Aug 2nd, 2009

Ain’t It Clear That I Just Can’t Fit

Yesterday, I pulled out everything from my studio and piled it around the house. Boxes, baskets, piles. Fabric, quilt tops, unfinished projects by the pound. Roving, Knitting supplies, spinning supplies, quilting supplies. And papers. I spent a few hours culling the paper. Then I went to the Container Store and dumped a grand on shelving/organizing tools. Was up till midnight building the new shelf/basket system. Now the big question: did it help? That remains to be seen. But I am amazed at how much STUFF I was able to cram into my studio. I was also amazed at the amount of dust and dirt a baseball bat, judiciously applied, can loosen and remove from a rug. No wonder our fore-mothers beat them every spring. Holy hell.

On another note: the human spammers who are infecting my comments with drivel and ads for limo services and mailing lists? Go die in a fire. And quickly. Thank you.

To the media: Anesthesia is not a sleep aid. Michael Jackson was not administered a powerful anesthesia to “help him sleep”. That’s like saying someone shoots heroin to “take the edge off”. A junkie is a junkie is a junkie. Looking for a high or a low. MJ just had enough money to pay those with dubious morals to acquire his drugs for him. The doctors, nurses, pharmacists who were complicit should all have their licenses revoked. For that matter, the drug company that sold the Propofol to a doctor and not to a hospital? They are culpable, too, and should be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t give a rat’s patootie about Michael Jackson or his addictions. But the hooha following his death has just gotten me sick. Dude was a high-functioning junkie. Pure and simple. Just like Anna Nicole Smith. And junkies tend to die of ODs. End of story. Sad, but hardly the stuff of Shakespearean tragedy.