And, right in the middle of my reading of Thomas Merton:   “Into the world where there is no room Christ has come to those for whom there is no room…”  (Raids On The Unspeakable).  Right there, on the second “no room” we heard a howl in the distance.  We heard either coyotes or wolves… or a quartet of genuinely harmonic terriers.   Yes, in the wake of all the pageantry,  both high church and low church, there came late the sound of the canine other.   Hoooowl…  (No Allen Ginsburg in sight!)  And all during the assembly-process of my 17 year old son’s used Everlast punching-bag apparatus, I could not help but think of that passage in which the Canaanite woman approaches Jesus and leaves him speechless.   She says, after the Anointed One issues the exclusive caveat — that “the Son of Man” has come only to the house of Israel:  “Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat crumbs that fall from their master’s table!”

Nice, come-back.  Eh?

I don’t know why these problem verses flash into and out of the sieve of my mind, but they do.   And when these sacred texts are somehow bracketed or emphasized or enjoined by the grunts, snorts, rooster-crows, bird-chirps and, in this scenario, the stylistic howlings of some far-off, somewhat distressed beast in the dark — it’s important that we take notice.   These moments are perhaps the temporal version of what the Ancient Celts refer to as “thin places” between worlds, places where we might inadvertently punch through a wall.   For me though, with my holy-day antennae up and fully functioning, the metaphor might be extended.   Whether a pack of pesky coyotes, one of the three mating pairs of wolves which are permitted to roam eastern Washington, or the 101 domesticated dalmatians with a Disney contract — it’s so clear that the neighbors are noisy.

I’ll say it again:  the neighborhood — as in the entire creation — as in the Ever-Expanding Universe – as in every sink hole that opens up in the  spring, every worm-hole that sucks down a morsel of dark matter and every blessed and bruised bending of the space-time continuum — ALL THIS — cries out.

You may wonder, at this point, two nights later, if the mechanically-challenged poet (me) figured out the punching bag apparatus and the answer is happily, yes.   At precisely 2:30 in the morning (PST), Christmas morning, I finished tightening the last bolt.   But I had been helped by the lingering howls.   The cries in the night haunted me like either Charles Dickens‘ Scrooge, or like Martin Bell‘s Barrington Bunny…

That is, miserly Ebenezer Scrooge, the boss of Bob Crachet, had been visited by three ghosts.   These figures reminded him (and me) of certain moral short-comings and missed opportunities in life, things that happened to correspond with Christmas celebrations of the past, the present and the future.   Scrooge makes the necessary changes in his persona and buys the Crachet family the largest turkey in the butcher shop and wishes Tiny Tim ”a happy Christmas” and a “God bless us all, everyone.”  Beautiful, heart-wrenching, double-layer tissue, slobbering-stuff…  By doing this, of course, the main character, the anti-hero of the story, becomes the hero and the dire consequences of a meaningless death are averted.

In Barrington Bunny, by contrast, the furry critter of the forest does not sidestep death at all.   He actually, in the end, embraces it, becoming a dead rabbit’s carcus (and without spoiling things for you, dear reader, there is a striking parallel here that’s drawn with another sacrificial moment in history).

Click here to view the embedded video.

What can I say?   The mechanisms of meaning are slippery little buggers.   Truth rings true as it occurs to us in and through the natural world, as well as in and through the churning of  a culture’s literary laundry.   Back and forth we go.

Back and forth we must go.   And, that’s why when I hear the howls in the night and stay up – assembling? — constructing? — deconstructing? — repeating? – I put Scrooge in the ring with the Barrington and see what happens…  Primarily, what happens is that we take the old Dickens tale and recognize it as an indictment of capitalism gone astray.   What happens is that we ponder gifts that come from so deeply within us we are never the same after having given them.   (I always joke with my children about them costing me brain cells and gray hair and wrinkles, but the punch line hits me square in the jaw or in the jowls.)   In the following musical version, which depicts Scrooge’s trip into Christmas future, a parade of people wish to express their appreciation, their appreciation for the old financier’s demise.   That is, their debts are forgiven because the bloke who died is now a deceased bloke who will no longer be hounding them for interest on their loans.   Ahhh…   Do you get the bunny trail I’m following?

Click here to view the embedded video.

 And so, without further adieu, I’d like to thank the origin of that wild exclamation on early Christmas morn (and leave the Academy of Motion Pictures unthanked for the time being).   It did the reverse of Tylenol PM.   It spoke volumes for most of creation who groans very quietly for the most part.   We can scarcely hear them around the holidays with all the hubbub… unless, of course, we’re already up, assembling.

