Scream for Screamfree Parenting, or applaud it rather

Are you a parent? If so, then you must be familiar and/or even guilty with one, or more, or all of the following expressions and/or actions, or reactions rather, you’ve directed at your child at some point of madness or another.

1. “…or I’m going to sew your butt off with a spoon.”


2. “You won’t like me when I’m mad”


3. “You’re always/never…” (continue with your own unique verbal ammunition)


4. use laser eyes to melt the opponent, which is your child in this case


5. attack opponent, which is still your child, verbally


6. attack opponent—your child still—non-verbally (silent treatment)


7. recall (take back) things given such as toys, promises, praises, etc., to the undeserving brat, or imp, also known as your child in this case too


8. scathingly grind teeth at opponent—you know who this is—in combination with numbers 1 through 10


9. banish opponent—same person still—to his/her room


10. and countless other ways to battle the opponent—your child still, of course—with strategies I’d rather not mention…well, one of which is to justify your normal temporary attack of raging insanity clearly out of anger and naturally blaming it on the little devil that is your child of course

Well, quite shamefully, I’ve said and done them all rather shamelessly, and perhaps even a bit more—which I truly hope that I'm honestly mistaken about—except the first one, which is really an original by another mom. But I probably would have saved myself, and incidentally, my family, from a lot of unnecessary chaos, if I had only encountered this book much sooner. But regardless of where you are in your parenthood, this book is a tool that can help you navigate your way through the difficult places, or mazes, of a parent/child relationship and perhaps even assist you in building a safe haven for you and your child’s psychological and emotional health, because it's never too late to start making a change.

Clear and concise, Screamfree provides actual examples of those difficult parent/child interactions and effective strategies on dealing with those situations. Hal Edward Runkel sensibly reminds us, parents, that the only way to positively influence our children is to reclaim control of ourselves and focus on our behaviors, because we are not responsible for our children’s behaviors, but we are responsible to them for how we behave. Remember that.

Pick up this book if you honestly can’t remember the last time you had balance, structure, consistency, calm, and connectedness in your family as you got lost in the its usual madness. Pick up this book even if you’ve never screamed before, verbally or emotionally. You never know when something really trying comes along to make you suddenly stop breathing, even if only temporarily. You'd know how to put on your oxygen mask first to be able to help the one(s) who look to you for help and guidance and love.

You're special just the way you are...well, until you start to resemble Emperor Palpatine

“I’m like so fearful of getting wrinkles, so I’m buying all these…”, I heard the lady next to me say loud-enough-for-anyone-not-eavesdropping-to-hear-anyway on her cell phone, as she ogled the wide array of beauty potions at Walgreens. Meanwhile, I was there for dish washing detergent, as the store had a buy-one-get-one-free—nope, I refuse to fall prey to that let’s-cut-the-words-really-short-to-the-point-of-grunting-forget-succinctness-just-because-we-all seem-to-be-in-a-constant-mad-rush-in-this-hyper-information-and-hypo-attention-span-age “BOGO” term; this time, acronyms just won’t do for me—special (each came down to 79 cents, can you believe it?!#*!?...lower than the dollar store junk!#%*!), splenda (same case here, $2.99 for 100 packets and I had a $1.00 off coupon as well), facial tissue which the manager gave me a rain check for should the next shipment arrive sometime in 2025, and, yes, a tried-and-true, good-old’-fashioned, no-fuss St. Ive’s facial lotion just because my face felt so tight and cracked, like I needed lip-balm all over my face…well, that’s just it, I needed a face balm. Not that I don’t secretly detest old age when it comes, because I bet my still fresh rear that 50% of women on earth really want to keep their youthful appearance, some of which haven’t realized it yet as they are still very young and in their diapers, and the other 50% are in their graves with the worms, their bodies or bones sans skin rather, with their spirit elsewhere. My point is, “Lady, could you be a bit louder and more blunt when broadcasting your rhytiphobia and gerascophobia (fear of wrinkles and old age), because being subtle is simply out nowadays, especially when everything is in, like men who aren’t gay but dress like women anyway, and old women who think they can still parade their sexuality by the way they dress and act. Am I being sarcastic here? Am I? Am I? So, people, won't you please announce all your thoughts a little louder already? Tis the day of confessions and testimonies, remember? Forget about whom you’ll affect, such as children—especially yours…when they come, if you don’t have any yet, as you constantly remind them the joy of being yourself because they’re special just the way they are, but only while they’re still young and they must fight those damn wrinkles when they come, and better yet, help these kids be proactive now and get that nose, lip, or chest job while they’re still fresh. Take them to the doctor for a nice set of pouty lips like those of the Bratz dolls. We’re in the day and age when we’re just going to be real, so come clean already people! Say, I will fight old age until the day I join the worms in the dirt and eventually become dust myself. By the way, while others prefer the more natural olive oil, my mom prefers Oil of Olay for its fighting capabilities, battling the 7 signs of aging. I’ve yet to find out which is a better remedy for banishing wrinkles. Maybe, a really effective potion, even a magic wand, would be discovered years from now, to forever vanquish old age. I’ll be crossing my fingers for that one. For now, I rejoice in my St. Ive’s face balm. And just maybe, I’ll later join the fight against old age.

