut off
Like the tops of thistles

You powers who make mankind your care
And dish them out their meals
Old Scotland wants no watery food
That splashes in dishes
But if you wish her grateful prayer
Give her a haggis!

Tales of a Four-Eyed Nothing

I have worn glasses for most of my life. I got my first pair when I was in second grade. They were the ugliest pair of glasses ever made. Be sure that I had no say in what kind I wanted; they were handed to me. I hated them. I instinctively knew that people who wore glasses were not pretty. I hid them in my desk as soon as I got to school. There was a black girl who would steal them and taunt me with not giving them back and whom I could only placate by giving her my crayons.

There was a boy in second grade named Ray who loved me. I didn't like Ray. He followed me around like a puppy dog. One day he came to school with one of those heart-shaped chocolate boxes. Instead of chocolates, he filled it with hairpins and jewels he had taken from his mother without her consent. He gave the box to me. I was embarrassed. His mother came to school during lunch demanding her things back. I was more embarrassed. She picked through the box and took what was most valuable, but let me have a few things. There were hairpins with little birds on the end with different colored wings and jeweled eyes. My mother still has those in a drawer somewhere.

The day I got glasses Ray stopped loving me. That is a hard lesson for a seven-year-old to learn.

I hated myself. I thought I was hideous. I pined fruitlessly for boys I couldn't even talk to because I was so sure they wouldn't even know who I was. I disappeared behind my glasses.

As I got older, things got worse. I got bifocals. Not the progressive ones; I had the ones with the visible separate lenses. I can only assume my parents secretly hoped I would join a convent.

I had always been clumsy and nerdy and whether I had glasses or not, I would still have been those things to some degree. It's not like if I didn't have glasses I would have been homecoming queen. But I could have been...somebody. I was nobody. Maybe that's not how the rest of the world saw me, but that's how I felt. And when that's how you feel, that's what you are. I thought if I could wear contacts, my life would change. I would emerge from my proverbial cocoon and spread my wings. I would have a boyfriend. I would kiss someone. I would be noticed. I couldn't get contacts. My ophthalmologist couldn't recommend it to a girl with astigmatism. And if the doctor would not give his okay, my mother considered the case closed.

I was under her thumb. It never occurred to me to rebel, to find a different doctor or a different answer. I felt defeated. At sixteen. If I had any self-confidence at all, it was tucked into some far recess of my brain where it could not easily be retrieved. I went to the Gap with my mother once and the cashier asked if I modeled. I looked at her like she was out of her mind. She told me I was really pretty (this may have been an attempt to flatter me into buying more socks). I didn't believe her.

When you are young you cannot see the end of anything. Any hardship seems interminable. This is the worst part of being young. I couldn't, at that, point, see the day when anyone—least of all myself—would ever look at me as something even remotely attractive.

I hated women who wore glasses but didn't need them. They wore them as a fashion accessory and I thought, If you knew what it was like, you would not be so careless.

I got contacts right before college. Turning 21, losing my virginity, leaving home—all these things pale in comparison to life before and after contacts. I saw things in myself that I had no clue were there. Good things! Things not even related to how I looked. Good humor, creativity, tenderness. All I ever saw for ten years was an ugly kid with glasses.

A friend came over to my parents' house once and saw an old picture of me in my glasses. He laughed at how I looked. I wanted to punch him. If you knew what it was like, you would not be so careless.

It's hard not to blame my parents for their recklessness with the fragile ego of a young girl. I was tortured over this and they never tried to save me.

I still wear glasses sometimes, but I don't mind now. They actually look good on me. I picked them out myself.

X is for X Ray

I love x-rays. I mean, I don't love getting them and I'm sure the radiation, low-dose though it may be, is not great for my insides, but I love having them. We've all seen skeletons and we all know the basics of our own bodies and how our bones protect and move us, but isn't there still that tiny bit of disconnect? "I know I have bones, but I've never seen them laid out on a table, so I just don't feel very attached to them, I have no emotional resonance with my own insides." But x-rays give you a connect. You get to see your very own bones and suddenly, you think of your arm or your spine or your neck in a new, more tender way.


So I got a neck x-ray the other day. Nothing serious; I wasn't in an accident or anything. But when he said "x-ray" (he also said "MRI" (again, nothing serious)...Yippee! A chance to connect with my brain!) I got excited. He showed me the x-ray and I'm thinking "Wow, that's a good looking neck. So very, very straight." I felt regal, like Eliza Doolittle at the embassy ball. Then he told me necks weren't really supposed to be that straight, they were supposed to curve. He also said that even though I was thin (I'm sure he actually meant short) I had a very long neck, and that it might have been longer. Huh? Longer? (Man, I'd always wanted to be taller!) He said, well, he couldn't be certain, but it appeared that my neck had suffered some trauma, much like if you fell on your head...or were dropped! (Cue sinister music.)


I recall no such accidents in my life, and if what he says is true, did someone drop me when I was a baby and never tell me? I suspect my sister...

Golden Globes

I was going to write a recap of The Golden Globes until I realized recapping awards shows is tremendously boring, thus I can only assume, it's even more tremendously boring to read about. But I can't resist the opportunity to go Fashion Police on everyone, so here it is [yes, it may be sexist, but I could give a toss what the men are wearing, thus, they will not be discussed].

