Two moments struck a bit of fear tingling in my spine, as I watched tonights Academy Awards.

The first — I swear to fucking god, I heard a Clash song hawking the latest Cadillac SUV. I got over Iggy Pop and Caddy commercials, if only because Iggy’s still alive. And, I’m sure he appreciates the joke inherent of punk rock and Cadillacs juxtaposed.

But The CLASH, man oh man. Joe Strummer is somewhere moaning away in a the peat of his grave and rolling.

The second moment of fear and dread was Melissa Ethridge accepting her Oscar. Rock on Melissa and congrats and all. But, honey, when you start saying that you were working with love and all sorts of nonpartisan goodwill and all, no red, no blue with Al Gore, I just don’t want to see the backlash.

That’s just the kind of soundbite that’s going to keep Bill O’Reilly and Sean Hannity erect for weeks. And, I knows you don’t want to be responsible for the woody of angry right wingers. Think about your wife and children.

Or is it writing bearly? I am wearing my pants, afterall. It’s chilly.

First point of order, I’m keeping the shit title below as a living memorial to my own idiocy. Pretty sure it’s only with a Boston accent and my retarded brain that “traitor” and “trader” are interchangeable.

Now that the move is over, and we are settling in, I’m getting antsy. Either I sit my lazy fucking ass down and write the best fucking book that I am capable of writing. (Which translates to something slightly more interesting than grocery list and somewhat more coherent than the letters from Zodiac.)

Or, I gotta start performing again. Honestly don’t miss the sitting around listening to shit comics while nursing a lite beer. Life is short.

The worst part of moving so far is the spotlight on an essential incompatibility in the household. M. does not share my vision that the best reason to live in the village center is to be able to drink more. Wine, more wine and a pleasant stroll down the boulevard, I say.

Tomorrow, on said boulevard, I might have to whip out the camera capturing photographic evidence of something I’m thinking is behind maybe alien sightings in rarity. The town to which we done move is bizarrely wealthy and comfortable. People don’t lock their bikes. There appear to be three, polite, comfortably dressed homeless guys who move around different corners in a mysterious orbit of motion. A co-worker calls it Stepford.

In this town, telephone poles and open walls might have handmade signs, as everywhere else. I saw a cute drawing by a kid looking to walk dogs in the mornings and afternoons for money.

On a wall we passed, my eye caught a sign for used transportation in gem mint ten condition, $15,000 or best offer. A fine looking horsey, apparently perfect for dressage and other rich girl pasttimes.

Listened to the radio this morning, and heard a chick from EMILY’s List. Came home and heard the news about Maureen Dowd’s thang with David Geffen, loving Barak and hating on Hillary.

It is amazing that in basically what amounts to my adult life, thus far, with EMILY’s cranking up the year I graduated college, broads are actually not just allowed to vote. We gets to actually hold political jobs. Sisters doing it, don’t you know?

Cool, right? But I was listening to the babe on the radio talking about Hillary and women folks and politics and how much fucking money EMILY now has, and my feminist side started to fade into my cynical side. At the end of the day, it’s still politics as usual, ovaries and tits or no. It’s a victory to be sure. But, I ain’t so sure Hillary is going to be leading an estrogen army into the promised land.

I want to believe. I want to think think a woman can go all the way. Hell, I wouldn’t have imagined Pelosi in a position of authority, yet she’s gavel banging right now.

Hillary worries me, though. I might vote for her. My entire democratic, demographic slice of the pie chart might vote for her. But can she win?

If she can’t, and the trashing of each other, the blood sport begins 20 months out from the final dance, the left has learned absofuckinglutely nothing from FOX TV and Ralph Nader. We will eat our own.

Meanwhile the latest dickwad conservative, reincarnation of fathead Rush Limbaugh, yucking it up on CNN will be remixing video of Senator Rodham Clinton’s pant suits for months on end. ‘Cause, you know, subtext is any dame looking for power is some kind of dykish valkyrie with a bad tailor. No chance the election won’t lead to all sorts of feminist backlash hijinks humor from various and sundry angry pundits. Come on ladies, it’s a joke, keep your panties on and get a sense of humor.

I don’t want to hate on Hillary. I would be a voting fool, I think, if I lived in New York, voting up a storm for the senior senator. I’m currently living in the only state, maybe, with two whole Senators who are penis deficient. I love the ladies. Damn, I believe(d) in the ERA.

I’m afraid, though. I’m afraid that Women is Losers.

Since moving is all about a new point of view, I dropped a couple of bucks on an early birthday present. Damn I love me. But, I only love myself to a bargain-priced used lens. Ego, self-love, tempered with cheap.

