I got a letter in the mail from Sarah Palin. It was addressed to me - Leighann Lord - not Resident, Occupant or Home Owner. Given the current housing crisis, the latter salutation might have been supremely presumptuous. The return address simply said Sarah Palin; No city, state or zip; not even a zip plus four. I guess Sarah is like Santa Claus. The post office just knows where to find her.

The letter opened with:

"Dear Friend,"

Okay, let's stop there.

Admittedly, I'm horrible with names and not much better with faces, but I don't believe Sarah and I run in the same circles. I have not seen her at my book club meetings. I have not had the pleasure of pummeling her in my kick boxing class. I know she went to a lot of colleges, but none of them were mine. I only went to one.

We are separated by a lot more than six degrees. I doubt if even Kevin Bacon has an easy link to Sarah. We aren't even Face Book friends. We're not connected on My Space, Hi5 or Linked In. I have seen some of her work on Your Tube though . . . oh wait, that was Tina Fey.

Given that Sarah started her letter with a falsehood, I felt no need to read further, but curiosity got the better of me. It said:

"I personally want to say thank you for the steadfast support and unstinting generosity you have given to the Republican Party and all of our candidates."
Okay, friends. This is worse than I thought. Either my alter ego is a card carrying, money giving Republican -- she's not, I asked (actually my alter ego is very fond of Ralph Nader, but that's another story) - or someone has stolen my identity and is making unauthorized donations in my name. Why can't I get a normal identity thief who just wants to buy a flat screen TV at Best Buy?

In a past life, I might have Pay Paled Abraham Lincoln a couple of dollars, post emancipation and pre assassination, but other than that I have never knowingly given money to the Republican Party. Quite frankly, I never thought they needed it. Maybe they'd have some extra ducats in the kitty if they didn't spend money buying bad mailing lists or expensive outfits at Neiman Marcus. (Really Sarah? $150,000 on campaign accessories?) As far as I know, the wife of Joe Six Pack cobbles together her ensemble from Target, JC Penney and Forever 21.

I showed the letter to my husband and he was hurt. To date, he - a registered Republican - has received no correspondence from his friend, Sarah, although if he had, he probably would have burned it. My Sweetie is a bit disenchanted at the moment with the right wing wacko take over of his party. It also helps that I whisper in his ear when he's sleeping, "McCain is insane. No drama with Obama."

I don't feel bad about this. When we dated, he promised me he would switch to the Independent Party. That was his idea of sweet talk and I fell for it. I was young, in love and a sucker for bipartisan promises.

Any who, my friend, Sarah, was not writing to inquire about my health, wish me well on my career or even ask me for grand-baby name suggestions. No, she was soliciting money from me to help the McCain-Palin campaign.

"So please rush back your Emergency Pledge of $5,000, $2,500, $1,000, $500, $100 or $50 to McCain-Palin Victory 2008 in the postage-paid envelope I've enclosed with my letter today."

Normally, I'm all for using money to influence and corrupt the political process, but I'm shocked. I thought Republican's - as a rule - were allergic to handouts. Wouldn't my donation be akin to political welfare? I couldn't do that to my friend, Sarah. I would much rather see her and John stick by their principles and boot strap their way to the White House. That's the only way they'll learn. Besides, I'm a little short right now. All my money's tied up in the $700 billion dollar bail out.

And by the way, Sarah, it doesn't take a Washington insider to know that a real friend would have at least remembered my birthday. At the very least, an invitation to the $150,000 clothing shopping spree would have been nice, gosh darn it.

*****************************************************
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www.veryfunnylady.com again soon to find out about news, Leighann's TV appearances, live stand-up comedy shows or to join the mailing list.

Leighann Lord
Stand-up Comedian
www.VeryFunnyLady.com

Read my weekly humor column: www.TheUrbanErma.com

Every experienced party person knows you never leave your drink unattended. Be it glass, cup, can or mug you must be vigilant lest somebody slips you a Roofie. Even back in the day before Rohypnol was part of our everyday vocabulary you just knew if you turned your back somebody was bound to take liberties with your libation.

In my heyday I hugged my drink tighter than a running back grips a football. Nobody was sneaking in anything without my knowledge. I even hawkishly watched the bartender to be sure he wasn't in leagu e with some nefarious ne'redowell. I can honestly say that while at a party I've never drained a drink dry. If my attention wavered for a moment I would immediately abandon my beverage. I learned it was cheaper just to dance and pretend I wasn't parched.

