I don't pretend that this will make me feel better. It won't. But I wanted to try my hand at this "I'm intolerant of intolerance" angle. I figured that, rather than dip my toe in the shallows, I'd dive right into the deep end and go for the real meat: Hate. I mean, maybe I've never hated anything because deep down a curmudgeon needs to be annoyed, and so, in a stupidly twisted way, embraces the source of the annoyance. Or maybe I never cared enough to get my dander up to the point of actual hatred. Even when it came to the extremely unpleasant and wholly unjustifiable serving of liver and Lima beans, I could only muster the old lukewarm "agree to disagree" cop-out. Well, no more. I'm about to bring on the hate.
If you support the "Fairness Doctrine," I hate you.
Not because you are ill informed, I'll give you the benefit of that particular doubt. But because you want to live in a world where Congress will literally have the power to tell American radio stations what they can broadcast, where there is an outside chance (I don't care how remote) that we might have to "balance" songs about sex with an equal measure of songs about abstinence, or force program directors to go out and find someone who loves the war and broadcast their statement every time someone says they despise it. You'll say this example is egregious: I hate the idea of rape. I hope that you do as well. Imagine a broadcasted discussion about the horrors of rape, featuring numbers victims could call for support, followed by a legally mandated commentary by some freak who thinks it is part of the natural way of things. This is what your fear of people who disagree with you will get us.
And by the way: If you're afraid to let the market decide who should be on the air, then I hope you can accept my hate as a respectful substitute for the pity I was going to extend.
If you have ever compared (or agreed with anyone who compared) modern Islamic extremists to modern American Christians, I hate you.
I'm not part of any born-again evangelical superchurch, in fact it irks me to say anything that appears like defending their ilk. But really--go ahead and mock and deride and dismiss religious types all you want. Just don't EVER put an American who would show up at your door with banana bread if your spouse was ill with someone who would cut off your head because you think Jewish people have a right to exist. I get that religious extremism causes problems, but an activist who carries a sign that says "Abortion Stops a Beating Heart," is a far cry from a jihadist who stops beating hearts on a bus with a bomb strapped to his chest. Surely you see how even a so-called christian who writes their Congressperson to express their stupid opinion that gay people shouldn't be able to visit each other in the hospital (if you ever meet one, by the way, I'll give you a dollar) cannot be put in the same box as a religiously sanctioned official who would castrate a gay person in the public square. And if you think they ARE in the same category, then I'm beginning to think that you are a bigger problem than both of them.
If you persist in thinking that there is a huge difference between the two behemoth political parties, I don't hate you yet, but I'm getting there.
If you bought a Dixie Chix album just to support their apparent cause (as if it could or should be anything beyond selling records), I hate you. It used to be about the music, man.
If you are in the Mafia, I hate, Hate, HATE you. In fact anyone who has ever perpetrated or observed an act of physical violence without feeling sick inside should be feeling the hate.
Yeah, now I'm rolling.
I'm also officially stating an official hatred for litterbugs, thieves, and guys who take their shirts off in public, with an honorable mention to teenagers, that guy who threw the giant beer soaked paper towel wad at my head at a baseball game, anyone taller than me, every last one of you who has ever spoken ill of a Mormon missionary, and anyone who ever made fun of my little brother.
I was wrong. I do feel better.
samedi, juin 23, 2007
vendredi, juin 08, 2007
Foul Dickies
So and So has a pair of black Dickies. A sweet cut--everything just right except they are getting old and fading. I've searched high and low--even a Dickies outlet in the bowels of Southern California. Nothing. I thought I saw a pair in the women's department at Sears, and even bought a pair. The cut was gay enough. They might have even been stretchy. But the lack of back pockets ended up being a deal breaker. Again. So I guess I wasn't lying at the check out when I said they were for my wife.
I thought the internet would save us all. The Dickies web site featured the very pair I had been seeking. The picture was beautiful. The text was poetic. But I clicked and clicked and could not order. Finally I went back to the phone age and dialed customer service. A very gracious Texan (props for not outsourcing to BFE overseas!) informed me that THE PANTS ARE NO LONGER AVAILABLE. "Then why are they on the site? It is to goad and mock me and turn my quest into a life souring failure?" She assured me it was nothing personal, and referred me to a pair of pants that might fit the bill.
