Flying Naked, the Only Way to Travel

There will not be any traveling by aeroplane for me this holiday season thanks to body searches that rival an annual exam from a physician or a violating scanner that depicts the naked human body to the delight of the hidden man behind a curtain. The future is here and so is x-ray vision, and the ability for flunkies in cush security jobs to look at hot chicks naked.

"The controversial scanner is capable of peering through clothes to create three-dimensional images of passengers to reveal any concealed weapons or explosives. The decision follows 'guidelines proposed by a working group' looking into security measures and the evaluation and confirmation by an independent body that the scanners would have 'no impact on passenger health,' France's civil aviation authority said." NPR posted this quote as part of the "To The Point" discussion on airport security.

The hilarity of the scanner is that it cannot detect items that are hidden under more than 1/10 of an inch of skin, as explained by Kate Hanni, the founder of FlyersRights.org. This means anything hidden under a roll of fat, a breast or perhaps an annal cavity will not be seen by the naked image scanners. Not sure if anyone else sees the fatal flaw in this expensive device.

Hanni countered that screen shots of the naked photos had all ready been found in Florida and there are sure to be more examples of such behavior that will be squashed, at least from the media. Have these security workers been checked for Megan's Law, she furthered, to protect similar treatment to children that are sent through the scanners. Where will the violations stop?

About 315 scanners are currently in use at 65 US airports, according to the TSA, and the machines or body pat-downs are "the best technology we have today" to screen individuals, said John Pistole, administrator of the TSA.

"A few folks are noticing that ex-Homeland Security boss Michael Chertoff, who's been quite busy defending the naked scanners, happens to be making a ton of money from one of the main ones, Rapiscan, made by OSI, a client of Chertoff's consulting firm..." a tidbit of clarifying information from Techdirt.

Not a bad deal for Chertoff considering that its taxpayer money that funds such necessary equipment.

According to Imformationliberation.com these machines may not be so harmless as supporters claim:

"The TSA, of course, will tell you that these machines can't possibly contribute to cancer. But they said the same thing about mammograms, and we now know that mammograms are so harmful to women's health that they actually harm ten women for everyone one woman they help. So I'm not exactly taking the U.S. government at its word that naked body scanner radiation is 'harmless.'"

The intensive security measures are also a publicized reaction by the authorities to several thwarted attacks, including an attempt in December last year by a Nigerian man to detonate explosives hidden in his underwear on a flight that was about to land in Detroit. No one mentions that he merely lit his pants on fire and a passenger, not a security guard, stopped his "attack."

The current measures are stopping effective devices from getting on planes. Let the TSA worry about bomb attempts in luggage, not about the sanitary panty-liner. That's right, genital search because you may be menstruating. How's that for a bad flight experience?

At this point TSA is getting such a bad rap due to its inability to decipher between real threats and the desire to appear unbiased by painstakingly searching all suspicious activity. It's for our safety, not just a mere horse and pony show, honestly.

Anyone can be a terrorist, folks. Anyone. This means grandma in her wool cardigan, tubby guy in his Hawaiian shirt and don't forget Rashid in his turban. Or at least that's what they would love you to believe in a feigned attempt to eliminate blatant racial profiling. Good luck.

Fergie from the Black Eyed Peas was sent through the scanner at LAX and reality TV personality Kim Kardashian aslo had a close encounter. Obviously the Taliban is recruiting the rich and famous of Hollywood in order to blow up planes.

Think about the well-publicized encounter of the 52-year-old woman in a wheelchair, that's right wheelchair, who showed up in a trench coat and her undergarments to avoid an "violating" pat-down. Due to the metal chair her usual experience involves such thorough searches like the one two weeks prior to her revealing incident that led her to show up in her skivvies.

She still endured an hour-long search and missed her flight after refusing to enter the metal detector. I'm sure everyone felt a little safer that day from the woman in a wheelchair. Or perhaps a little more wary of the TSA who will stop at nothing to exert its power to the fullest.

Want to keep your dignity? Travel by train. Want safety? Stay home.

This is hysteria at its finest. The Red Scare that's putting more money in politicians' pockets. If we aren't distracted from immigrants taking our jobs or the fact that bankers are in cahoots with our government, then why not scare us all straight before sailing through the clouds?

So this Peach will not get to go home to see Grandma, even despite her recent heart surgery. Cue the violins. Despite my desire to reconnect during the holidays, I will not subject myself to inflated prices and destroying my dignity in order for some guards to get a kick.

My luck, I would put up a stink at LAX shouting about my rights and the indecency of the whole ordeal, and get stuck in the hot tank. Then get put on a few watch lists.

In the meantime, I am looking for the underwear that displays the 4th Amendment when inside the scanners and lead plated pasties. Nice try TSA goons.

It May Just Be that all my Birthday Flowers are Now Dead

Woke up this morning to the smell of fall. Something crisp and damp with a hint of decay in the air. Hopefully the decay can be attributed to falling leaves and not the bums that live on a mattress behind our house.

The smell is a promise of rebirth and holidays and pumpkins lined up in parking lots, and once those are gone Christmas trees to take their place. It's enough to make anyone go buy fresh notebooks and chew on a turkey drumstick.

Fall is a fleeting tease for a city that just had 95 degree weather a week ago. This is not me complaining. I still have bumpy gourds decorating the kitchen table and melting pumpkins adhering to the front porch steps. So what if I have to hang white lights in palm trees?

FYI It really doesn't matter what state your in, those enormous snow-globe lawn ornaments look tacky no matter what the climate.

Hailing from the Midwest, I will admit a shockingly scarce amount of life-size nativity scenes in Los Angeles last year. Nothing says holidays like offering your two-year-old to play stunt double for magical baby Jesus in the manger. His real hey-day before the Zombie years.