Peace–

So I’m sitting here on Schweitzer Mountain, enjoying some snow, sleep and skiing with my two boys, Ian & Philip, plus my spouse, Sheryl…  It’s a beautiful spot in north Idaho that’s been built up through the years with condos, ski-lifts and restaurants.   That recent construction I take or leave. What I truly love is to watch the mist pour through the vast bowl of slopes and silver-frosted trees which line the trails.  Lake Pond Oreille lingers about 5,000 feet below like a pair of blue eyes reflecting on the scene.   And tonight we can expect the longest night of the year!  

The winter solstice!

Anyway, it’s occurred to me recently that tourist attractions like this may not be long for this world, that the place itself may remain with its steep and jagged landscape, but that in terms of the snow and the reason for skiers to congregate here, global warming may have other plans.   Does that sound like pessimism?   Am I pooping on the proverbial party that folks of some means have here on an annual basis?   Should I ask the therapist to increase my meds and do what supposedly comes naturally?   Relax?   Chill out?

The fact is — I’m accosted on all sides with the damage that I have done by driving up this mountain.   A friend, who works for an Orthopedic Center, offered us his vacant pad in which we’ve crashed.   I bought him a bottle of Scotch to show our family’s appreciation.   And yet, the Internet reels with the stories of permafrost melting at the poles, of methane gas leaking into the atmosphere and of temperatures climbing so high that sea levels may eventually ebb and flow around Nebraska.  The only option I have in this scenario is poetry.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Of course, there’s the Sierra Club and Greenpeace and a wide spectrum of conservation organizations that an individual may join and feel as if the climate conditions can be reversed.   Hell, even BP Oil has recognized the issue and run a few commercials to illustrate how companies that generate profits from fossil fuels can still galvanize community support and reduce the carbon footprint…   But, as I see it from Mount Schweitzer on the shortest day of the year, we need much more than action.   We need the kind of cultural contemplation that only poetry can conjure and contribute to the mix of habitual change and resolve that needs to happen.

And so, poetry!

Or better yet, an epic poem the likes of which we haven’t seen in a while — at least since the Industrial Revolution initially gathered its momentum and began its methodical paving of paradise!

And maybe that’s the vortex where we might start… where I might start, as I can’t assume to speak for anyone else.

I guess the mindset that gives me the most psychic indigestion is the career agenda itself — the notion that creative artists and writers of literature need to enter the workforce as its popularly conceived in North America.   That is to say, must we automatically look upon our work as advancing us up the escalator at Macys?   Is there another way of being organized into social groups where economic exploitation is not considered a necessary evil?

Alright!   Shut up!  I hear someone saying, if you’ve read this far.    Can’t you simply celebrate a holiday like Christmas or Hanukkah without wishing or dreaming of some communist revolution or some dreamy utopia?    Shouldn’t you be having several drinks on the top of your mountain resort and forgetting yourself?

Believe me, I’ve tried.   And that’s where poetry and theology (or philosophy) do this amazing kind of dance.   It’s a dance of despairing hope, a movement full of huge stumbles and stuttering sorts of expletives.   Moreover, on the winter solstice, when it’s really dark and the clouds are torn up like shitty drafts, I do believe in what Galway Kinnel called “a music of grace.”

Peace–

I’ve written a few cards and received a few. The mantle is decorated, the lights are up. Our tree (which is a lovely tree, if I do say so) was selected weeks ago, from the same farm we visit each winter. Our cupboard is full of treats from others (parents across America: keep on baking for your kids’ teachers, because I live with one. I had puppy chow for breakfast yesterday. Crack, I tell you.) I’ve listened to a little Christmas music, mostly at the gentle urging/ultimate demand of the person I share my office with that it was time. I even pulled out the heavy artillery: Love Actually.

But it doesn’t really feel like the holiday season to me. And this doesn’t mean that I subscribe to some ridiculous notion that the holidays are either a) so f**king joyous that you walk around grinning constantly and handing out candycanes to small children while assuring them of Santa’s existence or b) a horrible, suicide-inducing time when already lonely/miserable people are constantly reminded of exactly how lonely/miserable they are, while everyone else walks around grinning and handing out candycanes. Neither of those are representative of what the holidays are like for most people.

