injaynesworld we've got the "Junk Mail Blues"

I’ve noticed a rather disturbing change in my junk mail as I grow older.

It started when I turned 50 and AARP sought me out to join them with enticing offers of senior discounts on Depends. Then at 60 among my birthday greetings I found a solicitation from The Neptune Society for cremation services. That was kind of a downer. I’m almost afraid to peer into the future lest my 70th bring an invitation from what I can only imagine will be a company aptly named “Check-Out Time,” offering euthanasia services – cash only, no credit cards accepted.

I have to admit that solicitations for long-term care insurance sent by the same companies offering me short-term life insurance confuse me, and it’s more than a little creepy to find myself just automatically appearing on these types of mailing lists. I’m only buoyed by the fact that Victoria’s Secret still considers me young and nubile enough to send me their catalogs and I’ve been known to buy several unneeded black lace garter belts just to stay in their good graces.

I look forward to election times when my mail is full of expressions of desire from those vying for my affection. Clearly, I am worth more to them alive than dead and that, in itself, is worth sending them a few bucks.

I realize that there is no longer any such thing as “personal” information and that we’re precision-targeted by corporations from cradle to grave. Recently, however, I decided to fight back and took some pleasure in ordering subscriptions to Seventeen and TeenVogue magazines thinking I’d just mess with them a bit. In response, I received literature on the early-warning signs of dementia along with advice that I consult my doctor about the enclosed recommended drugs for the treatment of such.

This may be a battle I can’t win.

injaynesworld "We Dispose of Dead Bodies"

Once again, Michael Jackson’s burial has been postponed. This time because the family thought it wrong to bury him on his birthday, but apparently okay to let him lie around dead for months on end. Since they clearly are not ready to let go of The Gloved One, may I suggest a trip to the local taxidermist. They might even be able to install a CD for you that plays “Billie Jean” on a continuous loop. Bendable joints would allow for his placement at the dinner table so as to never miss one of your fun-filled holiday meals. Joe, the family pimp, could prop him up at the gates of Neverland and charge fans to take their pictures with him. You could even belt him up in the passenger seat so as to drive in the carpool lane. Think about it. The uses for a stuffed MJ are endless and the benefits far outweigh the disposal of his perfectly good, if slightly emaciated, nose less body.

Come on, Jacksons. Bury him already! We are all so over the "Summer of '09 Michael Jackson Dead Body Tour.” Give the poor bastard in death what he never got in life – some fucking peace.

injaynesworld "Drug Is Not The Past Tense For Drag"

I don’t care what Dr. Phil says.

The past tense for drag is dragged, as in “Look what the cat dragged in.” Dragged is a verb. Drug is a noun. Well, now I take that back. Drug can be a verb, but only when referring to the administering of drugs as in, “Did you drug your date?” But mostly it’s a noun. Which brings us back to the proverbial cat, and while we often attribute to cats strange and wondrous powers, in truth they are incapable of drugging anything.

I know we have real problems in the world, and believe me, I’m riled about all of them, but nothing – nothing can drive me crazy like hearing someone use “drug” as the past tense for drag. And yes, I know I’m shallow. Deal with it.

injaynesworld we've had it with “Birthers and Deathers and Liars -- Oh My!”

Just wake me when it’s over. Okay? Because these wing-nuts are seriously creeping me out.

I pride myself on being well-informed, but I can’t watch the news anymore. I can’t take all the shouting. The rage and hatred are everywhere and it’s over the top. I even have problems trying to read a paper or going on HuffPo. It all just makes me want to dull my senses with cheap wine before noon. And don’t even get me started on C-SPAN’s coverage of Congress. There are people out there who actually voted for Michelle Bachman. But then it’s been proven time and again that people will vote against their own best interests. The Republicans know this and are ruthless in their dissemination of misinformation, playing to the emotions of the ignorant and lazy, whereas the Democrats just want to make nice with everyone. And then we wonder why we get our asses handed to us so often at the polls.

It would be one thing if all this ugly discord was just the case at Fox. We know the whole “Fair and Balanced” thing is bullshit. But when did Lou Dobbs get his ticket punched on the crazy train? Yes, he began to show cracks during his whole illegal-immigrants-are-going-to-pop-out-of-your-toilet-and-bite-you-in-the-butt period. But I have to admit, I was totally and, in retrospect, I now realize naively caught off guard by his recent conversion to card-carrying birther. Demanding that President Obama present his birth certificate? Really, Lou? Do you not even watch your own network where it has been presented a multitude of times? But hey – don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story. Or was this your audition tape for Fox?

