Newsflash: "Have It Your Way" is a corporate slogan, not an unalienable right.

It is confusing sometimes, I know.

Anyway, I'm in Burger King for a late lunch/sodium, caffeine, fat and sugar hit, and there's this woman at the counter. Grey hair; square, lumpen glasses; square, lumpen body; shapeless, colorless clothes and skin. Her mouth is open, a lot. She's among the only other customers there at that hour, but all four or five counter employees are clustered around her, and the one who's taking my order is distracted by the show. It is quite a performance. Something about how she came in yesterday even though she never goes to Burger King, and she only came back today because she liked something or other, the spicy chicken sandwich, which is not what she GOT when she ordered it today. And she DOESN'T want another sandwich (apparently the disappointment was too crushing): she! wants!! her money!! BACK! her! MONEY. M-O-N-E-Y. and yes, she took the soda, but she only drank thiiiis much. On and on. They were in the middle of it as I arrived, and they were only just resolving it as I got my food.

So, okay. She finally gets her money, thanks them, ("Have a nice day, ma'am") and huffs out, vowing never to darken their doorstep again. The employees look at each other and break into tension-relieving giggles. Just another frootloop in the great cereal box of life, I suppose. And yet as I went to sit down, I found myself flashing on a George Orwell passage (as I so often seem to do, these days):

He remembered how once he had been walking down a crowded street when a tremendous shout of hundreds of voices--women's voices--had burst from a side-street a little way ahead. It was a great formidable cry of anger and despair, a deep, loud, "Oh-o-o-o-oh!" that went humming on like the reverberation of a bell. His heart had leapt. It's started! he had thought. A riot! The proles are breaking loose at last! When he had reached the spot it was to see a mob of two or three hundred women crowding round the stalls of a street market, with faces as tragic as though they had been the doomed passengers on a sinking ship. But at this moment the general despair broke down into a multitude of individual quarrels. It appeared that one of the stalls had been selling tin saucepans. They were wretched, flimsy things, but cooking-pots of any kind were always difficult to get. Now the supply had unexpectedly given out. The successful women, bumped and jostled by the rest, were trying to make off with the saucepans while dozens of others clamoured round the stall, accusing the stall-keeper of favouritism and of having more saucepans somewhere in reserve. There was a fresh outburst of yells. Two...women, one of them with her hair coming down, had got hold of the same saucepan and were trying to tear it out of one another's hands, and then the handle came off. Winston watched them disgustedly. And yet, for just a moment, what almost frightening power had sounded in that cry from only a few hundred throats! Why was it that they could never shout like that about anything that mattered?

Of course, the answer to that, or one of them, is, "And you, why don't you shout about the important shit more often?" To which in turn the answers are:

"Because I'm afraid I'm apt to get killed if I do."

"Because I don't even have time to think about all that; I've got enough problems as it is."

"Because they're way up there, and kind of abstract; the pan, or the burger, or the nitwit over in the next cubicle, they're right here, where I can reach them, and I can get immediate satisfaction of some sort with the petty drama. Even if it's just getting a few bucks back...or the satisfaction of venting at a real live person."


As I was eating, a woman came up to me, trying to sell bootleg DVD's. This happens fairly often in the fast-food joints and some diners around here. Sometimes people just come right out and baldly ask for money. When I was younger, I don't remember this happening so much. People ask for money in the street, sure, but coming right into business establishments, not so much; that, I tended to associate more with Mexico, for instance. (We don't get the little girls selling gum, but we do get somewhat older boys trying to sell candy bars). I don't know whether this is because middle-to-upper middle class suburbia, where I grew up, is less tolerant of this sort of thing, or whether it is, in fact, another sign of the further deteriorating economy. In either case it's astonishing just how much one learns to ignore.

If kittens ran the world

A sensitive video on getting one's priorities straight.

Pointer thanks to sbpoet at Watermark. Be sure to check out some of her fine poetry while you're there.

Metroblinguals

(Had this one in my buffer but forgot to post it; the debut of pal Alex's new blog, Train Mama, reminded me. Which, you should check it out).

Today on the subway, two kind of classic Queens boyz (the accent, the clothes, the manner of speaking, general presentation). One's interjecting the word "fuck" between every other word. They're talking about TV's, stereo equipment, something. Prices, models, numbers, numbers.

Then the one sitting across from me says he's gettin' a manicure, and maybe a pedicure. I look at him; he's rather prominently missing a tooth. I flash on a recent conversation about dentistry, or the lack thereof, being a class signifier, and wonder where hetboy pedicures fit into that equation. (Later the guy does say he's got a dentist appointment coming up).

Guy next to me is all, "Aw, that's so fuckin' gay." Some more back and forth, the gist of which I gather being that while it may indeed be fuckin' gay if you do too much of that shit, guy-across is still going for it, the pedicure. Guy next to me continues:

"And dude, what about these fuckin' facials. You know that shit? That shit is like, facials, they take off all your fuckin' blackheads, no shit."

Mississippi Goddamn

Don't tell me, I'll tell you.

Ole Miss nearly trips over the heels of South Dakota in its rush to keep women barefoot and pregnant.

As has been noted, at this point, such a law probably won't make much substantial practical difference in Mississippi (or South Dakota for that matter); "the state already has some of the strictest abortion laws in the nation." MS had seven abortion clinics; as of a year ago, only one was left, in Jackson, and it was struggling to keep its doors open. Guess why.


The UK Telegraph writes about us as though we were one of those repressive, regressive third-world countries instead of the Leader of the Free World. Oh, wait.

Anyway, as you know, the point now is to not so much about Mississippi or South Dakota but to seize the day and push for a court case that will lead to a wholesale overturn of Roe v. Wade; enough of this hole-and-corner chipping away.

So, yeah. I guess this would be that heightening of the contradictions that I seem to recall...certain people arguing as a good reason to have the Republicans in for yet another millenium instead of the useless Democrats. We'll see, won't we. It is true that this burst of optimism doesn't seem to be shared by all anti-abortion folks; they fear, probably with good reason, that it's too soon to count on the SCOTUS going their way (they'd need one more judge solidly in their court to really seal the deal).

Call me a cynic, though, but somehow I'm not exactly falling all over myself with joy here. Oh, look! A defining moment! A window of opportunity for the left to get its shit together and revive itself in the face of a crisis! To rise like a phoenix from the ashes! Thank God for that. Because it's not like we've had any other such opportunities over the last two-four-ten-twenty-five years. I'm sure we'll get right on that.

Somewhere on the road from agnostic to neopagan

...as reminded by taking a coupla quizzes to determine one's personal cosmology, via Bitch | Lab.

VASILISSA:
There are no such things as witches,
I have known this all my life.
If I lost my path, it's not from the wrath
Of a toothless old goodwife.
And even if I am astray
I'm sure I'll find another way
If not just now, at break of day
For these are woods I know.
I know,
I know,
For these are woods I know.

There are no such beasts as werewolves,
Normal wolves are enough to fear.
But I surmise those glowing eyes
Belong to a frightened deer.
And things that bump
And things that bite
Are mere illusions of the night
As soon as I can find some light
I'm sure these fears will go.
I know,
I know,
I know these fears will go.

There is no such thing as magic,
Of that much at least I'm sure.
I can't explain the sun and rain
But my faith in facts is pure.
The rules of men are right and real
The world is what you see and feel
Though other fancies might appeal
I know they aren't so.
I know,
I know,
I know they aren't so.

I can't grasp what's ethereal
I believe in the crown imperial,
and dialectics material.
The rules of men are right and real
The world is what I see and feel
Though other fancies might appeal
They aren't so, they aren't so,
And this is what I know, I know,
And this is what I know!

From nearby, an eerie howl

But, even so...


--from Baba Yaga, an unfinished musical in the virtual desk drawer

Postscript to addendum:

Confidential to zealous young hetboyz, freshly converted from their formerly misogynistic, lustful, dominatin' ways, all full of shame and repentance and eager to spread the Gospel of Dworkin to the unenlightened:

The ghost of Valerie Solanas came to me in a vision last night with a message for you. Are you ready? She says, it's not enough. In order to be a true radical feminist ally, you're gonna have to cut 'em off. The whole works, in fact. With nail scissors. And no anaesthetic.

Before she vanished into the ether, she allowed as how another alternative might be to sit your ass down, shut the fuck up, and listen to what actual women (including the ones who don't already agree with you) have to say before presuming to go a-educatin'.

But, she said, if that's too difficult, then go with the auto-castration. Anyway, the root of the problem is your sexuality, not plain ol' being an entitled asshole, so really, one good snip should eradicate any remaining tendencies toward being a sexist control freak for good. Huzzah! At last, a simple solution!

Addendum:

There are, I observe, two (at least, but for our purposes here) major themes running through the expressions of anti-BDSM (and other forms of "patriarchal" sexuality) sentiment. Roughly:

1) This is exploitive, or, at minimum, is reflective of our exploitive culture, and thus, should be shunned, or at least seriously critiqued.

2) Ew! Ewwww! ICKY! (shudder) EW.


Expressions of 1), provided they're argued with some thought and research, are worth taking seriously as feminism, whether or not one agrees.