And don't get me started on the lack of fresh apple cider. Almost gave the grocery boy at Whole Foods a stern talking to after hearing no cider until Thanksgiving. Not sure what kind of operation they are running, but apple juice does not count.

How else am I going to drink spiced rum and yell at the neighbor kids for smashing our proudly decayed pumpkins well into November? How I ask?

At Least Data Understands. Probably Connie Chung, too

As a burgeoning reporter you're expected to cover some very random topics. Especially freelance gigs can take you weird places with people that are opinionated about topics most other people don't even know exist.

These reservations and oddities are amplified when covering local issues in Los Angeles, primarily in areas where Cindy Crawford is at the P.T.A. meeting. She is still as lovely as the first time I saw her in a Pepsi commercial, I'll have you know.

Of course I am a complete professional who treats all sources as equals and tries to create a glowing rapport so they will tell me their deepest, darkest secrets and I can publish them for money. Or at least get a great quote.

Although when I saw Data from Star Trek, the talented Brent Spiner, at a Malibu school budget meeting I almost choked on my complimentary Perrier in complete excitement. Crawford would have been pissed if I spit in her hair, albeit a complete accidental reflex, so I kept my nerd meter in check.

Granted most assignments are not sprinkled with star dust. Most require grit and sheer will to not flee from the scene.

Like the time I went to cover a neighborhood coyote meeting to discuss how to coexist with these creatures that keep eating the area teacup yorkies and poodles. C'mon people you move into a canyon, you're going to run into some wilderness. And I bet the poodles are delicious.

When I heard 'neighborhood meeting' I thought I would head to a City Hall, Rec Center or even Library to get educated about why not feed wild animals, specifically when your pets are the main course.

This took place in a house nestled into a mountainside subdivision where no one would hear my screams. The least of which I needed to have at least a few glasses of table wine to stomach being packed into a foyer with agitated canyon folk.

I listened to the tearful rendition of how Noodles the lovable and heroic yorkipoo gave his life to protect sister Petunia from the jaws of a beastly coyote. The woman explained how Noodles was skinned, yes skinned, right before her eyes. Yikes.

In retrospect, coyotes rarely get over 40 pounds and she should have kicked that sucker in the head. Bam! Noodles lives to tell the tale. Teacup dogs are so little hawks regularly scoop them from the heavens. I thought it best to keep this to myself.

Seriously though, the nature conservationists invited to speak said that opening an umbrella towards one of those guys is an effective deterrent for these savage beasts. That, and not leaving out Peanut's special order doggie food or covering your trash.

To say the least this was all very informative. I was even able to awkwardly stumble out after two hours (!) fed and with crackers in my pocket for the ride home.

There are definitely worst gigs in life. At least I don't work as a telemarketer where the answer to my question is always no. Or at a McDonald's.

To check out some of my work visit smmirror.com. It's life changing stuff, that leans towards moderately interesting.

You leave Edward R. Murrow out of this!

It doesn't go as far to say we are rivals.

It may just stem from our differing views on what is acceptable behavior. In an apartment. As neighbors.

Maybe it's my love of late-night musicals or his need to build an arc at four a.m. The ark theory may be replaced by moving furniture or perhaps bowling.

Or my penchant for midday debate podcasts and his incessant need to meditate during Matlock.

Perhaps its the proximity of living quarters that is multi-unit dwellings that makes us so imposed upon by one another?

I understand that some people just can't focus when they hear talking or dishes being washed or breathing in the apartment below them. Who am I to judge?

So to say shit hit the fan is a fair assessment.

My deep appreciation for communal living and the need to coexist with my fellow brethren just reached a brick wall. And my neighbors disgruntled face.

That's right, I punched his face with merciless vernacular.

Sure words were thrown. Mostly feigned polite banter with undertones of "I wish you would go crawl back into the hole you came from," but banter none the less.

Not sure what's threatening about a middle-aged man who claims to have lived in L.A. for 20 years mid-rant. While in his pjs.

Things just got real. I waited for him to flash a Westside gang symbol, but was sorely disappointed.

It might have been interesting to hear some actual name calling, instead of a scolding that is similar to how a mother calms her child during church. Except I'm way to old to be his mom.

But Darryl, if I may call you that since I can't remember your name and past the point of not being awkward to ask again, our love of Edward R. Murrow just isn't enough.

And even though when you yelled at me the first week I moved in and entertained guests... with scrabble... on New Year's Eve, I felt one writer to another may try to cross divides and coexist on a humane level.

But there reaches a point when two people may just have to agree to disagree.

I disagree that you actually own "great" earplugs if a quiet whisper wakes you from your sleep. And yes I bet you agree that its terribly exciting I am moving out. This week. Forever.

Oh and I know it's petty, but I hope a bunch of novice musicians in a jam band move-in to replace us.

Who are heavy smokers and have a delight for urinating outside.

And also steal your New Yorkers.

Huzzah.

Buy Local! Eat Organic! Don't Support Poisonous Food!

I started thinking seriously about my eating habits two years ago. I performed a detox fast that opened my eyes to how everything I consume affects how I feel each and every day.

After purging meat, dairy, alcohol, nicotine, and environmental toxins out of my body I began to reevaluate how the simple foods I eat make me feel. I slept better, woke up regenerated and felt more energy throughout the day.

Instead of focusing on just what is easiest to prepare or quickest meal to have, I started looking at a balanced, healthy way of looking at food.

Most of all I started looking into where my food was coming from.

Through research about how animals area treated in mass producing farms and how antibiotics fed to animals may be the cause for the sweeping immunity people have to antibiotics that help sickness, I realized that the conventional meat packing industry had nothing to offer worth buying.



Yet again we are confronted in the United States with a health recall that leaves hundreds sick and a nation wary. The factory farms Wright County Egg and Hillandale Farms of Iowa are sister companies that distributed the eggs poisoned with salmonella.

More than a half of a billion eggs are recalled.