But in this case, the beautiful picture and poetic texts were simply a ruse--which I only found out when the pants arrived by post and I tried them on. These were nothing like girl pants with pockets. At 3 PM I officially gave up hope.
Curse you, Dickies, for making the perfect pants just long enough for me to NOT be able to purchase them. Curse you for keeping the picture of the discontinued pants on your website just long enough for me to see them and almost hope to own a pair. Curse you for recommending a quality butter flavored alternative that looks edible but tastes nothing like the real thing.
Only Oprah can help me now: I envision myself in the pants. I feel the joy of owning several pair. I walk around the house pretending to catch the hotness of them in the mirror (not an easy task considering the kind of undergarments I wear--luckily, I don't get a lot of visitors).
Hear me Oprah: You promised me this would work. You promised me the pants of my dreams if I could only employ your secret.
I expect the pants before the end of the summer. Don't make me curse you.
I thought the internet would save us all. The Dickies web site featured the very pair I had been seeking. The picture was beautiful. The text was poetic. But I clicked and clicked and could not order. Finally I went back to the phone age and dialed customer service. A very gracious Texan (props for not outsourcing to BFE overseas!) informed me that THE PANTS ARE NO LONGER AVAILABLE. "Then why are they on the site? It is to goad and mock me and turn my quest into a life souring failure?" She assured me it was nothing personal, and referred me to a pair of pants that might fit the bill.
But in this case, the beautiful picture and poetic texts were simply a ruse--which I only found out when the pants arrived by post and I tried them on. These were nothing like girl pants with pockets. At 3 PM I officially gave up hope.
Curse you, Dickies, for making the perfect pants just long enough for me to NOT be able to purchase them. Curse you for keeping the picture of the discontinued pants on your website just long enough for me to see them and almost hope to own a pair. Curse you for recommending a quality butter flavored alternative that looks edible but tastes nothing like the real thing.
Only Oprah can help me now: I envision myself in the pants. I feel the joy of owning several pair. I walk around the house pretending to catch the hotness of them in the mirror (not an easy task considering the kind of undergarments I wear--luckily, I don't get a lot of visitors).
Hear me Oprah: You promised me this would work. You promised me the pants of my dreams if I could only employ your secret.
I expect the pants before the end of the summer. Don't make me curse you.
lundi, mai 21, 2007
My New Book
I thought I'd try my hand at the Great American Novel. Here is my strong opening paragraph.
The wind from the east tossed the garland jauntily about her wimple. It was the kind of effect that drove him crazy with lust. Pant. Pant. Pant. Her bodice was laced tight enough so as to restrict her breathing. This also was the kind of effect that drove him crazy—this time with something not quite lust, but closely resembling it. He could have put his finger on it, but his hands were occupied with the act of fidgeting in the folds of his tunic, looking for the silver drachma he was sure he had placed there before leaving the house, if for no other reason than to be able to locate it for just such an occasion as this. Presently his hands found other things to do. Mainly, a genteel caress of her nape. Now it was inevitable. Kiss. (pause) Kiss. (longer pause) Kiss. He looked deep into her eyes. Once they had stopped kissing, that is. With his left hand, he began once again the search for that damned drachma. His right hand he raised to her voluptuous face, placing it on her cheek, which was blushing. “My darling,” he said, and gently squeezed her goatee.
What do you think?
The wind from the east tossed the garland jauntily about her wimple. It was the kind of effect that drove him crazy with lust. Pant. Pant. Pant. Her bodice was laced tight enough so as to restrict her breathing. This also was the kind of effect that drove him crazy—this time with something not quite lust, but closely resembling it. He could have put his finger on it, but his hands were occupied with the act of fidgeting in the folds of his tunic, looking for the silver drachma he was sure he had placed there before leaving the house, if for no other reason than to be able to locate it for just such an occasion as this. Presently his hands found other things to do. Mainly, a genteel caress of her nape. Now it was inevitable. Kiss. (pause) Kiss. (longer pause) Kiss. He looked deep into her eyes. Once they had stopped kissing, that is. With his left hand, he began once again the search for that damned drachma. His right hand he raised to her voluptuous face, placing it on her cheek, which was blushing. “My darling,” he said, and gently squeezed her goatee.
What do you think?
jeudi, mai 17, 2007
Psuedo Paradox (is What Happens When You Don't Sleep)
The nonsense of Dreaming makes waking lucidity possible. There's a word for that . . . Sort of like when you've been up for days and you realize suddenly that:
In order to work towards a colorblind society, our government and news media must be constant and feverish in their delineation of races and the reporting thereof.
