You’re just going to have to forgive me because here come several posts about sex. No, my secrets will not be shared (perverts) but there’s some good stuff here. Sometimes you have an experience and it’s a big deal at the time. But then 8 years or so pass, other things happen and you kind of forget about it. Until you remember it one day and you’re like, “Oh yeah…that happened.” This is one of those things.
Let me start by saying that there are certain things that some consider sexual that baffle me. Someone once called me a prude because I didn’t understand (and still don’t) the sexual appeal of putting yourself in a giant box and having a friend ground ship you from one side of the country to the other so they could receive you, unpack you and do you. My more-sexually-evolved companion marveled at my series of questions (“Were there air holes in the box? Did he have food and water in there? What the fuck is wrong with this person?”)
“Jeez, Dresden,”she said, giggling. “I never knew you were such a prude.”
Needless to say, I railed against her assessment. I disagreed; I was no prude. I sometimes revealed my ankles. I often wore white after Labor Day and shared my opinions on politics. Me…a prude? Rubbish!
After all, I had been working in sex education for several years. I could say things like “vaginal fluid” without giggling, and had demonstrated how to put a condom on a banana more times that I could remember. I had dildos and a rubber vagina sitting on my desk at work for crying out loud. I started working in HIV and STI prevention when I moved to Seattle in 2001. I had taken an “I need a job” job at a Verizon Wireless call center in Bellevue, where I had to ask permission to pee. An old friend of mine worked at a non-profit HIV organization that was hiring someone to run their young women’s education program, and I jumped at the chance.
I loved that job. I got to chat with teenage girls about using protection, not being such horrible snatches to each other and plus, we had a budget that let us order fried chicken from Ezell’s, the most amazing fried chicken establishment in the free world. One day shortly after I started, my boss suggested my co-worker and I take a 2 and a half day training called SERT. (That’s not really what it’s called, but I’ve changed the name to protect the freaks.)
SERT stood for Sexuality Education Readjustment Training. It was a training that helped people working as safer sex educators evaluate their own sexual hang-ups and learn to put those aside when working with others. The concept is sound; after all, it’s hard to stay focused on prevention when a sex worker is telling you that he prefers to be pooped on instead of urinated on during sex. If you can’t get past the fact that this is creepy, not to mention extremely unsanitary, you likely won’t take the time to explain safety because you’ll just want to get the fuck away from this person. Plus, everyone knows that “training” means “free lunch” and “getting out of the office.”
My co-worker and I signed up. We showed up on the first day, ready to have snacks and hopefully leave early. My head wasn’t truly in the sexuality readjustment game, mostly because I didn’t feel my sexuality needed adjusting. Our trainers were two women and a man, all in their mid-to-late 50s. As we checked in, they looked at us with blank expressions and spoke in monotonous tones. I thought it was kind of weird but people in Seattle are weird in general, so I just went with it. The room was warmly lit, full of pillows and chenille throws. How lovely, I thought, as I unknowingly settled into Satan’s claw.
The trainers introduced themselves. I can’t remember their names but let’s call them Barbara, Judith and Ken. Ken told us all that this particular training had been conducted all over the country since the 1960s. It was started as a way to help people free themselves from the traumatic shackles of their parent’s beliefs about sexuality. Babs, Judy and Ken used words like “blossom” and “sexual expression” and I smirked.
“We have very few rules here”, Judith said. “However, we ask that you all refrain from engaging in sex with each other during the training.”
Well that’s…weird. I don’t believe I’ve ever been given explicit instructions not to have sex with a room full of people. Looking around, I can say with confidence that I didn’t want to bone any of them.
“Please forgive us if we seem standoffish,” Ken added. “It’s important that we maintain a certain amount of distance, as we must not engage in sexual activity with any of you during the duration of the training either.”
Seriously, what the fuck is going on? Is this a joke? Is there some kind of massive, palpable sexual tension that only I cannot feel?
We started a writing exercise in which we examined what we’d been taught about sex as children. I honestly don’t remember talking to my parents about sex when I was a kid. The very idea mortified me. I can’t remember what I wrote but it was some bullshit to fill the page, I’m sure. They opened the floor for people to share and it was my opinion that some people were just way too eager to spill the beans. After sitting through several stories about growing up Catholic, Ken introduced the film portion of the training.
“During these 3 days together, we will be using film to examine various areas of sexuality. In some cases, we’ll view sexual education films. In other cases, we’ll be using commercial films about sexuality. Each film will introduce us to a new area of discussion.”
I leaned over and whispered to my co-worker Erick: “Does he mean porn?”
Erick’s expression was as apprehensive as I felt. “I don’t know….” He said. The lights were dimmed and then, yes; we started watching porn. We watched porn for two fucking days. Have you ever watched porn in a room full of strangers you are not even remotely attracted to? For two days? Of course you haven’t because that is not something any human being should do. Ever.
We watched hetero porn, gay porn, threesome porn, disabled porn, and elderly porn. We watched a man tie a woman up, bind her breasts, pour hot candle wax all over her and then beat her with a riding crop. We watched a film that had a loud techno soundtrack in which a man dressed as a 1980s criminal (bandana tied around his thigh, sleeveless jean jacket) tied up a man dressed as a cop. The criminal pulled down the cop’s pants and began smearing Crisco all over his hand and forearm. I turned my head away from the screen and looked at Erick.
“Erick…is he going to….”
“Yep.”
I didn’t watch. I buried my face in Erick’s arm and silently promised to always be kind to my anus.
The only “education” film that we actually watched was the one on bisexuality. It wasn’t a film; it was a series of still pictures set to music with a voiceover:
“Hi. My name is Frank. One day when I was riding the city bus, I noticed that I got sexy feelings when I thought about women and men with their clothes off. That’s when I knew I was bisexual.” Frank told us that he had a relationship with Linda and a relationship with Michael. Each of his partners fulfilled different needs that Frank had. After the lights came up and the “discussion” began, I asked if Linda and Michael knew about each other.
I generally didn’t perform well in the discussion parts of the training. There’s only so much porn a person can handle. How could I be expected to form coherent sentences? One woman in the group said the same thing after every film: “Oh that was exciting! That really got my juices flowing!” Others managed to intellectualize the porn: “I found myself recalling the passage from Nietzsche, ‘Art is not merely an imitation of the reality of nature, but in truth a metaphysical supplement to the reality of nature, placed alongside thereof for its conquest.’ I mean, did anyone else feel that way during the fellatio montage?”
Because I was completely uninterested in getting to know how these people felt about porn, I folded my arms across my chest and slid down in my seat like a 14 year old. They started to call me out on it.
“Dresden” they would say, “you’re awfully quiet. Would you like to add anything?”
Mostly, I just responded, “Nope.” But occasionally, I’d say something like, “Oh, I don’t believe in bisexuals” or “How come the fisting criminal was black and the cop was white? That’s racist.” They’d always try to redirect me: “Yes, but how do you feel about the sexuality in the film?” I’d shrug and say something like, “It was alright.”
Eventually, Barbara or Judith pulled me aside and asked me if I was ok. I told her I was fine, and she said, “Well, the films seem to really bother you.”
“They don’t bother me,” I said. “I’m just not a huge fan of porn.”
Her eyes narrowed, as if the word “porn” had offended her. “Ok…but do you understand why we’re watching and discussing these films?”
“Not really.”
At this point, Barbara Judith seemed to be at a loss. She thought for a moment, and then said, “Well, the goal is to get you to reevaluate your views on sexuality.”
“Well, if you’re trying to convince me that watching porn in a room full of people is gross and uncomfortable, it’s working.”
Barbara Judith’s face seemed to register an epiphany at that moment. “Ah…I see. How long have you felt uncomfortable about sex?”
“Since yesterday at around 10.”
She just stood there. A short time later, I was pulled aside by all three of them.
“We’re concerned that you’re not open to this experience.”
“The experience of watching porn in a room full of strangers? No, I’m not very open to that.”
“But…why does it make you so uncomfortable? Did something happen to you?”
What I wanted to say was, “If it had, I definitely would not share it with 3 old hippies.” But instead, I asked them why a reaction of being uncomfortable in a situation designed to be uncomfortable would need to indicate that I had some kind of sexual trauma in my past. Ken explained that “most people” do not feel uncomfortable watching “these films.”
“Let’s be clear”, I said, now bored with the discussion. “We’re watching porn. Not films, porn. You started off the training by telling us that we needed to refrain from sleeping with each other – and the three of you. Do you really expect anyone to take you seriously?”
They got mad then, and asked me why I chose to stay if I saw so little value in it. I reminded them that my company paid already, and then said something to the effect of, “Are you kidding me? I’ve got to see how this ends.”
This is how it ended: with a panel of “guest speakers” from Seattle’s only “pan-sexual” sex club. Now, I didn’t know much about sex clubs, but I assumed that anyone who belonged to a sex club would be very attractive. I was incorrect. Our guest speaker panel may as well have been the beginning of a line outside of Best Buy to purchase the latest version of Dungeons and Dragons. What was with the ponytails? Every dude up there had a straggly, greasy ponytail. The only women on the panel told us they were involved in “24/7 master-slave relationships.” One of them wouldn't look at us but stared at the floor as she droned on and on with absolutely no inflection about how awesome it was to be considered someone’s slave.
Although I found all of this terribly amusing, I failed to see how any of it was going to help me be a better safer sex educator. Here’s how I saw my job: I don’t give a fuck what you’re into; just use a condom. I don’t give a fuck what you’re into and, also, here is how HIV is transmitted. I don’t give a fuck what you’re into; take your ass to the clinic if you have any of the following symptoms. I don’t give a fuck what you’re into, but if your relationship isn't safe, I can help you out by providing resources. I am 100% uninterested in what gets you off about wearing diapers and sucking on a pacifier.
