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!