Expressions of 2), not so much. And honestly, I've been seeing a lot of 2) lately, and, well, frankly, it irks. "What you do is gross and nasty" is not "radical feminism," nor yet is it a critique. That is high school. ("Oh. my. god. canyouBELIEVE what she's WEARING?! do you HEAR what she DOES?? psstpsstpsst"). Speaking of conformism. Speaking of conservative.

As for the "help, help, I'm being oppressed by what you do with another consenting adult in your bedroom/private sex club!" folks: you can fuck right off. Really. Speaking of control issues. There's more to power than leather and chains...or patriarchy. It'd be more convenient if it were that simple, I'm sure. But it never is.

She's right, you know.

Cassandra says:

For the record, I think that BSDM is like most other things - it has the potential to be either good or bad, and how it plays out in practise depends greatly on the ethics and motivations of the people involved. I've met some people who've had horrible experiences with BSDM, and others who have stepped in, had a great time and stepped out again when they got bored with no harm done. I have also met a smaller but stastically significant number of people for whom BSDM is simply part and parcel of who they are - they don't enjoy vanilla sex, and seem to simply be wired in such as way that they will always feel the need to play out power issues in the bedroom. I just don't see what purpose is served by telling these people that they are failing the feminist cause and not living up to their ideals every time they pick up a flogger or put on a corset.

...Given the country's current rapid drift towards a Handmaiden's Tale-like nightmare with no legal abortion and a crappy economy and the dismantling of Social Security, can we really not find something more important to worry about than policing the way that other people fuck? When you stop to think about it it's actually kind of absurd - we're facing some of the greatest actual threats to the feminist project in years and we're busy arguing amongst ourselves about what is and is not an acceptable way for a feminist to get her rocks off...

(more)

***

There's more to it than that, but: yeah.

Here'd be my request: If you are of the opinion that freedom of sexual expression is largely irrelevant in the greater scheme of things: well, I disagree, but I'm happy to not discuss it with people who share a number of my other concerns. So: let's agree to disagree, and not discuss it, as the woman says. There are bigger fish to fry.

If you are of the opinion that sexuality is largely irrelevant, though, and yet somehow you keep bringing it up: well, can you ask yourself why? And, is it really a surprise when people then take offense upon being misrepresented, patronized, blamed, shamed, and even demonized in the inevitable thrash that follows?

...It's probably fair here to offer a link to I Blame The Patriarchy's apparent last word on the topic of BDSM before declaring a moratorium on the subject at her blog. So, okay.


I mean, am I a spinster aunt or aren’t I? The code demands that I not shirk my duty. It has not escaped my notice that it upsets some women when I say their beloved stiletto heels are tools of the patriarchy, or when I say the nuclear family is a tool of the patriarchy, or when I say that pole-dancing is a tool of the patriarchy, so I don’t expect they’ll like it when I out their spanky-spanky sex life as a tool of the patriarchy, either.

But, like it or lump it, BDSM is patriarchy, the whole patriarchy, and nothin’ but the patriarchy, in a black latex nutshell. It is, I unwaveringly assert according to the Honor Code of the Blaming Spinsters, the eroticization of a vastly horrific social order that has, over the millennia, generated the suffering of untold millions, and against which I am sworn to vituperate. BDSM’s got it all: sex, power, rape, pain, dominance, submission, the false pretext of freedom, delusions of superiority, sublimation of the orgasm at all costs, women who think it liberates them, a conservative orthodoxy, compulsory conformity, absurd, exaggerated gender roles, and a silly dress code. It is profoundly anti-feminist, anti-intellectual, anti-individual, and unattractive.

Do it, do it, do it till you’re satisfied, whatever it is. Just don’t kid yourself. You’re gettin’ off on patriarchy. Which is not to say that patriarchy-blamers can’t be all “yay, BDSM!” Because if pain and humiliation get you off, what better way to achieve it than by hanging a sign on your ass reading “I blamed the patriarchy but all I got was his stupid orgasm.”

Thus spaketh the Twisty.

Just a couple of small notes here:

a conservative orthodoxy, compulsory conformity

Uh. Yeah. 'Kay. This is not my experience of the world of kink (although lord knows you can find annoying reversions to high school in any scene, anywhere). I do keep wondering, though, what it is this non-patriarchal world is supposed to look and feel like, exactly. God knows that I've certainly never found any tendencies toward orthodoxy or compulsory conformism among self-styled radical feminists. Radical anything, really. Just let me know when "real" freedom comes along, okay? It does seem like an awfully elusive concept, the more I read there. Especially in the comments section.

"Jam tomorrow, jam yesterday, but never jam today."

It is profoundly anti-feminist, anti-intellectual, anti-individual, and unattractive.

Well, smell YOU, Nancy Drew.

BTW: allow me to introduce Midori.

Speaking of jam: you do know that meat is murder and inextricably connected with the oppression of women, right? Come to think of it, that squash is calling out to me in anguished tones as well.

Interview with the vampire. Uhm, "neocon."

From a pointer at Shakespeare's Sister:

A conversation with Machiavelli's ghost: Controversial neoconservative Ledeen talks to Raw Story.

Oy. Just, oy. Some highlights, with commentary:

Ledeen speaks out against torture and calls for accountability at all levels, including the White House, should an investigation lead in that direction.

"Punish all the guilty parties, whoever they are, and do everything possible to prevent anything of the sort happening again," Ledeen says.

Yeah! That! And...yeah! That!

terrific. Thanks, braintrust, that's super-useful.

I describe myself as a democratic revolutionary, I don't think of myself as "conservative" at all. Indeed it seems to me that most self-described leftists today are reactionaries, and have lost the right to describe themselves as people of the left.

Well, um, yes, and yes, except for the "democratic" part. And yeah, it sucks that we're reduced to being reactionaries; that would be the heart of the problem; but then, it's hard to do much other than simply react when you're constantly under attack.

Revolutionary. Terrific. "It's just like socialism, except without all those pesky notions about equality and idealism and so on! POWER to the...um, us." ("We few...we happy few...") Oh yeah, I'm in. Trickle down on me, Daddy! Please?

I have a pretty dim view of human nature.

You know, so do I. Well, no, actually, that's not true. I have a pretty dim view of certain specific humans' nature.

Vladimir Bukovsky is one of my closest friends, and he is right when he says that torture destroys both its victims and its practitioners, and that it is deadly to any civilized enterprise.

That said, one must have a sense of context.

NEXT.

Oh, and love the way he neatly sidesteps the (astutely put) question about didn't he realize the Nazis came to power essentially through carefully orchestrated fear-mongering, not simply because "the Germans wanted it." Gee, I wonder why.

Palestine: making the political personal.

Raising Yousuf: A journalist's online account of trying to live and raise her toddler in occupied Gaza.

An excerpt:

"They try different combinations each day-25 tanks shells in a row; a gunship rocket attack; 5 more shells at eastern Gaza; drones whirring incessantly at varying speeds. 10 shells; 10 minutes of silence; sonic boom; 20 shells, with more firepower, in northern Gaza. 10 shells; one hour intermission; Shoot at someone near the fence. Stop to make sure there is no outcry and promise an investigation.

Then it continues.

Yousuf is at a very sensitive stage, where he doesn’t quite understand what’s going on-and looks to me for confirmation of whether or not he should be scared when the shelling starts. Following the advice of a friend, I continue to re-assure and distract him.

Today, I tried a new technique. Yousuf loves to sing and dance, so as the shelling started, we listened to some music my friend gave him as a gift- Suheil Khoury’s Bass Shwai, a children's CD from the Edward Said National Conservatory of Music (ESNCM), where four children, ages 9 to 11 sing songs composed by Khoury using lyrics written by various Palestinian poets and writers. Each song deals with a theme relating to children.

We listened to a song that imagines how the world might be like in different forms; a song I think can be read in many way. Needless to say, it was very therapeutic, perhaps more so for me than him. Sometimes, you need to take a step back and look through the eyes of children. Strange is what you make it I guess.

What if the world was made of wood
Birds of wood
Flowers of wood

What if the world was made of wood
Moons of wood
Stars of wood

How might it be, I wonder?
How strange…how strange
How would it be, I wonder?
How strange, how strange…
..."

MeltDown with Bill O'Reilly

So, Bill O'Reilly's got this petition to get Keith Olbermann fired. For MSNBC's own good, of course, and the Children. Certainly nothing to do with the fact that Olbermann regularly and mercilessly mocks O'Reilly's skeezy, loofah-pockmarked ass. But here, you can see for yourself:

February 22, 2006
Chairman Robert Wright
National Broadcasting Company
30 Rockefeller Plaza
New York, New York 10112

Dear Chairman Wright:

We, the undersigned, are becoming increasingly concerned about the well-being of MSNBC and, in particular, note the continuing ratings failure of the program currently airing weeknights on that network at 8:00 PM EST.

It is now apparent to everyone that a grave injustice has been done to the previous host for that time slot, Phil Donahue, whose ratings, at the time of his show's cancellation three years ago, were demonstrably stronger than those of the current host.