I came home totally drained after 2 days of porn and 4 hours of listening to the Master of Ceremonies at a Star Trek convention talk about how he started a sex club so people would finally sleep with him. I curled into the fetal position on my bed and started drooling. I wondered, for a brief moment, if my reaction to all the porn was because I really was a prude. Maybe I had some deep rooted sexual hang-ups that I wasn't even aware of. Was I broken?
But what I found out when I started talking to people who had been in the business of sexuality education for longer than I had was that this particular training was a crock of shit. Yes, it was started in the 60s as a way to help people free themselves from the traumatic shackles of their parent’s beliefs about sexuality…by doing each other. SERT training almost always dissolved into a massive orgy and usually before lunch on the first day. In the 80s, they were banned. Then some persistent folks decided to bring them back. They were determined not to let them turn into sexapalooza but what they didn't do was alter the format in any way. Although an orgy was the furthest thing from my mind, I started to wonder if some of those people had attended the training hoping for some booty.
If anyone in that room had put the moves on me, I would have beaten them with my shoe. So maybe I am a prude. Where’s my parade?
Monday, March 26, 2012
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Real women grind their own almond butter
I’m not going to say I’ve never been to Whole Foods. I’ve been there lots of times. Whenever I feel like almost getting run over by an asshole in a Volvo SUV, I know right where to go. But my Whole Foods experience has been mainly limited to supplements and pizza. Whenever something goes wrong with my bod, I decide I must need some kind of probiotic macrobiotic robotic supplement to right the wrongs going on with my insidey parts. It lasts for one week and then whatever $30 bottle I purchased ends up in Supplement Death Row (aka, a shelf in my closet). Also, they have fantastic pizza.
But I have discovered hot yoga. I have discovered that I enjoy feeling like I’m in Florida in July while downward dogging, vinyasa flowing and warrior one-ing. I don’t know how this happened, I really don’t. I used to feel like I was dying when I got too hot. I moan and groan and loudly remind everyone how hot it is ("It’s fucking ridiculously hot in here, you guys”) and pray for a spontaneous ice age. But after a knee injury, I somehow lifted my fat ass off the couch and went to the hot yoga place I had been driving by for months and thinking, “I wonder what that’s like.”
It’s my temple, y’all. It smells deliciously clean, like non-toxic disinfectant. Everyone is real zen like (or they’re pretending to be) and we all smile at each other, say “excuse me” and no one even giggles if you accidentally blow ass during wind relieving pose. Why? Because we’re detoxifying. Every ounce of justified anger, clinical depression, anxiety, judgment and anything else that makes us horrible is dripping off us, one pose at a time. When we emerge from that darkened 104 degree room, we’re psychologically clean, limber and in desperate need of a shower. I usually feel like I’m floating somewhere between about to pass out and just won $250 on the nickel slots in Vegas until someone cuts me off on highway 100 on my way home and I scream, “I hope you get a splinter under your fingernail!”
Anyway, when those lithe, glowing Canadians said “30 Day Yoga & Cleanse Challenge”, I was like, “Yes, yes, whatever you think is best.” And off to Whole Foods I went. I got the big cart and mentally prepared myself to spend the entirety of my paycheck. “It’s ok”, I thought as I loaded my cart with $15 worth of blueberries. “She works hard for the money.”
I had my book to make sure I didn’t accidentally buy something I wasn’t supposed to have. Apples? Yes. Melons? No. Why? No—don’t ask questions; just cleanse. Organic chicken. Almond milk (which is delicious by the way). Brown rice and quinoa. Gluten free oats. In case you didn’t know (and you probably don’t) oats are naturally gluten free BUT they are often CONTAMINATED by gluten-containing products that are grown in the same field and/or processed in the same plant. So you have to look for a brand that gives you a big story about how they're truly gluten free. You’re welcome.
I sometimes like to put peanut butter in my oatmeal but peanut butter isn’t allowed. What? Why the hell – no! Do the cleanse, Dresden! Don’t question the cleanse!
Because I was tired from picking all that food out, I didn't feel like looking for almond butter (which is a cleanse approved butter), so I asked the lady at the cruelty-free grass fed organic cheese counter where I might find it. She smiled at me and said, “Would you like to grind your own?”
What?
I just stood there with $500 worth of flaxseed and dairy-free, gluten-free soy-free taste-free vegan protein powder in my cart, holding my Coach purse containing my Louis Vitton wallet (that I bought behind a restaurant in downtown Mazatlan but is totally real) and stared at her.
Do I want to grind my own almond butter? No. I’m not a pilgrim.
“Uuuuh... do you have some that’s…already been ground?”
Now I can’t be sure but I’m almost positive that she totally judged me a little bit. There was a slight narrowing of the eyes and a shift in the smile, as if to say. “Real women grind their own almond butter.” But what she really said was, “You mean jarred almond butter?”
Yes. I mean the food that I can take home, open and eat. Do you also have a back 40 where shoppers can kill their own turkey? Do I need to silken my own tofu? Milk my own almonds? Miss Sassy Vegan Cheese Pants lead me to the already ground almond butter, which, by the way, is fucking expensive. The cheapest jar I could find was $10. That’s about when I started to grumble like an old white man in Georgia after Jim Crow was abolished and I knew it was time to go home.
On my way out, I passed the almond butter grinding station. A middle aged woman and her teenaged daughter (who were both wearing skinny jeans and Uggs) were placing the lid on their plastic container of freshly ground almond butter. For a moment, I felt a twinge of jealousy. Maybe I should have ground my own almond butter. Maybe I need to drive less. Perhaps I should buy a Prius. I need to stop wearing leather. Maybe I should quit my job and buy a farm and have chickens and goats and a husband with a beard. But then I remembered that I just got cable again and I wasn’t giving up the Investigation Discovery channel for nothin’. No. I’m here for the already prepared food that you’re charging me a billion dollars for. If I want to grind something, I’ll call Ryan Gosling.
But I have discovered hot yoga. I have discovered that I enjoy feeling like I’m in Florida in July while downward dogging, vinyasa flowing and warrior one-ing. I don’t know how this happened, I really don’t. I used to feel like I was dying when I got too hot. I moan and groan and loudly remind everyone how hot it is ("It’s fucking ridiculously hot in here, you guys”) and pray for a spontaneous ice age. But after a knee injury, I somehow lifted my fat ass off the couch and went to the hot yoga place I had been driving by for months and thinking, “I wonder what that’s like.”
It’s my temple, y’all. It smells deliciously clean, like non-toxic disinfectant. Everyone is real zen like (or they’re pretending to be) and we all smile at each other, say “excuse me” and no one even giggles if you accidentally blow ass during wind relieving pose. Why? Because we’re detoxifying. Every ounce of justified anger, clinical depression, anxiety, judgment and anything else that makes us horrible is dripping off us, one pose at a time. When we emerge from that darkened 104 degree room, we’re psychologically clean, limber and in desperate need of a shower. I usually feel like I’m floating somewhere between about to pass out and just won $250 on the nickel slots in Vegas until someone cuts me off on highway 100 on my way home and I scream, “I hope you get a splinter under your fingernail!”
Anyway, when those lithe, glowing Canadians said “30 Day Yoga & Cleanse Challenge”, I was like, “Yes, yes, whatever you think is best.” And off to Whole Foods I went. I got the big cart and mentally prepared myself to spend the entirety of my paycheck. “It’s ok”, I thought as I loaded my cart with $15 worth of blueberries. “She works hard for the money.”
I had my book to make sure I didn’t accidentally buy something I wasn’t supposed to have. Apples? Yes. Melons? No. Why? No—don’t ask questions; just cleanse. Organic chicken. Almond milk (which is delicious by the way). Brown rice and quinoa. Gluten free oats. In case you didn’t know (and you probably don’t) oats are naturally gluten free BUT they are often CONTAMINATED by gluten-containing products that are grown in the same field and/or processed in the same plant. So you have to look for a brand that gives you a big story about how they're truly gluten free. You’re welcome.
I sometimes like to put peanut butter in my oatmeal but peanut butter isn’t allowed. What? Why the hell – no! Do the cleanse, Dresden! Don’t question the cleanse!
Because I was tired from picking all that food out, I didn't feel like looking for almond butter (which is a cleanse approved butter), so I asked the lady at the cruelty-free grass fed organic cheese counter where I might find it. She smiled at me and said, “Would you like to grind your own?”
What?
I just stood there with $500 worth of flaxseed and dairy-free, gluten-free soy-free taste-free vegan protein powder in my cart, holding my Coach purse containing my Louis Vitton wallet (that I bought behind a restaurant in downtown Mazatlan but is totally real) and stared at her.
Do I want to grind my own almond butter? No. I’m not a pilgrim.
“Uuuuh... do you have some that’s…already been ground?”
Now I can’t be sure but I’m almost positive that she totally judged me a little bit. There was a slight narrowing of the eyes and a shift in the smile, as if to say. “Real women grind their own almond butter.” But what she really said was, “You mean jarred almond butter?”
Yes. I mean the food that I can take home, open and eat. Do you also have a back 40 where shoppers can kill their own turkey? Do I need to silken my own tofu? Milk my own almonds? Miss Sassy Vegan Cheese Pants lead me to the already ground almond butter, which, by the way, is fucking expensive. The cheapest jar I could find was $10. That’s about when I started to grumble like an old white man in Georgia after Jim Crow was abolished and I knew it was time to go home.
On my way out, I passed the almond butter grinding station. A middle aged woman and her teenaged daughter (who were both wearing skinny jeans and Uggs) were placing the lid on their plastic container of freshly ground almond butter. For a moment, I felt a twinge of jealousy. Maybe I should have ground my own almond butter. Maybe I need to drive less. Perhaps I should buy a Prius. I need to stop wearing leather. Maybe I should quit my job and buy a farm and have chickens and goats and a husband with a beard. But then I remembered that I just got cable again and I wasn’t giving up the Investigation Discovery channel for nothin’. No. I’m here for the already prepared food that you’re charging me a billion dollars for. If I want to grind something, I’ll call Ryan Gosling.