Free Movies at Twilight, or anytime at Hulu

You really don't need TV nowadays, though it has become finer as part of your entertainment experience and home decor. Why not? Well, Hulu. It's an on-line site that offers everything from TV shows to movies. I stumbled on it when I was comparing car insurance companies and banks and finally ending up at Dolans.com, which is a great site for money matters. There are other websites that offer free movies, but Hulu is a definitely well-designed and easy on the eye among the few that I looked at. I picked this video clip of Access Hollywood, just because of the movie Twilight. If there's one person that the vampire, Edward Cullen, or even Robert Pattinson himself didn't want to bite the neck of, it's this "Dish of Salt" lady who only succeeded in making the actors so uncomfortable in their own skin that they actually looked it...and that's saying a lot about actors who are supposed to be experts in concealing their true feelings. Well, maybe the Twilight cast isn't used to the limelight yet. Give them another twilight, perhaps a sequel. But the salt dish is really a bit annoying on this interview, especially when Kristen Stewart came up. Well, Kristen handled it well. Go see and play the video. Below it is the movie trailer for Twilight.

Maher and Morningstar, or Mike—the headless chicken,

Which came first, the chicken or the egg? The answer is it only takes six weeks for them (chickens) to live, from the farm and onto your plate in whatever fashion—grilled, barbecued, or fried—according to Bill Maher in a recent interview featured in New Jersey Life Magazine. Meat consumption apparently tops factory and car emissions in heating up the earth; cows produce an incredible amount of methane. Also, it takes more land to raise animals for consumption than grow crops that can feed a greater number of people. In addition, the growth hormones that these animals are injected with for speedy growth pass on to us.

To eat or not to eat?—that is the question. Like most people, I’ve had a general idea of our dominance over animals in the food chain just swimming in my subconscious. But hearing it again—I was vegan for two years five years ago until my will yielded its power back to the irresistible baby shrimps in the scrumptious Chinese fried rice, then to the delectable baked salmon drizzled with olive oil and lemon juice, to the sweet bits of reddened, roasted pork in Chinese fried rice, to the tasty gyros, to the yummy McDonald’s chicken nuggets, egg mcmuffin, and Big Mac, and Burger King’s Tendercrisp chicken sandwich and Whopper, and Chinese sweet and sour chicken, and finally to the Chinese fried pork dumplings, which taste similar to Filipino Longaniza (sausage) in its sweetness and spices. Notice the progression? Blame it on the baby shrimps, then the fish…and so on and so forth. Meanwhile, the egg remains incognito in the delicious Chinese fried rice. Maybe it’s the tempting Chinese food’s fault. You get the picture. I rest my case—and hearing the details of the process and the consequences of meat consumption that not only adversely affect our bodies, but the health of our planet as well, makes me want to think twice about, and perhaps never think again of, eating meat.

I will consider this further over an egg muffin breakfast or chicken nugget lunch at McDonalds, if I’m not already mulling it over at BK with a Tendercrisp. Seriously, I’ve got to face my demons before I can power my will and say “Goodbye, you and I are kaput.” I probably have to brush up on my tofu burger, sauteed tofu, and tofu with pasta. Wonder if my son can stomach them…I’ll just feed him loads of McCain fries; they’re cooked with canola oil—yeay! One thing for sure, those vegan burgers, except for a few exceptions like Morningstar’s, should be banished from the health shelves/freezers since they taste no different from seasoned styrofoam, how I imagine it—the styrofoam—to taste like, anyway.

Life’s full of quandaries. But tofu accompanying it, instead of animal excretions turning our earth into a virtual oven to bake us and potentially harmful, artificial growth hormones to plague us, seems more inviting. My fruits, vegetables, hearty breads, potatoes, rice, pastas, olives, and a host of other flavorful foods shall keep me company...when I...if I...decide to...go vegan...again. At least, then, I’d be able to ruminate on “The chicken or the egg” philosophical question.

Vitamin

I love stories and poems about the unconditional love of a child. And for a parent like me, nothing can top this totally free and genuine love displayed in a child’s hug. A simple but genuine embrace demonstrating the unconditional love of the little person with the big heart sometimes even confounds the adult psyche, especially when you’re able to catch the moment it happens right before your eyes. This is an embrace apart from the guilt-driven ones from children who think they owe their parents unconditional love for raising them, regardless of their upbringing. It’s apart from the extra tight ones from children who are extremely excited and entranced with their presents. This embrace is easy, undemanding, uncomplicated, unfussy, sure, and true. It’s a simple hug that says I enjoy you…I like you...I love you. And it feels so good when given to you unexpectedly by your child. It’s the best vitamin any parent must take for sustenance by being completely cognizant when that moment occurs and your child comes your way and throws one right at you. Seize it. Feed off this vitamin and feed the nourishment right back to your child.

Zipping through happenings that zipped by

Zipping through life leaves me befuddled, aside from breathless. So, for my sake, as this blog is practically my journal—I record more of the thoughts my reeling mind churns out here and also on pieces of paper and napkins than in my actual, old-fashioned, hard bound journals—I need to log a few things that happened this summer, and maybe even events that took place in recent years, that they don’t just become random fragments floating in my already cluttered head and promoting further congestion. I need to unload them here.

First, The Hudson County Waterfront Clean-up. It was such a hot day in June at the park by the bay. But it was also such a pleasant thing to help clean a small part of Newark Bay with other responsible, earth-conscious individuals. My family's looking forward to participating again next year to help reduce the garbage defacing our earth, right here in our small part of the world, because every little effort, every little hand, and every little heart counts.

Next is Liberty State Park's 34th Annual Cultural Arts Festival, which The Hudson Artists of New Jersey participated in. Here’s the always delightful chairperson, Marge Colavito, who is a truly remarkable artist and also the association's chairperson. She holds painting classes for anyone interested at The Upstairs Art Gallery, where she also offers services such as framing and art concession. And here’s a glimpse of my hand-painted shirts for a sample sale. Of course, the event showcased many impressive works by other artists, one of who had his paintings printed on shirts, and I, being an artist who likes to support other artist/artisans who passionately put their hearts and souls into their handmade products, just had to buy a couple of those creative shirts, one for my husband and the other for my brother.