I was at a function recently where a woman left the table and put a napkin over the top of her soda can. I think she did this out of reflex because it was a relatively nice and upscale event; not at all the type of shindig where one need worry about running the risk of a roofie. While I believe whole heartedly in the adage "better safe than sorry," I wondered how much protection a napkin would really provide. Can a would be Rohypnol Dropper be so easily foiled? Does etiquette demand that if a cup is covered he move on to an unguarded glass?

Is there an age where you no longer have to worry about being roofied? Certainly a young lady so new and fresh on the scene that she's still shiny must be on her guard, but what's the cut off? After age 60? 70? (My ego hopes that men will still want me, and not just for my money. I want to have that Lena Horne, Eartha Kitt kinda sexy well into my 90s.) The woman at the event who put the napkin over her soda can was in her mid-50s. It seemed more likely that she'd go cougar and roofie some sweet young thing in his 30s.

Some people are offended by=2 0the term Cougar. I'm not sure why. What's wrong with a mature woman being a wild cat; a creature who knows the rules of the jungle; who can hunt, chase and capture what she wants. Maybe people are concerned that as a women ages the tables turn. Instead of worrying about someone slipping something into her drink, she'll begin employing the tactic herself.

In this paradigm, however, one would think a roofie would be unnecessary. Given the dictates of human biology, men don't need much coercion when sex is in the offing. Men go willingly, nay, happily should their good fortune net them a teacher, a sugar mommy or just a good time. And this isn't mere charity work. Today's older women are looking fabulous! No longer does my gender need to quietly toddle off to the land of moo-moos and orthopedic shoes. There are a plethora of hot mamas over 40 who are putting 20 year olds to shame.

But the same biology that drives men to seize the punani pay day may also make them hesitant to move from hunter to hunted. It's not a position they're used to. I envision young men at parties clutching their rum and cokes, casting suspicious glances at the seasoned women on the prowl. The men worry, "Will that Silver Fox at the bar slip me a roofie if I glance away from my glass? Will she use me, abuse me and cast me aside?" Only if you're lucky, Baby. But if you're not ready,=2 0Fellas, don't worry. Any self respecting Cougar will pass you by if you put a napkin over your drink. That's proper roofie etiquette and a Cougar is nothing if not a lady.

Leighann Lord
Stand-up Comedian
www.VeryFunnyLady.com

Read my weekly humor column: www.TheUrbanErma.com

September 5, 2008

I am having Sarah Palin nightmares. I dreamt last night that she was a member of a club where they rode snowmobiles and wore the claws of drowned and starved polar bears around their necks. I have a particular thing for Polar Bears. Maybe it's their snowy whiteness or their bigness or the fact that they live in the arctic or that I have never seen one in person or touched one. Maybe it is the fact that they live so comfortably on ice. Whatever it is, I need the polar bears.

I don't like raging at women. I am a Feminist and have spent my life trying to build community, help empower women and stop violence against them.

It is hard to write about Sarah Palin. This is why the Sarah Palin choice was all the more insidious and cynical. The people who made this choice count on the goodness and solidarity of Feminists. But everything Sarah Palin believes in and practices is antithetical to Feminism which for me is part of one story --connected to saving the earth, ending racism, empowering women, giving young girls options, opening our minds, deepening tolerance, and ending violence and war.

I believe that the McCain/Palin ticket is one of the most dangerous choices of my lifetime, and should this country chose those candidates the fall-out may be so great, the destruction so vast in so many areas that America may never recover. But what is equally disturbing is the impact that duo would have on the rest of the world. Unfortunately, this is not a joke. In my lifetime I have seen the clownish, the inept, and the bizarre be elected to the presidency with regularity.

Sarah Palin does not believe in evolution. I take this as a metaphor. In her world and the world of Fundamentalists nothing changes or gets better or evolves. She does not believe in global warming. The melting of the arctic, the storms that are destroying our cities, the pollution and rise of cancers, are all part of God's plan. She is fighting to take the polar bears off the endangered species list. The earth, in Palin's view, is here to be taken and plundered. The wolves and the bears are here to be shot and plundered. The oil is here to be taken and plundered. Iraq is here to be taken and plundered. As she said herself of the Iraqi war, 'It was a task from God.'

