Tag: rants

A Wednesday post for the future

Next year at Christmas, when I unpack decorations, and after the tree has been decorated for days, when I suddenly shriek, “AAIIEEEE!!! WHERE ARE MY BEATLES ORNAMENTS?!? They are GONE, GONE!”

Maybe someone will say, “Simmer down, Becky. You didn’t put them with the other ornaments. Instead, you gently wrapped them in tissue paper and put them in your Beatles ‘lunchboxes’ that will never be used as lunchboxes but are in front of your oblivious face every time you sit at your laptop and write.”

Thank you, whoever remembers this better than I will.

World AIDS Day 2021

I get a news feed in my email each day, and though I haven’t read all of today’s email yet, the title of the lead article is “Africa: Far Behind,” about the Covid pandemic and the vaccination rate, and when I saw it on this date in particular, it was with the sinking feeling of the more things change, the more they stay the same. Often in Africa, where there are vaccinations in place, they aren’t being used because of distrust and skepticism, which is rooted at least partially in the continent’s historical experience with HIV and AIDS.

There are better-informed sources on that than I am, so I’ll leave it there. Instead, I’ll talk about HIV/AIDS and Covid in a more personal way.

In 1992, when I marched with a group of activists in Houston at the Republican National Convention, one of our chants was: 350,000 dead, NO MORE AIDS. About ten years before–1981–the first five cases of what would become the AIDS virus had been identified, and anyone involved in those early noisy protests was begging to be heard. For someone to act. For medicine, science, and government not to move faster, but to move at all. Those protestors and activists remain my heroes, because without them, HIV wouldn’t be a manageable disease in 2021. Because of science and medicine, and yes, governments, progress was made that saved not only millions of lives but taught us many of the lessons that help people survive pandemics today.

350,000 dead, NO MORE AIDS. Worldwide to this date, approximately 36.3 million people have died of AIDS, while 37.7 million people are LIVING with HIV/AIDS globally. HIV is a different kind of virus from Covid 19, transmitted through sexual contact, blood, needles, or from mother to infant–a mask won’t stop it, though a condom can.

It’s estimated that there have been 5.2+ million deaths from Covid 19 globally already. Covid 19 is spread in three main ways:

  • Breathing in air when close to an infected person who is exhaling small droplets and particles that contain the virus.
  • Having these small droplets and particles that contain virus land on the eyes, nose, or mouth, especially through splashes and sprays like a cough or sneeze.
  • Touching eyes, nose, or mouth with hands that have the virus on them.

Covid has an easier transmission route than HIV, and while vaccination may not prevent a person from being infected, it can mean the difference between staying home feeling lousy for a few days versus landing in a hospital or morgue. And wearing a mask or avoiding places and people who won’t wear masks to prevent the spread of Covid is, I guess, something like wearing a condom or not sharing needles to prevent the spread of HIV. Tragically, many people refuse(d) those safety measures, too.

It’s bizarre to me that now there are actually people who scream against vaccinations that save lives. Who refuse to wear a little piece of cloth that protects themselves and others because it infringes on their freedom. Our friends lost to AIDS: Steve, Jeff, John, Tim R, and Pete, could only dream of a lifesaving vaccination or something as simple as wearing a mask. They would rather have lived longer, and I sure wish they had.

I made promises to them that I’d never forget them. That I wouldn’t let other people forget those times. That I’d keep striving to be a writer and tell stories, not necessarily about AIDS, but about friendships and the families we create as we make our lives on this planet. Their memory impels me to stay alive and to write as inspired not only by them, but by the friends who remain.

Thank you for being part of the journey.

Button Sunday

Yesterday, supporters of reproductive rights marched and demonstrated across the country. As I was reading some of my social media accounts, it interested me to see photos of people wearing a button identical to this one from my collection, acquired in the early 1980s (though the button was produced in the 1970s).

The Equal Rights Amendment has a fascinating history in this country which I advise people to research. It had broad bipartisan support across the nation and in government, from men and women, from different races, and eventually from different factions of labor. It needed thirty-eight states to be ratified. At the time of another of my buttons, it was three states short.