Speaking of my brother, he is also an artist, and is quite exceptional as well, especially for someone who just recently graduated with a Fine Arts degree and hasn’t had any professional experience. Here’s a glimpse of his work in sculpture and the eagle in the Senior Art Exhibit 2008 poster pictured below. He had already bequeathed three of his original pieces to me—the eagle done in graphite (shown in the picture), a pelican in pastel, and another bird in acrylic are all perched in my hallway. They look so realistic that I could almost hear the birds sing. Well…

Anyway, here's a video of him painting with his class at the University of Guam. (I envy their al fresco ambiance; which painter wouldn't be inspired to paint the colors of nature? Surely, the bright and boundless nature can always spark something magical to transpire. You just have to keep your eyes open...and you'll see the guy, with a white shirt and a full head—thick hair—standing while he paints; that's my brother :)

Finally, Fourth of July was nice and relaxing this year, just like last year, and unlike in 2005, when we camped at Liberty State Park and trekked back to the light rail station when the fireworks were over, which was quite grueling with all our packs burdening our backs as we guided our son through the exodus in the dark. There was one consolation. Yoda communed with us...

This time, we just sat by our town’s Waterfront Park while the fireworks fascinated us. See…

On my next posting: trip to Salem last year, coffee shops, Strands Bookstore, Gray’s Papaya Hotdogs, summer at the Washington Square Park in the village and Ocean Grove beach, this year’s Halloween, and a few other happenings yet to be mentioned...I hope...

On twits who mind your flabs

The comment below was supposed to have been for Urban Recluse's July article, "Getting Through Saturday", but the site had a glitch when I tried posting and I eventually forgot about it until recently. It's been a while since that event took place, so I'm not even posting this comment on the original article. However, it is a relevant issue which many of you can probably relate to. So, I'm posting the comment here instead, for those who has experienced the same tragic torment by people, supposedly your kin or even friends who casually throw remarks about your physical appearance, especially involving your weight, when they see you again in a social setting, especially in a social setting.

And I thought that only my culture (Filipino's) is notorious for this social blunder or just a clear case of tactlessness, bordering on rudeness, of bringing up someone else's weight, or anyother flaw on one's physical appearance. If I were to attend that party in your place, I'd tweak your mom's finesse and flavor it a bit with George Carlin's bluntness spiced with sarcasm.

For example:

(Uncouth) Godmother: Darling, you’re living a fine life, aren’t you, as I can see that you've been eating rather well.

(Refined and Feisty) You: Why, thank you. It’s nice of you to notice (with an exaggerated smile and full eye-contact). It's always a delight to see you. How are you? Well, you don't seem to be having any difficulty yourself. You look rather lively and well-fed as well. Now I hate to cut this short, but you'll have to excuse me, as I just can't resist another round of those mouth-watering hors d'oeuvres.

Or:

U.Godmother: Honey, either my vision's oddly increased the size of the things I see or you've swelled six sizes since the last time I saw you (with gaping mouth).

R.F.Y: Oh, (Ill-bred) Godmother, it's always a delight to see you. How are you? You look healthy! Do be careful leaving your mouth hanging as the bugs are out at this time of the year. And oh, by the way, have you seen the international news headline at all? Well, apparently, someone was severely punished in Singapore for casually making a rude remark at a social function. The person was made to sit on the buffet table like a pig, bare-naked with an apple on her head as the high official's daughter aimed knives at it—the apple. As it turned out the high official's mother was the one who had thrown the party and the pig on the buffet table who had "unintentionally" thrown an insult to the host's daughter was the godmother. Anyway, I thought I'd update you on that current event, since it's been the talk of town. Now, I must leave you for those irresistible hors d’oeuvres (with full eye-contact, an affable facial expression, and intensity in recounting the fabricated story to discourage any interruptions in the form of your disturbed godmother's responses). You get the point.

I commiserate. I experienced similar situations, from both shallow friends and annoying relatives with peas for brains. Other friends of mine, even one who is of another culture, also had tragic experiences like that, enough to not only humiliate but dumbfound one in a social scene. Show up with dignity and enjoy your little time there with your mom and the food and the wine and the rest of the company; it can't possibly be that every guest turns out to be a pig. Then leave when you wish. Allow yourself that fleeting peace by tuning out those nasty memories and letting yourself go. It gets easier after the first few minutes. Anyway, you might just have a different experience this time and end up having a good time. Also, it will pass, as with everything else.

Apparently, the event did turn out fine for Urban Recluse. Still, it never hurts to be armed with smart, yes even sarcastic, retorts to twits who temporarily lose their wits whenever they see you.

Dirt on Marital Equality on Housework

by amica paige



Peg (on spouse, Ted):

He leaves everything for me to do here. So, you know what I do? I make him do half the work half the time and I ask him to do the other half 40% the time, which leaves me with everything else the rest of the time. I do everything here, it’s unbelievable!