Still messing about and checking it’s abilities, but here’s a lame new gallery.

I almost like this picture, but there’s an obstruction I missed while framing.

And, as always, I seek the ultimate bird of prey pic.

In a pathetic attempt to keep writing, I have this entry which is about a half a click above nothing.

First, I woke up angry at VH1. They need a check on the definition of “one-hit wonder.” I don’t think if you actually had an entire career of albums and folks recognize you as having done something contributory to the world of rock and roll, you should be on that list. The Tom Tom Club, Suzy Quattro and Devo, what the fuck?

I’ll let you have the Weather Girls and Terry Jacks, but not “Whip It.” (By the way, didn’t know the chicks with the capable lungs of the Weather Girls fell off the map because of the rise of video and their appearance but continued to voice albums that other folks lip-synced on the TV. That sucks.

Second, apologies to those desparately flailing away at chipping through the ice in New England. Yesterday, it was a top-down in the convertible, ain’t it nice to be in shorts day here near the Bay.

Finally, M. has masterminded a home-decorating idea that I am meant to carry out. We bought a couple of yards’ wide swath of muslin, upon which I’m going to create a photo montage with our printer and some iron on action. Then, we’ll stretch the cloth over wooden canvas stretchers and have us a home-made wall hanging deluxe.

Loosely, the theme is the west, and I’m sorting through the pics that might make the cut. Here’s a gallery here of some contenders. The exercise reminds me that I have a few shots that I like in my photo logs.

It’s a crying shame and a ball of pain and a universe of hurt when your body starts breaking down. Biking less than three miles to work this morning shouldn’t feel this bad.

Here’s my offering to the world out there.

Meanwhile, at some deep rooted place, I am a bit sentimental. I’m sitting here balling my eyes out to Pay It Forward.

I can’t realize decide what is more pathetic — A woman who pretends she has a boyfriend or one who savors pretending she doesn’t.

M.’s job has a big old annual rah rah event right about the same time every year. This week. A bit less than a month ago the powers that be let him know he should expect to be at a banquet in a suburban Hyatt ballroom. The implication, tell your chick she’s living it solo on VD Day.

Honestly, I’m not a big fan of the day. It is a stupid holiday, live in lover or no. Being home alone with the remote control all mie, the freedom to dine on the couch and my groovilicious computer on my lap is actually suits me just fine.

I dropped by the grocery store on the way home. Instead of buying a quart of soup, I bought a lonely pint and some port wine cheese spread, knowing it as a swell accompaniment to delicious low-fat Triskets waiting in the cupboard. Living it up with the kind of festive fest with which I like to party alone.

Standing in line among a lot of dudes with last minute bouquets, chocolates, balloons and all, I cherished to soup for one shopping in my arms.

Of course, I’m a complete and total douche, playing a role while not one but two dozen long stems delivered to the office were chilling in my car.

Not sure why, but it reminded me of a Valentine’s Day a million and a half years ago. It was one of those bone chilling days with a soaking, icy rain falling. The kind of February weather that has you thinking in New England, if the Spring ever does come, you will have already succumbed to cabin fever and the first robin will probably arrive to peck the maggots off your decaying corpse.

Anywho. It was a sucky day on a sucky fake holiday and the doorbell rang. A delivery dude with a huge gardenia bush-like potted plant stood on my porch. I argued with him through a cracked door insisting that no fucking way was it possible that a VD delivery would be for me. We bickered in my nasty, cold, unloved state.

My uncle had sent them. Sweetheart he is.

Happy whatever holiday out there would float your boat and make you feel better than Hallmark ever will. With friends, family or loved ones, everyone has someone some time.

Damn, we should have moved a long fucking time ago.

Life couldn’t be easier with the new set up. Ten minutes down the road from work means that it’s only 8 p.m., but I’ve already swung by the gourmet grocers with pre-made food for working types, microwaved, eaten and had a nice cup of tea and some graham crackers.

I realized that the downside is I have infinitely increased the odds I’ll run into coworkers. The shit end of that stick is I swore that this time around I would punch the clock and make no waves and no dent in the work place. Gliding through unnoticed, that was my basic strategy.

‘Course, that kind of became a ill-fitting dream when I started toil at a place with <100 warm bodies. Not to mention I would’ve needed a full frontal lobotomy to keep the personality thing on the simmer. I ain’t actually very good at blending.

But judging by the invitations to go out for drinks with my new neighbors, the work environmet is a tad less backstabbing blood and gore producing as the former work. I still hate planning and sitting through meetings. But, shit if I haven’t totally missed for years now the kind of karma that produced these couple of posts.