Friday, January 13, 2012
The Facebook Relationship Quagmire
I used to have a MySpace account, you know, back when everyone did because there was no Facebook yet. Nowadays, the only time you hear about people having MySpace accounts is when someone kills their parents. Those people always have MySpace accounts. I think that’s pretty telling, don’t you?
Anyway, I started dating this guy named Chris who was a musician and that’s pretty much where the interesting part ends. Oh, and he had red hair which I find very sexy. I do not know why and everyone has their own things they’re attracted to, so that’s fine if you think it’s weird because that just means there are more ginger dudes for me.
So we’re hanging out one day and he asks me, “Why does your MySpace status say ‘single’?”
I just stared at him. I hadn’t given it a thought, really. I changed my mood on a daily basis; some days I was “frisky”, others I was “satisfied.” But according to MySpace I was also “single” which, apparently, was all that mattered.
I mumbled something about “it’s just MySpace” and “who cares” and then suggested we go to White Castle because I knew that chicken rings would trump anything else on his mind. Nevertheless, a belly full of chicken rings later, I logged in to MySpace and updated my relationship status to “In a relationship.” I sat back and looked at my profile. Nothing had changed; I didn’t look any happier or prettier in my profile picture. I didn’t suddenly have more friends. I was just “in a relationship” and that was fine.
A few days later, I logged in and clicked on my boyfriend’s profile, presumably to post an emoticon that blows kisses to his page. That’s when I saw his relationship status had been updated…to “SINGLE.” I flew into panic mode. What does this mean?! Did we break up? I was pretty sure we hadn’t because he and his Hefty bags full of shit were still in my apartment since he’d come off the road from a tour 3 weeks ago. I grabbed my cell phone and texted him.
“WHY IS YOUR STATUS ON MYPACE SINGLE?????”
His reply was something along the lines of “Huh?” Thus began a text message argument about how I had changed my status because he wanted me to and I don’t appreciate him changing his status like that and he didn’t know what the big deal was and I needed to calm down.
“Well fuck you, then”, I said out loud to no one. Then I promptly changed my status to “single.”
Five minutes later, I received a text message that said, “Oh so you’re breaking up with me now?”
This went on and on for the entirety of our relationship. Technology became a weapon. If I was mad at him, I’d change my status to single, or I’d delete all the soccer games he’d saved on my DVR, later claiming, “Sometimes the DVR does that.” His relationship status was updated randomly and I couldn’t figure it out but I took it very personally. Chris had an unusually large number of female MySpace friends, all of them with profile pictures taken with their camera pointing downward, straight into their cleavage, their thin lips covered in gloss and jutting out like they were auditioning for a fluffer position. I hated these cyber girls. One of them posted some Coldplay lyrics on his page and I flipped out. I think we actually broke up over that one for, like, 3 hours. Meanwhile, every time I left my phone unattended, I’d find him looking through my text messages and call log. Once he even accused me of giving him Chlamydia…via text message.
It was a very healthy relationship.
Turns out, I was one of three girlfriends and he was changing his relationship status based on who he happened to be fighting with at the time. I have no idea who gave him Chlamydia because it wasn’t me, and neither of the other two would cop to it. All I know is, I never got it, which is a good thing for him because I can tolerate a certain amount of ridiculousness from a man; just don’t mess with my business. Or my money.
From that relationship on, I have kept all my romantic relationships—dysfunctional or not—off the internet. Several boyfriends, one whom I lived with for 9 months, have come and gone, with no accolades from me on my Facebook page. My last relationship almost…almost made it to Facebook Relationship Status Glory. But I had a feeling he wasn’t worthy of a selection from that drop down menu. I was correct.
There are a lot of reasons why I think the relationship status quagmire is best left untouched.
a. You might break up. I mean, you won’t break up; I’m speaking hypothetically. While your relationship will undoubtedly last forever (in a Marky Mark carving “For Evah” on his chest kind of way), most relationships come to a close, with or without Hefty bags being thrown on to the front lawn. Sometimes, it’s quiet and cordial. Until you edit your profile. The minute you select “single” and save changes, the girl you were best friends with in 6th grade and haven’t spoken to since will post a big “OMG WHAT HAPPENED?????” comment and so it begins. Messages, wall posts, text messages...everyone wants to know what happened. And it’s nobody’s business. People are only asking so they can talk about it with other people. “Did you know that he slept with her cousin? Yes! Her cousin! Of course, she said they broke up because they want different things right now, but…really? He totally fucked her cousin, I bet.”
b. No one wants to witness your Facebook fight. Over the course of my life, I have been given certain pieces of advice about relationships, one of which was, “Don’t bring other people into your drama.” But in a day and age when people post status updates about the giant shit they took, chances are, you will, at some point, broadcast your drama to your 437 friends. For example, you catch your girlfriend in some sort of lie and decide you’re breaking up with her. You freak out and post a string of status updates to your wall:
1:37am: JESSICA BARNEY IS A SLUT!!!!!
1:41am: How could you do this to me???? Whore! I fucking gave you EVERYTHING!!!!!!!
1:43am: Who’s going to pay your Nordstrom bill now, slut???? I fucking HATE YOU!
2:02am: I can’t believe I bought you a ring.
2:11am: Whore
9:38am: Headed to iHop with Jess! Then Dave Matthews alllllll weekend!!
This is a summary of an actual Facebook meltdown that an old boyfriend of mine had. This happened quite frequently; his page would be littered with bitter, capitalized accusations and her page would be covered in cryptic, sad status updates, like, “My whole world is falling apart”, and “I should just end it all now.” Now, I knew that this particular young man was prone to emotional outbursts but goddammit; my parents got divorced when I was 8 so I wouldn’t have to listen to their fighting anymore. I do not wish to be subjected to yours. And you can go ahead and delete all the horrible things you said about your significant other but we still saw what you wrote. Yeah…all 437 of us. We all saw what you wrote.
c. You’re gonna get all gross about it. Being in a relationship is fun. There are a lot of things that happen in relationships that only you and your significant other are privy to: when you’re laying in bed, talking baby talk to each other; when you text your boyfriend that he won Most Huggable in the Iowa caucuses; the fact that your nick name for your girlfriend is schmoopie poopie. These things should remain between the two of you. But, again…here we are in a time when it’s ok to post a full length video of your vagina giving birth on your Facebook wall. Eventually, you will start posting things like hearts and smiley faces…then it will evolve into “love you” and “miss you”…eventually landing somewhere around, “I can’t wait to see my honey bear tonight!! I’m counting the hours till I get to cuddle with my wuddle! <3” Suddenly, people who used to think of you as a normal, intelligent individual will begin to believe you’ve lost your mind. And you have. And that’s ok. Just keep it to yourself.
d. You might think it’s ok to set your relationship status to “It’s Complicated” or create a joint Facebook page with your spouse. Let’s start with “It’s Complicated.” I got news for ya—every relationship is complicated in one way or another. By telling us “It’s complicated”, you’re telling us that your shit is really complicated, and, chances are, we don't want to know. It doesn’t matter what the reason is; when I see someone’s Facebook relationship status set to “It’s Complicated”, I immediately say, “Draaaaaaaaaama.”
Those couples who decide to create joint Facebook pages are definitely, without question, the worst. Unless there is a solid reason for this—like, you’re using a joint Facebook page in lieu of a website for your wedding (really? does your wedding need its own website?), or you’re doing a fundraiser of some kind—then it’s just pure insanity. On these pages, you get generic, shiny status updates. “Tim-n-Stacey are going to Home Depot! New lawnmower today!” “Tim-n-Stacey are super excited for the weekend!” “Tim-n-Stacey got new iPhones!” Tim-n-Stacey are assholes. When you got married or partnered, did you leave you behind entirely? Do you have to share absolutely everything? That’s a one way ticket to “Tim-n-Stacey have killed each other.”
Honestly, I’d rather introduce a heavily tattooed, mumble mouthed unemployed dude to my father and my grandfather than introduce him to Facebook. But don't get me wrong--I totally believe in love (most days). I just don't believe in Facebook love.
Anyway, I started dating this guy named Chris who was a musician and that’s pretty much where the interesting part ends. Oh, and he had red hair which I find very sexy. I do not know why and everyone has their own things they’re attracted to, so that’s fine if you think it’s weird because that just means there are more ginger dudes for me.
So we’re hanging out one day and he asks me, “Why does your MySpace status say ‘single’?”
I just stared at him. I hadn’t given it a thought, really. I changed my mood on a daily basis; some days I was “frisky”, others I was “satisfied.” But according to MySpace I was also “single” which, apparently, was all that mattered.
I mumbled something about “it’s just MySpace” and “who cares” and then suggested we go to White Castle because I knew that chicken rings would trump anything else on his mind. Nevertheless, a belly full of chicken rings later, I logged in to MySpace and updated my relationship status to “In a relationship.” I sat back and looked at my profile. Nothing had changed; I didn’t look any happier or prettier in my profile picture. I didn’t suddenly have more friends. I was just “in a relationship” and that was fine.
A few days later, I logged in and clicked on my boyfriend’s profile, presumably to post an emoticon that blows kisses to his page. That’s when I saw his relationship status had been updated…to “SINGLE.” I flew into panic mode. What does this mean?! Did we break up? I was pretty sure we hadn’t because he and his Hefty bags full of shit were still in my apartment since he’d come off the road from a tour 3 weeks ago. I grabbed my cell phone and texted him.
“WHY IS YOUR STATUS ON MYPACE SINGLE?????”
His reply was something along the lines of “Huh?” Thus began a text message argument about how I had changed my status because he wanted me to and I don’t appreciate him changing his status like that and he didn’t know what the big deal was and I needed to calm down.
“Well fuck you, then”, I said out loud to no one. Then I promptly changed my status to “single.”
Five minutes later, I received a text message that said, “Oh so you’re breaking up with me now?”