Artsy Etsy

For a while now, I’ve had great ideas for dolls—that is, how I’d want them to look if I were to buy one for some reason or another, one of which is to play, though rather cruelly, with my husband who cringes at the mere mention of having another baby, a girl that is. Not that I’d be ecstatic at the prospect of going through the whole period all over again, from pregnancy to the toddler period—though at this age, the little creatures are so insanely adorable, well, minus the crying bouts and diaper sessions—to grade school, of which we're currently still in the process with our only child, our son. Yet, I’ve always imagined myself having a baby girl, though I love my son dearly. I guess my longings for caring for a girl can be traced back to feeling deprived of that motherly love as a young girl, that the promise of giving my own daughter that tender affection automatically grew in my subconscious. Anyway, I wanted to see if anyone else out there already has the same ideas I have before I invest my time creating the dolls, so I searched the web and stumbled on what I can only described as an invigorating artist haven. Etsy. Have you heard of it? You probably have, if you’re creative and have been creating and selling, or even buying original products from other artists and artisans like you. It’s not only a market place, but a community, for artists and/or anyone who has a heart for truly unique and hand-made things. If you haven’t, I know how overwhelming, even intimidating the creative communities could seem, let alone market places, especially for a budding creative person who has been itching to create something distinctive and looking for a stimulating place to belong. My advice is, check Etsy out. I haven’t signed on, but I know I will be when I have enough pieces to show. So get busy with your wares artists!

Here’s a bit on Etsy—"The Handmade's Tale":

And since I've always enjoyed making things for gifts, as well as occasionally purchased original creations by other artists, I'm actually quite glad that

This is a sign that though I can never fully separate myself from the world, I will always cherish things creatively made with bare hands, inventive eyes, and passionate hearts.

The Secrets of The Immortal Nicholas Flamel

I’ve gone to L.A. several times, but not San Francisco, yet. Listed in my tall order of fascinating places to visit, the home of the Golden Gate Bridge, the Fisherman’s Wharf, and streets that brim with art culture and quaint and quirky stores enthralls me as much as stories that take place there. Incidentally, Michael Scott has convincingly crafted such setting in the fantastically fast-paced and fascinating tale, The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel: The Alchemyst, and its sequel, The Magician, which takes place in another sure stop I’ve also yet to take.

Now, I’ve read countless books, 99% of which I haven’t written reviews for—from Matthew Arnold's Essays in Criticism to Emily and Poe’s anthologies, to Jonathan Strange, Wicked, and The Undomesticated Goddess; to Narnia, Magyk, The Lightning Thief, Charlie Bone, Harry Potter, and much more in between, such as the writings of Beatrix Potter, Tim Burton, William Steig, Mo Willems, Avi, and myriad other brilliant authors. A common line often used in book reviews, I’ve noticed, is “this is the next thing to…or if you like so and so, you’d dig this and that…” But that’s just too easy. I don’t want to apply those clichés except maybe in classifying genres. In this case—this story involving modern-day American twins, a 14th century French alchemist, the immortal Nicholas Flamel, and his wife, the sorceress Perenelle, and a host of other intriguing mythical and historical figures enmeshed in a familiar theme that is the battle between good and evil—I refuse to report that this is the next thing to read if you’ve gone through a withdrawal period from Harry Potter or just because you’re into Twilight.

The Alchemyst is truly engaging, period—Harry Potter or not. Michael Scott surely captivates with engrossing details, magic, and adventures that unexpectedly transpire for two fairly ordinary teens, Sophie and Josh, a part-time coffee shop attendant and a book store clerk. The story begins with Sophie in the middle of a typical tête-à-tête on her cell phone at the cafe and Josh filing books across the street, in a bookshop owned by Nick Fleming, who is really Nicholas Flamel in disguise, when mayhem suddenly strikes with the stink of “rotten eggs”, emitted by the wicked, English magician, Dr. John Dee, who manages to steal an ancient text, the codex of Abraham the Mage, from Nick’s guardianship, but only after Josh has fortuitously snatched its two most significant pages. Next, the teens are swept along a mad flight with the French magicians and a vampire ally named Scathach. Nicholas must retrieve the magical book to protect the twins, whose destiny intertwines with the fate of the entire world, and stop Dee from summoning the evil gods of the Elder race, the dark elders who’ll either enslave or destroy humanity and ultimately rule the world. Nicholas must also recover the codex to prevent Dee, whose immortality had only been granted by a dark elder in return for total servitude, from acquiring the secrets of the elixir of life hidden in the book. The alchemist and his wife, themselves, need the ever-changing spell for immortality, for without it, they age and weaken about a year’s worth each day.

Brewed with enchanting humor, horror, as well as depth and smart references—from Queen Elizabeth, Shakespeare, and Beowulf to The Simpsons, Shrek, and Superman, brace yourself with The Alchemyst’ magic and follow Nicholas and his allies in their pursuit across magical realms, amidst very curious and dangerous creatures, like Hekate, the Crow Goddess, and the Witch of Endor, to form new alliances and get the twins’ magical aura awakened.

The riveting adventure continues in Paris, in the spellbinding sequel, The Magician, wherein fiends, like the Italian immortal, Machiavelli, the beast, Niddhog, and the war god, Mars, among others, wreak havoc and formidable new allies continually beguile. You’d never dare imagine the Eiffel tower in the same light as Joan of Arc’s husband, Saint-Germain, has. As the alchemist aptly puts, [Humans use but a tiny percentage of their senses. They barely look, rarely listen, never smell, think that they can only experience feelings through their skin. But talk—oh, do they talk, which makes up for the lack of use of their other senses]. But whereas “Desperate men do stupid things,” says Saint-Germain in referring to Machiavelli and Dee, who, like the dark elders, only see “the humani”, or humans, as “a bunch of people”, “slaves”, or “food”, “Stupid men make mistakes," replies Nicholas, who see “individuals, with worries and cares, with family and loved ones, with friends and colleagues”. The alchemist clearly sees “people”; I wish politicians had the same view. But for now, we have a truly enchanting tale to follow—from the Warrior Maiden's dojo, to Hekate's Shadow Realm, where the Yggrasil thrives, to Ojai, where Sophie learns the Magic of Air, to Alcatraz, where Perenelle teams up with Juan Manuel de Ayala's ghost and Areop-Enap against the sphinx, and the Morrigan, to Rue du Montmorency, where Nicholas and Perenelle once lived, and to the catacombs of Paris, where the sleeping God lies awake. I can hardly wait for the third sequel, The Sorceress, and set off for London, where the magic continues.