In order to make freedom meaningful we must force our version of it upon others.
In order to make freedom fair we must take money from people who have it and give it to people who don't.
To be interesting to a mass audience, liberty has to include vice and destruction.
In order to establish the equality of the sexes, we must assure that women are every bit as vile and violent as men.
Reproductive rights are secured by preventing reproduction.
Being the party of limited government means spending more money on a military you have sent to a foreign country. (And possibly spending more money, period.)
If there are an above average number of hurricanes, blame it on global warming. If there isn't, keep your mouth shut.
If the president's approval rating is 33%, put it on the front page. When the new Congress gets a 27%, bury it.
The basis of your opinion on national issues and world events is a show that makes fun of national issues and world events.
If a Muslim trying to kill Jewish women and children happens to blow up a Jewish soldier, he is still a terrorist. If a Jewish fighter pilot trying to kill terrorists happens to kill a woman and a child, he is also a terrorist. Either way, it is America's fault.
As an American, you are to be derided for not living in the moment and keeping to your own shores. But you also have a responsibility to feel guilty and fretful over events in the past and conditions in the present that you had nothing to do with, have no control over and can do nothing about.
Rich white people don't go to jail for drug offences, they go to rehab. And they don't have to stop polluting. They purchase carbon credits.
When Al Gore says carbon dioxide is CAUSING warming, make a movie. When he goes before congress and says that, historically speaking, carbon increases have FOLLOWED temperature spikes, cut to commercial.
In order to have credibility and influence, a band must have hits and sell records, in which case they have sold out and have no credible influence.
80 million Elvis fans can't be wrong. But McDonald's has sold 5 billion hamburgers and they are still evil and their food still sucks.
On the one hand, we must not judge people by body type or appearance. On the other hand, obesity is the new plague and anyone caught eating trans fats will be strung up by their cellulite and shot.
Smoke marijuana and you're a free thinking open minded progressive. Smoke tobacco and you're a parasite and a pox who mustn't go near children. (Corollary: smoking pot in movies is hilarious--smoking cigarettes on film is verboten!)
A male teacher who has sex with a student is a pervert and a predator. A female teacher who has sex with a student is a tabloid darling.
Some say sleep is the most important meal of the day. Others point out the fact that it is a gigantic waste of time. (Einstein's own calculations prove beyond any shadow of a doubt that mass increases with velocity making it impossible for anything but light to travel the speed of light. And yet here I am going mad with sleep deprivation, shortening my lifespan by the square of the speed of light by working around the clock. An early grave assured and confirmed by the observation of light bending around my head during the eclipse that occurs when my head comes directly between the sun and my pillow approximately once every hundred years. A lunar eclipse happens more often, but you get the same effect from heavy amounts of pollution.)
Julia Roberts and George Clooney can demand more money than they will ever need in three lifetimes to make one movie. But an oil company is not allowed under any circumstances to make a profit.
If you morn the death of Jerry Falwell, you're an idiot. If you rejoice in his death . . . you're still an idiot. Sometimes people can agree to agree. And that is what we call hope.
In order to work towards a colorblind society, our government and news media must be constant and feverish in their delineation of races and the reporting thereof.
In order to make freedom meaningful we must force our version of it upon others.
In order to make freedom fair we must take money from people who have it and give it to people who don't.
To be interesting to a mass audience, liberty has to include vice and destruction.
In order to establish the equality of the sexes, we must assure that women are every bit as vile and violent as men.
Reproductive rights are secured by preventing reproduction.
Being the party of limited government means spending more money on a military you have sent to a foreign country. (And possibly spending more money, period.)
If there are an above average number of hurricanes, blame it on global warming. If there isn't, keep your mouth shut.
If the president's approval rating is 33%, put it on the front page. When the new Congress gets a 27%, bury it.
The basis of your opinion on national issues and world events is a show that makes fun of national issues and world events.
If a Muslim trying to kill Jewish women and children happens to blow up a Jewish soldier, he is still a terrorist. If a Jewish fighter pilot trying to kill terrorists happens to kill a woman and a child, he is also a terrorist. Either way, it is America's fault.
As an American, you are to be derided for not living in the moment and keeping to your own shores. But you also have a responsibility to feel guilty and fretful over events in the past and conditions in the present that you had nothing to do with, have no control over and can do nothing about.