This went on and on for the entirety of our relationship. Technology became a weapon. If I was mad at him, I’d change my status to single, or I’d delete all the soccer games he’d saved on my DVR, later claiming, “Sometimes the DVR does that.” His relationship status was updated randomly and I couldn’t figure it out but I took it very personally. Chris had an unusually large number of female MySpace friends, all of them with profile pictures taken with their camera pointing downward, straight into their cleavage, their thin lips covered in gloss and jutting out like they were auditioning for a fluffer position. I hated these cyber girls. One of them posted some Coldplay lyrics on his page and I flipped out. I think we actually broke up over that one for, like, 3 hours. Meanwhile, every time I left my phone unattended, I’d find him looking through my text messages and call log. Once he even accused me of giving him Chlamydia…via text message.
It was a very healthy relationship.
Turns out, I was one of three girlfriends and he was changing his relationship status based on who he happened to be fighting with at the time. I have no idea who gave him Chlamydia because it wasn’t me, and neither of the other two would cop to it. All I know is, I never got it, which is a good thing for him because I can tolerate a certain amount of ridiculousness from a man; just don’t mess with my business. Or my money.
From that relationship on, I have kept all my romantic relationships—dysfunctional or not—off the internet. Several boyfriends, one whom I lived with for 9 months, have come and gone, with no accolades from me on my Facebook page. My last relationship almost…almost made it to Facebook Relationship Status Glory. But I had a feeling he wasn’t worthy of a selection from that drop down menu. I was correct.
There are a lot of reasons why I think the relationship status quagmire is best left untouched.
a. You might break up. I mean, you won’t break up; I’m speaking hypothetically. While your relationship will undoubtedly last forever (in a Marky Mark carving “For Evah” on his chest kind of way), most relationships come to a close, with or without Hefty bags being thrown on to the front lawn. Sometimes, it’s quiet and cordial. Until you edit your profile. The minute you select “single” and save changes, the girl you were best friends with in 6th grade and haven’t spoken to since will post a big “OMG WHAT HAPPENED?????” comment and so it begins. Messages, wall posts, text messages...everyone wants to know what happened. And it’s nobody’s business. People are only asking so they can talk about it with other people. “Did you know that he slept with her cousin? Yes! Her cousin! Of course, she said they broke up because they want different things right now, but…really? He totally fucked her cousin, I bet.”
b. No one wants to witness your Facebook fight. Over the course of my life, I have been given certain pieces of advice about relationships, one of which was, “Don’t bring other people into your drama.” But in a day and age when people post status updates about the giant shit they took, chances are, you will, at some point, broadcast your drama to your 437 friends. For example, you catch your girlfriend in some sort of lie and decide you’re breaking up with her. You freak out and post a string of status updates to your wall:
1:37am: JESSICA BARNEY IS A SLUT!!!!!
1:41am: How could you do this to me???? Whore! I fucking gave you EVERYTHING!!!!!!!
1:43am: Who’s going to pay your Nordstrom bill now, slut???? I fucking HATE YOU!
2:02am: I can’t believe I bought you a ring.
2:11am: Whore
9:38am: Headed to iHop with Jess! Then Dave Matthews alllllll weekend!!
This is a summary of an actual Facebook meltdown that an old boyfriend of mine had. This happened quite frequently; his page would be littered with bitter, capitalized accusations and her page would be covered in cryptic, sad status updates, like, “My whole world is falling apart”, and “I should just end it all now.” Now, I knew that this particular young man was prone to emotional outbursts but goddammit; my parents got divorced when I was 8 so I wouldn’t have to listen to their fighting anymore. I do not wish to be subjected to yours. And you can go ahead and delete all the horrible things you said about your significant other but we still saw what you wrote. Yeah…all 437 of us. We all saw what you wrote.
c. You’re gonna get all gross about it. Being in a relationship is fun. There are a lot of things that happen in relationships that only you and your significant other are privy to: when you’re laying in bed, talking baby talk to each other; when you text your boyfriend that he won Most Huggable in the Iowa caucuses; the fact that your nick name for your girlfriend is schmoopie poopie. These things should remain between the two of you. But, again…here we are in a time when it’s ok to post a full length video of your vagina giving birth on your Facebook wall. Eventually, you will start posting things like hearts and smiley faces…then it will evolve into “love you” and “miss you”…eventually landing somewhere around, “I can’t wait to see my honey bear tonight!! I’m counting the hours till I get to cuddle with my wuddle! <3” Suddenly, people who used to think of you as a normal, intelligent individual will begin to believe you’ve lost your mind. And you have. And that’s ok. Just keep it to yourself.
d. You might think it’s ok to set your relationship status to “It’s Complicated” or create a joint Facebook page with your spouse. Let’s start with “It’s Complicated.” I got news for ya—every relationship is complicated in one way or another. By telling us “It’s complicated”, you’re telling us that your shit is really complicated, and, chances are, we don't want to know. It doesn’t matter what the reason is; when I see someone’s Facebook relationship status set to “It’s Complicated”, I immediately say, “Draaaaaaaaaama.”
Those couples who decide to create joint Facebook pages are definitely, without question, the worst. Unless there is a solid reason for this—like, you’re using a joint Facebook page in lieu of a website for your wedding (really? does your wedding need its own website?), or you’re doing a fundraiser of some kind—then it’s just pure insanity. On these pages, you get generic, shiny status updates. “Tim-n-Stacey are going to Home Depot! New lawnmower today!” “Tim-n-Stacey are super excited for the weekend!” “Tim-n-Stacey got new iPhones!” Tim-n-Stacey are assholes. When you got married or partnered, did you leave you behind entirely? Do you have to share absolutely everything? That’s a one way ticket to “Tim-n-Stacey have killed each other.”
Honestly, I’d rather introduce a heavily tattooed, mumble mouthed unemployed dude to my father and my grandfather than introduce him to Facebook. But don't get me wrong--I totally believe in love (most days). I just don't believe in Facebook love.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
"Gee, I don't think we should cut up the flag...."
At an early age, I became fascinated with Germany. It all began with German philosopher Christian Wolff, and his philosophical treatise, the “German Metaphysics”, or Vernünfftige Gedancken von Gott, der Welt und der Seele des Menschen, auch allen Dingen überhaupt.
No. Really, I was just intrigued that a country would build a wall dividing its capital city in half. On The Brady Bunch, Greg and Marcia hung a curtain between their two sides of the coveted attic bedroom they both wanted but this seemed much more sinister than that.
I remember watching a film about the Berlin Wall in 6th grade. It was a bleak, somber documentary about how everyone in the East wanted to come to the West but the Communist government in the East forbade defection. To prove their point, the film showed desperate people scrambling to the West. One woman crawled under the barbed wire and it caught on her sweater, exposing her bra. Once she was safely on the other side, the West Germans hugged and welcomed her, despite having just seen her rack. “Wow,” I thought. “Those West Germans sure are awesome. Their government must be outta sight.”
But East Germany was a pit of despair. Because I was 11 or 12, I assumed “Communist” and “Nazi” were basically the same thing. Shit, Russia was a communist country and they were fucking nuts! They made their people stand in line all day just for bread. In America, we could buy bread in, like, two minutes or something.
When the wall came down, Germany became far less interesting, unless you consider World War I and II interesting. But a few weeks ago, I got to thinking about North Korea and that crazy son-of-a-bitch, Kim Jong-Il.
I admit; I didn’t know much about North Korea—who does? All I knew was that Kim Jong-Il was a dictator who looked like the creepy kid in your biology lecture who would eventually bring a gun to class. Also, he made a pretty hilarious puppet in that Team America movie. Luckily, I have Netflix, so I decided to watch the National Geographic episode called Inside: North Korea. Super spy correspondent Lisa Ling traveled to The Dark Side posing as part of a film crew documenting an Indian doctor’s miraculous cataract surgery that would help over 1,000 people in North Korea recover their sight. But really, Lisa was there to uncover the mysteries of this dark, foreboding place.
It was an interesting documentary. I learned that all men in North Korea wear the same weird uniform that Kim Jong-Il wears. I learned that everywhere you go, there are pictures of the Great Leader, statues of the Great Leader, park benches he sat on in glass cases, etc. It’s clear that Kim Jong-Il is worshipped in North Korea. When patients regained their sight as a result of the eye surgery, they fell to their knees to thank The Great Leader but not the doctor. They seem to pray to him as others pray to God.
I decided I needed to figure out what the film was that I had watched in 6th grade about The Berlin Wall. I happen to be a champion Googler, so, I found it on YouTube pretty quick. It’s called The Wall and it was produced in 1962. The opening sequence features a group of young boys playing with a ball which bounces over the wall, to the other side. They stand, staring at the wall, their eyes full of fear.
“We ain’t never gonna get that goddamned ball back,” they must be thinking.
The rest of the film is narrated by a man whose entire family lives in East Berlin while he luxuriates in West Berlin. He communicates with them by waving and doing hand signals. We see a terrifying sequence of people jumping out of windows in a building that was half in West Berlin and half in East Berlin. One woman is even being held by Communists as she attempts to drop from a window. The music is dark and ominous as nameless, faceless Communists destroy people’s lives. And there it is, at 6:00 minutes in: people scrambling through barbed wire to the West as the music grows frantic.
Watching this film again, which is just over 9 minutes long, I was amazed at how different it seems now. Back then, I was terrified of East Germany. I thought of it like that pit in Return of the Jedi in which people are slowly digested over 1,000 years. Now, I see this film for what it truly was: propaganda.
If you have seen any of the German propaganda films about Jews made around WWII, you know how appalling they are. You can see them clearly as tools to insight hate for the Jewish community. But what’s propaganda and what’s fact? It’s hard to tell.
