You Still Love Me, Right?

The victory belongs to us. It belongs to us.

There are a few other things that belong to us, too.  Unfortunately, we didn't really want to be the owners of an expensive and destructive medical insurance overhaul. Or an economy that has us hurtling toward third-world status in the next couple of generations. And we could probably do without a federal government that is hell bent on erasing the physical and cultural boundaries that formerly defined our country.

Maybe after taking the keys to the oval office, you realized a few things.  Like, that blaming it on "that other guy" would only take you so far, and that a year and a half into this thing, you need to shoulder some of the responsibility for the way things are going.  Looks like now you're "that guy", and someday soon, the accusing finger will be pointed straight at you.

Perhaps it's becoming clear to you that speaking slowly and with great emphasis on certain syllables doesn't get the masses all starry-eyed like it used to.  What happened? You used to stand at a podium and the heavens would resound with the choirs of angels.  The glory of a thousand suns was reflected in the hopeful faces of your adoring public.

These days, not only is your popularity plummeting among the general population, but high-ranking members of your own party are speaking out against you. Come to think of it, your smile is starting to look pasted on, and the fear and confusion in your eyes are pretty hard to miss. Or maybe it's just my imagination. Yeah, that must be it.

Were you really so arrogant that you thought taking your wife on a million dollar date (I wish I was exaggerating for effect, but I'm not), courtesy of the tax payer, was anywhere near the bounds of decency? Will future generations ask how a democratic country buried its collective head in the sand as its freedoms disappeared down the gullet of the bloated monster it called a government?

I don't know.

But one thing looks to be right on track. What does a man, who by his own admission lacked the experience necessary to lead a country, do when reality knocks him flat upside the head?

He goes on The View, to have his ass kissed by five bat-shit crazy windbags.

Let Them Eat Cake - UPDATE

Man, you really hit the jackpot. 

See, while we the people were hustling to scrape a few dollars together, get some food on the table and maybe take the family to Disneyland during the kids' summer break, you pulled a fast one. You gambled that we wouldn't notice, and you were right. 

To be fair, the odds were supremely in your favor. We hire civil servants to keep things chugging along, faithfully pay the taxes that blanket our lives like moldy multiple layers of puff pastry, and hope that, at the end of the day, things come out pretty close to even. The vast majority of us don't give you even a passing thought.

I, for one, never suspected that I was supporting an ever-growing class of American royalty. Yet, with each passing day, and every shocking tidbit that is revealed, it becomes harder to avoid the reality that our governing bodies are the bloated leeches sucking the morale out of the people of this country.

Let me ask you something, Robert Rizzo. What exactly is it that you do to justify your annual salary of $787,63? 

What's that? 

You're the Chief Administrative Officer of Bell, one of the poorest cities in Los Angeles County? 

Oh. 

Well, it must be enormous, with a vast territory and a population of millions, whose welfare and quality of life have greatly improved since you assumed your position almost 20 years ago.

Say what?

It's a city of 37, 000 residents? Whose claim to fame is that in 2000, 55 Oscar statuettes were stolen from a loading dock located there?

Huh.

Ok, look, I'll take part of the blame. We silly common folk were asleep at the wheel, and the temptation was just too much for you. I get it. You're human. So, if you'll just reverse that 12% yearly raise you've guaranteed for yourself, and maybe cut some time off the 5 week annual vacation you enjoy courtesy of us tax payers, we'll just forget the whole thing. 

An apology delivered in a sincere tone wouldn't hurt, either. No one says you have to mean it. Go ahead, Robert Rizzo, defender of the people, the floor is yours.

"If that's a number people choke on, maybe I'm in the wrong business," he said. "I could go into private business and make that money. This council has compensated me for the job I've done."

It would seem that you need some time to clear your head and come to terms with the knowledge that the jig is up. No problem. Take a moment. Maybe one of your minions will step up and do the right thing.

Assistant City Manager, Angela Spaccia, (annual salary $376, 288), would you like to make a statement?

"I would have to argue you get what you pay for."

This isn't going quite the way I had imagined it would. 

Well, alright. I'm willing to keep an open mind. What exactly have we been paying for? 

Ladies and gentlemen, I present the Mayor of Bell, Oscar Hernandez.

"Our streets are cleaner, we have lovely parks, better lighting throughout the area, our community is better," Hernandez said. "These things just don't happen, they happen because he had a vision and made it happen."

Oh, well, why didn't you say so in the beginning? We could have avoided this entire embarrassing incident. Your streets are cleaner, you have lovely parks and better lighting. 

And your community is better. 

Actually, please bear with me, Mayor Hernandez. I need a few moments to digest the complex information contained within your statement. 