Vote for Obama/Biden or McCain/Palin?...I'd rather wake up George Carlin from the dead and have a Happy Halloween.

Can you believe this? No wonder why George Carlin gave up voting. Our savings have literally disappeared right before our eyes. It's absolutely maddening and utterly revolting. Forget about who, what part, rather, of the ugly monster would you choose? Its heads or tails? Either choice(party) is insanity, with each of them spouting mouthfuls of principles that are nothing more than ignorant generalizations and unrealistic ideals about national security, retirement, health care, environment, and education. Every one of these politicians plays the blame game and spews out bloated promises, but none of them has ever taken the responsibility to say, "I'm part of the problem--me and my fat salary and undeserved benefits and bonuses while I busy myself exchanging fancy, empty words with other crooks like me", or as in the Clinton case, "...while I get busy receiving or being served..." Haven't the foulest beasts of earth always operated on the same premise of outrageous ideals and constant misinformation. These scums play with peoples' emotions by consistently using the plight of whites or blacks or low-income or homeowners or immigrants. Where is the sincere concern just for people, period. Where is the concern for their hard-earned livelihood? What about the ones who are faceless and voiceless? What about the young family of three who conscientiously work together to save, but still can't afford to purchase a home, since rent, gas, and every other expense that constitutes the monthly bills has gone up? Is there assistance available out there for the poor of the middle class? Thank Godness for a family who doesn't have cable. If not politics, it's mostly reality shows or ludicrous extravagance being touted on TV anyway. Plus doing away with cable saves a bit of money, but all for naked uncle sam to also squander. Just as the emperor really had no clothes on...uncle sam is naked too you know. And yet, he does wear nice clothes, and is driven around in fancy cars, and have his fine dining in swank hotels, and is coddled by both celebrities and other devious big shots, as they all bask in the same posh lifestyles.

Yet uncle sam isn't actually naked, neither are his celebrity sponsors. We might be the ones. Oh, this is all so confusing. But thank God McDonald's still offers its dollar menu... A family could dine out and have a their meal for $3 each--sweet tea, burger or 4 pc. nuggets, and 99-cent fries while uncle sam and his cronies have to pay more for their dinners. So McCain promises us $5000 for our health care... Regardless, some family should do okay. They always buy the $1.29 wheat bread, whatever Calcium-fortified juice is on sale for no more than $1.99, and half-priced day-old salad and rolls. They try to keep on top of these things via a regular review of store circulars for sales... It's the least a simple, sensible family can do while uncle sam and his parties are hard at work for our nation's welfare...

My point is what about stopping the rubbish talk and squarely acknowledging the government ills, fairly managing it with realistic solutions to problems, and neither spoiling people nor taking away their livelihood. Absurd hopes, huh? Maybe never in this lifetime.

Here's the problem: the blatant abuse of funds period. The funds get misspent and/or pilfered by greedy scums. In accounting, you were trained to trace the last missing penny to account for every item related to a company's operations: assets against liabilities, revenue versus costs, income against net loss, even petty cash. And that same process can also be applied to every expense a family incurs by matching receipts against the bank statements to monitor errors. The funds are there. But they remain to be uncovered for as long as corruption in the government and its people remain.

I'm tired of all the(ir) politicking. I'm left jaded and cynical I may just do a Carlin and not vote. But what would I tell my son who is learning to tune in even to the student council speeches? I am terribly conflicted. I'll have to think more about it, think it over on Halloween... Perhaps it is enough to make for a huge Halloween scare.

the Funny, the Farcical, and the Furious: Tina Fey, Sarah Palin, and Elizabeth Hasselbeck

...quite literally, so view them in order...
I needn't say more but Enjoy and be...mused, or amazed perhaps...and forget the alarming economy just this instant...or not.