Sarah Palin does not believe in abortion. She does not believe women who are raped and incested and ripped open against their will should have a right to determine whether they have their rapist's baby or not. She obviously does not believe in sex education or birth control. I imagine her daughter was practicing abstinence and we know how many babies that makes.

Sarah Palin does not much believe in thinking. From what I gather she has tried to ban books from the library, and has a tendency to dispense with people who think independently. She cannot tolerate an environment of ambiguity and difference. This is a woman who could and might very well be the next president of the United States. She would govern one of the most diverse populations on the earth.

Sarah believes in guns. She has her own custom Austrian hunting rifle. She has been known to kill 40 caribou at a clip. She has shot hundreds of wolves from the air.

Sarah believes in God. That is of course her right, her private right. But when God and Guns come together in the public sector, when war is declared in God's name, when the rights of women are denied in God's name, that is the end of separation of church and state and the undoing of everything America has ever tried to be.

I write to my sisters. I write because I believe we hold this election in our hands. This vote is a vote that will determine the future not just of the U.S., but of the planet. It will determine whether we create policies to save the earth or make it forever uninhabitable for humans. It will determine whether we move towards dialogue and diplomacy in the world or whether we escalate violence through invasion, undermining and attack. It will determine whether we go for oil, strip mining, coal burning or invest
our money in alternatives that will free us from dependency and destruction. It will determine if money gets spent on education and healthcare or whether we build more and more methods of killing. It will determine whether America is a free open tolerant society or a closed place of fear, fundamentalism and aggression.

If the Polar Bears don't move you to go and do everything in your power to get Obama elected then consider the chant that filled the hall after Palin spoke at the RNC, 'Drill baby, Drill.' I think of teeth when I think of drills. I think of destruction. I think of domination. I think of military exercises that force mindless repetition, emptying the brain of analysis, doubt, ambiguity or dissent. I think of pain.

Do we want a future of drilling? More holes in the ozone, in the floor of the sea, more holes in our thinking, in the trust between nations and peoples, more holes in the fabric of this precious thing we call life?

Eve Ensler

The late buckaroo populist and freedom fighter would have had a ball with the insanity of this current news cycle.

From Salon.com

Oct. 3, 2008 | It breaks a girl's heart to know that Molly Ivins does not get to have a go at the Republican slate this year. I can see that big, rosy, sunflower face watching this all with astonishment and roaring with laughter. Ivins -- the legendary buckaroo populist, journalist, freelance hell-raiser and freedom fighter -- would be pounding her fists on the arms of her easy chair, stomping her feet as if listening to live bluegrass.

She would have had such a ball with Sarah Palin -- the trooper scandal, her love of moose (between buns), the flamboyantly botched television interviews, the bravery of people who hunt wolves for sport, from the air. Even though Molly was a Texan -- who would have been on guard for the sneering tone of liberal criticism toward anyone with a gun or a double-wide -- she still would have obliterated Palin as a faux populist wingnut with a tanning bed instead of a heart. She would have made great hay with the capacity of certain politicians to reinvent themselves in entirely new realities, as newfound populist Brotherman McCain has done, and his desperate, icky laugh of contempt might have raised some worries for her.

She would not have been happy with either McCain or Obama for opting out of public finance: She would mention Phil Gramm at the drop of a hat, McCain's chief financial guru, whom she always called the senator from Enron. I think she would have been intrigued by Obama, for all the game-changing aspects he's brought to the arena, for upending all the assumptions about whether someone could win with such a spooky name. She'd have cheered his speech on race, been amazed by his speech in Berlin. She'd have been pissed at the Democrats for not being as robust as they should have been on civil liberties, even as she reasserted her heartbreaking faith in American democracy, the faith that if we stuck together, we'd figure it out in the end. We'd somehow help the poor.

She would have celebrated the tidal roar of support from younger voters, who have the vision and stamina to fight for someone who would hold the nation's leaders to account, people who would fight to make this a country where it was once again safe to be a small child, or a very old person, which it has not been for approximately 7.6572 years.

