Sunday, April 29, 2012

Things That do Make Sense

Are you kidding?

Nothing makes sense. Nothing at all. I can't believe anyone even starting reading this "blog."

Saturday, April 28, 2012

Nothing Really Makes Sense

1. The news

2. A cat

3. Children

4. Adults

5. Doctors

6. Public officials

7. ESPECIALLY lawyers

8. Artists

9. Writers

10. Tumbleweeds

Saturday, April 21, 2012

If you sign about 500 legal waivers, you too can shoot an arrow.


Image: Jennifer Lawrence in 'The Hunger Games' (© Murray Close/Lions Gate)
At Wasson High School in Colorado, we had archery class.
One attorney for every 250 citizens in The United States of America.

What a useful group they are. Unemployed, under employed, over employed and just basically out of line. With the exception of those defending the innocent, like the ones who have made minor mistakes and our overworked prosecutors, the rest of them can just get a real job.

I like about four attorneys in the entire nation. However, I have not met them all. Then again, I must see at least ten a day.

I like our elected prosecutor here in Tacoma, Mark Lindquist. He is one of the good attorneys. Then again, he has other useful skills such as writing things other than legal briefs making him a fish out of water. I think he is fish that does not belong in Tacoma. However, it's mighty nice of him to bring the IQ rate up here in this town. -AW

Friday, April 20, 2012

Camus was Swanky and Sort of Dangerous


Swanky but perhaps a danger?
Dear five regular readers or so, today I write about Camus.

He's the type of man you'd find appealing because of his good looks, the sexy cigarette and again, his good looks. I pose this question though. Could Camus cook? Even if he could cook, did he ever actually cook?

As the writer in The New Yorker article I read about Camus, so many human beings are walking contradictions. Camus was snobbish and swanky in the way men sleep with many women at the same time are. I am certain none of these women knew this nor of the other women he was sleeping with. But wait, it gets worse.

Camus had no common sense. He readily made fun of the daily grind most people have to endure to merely survive. Most of my blogs tie back to me, thus proving I am also just obnoxious. Whatever.

I spent too much time with some professors once. Oh sure, the dancing in the gay bar was fun (in Montana), and the dissecting of the show "Seinfeld" was entertaining, but the one I was dating did not know where the oil cap was in his car engine. The oil light lit up indicating the car needed oil. The oil cap is clearly marked "oil." If read backwards it would be "lio." I was envisioning my future. A future filled with entertainment but probably no food.

I also spent an entire afternoon cleaning the rotten food and mold out of his kitchen. I am not with him. Thank the Lord above or I am certain I would still be in his kitchen disposing of rotting food. -AW

Friday, April 13, 2012

What Boeing Says Versus What They Actually Mean


Outsourcing!
The slick flier in today’s Seattle Times published by The Boeing Company just gave me so much to think about while eating some Thai food. God bless you Boeing for all of your honesty.

“This month’s complimentary addition of Frontiers explores an important decision at Boeing Commercial airplanes” (Outsourcing!)

“The Dream Begins in China.” (We better cooperate with them because they are winning economically!)

“We are focusing on cyber attacks” (China is hacking into Boeing computers so we are being outsmarted by them by their own high tech workers and their economy.)

“We are in partnership with China” (We have no choice as they are literally beating the crap out of us!)

“We supply necessities to those deployed in Afghanistan.” (We love to keep the military industrial complex going for our profit while just making more and more and more money bombing innocent civilians. Then we partner with military contractors to help whoever is left after we have bombed them. Sorry about your museums, folks.)

“We are a global business.” (Outsourcing!)

“We have multiple sites!” (Outsourcing and don’t count on your job lasting because we are going overseas for our profit!)

“We are concerned about workplace injuries.” (However, we will deny your claim and force you into a state of utter misery and then find you employable but never hire you back.)

“Improvements continue as Boeing looks at what’s next for the jet.” (When we are done bombing the entire planet, we plan to start bombing all over the galaxy!)

“A special section for readers of The Seattle Times produced and paid for by The Boeing Company.” (We don’t provide this for anyone in the south Puget Sound region because they are poor and we don’t care. Please do keep investing in upside down mortgages and hellish sprawling housing developments while we think of ways to outsource your job and leave investors completely broke. We love our CEO paychecks!)

Good luck to all of you! Sorry about that retirement plan. Goodbye! -AW







Thursday, April 12, 2012

A playground on a horrifying crime scene site? What?


Playgrounds are not supposed to be haunted.
Brilliant idea of the day. Let's turn the Susan Cox Powell and the murder of her children into a  horrorific place for a playground. This is how it will turn out.

"Daddy, what does that sign mean?"

"Well, son. It means you are alive and some other kids lived in hell on earth."

"What does that mean, daddy?"

"Basically it means I am suing the county for doing this along with the rest of the constituents for being such assholes."

"Daddy, are you a lawyer?"

"No son. But I play one on TV. Besides that, my lawyer took it on contingency meaning she will get one third of the settlement plus costs. So did every civil attorney in the county."

"Oh."

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Forget "Tacoma Confidential," Paul LaRosa is the hero

Leaving Story Avenue: My Journey From the Projects to the Front Page
Good job Paul LaRosa!
Tacoma's oftentimes very cruel gadfly broke a harrowing story in Tacoma, Washington while responsible reporters held off on the information for the sake of her safety. Then he continued to abuse the victim's privacy by posting even more information about her after her murder such as allegations she had a personality disorder and actually was abusing him.
John Hathaway was not paid for his work. Paul LaRosa has been paid and in fact, wrote his way out of the Bronx housing projects.