That was when a campaign of disinformation cranked up in an effort to stop those three states from ratifying the amendment. The lies and fear-mongering were so successful that some of the ratifying states rescinded, and some of the rescinding states had that vetoed (opening a legislative can of worms). Even though the deadline was extended by presidential order (another legislative issue that remains unsettled), the amendment failed to pass. In the time since, it has gotten the thirty-eight states necessary for ratification if all the ratifying states are counted, but since the date passsed and the rescinding states present an issue that would have to be dealt with, reasoned counsel has suggested the ERA should start from scratch.

Don’t worry if you don’t believe women deserve equal rights and fear the rebirth of the amendment. As Covid has taught us, misinformation and disinformation (aka, lies and fear-mongering) are still quite effective at making people act against their own best interests. Even death is a risk they’ll take rather than temporarily wear a mask or get a vaccination (as most have done their entire lives without drama).

Here are another couple of my buttons from that time.


If I’m not mistaken, the “10” was from a set of stickers given with a blank green button to allow a countdown to the months left to ratify the amendment by its deadline.

The 59¢ button was how much a woman made at that time for each dollar a man made. Forty years later, that amount has stalled at 82¢. Progress? Let’s consider that.

More women now receive higher education and more training than they did forty years ago. According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, in 2020, women outnumbered men in the workforce. Over the decades, women more frequently became either the only wage-earners in their homes or single adult heads of households.

Can we call any gender gap in pay “progress?”

I don’t. I suspect Covid has also disproportionately deceased the number of working women and increased the pay gap, and this will have a negative impact socially, culturally, and economically.

I hope those who are stripping women of their agency, autonomy, and privacy regarding their healthcare and well-being are simultaneously coming up with lots of solutions to address those negative impacts.

(Narrator: “They’re not.”)

They are not about solutions. They are about control and punishment.

My brain

Revisiting the 30 Days Idol Challenge, when I looked over the list and thought of possible photos, I remembered a photo (maybe two photos) that I thought I bought at a record show in Austin probably in the early 1990s. I knew what bin I’d likely find it in, but I thought it was pointless to look for it, because I had no idea how to credit the photographer. At record shows, there are albums and folders full of concert and celebrity photos, and the seller may not be the original photographer. It’s a free-for-all (but NOT free).

Then my brain–the brain that can’t remember if I took my medicine, can’t remember exactly how old my dogs are without looking up their records, can’t remember what I had for dinner last night or what Tom said he had to do the next day–yes, THAT brain, said, The photographer was an amateur named Dorian Boese. And I was all, “For real, brain? After maybe thirty years, you expect me to believe that factoid? Did you just pull that name out of thin air? WTF?”

Whatever; the brain was right. I dug through the bin, found the photo, and it was stamped on the back with the photographer’s name and address. This is why I tell people not to lie to me, because I remember VERY STRANGE shit and can catch someone when what s/he says contradicts what s/he said even decades ago. I could better manage my daily life if only another person would narrate what I’ve eaten, read, and watched, or why I walked into the kitchen. I’d probably remember if it was something I’d heard. (I shouldn’t joke about this. As a female in Texas, I could be assigned someone to monitor me anytime to report me and collect a bounty if the state and its snitch don’t approve of my choices.)

I have no idea why I remembered this photographer’s name. But here’s brother Carl giving bunny ears to Dennis in red.


September 3 — In red ©Dorian Boese

P.S. Dear Gov Abbott and spies: No need to worry about monitoring my meds. I have a system.

come up with your own

I’m going to advise you to find your own quote about laughter. There are about a million of them encouraging you to do it for your good health and state of mind, and these are times when laughing is hard. I was glad for today’s idol challenge:

Because an Instagram friend recently posted this photo:


September 2 — Laughing cropped photo ©Ed Roach

Thinking about the effects of climate change courtesy of Hurricane Ida on the country, and the effects of yet another Texas law stripping rights from women and the poor, does not keep me from thinking about COVID. I haven’t verified the numbers in the below captures, but they are thought provoking and also nothing to laugh about.

I guess today’s household task to keep me too busy to freak out will be making Tom’s bathroom clean like mine. And I have one disk left in the Feel Flows collection to listen to.