Watch CBS Videos Online

Heck: Where The Bad Kids Go

Imagine getting trapped in a nightmare where you're on the run from your pursuers—the mall security and a foe so foul that it could only be, well, your worst enemy and no, it's not your wicked stepmother or vicious aunt either, but the one who loathes you for no reason, the bully Damian—and you haven't the faintest idea how you got into this mess, especially when it's virtually impossible for you to even get into the slightest mischief, since you're basically a good person with glasses, who intends to stay out of trouble by immersing yourself in everything nice and intellectual, like your books. And your name is Milton—even Harry Potter has a better chance in life more than you. You're just Milton, not a wizard. Anyhow, you're caught in the middle of a blind escapade, where you're suddenly thwarted by a giant marshmallow bear towering over a mall's main hall. So, your ruthless enemy wastes no time in blasting the colossal treat to destroy you. Apparently, he succeeds and, in a massive explosion, you go down in quite literally a rapid descent into a hellish place called Heck, which is a great deal more horrendous than your revolting foe. In short, your nightmare doesn't end, since it isn't really a nightmare to begin with. It's real. In fact, everything that's transpired in one continuous, uncontrollable, rapid flow of events is real, and Heck is where you really get banished for your misdeeds prior your ill-fated death, even if you were genuinely as sweet as an oversize melted marshmallow your whole life. The fact is you stole something, even if you were tricked and are truly innocent. Therefore, you're damned like a regular imp, because "the Big Guy doesn't grade on a curve…" and "your last sin is typically your greatest…with no chance to redeem yourself with your sticky end". And it only gets worse. You're supposed to survive this nightmare called the rest of your life in the company of a total mischief in the person of your sister, Marlo. This blue-haired Goth, who delights in dark stuff and exploits, and steals out of sheer enjoyment and simply because she can, was also the punk who fooled you, plucked you out of your comforts, dragged you into her capers, inadvertently died with you in the explosion, and ultimately got you into this appallingly huge Heck of a mess. But you've no choice but endure this wretched place with her roguish presence, as well as the demonic principal, Bea "Elsa" Bubb, and her monstrous minions, including a hair-net donning, hairless cafeteria witch that boasts "hairy moles and weeping boils" and relentlessly serves overcooked brussel sprouts that resemble "wilted globs of pale green snot" for a nourishing after-life lunch. To top it off, the nasty vermin, Damian, who maliciously blew you up above ground has now followed you underground. Meanwhile, you feel like the vermin, yourself. You're only eleven years old with a fuzzy ferret named Lucky. And, again, you're just Milton. The only consolation you have is meeting a clumsy character, Virgil, who becomes your buddy, the possibility of your sister's unlikely allegiance to you, and a slim chance for escape, and still, perhaps, a little bit of luck.

So, journey through this ludicrous limbo where time doesn't exist, yet you get punished for coming late to your first day of "disorientation" and where issues are thoroughly dealt with in the "Department of Unendurable Redundancy, Bureaucracy, and Redundancy". David E. Basye definitely brewed a wacky and wicked juvenile version of "H-e-double hockey sticks" seasoned with mythical and historical characters such as Ammit, Annubis, Pemberton, Nixon, and Dior, among several other curious creatures. This book surely has the mental energy and verbal acuity of youth nicely wrapped in both profound and confounding thoughts. Heck is highly entertaining and an absolute treat for younger bookworms yet reflective enough for more mature readers. For all those who have Peter Pan Syndrome like Basye (Life with Children: 'Heck' A Vivid Success) or have simply forgotten how it is to feel young again without loosing any sensibility, here's an excerpt for you:

"And for the first time in his life—and death—Milton enjoyed being different. He felt free: free from caring what people thought, free to choose his own path…All our days are numbered, he thought before drifting off into unconscious bliss, but that number is infinity."

Enough said. Here's a link to author, Dale E. Basye, for more info.

Phoenix Lament (poeTry)

by amica paige



My soul yearns
For something more
Than the purest of light
Or the darkest of shadows
It searches beyond
Untainted hearts
Or the godless ones
Lamented by songbirds

For underneath their surface
Marred by time
Voices cry out—
Of distressed souls
And fearful hearts
Somewhere beyond
Jubilant faces
Where the phoenix mourns

My spirit yearns
For something more
Than a blissful life
Or the abysmal death.

Voice (poeTry)

by amica paige



what is my voice? where is it?
when there're so many inside my head
could it be that they’re all mine
desperate to escape my mind?

Literally, The Best Language Book Ever, Urban Dictionary, The Half-blood Prince, Society's Elite, and everything else in between...

Summer has been here and done it, and all in a blink. Where were you? Me? Well, I was mostly trying to catch up with all the haze and craze that was summer—this sounds so familiar, I'm so sure that I've been here before, grumbling like this in July, when I first reported that The Half-blood Prince would soon come out of his closet in November. Then, Warner Brothers happened, if you know what I mean. Suddenly, the prince was prohibited from emerging, until next July, supposedly to prevent him from clashing with his rival's upcoming revelation on Broadway; if this does not smell like another marketing ploy I don't know what does. I have yet to fully come to terms with the WB’s surprising announcement, so I'll talk more about it later. Umbridge must be behind it, secretly running the huge enterprise with other bigwigs like Chaney...

Then a chance to do book reviews for Society's Elite came up, which was really lucky because I have always been fascinated by the ever-intriguing subjects of philosophy and language, and some of the writings on these topics that I've enjoyed are Moliere's The Misanthrope, Thomas Cathcart's and Daniel Klein's Plato and a Platypus Walk Into a Bar, and George Carlin's Napalm and Silly Putty.

While the following books vary greatly in their perspectives on the current state of our language, both are equally amusing.

Got an opinion or two, or a peeve or three?
Well, Paul Yeager is certainly not without grumbles, as clearly expressed by the book title.
Literally, The Best Language Book Ever, Annoying Words and Abused Phrases You Should Never Use Again spells out society's blatant misuse of the English language—from grammatical blunders to redundancies, to jargons and wordiness, to trite phrases, as well as clumsy conversions of nouns into verbs, called "Verbification", of which I am absolutely guilty of, since I doggedly google, instead of properly research just about everything on the internet.
And you, meteorologists, are not exempt either; you are equally condemned for committing prepositional glut, as in "showers are moving on over into a region".
(Refer to pg. 10 in the book for your vernacular crime).