Therefore, in an effort to rescue MSNBC from the ratings basement and to restore the honor and dignity of Mr. Donahue, who was ignobly removed as host three years ago, we ask that you immediately bring Phil Donahue's show back at 8:00 PM EST before any more damage is done.

***

Actually, of course, it was Michael "I Have Springs Coming Out Of My Head" Savage who originally replaced Donohue, on account of MSNBC wanted to get in on that wacky right-wing erm I mean "fair and balanced" action that made Fox so popular, but hey, details. Olbermann replaced Savage when it became clear that Savage was barking, batshit crazy and wasn't as good at hiding it as, uhm, some other people Of That Ilk.

Meanwhile, back in the land of Shamefully Cheap But Worth It Schadenfreude, Olbermann responded to His Fragileness. Check out the video at Crooks and Liars.

Oh, and: someone in one of the comment boxes had managed a screen grab of the online petition signatures, before O'Reilly's site stopped making this feature available. Gee, you wonder why. Among the last 100 or so in the screengrab:

The_New_York_Times .. Is better than Fox News -1
She's A Witch! .. Burn Her! -1 :
blow m. loofah PR
blotchyskin o. falafelscrub
AndreaMackris R. HasYourCash
falafel f. loofahville PW
Big Giant Head D. Phone Sex TN
Stephen Colbert T. Springfield PA
Seymore B. Underthe bleachers TN
PotCalling D. Kettle Black MT
LOOK AT MY BIG HEAD C. ego is bigger than my penis NY
Fraud .. Of A Human NY
Falafel n. The Shower WY
Factor My A. hole, you arrogant prick
Look At My R. Ratings Drop!

***

As you'll see in the video, O'Reilly did get at least one real person to sign, though: Olbermann himself. And the rest of his colleagues at MSNBC. Get on boaarrrrd!

"As Leslie Nielsen said, 'there's nothing like a good movement.'
Which you already know if you've seen Bill's show."

And away we go: here comes the bill to challenge Roe v. Wade. Now.

South Dakota Legislature Passes Bill to Ban Abortion.

The gloves are off. This one would ban all abortions except when the life (not health) of the mother is in danger, in South Dakota. No exceptions for rape, incest, nada. Five year prison term for doctors who'd perform an abortion. Governor signs, Planned Parenthood files a lawsuit, and it's off and away to the Supreme Court. "The timing is right," sez the ban's sponsor. Gee, I wonder what he could mean. Hey-ho, let's go.

Mmm. Work.

This woman will tell you what it's like to work as a cabbie in NYC.

This man will make you understand, if you haven't already, why it's a really, really bad idea to piss off a waiter.

This article discusses the eternal, existential question: "Is Temping Hell?"

If you think you may detect a certain subtext to this entry, Gentle, Discerning Reader, you are not wrong.

Speaking of puritans: Misogynist godbag ratfuckers would rather you die of cervical cancer than have sex.

I'd been meaning to rant about this for a while. DarkSyde at Daily Kos did it better than I ever could have anyway.



"Eighty-percent of America's little girls will end up infected with the Human Papilloma Virus (HPV). Most will never exhibit symptoms, a bunch will chase the virus out of their bodies without ever knowing they have it. But for many it will remain, semi-dormant, and they can pass it on. The same is true for males.

Millions of them will develop a distinctive wart as a result of infection, easily diagnosed and treated. The most common sites of HPV warts include the genitals, hands, face, feet, and sometimes even the mouth or throat.

The Human Papilloma Virus is spread by contact. You can get it from someone else's hands or fingers, or from your own. It can be picked up from public facilities or by sharing clothes, by kissing, or from sexual contact. However you acquire the little bugger, once it's on your skin, its goal is to get deeper into the tissue, take over the molecular machinery of a host cell, and start making more viruses. Often the virus disrupts a key gene during this process, and if that gene happens to be a control gene which initiates or inhibits some portion of cellular division in the host cell, uncontrolled replication may follow. A little knot of cells will thus grow and grow, usually becoming visible eventually as a small bump with a cauliflower surface. And you have your wart.

But the disruption process is randomized, dependent on local chemistry within the nucleus of the host cells. And as the number of cells increases, more and more combinations of disruption occur. The probability that one of those cells crosses the threshold from benign to malignant goes up. And the end result, especially among certain types of cells, can be a cancerous tumor.


Cells in the lining of the cervix, throat, vulva, and other locations are particularly vulnerable to some of the most common strains of HPV. In fact, Cervical Cancer is believed to be caused almost exclusively by two strains of HPV. In addition this virus is strongly suspected as a common precursor in a number of other types of cancer.

Oddly enough, the link between cervical cancer and HPV is in a sense, good news. Because vaccines can be developed for viruses, cervical cancer comes with the potential of virtual elimination (Too bad all cancers don't work that way). And sure enough, pharmaceutical giant Merck & Co. recently developed a new vaccine for four strains of HPV, several of which are known to be associated with cervical and other cancers. Clinical trials indicate the vaccine is, get this, One-hundred Percent effective in preventing cervical malignancies! As a side benefit it also provides enormous protection against common types of warts which are both unattractive and trigger a false positive on PAP smears.

Results like that are breathtaking, eh? A real cure for cancer, at least one kind anyway, that works every time. Rarely in life or in science is anything one-hundred percent. And what it means is we can now give every little girl (And little boy for that matter) something never before available with a few shots in the arm: Near total protection from nasty warts along and one of the greatest cancer killers of all time, if administered early in life, before they're exposed to HPV.

Except there's a catch, here in the US anyway: The Neo-Christian Right (NCR) is opposed:

[Link] In the US, for instance, religious groups are gearing up to oppose vaccination, despite a survey showing 80 per cent of parents favor vaccinating their daughters. "Abstinence is the best way to prevent HPV," says Bridget Maher of the Family Research Council, a leading Christian lobby group that has made much of the fact that, because it can spread by skin contact, condoms are not as effective against HPV as they are against other viruses such as HIV.

'Giving the HPV vaccine to young women could be potentially harmful, because they may see it as a licence [sp?] to engage in premarital sex," Maher claims.'"

***

The author goes on to put this little tidbit in the context of a greater rant against the resurgence of the theocratic right. Worth reading the whole thing. Although it's true, as you'll read there, that one could pick any number of issues to highlight to demonstrate the evil assitude of these malevolent fucktards (choice, anti-gay bigotry, censorship, on and on), this one, well, this one really is something. Try not to get too upset as you read the anecdote of the twenty-five-year-old woman who fought recurring and ever more godawfully painful recurrences of cervical cancer, until it killed her. Restrain yourself from tracking down the nearest Family Research Council representative or similar godbag and saying and doing...things that one ought to restrain oneself from saying and doing. Or, you know, not.

Evil pustulent planaria cumstains. Burn in hell.

In your face, puritans.

BBC: Masturbation cuts your risk of prostate cancer. I look forward to the screams and wails from the Anti-Sex League/Defenders of the Hearth and Home via Policing Everyone Else's Bedroom.

What the article doesn't say, but I have often speculated about: *how* the boys might masturbate for best results? Because I'm thinking: besides the fact that ejaculation is good for you (hello), also, anal penetration can be a real effective way to massage the prostate...

78 year old shooting victim apologizes to Cheney.

No, I'm not fucking joking.

'"My family and I are deeply sorry for all that Vice-President Cheney and his family have had to go through this past week," Whittington told reporters outside Christus Spohn Hospital in Corpus Christi, Texas. "We send our love and respect to them as they deal with situations that are much more serious than what we have had this week.'

***

That is just...well...I...fnu...glph. I shouldn't be surprised at anything anymore, and in the greater scheme of things...and yet, and yet. Apologizing to the guy who shot you in the face and triggered your heart attack is just such a fucking on-the-nail symbol of everything that's wrong with this administration and what it represents that now I am fully expecting them all to come equipped with their own personal theme music and a thunderclap and lightning bolt after every public statement. This is just not even happening. This is some fucked up screenwriter's nightmare we're all stuck in. Someone who apparently thought that the problem with "Revenge of the Sith" was that it was just too fucking subtle. Someone who watched a Monty Python episode and concluded that it was a documentary. YO, ASSHAT, TIME TO WAKE UP AND GET US SOME FUCKING REWRITE.

Do not click this link

New Abu Gharib photos, via Chris Clarke. And if you don't have the stomach for more horrific torture performed by grinning idiots all in the name of "freedom," democracy, and...(if you're a United States citizen) you, then do at least go to Clarke's site, Creek Running North, for the fine writing.

The most interesting thing about the Cheney shooting business,

to me, anyway: say what you will about Americans' attention deficit problem, when it comes to cases like this, boy, we're all over it. Not just that it's a juicy scandal, one that potentially affords schadenfreude, either.
I mean: give us a concrete, whodunit or at least whendunit or whydunit crime story, and suddenly everyone turns into Hercule Poirot. Congraulations, Dick: you're now entering the Lewinsky zone. And if the guy croaks, you'll be joining the fine ranks of OJ Simpson and Scott Peterson in our Hall of National Obsessions.