Rich white people don't go to jail for drug offences, they go to rehab. And they don't have to stop polluting. They purchase carbon credits.
When Al Gore says carbon dioxide is CAUSING warming, make a movie. When he goes before congress and says that, historically speaking, carbon increases have FOLLOWED temperature spikes, cut to commercial.
In order to have credibility and influence, a band must have hits and sell records, in which case they have sold out and have no credible influence.
80 million Elvis fans can't be wrong. But McDonald's has sold 5 billion hamburgers and they are still evil and their food still sucks.
On the one hand, we must not judge people by body type or appearance. On the other hand, obesity is the new plague and anyone caught eating trans fats will be strung up by their cellulite and shot.
Smoke marijuana and you're a free thinking open minded progressive. Smoke tobacco and you're a parasite and a pox who mustn't go near children. (Corollary: smoking pot in movies is hilarious--smoking cigarettes on film is verboten!)
A male teacher who has sex with a student is a pervert and a predator. A female teacher who has sex with a student is a tabloid darling.
Some say sleep is the most important meal of the day. Others point out the fact that it is a gigantic waste of time. (Einstein's own calculations prove beyond any shadow of a doubt that mass increases with velocity making it impossible for anything but light to travel the speed of light. And yet here I am going mad with sleep deprivation, shortening my lifespan by the square of the speed of light by working around the clock. An early grave assured and confirmed by the observation of light bending around my head during the eclipse that occurs when my head comes directly between the sun and my pillow approximately once every hundred years. A lunar eclipse happens more often, but you get the same effect from heavy amounts of pollution.)
Julia Roberts and George Clooney can demand more money than they will ever need in three lifetimes to make one movie. But an oil company is not allowed under any circumstances to make a profit.
If you morn the death of Jerry Falwell, you're an idiot. If you rejoice in his death . . . you're still an idiot. Sometimes people can agree to agree. And that is what we call hope.
mardi, mai 08, 2007
I Agree with Jason
Something has to stop. Now. It is the constant misuse of the term ANAL.
ATTENTION, ALL YE ENDS OF THE EARTH: "Anal" means "having to do with the anus." That is all it means. I can't figure out why anyone commiserating about shopping or talking about someone's housecleaning prowess would bring up their anus. And even if you are making reference to the "anal retentive" state elucidated by Freud, that doesn't mean what you think it means. I believe what the guilty, and all their anal ilk, mean to say is "fastidious," or something along that vein.
So let's all stop this clear and corrosive adulteration of our language. If my impotent screed here doesn't cure you, google the word "anal" just once, even with the safe search on. It will take you a good long while to find a reference to someone who is detail oriented or germ phobic. And you will NEVER misuse it again.
ATTENTION, ALL YE ENDS OF THE EARTH: "Anal" means "having to do with the anus." That is all it means. I can't figure out why anyone commiserating about shopping or talking about someone's housecleaning prowess would bring up their anus. And even if you are making reference to the "anal retentive" state elucidated by Freud, that doesn't mean what you think it means. I believe what the guilty, and all their anal ilk, mean to say is "fastidious," or something along that vein.
So let's all stop this clear and corrosive adulteration of our language. If my impotent screed here doesn't cure you, google the word "anal" just once, even with the safe search on. It will take you a good long while to find a reference to someone who is detail oriented or germ phobic. And you will NEVER misuse it again.
samedi, avril 14, 2007
A New Orientation
Scrolling through the archives, the realization came that an important socio-medical issue has not been addressed.
We know about Hetero, Homo, and Bi. These are the sexuals as they currently stand. One might also include the -philes: the Zoo, the Necro, and (try as you might to stop them) the Pedo. These have an established academic value.
(Before getting to the point, let us quickly dismiss the thousand and one kinks as subcategories too small for relevance. We won't presume to tell you to stop smelling belly lint or to desist all relations with imaginary 100-foot-tall women. We simply relegate you for the moment to the statistically undifferentiated file.)
But we hereby propose a new, instantly vital, and heretofore marginalized sexual orientation: The Ultrasexual.
What is an Ultra?