She would have known all along that this election was going to be as tight as a tick. She would have had the sense to be afraid but to not let her fear hurt her. She would have done one constructive thing after another: Sent money to swing states, offered her car to volunteers from out of town, let young campaign workers sleep on her couch.

The last time I saw her, she was several weeks away from death, spending most of her time in bed, hanging out with her best friends and her dog. And you know what she was doing, off and on, the weekend I spent with her? She was working on her last column, about the need for Americans to fight like hell to stop Bush's proposed surge in Iraq. All she had at that point was a great ending: "We are the deciders. And every single day, every single one of us needs to step outside and take some action. We need people in the streets, banging pots and pans and demanding, 'Stop it, now!'"

She was also rereading parts of her favorite books when suddenly she wanted to have a dinner party, because I had never met her great friends, "Shrub" co-writer Lou Dubose or populist heavyweight Jim Hightower. This was a major obstacle to happiness for all concerned. She adored those two men, and I was commanded to call them. Unfortunately, Lou, her longtime collaborator, was out of town. So, instead, she told me Lou stories for half an hour.

No one loved her stories more than Molly, especially those about the art and absurdity of politics. This was part of her greatness. She reigned like a queen -- imposing carriage, great sense of style, with a mind and smile that radiated warmth.

In between trying to write her column, she would call out to me. "Associate Party Planner!" she would say. "Front and center! We have a problem!" So I would appear with the clipboard I had been issued, stretch out next to her and her dog, and we'd fiddle with our menu or grapple with the despair and bitterness of having discovered that none of the cloth napkins matched. Lou couldn't come, and two of the good plates chipped. We agreed: It was a nightmare.

Her brother Andy was in town, though, as was her great assistant Betsy Moon, with her boyfriend. Jim Hightower and his wife, DeMarco, could be there.

It was really not an ideal weekend for a party, what with her being close to death, unable to walk much anymore or to stay awake. Also, she had to get chemo that morning. But I ask you -- what are you going to do?

Obviously, have the party. Everything she loved, one more time.

Her niece and nephew came."I don't have any children," she once wrote, "so I've decided to claim all the future freedom-fighters and hell-raisers as my kin." And she adored these two (although later we conspired to set the table so that they got the two chipped plates).

She was so excited about her party that she insisted I make place cards.

She slept a lot the day of the party. The chemo had knocked her for a loop. But she managed to work on her column a little. I Googled it just a moment ago. Here's what she wrote, "About the only politician out there besides Bush actively calling for a surge is Sen. John McCain. In a recent opinion piece, he wrote: 'The presence of additional coalition forces would allow the Iraqi government to do what it cannot accomplish today on its own -- impose its rule throughout the country. By surging troops and bringing security to Baghdad and other areas, we will give the Iraqis the best possible chance to succeed.' But with all due respect to the senator from Arizona, that ship has long since sailed. A surge is not acceptable to the people in this country -- we have voted overwhelmingly against this war in polls (about 80 percent of the public is against escalation, and a recent Military Times poll shows only 38 percent of active military want more troops sent) and at the polls. We know this is wrong. The people understand, the people have the right to make this decision, and the people have the obligation to make sure our will is implemented."

She got up from bed a few times to sit with me at the table. We drank tea and ate dried cherries and told each other stories. She was such a performer, with that marvelous Texas Hill Country accent that used to get stronger with every drink. But she and I had both been sober for some time by the end of her life. Her stories were precisely delivered, and her face so in control, as if she had trained with Marcel Marceau. I can see her looking over the tops of her reading glasses -- mugging, mimicking, liberally using old lines even as she pulled new whoppers out of the ether. Sometimes being with her was like watching fireworks on a small scale. Finally, she'd lean forward to deliver the money line, while fluttering her eyelids, then throw herself backward into her chair, roaring up at the ceiling, as if she were laughing at God.

Then she'd lean forward again, hoping that you might have a story, too, and get the log rolling again.

I swear, she might be the only person who can help get me through these last 33 nerve-wracking days. She would not have taken Sarah Palin lying down. She would laugh her ass off, and do something every day to defeat McCain. She would eat with beloved friends, put people together who simply had to know one another, who might together be able to throw a wrench in McCain's Rube Goldberg machine. She makes me want to move around on the floor with her one more time, standing on her shoes like I used to with my father when I was a little girl, and he was teaching me how to waltz.