The Wall Street Journal said in an article today, "cases of salmonella were reported as early as May. In all, more than half a billion eggs from two Iowa producers have been recalled, the most recently on Sunday night when Moark LLC of Fontana, Calif., said it was recalling nearly 300,000 eggs, the Associated Press reported, that came from one of the two Iowa farms."

The jurisdiction to supervise eggs during production and then after distribution may now be shared between the USDA and FDA due to proposed legislation, but this is only after people got sick.

The FDA still does not have authority to recall food if they think there is a problem, they can only act when a company reports health problems with consumers. The FDA doesn't have the power.

Self-regulation from factory farms, that's the frightening part.

The Associated Press released that in 1997, DeCoster Egg Farms agreed to pay $2 million in fines to settle citations for health and safety violations at DeCoster's farm in Maine. The nation's labor secretary at the time, Robert Reich, said conditions were "as dangerous and oppressive as any sweatshop."

Company owner Austin "Jack" DeCoster admitted to 10 civil counts of animal cruelty in Maine after a nonprofit animal welfare group conducted an undercover video investigation, according to a CNN report.

These type of factory farms can be found all over the country.

I was shocked to drive down the 5 freeway for the first time to see cows crammed together, wallowing in their own filth, as far as the eye can see. Literally for miles.

Much of the investigation so far has been centered on restaurants in California, Colorado, Minnesota and North Carolina, WSJ reports, and looking at restaurants in Santa Monica, it's hard not to see that people are staying away.

It's hard not to notice that the community breakfast joint, OP Cafe, has been scarcely as full as it is usually is. More than one customer said today how they were surprised to find a seat around lunch time, let alone be able to walk right up to the register.

Recalled eggs fraught with salmonella have been removed from the shelves, but consumers are still looking at the label. Maybe I should say finally.

It's time to get heated and start buying smarter.


There is no other option than to think about where food is coming from. What we are willing to sacrifice for price and convenience?

Buying local and organic is the only answer to factory farms that breed cruelty and disregard human safety in the pursuit of profit.

It is foolish to think that consumers do not have the loudest effect on the market. Stop buying unsafe food.

Don't think that a few eggs left on the shelf in replacement for a few organic, free-range cartons will make a difference?

Look at your local BP gas station. There is a reason why they are 20-30 cents cheaper than the 76 across the street. Money talks, especially in a recession.

The government no longer protects citizens over big business. After one of the highest grossing campaigns in history in this country, government is big business.

Supporting local farms and visiting farmers markets not only keeps the economy flowing and creates a sense of community, but fair farming practices ensure a healthier body and earth.

I only buy antibiotic free, free-range and organic eggs and meat when I do eat them. The few extra dollars are worth the peace of mind.

Take it from someone who is still waiting on free national Health Care.


Although most eggs have been swiftly removed from shelves, here is a complete list of egg suppliers and brands that have been recalled. Let your local diners and restaurants know you want local and peace of mind.

Let the explosions begin!

This Fourth meant a biking adventure fraught with sun, surf and more adventure than you can shake a stick at. It also meant an 8.4 mile trek along the coast, around a marina and many stops to see the sights along the way.

Strapped with my new Nikon I set off to the farmer's market to get in some practice shots. I also bought a peach for a snack later, which was neither ironic nor practical.

This lovely woman is named Jennifer (Gennifer?), who I obliged in taking a picture of her festive holiday attire. I like the sheer pride in her face.

With the sun in full force I rode down towards the obscenity of the Venice Boardwalk only to find the most magnificent display of human brawn and girth. drum roll...

Ladies and Gentleman may I present the Mr. and Mr. Muscle Beach Pageant.


Linking up with Sister and Nicholas we traveled onward to street festivals filled with girls touting red, white and blue tie-dye bikinis with American flags tucked god knows where. A band played surrounded by a sea of red cups and short-shorts.

In flowing dresses and modest attire we stood out like sore thumbs. I blame Sister's fanny pack.

Scene changes to endless beer pong and cover bands. Jell-o shots and dudes smoking cigarettes. Word of warning: Avoid the lines for the keg and the bathroom. This is where the camera took a hiatus. What happens at the beach party...

Pretty soon the sea of cups turns into a typhoon of people. Mid-throw in a lack luster game of pong, the seas part for Wesley Snipes. A ripple of interest goes through the crowd.

I hear someone behind me, "When did he get out of jail?"

All was quickly forgotten in the same manner that I always walk away after setting food in the oven only to return to a burnt meal.

We lose friends who run off to other minor celebrity sitings and the crowd erupts in a chorus to "Laid" by James. People, we officially have a party. We schmooze, we drink, we leave.

There is a special kind of freedom found on a bicycle with the ocean wind on your face. A special kind of fear riding alongside cars in the traffic caused by a holiday. Exit stage right to a bike path.

Suddenly Sister turns into a decathlete cruising a top speed away from Nicholas and me. We attempt to talk, but mostly gasp out words trying to keep up. This is getting serious.

I'm on a fixed gear bike. This would be really beautiful if I could only catch my breath. This is when I remember my water bottle abandoned at the party.

I depart from the comfort of family to embark on what feels like Act II of a loaded day. This main character must travel this part of the journey alone. At least until I meet the other supporting cast.

Sun, surf, bridges built for bikes, the ocean sprawling out to the horizon.


Rendezvous with friends from across the channel. It was the type of party where you walk in and immediately feel like everyone is in on the joke except for you.

Then commenced my being shuttled around, back on to the bike to bit of my dismay, and quickly diverted through the beach festivities. Like a jailer on leave I was allowed short stops to speak to others with guided supervision. Not sure who was being protected from whom.

At that point of the day, everyone is dangerously drunk. As a good friend once said, "Here hold my drink, I'm going to set this off..."

People still scattered the sand throwing footballs and gravitating towards barbeques. The foam-house and slip-and-slide were thankfully long forgotten.