Then there are the screaming mobs at the town halls and I can’t help being reminded of similar scenes in “Frankenstein,” the cool 1931 black-and-white version. Only instead of shouts of “Kill the monster!” we have toddlers in strollers carrying signs that read “Abort Obama,” while their parents cover their hearts and say the Pledge of Allegiance, but the meaning is frighteningly the same. I remember the 60s when we marched and shouted, “Hey, hey, LBJ – how many kids did you kill today?” It, too, was an offensive rant, but I’m pretty sure none of us were advocating the killing of a President. We’d all just lived through the horror of JFK’s assassination. We knew too well the consequences of a demented individual with a rifle, conspiracy theories aside.

And when did it become okay to call the President of the United States a Nazi? That’s a vile thing to call anyone, much less the President, regardless of how you feel about his policies that you clearly don’t understand anyway or care to even try to. That would actually require the use of functioning brain cells and what few you have are needed to figure out which shoe goes on which foot in the morning – the entire extent of your venture into cognitive thought. The shouts of “Keep the government’s hands off my Medicare,” are my personal favorite, made as they are by some of the same geniuses who are sucking at the tits of Social Security and Medicare while decrying Obama as a “socialist.”

It would be easy and is certainly tempting to write off these loons as a result of too many years of inbreeding, and while I don’t doubt that’s played a part, the true blame for the level of vitriol in today’s dialogue can be laid directly at the microphones of such right-wing hate mongers as Glenn Beck, Sean Hannity, and Rush-the-OxyCotin-poster-boy-Limbaugh. And as a bonus, the people who are listening to them are now carrying loaded guns to town hall meetings. Good job, boys. Wait till some innocent gets blown away and then watch these cowards throw up their hands and say, “Not my fault.”

Then just when I think it can’t get worse, there’s Sarah Palin, again, certifiably bat-shit crazy, screaming about Obama death panels coming to do in little Trip or Twig or whatever the hell her poor kid’s name is. Please. I’d rather be locked in a room for a month with Speidi than endure one more minute of the Palin good-bye tour. And might I add, Sarah, the purpose of a good-bye tour is to actually go away.

You know things are bad when Twitter becomes your bastion of sanity.

injaynesworld we are known as “The Reluctant Traveler or… Hell No, I Won’t Go”

My good friends, Kathie and Bruce, just got back from three weeks in France and Italy. Sounds divine, doesn’t it? Last year, Pamela and Richard, traveled through Spain, while adventurous Penelope and Andy trekked through India and rode camels. I’m so impressed.

My friends travel, while I… don’t. I don’t even have a passport. I did go on a three-day cruise to Mexico in 2006. The best part was buying drugs that are illegal in the U.S. without a prescription, and cheaply at that.

It’s not that I don’t like seeing other places. It’s the getting-to-them that presents the obstacle. The crowds, the packing, the delays, the flying. Not the flying so much as the potential for crashing. And don’t give me that crap about it being safer to fly than to drive on the freeway. I drive a Volvo.

Besides, I mean really, isn’t it all on DVD now anyway? If I want to see Italy can’t I just pop it into the player and relax in the comfort of my own home with a plate of lasagna? China? Hey, pass me the egg rolls. And who wouldn’t rather see Paris all cozy on the sofa with a savory Coq au Vin while avoiding all those annoying French people.

The last time I flew anywhere was in ’93, from L.A. to Pennsylvania. To save myself the trouble of having to check a bag I decided that I would simply wear everything I would need over those next three days. It worked for “Heidi.” Stoked by my own brilliance, I planned my wardrobe carefully and began to layer, starting with several pair of undies: a thong, a bikini and a brief, in that order. Next some leggings, a pair of knee high socks, low-rise jeans and finally a long, black skirt. On top I donned a tank, a tee-shirt, then a black turtleneck and finally a large wool, cable-knit sweater. For shoes, black cowboy boots which went nicely with all my planned ensembles. Clearly, these were the days when you could still fly without enduring a cavity search.