As it is, you can find this sort of animated discussion happening all over the place:

To what degree angle could a hunter reasonably be expected to swing the gun? How many entry wounds, exactly? What can we expect Cheney's blood alcohol content to have been if he truly only had one beer at lunch? If the quail flushed out *toward* Cheney, and the incident happened at 5:30, and this administration has two and a half more years in office, how many blue dresses would it take to soak up the mess? And what time does the train get into the station, and when do we see the light at the end of the tunnel?

Speaking of parents: What *about* the Lakoff model, anyway?

I still haven't got much past the opening chapters of "Moral Politics," so for all I know Lakoff does address this very issue later in the book. But here's an angle on his basic premise (thus far) that I haven't seen talked about in public discourse much, at least.

Say he's right and the Republicans are the "stern father" party while the Dems are the "nurturing mother" party. Okay. Well, the thing is, even assuming you tend to favor one parental model over the other (as normal Republicans/Democrats are assumed to do), there are still functional and dysfunctional versions of each, aren't there.

Right now, what we've got running the joint isn't Father Knows Best sternly but efficiently laying down the law, prudently managing household funds, doling out "tough love" so that the kids can stand on their own two feet, and so on. What we've got is a raging junkie who already blew through the kids' college funds and Grandma's nest egg in order to support his numerous substance abuse habits, bail money, and the horses, and is now selling off the furniture. He lies like a rug and is slipperier 'n' a greased weasel when you try to pin him down. And if the lies and evasions don't work, he's screaming abuse and threats, which he backs up with his fists and whatever else is handy. (Sometimes he does that anyway, just to keep you on your toes, as it were). Alternating with phases of charm and extravagant promises of how the good times are just around the corner, if you'll just give him another chance. Poor guy. No one believes in him, is the problem. He just don't get no respect. Pay the man the respect that's due him!

And the Democrats? They're the "enabling" mom who's so beaten down and mindfucked by now that it takes all her energy just to get through the day, let alone summon up the resources to figure out how the hell to get rid of the monster without getting killed in the process. She provides neither protection nor nurturing, not really, even if she patches up the cuts and gives some hugs after the worst of the damage is done. She is not an effective role model. She just walks on eggshells and tries to make believe that it's not so bad, really; if you just wouldn't do xyz, he wouldn't get so mad.

Now here's the punchline. In individual, non-metaphorical versions of this scenario, the kids tend to blame Mom more than Dad. Partly because it's too fucking scary to confront Dad, even internally, and at least Mom (the real deal as well as the one in your head) won't kill you if you get angry at her. And partly, this happens because Mom is perceived to be the sane one, and therefore, the reasoning goes, she could do her job, but won't. She fell down; she did not protect. In effect, she's asking the kids to take care of her.

On Dad's side of the equation, there are phenomena such as "traumatic bonding" and "identifiation with the aggressor," (which is as good an explanation for the freepers as I can think of). Some people will look at the false dilemma of these two inadequate role models, and reckon that if the only apparent choices are being strong and abusive and being weak and abused, they'll go with the strong guy. Anyway, he certainly sounds more convincing when he says he's right; and by now you've learned that trusting your own intuition gets you nowhere, so naturally you're gonna go with the guy who trumpets the loudest that he'll keep you safe. Even if he's the one who's been beating the crap out of you.

Is this fair, then, this focusing of the blame on the "lesser of two evils?" Is this rational? Probably not, not entirely anyway. But, it's there.

So yeah, I get the frustration. I don't want to send the Dems another check, even if they are all we've got. Especially if they're all we've got. I don't feel like sticking up for them because they're "doing the best they can," even if it's true. Not as long as their best isn't doing the job. Where the hell is Auntie Mame when you need her?

See, this is a good Mom.

Bitch Ph.D. educates her boy on gender politics, fashion, and the delicate art of diplomacy.

I don't know if I'm more impressed that she helped her son polish his nails and sent him to school with the manicure, or that she was able to convince him not to belabor the point by arguing with the snotty little girl who told him "boys can't paint their nails," once he'd showed her that he could and did. I think the latter. How many of us supposed adults understand about quitting while we're ahead? Or that it's more important that we and our loved ones know who we are and can express it freely than to prove it to some random, snotty stranger?

Baby blue

From the so-aptly-named Cute Overload.

Now I have a terrible kitten jones. My five-year-old cat would kill me or eat it, not necessarily in that order. Maybe. Weellll...NO, dammit. Bad timing. Bad idea.


(o but it's so kyooooot)

*sigh* It's gonna be one of those days, isn't it.

The personal IS political. Which means crazy persons will have crazy politics.

This post over at Mad Melancholic Feminista hits on a subject near and dear (well, maybe not "dear" exactly...) to my heart; to wit, the uncanny ways in which a political wingnut's approach to "debate" will have to the ways in which your garden-variety personality-disordered person will interact. Regardless of the label, you end up walking away from the encounter feeling like *you're* the crazy one, not to mention drained and exhausted.

Really encourage you to go over there and read the whole thing, especially the techniques which wingnuts/PD'd will use with you ("projective identification" is the biggie).

Just a couple notes of my own here:

*As one of the commenters on MMF's site pointed out, yes, it's true, this sort of wingnuttish behavior is not limited to people on the right end of the spectrum. I can vouch that my last trip down the rabbit hole was with self-styled lefties.

However, there's a good argument to be made that the current administration, or most of it, falls squarely into the "wingnut" camp, and it isn't just about this issue or that issue. It's about a fundamental belief system. As Lakoff, among others, have pointed out, we all have one. What interests me, though, is where such belief systems come from, and how they manifest outside of the political sphere. Someday soon I'll have a longer post or twelve about all this, and what it might mean for a "sane society" (Erich Fromm). I feel strongly that it's going to be crucial for more of us to understand how this works, if we ever want to see a true sea change in the zeitgeist as well as the three branches of federal government.

*There are, I feel obliged to point out, some worthy human beings out there who have been diagnosed BPD (or, more rarely, as they tend to be less likely to seek therapy, NPD or APD/"sociopathy"), and are actively working on their stuff. Not to mention people who struggle with mood disorders and other chemical imbalances. I don't lump these folks in with the wingnut/frootbat brigade, myself. There's crazy and there's crazy and there's crazy.

And without getting too far into the sticky questions of "how much of the behavior is stuff the person can't help? nature/nurture?" and so on, the deal is: the personality disordered, particularly those of the antisocial/borderline/narcissistic cluster, project blame outward. Which means that by definition, if you've got this sort of personality, you will not take any responsibility for your own behavior. You won't think, consciously at least, that you have a problem at all. It's the rest of the world that has the problem. (Which is a great segue into "radical" political activism, for some). Which means that the chances of actual change are slim.

And, blame and labels aside, coming back full circle to MMF's point, the bottom line is that it's worse than useless to try to have a rational discussion/argument with such people. You think you're playing tennis; they're playing Calvinball. And then they'll whack you in the head with the racket and loudly complain about your cheating.

Pandora's music box

Pandora: your own personal computerized DJ.

Shout-out to Susie Bright for the link. Since I'm lazy tonight, I'm going to just cutnpaste her summation of how it works:

***

"It makes a unending playlist of songs based on your ear.

When you go to their page, they ask you to name a song you especially like. Pandora looks up that song, and runs it through a serious of musicology formulas they've devised.

A personal "radio station" pops up that delivers streaming songs based on the temperament of your original choice. It's rather uncanny..."

***

It is uncanny. It's actually quite brilliant. More often than not, it's right: the pick will find you sliding into your own personal, elusive groove. Even if you've never heard of the song or the artist before. And chances are good that it will play stuff you don't know, thus expanding your horizons. And if you don't like it, you can click a "thumbs down" icon, and it not only won't play that song again (it even apologizes that you didn't like it, which i found oddly touching, somehow), but will factor it into its next choice. A "thumbs up" ensures that it'll play that song again. You can also create a new, spin-off station based on a choice you like. You can simultaneously create other stations: you're allowed up to a hundred with your free registration.

Surprisingly, it often crosses genres. One of my lists was based on "Squirrel Nut Zippers," (you can ask for a song or an artist). I expected mostly more hot jazz, maybe with a "quirky" tinge. So far it's given me, among others:

Red & the Red Hots, "But Baby" (the sort of thing I did expect, then:)
Violent Femmes, "Country Death Song"
Creedence Clearwater Revival, "Don't Look Now"
Leon Redbone, "Sugar"
Sam Phillips, "How To Quit"
Tom Waits, "All the World is Green"

You can ask it why it picked what it did, and it'll give you technical terms like "acoustic sonority" as well as more layperson-identifiable stuff like "romantic lyrics." Clearly whatever list of common denominators they tell you is just a fraction of a huge database, intelligently designed by people who know their music as well as their computin'.

Pandora's aptly named. Open it, and you may never be able to shut the damn thing down and go to bed already.

Wrestling with the mailbox

...not to be confused with wrestling with the angel.

No, just: my building was built in the late 1920's, which in itself is a plus in many ways. Bigger and more aesthetically pleasing rooms, solid-er walls and so on, and, surprisingly enough, better plumbing (mostly) than you tend to get in the more recently constructed places. Unfortunately, it's not kept up as well as it could be, and there are some aspects that could definitely use an update.