We wandered back towards food options, the kabobs deemed inappropriate.

Bellies full and the sun set deep beyond the horizon, we traipsed in the direction of the Pacific beers weighing down the boy's pockets. Nothing says American Independence like Chinese fireworks.

Red, gold, Aviva singing the National Anthem, glitter failing from the heavens, holding hands, parents clutching wide-eyed children.



This is about the time where words got a little looser and little ones started to drift off to sleep. Not sure if waking up without an hangover is a good or bad sign.

Happy Birthday 'Merica!!

So I think it's time to start riding bikes and hugging trees

It's tempting to believe that the Gulf spill, like so many disasters inherited by Obama, was the fault of the Texas oilman who preceded him in office. But, though George W. Bush paved the way for the catastrophe, it was Obama who gave BP the green light to drill. "Bush owns eight years of the mess," says Rep. Darrell Issa, a Republican from California. "But after more than a year on the job, ( Interior Secretary Ken) Salazar owns it too."

President Obama in Port Fourchon, Louisiana, May 28, 2010.

McNamee/Getty

By Tim Dickinson

Jun 08, 2010 4:30 PM EDT

This article originally appeared in RS 1107 from June 24, 2010.

On May 27th, more than a month into the worst environmental disaster in U.S. history, Barack Obama strode to the podium in the East Room of the White House. For weeks, the administration had been insisting that BP alone was to blame for the catastrophic oil spill in the Gulf – and the ongoing failure to stop the massive leak. "They have the technical expertise to plug the hole," White House spokesman Robert Gibbs had said only six days earlier. "It is their responsibility." The president, Gibbs added, lacked the authority to play anything more than a supervisory role – a curious line of argument from an administration that has reserved the right to assassinate American citizens abroad and has nationalized much of the auto industry. "If BP is not accomplishing the task, can you just federalize it?" a reporter asked. "No," Gibbs replied.

Now, however, the president was suddenly standing up to take command of the cleanup effort. "In case you were wondering who's responsible," Obama told the nation, "I take responsibility." Sounding chastened, he acknowledged that his administration had failed to adequately reform the Minerals Management Service, the scandal-ridden federal agency that for years had essentially allowed the oil industry to self-regulate. "There wasn't sufficient urgency," the president said. "Absolutely I take responsibility for that." He also admitted that he had been too credulous of the oil giants: "I was wrong in my belief that the oil companies had their act together when it came to worst-case scenarios." He unveiled a presidential commission to investigate the disaster, discussed the resignation of the head of MMS, and extended a moratorium on new deepwater drilling. "The buck," he reiterated the next day on the sullied Louisiana coastline, "stops with me."

What didn't stop was the gusher. Hours before the president's press conference, an ominous plume of oil six miles wide and 22 miles long was discovered snaking its way toward Mobile Bay from BP's wellhead next to the wreckage of its Deepwater Horizon rig. Admiral Thad Allen, the U.S. commander overseeing the cleanup, framed the spill explicitly as an invasion: "The enemy is coming ashore," he said. Louisiana beaches were assaulted by blobs of oil that began to seep beneath the sand; acres of marshland at the "Bird's Foot," where the Mississippi meets the Gulf, were befouled by shit-brown crude – a death sentence for wetlands that serve as the cradle for much of the region's vital marine life. By the time Obama spoke, it was increasingly evident that this was not merely an ecological disaster. It was the most devastating assault on American soil since 9/11.

Like the attacks by Al Qaeda, the disaster in the Gulf was preceded by ample warnings – yet the administration had ignored them. Instead of cracking down on MMS, as he had vowed to do even before taking office, Obama left in place many of the top officials who oversaw the agency's culture of corruption. He permitted it to rubber-stamp dangerous drilling operations by BP – a firm with the worst safety record of any oil company – with virtually no environmental safeguards, using industry-friendly regulations drafted during the Bush years. He calibrated his response to the Gulf spill based on flawed and misleading estimates from BP – and then deployed his top aides to lowball the flow rate at a laughable 5,000 barrels a day, long after the best science made clear this catastrophe would eclipse the Exxon Valdez.

...

Except that it didn't. Salazar did little to tamp down on the lawlessness at MMS, beyond referring a few employees for criminal prosecution and ending a Bush-era program that allowed oil companies to make their "royalty" payments – the amount they owe taxpayers for extracting a scarce public resource – not in cash but in crude. And instead of putting the brakes on new offshore drilling, Salazar immediately throttled it up to record levels. Even though he had scrapped the Bush plan, Salazar put 53 million offshore acres up for lease in the Gulf in his first year alone – an all-time high. The aggressive leasing came as no surprise, given Salazar's track record. "This guy has a long, long history of promoting offshore oil drilling – that's his thing," says Kierán Suckling, executive director of the Center for Biological Diversity. "He's got a highly specific soft spot for offshore oil drilling." As a senator, Salazar not only steered passage of the Gulf of Mexico Energy Security Act, which opened 8 million acres in the Gulf to drilling, he even criticized President Bush for not forcing oil companies to develop existing leases faster.

For the entire article visit Rolling Stone:
The Spill, The Scandal and the President | Rolling Stone Politics

True love located on isle four, next to a bitter pill and the sad lobsters kept in a tank

I was going to write a new post, but then I realized that I could sit and redesign the look of the website instead. Which involves a lot more of hitting buttons and looking at pictures and a lot less of actual writing. Score.

Then it dawned on me that this is how I'm spending my Friday night. Sitting comparing word fonts and looking at Youtube videos of Seattle Police beating women. (It's ok she's urban, so it doesn't count. Throw bows at a granola eating, Land Rover driving WASP and we might have an issue here.)

What better way to spice things up than new I'm writer so a books theme makes me look classy. If only I could focus long enough to write one.