Although it should be obvious, I will mention it anyway. The ingestion of any liquids that day was strictly verboten as peeing would be out of the question. This presented a slight problem, as I prefer to be dead-ass drunk when I fly, but the downing of a single 10-mg tablet of Xanax proved surprisingly effective. Were it not for the fact that even if you drink nothing for hours on end, the body will continue to produce waste fluids and deliver them oh-so-efficiently to the bladder, my plan would have been flawless. This I discovered about one hour from landing and by the time we taxied to the gate, the whole “Heidi” thing no longer seemed like such a stroke of genius.

Still determined to circumvent the baggage check-in folks, should I ever fly again I will pack my belongings in a cardboard box and FedEx them to my destination, but such an excursion is unlikely. Planes have been dropping out of the sky like flies lately. Have you noticed? So unless I’m guaranteed Scully at the helm, I’ll be staying right here on good old Terra Firma, thank you very much.

Trains and buses aren’t much better. You’re still jammed together with a lot of strangers carrying God only knows what germs. You’ve got some Einstein train engineer texting his girlfriend just when he’s supposed to be switching tracks, and buses without seatbelts going off the sides of overpasses. Yes, I know. When my time is up it’s up and God will initiate his own personal search-and-destroy mission. I could be securely ensconced in my own bedroom having safe sex with myself (all the safer) only to have a plane land on me. It happens. So why go asking for trouble when it can clearly find you any time it pleases?

I’m sure that I would enjoy lying on a white, sandy Caribbean beach, my toes dipping into the clear, blue waters of the Atlantic, while a large alcoholic concoction of some kind is served to me by a half-naked native Adonis. There are many places that I am sure I would enjoy, and it is my fervent hope to live long enough for the words “Beam me up, Scotty” to become a reality. But until then I’m afraid I will just have to remain the reluctant traveler.

injaynesworld we’re hooked on “Four Pounds of Love”

Her name is Dixie. I almost named this blog “Dixieland” after her, but thought everyone would come here expecting great insights about jazz and go away disappointed. She is a two-year-old, 4.13-ounce Chihuahua and yes, I’m one of those goofy owners who dress up their dog. What can I say? I was denied a Barbie as a child.

Unlike me, she does not need an IV of coffee to wake up in the morning. Her eyes spring open and just like that she’s ready for the day. It’s usually about 7:00 a.m. I hear her stir and try to stay as still as possible, maintaining slow and even breathing. I do not want her to know I’m awake yet, hoping to get just a few more minutes of respite from an increasingly crazy world. I can feel her staring down at me from her perch on my pillow, her breath at my ear, then her tiny tongue ever so lightly on the tip of my nose – and I’m screwed. Just a one miniscule twitch, but that’s all it takes. She pounces full force on my face, “I know you’re in there!” I roll over and duck my head under the covers, but to know avail. When the Chihuahua is awake, everyone is awake.

She dances on my head until I give in, throw back the covers, and stagger to the screen door to take her out for her morning potty. Dixie was very easy to potty-train because every time she peed or pooped I would always clap and shout “Yay, Dixie!” And I still do. I sometimes wonder what my self-esteem level would be if every time I peed someone would clap and shout, “Yay, Jayne!” but I’ve yet to find that kind of devotion.

Into the kitchen we go to get her breakfast, Dixie prancing at my feet. I will not be ready for my breakfast until I have downed my first 16-ounce thermos of “just plain coffee,” but that’s another story. I get the can from the refrigerator, scoop out a large tablespoon onto a saucer, and stick it in the microwave for six seconds -- no more, no less -- so that it is just the right temperature for the princess. The sound of the timer going off sends her into what will be the first of many dizzying twirls of anticipation and joy to come this day known as the “Happy Dance." Dixie is the very definition of joy. I mean exploding with the stuff. This can be hard to take when you’re a natural born curmudgeon like I am, but damned if she isn’t winning me over. Still no coffee and yet, yes, I’m actually smiling.

As a puppy, Dixie was highly influenced by my elderly cat, Chelsea, who in true cat fashion sleeps most of the day. So Dixie eats her breakfast, then back to bed she goes leaving me to drag myself into my office and begin my day’s work. For most of my life I have been known as a cat person and not a dog person. I like cats for the same reason many do not – their complete indifference to what you think of them. They do not suck up. They require little care. Feed me, clean my box and maybe, when and if I’m in the mood, I’ll let you pet me. That’s something I can relate to – yet another possible reason why I’m single. Dogs, on the other hand, are always smiling. It used to just creep me out. Their expectations are way too high. I don’t need something else to make me feel inadequate. But somehow, this tiny creature has completely and totally kicked my ass and I live to do her bidding.