To wit: the aforementioned mailboxes. Are about the height, width, and depth of three DVD's. And I, like most of us in this our modern woild, get a shitload of junk mail*. Which means that nearly every day, I'm struggling for a good five minutes, sometimes longer, to wrest out a bunch of crap that I'm just going to pitch immediately into the trash anyway, often cutting my hand in the process. (The mailperson thoughtfully tucks the bulkier pieces in behind the little jutting pieces of metal along the sides, just in case they might try to escape). It's just another one of those drip-drip-drip torments that would hardly be worth noticing once, or twice. But every day...

(*did they not have as much mail back in the day? Maybe they only had small, thin envelopes to contend with--no, wait, at least the Sears Catalogue must have been a stretch. maybe everyone was just really, really tiny. less protein and all. yeah, that must be it).

Anyway I know I'm not alone in feeling this way, and possibly not even the most insane about it, prone though I unfortunately am to loud and unneighborly cursing. In similar vein, the trash receptacles are roughly the size of a box of Tic-Tacs. Which, unless you remember to use about 30 separate baggies, means a reprise of the mailbox struggle, only this time with nasty, smelly old food. The trash room is also the recycling room, and for months, there was a small feud going on in my floor's room, all through notes. Like so:

NEIGHBOR ONE: "This room is for recycling only. Please don't leave food or other smelly trash in here. It brings vermin. Throw it down the chute. Thank you."

(note is torn down, then replaced, written in caps, darker ink, and with multiple underscores, and pasted in two other places).

NEIGHBOR TWO: "if u want us to throw it away than build a bigger chute."

(some days pass, then:)

NEIGHBOR ONE (or possibly NEIGHBOR 1A): "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, PEOPLE. PLEASE. BE ADULTS. IT'S NOT THAT DIFFICULT, IS IT?! MUST EVERYONE ELSE PICK UP YOUR MESS??"

SUPER: (Reminder about the room being for recycling only, with an addendum that anything left there would be thrown away).

NEIGHBOR TWO: (in poison-green ink): "nobody asked you to mess with it, that was suppose to be left there. stop playing with everyone's trash you filthy animal :-) "

***

I wonder how the hell people managed to keep from killing each other before indoor plumbing.

"YOU SEVEN-BY-NINE B'HOYS! YOU MAKE THESE DIGGINGS INTO A DOGGERY!"

"PSHAW, YOU HIGHFALUTIN BLUENOSE, NO NEED TO GET SO ALL-FIRED WRATHY. IT AIN'T YOUR FUNERAL NOHOW."

"STOP EMPTYING YOUR CHAMBER POT ONTO MY HUSBAND! LAST TIME YOU RUINED HIS BEST INEXPRESSIBLES!"

"AH, SHUT PAN, YOUR OLD MAN'S A LICK-SPITTLE, AND HE HAS THE FRENCH POX. :-)"

Vicarious snerk all 'round the world

The Exile's website is a great place to not only read some American journalists you may already know in other contexts (Matt Taibbi, previously known to moi only via New York Press and some subsequent freelance articles, is/was a founder), but to learn all about Moscovite archetypes. And, more important, how dangerous each of them is when provoked.

Closer to home (my home, okay; I am the center of the universe. like Camille, I am the cosmos. goo goo ka choo), Ed Ward will tell you exactly how, and why, Berlin Bites.

nN~ruQt?>/!tHHPLLlttt...

Just a tiny question to the authors of "word verification," here and elsewhere:

The goal is to make sure the poster is a human and not a spambot, right? Not some sort of vision test, or guessing game, or cruel jest at our expense, right?

So, what's up with the calligraphy? The squiggly-wigglies? The transparent floaty letters hovering in some sort of typographic twilight zone? The dare I say hieroglyphics, even?

Would it be too much to ask that the word to be typed be, you know, *typed?*

In readable letters?

So that we could enter the post within the first two or three tries?

tH
any!K

o u

"Oh, sorry, Argument's down the hall..."

...it's getting hit on the head lessons in here. Eternally.



ME: Hi there, just poking my head in, as I'm finding you kind of aggressively insane on another site and my curiosity finally got the better of me and...my goodness, you're even more of a frootbat than I thought, aren't you. Oh, dear. Well. Hmm.

FB: How DARE you come into MY space and say these things?!
Not another word out of you! Not! One!! Word!!! Or I'll BAN you!

ME: Buh-bye, then.


FB: That's it!! That's another word!!! I warned you! I warned you!
Right, you're banned.


Um...okay!


Note to self: must. stop. engaging these people...

Like, wicked stupid

A pointer to the amusingly horrid Dating Horrors inspired me to dredge up this one.

Once I had a personal ad in the "Women seeking Women" section of the local alternative rag. You could retrieve responses by phone. Mostly these were reasonable women, if none I really clicked with. There was, however, one doozie. Lemme see if I can recreate it from memory:

MALE VOICE, THICK JOISEY ACCENT:

Hey, ____, I saw your ad. You sound real cool. My situation is, me and my girlfriend, we got this little Suzie. We played with her a couple times, you know. Then she fell hard for my girl and now she follows her around like a little puppy dog. And now me and my girl want to get married, so...You'll like her, she's real cute. She'll do anything you want. One thing, though (laughs): She is like, wicked stupid. Anyway, call me, you're interested, we'll hook something up. Later. BEEEEP

***

I confess I was strongly tempted to respond, if only to find out how l'il Suzie took to all this. That, or turn it into a screenplay for some whacked-out noir flick. Dunno how it turns out, but I'm fairly certain that at some point someone ends up in a trunk.

Scissor Sisters: Too vulgar for the likes of us

Or at least it was too much for MTV to play the video for "Filthy/Gorgeous" when it was released last year. I'm just amused to note that even on gay.com there are (some) people who are scandalized; apparently they think it's a shonda for the straight folk, or something. Anyway, you can watch it here:

(scroll down to Windows/Real Player links under "Watch it Now!")

Neighborhood watch

On my street, there is a man who stands.

An older man. Kind and twinkly looking enough. Not at all remarkable, really, except that he stands. A lot. In one spot, in front of what one presumes to be his building, leaning against a waist-high iron fence.

He's there in the morning as I head toward the subway. He's there in the evening as I'm coming home. He's there in the middle of the day, on such occasion as I've had to be walking there in the middle of the day. Standing. Not sitting. Standing. And watching.

For a long time, we would exchange smiles and nods as I passed, but no words. And I would think to myself: who is this guy, and what is he up to, and why doesn't he at least get a chair? Is he a spy of some sort? A sentinel, guarding a portal to another dimension? Or is he just some elderly guy who likes to watch; that, and the sensation of cold hard iron pressing into his coccyx?

Finally one day I stopped and introduced myself. Turns out he has a name, and a friendly disposition, and a thick Noo Yawk accent. His story was simple enough: sharing an apartment with his brother (brudder), doesn't like to be cooped up all day. Apparently he's at his post even more often than I knew: often gets up before dawn, he said, so he can get a cawfee and maybe read the paper. Then he comes back to his spot, and so begins his day. He stands, he said, because if he sat down that would really mean he'd gotten old.

So now when I see him I stop and chat for a bit, as do other friendly neighborhood types. Usually about the weather. Once, at the start of a long weekend, he asked me if I was going out of town. I said, "nah, you?" He said, "Nah. I went out to the country once. I didn't like it. I don't like to go where it's quiet. I don't wanna hear the boids go 'tweet tweet.' I like to be where the people are."

So, okay. He stays home, he stands, he talks to people. I figure by now he must have quads like tree trunks. But he's become a comforting figure for me, really. Friendly, neighborly, and more reliable than many things, events, and people, here in the city.

Which is why it was disquieting, one day, to pass by his building and note:

1) He wasn't there. Okay, sometimes this happens. But.

2) Standing in his place, in his exact place, mind you, was somebody else. A woman. Little, dark. Smiling. Standing. And watching. Just...watching.

I nodded hello, smiled, and continued toward the subway. But inside, oh inside, I was all a-whirl with anxiety. What could this mean?

I walked on. Somewhere, in the distance, a dog barked.

"The Fall of a True Believer"?

So titled this MoJo piece about Jack Abramoff.

"To Marshall Wittmann, a former Christian conservative who now works for the moderate Democratic Leadership Council, the story of Jack Abramoff is the story of a generation. 'It's a classic tale of intending to do good -- and doing very well,' he says. 'The pledge of all these Reagan revolutionaries was to overturn the iron triangle of Congress, the special interests, and the lobbyists. Instead, they've found themselves comfortable with big government, as long as it cashes in for their clients. I remember all these people as insurgents, revolutionaries to overthrow the establishment. They became the establishment in such a short time in an orgy of moneymaking. They ran the Republican revolution off the rails.'"

**

That's if you buy that it was a "fall." Alternately, you could go with the simpler theory:

"'I don't think Abramoff ever stood for anything,' says Melanie Sloan, executive director of Citizens for Responsibility and Ethics in Washington. 'I think Abramoff just stands for greed. I think Abramoff is a terrible human being and should get anything coming his way.'"