I then find myself reading a magazine left on the coffee table before I remember that I was looking for my keys, so I could go to the store, and buy food, so I can write my blog.

I totally forgot to go to Trader Joe's earlier since I also forgot I only have old tofu and leftover cookies to eat. I need sustenance before anything Nobel Prize winning sputters out.

Yum, mac and cheese cravings.

I'm still a bit glammed up in heels and some glitter from a friend's birthday dinner earlier, which makes me feel a bit out of place at the grocery store next to a soccer dad in a velour jumpsuit and all the underage kids buying booze.

I grab sale Velveeta and shells and two cans of tuna. Not the weirdest thing one can buy at the store, insert offensive pregnancy joke, and at least it was albacore.

I click my way to the least overcrowded line and stand next to this obscenely in shape couple. I set my purchases on the conveyor and Mr. Arms starts looking at my goods from the corner of his eye. Both of the conveyor and glittery sort.

"You're so funny," Miss America says with a laugh.

Ok, awkward. Not only did she catch muscles staring but she's probably like, sure, check out the girl who eats fake cheese from a box and has to go home to feed her cats.

Which I totally don't have cats anymore and the box said the cheese is made with 2% milk. Not sure if that makes it any better, but suck it.

They are buying an energy drink and cigarettes with a side of gum. Probably will vomit it up later anyway.

At least it's not as bad as the guy who comments that you're buying a bottle of Pepto like it's a special club between the two of you. Pointing out the pink bottle for the world to see. Yeah, I know what that for. Trust me, we've all been there.

In this scenario, I'm all worried that I won't make it home in time stuck in my own personal hell and totally giving a stranger death stares for daring to point out any indigestion issues one may be having in my household.

Right on intrusive stranger, my roommate sure is having a rough night. Whew, wouldn't want to be her. *Cough*

It should be illegal to comment on grocery items, period.

So I'm pretending to be uber-interested in the Women's Day magazine cover and not listen to any snickers or feel laser eyes on me.

"Oh, you're going to buy my energy drink? Wow," Mr. Arms throws his head my way. "I got the best roommate."

I don't care if you call her grandma, bud. This isn't Trader Joe's, aka the real life Match.com.

I only want to get home so eat my delicious noodles and wallow in my own shame.

Which were delicious, a thank you.

This is just me bleeding profusely. No worries, your food will be right up

"You okay?"

All my co-workers in the kitchen stare at me. I can feel my face getting pale while I try to feign a smile.

"Yeah Yeah, just um, cut myself. Do we have band-aids?"

"Oh really? Let me see. Sylvia, go grab some band-aids."

"Lemme see... Oh wow! Okay hold on."

I just laugh pathetically and run the gushing finger under water. "No worries, it just won't stop bleeding."

Sylvia runs off to find first aid and the cook comes around the grill to examine the damage.

This is what hell must be like, stuck in a hot room while slowly bleeding waiting for aid. Or perhaps I am thinking of the emergency room.

This is my own fault. I had thought what a bad idea it was mid-division to wield a large serrated knife to cut a moist English muffin. It crumbled, my finger got slashed. Maird.

The life in a kitchen is wrought with dangers.

"You see this? See this?" the cook holds up a mangled finger. "Almost cut the tip of my finger right off."

"Ew, well mine doesn't hurt it just won't stop bleeding. That's all."

I start to have one of those odd out of body experiences where I wonder how did my life get reduced to this. The tip of my finger is irrevocably maimed forever and if the cook is any indicator will also induce the need to vomit in others for years to come. But all I can wonder is if I was suppose to deliver ketchup to one of my tables.
"Hey Domingo! Can you take out this food? This food right here," I holler at the busy bus boy. "I'm just kinda dealing with something right now." I check the bread for signs of blood. Muffin preserved. "Here take this out, too."

Domingo looks at the paper towel that is quickly turning red. "What happened? Let me see."

I look beyond the double doors that shields customers from the reality of a restaurant kitchen to faces of anticipation in the dining room. I am the only server on the floor. Domingo the bus guy will have to take one for the team.

This is what my life has come to. I'm going to be left here to bleed to death, while starving customers attempt to eat me for lunch.

"Stick in coffee." The cook just looks at me in interest and says, "Domingo, grab her some coffee grounds. It will make the bleeding stop."

News to me.

Sylvia comes running in the room with two of the smallest band-aids I've ever in my life.

"Sweetie, are you serious?"

The poor thing just looks at my finger that would probably benefit more from stitches than an aid that would better serve a human the size of barbie.

So here I am sticking my finger in coffee grounds, while I image the look of the customers faces as I place their delectable platter down with a oozing finger that is covered in roughage.

And I need enough tips to be able to go to a music festival. This is getting serious.

"Look at this cut." Now Sylvia is in on the trick. I look at a large mark across her forearm that looks more like a burn from what I can only imagine came from a slick kitchen blade.

She merely shakes her head to show how brave she is and how accepting she is of her daily trials.

"Don't we have any bigger band-aids? Perhaps some gauze?"

She straps two of the aids fit for baby on my finger, both of us praying for a miracle that I won't leak all over a table somewhere.

Domingo enters from stage left, "You have some people that want to order."

Of course I do.

'They're in a hurry."

Of course they are.

I try to hide my hand as I run out to the counter. Their first words to me are, "I'm in a hurry."

Aren't we all, bud. Aren't we all.

Manager John creeps up from out of nowhere. He looks preoccupied. I privy him for a more sufficient form of first aid.

"Hold on," he says.

The couple stare at me, "How long of a wait do you think it'll be?"

Johan returns with a rubber sanitary glove and chops off one of the fingers.

"Here put this on."

I slip on my finger condom and stare at the ingenuity.

"Thanks," I say and stare at the pale gloved finger. It works.

I may be able to afford a music festival filled with drug-addled hippies after all. Go summer!

