I’m On the List

I'm on the NRA Blacklist. I signed up my very own self. I think that being on the blacklist of an organization whose goals I oppose is a good thing. I always wondered if my political beliefs put me on a blacklist during the Nixon years. I'm pretty certain that if John Ashcroft knew my name and ever stumbled across my other blog, the Peaceblog Project, that I'd be on HIS list with a bullet.

If you oppose ending the ban on assault rifles and other stupid ideas that the NRA is bullying the spineless morons in Washington to pass, then you should sign up to be on their list, too.

Here's the link.

NRA BLACKLIST

It's been a busy weekend here at Girlyshoes. On Halloween, we went out to dinner with friends, at a lovely little place that had a special, all-black and orange menu for the night. The stuffed squash blossoms (stuffed with goat cheese and chopped kalamata olives) were particularly delicious. The black risotto, not so. All was made good, however, by the arrival of our creme brulee with a spider web of spun sugar and a champagne flute full of reduction of blueberries. A snifter of brandy, and a seat outside, and the evening was complete.

Saturday we got up at the crack of oh dark thirty and drove downtown to participate in a little (totally voluntary) community service. It was Hands on Miami Day, and we pitched in with a couple thousand other like-minded individuals to clean up and spruce up and just in general make good various projects around Miami. My group had the pleasure of spreading mulch around about 200 trees in a seaside park on the north end of Miami Beach, in the still un-gentrified stretch between the hot forties, and the even hotter eighties.

Yesterday we did Dim Sum with my girlfriend and her daughters to give her a send off as she starts a 6-month commute to Philly. Then home and did all the household stuff we hadn't done on Friday night or Saturday.

And today, I'm back at the old same place, doing the same old same old. But tonight, I'm off to the triple digit street numbers north, to say good bye to another friend who has decided, by virtue of some random survey or another, to move to what the survey said was the hippest place in America: Austin, Texas.

I'd like to know how that survey worked, and who, exactly, took it. But since this particular woman has been channeling Martha Raye for years, and since you can buy cigarettes in Austin, I think she'll be fine.