***

I was inclined to go with the latter explanation. And yet I'm reading this and it does seem that Abramoff was some sort of zealot. Starting as a lad.

"IN THE HEAT OF A LOS ANGELES summer afternoon, the 13-year-old set off from home and began walking the five miles to synagogue. He was hungry and thirsty. It was the Jewish holy day of Tisha B'Av, when observers are not allowed to consume food or water for 24 hours. Grasping for his own interpretation of the law, the boy had convinced himself that he wasn't supposed to ride in a car or even wear shoes.

He walked along the fence of the Los Angeles Country Club, an institution that historically excluded Jews. The pavement was hot and full of small stones, and his stocking feet began to blister. But when a member of the synagogue offered him a ride, he refused. To young Jack Abramoff, the religion of his ancestors was perilously close to fading away in his generation. He wasn't going to fail it."

***

Okay. But why? According to the story, his turning point to fierce ascetism in the name of his forefathers came after watching Fiddler on the Roof. Somehow I tend to doubt that it's ever that simple.

At any rate, Abramoff clearly is and was fervently dedicated to...something:

"Abramoff set out to mobilize the conservative movement around the causes he was hired to represent. One of the first was the Northern Mariana Islands, a U.S. commonwealth seized from Japan after World War II. Under a special covenant, the Pacific island chain is exempt from certain federal laws, setting its own immigration policies and minimum wage. This has allowed companies like The Gap and Abercrombie & Fitch to manufacture clothing with the "Made in U.S.A." label while employing thousands of Asian 'guest' workers at $3 an hour. Observers have reported 100-degree factory floors, mandatory unpaid overtime, and crammed barracks with no running water surrounded by barbed wire. 'We have evidence that at least some of the Chinese workers, when they become pregnant, are given a three-way choice: Go back to China, have a back-alley abortion...or be fired,' then-Interior Secretary Bruce Babbitt testified in Senate hearings in 1998. Three years ago, a group of manufacturers settled a union-sponsored class-action lawsuit for $11 million.

In 1995, with pressure mounting to strip the Northern Marianas of their special privileges, island officials contacted Abramoff. He flew to the commonwealth and came away convinced the reports were exaggerated. He also believed -- truly believed, say his colleagues -- that the islands represented federal deregulation at its best. 'He called [them] a unique political experiment," says Roger Stillwell, a former Democratic lobbyist who also worked for the commonwealth. 'Jack said, "We have to protect this, because what they have would be real advantageous to the United States."'"



Whatever this is, clearly it goes beyond simple selfishness and greed. Maybe it's an ideology of selfishness and greed. Frankly, I prefer the less pure version.

Or maybe this is simply what sociopathy looks like.

Still, it's telling that so much of this is done in the name of morality. Is it just that old canard about piousness at work? Are we seeing the last refuge of these scoundrels? Or is it legitimate to call this a form of morality? It's fucked up according to my sense of morals, but there does seem to be a belief system of some sort at work here. Abramoff and all his Christian fundamentalist buddies. Patriarchy Pals. And whether you're talking about America First or Biblical mandate (either Testament) or plain old malignant narcissism, when you look at the current government and its high-ranking supporters, it is impossible to conclude anything but that they truly believe that they're better than everyone else. In that sense, their behavior has been entirely consistent with their morality, such as it is.

My question, always: where does that elitism come from? Certainly the narrative of "we are God's Chosen People, let us go forth and conquer" is written into the founding of this country as it is in the Books of the people who landed here, but that isn't enough. There are other Americas, other Christianities, and, as Abramoff himself noted, other ways of being Jewish. (And thank G-d for that, says this nice Jewish American girl who finds Abramoff doubly embarassing).

And then, too, consider:

"'I love this bitch talk you punk ass bitch,' Abramoff emailed Scanlon in an exchange about racquetball. 'As soon as I get yo ass on court, you be crying like a baby!'

and

"'According to your emails,' Senator Campbell read from a script, 'you and Mr. Scanlon referred to tribes as morons, stupid idiots, monkeys, f-ing troglodytes...and losers.' The senator looked up. 'Why,' he asked, "would you want to work for people that you have that much contempt for?'"

Why, indeed.

Or, well, Abramoff already seems to have answered that question in his own emails, viz:

"'The key thing to remember about these clients is that they are annoying, but that the annoying losers are the only ones who have this kind of money and part with it so quickly.'"

...but it still doesn't really answer anything. Why the greed in the first place? And why the contempt?

But, so, who to turn to for answers? Lakoff? (I still need to finish Moral Politics). Should we just consider this as a fundamental difference in philosophy? Should we maybe look to Alice Miller and her theory of "poisonous pedagogy?" Is the real problem here not so much the Father but the fathers? Tell us about your childhood, Jack, George, Rush. No, really. What the hell happened there to make you such gaping black holes of people?

"Grillz"

So this is, or just was, the number one song requested on iTunes. On heavy rotation on the radio, too, no doubt, but I haven't listened to plain ol' radio in ages now. I might have remained oblivious to this one except that I caught the video on MTV whilst in a hotel (yes, I've turned into one of those smug obnoxious "I got rid of my cable and it feels GREAT!" people. It's only 75% because almost everything sucks; another part of it was wanting to save money, and figuring I might as well begin by cancelling a subcription to a service wherein almost everything sucks). Just so you know: it's even dumber out loud than it is on the page. Which is saying something, considering that it's an ode to the ineffable hipness and aesthetic charms of really, really expensive dentures.

I have bitched about the gangsta zeitgeist before (which, as observed by 50 Cent, if not Dubya himself, extends well beyond hip-hop culture), but I don't think I'd fully expressed just how much I hate pop music right now. R&B that sounds like it went through the deflavorizer, with maybe a side trip through yodelling country. Country music so full of patriotic smarm and bombast that it would probably make the "Ballad of the Green Berets" author cringe with embarassment. Bubblegum that tastes like it was scraped off the bottom of a formica table from some mall that never left the 80's, with a roll or so through 90's grunge (oh god, how I HATE that nasal, whiny drone they all seem to have these days...) The hideous and inexplicable longevity of Mariah Fucking Carey.

And yes, I'm well aware that there are all kinds of wonderful and quirky artists out there, old and new, and with the advent of Modern Technology, one has more access to an astonishing diversity of music than ever...if one only knows where to find it, of course.

But if an anthropologist from the future were to pick up a time capsule full of mainstream (whatever that truly still is) popcult from right now, I think she'd probably file it under "Big Honking Signs That The Culture Was In Trouble." And no, this does NOT mean that I think what we all need is a return to the days when everyone knew their place, Great Classics were taught in the schools, the streetcar cost a nickel and the goddam kids stayed offa my lawn. I don't honestly know when or where things (can we vague this up any more?) were truly, unambiguously "better." Because the answer to that is almost always "it depends on who you ask, and when." More to the point, for most of the supposed golden ages, I just wasn't there. And memory, personal or collective, is a devious editor.

All I do know is that right here and now, it's a stupid, mean, crass, cowardly, greedy, unimaginative, soulless time, and that therefore it's no surprise that music (among other things) sucks, on the whole.

And now, get offa my goddam lawn.

Weird: science.

I come from an academic mixed marriage: my mother's a language professor, my father's a chemist. For most of my life, I was quite clear that I came down on the Arts and Letters side of the divide; the Sciences were dull and frustrating, at least as I experienced them in school. Anyway I understood a lot more about what my mother did for a living than I did my father; whether this had to do with the fact that my mother simply talked about her work and made it a part of our everyday lives much more than my dad did (for years I was convinced that his job primarily consisted of going to lunch), or whether it came down to my innate predisposition, I don't know. Anyway I loved reading, and math bored me, so that seemed to settle that. I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life, but I knew it had to involve writing. When I decided that theatre was the path for me, my identity seemed clearer still. Humanities. Words.

Over the last few years, I've been slowly (very slowly) shifting my focus and interests, to the point where I'm looking to go back to school (again), for to become a psychologist. In order to get into one of the programs I'd be applying for, I needed certain core undergraduate-level psychology courses that I hadn't taken the first go-round through B.A. land. So off I went. Imagine my surprise upon being informed that psychology was considered a science, and as such, we would be learning certain basic principles, studying human biochemistry, and taking part in lab experiments, among other things that I had never thought I'd have any truck with. Imagine my further surprise to realize that I was actually getting into this aspect of the field (to me it's truly a hybrid profession, neither fish nor fowl, and you can approach it as a counselor, a bodyworker, a socio-political advocate, a hardcore scientist, a philosopher, or even an artist...or any combination of those and more). Okay, statistics are not my thing, but knowing how to prepare and run an experiment is really useful and enlightening. And understanding the body's influence on mind (if you can truly even distinguish the two) is something I'm finding profoundly satisfying.

And it occurs to me, now: it's just barely possible that I might have had a less negative impression of science(s) as a kid if I had just had decent classes. After all, before I started studying the stuff (or so-called) at school, I was avidly reading "Cosmos" and trying to learn to identify all the birds I saw. I even had a little chemistry set when I was eight. My interest in the subject waned rapidly once I got beyond "hey, pretty colors!," but still, it was there for a time.