I continue the rest of my day imagining I'm Margot Tenenabaum sporting a fake appendage. This might be a look I could get used to.

The cook made me feel better pancakes. Sometimes getting hurt is the best!

The Pleasant Peninsula Yawns Hello

So you graduate college after years of aneurism inducing papers, all night cram sessions and out performing the chump sitting next to you.

Then lucky you.

Obama is going to be the speaker at your graduation. The most powerful man in the "free world." The man preaching hope, change and the increase of off-shore oil drilling.

And yet, your this guy with the bobble head. Or this chick with the google eyes. This is the future of America.

Let's hope they just forgot their Red Bull and game faces that day.

Remember kids, that box he's speaking into is called a camera. That guy with the big ears in front of you is giving a speech. Time to pay attention.

As a Kalamazoo alum, although from a slightly less prestigious academy, I feel little miffed that these kids can't get their act together. Good luck finding a job. This economy isn't exactly a sleeper.

I at least learned how to fake pay attention. Let's be real, I went to college.

BBQ at my place. I'll provide the sacrificial goat.

Ok sun gods, let's make a deal. I moved to Southern California for sandy beaches, a general lack of snow and a killer tan.

Two out of three isn't bad, but I am shocked at the lack of sunshine in the golden state.

I leave the pleasant peninsulas with the gas on the pedal and one finger out the window only to get a persistant marine layer. Translation: gloomy skies and cold winds.

Starting to wonder if there isn't some curse of the goat in the Peach family. Some great-great-grandfather probably screwed someone out of a killer parcel of land or one hot house maid and now I get to deal with wind chill.

Maybe some Peach cut done a bunch of trees and a quiet but powerful shaman decided to teach that unassuming chap a lesson.

I mean I did knock over a small palm tree once. But it was a total accident involving a lot of alcohol and some poorly placed landscaping.

We do this wherever we go, but it's normally only vacation. And it's normally Florida.

Torrential rains after three month of drought. Fires plaguing the countryside causing the sky to turn black as night.

Or my favorite, record breaking temperatures causing sister to vomit in the Disney World topiaries. She got wheeled out in a fervor of employees dreading a lawsuit.

So I get to Los Angeles only to find that the tales spun of sunlight for eons and bathing beauties as far as the eye can see is disappointingly overcast.

Must be the same feeling of tourists that come to glitzy Hollywood and only see all the tranny hookers around the Manns Chinese Theater. Or end up in the Valley with all the porn stars and airports.

I hear Michigan summer is going to be one of the hottest in recent memory. I don't miss streams of sweat bursting from every pore or walking through a blanket of humidity. It's just not for me.

Yet if I hear that these gloomy Santa Monica skies or chilling wind that is making even my toes grow hair is just so "unseasonable" one more time, I'm moving back to the Lake Effect mitten.

I'll See You in the Funny Papers

For those you of you who have not heard, my title as a reporter has gained even more legitimacy now that I am a staff writer for the Santa Monica Mirror.

Please hold the applause until the end.

I am very pleased to say that I am covering the local news, leaving no rock unturned in order to bring Westside residents the latest of pertinent information. Translation: I am covering a lot of school board meetings, store openings and the occasional rally in the streets. Every journalist starts somewhere.

The news staff consists mainly of a few freelancers, me and our fearless leader/ editor extraordinaire. I even have my own desk and special notebook. I know, I know it’s pretty legit.

Although this is not a brand new development, I am starting to meld comfortably into the office dynamics. Not to say that I am going to let my brilliance slag in any way shape or form at this juncture. I actually could get used to this.

The Mirror has welcomed me to the team, which has been an much easier transition since the publisher and editor are almost as young as I am. We look like a bunch of high school kids that tried to make a run for the grown-ups table. I even own a rad trench coat that could double for a secret agent gig.

I am still working on my luncheon skills. Memo to me, don’t try to order anything that can get stuck in my teeth or requires a lot of carving. Also pay the meter over what you think you will need. It’s just bad form to start excessively sweating due to a panic attack over a parking ticket.

Hold the raised eyebrows, The Mirror has one of top visited news Websites on this side of the 405.

This is how half of my time is spent, on the phone

Check it out to see yours truly each week and keep an eye for the revamped version of the site in July www.smmirror.com (Sometimes Firefox can’t open the site so try Safari or Internet Explorer).

This is Katherine Peach saying good luck and good night.

Why Are American Doctors Mutilating Girls?

In this age it is shocking that such mind blowing inequalities would not only be tolerated, but promoted by an organization such as the American Academy of Pediatrics. This is a practice that serves no medical purpose, is mentally as well as physically damaging, and is illegal in the United States. The article posted at The Daily Beast is as follows:

A new proposal by the American Academy of Pediatrics would have doctors assisting families in the ritual of female circumcision, but activist and Nomad author Ayaan Hirsi Ali says they’d just be complicit in perpetuating a grave injustice.

The American Academy of Pediatrics recently put forward a proposal on female genital mutilation. They would like that American doctors be given permission to perform a ceremonial pinprick or “nick” on girls born into communities that practice female genital mutilation.

Female circumcision is a custom in many African and Asian countries whereby the genitals of a girl child are cut. There are roughly four procedures. First there is the ritual pinprick. This is what Pediatrics refers to as the “nick” option. To give you an idea of what that means, visualize a preteen girl held down by adults. Her clitoris is tweaked so that the circumcizer can hold it between her forefinger and her thumb. Then she takes a needle and pierces it using enough force for it to go into the peak of the clitoris. As soon as it bleeds, the parents and others attending the ceremony cheer, the girl is comforted and the celebrations follow.

The majority of girls are subjected to FGM to ensure their virginity and to curb their libido to guarantee sexual fidelity after marriage. Think of it as a genital burqa, designed to control female sexuality.