Propaganda is dramatic; it uses stark, uncomfortable, well-placed images and creepy music to make its point. In the 1980s, propaganda was everywhere. I knew nothing about the USSR and yet, I was afraid of it. Red Dawn is classic propaganda: the country is invaded by Russian, Cuban and Chinese armies and a group of uneducated hillbillies save us all from the Communists. The Children’s Story is a short film that was featured on television based on a short story about a classroom in an American school after a totalitarian government has taken over the United States. The new teacher tells the students that everything is going to be different now. Then she forces them to cut off pieces of the American flag. For many years, I remembered the giant scissors she made them use.
So I can’t help but wonder: how much of what we see about North Korea is designed to make us fear and hate the country, its people and its culture?
We hear a lot about Kim Jong-Il and most of it has us shaking our heads and saying, “That fool is cray-zee.” According to “sources” he has a bizarre obsession with rabbits; he once kidnapped a film director and his actress wife and forced them make communist propaganda films; he helicopters live lobsters to his armored train. It’s very possible that all the things said about him are true. But it’s also possible that it’s all lies, designed to make us believe that the spaceship that is North Korea is being driven by a madman.
And what’s the point of propaganda? To plant the seeds, to convince and to eventually justify. Justify sanctions, an invasion, a massive bombing, mass murder, etc. Because if we believe that North Korea is on the brink of all-out insanity, we won’t question it when our government decides to pull the trigger.
Of course, I’m a cynic. I don’t believe everything I see on the news. I thought the trial and execution of Sadaam Hussein went a little too quickly and smoothly. When it was announced that Osama bin Laden had been found, killed and very quickly disposed of at sea, I raised my eyebrow at Tom Brokaw. But my point is, just because our government tells us that something is real doesn’t mean it is real. Now that Kim Jong-Il has gone to that glorious rabbit farm in the sky, what will we be lead to believe about his son and successor?
This does not mean that corrupt, destructive governments do not exist. One thing I know for sure is that North Korea is no fan of the United States, and, because of their nuclear weapons and massive army, they are capable of massive chaos. But there was a North Korean man in the film who pretty much hit the nail on the head: when Lisa Ling asked him how Kim Jong-Il could defend his small country from the likes of a super power like the United States, he responded, “The United States has no idea how to deal with us.” He’s right. So we manage perception. The news in North Korea is all strictly controlled by the government. Those poor people don’t even know that Britney got engaged over the weekend. But how much of what we hear is exactly what our government wants us to hear? How much information is manipulated? And how many people are falling for it?
The Wall
James Clavell’s The Children’s Story (It’s in 3 parts and it’s not the best quality)
No. Really, I was just intrigued that a country would build a wall dividing its capital city in half. On The Brady Bunch, Greg and Marcia hung a curtain between their two sides of the coveted attic bedroom they both wanted but this seemed much more sinister than that.
I remember watching a film about the Berlin Wall in 6th grade. It was a bleak, somber documentary about how everyone in the East wanted to come to the West but the Communist government in the East forbade defection. To prove their point, the film showed desperate people scrambling to the West. One woman crawled under the barbed wire and it caught on her sweater, exposing her bra. Once she was safely on the other side, the West Germans hugged and welcomed her, despite having just seen her rack. “Wow,” I thought. “Those West Germans sure are awesome. Their government must be outta sight.”
But East Germany was a pit of despair. Because I was 11 or 12, I assumed “Communist” and “Nazi” were basically the same thing. Shit, Russia was a communist country and they were fucking nuts! They made their people stand in line all day just for bread. In America, we could buy bread in, like, two minutes or something.
When the wall came down, Germany became far less interesting, unless you consider World War I and II interesting. But a few weeks ago, I got to thinking about North Korea and that crazy son-of-a-bitch, Kim Jong-Il.
I admit; I didn’t know much about North Korea—who does? All I knew was that Kim Jong-Il was a dictator who looked like the creepy kid in your biology lecture who would eventually bring a gun to class. Also, he made a pretty hilarious puppet in that Team America movie. Luckily, I have Netflix, so I decided to watch the National Geographic episode called Inside: North Korea. Super spy correspondent Lisa Ling traveled to The Dark Side posing as part of a film crew documenting an Indian doctor’s miraculous cataract surgery that would help over 1,000 people in North Korea recover their sight. But really, Lisa was there to uncover the mysteries of this dark, foreboding place.
It was an interesting documentary. I learned that all men in North Korea wear the same weird uniform that Kim Jong-Il wears. I learned that everywhere you go, there are pictures of the Great Leader, statues of the Great Leader, park benches he sat on in glass cases, etc. It’s clear that Kim Jong-Il is worshipped in North Korea. When patients regained their sight as a result of the eye surgery, they fell to their knees to thank The Great Leader but not the doctor. They seem to pray to him as others pray to God.
I decided I needed to figure out what the film was that I had watched in 6th grade about The Berlin Wall. I happen to be a champion Googler, so, I found it on YouTube pretty quick. It’s called The Wall and it was produced in 1962. The opening sequence features a group of young boys playing with a ball which bounces over the wall, to the other side. They stand, staring at the wall, their eyes full of fear.
“We ain’t never gonna get that goddamned ball back,” they must be thinking.
The rest of the film is narrated by a man whose entire family lives in East Berlin while he luxuriates in West Berlin. He communicates with them by waving and doing hand signals. We see a terrifying sequence of people jumping out of windows in a building that was half in West Berlin and half in East Berlin. One woman is even being held by Communists as she attempts to drop from a window. The music is dark and ominous as nameless, faceless Communists destroy people’s lives. And there it is, at 6:00 minutes in: people scrambling through barbed wire to the West as the music grows frantic.
Watching this film again, which is just over 9 minutes long, I was amazed at how different it seems now. Back then, I was terrified of East Germany. I thought of it like that pit in Return of the Jedi in which people are slowly digested over 1,000 years. Now, I see this film for what it truly was: propaganda.
If you have seen any of the German propaganda films about Jews made around WWII, you know how appalling they are. You can see them clearly as tools to insight hate for the Jewish community. But what’s propaganda and what’s fact? It’s hard to tell.
Propaganda is dramatic; it uses stark, uncomfortable, well-placed images and creepy music to make its point. In the 1980s, propaganda was everywhere. I knew nothing about the USSR and yet, I was afraid of it. Red Dawn is classic propaganda: the country is invaded by Russian, Cuban and Chinese armies and a group of uneducated hillbillies save us all from the Communists. The Children’s Story is a short film that was featured on television based on a short story about a classroom in an American school after a totalitarian government has taken over the United States. The new teacher tells the students that everything is going to be different now. Then she forces them to cut off pieces of the American flag. For many years, I remembered the giant scissors she made them use.
So I can’t help but wonder: how much of what we see about North Korea is designed to make us fear and hate the country, its people and its culture?
We hear a lot about Kim Jong-Il and most of it has us shaking our heads and saying, “That fool is cray-zee.” According to “sources” he has a bizarre obsession with rabbits; he once kidnapped a film director and his actress wife and forced them make communist propaganda films; he helicopters live lobsters to his armored train. It’s very possible that all the things said about him are true. But it’s also possible that it’s all lies, designed to make us believe that the spaceship that is North Korea is being driven by a madman.
And what’s the point of propaganda? To plant the seeds, to convince and to eventually justify. Justify sanctions, an invasion, a massive bombing, mass murder, etc. Because if we believe that North Korea is on the brink of all-out insanity, we won’t question it when our government decides to pull the trigger.
Of course, I’m a cynic. I don’t believe everything I see on the news. I thought the trial and execution of Sadaam Hussein went a little too quickly and smoothly. When it was announced that Osama bin Laden had been found, killed and very quickly disposed of at sea, I raised my eyebrow at Tom Brokaw. But my point is, just because our government tells us that something is real doesn’t mean it is real. Now that Kim Jong-Il has gone to that glorious rabbit farm in the sky, what will we be lead to believe about his son and successor?
This does not mean that corrupt, destructive governments do not exist. One thing I know for sure is that North Korea is no fan of the United States, and, because of their nuclear weapons and massive army, they are capable of massive chaos. But there was a North Korean man in the film who pretty much hit the nail on the head: when Lisa Ling asked him how Kim Jong-Il could defend his small country from the likes of a super power like the United States, he responded, “The United States has no idea how to deal with us.” He’s right. So we manage perception. The news in North Korea is all strictly controlled by the government. Those poor people don’t even know that Britney got engaged over the weekend. But how much of what we hear is exactly what our government wants us to hear? How much information is manipulated? And how many people are falling for it?
The Wall
James Clavell’s The Children’s Story (It’s in 3 parts and it’s not the best quality)
Thursday, December 15, 2011
If I Were a Tyrannosaurus Rex
Writer Gene Marks recently published a blog post to Forbes.com titled, "If I Were a Poor Black Kid". The article is about what Gene Marks would do to change his situation if he was a poor black kid. Mr. Marks apparently decided to write the article after taking a moment to think about his kids and how they have more advantages than poor black kids in West Philadelphia. This is logical. I often think about what Ryan Gosling is doing and that usually prompts me to determine what I think he should be doing. (Me.)
Oh, guess what? Gene Marks is not a poor black kid. He is actually a middle aged white man.
I wonder if he was drinking a nice, hot cup of Starbucks Christmas Blend when he wrote this article. Perhaps he’d just had a few Kashi Go Lean waffles with just a spritz of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter. I know that’s what I was doing when I settled into read his opinion of that which he knows nothing about.
Gene admits up front that he is not a poor black kid, which I already knew when I caught site of his easy-like-Sunday-morning picture. Gene looks like your Dad’s friend or the only male employee in the Human Resources department who occasionally has a socially awkward conversation with you in the break room. Harmless, friendly and somehow overtaken by a force that he feels bestowed him with the power to determine what poor black kids need to do.
Gene thinks they need to learn how to write code. I don’t know why; perhaps because people who can do those types of things make good money and money is apparently the key to shedding the label of “poor black kid.” Gene also says that if he were a poor black kid, he would strive to get the best grades possible because grades are the key to opportunity and opportunity is they key to success. Or learning how to write code is they key to opportunity...or success. I don't know.