...

Yeah, after careful analysis of your data, I'm not convinced that we've gotten what we paid for. 


UPDATE:
John and Ken, of radio station KFI 640 AM in Southern California, are interviewing a resident of Bell, who also happens to be a professor at USC. According to her, the citizens of Bell have been trying to get answers about the doings of their ruling class for years, and have been left frustrated and ignored. Also, apparently the Bellsians practice predatory policies to suck up as much money from their serfs as humanly possible.

This makes me so happy:
http://basta4bell.com/

What Is This Thing Called Love?

I've thought about this in great depth. I've taken into consideration the opinions of others, from ancient philosophers through modern scientists, poets, musicians, wise men and fools. I've even had this guy in my head since the 90's:



Not only is this one of the best songs ever for working out to, it is also currently the 62nd best-selling single of all time in Germany. No small potatoes, that.

Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that I hadn't quite nailed it. And then it hit me like a lightening bolt. Man, did I feel stupid. It was right in front of me all along. Of course!

You know you're in the company of your soul mate when you find yourself dancing together like you're suffering from an inner ear disorder and he's trying to keep you upright. Or sitting on a sofa, with your man's arm awkwardly around your shoulder. Or in the back seat of a car, with stiff smiles frozen on your faces. Then there's the obvious, walking on the beach at sunset. I kind of already knew that one.

The thing that really rocked my world was learning that when you find true love, from that moment on, you move in slow motion. But only when you're together. Also, music plays constantly. Even when you are laughing hysterically on a boat. Or on a balcony. I guess the head-rolling laughter is a pretty  integral component of twoo lub. The best part of all, which must be the clincher that you have been blessed by a miracle, is that the two of you are always surrounded by a halo of backlighting.  Amazing, right?

Thanks, eHarmony. You laid it out for me, clear as day. Over and over. On tv. On the radio. On my computer screen. In fact, it's kind of hard to avoid you. Now that I think of it, you're like that guy that stalked me in college. Only, you don't leave love letters and flowers on my windshield. But, there's still time for that. After all, we'll be together forever. Right? Right?

There's just one tiny, little thing. Microscopic, really. It's probably nothing, and maybe I shouldn't even mention it. It's ... well, I don't know.

You Rule!

My commenters are really coming through today. Sent to me by the charming Joey-baby:

Well, Since You Asked

Commenter Gretchen asked for some clarification on my last post. Thanks for giving me the opportunity to explain my rant. I knew I liked you!

      what term would you prefer we use to demonstrate something like this:
      A qualified white person is turned away from a job, which is given to a 
      less qualified minority in order to promote "equal job opportunity"?

I call that exactly what it is: racism. Of what significance is the ethnicity of the racist? Would you call it "reverse domestic violence" when a woman abuses/attacks her man? To me, that sounds just as ridiculous as reverse racism. Adding an unnecessary modifier to a powerful word does nothing but water it down.

This twisting and turning of our language is a symptom of the bigger disease of the pussyfication of our society, where validating and placating people and making sure nobody's feelings get hurt has become our national pastime. And, more frighteningly, has wormed its way into policy.

It is an ugly and destructive practice to judge a person (or group of people) by something as superficial as the amount of melanin in their skin, or the particular slant of their eyes, or any number of stupid criteria ignorant people use to make themselves feel superior to others.

The scenario you describe is anything but "equal". 

And While We're On the Subject

What the hell is reverse racism?

Is there some kind of vast, dimwit conspiracy to demolish the English language beyond all recognition?

Some days I really dislike the human race.

It Don't Matter If You're Black or White

Wait. So, you're telling me that "people of color" is a respectful term and "colored people" is derogatory? Huh. I did not know that.

Sure, I see it now. It's right there, in black and white. Of course! How could I have missed it all this time? Boy, do I feel sheepish.

At first glance it would seem that the words are somewhat similar. But careful scrutiny reveals that there are subtle, yet significant differen-

Oh, no, hold on. They're exactly the same.

OK, let me think about this for a second. I'm pretty sure I can figure it out.

...

Got it! It must be that, when the order of the words is reversed, their definitions change completely. There are many examples of this in the English language.

I wish I could think of some.

Or even just one.

No matter. It's a good thing that the National Association for the Advancement of People of Color is here to show us the way.

What's that? No. Really? Are you sure?

OK.