That we are just not a very articulate society and eloquence simply evades us is such a shameful thing. I sympathize with Mr. Yeager's frustration about the abysmal deterioration of our language, a national affair so grim that one might just prefer to stay home and have tea alone than to suffer a dismally bland conversation outside.
Blame it on the administration at large, including the workplace and schools. Blame it on Bush too, as with everything else, since he single-handedly runs the nation. These officials should know better by teaching us the precise use of nouns, like "mentor", "leverage", "task", "transition", "partner", and "retail" which are strictly nouns, just like a "parent", and must never be used as verbs; to parent a child or acquire parenting skills is clearly unacceptable. (Refer to Verbification, Ch.3)

However, while Mr. Yeager does not claim being "some great language dictator" and actually "[doubts] that you'll agree with [the book's entries]", he simply does not allow inarticulacy in his house, according to his Introduction on page XIII. There goes my chance for ever being invited to tea, or coffee, for my googling and a friend's gifting. Then again, the gathering for a satisfying conversation at his place might be awfully small, since most of us, if not all, are oftentimes guilty of flawed speech. In fact, Mr. Yeager's slip-up is so obvious on page VIII, with his use of the phrase "my personal favorite" instead of the more succinct my favorite, or a personal favorite, or even a favorite of mine, since the words my, personal, or mine denotes ownership.

Nevertheless, I appreciate having read this book. While a bit pedantic in some parts, it passionately reminds us to do our best to avoid inept language so that "we can better choose how we present ourselves" and "participate in, rather than glide through, our daily conversations".
In other words, we need to stop being flippant about our English and start taking it seriously.
In short, speak clear English, people!
It can get tricky though. Let's not forget that the world we live in evolves. So do we and our words. And since our perceptions and experiences dictate what we say, new words are created, existing words converted, and definitions adjusted. These modifications largely taking place inevitably affect our syntax, our expressions, and thus, our language. Change is inescapable. Otherwise, we wouldn't be here, where we can talk together, or have a dialogue or a discourse, or a discussion, or even a conversation; by the way, don’t these words essentially mean the same? Who invented them—these synonyms?
What about nouns, verbs, adjectives, and adverbs? And what of articles, prepositions, and interjections? And gerunds? Are these not verbs just converted to nouns by adding the suffix, ing? Does that ring familiar? Isn’t it the same process as verbification, only inverted?
But are gerunds more acceptable, as in thinking, than a verbification like parenting, because it is all right to convert the verb, think, into a noun, but not okay to turn the noun, parent, into a verb out of whose convention? Who started this tradition? Who established what we all have come to accept? And just who uttered the first word? Was it the Anglos, the Saxons, the Cro-Magnons, or the Neanderthals? And what was it? Was it an emphatic, "Ah"?
Ah, history certainly proves how far we have come since the Greeks, the Romans, the Persians, the Westerners, and the Asians, Islanders, Aborigines, and others.

Well, maybe language is not meant to be perfectly neat or easy, specifically English, much of which, by the way, is borrowed, or to put it more lightly, derived from other languages; hence, the inconsistent rules, such as its pronunciation—i.e. the present tense, read, the past tense, read, and the color red; basically, the past tense, read cannot be read, or pronounced, like red.

Nonetheless, society will continue its present discourse and continue to “party” until something else takes its place with a more polished version of the act of partaking in revelry or "mild-mannered frivolity", as preferred by Professor McGonagall.

Lest we forget, language is sentient. And as our communication evolves with time, lingoes remain. We may as well keep an open mind that we learn to appreciate and adjust to this kind of change, or not. But keep an open mind anyway. It could be fun, like an ad lib.
I call it play-speak, as in googling and gifting, though I choose to give a present rather than gifting or presenting a gift.

Still, I commend Mr. Yeager for saying what he means, without squirming.
He strongly believes that you can learn to speak his language, suggests that you should speak it, and says that the choice is yours.
And to those who talk his talk, more brevity to you.

The book is boldly written and a sure read for the earnest student or any aficionado of the English language. Its sharp sarcasms and puns left me tickled and stunned.
And if you consider this review hogwash for its length and/or content, the point is clear: it doesn’t matter much who formed these combinations of sounds or syllables, called words, and who determines what is acceptable or not, unless you are doing a school project or engage with something of a very fussy nature, as long as we allow each other to express ourselves freely. We zip through life—with one hand on a cell phone and the other clutching a latte (thanks to Alanis Morissette's Hand In My Pocket for the concept)—and inadvertently affect or freak each other out, as it is. Speaking of "freaking" (pg. 52), too much of it can and do get anal, like anything else, though I can't deny that my mouth spews it every now and then.

Highlight: "Who'd've thunk it?" (pg. 58) is absolutely hilarious.
Finally, "it goes without saying"...this concludes this review.Who'd've thunk that I'd "literally" finish it…


Now, switch your attention to Aaron Peckham's Urban Dictionary: Fularious Street Slang Defined. What can I say, the title speaks for itself. Written to give people "a chance to explain how they use and change existing language to express their views of the world around them", this book is hilarious. It is urban speak, a rich collection of words and an amalgam of expressions, submitted by the culturally receptive, a modern society that is an antithesis to an otherwise austerely erudite culture.

From the abc's—such as "abso-frickinlutely", which is "a reinforced expression of absolutely"; "abacadaba", to zip through a fill-in-the-bubble-and-get-it-over-and-done-with-fast-because-it's-just-so-ridiculously-hard-that-even-trying-to-score-high-is-made-impossible-and-pointless-multiple-choice test; and "air-biscuit", fart, plain and simple, as in, How dare you give me air biscuit I clearly didn't ask for?; "backne", simply back acne, of course; "bollocks", which could mean anything from rubbish, lies, great, or the best possible, to an exclamation made when one bungles, or even testicles; and "cankles", which are tubular legs where the calves and the ankles are indistinguishable from each other—to the xyz's of life, as in, literally, "xyz", short for "examine your zipper", or to remind someone to zip up the fly in the briefest and most discreet way—in addition to Peckham's droll examples, the Urban Dictionary presents the language of today's society and its subcultures, including everyone else in between and outside—[from the rebellious teens…tweens and thirtysomethings…to the 'rents, teachers…and even avid students of the English Language all over the world].