There is a more sinister meaning to the word “nick” if you consider the fact that in some cases it means to cut off the peak of the clitoris. Proponents compare “nicking” to the ritual of boy circumcision. But in the case of the boys, it is the foreskin that is all or partly removed and not a part of the penis head. In the case of the girls, the clitoris is actually mutilated.

Then there is the second method whereby a substantial part of the clitoris is removed and the opening of the vagina is sewn together (infibulation). The third variation adds to this the removal of the inner labia.

Nomad : From Islam to America, A Personal Journey Through the Clash of Civilizations. By Ayaan Hirsi Ali. 277 pages. Free Press. $27.Finally, there is a procedure whereby as much of the clitoris as possible is removed along with the inner and outer labia. Then the inner walls of the vagina are scraped until they bleed and are then bound with pins or thorns. The tissue on either side grows together, forming a thick scar. Two small openings roughly equal to the diameter of a matchstick are left for urination and menstruation respectively.

Often these operations are done without anesthesia and with tools such as sharp rocks, razor blades, knives or scissors depending on the location, family income, and education. It is thus more accurate—as does the World Health Organization—to speak of female genital mutilation (FGM) instead of the obscure and positive-sounding “circumcision.”

According to the American Congress of Obstetricians and Gynecologists, more than 130 million women and girls worldwide have undergone some form of female genital cutting. Some immigrant parents from countries like Egypt, Sudan, Somalia, and others in Europe and the United States, where FGM is common, continue this practice in the West even though they know that it is criminal. Some of them sneak their daughters out of the country during the long school summer vacation so that they can be subjected to any one of these forms of FGM.

Congressman Joseph Crowley (D-NY) recently introduced a bill to toughen federal laws by making it a crime to take a girl overseas to be circumcised. He argued, rightly, that FGM serves no medical purpose and is rightfully banned in the U.S.

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Resources don't grow on trees, people

So far Los Angeles has taught me about patience.

Patience to create a cove of friends, a real flock if you will, not a dreaded "network."

Patience to find genuine people to go out on the town, or the really specials one to spend the night in.

To wait for the winning pitch even if that means sitting until midnight, although it may never come at all.

Patience to wait for the bands that really matter, trusting good luck and fair judgment to find the right unknown legend to spend a night with.

Patience to scramble across town in hopes that you will be able to get in.

To sit on the 405 and wait for traffic to start moving.

To find the person who will get your name on the guest list in advance.

Patience to fight through security checkpoints, and wait for checked luggage. Even when said security drops panties on the floor in public (true story).

Patience to wait for the position of recognition that all career-oriented people strive for.

To break the devastating stories, whether good or bad, and speak with people who make a difference that I can believe in.

To write for a liberal magazine about artists and politics and sustainability in the garden...so I'm not picky on that part.

Patience to sit inside on a warm day with full sun and write that novel that is itching your fingertips.

Patience to trust your instincts when others say your wrong.

To know when you must, because you are right.

But mostly L.A. has taught me appreciate the people that don't care about a status or a faux paux or an accidental step backward on the corporate ladder.

It taught me to love fresh water and fresh air.

To not let the prickling in my toes turn in to anxieties about my future, or my rent, or the one who got away. Or even the what-ifs and the somedays.

If I am ever going to be the stringent editor scrutinizing the latest legislation on mandated sustainability requirements, while my breath-taking significant other waits with dinner at home, I must be patient.

Patience is just one of the many dwindling resource these days, so better not squander.

Namaste to the holiday

This Easter holiday many people are spending time with family, dying egg shells and various body parts delightful pastels or just running outside of their homes in the shock of an earthquake (at least anyone from Baja California to Sacramento).

I decided to finally exercise my physical and spiritual self by going to a much overdue yoga class. In all reality, I had forgotten that it was bunny day and was overjoyed to see that my class wasn't canceled.

I was a bit nervous after missing class for months due to poor excuses and staying much too comfy in bed well past the waking hour. Muscles begin to atrophy and will power gets soft if not exercised. My usual Sunday activity is more similar to the picture below.

Mostly, I hate being that person who can't just balance on one foot with their heel tucked neatly above the kneecap like some sort of heron. I find it disrupts everyone’s focus when I can’t stop swearing under my breath as I flail wildly. (Similar to the picture below, but without the scenery)

I had determined that this wasn’t going to be one of those sessions. Instead it turned out to be much more uncomfortable in a variety of ways.

It’s advantageous to show up early for most things, but not when you have to take the initiative to be the first mat on the floor. Often that's the person that has to be told their facing the wrong wall.

It’s also courteous to go to the front of the room, but that always means the entire room watches your feeble attempts of downward-facing dog.

I chose to hover near the cubbies where I sipped water, wishing that I would have brought my phone to at least pretend like I had pressing engagements to deal with. Instead I channeled the look of an awkward turtle.

I had already run out of stretches and people started looking at me funny for watching each new person walk in so intently. I settled on my mat, so not to draw attention. I got stuck in the front row.

There is that feeling that rests on the back of my neck when my back is to the door at a given establishment, especially bars. Not sure if I'm keeping an eye out for axe-wielding psychopaths or practicing for my future job as a bouncer.

The instructor showed up late.

I immediately worked out the aches and pains that had been plaguing me for weeks. My legs and arms shook like a jackhammer, but with every deep breath I felt more victorious.

Andreas led us through 20 minutes of meditation inviting everyone to focus on the gratitude for all of the people in our lives. I tried to stop thinking about the coat on sale that I would be going to purchase after class. It was a killer deal though.

Some guy started snoring loudly in the middle of the room affirming that my meditations weren’t all that bad. At least I was still conscious.

Take that girl who did handstands when I can't even make my hands touch behind my back.

Andreas played a small organ that produced sound with accordion-like folds on the back. Chanting together in the warm room and hearing the words echo off the floorboards reminded me of hymns in church.