And then came biology, with its frogs and formaldehyde. ("This is froggy's last day, so be nice to him," quoth my sophomore teacher, holding up a hapless, squirming amphibian by the haunch before dropping it unceremoniously back into the tank). My question, then and now: isn't biology about the study of life? Wouldn't it make more sense to learn about the way animals live before we open them up and poke about their insides? And chemistry (as taught by one jerk and one deaf lunatic), and all the maths. Oh, god, the maths. I know now that there are people who "get" math in a way that I don't and probably never will. All the same, if I'd at least had some idea of what on God's green earth I was supposed to do with this...well. All I knew was that I was dutifully trying to replicate formulas that someone else had solved/done before me, and that was it. You did it correctly or not, and that was all. I hated it.

Rereading Orwell's "Such, Such Were the Joys," a memory of his dire time in an English boarding school at the turn of the last century, I was struck that for him, science represented both unconventionality and freedom. It was a respite from the rote, insanely dull drills of Latin and history; it meant going out into the field or the woods or the waters and looking at plants and animals. Touching and exploring and asking questions. Seeing for himself. Unlike the rest of his education, it must have seemed real to him, or realer, anyway. Ironically, this was at least partly because at the time, science wasn't considered terribly important. Anyway, you didn't need it to pass your exams, and that was what really mattered.

Ultimately I think almost any subject can be dull or interesting, alive or dead, depending on not just who's teaching it (yes, fun, sympathetic teachers always help), but the philosophy behind the teaching. For me, science was dead because I never understood why I was learning about any of this. Had I had a better grasp that at bottom it was simply about "finding out how the world works," I probably would have been a lot more interested. The fact that I *did* get that English was a way of finding out how the world works might have been because I had better teachers in that subject, or it might just have been because I already had understood the magic of books from a very young age, and even the dullest class wasn't going to take that away from me.

King Kong is a ding dong

Although you may want to take my take with a fair helping of salt.

Confession #1: I walked out, about 2/3 through. Although it's just barely possible that one of these days (most likely when it comes out on DVD) I'll go to the trouble of seeing that last hour. Maybe.

Confession #2: I may be one of the only people in western civilization who never saw the original(s) and in fact hadn't known much about the plot before I saw this one (and then later read the reviews). The gist and the big finish, sure; but I hadn't ever really known how they got there.

Which means that I had always assumed that the racism people attribute to the movie only had to do with the subtext (what with the brute's ravishing of the delicate blonde and all). I hadn't known there was also that whole "savages in the jungle" scene. And I certainly didn't expect that level of...well, savagery.

I find myself agreeing with the camp that suspects Peter Jackson was (at best) not really being very conscious here. For one thing, there is that one noble black guy, the first mate (the only non-white in the picture who couldn't be mistaken for an extra from "Dawn of the Dead"), who not only dies whilst heroically saving his white comrades and protege, but telegraphs his death for a good five minutes before the inevitable denouement. "Run, you fool!" I wanted to shout. Then I dropped my four-dollar water bottle, and promptly forgot about his or any of the other characters' problems, as ultimately I didn't really give a shit about any of them. Which was really the bottom line, for me; but, I'll get there in a sec.

Then, too, it seemed to me that the demonic natives looked just an awful lot like Jackson's orcs.

That wasn't enough to drive me out of my seat, though; what finally did it was that I just wasn't having any fun. And yes, the CGI was astounding, especially Kong himself (and that's the only reason why I'm just a tiny bit sorry I didn't stay till the end). Visually it was a treat. I think if I'd had more understanding of exactly went into all those amazing effects I'd probably have appreciated the whole thing a lot more. Also probably would be true if I were a film buff and understood all the nods and homages and so on.

But, I'm not. And, taken on its own terms and not as a beloved classic or a visual tour de force, the movie simply didn't work for me. Too overblown to be camp and too preposterous to be anything else. I didn't even enjoy it on a "thrill ride" level, and it's not that I don't ever like such movies. I thought "Jurassic Park" was completely daft but it still had me jumping out of my seat, for instance (from which film the best action sequences in this film seemed directly ripp'd). Whatever it is that Spielberg does to make you suspend and jump and scream, Jackson doesn't have it, at least not here.

And without the "AAHHH!" factor, the Skull Island stuff just seems ridiculous. I mean, come on, I heard myself saying out loud, a number of times. What the fuck is that chick made of, anyway? Silly Putty? If you don't want to show the full-body bruises and crushed ribcage that (at least) istm would inevitably result from being clutched in a giant paw and flung about at dizzying speeds, not to mention the whole vines-and-narrow-escape-from-being-a-dinosaur-hors-d'oeuvre sequence, well okay (she is a dancer after all, and hence rather agile and springy); but jeez, something. Projectile vomiting from the vertigo, perhaps? It's not like it would've added significantly to the "ick" factor. Was her lingerie even mussed?

And "come on" was also my reaction wrt the characters and their actions. Starting with: *why* the fuck doesn't the screenwriter just jump off the goddam boat? I mean, seriously? Okay, it's not exactly naturalism here, but surely if it's supposed to be that he, like the crazy/smarmy director, is motivated by the fine, dark love of adventure, it wouldn't be too much to ask that they establish something to that effect? Even a comic book character deserves that much. And if it's the glamour of film that's drawing him away from not just his play rehearsals but his whole fucking life, well, it's pretty damn obvious that this is not a glamour flick. Not to mention the boat itself, and again I come back to my point about the curious lack of vomiting in this picture. As it is, he just looks, well, kind of lame. And while Watts is cute and all, I just do not buy that her limpid gaze, blonde locks, and winsome pratfalls are enough motivation for that entire fucking hardbitten crew to go on a blind chase after her into what sure as shit looks like certain death. And Jack Black...well, 'nuff said.

Ultimately I just found myself asking: why? Why remake this? Why tell this story? Yeah, it had really cool SFX possibilities (which were duly manifested), but so could any number of movies, old and new. Why this? Why now?

Even without the anvilicious Meaningful Display of "Heart of Darkness" (as read by a wide-eyed cabin boy) I was getting the impression that Jackson wanted to do "Kong" at least partly because something about that old subtext or narrative or whatever you want to call it still speaks to him. In both LOTR and this, now: it is a very heavily white and male cast, along with the odd fair maiden or so, heroically fighting off the forces of darkness, quite literally. Dark, filthy, subhuman savages (and one sort of noble savage, if you count the giant monkey). Not to mention dank caves and swamps full of icky sticky devouring spiders (and now Alien-styled worms as well). The horror, the horror...the symbolism.

I'm not saying Jackson intended any of this (I just don't know), or that the movies' worth depends on their political correctness...or at least awareness. I'm just saying: I don't think I relate, really.

Nobody knows I'm a thespian

My main theatrical thing is/was writing, but I've trod the boards a few times. My stage resume is short but glamorous. One of my earliest roles, as mentioned elsewhere, was a giant card. Later I would go on to tackle such meaty challenges as Third Chorus Girl From The Left in Oklahoma, or, most recently, Green Fairy in Astonishingly Ill-Conceived Production of Iolanthe at Dyke Drama Collective, which is probably worth a story in itself, sometime. As a girl, I was in a family friend's pastorela (Nativity play)three years running: once as a dancer, twice as the roller skating angel who comes in to bilingually announce the birth of the baby Jesus, after comically crashing offstage and then limping back on.

But my finest moment onstage, and possibly ever, was in a university production of a little play called Sapientia. Perhaps you've heard of it. It would be more likely if you happen to be an aficionado of dramatic works by tenth century nuns.


So, Sapientia, by Hroswitha Von Gandersheim. One of the grad-student dramaturgs decided this would be a cool thing to put on as a late night cabaret, as it ran well under an hour. What her other criteria were in choosing this, I do not know, although I have my suspicions (more on this later). The original text was a bit...problematic. It may be the world's only play to contain a ten-minute explanation of a mathematical problem, for a start (as proof of the existence of God. don't ask me how. i was never very good at math).

The plot and characters and dialogue were, well, not nuanced, but then it was a "morality play." Gist: a wise woman (the eponymous Sapientia) and her three little daughters, Faith, Hope, and Charity are spreading the word of Our Lord Jesus, when news of them is and their subversive new faith is brought to the ears of a Roman emperor, don't remember which. It starts with an "H," I think. Let's call him "Hattie." Hattie has Sapientia hauled in front of him, but, being a reasonable tyrant, he tries at first to talk sense into her, to get her to Come To The Dark (pagan) Side. Sapientia defeats him in a dazzling show of logic (viz math problem), so naturally, Hattie's only recourse is to torture and kill each of her daughters, slowly and horribly, unless they recant their heretical faith. None does, and they are, each in their turn, gloriously and bravely (and bloodily) martyred, followed, at last, by Mother herself. The End.

Now, it seems quite likely that this play was not intended to have been performed per se, seeing as how it called for special effects that would've made Mel Gibson plotz with delight--beheading, disembowling, budding adolescent breasts sliced open only to spurt milk instead of blood (more on this in a moment)--and tenth century convents, as far as I know, were not known for their sophisticated SFX technology. Neither are producers of late night university black box cabaret shows, of course, but this did not daunt our director, who also dabbled (to put it kindly) in design.