But I do look forward to this time of year. I like baking. I like putting together care packages. I like trying to come up with thoughtful presents. I even (most of the time) like writing cards. There’s something sweet about it, and not because it’s culturally ‘expected’. I enjoy the act of handwriting a short note to people I care about, especially the ones who live far away. And sometimes by the end of the stack, of course I just want to scrawl “Happy Holidays” and sign my name and be done with it, but then I’d only be doing it by rote, and then who cares? So I try to make it matter, if only because by doing so, I’m taking a moment or two to really think about how that person is doing, and when the last time I talked to them was, and whether it’s time for a real check-in instead of some BS on Facebook.

All this is to say that I’m engaging in some of the rituals of the holiday, but it’s not working quite yet. I’m not falling into the groove of what I usually enjoy about this time of year. And isn’t that the crux of what comprises the holidays? People like rituals. They’re comforting. You make a certain meal, you sing a certain song, you say a certain prayer, whatever. Everyone has their traditions, and to some, they’re more important than others. Sometimes the act of doing something because that’s what you do leads you to something honest, to remember what you like about it, what you get out of it. And sometimes it doesn’t at all. I would be the first to say that a lot of traditions are stupid and I hate them. Not to mention that being required to spend time with people you have nothing in common with other than technically, and sometimes unfortunately, being related to them, does not make my heart fill with Christmas joy. But I look forward to some things about this time of year, and right now I’m feeling a little disappointed that I’m not enjoying it more.

I suspect that a few days from now, when friends start arriving in town, when I’m finally able to do a little baking and shopping and wrapping, maybe even if it snows, then I’ll be totally in it. I’ll be surrounded by good people, having quality time with them and enjoying some laughs. I suspect that just a little bit of time with these people will leave me feeling refreshed and ready to tackle the mountain of work ahead of me. But in the meantime, I’m feeling a little let-down by this December. Not terribly, just a little.

In the meantime, until the friends arrive and I start the baking and the wrapping and the drinking, I’ll just hit up one of my go-to resources for feeling better about the world: The West Wing.

Happy holidays, everyone! Enjoy them in whatever way you deem best.

A tea towel, embroidered by my husband's grandmother + a cookbook I found at the farmer's market = a story waiting to be written

It’s that time of year when the world thinks of things, of gifts gifts gifts gifts, the over-commercialization of Christmas, bells that jingle and fully-decked halls. Physical items start to seem more important than they do the rest of the year: the bike you wrote to Santa for, the ornament your daughter made in second grade, the divinity candy you have to make though only you and your dad really like it because Grandma used to make it every year. Every string of lights or holiday platter bears memories, or the promise of memories yet to come. These things are artifacts of Christmases past, endowed with meaning that accumulates like dust as the boxes sit in the garage, far enough out of sight and mind to make them seem that much more important come December.

It seems the longer we leave an item alone, the greater the emotion it carries. This can make for some pretty interesting stories (if you’ve written one, Hayden’s Ferry Review is accepting submissions for their “artifact” issue right now). Dawn Raffel explores her relationship to items from her past in a series of short essays, quite a few of which appeared in Willow Springs 67. Each essay is titled for an item that carries a story–”The Prayer Book,” “The Bride’s Bible,” “Garnet Earrings”–and uses these objects as windows into Raffel’s past. It’s a concept that interests me greatly, and though I’ve yet to focus a story in that way, I’m always interested in a story’s physical world. I am fascinated with the specific details that help develop a character, and especially their belongings: the type of socks they wear, what’s in the trunk of their car, where they got their earrings. I sometimes write so many of these details that I have to erase quite a few (was it Coco Chanel who said, Put on all the accessories you want, but then remove one?), but it feels good to write them in the first place, to develop those quirks. And when reading, I always attach to those types of markers. I’m currently reading Hunger by Lan Samantha Chang, and the first image that pops into my head when I think of the book is of rice bowls, kept in a yellow carpet bag in the closet. When I think of Mary Gaitskill’s Bad Behavior, I think of jelly beans. Blue Angel by Francine Prose: a rotten tooth. And so on.

Have you ever watched a TV show, movie, or play where the actors are holding coffee cups and gesturing wildly, as if there were no hot liquid inside? Because there isn’t any. It’s just an empty cup. But if they were doing their job right, we would think there was hot liquid in there, heavy and easily spilled. There’s a concept called “endowing your props,” that’s very important when the cup is empty, the gun is made of plastic, or the baby is just a doll. You must make the audience believe that the baby is alive and squirming, that if you drop it, it will die. You must make the audience believe the gun is dangerous and unwieldy, an object of fear. If these things weren’t important, they wouldn’t be there. It was Chekhov who said that if there is a gun onstage, it must be fired. If we’re going to give our characters props, there has to be a reason.