Technology seems to be his main angle. And don't bother bringing up tales of limited access to technology. Gene would like us to know that he knows a few school teachers and those school teachers have told him that even the poorest schools have or can afford cheap computers and internet access nowadays. Incidentally, I don't invest in the stock market but I know some people who do, so when you're ready for that financial advice, you give me a call.
Gene goes on to list all the resources he would tap into if he were a poor black kid, like Google Scholar, Academic Earth and something called Project Gutenberg, which I can only assume is a task force designed to get Steve Gutenberg back into films as quickly as possible.
Then Gene lets us in on a little secret: private schools have scholarships. so. If you're a poor black parent who's spent the last few years strategizing about how to get your poor black kid into Exeter, worry no more. They have Poor Black Kid scholarships. What are you poor blck families waiting for?!
Overall, Gene Marks does exactly what you’d expect a white guy from the suburbs to do: he sweeps all the shit under the rug. “Poor black kids” becomes a one-dimensional category that seemingly has no reason for being poor and also no additional factors that might be preventing them from downloading Evernote. His “you can do it, kids” tone only proves that he has no fucking idea what the fuck he is talking about. None. Zero.
Now. Do I think being poor and black means you can’t succeed? Absolutely not. But do I think Gene’s paint-by-numbers advice makes any sense? No. I imagine Gene Marks has been to many cocktail parties and ended up in quiet discussions about how poor people of color really just need to stop complaining and make something of themselves. This isn’t new; conservatives have been saying this shit for years. Newt Gingrich just told America that he thinks poor kids should be required to get jobs so they learn some skills. Trust me—every white middle aged asshole in America thinks they know what’s best for poor black kids. Gene Marks is just another asshole.
But you know what? You make my job so easy. I don’t have to do or say anything; you do it all for me. And for that, I say thank you.
Oh, guess what? Gene Marks is not a poor black kid. He is actually a middle aged white man.
I wonder if he was drinking a nice, hot cup of Starbucks Christmas Blend when he wrote this article. Perhaps he’d just had a few Kashi Go Lean waffles with just a spritz of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter. I know that’s what I was doing when I settled into read his opinion of that which he knows nothing about.
Gene admits up front that he is not a poor black kid, which I already knew when I caught site of his easy-like-Sunday-morning picture. Gene looks like your Dad’s friend or the only male employee in the Human Resources department who occasionally has a socially awkward conversation with you in the break room. Harmless, friendly and somehow overtaken by a force that he feels bestowed him with the power to determine what poor black kids need to do.
Gene thinks they need to learn how to write code. I don’t know why; perhaps because people who can do those types of things make good money and money is apparently the key to shedding the label of “poor black kid.” Gene also says that if he were a poor black kid, he would strive to get the best grades possible because grades are the key to opportunity and opportunity is they key to success. Or learning how to write code is they key to opportunity...or success. I don't know.
Technology seems to be his main angle. And don't bother bringing up tales of limited access to technology. Gene would like us to know that he knows a few school teachers and those school teachers have told him that even the poorest schools have or can afford cheap computers and internet access nowadays. Incidentally, I don't invest in the stock market but I know some people who do, so when you're ready for that financial advice, you give me a call.
Gene goes on to list all the resources he would tap into if he were a poor black kid, like Google Scholar, Academic Earth and something called Project Gutenberg, which I can only assume is a task force designed to get Steve Gutenberg back into films as quickly as possible.
Then Gene lets us in on a little secret: private schools have scholarships. so. If you're a poor black parent who's spent the last few years strategizing about how to get your poor black kid into Exeter, worry no more. They have Poor Black Kid scholarships. What are you poor blck families waiting for?!
Overall, Gene Marks does exactly what you’d expect a white guy from the suburbs to do: he sweeps all the shit under the rug. “Poor black kids” becomes a one-dimensional category that seemingly has no reason for being poor and also no additional factors that might be preventing them from downloading Evernote. His “you can do it, kids” tone only proves that he has no fucking idea what the fuck he is talking about. None. Zero.
Now. Do I think being poor and black means you can’t succeed? Absolutely not. But do I think Gene’s paint-by-numbers advice makes any sense? No. I imagine Gene Marks has been to many cocktail parties and ended up in quiet discussions about how poor people of color really just need to stop complaining and make something of themselves. This isn’t new; conservatives have been saying this shit for years. Newt Gingrich just told America that he thinks poor kids should be required to get jobs so they learn some skills. Trust me—every white middle aged asshole in America thinks they know what’s best for poor black kids. Gene Marks is just another asshole.
But you know what? You make my job so easy. I don’t have to do or say anything; you do it all for me. And for that, I say thank you.
Friday, December 2, 2011
And you will know my name is the lord when I pee all over your waiting room
I’ve had my fair share of health issues: deep vein thrombosis, pulmonary emboli, diabetes, or as Wilford Brimley would say, dia-beet-us. I have more scar tissue on my arms than I have veins you can get anything out of. I am a seasoned, leathery doctor’s office cowboy.
So when I told my doctor about some weird things happening with The Baby Maker, I wasn’t worried. Ok, I was a little bit concerned. But bring on the tests. It’s nothing I haven’t braved before. I shall take this on with the strength of 1,000 warriors.
So she had me schedule an ultrasound. The kind lady at the scheduling desk set it all up for me and then said, “Now, before your appointment, you have to drink 32 ounces of water and you can’t go to the bathroom. Your bladder needs to be full for the ultrasound.”
I think I was in a rush that day, so I was like, “Yeah, yeah, water, don’t pee, thanks a bunch.” I forgot all about it, until they called me the day before to remind me.
“Now don’t forget; you need to drink 32 ounces of water 45 minutes prior to your appointment and you cannot use the bathroom.” It wasn’t until that phone call that it dawned on me that this might be difficult. I mean, I really like to pee when my bladder is full. Nonsense! I have come through greater challenges than this.
One hour before my appointment, I drank one 16 ounce bottle of water. As I as filling up the bottle again, I realized I already had to pee. I was mildly irritated at first but then I was hit with a wave of furious terror. Oh my God…I can’t pee. I can’t pee. What the fuck am I going to do?! I stood in my kitchen, holding the 16 ounces of water I still had to consume, spiraling downward into anxiety when it hit me: this has happened before.
When I was a kid, I would get bored in church. I would do anything to get up and move around. Mostly I would go tap dance on the stone floor in the lobby. I had those adorable patent leather shoes that clicked when I walked, which made me feel fancy. No longer able to endure my squirming, my mother would let me loose to do what all small brown children should do: tap dance. When that didn’t work, I’d resort to claiming I needed to go to the bathroom. I was still small, so my mother had to take me to make sure I didn’t get kidnapped. (There was a band of church-going kidnappers on the loose.) I’d go so far as to sit down on the toilet, my white tights around my ankles, knowing full well I didn’t have to pee. My mother would get mad and lecture me, but I could kill 5-10 minutes this way and any amount of time I had away from all the boring was ok by me.
One Sunday, my mother had had enough. She told me, “The next time you say you have to go potty and you really don’t, I’m gonna spank your butt.” I’m gonna spank your butt was a terrifying threat to a 4 year old. It’s like if someone were to say to me, I’m gonna audit your tax return today. Ohhh. I don’t want that to happen.
My mother tells the rest of the story like this:
“We were in the car, driving home from church, and you were quietly whimpering in the back seat. I asked you what was wrong and you said, ‘I have to go potty.’ So when we got home, I took you to the bathroom and you just sat there and cried, saying you couldn’t go.”
So they took me to the emergency room. Turns out, I had been so worried about getting a spanking that my little bladder muscles had a death grip on my urine. I have no idea how they solved this problem but for the last 31 years, when I gotta go, I get real anxious about it. I once got stuck in New York City airport traffic the day before Christmas and almost pissed in the shuttle van. There was a small child sitting next to me and I fully planned to blame it on him.
As I drove to the doctor’s office, my bladder uncomfortably full, my anxiety got worse and worse. Every bump I went over, every time I applied the brakes, 32 ounces of water sloshed around inside me and I thought I might cry. I parked and got out of the car, shifting my bladder’s contents to a new, even more horrible position. By the time I’d arrived at the radiology department, I was about ready to call it quits.
“Hiihaveanappointmentforanultrasound.” I stood in front of the receptionist, bouncing.
She smiled at me. “Your name?”
“Dresdenjones.”
“What was that?”
Panting now. “Dresden…Jones.”
She typed my name into her keyboard and I swear, with every click, I had to pee worse.
“Ok, you’re all checked in. You can have a seat.”
“Ok.” Pause. “I really have to pee.” I don't know; I thought maybe I'd tell her and she'd laugh and say, "Oh that was just a suggestion. Go to the bathroom, crazy!"
But she didn't, and she had the nerve to smile at me. “I know. But you can’t.”
Son of a bitch! These fuckers aren’t kidding! I have to pee! I’m not allowed to pee!
Every nerve ending in my body was screaming at me, “GO TO THE BATHROOM YOU STUPID BITCH! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW FULL YOUR BLADDER IS?!?!”
I started pacing. A nurse walked out of the back and called someone else’s name. Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Oh sweet, loving Buddha.
Every time another person in the waiting room moved or spoke, it was like a wool sweater on a sunburn. Two little children kept asking their mom, “Can we have McDonalds after this?” A starry-eyed couple whispered and giggled. A man who looked like my social studies teacher in 9th grade asked the receptionist what floor mental health was on. I tried sitting down only to discover that applied more piercing pressure to my bladder. It was suddenly 400 degrees in the waiting room, so I took off my sweater and continued to pace. Meanwhile, my body was still screaming at me.
“WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?? YOU HAVE BEEN TRAINED TO USE THE BATHROOM WHEN YOUR BLADDER IS FULL! THAT IS WHAT WE DO! FOR THE LOVE OF HOLY CHRIST, GO TO THE BATHROOM!!!!”