So, for instance, she made paper-mache kiddie "heads" for Hattie's henchperson to throw before Sapientia's agonized eyes as proof of the dastardly deed, per script directions; they landed with a hollow "thunk," as I recall, and the one meant to represent mine had blonde curls glued to it, probably culled from Barbie dolls. Faith, the eldest (age twelve, in the script), had her tits cut off. Since she has a line about "Behold, instead of blood, a stream of milk is flowing!," the director decided to have her wear water balloons filled with yep, you guessed it.

My role as Hope, the second daugher (age ten) was to be eviscerated. Since there wasn't an opportunity to go backstage and change costume,--white nightie-like outfits for all of us--her solution was to sew a rather bulgy pocket on the front of my nightie with red velveteen intestines stuffed inside, later to be tweezed out by the henchperson (cackling with Pythonesque glee all the while). Sadly, they had a tendency to peek out of the pocket before it was disemboweling time, which kind of spoiled the, you know, surprise.

Now by this point of course you're saying, "oh, that sounds like brilliant camp! of COURSE the director meant for it to be funny!" And she did, she did. Mostly. I mean, she did have a good sense of humor, and there was that one rehearsal where Faith's water-balloon tit was tied too tightly and when they went to "slice" it the liquid kind of arced across the stage in best money-shot fashion, and after the director finished rolling around on the floor she said, rather regretfully, "no, no, that's too funny, we can't use that." Which to me suggests, in retrospect, that yes, she did want people to laugh...but if it was "too funny," then there wouldn't be any chance of it being taken seriously as a piece of historical interest, which I do think she kind of wanted to happen. Too.

To this end, she'd devised some odd and rather elaborate conceits. For instance, she'd decided that there should be a frame device showing that this is a play being put on by nuns, for nuns, in a convent. Okay. So it's an all female cast, all right; the emperor is a munchkin of a girl about half the size of the chick playing Charity, the adorable eight-year old, but it's okay: it's a play within a play! It all makes sense now! To further establish this, the director had us start by pantomiming a "evening in the life of" before actually starting Sapientia. This meant having us enter by solemnly filing in to the accompaniment of some kind of medieval chant (very pretty), sitting down, and eating a meal, which turned out to be cold rice in wooden bowls. In total silence. And full house lights. Then the head nun/emperor would stand up, clap her hands peremptorily, and this would signal "Let's Put On A Passion Play!"

So, since this is a late night cabaret in a tiny forty seat black box, what this means is that we're sitting mere inches away from our friends and classmates and (God help me) relatives, all merrily passing beer and wine from hand to hand and already laughing their asses off, facing them head on without even a shadow to hide in or a saving line of dialogue, trying to eat cold rice, while the tension builds...and builds...and builds. And let me tell you, if you don't think trying to do this without cracking helplessly the fuck up is an acting challenge the likes of which would stump Meryl Streep, you are wrong, wrong, WRONG. From there on, it only got worse.

Because, you see, in addition to the Charles Ludlam level of props, dialogue, acting, etc., there were a number of additional Ed Woodian factors which weren't intended to happen at all. Like: the stage manager left the backstage phone off the hook one night, so that just as my (first of several) tearful "goodbye, dear Mother, we shall be reunited in Heaven" speech was reaching its impassioned climax--*riiiiing.* There were music cues that didn't go off, light cues that were forgotten (as in, just when the beheading ax was coming down), flubbed lines, dropped torture implements--we were collossally klutzy, collectively, and none of us real actors, to boot.

But the gaffe I still remember most fondly, probably because it resulted in the only standing ovation I have ever gotten in my life, was this:

After I had been degutted, the director decided that it would be cool and maybe even kind of moving to have me give my deathbed speech from the electrics room, which was behind a glass window at the far end of the theatre. So Cardinal Fang-ette would drag my emptied carcass upstage, whereupon my earnest little face was to appear at the window, Sappy would come and press her hands to the glass, and I would have my
swan song...then, blackout.

Unfortunately, the acoustics weren't great, so I had to shout to make myself heard. That was with the door open. But the henchperson would keep forgetting, and, unable to resist the sheer drama of the "slam" noise, shut the door, on opening night.

The actor playing Sappy was of course facing away from the audience, so she didn't even pretend to not be laughing, that bitch. Me, I simply didn't realize, until afterward: once the door was shut, no one could hear anything I said. So there I was, overemoting my little heart out...and looking like a cross between Theda Bara's thallidomide cousin and a guppy. What the hell: applause is applause.

It was sheer love, of course. It really couldn't have been otherwise.

Couldn't happen to a nicer guy

Tom DeLay stepping out of the driver's seat for good. Out of his pure, altruistic wishes for the good of the party, no doubt.

Psst: Barbie (TM) has joined the Homosexual Agenda (TM). Pass it on.

Story here.

Apparently, Concerned Women for America are Concerned that adding a third option for the "What gender are you?" question ("I don't know") on Mattel's Barbie Poll will warp the kiddies' fragile lit-tul miiinds.

Concerned Woman Bob Knight elaborates:

"It's the idea that well, maybe people aren't born a particular biological sex, or they are but that shouldn't determine their gender identity," Knight said. "And that's a very big component of the homosexual activist agenda now."

..."In other words, any kid who's not sure about who he is, he's fair game to try to persuade to have same sex acts."

I guess now that Mattel has apparently changed it to "Don't Want to Say," the worry could conceivably be that the kids might develop an anti-authoritarian attitude and become deliquents, or Communists. But at least that's better than having your four-to-eight-year-olds go all pomo homo on your ass. Damn those online polls, anyway.

Possibly the most irritating thing in the world

...is a neighbor who constantly plays music that's just loud enough for you to hear, but not enough to tell what the fuck it is. All I know is, it's either the same damn song over and over and over again, or a series of songs that have remarkably similar basslines. Slow, monotonous basslines.

Actually, any repeated sound is that much worse if you can't quite tell what it is. In my old place, the people in the apartment right above me used to, frequently, do...something...that I could only guess was a really lively game of marbles. Or, possibly, they had a barrel of ball-bearings rigged to a trip-wire so that every time someone got up to go to the bathroom or something it spilled all over the floor...and then, they had to recollect the whole thing, one. click. at. a. time. Favorite time of day to do this: one or two in the morning. Or there was the next-door neighbor who was training to be on Broadway: never could quite make out which showtune it was, but whatever it was, it was always heartfelt.

Ahhhh, apartment living. Did I mention the part about what the fuck am I doing here, in New York, with the extra-big-buildings-with-their-very-old-and-thinning-walls, among other things? I may have, once or twice, of late.

High school, cont'd further

Some months after that, the friendship wound down, and at last stopped altogether. There was no dramatic parting of the ways. The phone calls and shopping expeditions just got more and more desultory. The moment that probably should have been a clean breaking point, but wasn’t, came in the library during one eternal lunch period. We were both sitting against the stacks on the wall, and we’d been snapping at each other. The gist was that Rachel was telling me that she was sick of me. Finally I got revved up enough to say, “Well, if that’s how you feel, why don’t you go somewhere else?” She replied, with far more exasperation than warmth, “Where else am I supposed to go?” And that, for the time being at least, settled that. It didn’t occur to me till years later that I would have been well justified in walking off myself, in that case. Or maybe it did occur to me; but, I stayed, until it was over.


I suppose I might also have thought, if incoherently, that it was, somehow, poetic justice. I’d once given my friend Richard the cold shoulder, after all, more or less at her behest, in that library, perhaps in that very spot. Rachel shared the opinion of the overwhelming majority, that “Dickie” was a shrill, giggling, mincing faggot and hence not worth acknowledging, much less consorting with. (“He’s gay,” she told me matter-of-factly, one day in her kitchen. “Everybody knows he’s gay.” Then, with a small laugh, “It’s his fault. He was born that way.”) I had felt both uneasy and annoyed that day, as Rachel urged me away with barely a pretense of politeness; all concessions to conformity aside, the truth was, he did annoy me, quite a bit in fact. Part of it was simply that at the end of the day, we really didn’t have all that much in common, Dick and I; like his overbearing mother, Richard was deeply conservative and conventional in many ways. I did not share his affection for Reagan, or for Bette Midler tearjerkers. I found his sense of humor juvenile, his mannerisms irritating, his clinginess an outright pain in the ass. Even then, though, I knew that at least part of the giggling and the eyerolling and the pestering came from loneliness.


That day in particular it certainly seemed that he knew he was on the verge of being dismissed, somewhere under all the determined cluelessness. His voice had gotten shriller and gigglier even as I squirmed away from whatever he was telling me—something about how he’d gotten on some mailing list but they’d gotten his name wrong, they’d addressed him as “Rickie,” with an “e,” like a girl, apparently they thought he was a girl, too, wasn’t that funny?! Finally I gave up and told him baldly that I, we, had to go, now. I looked him full in the face. That was the day that I learned that you can, in fact, read expressions in peoples’ eyes, not just around the eyes, as I’d been told by my father or some other logical person. Something happened to the blue; it darkened, then went flat. Something broke.