Closest thing to a spiritual service I had attended in a while. I thanked Andreas wholeheartedly after class for such an enlightening session on Easter.

I then realized I had forgotten to bring any cash to put in the donation box. My swift exit was the most agile move I made all day.

I don't think my internal clock adjusted for daylight savings time

Children have always scared my very nature.

I've always had this irrational fear of small things, such as bugs or midgets in costume.

I have the attention span of a six-year-old, so one might think we would jive better.

I work at a cafe down the hall from a dance school and children are crawling all over the café on any given day.

Recently when a three-year-old walks in wearing a tu-tu and a pink bow, my womb practically quivers.

I hear a tiny little voice or little hands pointing and I melt. I will wave hello to smiling children and brim with joy when they wave back.

I neither encourage nor rationalize such behavior.

The sudden affection for these tiny people may stem from my state of peak physical health.

I finally quit smoking, eating meat and drinking like a I should attend meetings where I introduce myself with a, "Hi, my name is..." At least, for the most part.

My womb must have caught on.

Of course the body doesn't factor in my bleak financial state or lack of life partner.

Not to mention that I inherited my father's slender, not-for-birthing hips.

And I consistently forget not to refer to children as "it."

And I love to make up absurd lies to kids for my own amusement.

Like when my friend's little sister asked about my navel ring, I told her a stranger attacked and stabbed me through the belly button. So I decided to put a ring there.

Man, her eyes bugged out of her head when I made a hooking motion.

Or that I can't keep a plant alive. Even my cactus.

Or how my last two pets, I put to sleep. For peeing on the bed and wanting to move across country, respectively.

Still, I just want to hug these unbalanced little toddlers for emitting a proud hello when I walk by.

I do fear being near new babies. I might accidently poke the soft spot of their skull and take away their ability to read. I can't even hold my phone without dropping it.

My mother loved to scare her daughters the fact that we come from a long line of procreators. The idea of being stupidly fertile sure kept my sixteen-year-old self home on a Friday night.

If I ever do get pregnant,

I would lose my mind trying to make my baby better than all the other babies. That's a lot of pressure for someone who just discovered their toes.

This competitive nature also runs in the family. Mom had to ban the "love taps" game. In retribution for the taps, we began to pummel one another. Dad included.

I snap back to reality when I watch a child turn blue as they scream over the delicious cookies the cafe has to offer.

Or an exasperated mom eat her first crouton after 45 minutes of wrangling her squirming child into a seat.

Seeing the tear-stained faces, I remember what kids mean.

The complete inability of privacy for eighteen years.

I think it's enough for now to just work on the plant thing.

Maybe I should just invest in a Moped and call it a day

I always thought that it was the mechanics that you really had to worry about. Turns out Saturn made a recall the timing chain on a SELECT few 2001 L100 2.2L 4-cylinder vehicles in 2008.

Guess who has that exact car from 2001 and a broken timing chain? Now guess who’s VIN number does not apply to the recall?

Only about 20,000 cars were recalled on that one specific make and model, while countless reports of timing chains breaking from all L-series cars have flooded the internet for years (this guy really took this seriously http://dontbuysaturn.blogspot.com/). Some breaks caused the car to shut-off at highway speeds or in the middle of intersections.

Don’t worry Saturn stopped production on L-series cars years ago and now GMC shut down the company due to its poor ability to make money or reliable cars.

So I may be late on the joke, as I’m sure some of you just shake you head while your Prius accelerates to uncontrollable speeds on the freeway. My stomach churns as Toyota laughs all the way to the bank.

My two-door Saturn with the extra junk in the trunk has stopped working. As in it just wouldn’t start after I got out of work this past week. Bummer.

A knight in shining armor allows me to use an AAA tow to get it to the most reliable sounding garage within seven-miles. Totally investing in AAA from now on. That is of course if I can ever afford to fix/buy a new car.

Little Saturn gets towed to Santa Monica Brake, which I am pleased to hear is approved by mechanic friends and friends of friends alike. Yelp.com really is worth its weight in gold.

Glad to also hear SMB will work on my domestic car since none of the garages in this city bother to work on anything other than foreign cars, specifically shiny BMWs. Damn Los Angeles yuppies.

George looks over my engine and listens intently as he revs the engine. I try to control the sweats that have taken over my body.

“So it’s not your starter.”

“You sure?”

“Yup. It’s the timing chain.”

“Oh, ok.”

“Must worse.”

Well, maird.

“This car is done for.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh yeah, I bet you could get a great deal on a Toyota right about now though.”

He chuckles. I hold back vomit. The sweats are now brought on with fervor.

George continues to explain that the engine will stop when the timing chain breaks. After 150,00 that’s not too bad compared to belts that need to be replaced often in other cars. Unfortunately, without a working engine means no compression to check what else may have been damaged.

Translation: I may spend over a grand to find out the engine is shot. Game over.

This is on a car with the passenger-side mirror duct taped to the car and zip ties holding the bumper on. I can see why he would say the car is donezo.

George calls me the next day to inform me that there is a god. The timing chain on 2001 Saturn L100 vehicles were recalled and it can get fixed for free. I just need to call the 800 number for Saturn and go from there.

After multiple calls to the helpline and GMC dealers left to deal with Saturn’s messes, I am told my car does not apply to the recall. My specific VIN missed the recall by a few hundred numbers.

When I tell George the news, he curses at the swindling assholes for cowardice.

So instead of getting the guy fixed for the problem that it was discontinued for, I get to foot the bill and hope that a bunch of other stuff didn’t get messed up in the process.

This is what I get for living in a city of sprawl. I had to pick sun over reliable public transportation. Chicago is giving me a big ‘ole I told you so.

At least I feel like I have a mechanic on my side. Really didn’t see that one coming. All I can say about Saturn/GMC is karma is a saucy mistress.

Three cheers for high-speed rails! Anybody with me? Anybody?