Thirty days hath September…

Thirty days hath September, April, June, and November
All the rest have thirty-one
Excepting February alone
And that has twenty-eight days clear
And twenty-nine in each leap year

I can never remember any line but the first one of that little poem that was meant to teach the number of days in each calendar month. I’d rather cut out a day of August and give it to September, especially this year, but nobody asked me. So I’ll celebrate the thirty days of September in my own way.

I have four newly revised, full novels in the saga and 140ish pages of the next one. I’m thinking of slashing a bunch from those 140 pages and revising/rewriting. With that in mind, I decided to take a brief writing break, because August writing was intense and challenging.

I’ve made some daily goals to give me structure until I write again:

  • Do at least one housekeeping task per day.
  • Listen to music, not as background, but for the music alone.
  • Do one of the things that allows my brain the freedom to think about my fiction writing (coloring, sewing, petting a dog or four, creating art, contemplating, or writing poetry/lyrics).

Today, I cleaned my bathroom. That’s some exciting material right there, I know. Thank your lucky stars I’m not giving you details about last night’s palmetto bug adventure.


I’m still listening to the Feel Flows CD box set. I did that while coloring today, and I was moved to tears by 4:47 minutes of an alternate version of a song I already love. I guess I must be a multitasker, because music + coloring = a breakthrough idea on that fifth book. SCORE!

Sometimes when I post about the Beach Boys, whether it’s their music, their history, or their drummer, I feel like I need to issue a disclaimer. I’ll put one at the bottom of this post to amuse myself.

Someone I know only via a social media site who’s a big Eddie Van Halen fan is doing a “30 Days Idol Challenge” in EVH’s honor. I don’t know if I can find a photo for all of these categories for my muse Dennis Wilson, but I can enjoy the heck out of trying. If I know the photographer, I’ll give credit. If you are the photographer, please tell me so I can credit you!


September 1 — In sunglasses cropped photo ©Ed Roach, 1980

Disclaimer: Unless you are a member of the Beach Boys, or have traveled or recorded with the band, or personally know members of the band, or are related to a member of the band, or you are married to me, or you are my lifelong friend since the age of twelve, or you are a sibling or cousin who handed over your Beach Boys records to my care, carefully consider what you might say to me. Do not tell me “facts” about the band. I’m likely aware of them, true and false. Do not talk about the bad things connected to the band, e.g., mental illness, addiction, untimely death, a fraudulent therapist, or a certain psychopathic cult leader. I’m fully educated about how these impacted the lives of band members, and they aren’t fun for me to talk about though you’re certainly entitled to find them tantalizing on your own time. Do not tell me what years of their music are superior to other years unless you are a music critic with a by-line in a reputable publication or you did several years of research to write an authorized book about one of the band members. Do not perpetuate the contrived myth that the Beach Boys and the Beatles resented or competed with each other. That applies to some of their fans, not their musicians (a single Beach Boys member’s rambling speech at a recognition ceremony notwithstanding). There are two current versions of the Beach Boys: the band that tours under the name, and the band that Brian Wilson and Al Jardine, among others, work and perform with. If you don’t know which of these two bands has my loyalty and owns my heart, do you even know me?

Outage plus an “r” is outrage

I’m doing this post on Thursday and dating it Wednesday, because Wednesday, our cable was out and we couldn’t get a tech here until today.

Wednesday, August 25, 2021

Since the cable is down, I’m spending the day writing and listening to music. Fortunately, I can still use my phone, although when I write, I’m constantly googling information, and that’s far more laborious on the phone than on the laptop I use for writing. Lynne even volunteered to do some research for me to confirm what I believed to be accurate but couldn’t check for myself. It’s funny how I’ll do hours of reading and research so one statement made by a character will be factual and not some shit I made up, even though I’m writing fiction.

Which reminds me…

Because the phone still connects me to the world, I enjoyed messaging with Lisa (the Night Nurse!) today. We talked about fun things like dogs and vacation trips, but we also talked about COVID, and not specific to COVID, but in general, people’s belief on many medical topics that they know more than healthcare professionals on things related to health.

Not all healthcare professionals agree on everything, and if you want to find a physician, nurse, or whatever, who agrees with your relatives on Facebook and all their conspiracy theories about virology and vaccinations, of course you can find them. You can find anything on the Internet or hear anything from opinionated talk shows and biased commentators; that doesn’t mean it’s true.