Call me a nerd, but one of my favorite shows currently on television is on the SyFy channel (they spell it that way now), though it’s more like fantasy wrapped in a scientific gauze. It’s called Warehouse 13, and it focuses on a strange government agency that collects dangerous artifacts: items that have absorbed certain aspects of their former owners’ personalities, that give their next owners supernatural power. Mata Hari’s stockings give their wearer a deadly sex appeal. Sylvia Plath’s typewriter exudes her depression. Ornaments made from bullet casings gathered during the Christmas Eve ceasefire demand Christmas spirit at any price. This concept fascinates me because it takes every storyline from an object and its true history before pushing it into the fantastical realm. It acknowledges the importance items have in our lives, and how a pair of glasses or an upholstery brush can carry a lifetime’s worth of stories.

My husband and I have bought at least one Christmas ornament a year, since our first Christmas together. These ornaments are building a timeline of our life. This year, we bought a Statue of Liberty ornament on our trip to New York. When I was in line at the gift shop, I found myself pulled into a conversation with the woman next to me, who happened to be from Colfax, WA–fifteen miles from where I live now. Last year, a traditional Danish ornament from Solvang, CA–one of our many stops on a road trip to visit my parents in San Diego. Maybe one day I will write about them. Maybe not. But our tree will be teeming with memories, stories to tell our children. Every year the cat seems to break at least one meaningless glass ornament, and the next year it is replaced by something sturdier.

I don’t like people being upset with me, so the stupid letter almost worked. It actually made me feel like I had done something hurtful, and mildly dirty, to the magazine. They had me so convinced I’d done something wrong I dug up old credit statements from the previous year.
All I can say is, if the letter were reworded just a little, it’d clearly scream “crazy, unhealthy relationship.” Just sayin’

AKA it basically says:

Dear Person Who Used Me:

When you asked for my number with the convenience of calling me later, I fully believed you would call me upon returning to your obligation at the surgical-intelligence-retreat. Since I have no record of your phone call at this time, your good standing with me is at risk.

You can resolve this matter quickly and easily by calling the enclosed phone number.

Your prompt phone call will allow us to continue this relationship which I’m sure will provide you with the utmost of sexual enjoyment throughout the year.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,
          I Thought We Had Something

Coffee + Inspiration = Writer's Best Friend

Write Like a Motherfucker mugs on therumpus.net.  If you’ve never been to The Rumpus, you should probably be ashamed of yourself. I love, love, love the advice column. It’s called Dear Sugar. And if you haven’t read it, you really, really should. The amount of insight and wisdom Sugar possesses is astonishing and comforting to read.  One of her weekly letters she responded to was concerning a writer who is/was jealous of her friends for being more accomplished in writing than her. So what did Sugar suggest she do? Write like a motherfucker. Fuck yeah. Price: $13.00

Wear your nerd on your sleeve(s)

Out of Print Book T-Shirts. These T-Shirts are gorgeous and are the perfect accessory to show off your book smarts. You can get your hands on one here or Auntie’s Bookstore right here in Spokane. A book is donated to communities in need with each purchase. So you can feel good about buying, too. Price: $28.00

It's okay to be shelfish

If you’re like me, books are taking over your house. There’s just never enough shelf space for all of the bound pretties in your life. So here is an invisible bookshelf that you mount on your wall. It’s pretty nifty. Price: $19.00

It Was a Dark and Stormy Night...

Do you like board games? I like board games. This game is for the fiction writer/reader in your life. It’s called It Was a Dark and Stormy Night. Here’s what the website says about it: “It Was a Dark and Stormy Night covers everything from novels to poetry, from mysteries to children’s books, from science fiction to books made into movies, and six other categories. You’ll know more than you think, and you’ll get introduced to some great new reads along the way!” Price: $39.95

Alice in Bookland

I spend a lot of time on Etsy. It’s a place where people can sell their handmade or vintage goods without having to pay the cost of owning an actual storefront. You’ll find the neatest stuff on there. For instance, this bookmark is pretty clever. Not only are there Alice in Wonderland bookmarks, there are KISS boots, wicked witch ruby slippers, and just about any boot that would look fashionable smashed between the pages of your favorite book. Price: $25.00

Disappointing, MJ.