I marched up to the receptionist desk. “Um, excuse me. Yeah, hi. I have to pee really badly. Like really, unbelievably, like I have never had to pee this badly in my life.”
She smiled at me. “I’ll go tell them.”
Thank you! Christ on a cracker, I told you I had to pee when I got here 7 minutes ago; why didn’t you tell them then?! While she was gone, I decided to distract myself by Googling, “How to hold it when you have to go to the bathroom” on my phone. This did not return useful results, unless I happened to be holding my urine for sexual purposes. Yes. People do that. According to Wikipedia.
Happy Smiley Stupidface returned and said, “Two minutes.”
Two minutes?? Are you fucking kidding me?? I don’t have two seconds, you friendly asshole! I decided that I wasn’t going to make it and I’d better tell someone. I texted Joe, “I am going to pee all over this waiting room.” I dropped to my knees and began delivering Samuel L. Jackson’s speech from Pulp Fiction.
“The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who in the name of charity and goodwill shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and a finder of lost children.”
“Dresden Jones?”
“YES!”
I was rushed back to a small, dimly lit room. “I’ll do this first ultrasound quickly so you can go to the bathroom.”
Bless you, my child. Bless you.
There’s some jelly on my lower abdomen, she’s rolling her little thing around, and she says, “Wow! Your bladder is really full!”
Really???? NO SHIT, sweetheart. How’s about I throw that computer monitor at you? How about that??
Soon it was all over and I was set free to go to the bathroom and pee like I have never peed before. Everything else faded away; it was just me and the toilet. We basked in the glorious sun, flanked on both sides by whimsical Disney creatures. I became one with the cool, white porcelain; we spoke the same ancient language. As my ordeal came to an end, I heard the faint sound of Jeff Buckley singing Hallelujah.
So when I told my doctor about some weird things happening with The Baby Maker, I wasn’t worried. Ok, I was a little bit concerned. But bring on the tests. It’s nothing I haven’t braved before. I shall take this on with the strength of 1,000 warriors.
So she had me schedule an ultrasound. The kind lady at the scheduling desk set it all up for me and then said, “Now, before your appointment, you have to drink 32 ounces of water and you can’t go to the bathroom. Your bladder needs to be full for the ultrasound.”
I think I was in a rush that day, so I was like, “Yeah, yeah, water, don’t pee, thanks a bunch.” I forgot all about it, until they called me the day before to remind me.
“Now don’t forget; you need to drink 32 ounces of water 45 minutes prior to your appointment and you cannot use the bathroom.” It wasn’t until that phone call that it dawned on me that this might be difficult. I mean, I really like to pee when my bladder is full. Nonsense! I have come through greater challenges than this.
One hour before my appointment, I drank one 16 ounce bottle of water. As I as filling up the bottle again, I realized I already had to pee. I was mildly irritated at first but then I was hit with a wave of furious terror. Oh my God…I can’t pee. I can’t pee. What the fuck am I going to do?! I stood in my kitchen, holding the 16 ounces of water I still had to consume, spiraling downward into anxiety when it hit me: this has happened before.
When I was a kid, I would get bored in church. I would do anything to get up and move around. Mostly I would go tap dance on the stone floor in the lobby. I had those adorable patent leather shoes that clicked when I walked, which made me feel fancy. No longer able to endure my squirming, my mother would let me loose to do what all small brown children should do: tap dance. When that didn’t work, I’d resort to claiming I needed to go to the bathroom. I was still small, so my mother had to take me to make sure I didn’t get kidnapped. (There was a band of church-going kidnappers on the loose.) I’d go so far as to sit down on the toilet, my white tights around my ankles, knowing full well I didn’t have to pee. My mother would get mad and lecture me, but I could kill 5-10 minutes this way and any amount of time I had away from all the boring was ok by me.
One Sunday, my mother had had enough. She told me, “The next time you say you have to go potty and you really don’t, I’m gonna spank your butt.” I’m gonna spank your butt was a terrifying threat to a 4 year old. It’s like if someone were to say to me, I’m gonna audit your tax return today. Ohhh. I don’t want that to happen.
My mother tells the rest of the story like this:
“We were in the car, driving home from church, and you were quietly whimpering in the back seat. I asked you what was wrong and you said, ‘I have to go potty.’ So when we got home, I took you to the bathroom and you just sat there and cried, saying you couldn’t go.”
So they took me to the emergency room. Turns out, I had been so worried about getting a spanking that my little bladder muscles had a death grip on my urine. I have no idea how they solved this problem but for the last 31 years, when I gotta go, I get real anxious about it. I once got stuck in New York City airport traffic the day before Christmas and almost pissed in the shuttle van. There was a small child sitting next to me and I fully planned to blame it on him.
As I drove to the doctor’s office, my bladder uncomfortably full, my anxiety got worse and worse. Every bump I went over, every time I applied the brakes, 32 ounces of water sloshed around inside me and I thought I might cry. I parked and got out of the car, shifting my bladder’s contents to a new, even more horrible position. By the time I’d arrived at the radiology department, I was about ready to call it quits.
“Hiihaveanappointmentforanultrasound.” I stood in front of the receptionist, bouncing.
She smiled at me. “Your name?”
“Dresdenjones.”
“What was that?”
Panting now. “Dresden…Jones.”
She typed my name into her keyboard and I swear, with every click, I had to pee worse.
“Ok, you’re all checked in. You can have a seat.”
“Ok.” Pause. “I really have to pee.” I don't know; I thought maybe I'd tell her and she'd laugh and say, "Oh that was just a suggestion. Go to the bathroom, crazy!"
But she didn't, and she had the nerve to smile at me. “I know. But you can’t.”
Son of a bitch! These fuckers aren’t kidding! I have to pee! I’m not allowed to pee!
Every nerve ending in my body was screaming at me, “GO TO THE BATHROOM YOU STUPID BITCH! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW FULL YOUR BLADDER IS?!?!”
I started pacing. A nurse walked out of the back and called someone else’s name. Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Oh sweet, loving Buddha.
Every time another person in the waiting room moved or spoke, it was like a wool sweater on a sunburn. Two little children kept asking their mom, “Can we have McDonalds after this?” A starry-eyed couple whispered and giggled. A man who looked like my social studies teacher in 9th grade asked the receptionist what floor mental health was on. I tried sitting down only to discover that applied more piercing pressure to my bladder. It was suddenly 400 degrees in the waiting room, so I took off my sweater and continued to pace. Meanwhile, my body was still screaming at me.
“WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?? YOU HAVE BEEN TRAINED TO USE THE BATHROOM WHEN YOUR BLADDER IS FULL! THAT IS WHAT WE DO! FOR THE LOVE OF HOLY CHRIST, GO TO THE BATHROOM!!!!”
I marched up to the receptionist desk. “Um, excuse me. Yeah, hi. I have to pee really badly. Like really, unbelievably, like I have never had to pee this badly in my life.”
She smiled at me. “I’ll go tell them.”
Thank you! Christ on a cracker, I told you I had to pee when I got here 7 minutes ago; why didn’t you tell them then?! While she was gone, I decided to distract myself by Googling, “How to hold it when you have to go to the bathroom” on my phone. This did not return useful results, unless I happened to be holding my urine for sexual purposes. Yes. People do that. According to Wikipedia.
Happy Smiley Stupidface returned and said, “Two minutes.”
Two minutes?? Are you fucking kidding me?? I don’t have two seconds, you friendly asshole! I decided that I wasn’t going to make it and I’d better tell someone. I texted Joe, “I am going to pee all over this waiting room.” I dropped to my knees and began delivering Samuel L. Jackson’s speech from Pulp Fiction.
“The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who in the name of charity and goodwill shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and a finder of lost children.”
“Dresden Jones?”
“YES!”
I was rushed back to a small, dimly lit room. “I’ll do this first ultrasound quickly so you can go to the bathroom.”
Bless you, my child. Bless you.
There’s some jelly on my lower abdomen, she’s rolling her little thing around, and she says, “Wow! Your bladder is really full!”
Really???? NO SHIT, sweetheart. How’s about I throw that computer monitor at you? How about that??
Soon it was all over and I was set free to go to the bathroom and pee like I have never peed before. Everything else faded away; it was just me and the toilet. We basked in the glorious sun, flanked on both sides by whimsical Disney creatures. I became one with the cool, white porcelain; we spoke the same ancient language. As my ordeal came to an end, I heard the faint sound of Jeff Buckley singing Hallelujah.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Clown Car Full of Assholes: A Manifesto
I'm no politico (which I can only assume is Italian for "douchebag") but I can't help having an opinion on the current candidates for the Republican presidential nomination. Between the vague but catchy numerical plans to fix our economy and the endless debates, how can one not have an opinion? I am, after all, an opinionated woman. Again, my qualifications to determine the merit of one's political prowess are only slightly stronger than Donald Trump's. But I need to get this out because my television must be growing tired of me yelling, "Is this a fucking joke" at it.
And so, in no particular order, I opine on the motley crue currently vying to lead America (sorry Motley Crue!).
Herman Cain: I know very little about this man. My father worked with him decades ago; he was a franchisee for Burger King and my father did some contract consulting for Burger King. Now, I cannot judge him based on his behavior in that context. After all, no one can be expected to conduct himself rationally in a flame broiled environment.
Here's what I do know: I hate Godfather's Pizza. When I was a kid, there was a Godfather's Pizza near my house. Whenever I was forced to eat there, I was overwhelmed by sadness. Who wouldn't be sad while choking down the shittiest pizza in the entire world? I really don't know anything about his political qualifications. But if he plans to hold this country to the same sub-standards that he uses for pizza, he ain't gettin' my vote. Plus I am automatically suspect of any black man who wants to be a part of the Tea Party. I bet he skis, too.
Mitt Romney: Everyone is making a big deal about this guy. He's Mormon. He's boring. He looks as if he's made of shiny, taut plastic. He must spend a small fortune on pomade. Blah blah blah. No one seems to be bothered by the two things that seriously concern me about this guy.