It matters to me in writing and in living what sources I use for information. For example, when it comes to gardening or things botanical, I talk to Lynne and James. That doesn’t mean I think they know everything about every plant in all places of the world, but they almost always know what I need to know.

With cars, I talk to Jim and Denece for the same reason. Both of them know their stuff when it comes to the things I want to know about cars.

When it comes to medicine, I listen to people in my life whose expertise comes from their education and experience, but who are also reasonable in other areas of life. They are not alarmists. Not prone to go off on tangents with no basis in facts or science. Nurses like Debby, Lisa, and David P, among others. Doctors like the ones I trust enough to pay to take care of me, and they’ve been cautious, proactive, informative, and calm about my healthcare for many years.

I’ve known healthcare workers and scientists in several fields, including immunology, virology, and contagious disease, and I trust them. Additionally, some of the people I know who use and practice non-traditional medicine are the first to say medical crises require traditional medical care. I always think back to this paraphrase from one of my teachers who practiced alternative medicine: If you think you broke your leg, don’t reach for essential oils or try to chant the pain away. Go to the emergency room for an X-ray, diagnosis, and cast.

I can’t imagine being a healthcare worker today, risking my own health, even my life, and the health and lives of my family, exhausted because of too many hours, too many staff reductions, and too many critically ill patients, only to need an escort from my hospital to my car so that I’m not assaulted for doing my job; or to hear propaganda and disinformation from sick people and their families as I’m trying to provide lifesaving or palliative care; or to be screamed at on social media because I’m doing what I was trained and educated to do. It blows my mind the bullshit and disrespect they’re dealing with.

The letter below says so much. I stand with the kinds of providers I met when I was an AIDS caregiver. They are professionals and deserve to be treated as such.

Continue reading “Outage plus an “r” is outrage”

I probably should relearn how to do “text behind a cut”

Here’s a serious and overlong one, and I don’t know yet if there’s a photo to go along with it: pretty, engaging, or whatever else. Most of the photos that apply to my state of mind on this matter reflect an unhappiness or impatience IN REGARD TO THIS TOPIC (it could happen with other topics, but I will try to limit it to one today). For the most part, I’m as cool and composed as anyone can be on a planet savaged by climate change during a pandemic with the need to somehow manage my budget and my health in a way that serves the ones I love while all around me, people are fighting and fucking and failing and flourishing, as people do.

Guess what? I figured it out.

Continue reading “I probably should relearn how to do “text behind a cut””

The scrap yard

I’m constantly screen capping things on my phone as I wander through social media, and then every few weeks I wonder why I have so many freaking photos on my phone. But then I don’t really want to delete them because they spoke to me in a moment for a reason.

Here are a few of them to get them off my phone and into the scrap yard that is part of the service to my brain this blog provides.

Who knows. You may be having a moment, too.

Do you keep your visions to yourself?

Every single day, you’ll see a reminder. Whether it’s on social media, or in the unfinished project on the table in a room of your house or on your laptop or legal pad or journal, or in a note from a friend who asks, or in the work of someone else, or in the lyrics of a song.

The message is, “Do it. Do that thing you want to do. Create that thing. Believe in yourself. Do it because you have to/need to/want to/love to. DO IT.”

Why don’t you? Yeah, sure, sometimes it’s the voices in your head of self-doubt. Thinking it doesn’t matter, anyway. Persuading yourself other priorities are more important.

You weren’t born with those voices in your head. You were born with the urge and the gift to create. Creation is the natural order of things. Birth. Rebirth. Struggling. Achieving. Struggling again. It’s in the rise of the sun and its setting, the shimmer of the changing moon, the turn of the earth on its axis, the movement of tides, the change of seasons, the paths of all the planets and brilliance of all the stars that we can see and that we can’t see.

No. Those voices came from others and took hold in your brain, and they will continue all your life, whatever you accomplish, whatever drives you to create, whatever reasons you find to keep going. Whether they were meant to be practical or reasonable. Whether they were meant to tear you down or keep you in a place that was comfortable for them. Whether they were voices of indifference, disbelief, disapproval, mockery, jealousy, or fear. Whether they measured success only by the money you didn’t make and the acclaim you didn’t receive. They’ll always be in your head. You can’t silence them.

Make them part of what you create. And keep creating. Keep creating.