Sid and Nancy via Flickr’s Alter EgoGetting Out of Grid Lock

You’re talking to somebody who directed traffic in the middle of Sixth Avenue, when New York went dark in “Son of Sam” summer.

Decending 62 floors of late-night darkness with only a candle, I had a terrified, weeping Spanish cleaning woman in tow. “It’s all right,” I kept telling her. “You can lean on me. Come on, you can do it. You’ll be fine.”

When I finally got my car out of the garage, we were gridlocked, stuck, going nowhere.

I’m not a talker; I’m a doer. I HATE mental masturbation.

After about 30 minutes of going nowhere, I put the car on the 51 Street sidewalk and walked to Sixth Avenue.

Today, I would be run over by a Hummer, but that night people obeyed me. When I walked out into Sixth Avenue, I stopped the traffic.

People looked at me like I was crazy. “Go to 52st Street,” I said. “And you go to 50th Street. And you there — you go to 49th Street. 50 and 52, you watch me; 49, you watch 50. 53, don’t move your arm until 52 directs you.

I swear to god — any god you choose to believe in — we got traffic moving on Sixth Avenue that night, in the first hours of a multi-day New York City blackout.

When the police arrived, they were speechless. “Nice work there, Blondie.”

Driving back to Brooklyn, all the New York city radio stations were out. Some female talk show host was on the air, nagging me with a familiar voice. Half-listening to her, inching my way towards the Brooklyn Bridge, I finally looked down on the dial.

Small Talking My Way to Attica

The radio voice was my friend Patti Y, broadcasting my old radio show “Small Talk”.

Wow, I thought. Small world. That “Small Talk” show got me in such trouble. Like Lubna I was minding my own business and next thing I know, my station is getting a call from the warden of Attica prison. He turned off my Sunday morning show and a two-day strike ensued.

“I am not disrupting Attica prison,” I told the station manager. ” ‘Small Talk’ is a little show on women’s rights. I have no idea why inmates at Attica are interested in me. None”

via The Confluence blogNext thing I knew I was being introduced to Kitty Genovese’s rapist, a lifer at Attica. I don’t know how these things happen in my life. (Trust me; Winston Mosley laughed about that murder over and over again. Read an interesting blog here: The Confluence.)

And before you call me racist, I had an unusually close to the imam of Attica and his wife. We were all trying to get him pardoned.

Blondie will go anywhere in search of help for women’s rights, recruiting men and women who support Smart Sensuality moxie girls.

Strong Women’s Arms Cradle the World

Anne of Carversville bears her arms in support of Lubna Hussein“God bless America,” I sighed. “We’re getting Lubna out of jail, and trying to start a movement, and all American women care about is how Michelle Obama gets toned arms.

Last night I was intercepted on Facebook by Ms Egypt, and we talked a lot about body parts and veils and Lubna’s case. Sensing meaning in this haze, I said: “Ok Anne, go with what you’ve got. It’s working so far.”

With man’s obsession with women’s body parts, I’m baring my arms, too. Not to worry; that’s all I’m baring. I’m not a call girl.

Nor am I jealous of Michelle Obama’s arms. Ive got my own, thank you.

Come on, tell me. This headline is pretty clever, right?

HopeTracker: Anne Hears Lubna Hussein’s Call for a New Breed of International Arms Agents

Here’s the rest of my writing today. I know, I know. “Work it, Anne.”

RedTracker: ‘How to Get Michelle’s Toned Arms’ Gets Google News Top Spot;

RedTracker: Lubna Ahmed Hussein Deserves a Closet Full of Trousers

Philanthro-Activists: Shakira & Lubna Inspire Smart Sensuality, Smarty Pants Types Saving Mother Earth, Vanilla Version

Anne of Carversville is a Smart Sensuality ‘prostitute’ reporting for duty.

Spent, I must go to the gym to rest. Lunges and leg presses await me.

Thank you very much four members of the NYTimes community for the wonderful traffic today. I don’t know who you are, but thank you very much.

Peace to all, and a digital hug to our muses, Lubna and Shakira. Love, Anne