The irony in this small town of Tacoma continues.

 I will not waste my time discussing Mr. Hathaway. I applaud Paul LaRosa who demonstrates writing can not only change your life, it can literally get you out of a housing project.

For all those giving hope to others, keep on keeping on. -AW

Thursday, April 5, 2012

Why haven't I started taking a Bus?


Saturns have flexible bumpers so if you hit a kid, the kid will likely survive.
My Saturn could be the subject of a film on The Lifetime Channel For Women.

Women, and some men, grab your puffs and read at your own risk.

She was my first new car ever. I never thought I would ever even condsider buying a new car because the minute you do, if you look behind you as you drive off the dealer's lot, dollars bills are literally flying off the car. It's true! It's called "OMG! My car is instantly losing value!" I had always driven Hondas. I had string of Hondas. My first Honda was given to me by my parents. It was also their first new car which they replaced with a Chrysler. My Honda's name was "Betsy." Betsy and I were driving down Pacfic Avenue South one day and a man failed to yield while turning left. I had idea cars could bounce so much when they collide.

We hit so hard it totalled both of our cars. He got the citation, I got an ambulance ride, and I was fine. Betsy was not. She was toast. Along came Honda deux. Aptly named, she was Betsy two. My apologies to the next vehicle, I am so old I cannot remember what happened to her. I do remember Sylvia, the silver hatchback Honda. Sylvia was named after the poet Sylvia Plath which is quite dramatic actually. Plath herself was dramatic and her poetry is dramatic. More startling to me is only one person ever made the connection between her name and the poet. Sylvia suffered the most damage of any car I have ever owned. On September 19, 1991, a drunk driver named Patrick Walsh failed to slow down during a traffic accident which was ahead of us on Highway 101 near the Black Lake exit in Olympia, Washington.

I did slow down and looked in my rearview mirror. I did not see my life flash before my eyes, I saw his 1949 Ford pick-up truck fish tailing and headed right towards me. In short, I knew I was about to get hit and hit hard. One's natural flight or fight system kicks in at a time such as this. I looked to the left, but there was nowhere to go but into other cars. I looked to the right, and well, I had the option of driving off an enbankment. So I just started sreaming. I was screaming and stiff and screaming. Mr. Walsh hit the right rear of my bumper first, which sent me sliding into the left lane. A yellow semi-truck was moving slowly past mehit me and crushed the left side of my vehicle. It happened within seconds.

Afterwards, I tried to get out of the car. A nurse appeared out of nowhere. My driver's side window was open. She said, "Don't get out!" I was frantically trying to get out of the car. "Don't move. You have been hit so hard you need to sit still." I really wanted out of that car. I unfastened my seatbelt and released the emergency break. I could not get out of the driver's side of the car because it was so smashed. People appeared out of nowhere. They were removing chopped wood from the back, roof and hood of my car. One piece of wood had shattered my windshield but oddly, not my head. My tape recording of "The Black Crowes" was still playing. It was their infamous song titled "Jealous." In fact, my car was still running. I released the emergency brake and crawled over to the other side against the advice of the nurse. I was not hysterical, but oddly very calm. I was desperately thirsty. I wandered around the massive pile up asking for water. I got lost in a crowd of people who had piled up all over the highway because of Mr. Walsh.

Another Evergreen State College student walked up to me and threw her arms around me. "Your car hit my car! We are alive! We are all alive!" People were hugging each other in a dasiy chain of love and survival. We really were all alive. I was in genuine shock. I was still desperately seeking water. Amazingly, the EMTs said no due to potential internal organ damage, but I refused to go the ER and no one insisted I go. So I went to a seminar at Evergreen. I walked in and must have looked ghastly. The tow truck driver dropped me off at the campus.

My classmates asked me why I was so pale. "Oh I just got hit by a drunk driver." Some of them said, "What? Why are you here? We are taking you to the hospital!" One quite odd classmate said, "One day you will understand why the energy you put out drew that car to you." I was too out of it to reply. Another classmate said, "Alison is an angel and that is why she survived." I had the biggest crush on him. Never mind that, three classmates took me to the ER. The x-ray technician asked me what I do in my spare time. I replied, "Normally I move my head but I can't seem to do that right now." Meanwhile a friend had seen my car completely crushed and on the side of the freeway. She called my parents. I did not call my parents. For hours they had been desperately trying to find out if I was okay. People didn't have cell phones in 1991. I didn't even think to call them.

My mum is prone to flinging her arms in the air while panicking. We share this trait. However, I was still in so much shock I was still calm. I walked into their then apartment and mum said, "OMG! Lisa called us and it has been hours. We called all the hospitals and could not find you. OMG! Are you okay." I said, "I guess so." The next morning I notice a bruise going down my chest from the seatbelt. I could not move my head. It hurt so much I thought I was going to die. I did not quit graduate school. I kept going. Between physical therapy sessions, I carpooled with three classmates. They were so kind. I definitely had post-trauma. They let me put my head in their laps and cry. I was terrified of freeways. In fact, to this day, I scream in terror on freeways. It's true that at one juncture I decided Mr. Walsh was not going to ruin my life. I forced myself onto the freeway.

But back to serendipity, my Saturn. She has been hit five times when I have not even been in the car. Five times. I must be cursed. No, it is insane to think I am cursed. I was not even in the car when she got hit. I am not insane. Okay, I am insane. Yesterday was the first time in ten years she broke down. Ten years! None of this makes sense. Life does not make sense. If one tries to make sense out of life, well, good luck with that. I mean it. I am still alive. For now. And nothing makes sense. -AW