As Aaron Peckham aptly put, "Everyone deserves the opportunity to understand and be understood." Now, "chillax" and learn the lingo in this totally "fularious" book. Then, pick up its "ridonkulous" sequel, The Ridonkulous Street Slang Defined, lest you forget that language is fast paced and get left behind.

Remy Zero, Oprah, and Bono, please Save Me...

Here’s an amazing live performance worth watching over and over again, well, until you get sick of the phrase “Save Me”.

I hadn’t watched Smallville, since the second, or first, season. Put it this way, life happens, and when it does, it shakes your safe schedule and then some. Nothing’s set on stone, remember, except maybe the length of one’s existence written on a nicely shaped tomb. Anyway, with the show’s newly release 7th season, I was reminded of its catchy theme song by Remy Zero. No, Remy didn’t remind me. I meant the band Remy Zero sang it…I mean played it. Cinjun Tate was the vocalist, of course and no, not Bono. Come on people, give other raw talent and others in general a chance please!—especially when Oprah’s got the whole world in her hands as it is, while Bragelina—oh is it Brangel, Brang, Bran, or Bra, I’m pretty sure it’s one of those, though the last combination of two names is the best for its sheer succinctness and anyway, you know who’s got the kids backs. No, no one’s taking anyone’s child away; it isn’t our business but theirs, Madonna’s, and Britney’s anyway—no pun intended there, either, on giving others a chance to glory. I happen to appreciate U2’s music as much as I enjoyed House of pain, since my older brother continuously played it as my younger brother jumped around , and leaving me, as one might expect, with a split personality, or to put it more gently, a varied taste in music. Okay, they do sound similar, all right? Yes, Cinjun and Bono. But Bono’s even got his Nude clothing line. No it’s not a sham, like the Emperor’s clothes. It’s authentic. I mean, the apparel is, for being real. No, I don’t mean that he isn’t genuine; his motives are his business, not mine. And yes, I’m still talking about Bono and this is starting to get ridiculous, because this posting isn’t even supposed to be about him, but the band Remy Zero and its vocalist with the incredible voice. You can hardly find much raw talent like that nowadays, especially when special effects abound, like the “megaphone or intercom” effect, which gives the voice an oddly nasal and distant sound that’s so common in today’s music. Weren’t these devices previously only used for announcements by coaches and principles in schools and on sports grounds? But who dares get in the way of creativity? Surely, not I. Besides, those sound effects actually work well in most types of music, particularly those with fast beats like dance, house, and techno. Anyhow, I just found out that Remy Zero disbanded when I searched You Tube for its latest music, which was officially declared in the former band's official website. And it seems that, at first glance, anyway, meaning if you check strictly just the initial page of the massive search results, current info on the band is practically nonexistent, except for Wikipedia’s somewhat dated, general account of each of the band mates’ collaboration with other artists, though there are a few links for a tad more info on each of their new, yet not so new, musical projects after the group’s break-up. Apparently, Cinjun Tate and his brother teamed up again, like they did in Remy Zero, to form an alternative rock duo called the Spartan Fidelity, and later worked with another duo, the Yoshida Brothers, whose sound was used by Nintendo for its Wii commercial. Meanwhile, info on Cinjun Tate is even more scant, which basically reports that he’s an Alabama native who grew up with both musician and artist parents and three brothers, and who was married to Alyssa Milano. So, if you’re completely mad about Remy Zero and seriously haven’t got anything better to do than conduct a heavy research, go ahead and dig into an endless search list, otherwise, just keep listening to the already available music by the former band, or still, try to scratch the virtual surface that is Spartan Fidelity, Isidore, and Sleepwell. And do sleep well, maybe to the tune of Save Me, as you sing along right before you fall into dream's realm.

When Lightning Strikes, Catch the Waves!

One day, it suddenly hit me that all the late writers, artists, and other historical figures I’ve ever been curious to read about lived to an average of seventy to eighty-five years. But of course, that’s the standard life span. It’s true for even my few departed kin and acquaintances; my grandfather, whom I adored, died when he was 84 years old, while my grandma is still running at 84, in which case I hope she’d continue to beat the odds. Using the same general principle on mortality, and unless I suddenly get stricken by lightning or suffer some other awful accident, I realized that I probably won’t get to live past the 2050s. And this stunned me to the point of near paralysis, though very briefly, like for twenty-four seconds. No matter what people say, especially talks about faith and heaven or some other mystical utopia, it’s simply terrifying to have to acknowledge the sheer bleakness of life, which is ironically called death. It’s funny that phrases like “the average life span...” or “he or she lived to be...” normally grace our conversations, literary publications, and entertainment media, as just another day's minutiae and probably flit through our consciousness much less than going for oil change. But while it may very well be just an everyday trifle, it can be quite disturbing when you come face to face with this undeniably dire subject of mortality.

A basic antidote to such forbidding pictures like the one painted above: Nature. Below are twenty-four and 12 second bits at Ocean Grove beach. Brilliant Beach and Blue Skies.

Unwritten (poeTry)

by amica paige



write your story
paint your pictures
dance your dance
regardless of what say-they
and sing!
to your heart's desire
under the moonlit sky
as you amble on
this sun-lit ground
before your vision,
then your voice become
nothing more
than fragmented dreams
sinking down
the inner void
of deafening doubts
and screaming chaos
hissed by tongues-well-intentioned
to engulf at last
your existence
and leave you bereft
and baffled by
nothingness.