First of all, I like to be fair. Pamela Anderson, bless her heart, is never going to best, say, Reese Witherspoon in the clothes depot, so I grade celebs based on their own history. Therefore, Pam, Mariah and even Nicolette (God, why is she so unattrative?) are not among my worst-dressed, because, for them, they actually look pretty good.

Who is on the WORST-DRESSED? First and foremost, Mary-Kate Olsen, whose fashion sense is hit or miss anyway. But this long Michael Kors dress coupled with the long pigtails have the effect of making her positively hobbit-esque. A half-starved, heroin-addled hobbit. She's followed closely by not one, but two Hiltons. Kathy is wearing what I am pretty sure is the ugliest coat ever. And Nicky is channeling Kelly Taylor from the "I almost got raped on Halloween" episode of Bev-9er. She's also channeling Donatella Versace with her scaly red sunburnt skin. Come on, ladies! You know you're in trouble when Paris is the best dressed Hilton woman!

Who else did I really hate? Heidi Klum. Her fashion sense is also all over the place, but this Costume National dress makes her look like her boobs are hovering around her navel, and supermodel or not, that ain't a good look!

I don't even know who the hell Dayna Devon is, but she looks like a Barbie Doll reject.

BEST-DRESSED? If I had to pick my absolute favorite, I suppose I'd go with Keira Knightley, who looks lovely most of the time, but particularly so in a strapless Valentino.

Also on the list is Maria Menounos, whom I'm used to seeing in much, much less. Yoon-jin Kim (Korean sisterhood, you know) looked sweet. Other well-dressed lassies include Mena Suvari (remember when she used to dress like this?), Rose McGowan, who looked so awesome in such a hard color to wear, and Kerry Washington. Melissa George gets points for spunk. I love the lace shirt and shorts look.


I'm also creating a new category for Plus-Ones (i.e. dates). Best dressed is Eric Bana's wife, Rebecca Gleeson. This is brocade done right (take a note, Kathy Hilton). Worst dressed is Jonathan Rhys-Meyers' gal pal, Reena Hammer. She looks like a lime. A naked, trashy lime. A naked, trashy lime who is sooo behind the times becuase, duh, Elizabeth Hurley corned the market on side-split evening wear long ago.

Butt(ered) Popcorn

I went to the movies today, and a women walked out of a stall with her popcorn in her hand. Is it just me, or is that groddy? I don't even like to bring my bottled water into public restrooms! I mean why don't you just lick the freaking toilet? Of course, I know someone who dropped his hot dog on the floor of the theater (oddly enough, while watching the same movie I went to see today...maybe Woody Allen just makes people want to eat dirty snack food) and picked it up and ate it.

Just Plain Weird

I'm sure there are all sorts of weird "rules" about being a female celebrity that us layfolk don't know about. Like getting collagen injections in your armpits on Oscar night so you don't sweat on your gown. Or wearing at least one outfit in your career in which your nipples either show through the fabric, or else just pop out completely. But why, why, why do they all wear shoes that are too big for them? Is it because they're free and Christian Louboutin just doesn't know what size you are? Are they more comfortable when they're big? Do you secretly not have toes?

Your Body Is a Wonderland...sort of

For the most part, the human body is rather remarkable. You can contract any variety of diseases—HIV, cancer, polio, malaria—and, if not recover, at least live in reasonable comfort for any number of years. You can lost your eyesight, hearing, ability to speak and still live on. You can lose the ability to move your legs or lose your legs entirely and even that won't kill you.

But you can't live without oxygen for even five minutes. You can live on a little oxygen for a long time, but you can't live on no oxygen for even a short time. I think this is our biggest design flaw. See, if I were designing, I would have some sort of spare oxygen chamber...in the appendix or our butt cheeks or something so that if we were ever deprived of oxygen we could...um...breathe through our butts, I guess. Okay, so it's not a great idea, but I'd rather be called "butt-breather" than "dead."

Design flaw #2: menstruation! Who's with me?

Magical Mystery Metrocard

I have no idea when my unlimited montly card expires. The last day was supposed to be the 9th, but I think because of the strike I got 3 extra days. This would have made the last day yesterday, but I tried to use it today and it still worked. This might be because of that strange holiday program they had that was, quite frankly, too hard for me to understand, and which also, might I add, was a waste of money. Whatever good PR was to be had from giving riders a few extra days was mightily offset by the transit strike, wherein said riders had to, well, walk.

Anyway, back to the Metrocard mystery. I'm starting to think I actually have a magical Metrocard that will never expire. Kind of like that Grimm fairy tale about the pot that cooked unlimited porridge. All you had to say was "Cook, little pot, cook." Every morning I wake up and whisper "Go, little Metrocard, go."

I have finally joined the world of civilised living...

...by buying this book.

explosive diarrhea

Isaac Mizrahi (yes, okay, I'm hooked on his show) says that no matter what, if you say "explosive diarrhea" people will laugh. And guess what...when he said that, I laughed.

I know I'm a girl and I'm 30 and I like to think of myself as cultured, but seriously, poop and farting are endlessly funny to me.

PS-I totally spelled diarrhea right! I mean, who would think it actually had two R's?

Fun Word Alert!

It's been too long, people! This one comes from Isaac Mizrahi.

Delightmare: so bad it's good (Lord of the Rings musical, anyone?)