My work day ends promptly at six. I know this not because I have a clock, but because every day, at just that moment, Dixie has decreed it to be so and starts to bring her toys, one-by-one, into my office. First comes the purple bear. She glances up at me with it in her mouth, her big brown eyes telling me it’s time to play now. If I fail to respond, this will go on until her toy basket is empty -- the pink flamingo with one foot chewed off, the little yellow chicken with the broken squeaker, the “Grrrrrona” beer bottle complete with stuffed lime in the top – until finally I shut off the computer and engage in a rousing game of fetch complete with shouts of “Goooooooo get it!” followed by a shrill and rapid “C’mere, c’mere, c’mere, c’mere, c’mere…” She never tires of this. I will collapse before she does.

Dixie also enjoys watching TV, mostly reality shows, “Underdog to Wonderdog” being her favorite. She jumps onto my lap, crawls up my chest to just underneath my chin and settles comfortably onto “the boob shelf”. There is something about loving a little dog that is so visceral, especially when she is sitting right on top of my heart, her breath rising and falling with mine. I cannot begin to describe how calming it is. Okay, not a few glasses of Chardonnay or a couple of Xanax calm, but pretty damn near... And you can still drive if need be.

injaynesworld we like "Just Plain Coffee"

Just plain coffee. Is it really so much to ask? Apparently so. Don’t believe me? Next time you walk into a Starbucks, or clone thereof, try ordering some. Then watch the expression of the Smiley-Face behind the counter turn into spasms of confusion. I’ve reduced a couple of them to tears. It was a personal best.

Actually, it’s kind of fun to mess with them this way. Sort of like days gone by when I would get high and then torment the ants that scurried across the paper towel I had laid out on my kitchen counter for just that purpose. They would all be traveling lock-step in one direction, then BAM! I would give the towel a 180-spin. Instant chaos. This never got old for me. But about the coffee thing…

Last time I walked into one of these places I counted 23 different kinds from places as far off as Kenya, Rwanda, Guatemala – I didn’t even know there were that many countries to begin with. Ah, for the days where you only had to choose between Yuban, “Richness worth a second cup,” Maxwell House, “Good to the very last drop,” and my personal favorite, Folgers, “The best part of wakin’ up, is Folgers in your cup.” Now there’s a jingle. Just try that, Rwanda. See, I don’t really need my coffee to come with a passport. I just need it to motor up my brain. But tell that to a Smiley-Face.

“Our coffee-of-the-day is Sumatra,” he offers a little too enthusiastically and making me wonder how much of the black brew he’s had himself so far that day.

“That’s nice,” I smile, “but I just want plain coffee.”

“We have Verona,” he suggests, grin still in place.

“And I’m sure in Verona that would qualify, but we’re in Burbank. Just plain, old, regular, coffee. Please.”

About here the twitching starts. Smiley-Face’s, not mine. Though the people in line behind me are starting to grimace a little, too, but they may just have to pee.

“Okay. I’ll help you out. Do you at least have something with an American name?” I inquire, nicely, I might add.

“I don’t think coffee is grown in America,” Smiley-Face nervously replies.

And I’m ready for him. “Oh, yeah? You’ve never heard of, oh I don’t know -- Hawaii? As in the-state-of?” my inner 10-year-old fires back. Smiley-Face’s lower lip begins to quiver. I expect him to ask if he can use one of his lifelines. And now I feel bad. Sort of. “Okay. I’ll help you out. Kona? Ring a bell?”

“Oh,” he sighs with relief. “Do you want Kona? Because we don’t have Kona.”

“Then why did you ask if I want it?” I know the answer, of course. It was a rhetorical question, but I can’t resist.

The manager usually approaches about this time, having noticed the line behind me now extending out the door and down the block.

“Is there a problem?” he Smiley-Faces me, too.

And because he’s kind of cute and by this time I really need my morning coffee, I let him talk me into a cup of Colombian, but not until I have his assurance that it is the plainest, more boring, uninspiring crap they sell.

I Smiley-Face him. “Make it a grande.” And toss a couple of bucks into the tip jar.

Cheapest fun I’ve had all day.