He's a nervous laugher. We've all known these people; they smile and laugh at inappropriate times. It's a nervous habit. If he were just a normal guy not running for president, this wouldn't bother me. But I don't want my president to respond to the question, "How do you plan to address the the fact that an overwhelming number of US citizens cannot afford health care?" with a giggle.
I'd also like to know how we plan to defend ourselves against the fact that our president's name is Mitt. That alone leaves us open to any number of attacks. If a guy named Mitt told me he had a solution to the jobless rate, I would tell him to call me when the shuttle lands. However, if a guy named Mitt offered to pay for the party keg, that would feel just right.
Rick Perry: Rick Perry is angry. As his numbers have slipped, he has become more and more hostile. This should be a red flag, considering he will encounter any number of frustrating situations during his presidency. Urgency is one thing. Baby tantrum rage is quite another.
But my main issue with Rick Perry is his wife. I appreciate that wives and husbands of people running for office are going to defend their spouse. And I certainly don't mean to imply that Anita Thigpen Perry should stand motionless and silent next to her husband. But please....stop trying to garner sympathy for your husband because of how he's been attacked by the media and the other candidates. He's running for president. If he was just a guy going to Wal-Mart and the other shoppers suddenly began pointing out all his flaws, well, that would be sad. And weird. But like I told Britney Spears: if you want everyone to stop calling you trashy, stop going into gas station bathrooms barefoot.
Michele Bachmann: I'm a Minnesotan, which means I am very familiar with Michele, or, as I like to call her, Beelzebub. I actually have sympathy for old Beelz. Being a beard is hard. I played that role on a number of awkward occasions at various weddings and family reunions. But for God's sake, I didn't marry it! Rookie mistake, sweetie. Rookie mistake.
Recently, Michele (one "L" and that stands for "Lucifer", FYI) started shopping her latest bill, which would force women getting abortions to see an ultrasound picture of the fetus and hear the heartbeat before the procedure. You know what? I'm willing to sign off on it. But only if we can also create audio of what it does to someone's heart, mind and soul every time you and your squad of assholes condemn them for being who they are. That's a loud, ugly sound, Beelzebub, and God ain't nowhere in it. Also, I vote for an auditory study of what's happening in your husband's mind. I can't say for sure but I'm betting it's real danceable and has a heavy baseline.
Newt Gingrich: Seriously? I'm getting sleepy; what little energy I have left can't be wasted on this tool.
Rick Santorum: Someone recently said to me, "Your name reminds people of suffering." It's true; I was named after a city that was bombed to shreds in WWII. But at least my name doesn't remind people of this. But you have to give it to a guy who keeps on keepin' on even after his family name has been reduced to poop and lube. Many could not have come back from that. It looks like Rick won't be able to, either.
Ron Paul: Ron Paul wrote a book called The Revolution: A Manifesto. My ears perk up and bells and whistles go off when I hear certain words and phrases, like, "The more people you recruit, the more money you can make"; "vegan"; and "manifesto." Know who else has written a manifesto? Anders Behring Breivik, the guy who killed all those folks in Norway this past summer. Valerie Solanas, the woman who shot Andy Warhol. The Unibomber. Clearly a manifesto is not something a sane person writes. Therefore, I do not believe Ron Paul to be playing with a full deck of cards.
There is nothing about any of this that is not delightful. I've heard a lot of people say that they are disappointed in Obama; that he has been soft on certain things; that he hasn't followed through on some of the things he promised during his campaign. He certainly hasn't done a flawless job and he's made a lot of mistakes. But long ago, when people were running their mouths on CNN, MSNBC, Fox "News", etc a mere 20 days after Obama began his term, about how he wasn't doing what he should be doing, I offered this: anyone who had taken office after GWB was basically being handed a giant pile of shit. Just a tin plate piled high with dung. Two wars, an economy in the toilet, more people than ever without affordable, quality health care, etc, etc, etc.
But this was no average Tupperware container packed with turds. These turds had been mixed with thousands of tiny shards of broken glass and we expected Obama to hand pick every single shard of glass out of a pile of deuces without a) cutting himself and b) getting any shit underneath his nails. These were the only measures of success.
But even if Obama had spent the last 3 years mooning the press and responding to every question with a cry of, "By the power of Greyskull: I have the power!" he would still be a more acceptable option compared to the clown car full of assholes the Republicans are putting forth as their best and brightest. The may as well have set a chicken on a podium at a press conference.
And so, in no particular order, I opine on the motley crue currently vying to lead America (sorry Motley Crue!).
Herman Cain: I know very little about this man. My father worked with him decades ago; he was a franchisee for Burger King and my father did some contract consulting for Burger King. Now, I cannot judge him based on his behavior in that context. After all, no one can be expected to conduct himself rationally in a flame broiled environment.
Here's what I do know: I hate Godfather's Pizza. When I was a kid, there was a Godfather's Pizza near my house. Whenever I was forced to eat there, I was overwhelmed by sadness. Who wouldn't be sad while choking down the shittiest pizza in the entire world? I really don't know anything about his political qualifications. But if he plans to hold this country to the same sub-standards that he uses for pizza, he ain't gettin' my vote. Plus I am automatically suspect of any black man who wants to be a part of the Tea Party. I bet he skis, too.
Mitt Romney: Everyone is making a big deal about this guy. He's Mormon. He's boring. He looks as if he's made of shiny, taut plastic. He must spend a small fortune on pomade. Blah blah blah. No one seems to be bothered by the two things that seriously concern me about this guy.
He's a nervous laugher. We've all known these people; they smile and laugh at inappropriate times. It's a nervous habit. If he were just a normal guy not running for president, this wouldn't bother me. But I don't want my president to respond to the question, "How do you plan to address the the fact that an overwhelming number of US citizens cannot afford health care?" with a giggle.
I'd also like to know how we plan to defend ourselves against the fact that our president's name is Mitt. That alone leaves us open to any number of attacks. If a guy named Mitt told me he had a solution to the jobless rate, I would tell him to call me when the shuttle lands. However, if a guy named Mitt offered to pay for the party keg, that would feel just right.
Rick Perry: Rick Perry is angry. As his numbers have slipped, he has become more and more hostile. This should be a red flag, considering he will encounter any number of frustrating situations during his presidency. Urgency is one thing. Baby tantrum rage is quite another.
But my main issue with Rick Perry is his wife. I appreciate that wives and husbands of people running for office are going to defend their spouse. And I certainly don't mean to imply that Anita Thigpen Perry should stand motionless and silent next to her husband. But please....stop trying to garner sympathy for your husband because of how he's been attacked by the media and the other candidates. He's running for president. If he was just a guy going to Wal-Mart and the other shoppers suddenly began pointing out all his flaws, well, that would be sad. And weird. But like I told Britney Spears: if you want everyone to stop calling you trashy, stop going into gas station bathrooms barefoot.
Michele Bachmann: I'm a Minnesotan, which means I am very familiar with Michele, or, as I like to call her, Beelzebub. I actually have sympathy for old Beelz. Being a beard is hard. I played that role on a number of awkward occasions at various weddings and family reunions. But for God's sake, I didn't marry it! Rookie mistake, sweetie. Rookie mistake.
Recently, Michele (one "L" and that stands for "Lucifer", FYI) started shopping her latest bill, which would force women getting abortions to see an ultrasound picture of the fetus and hear the heartbeat before the procedure. You know what? I'm willing to sign off on it. But only if we can also create audio of what it does to someone's heart, mind and soul every time you and your squad of assholes condemn them for being who they are. That's a loud, ugly sound, Beelzebub, and God ain't nowhere in it. Also, I vote for an auditory study of what's happening in your husband's mind. I can't say for sure but I'm betting it's real danceable and has a heavy baseline.
Newt Gingrich: Seriously? I'm getting sleepy; what little energy I have left can't be wasted on this tool.
Rick Santorum: Someone recently said to me, "Your name reminds people of suffering." It's true; I was named after a city that was bombed to shreds in WWII. But at least my name doesn't remind people of this. But you have to give it to a guy who keeps on keepin' on even after his family name has been reduced to poop and lube. Many could not have come back from that. It looks like Rick won't be able to, either.
Ron Paul: Ron Paul wrote a book called The Revolution: A Manifesto. My ears perk up and bells and whistles go off when I hear certain words and phrases, like, "The more people you recruit, the more money you can make"; "vegan"; and "manifesto." Know who else has written a manifesto? Anders Behring Breivik, the guy who killed all those folks in Norway this past summer. Valerie Solanas, the woman who shot Andy Warhol. The Unibomber. Clearly a manifesto is not something a sane person writes. Therefore, I do not believe Ron Paul to be playing with a full deck of cards.
There is nothing about any of this that is not delightful. I've heard a lot of people say that they are disappointed in Obama; that he has been soft on certain things; that he hasn't followed through on some of the things he promised during his campaign. He certainly hasn't done a flawless job and he's made a lot of mistakes. But long ago, when people were running their mouths on CNN, MSNBC, Fox "News", etc a mere 20 days after Obama began his term, about how he wasn't doing what he should be doing, I offered this: anyone who had taken office after GWB was basically being handed a giant pile of shit. Just a tin plate piled high with dung. Two wars, an economy in the toilet, more people than ever without affordable, quality health care, etc, etc, etc.
But this was no average Tupperware container packed with turds. These turds had been mixed with thousands of tiny shards of broken glass and we expected Obama to hand pick every single shard of glass out of a pile of deuces without a) cutting himself and b) getting any shit underneath his nails. These were the only measures of success.
But even if Obama had spent the last 3 years mooning the press and responding to every question with a cry of, "By the power of Greyskull: I have the power!" he would still be a more acceptable option compared to the clown car full of assholes the Republicans are putting forth as their best and brightest. The may as well have set a chicken on a podium at a press conference.
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