  It’s really not funny, though. Seibel Newsom frames the movie in a personal way—she has a daughter, and she wants better than a world where female politicians are called Mrs. instead of by their earned title, where Hillary Rodham Clinton’s ankles are more important than her ideas on foreign policy, and where a photo of Michele Bachmann eating a corn dog or making “crazy eyes” is national news.  I want this, too.  I cried, in fact, because my oldest child right now is a little girl who is confident in her intelligence, her kindness, and her equality.  Right now, she believes she is both beautiful and smart, both kind and capable.  I never felt this way as a child, that I can remember, and it feels like one of my biggest successes as a parent that all of my kids seem to.  I fear the time is coming, though, those years when girls turn from confident happy people into virtual strangers who obsess about their looks and appearance, forgetting all that made them proud to be themselves as children. 

 There’s a sorry and unacceptable lack of female politicians in America, and it’s not hard to see why the field is a difficult one for women.  And when our children do not see female politicians, they get the idea that women can’t run a town or lead a state or a country.  When our children see female anchors in low-cut blouses and male anchors in suits and ties, they get the idea that what the female anchor wears is as important as what she says.   And when our children see pop stars more famous for their boobs and butts than for their singing…well, you get the point.  How discouraging!   As Jennifer Pozner (author of Reality Bites Back) says in the film, “The fact that the media are so derogatory to the most powerful women in the country, what does it say about the media’s ability to take any woman in America seriously?” 

But it’s not just the big things.  It’s not just idiotic Rush Limbaugh jokes about PMS and sexist magazine covers, even from supposed progressive groups or people.  It’s the little things that matter.   And when our own city’s police chief is described by the Spokane Police Guild president as too emotional to make the right decision, that’s a little thing that matters. 

This article at The F Word highlights some of the ways Miss Representation could have done more, and I agree that it could have been more inclusive in terms of subsets of women, including more women of color, considering ableism and class.  I think a film can always do more, and I agree that a lot of the film confirmed what I already knew, though I was still shocked by the sheer statistics. John Boehner as Speaker of the House garnered FIVE magazine covers righty off, while Nancy Pelosi came in at the much smaller number of ZERO after four years in office.  The US ranks 90^thIN THE WORLD for women in legislative positions.  This year, 2011, is the first year since 1979 when women have not gained Congress seats. 65% of women have eating disorders.  Now, I did a quick search and I did find Pelosi on a cover, one where we’re invited to fill in the blank  to describe her.  The only surprising thing about this terrible cover is that they forgot to put “bitchy” and “uppity” in the choices.

This is how the media used to see women in politics...

So no, women in the media don’t have it better now than twenty or thirty years ago, not much at all.  Which is not to say that there’s nothing us men and women can do about it.  There’s plenty.  As Jane Fonda noted, “Media creates consciousness, and if what gets put out there that creates our consciousness is determined by men, we’re not going to make any progress.”  So let’s make progress.  There’s a great hashtag on Twitter right now , #notbuyingit, where you can post sexist gift ideas.  (and speaking of Twitter, if you’re not sure women have it any harder than men in the public sphere, check out #mencallmethings).  Let’s call our brothers and sisters out for sexist jokes.  Let’s all stop using “rape” to mean anything other than sexual assault.   And, most importantly, let’s do this in all instances, not just when the offenders are on the other side of an issue.  I’m quite liberal, but I unliked a progressive blogger because she made a tacky comment about Mariah Carey’s weight.  It’s no secret that women can be sexist, so let’s call that shit out too.  Something has to change if we want young women to continue to enter the political force, to believe that they can make a difference, to believe that they matter. 

Who says turkey can't be sexy?

It’s that time of year again when we all gorge ourselves until we pass out, watch football, and awkwardly talk with relatives we see once or twice a year. So here are some links to be thankful for.

1) Martha Stewart makes mashed potatoes with Snoop Dogg.

2) How to make your turkey sexy.

3) Turkey carving lessons with Bill Cosby.

4) Smoked Beer Can Turkey? Yes, please.

5) Prefer cake instead of tryptophan? Try the Thanksgiving Dinner Cake!

6) Jones Holiday Soda in four seasonal flavors.

7) Need a little booze this holiday season? Try these cocktails.

8) Hate cooking? Now you can simply blow up a turkey!

9) Now your dogs don’t have to be left with left-overs or table scraps.

10) Unusual Thanksgiving recipes.

Happy Thanksgiving!

You rush a miracle, you get rotten miracles.

(Yeah, my title is a reference to a country song. Oddly, my other options for titles were also country songs.)