You Just Keep Me Hanging On

If I had a wish for today... It would be that the damn period button on your phone... Would stop working... Because every time you text me... I'm left with this uneasy feeling... That there is more to come... And I can't get on with my day... Because you're trying to communicate ... But somehow it takes 132 separate messages... and an unholy amount of ellipses... for you to clog up my phone memory... to say nothing of stealing my time... and say absolutely nothing... at... all... and the fact... that you are a college graduate... does not... in the least...  make you appear any less of a ... DUMBASS


PS... I luv u... ur my homegurrl... hv a gr8 day... l8er

Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter

Sometimes I wonder why I'm so weird.

I say to myself, "Mustard, it can't be so hard. Watch what others do, and do like them.  Combine your mad observational skills with your gift for mimicry, and next thing you know, you'll have your very own passport to normal town."

I get my hopes up. I drive to the mall, park my car and walk around, mentally cataloging the words, mannerisms and general demeanor of the masses.

And for a little while after my foray, I can "pass". But, inevitably, the effort wears on me, and the facade surely falls.

Recently, it became clear to me that my efforts have been in vain. A careful scrutiny of my family proves that strangeness this profound is imprinted into my DNA and I might as well stop this losing battle with mother nature.

Ten minutes after arrival at my dad's place, my niece, Paprika, turns on the stereo, blasting a song from one of the 80's hair bands. With a faraway look in her eye and an expression bordering on idiotic ecstasy, she does a half squat and sways her hips rhythmically from east to west. Interestingly, her flow bears absolutely no relation to the beat emanating from the musical masters assaulting my ears. Upon seeing the fun being had, my father joins in, doing his own version of the squat and sway.

"We are dirty dancing!" he proclaims.

"Woo hoo," chimes Paprika.

As it turns out, the rhythm does, in fact, get me. By invisible forces, I am brought to my feet and add my own two cents to the boogie. Now, it is generally agreed upon that I'm a pretty spiffy dancer. So, it's no small surprise that both of my loved ones put an abrupt halt to their festivities and stare at me.

As my dad walks away, Paprika drops her verdict. "At least you won't hurt yourself when you fall, cause you're not that far from the ground."

A little later, the three of us are hanging out, eating pizza. It suddenly occurs to me that Paprika can help me settle a question that's been nibbling at the edges of my mind for some time.

"Hey, Paps, what does ZOMG mean?"

"ZOMG?"

"Yeah, you know, Z-O-M-G?"

"Umm, I don't knowwww?" In a judgmental cadence that comes so naturally to teenagers.

My father, from whom I inherited my worship of books, swoops in to settle the matter. Sprinting into the adjoining room, he comes back with this:

Handing it to me, he says, "Look in here. This book has every word in it."

I resist. "Dad, the word I'm talking about is a current slang term. I don't think it's in the dictionary."

He insists, now waving it frantically in the air, "No, no, it's in here. Everything you want to know, you can learn from books. Just look."

One of us has to fold, and I know it's not going to be him. I sigh and take the book.

All of 300 pages long, copyright 1975.

"This book is 35 years old."

"Every word in the English language. Just look for it."

Like a dumbass, I turn to the listings under "Z".

"It's not in here."

"What?"

"The word."

"What word?"

"ZOMG"

"Oh, then it must be in Latin. Let me think. Zomg? Well, the root, zo, probably comes from...."

I tune him out. He'll be occupied with this fruitless train of thought for a while.

I look to Paprika, hoping we can commiserate about the unique nature of my parent.

She is busy. Looking at the mirror on the wall, and practicing running her tongue around her lips. She tries left to right, then right to left, altering speed and angle of attack.

I give up. Thanks a lot, DNA.

I'm Like a Freaking Yo-Yo Over Here

This post has nothing to do with being offended.  I just need to let some stuff go. Yep, it turns out that I am, in fact, human. No need to worry.  I'll be back to my Mustardy self in no time.

This morning I played for the funeral of an 18 year old boy.  He may have died due to alcohol poisoning.

I walked into the church overflowing with people, firmly resolved to keep my emotions under control. I'm the dork who cries at weddings and funerals of people I don't know. And then others try to comfort me with things like, "Oh, were you close to the deceased?"

"No, I didn't know him at all."

Awkward silence usually ensues.

Today, I actually held myself in check pretty well. Until the hockey team lined up in a double row along the center aisle. Achingly beautiful, in full uniform and holding their hockey sticks, they looked on, grief and bewilderment clouding their faces, at the casket holding their friend and teammate passing before them. 

That's when my face crumpled up and the tears blurred my vision so I couldn't see the music in front of me.  It's a good thing that my hands can do their thing while the rest of me falls apart.

To my surprise, the presiding priest came across as having a mind and a mouth that were in full communication with one another. And, here's something I never thought I'd say, I might consider attending his church, just to listen to him speak. Yes, he was that thoughtful and captivating. Maybe miracles do happen?

At one point during the eulogy, the priest walked to a woman sitting in the front row who was holding a baby in her arms. Now, what he didn't know, and what I could see from my vantage point, was that she wasn't just holding the baby. Underneath the blanket that covered her, she had undone her shirt and was breastfeeding the child.

The closer the priest got to her, the more nervous this lady looked. And when she realized that he wanted to use her baby to illustrate a point he was making, you could almost see the hamster frantically running on his wheel, as she tried to figure out her course of action. Just as he reached out his hand, she managed to slip her breast out of the baby's mouth and deftly tuck it back into her bra. With literally not a micro second to spare, another Catholic Church sex scandal had been averted. (Sorry, I couldn't resist.)

At this point, I had my lips tightly pursed together, and my body was about to explode due to the effort of keeping thunderous laughter from erupting out of my mouth. The kind of inappropriate laughter that can only make its appearance in church, or a dramatically serious play or other solemn and quiet gathering.  I finally allowed it to escape under the guise of a coughing fit, while giving thanks that the waterworks had run their course and I, once again, had full use of my eyes and facial muscles.

Not for long, it seemed. My professional composure cracked once again during the prayers.  The priest called the mother, father and sister of the boy to come and stand around the casket. And, as he put his hand tenderly on the box holding the body, he asked the people gathered to forgive any wrong done to them by the boy who was no longer here. In the silence that followed, I watched men gruffly wiping at their eyes, young adults being enfolded in their mother's arms and the family at the center of this tragedy holding on to each other for dear life. Once again, I disintegrated. And with a vengeance. Transformed into a massive puddle of grief, I gave up trying to hide the tears.

You know those films that advertise themselves like, "You'll laugh, you'll cry, you won't know what hit you"?  The whole morning was like that. Several hours later, I still feel like I've been worked over by the thugs of a mafia boss I owed large amounts of money to. And, as I sit here typing, I know that I have to pull myself together and play a massively energetic show tonight, when I'd rather it be just me and my piano, giving quiet comfort to each other.

So, for me, and anyone else who needs it, I present to you Miss Liza Minelli, here to save the day:

Yadda Yadda

So, when your mouth opens to speak, does it consult with your brain first? Or do words spill out of their own accord, randomly selected from the bubbling cauldron of cliches you carry around in your head?

"It is what it is."

Really? I thought it was something it was not.

I can't thank you enough for setting me straight.

The Fungus Among Us

No, you're not cool, unique or rebelliously self-expressive. I don't care what your friends (and I use the term ironically) at the tattoo parlor told you.

Your "full sleeves" look like you contracted a nasty skin disorder from a box of Crayolas.

Congratulations! You managed to be a lemming and a poser, and it only cost you several thousand dollars.

Peek a Boo, I See You!

Good morni-

Oh, sorry, I didn't realize you were busy. Talking to the grocery bagger in a foreign tongue. While you are scanning the items I am purchasing.

Could I trouble you for an instant? Just some eye contact, perhaps an acknowledgment that we are standing in front of one another, engaging in a moment of human interaction?

No?

Ok. Maybe when you are done laughing hysterically at whatever it was your co-worker just said to you. I'll wait, I don't mind. I've already taken out my wallet. My keys and sunglasses are right here on the little shelf in front of me, so... I'll just look around at the display. Or something.

This is not in the least bit awkward.

And now you've tallied my last item. I'm pretty sure I know what comes next.

Only, it's not happening.

Really, all you have to do is touch the button that produces the total amount I owe you. It's not all that difficult, nor time consuming. But, I can see that all your attention is focused on the riveting story you are regaling your colleague with. Wish I could understand it. I like to laugh, too.

By some happenstance (divine intervention?) your finger brushes up against the keypad, and the total for my purchases appears on the screen. Only, I can't see the numbers from this angle. Maybe if I crane my neck and lean over a bit.

You know what? How about I just hand you this twenty, and you give me back whatever you think is fair.  I mean, what's this world come to if we can't trust each other with a few dollars, right?

I said I'll hand you this twenty. Come on, lady, work with me here, I can't do this thing alone.  Here, I'll wave my hand around and hope against hope that you'll see my money out of the corner of your eye.

I am using up reserves of patience I didn't know I had.

I add an "excuse me" to my efforts.

I do have to give you props. Because you can take the twenty, make change and pile the mountain of bills, coins and receipt, into the palm of my hand, without a hitch in the flow of your conversation.

"Thank you," I say.  If only one of us is allowed good manners in this scenario, I'll gladly volunteer myself.

Como se dice "Dumbass" en espanol?