So lately, my bowling game has been suffering. My ball speed is inconsistent and the chance of me actually hitting my mark has gone down to maybe 50%. One of my teammates took pity on me (or perhaps was frustrated with my plummeting scores) and told me, quite simply, that I was rushing. My body and feet were moving faster than my arm, which often caused me to force an erratic swing at the last minute. I needed to slow down.

I often work on my poetry while I bowl. I like using the rhythm of the process to work out lines and edit poems I’m feeling unsure of. Unfortunately, I can say with all humbleness that my poetry has seriously been suffering this season. I know one of the dangers of being a concept based poet is that my ideas play out faster than I can write them and sometimes I’ll know where I want my poem to go when I’m only on line two. And if I’m being lazy, I might not take the time to figure out if my poem has something better to say than what I think it should say. Before talking about my concerns with my thesis adviser, I gave him some poems I had written lately and he told me they started well but then died a little in the middle. It’s like I was in a hurry to get to the ending.

Uh-oh.

I understood immediately that both my bowling teammate and my thesis adviser were right. I was focusing on the end – on the results instead of the process. And I don’t know if my bowling was influencing my poetry or the other way around, but I suspected there was something larger going on with me personally that was influencing both of them. However, true to form, I was in a hurry to fix the problem and go back to being good at the things that I enjoy.

The result has been that now when I pick up a pen or my Virtual Energy, I’m thinking, Don’t rush, Don’t rush, Don’t rush. So now I’m thinking too much and not really doing.

This is probably the part of the post where I should tell you I learned something valuable, something about smelling roses and the journey and how my quality of life has improved. But I haven’t reached that point yet.

Instead, I’m going to use this moment to apply my personal problem to our entire country by making this observation: America is currently rushing Christmas. Our giant merged American psyches have realized that things have been a little down lately and we need a pick me up. Something to make us feel warm and cozy and remind us that we love each other and stuff. The result was a premature explosion of lights and carols and tinsel. In the first week of November. When Christmas was still a good two months away.

I’m not going to lie – I love lights and carols and tinsel. I love feeling warm and cozy. And that is, in fact, what I feel when I see Christmas decorations. But if I’m getting that end result right now, before I even have Thanksgiving plans or have sloshed through the snow, will the effect wear off by the time Christmas is actually here and I need jingle bells and gingerbread men to stave off the holiday depression?

I don’t know. All I know is that I have learned recently that if you try rushing the process of being okay with a problem, you only make things worse.

One question that’s been bandied about is a pretty basic one: Why the protests? And to be sure, the protests are hardly homogenous; there’s all sorts of different viewpoints and myriad causes being supported by protesters across the country.

But at its most basic, I think it’s quite clear that people are angry, and at one group of people in particular: The Scrooge McDucks among us.

No, really, Scrooge McDuck. You may remember the Duck Tales, which featured Scrooge McDuck, a very wealthy Duck who made a habit of taking a morning swim through his vault of money.

Now most of the folks that I’d label Scrooges aren’t actually individual people. They are banks that got bailed out. Well, I was thinking about the bank bailouts, and after (hastily) doing the math, I realized that the bank bailouts had not only given the banks, we’d given them enough to actually make the opening scene of the Duck Tales possible, and then some.

OK, so here’s the math. Feel free to correct me if I got things wrong. So Google tells me that a U.S. dollar has the following dimensions:

Thickness: 0.0043 inches

Width: 6.14 inches

Height: 2.61 inches

A standard Olympic size swimming pool is:

50 m (164 ft) long

25 m (82 ft) wide

79 inches (six feet, seven inches) deep

 So if you do the math:

 82 feet/2.61 inches= there would be 377 rows across

164 feet /6.14 inches = each row would have 320 individual stacks

79 inches/.0043 inches = so each stack would have 18,372 bills.

Put that all together and you get: 377*320*18,372 x 1 = $2,216,398,080

And if you take the bailout to be the originally advertised (a big if, I know) $700 billion, that makes 315 Olympic size swimming pools of money.

It gets worse. While banks got veritable swimming pools of money, the rest of us got this:

So to recap: A very small group of irresponsible businesses were given a very large amount of money despite the fact that they nearly caused a depression; despite this largesse, the damage they’d already done to the economy was severe, causing unemployment to spike. The McDucks, however, largely recovered and chafed at even the most modest financial reform. They proceeded to give copious bonuses to their CEOs and rake in profits like madcap Monopoly guys, while at the same time admitting, zero, zilch malfeasance.

Meanwhile, the rest of us are stuck in the kiddie pool.