In a nutshell, Ultras are a subgroup of both orientations, consisting of people who, quite simply, experience a stronger biochemical sexual response than others. For a combination of emotional and physical reasons, their desire for, preoccupation with, and enjoyment of sex is greater than their peers. These individuals are not necessarily dirty, or even Drrrty, but having that initial jolt of attraction multiplied by a factor of 10 or more (and sustained past the point where most people simply get over it) often sets them up for behavior and commentary that might appear crude to average hetero or homo sexuals. It must here be stressed that we are not talking about hormone addled frat boys or the macho posturing of construction workers--though there may be closeted ultrasexuals in both categories. Neither do we here refer to the common nymphomaniac who is trying to get back at Daddy by giving herself to the football team. No, we speak of a biological reality that exists from birth. Exhibitionism and crudity are not necessarily indicators.
Are you Ultra?
There is currently no clinically definitive way to determine your status. Initial surveys were considered flawed because questions like "Have you ever said no to sex?" ended up putting horndogs, girls with low self esteem, and people who have never been asked in the same category. None of these, strictly speaking, are Ultrasexual. Early stage focus groups were equally ineffective, as suspected Ultrasexuals often paired up and took off during the first coffee break, leaving people who were simply lonely or deprived to stay and either giggle and titter, or complain.
In general however, studies do confirm that unconfused Bisexuals are predominantly Ultra, as are rock stars, pouty secretaries, the cloistered writers of shows like Friends and Grey's Anatomy, Hawkeye Pierce, James Bond, and upper echelon right wing religious and political leaders.
Interestingly, several individuals and groups have been confidently excluded from Ultra status. For example, it turns out that pizza delivery boys are simply zen like, go-with-the-flow types who could really take it or leave it. Researchers were most surprised when the data indicated that Bill Clinton, who they thought would be the poster child of Ultrasexuality, was a simple charismatic horndog with a craving for power and a multitude of reasons to get away from his wife.
Further research will have to determine the social implications of Ultrasexuality, and what legislation should be considered to protect Ultras from discrimination by "normals," (the derisive term they use to designate the non-ultra majority).
Above all, the public is urged to remember that Ultrasexuality is not a problem in and of itself. It is hoped that acceptance and understanding will increase with awareness.
Ultrasexuals are people too.
We know about Hetero, Homo, and Bi. These are the sexuals as they currently stand. One might also include the -philes: the Zoo, the Necro, and (try as you might to stop them) the Pedo. These have an established academic value.
(Before getting to the point, let us quickly dismiss the thousand and one kinks as subcategories too small for relevance. We won't presume to tell you to stop smelling belly lint or to desist all relations with imaginary 100-foot-tall women. We simply relegate you for the moment to the statistically undifferentiated file.)
But we hereby propose a new, instantly vital, and heretofore marginalized sexual orientation: The Ultrasexual.
What is an Ultra?
In a nutshell, Ultras are a subgroup of both orientations, consisting of people who, quite simply, experience a stronger biochemical sexual response than others. For a combination of emotional and physical reasons, their desire for, preoccupation with, and enjoyment of sex is greater than their peers. These individuals are not necessarily dirty, or even Drrrty, but having that initial jolt of attraction multiplied by a factor of 10 or more (and sustained past the point where most people simply get over it) often sets them up for behavior and commentary that might appear crude to average hetero or homo sexuals. It must here be stressed that we are not talking about hormone addled frat boys or the macho posturing of construction workers--though there may be closeted ultrasexuals in both categories. Neither do we here refer to the common nymphomaniac who is trying to get back at Daddy by giving herself to the football team. No, we speak of a biological reality that exists from birth. Exhibitionism and crudity are not necessarily indicators.
Are you Ultra?
There is currently no clinically definitive way to determine your status. Initial surveys were considered flawed because questions like "Have you ever said no to sex?" ended up putting horndogs, girls with low self esteem, and people who have never been asked in the same category. None of these, strictly speaking, are Ultrasexual. Early stage focus groups were equally ineffective, as suspected Ultrasexuals often paired up and took off during the first coffee break, leaving people who were simply lonely or deprived to stay and either giggle and titter, or complain.
In general however, studies do confirm that unconfused Bisexuals are predominantly Ultra, as are rock stars, pouty secretaries, the cloistered writers of shows like Friends and Grey's Anatomy, Hawkeye Pierce, James Bond, and upper echelon right wing religious and political leaders.
Interestingly, several individuals and groups have been confidently excluded from Ultra status. For example, it turns out that pizza delivery boys are simply zen like, go-with-the-flow types who could really take it or leave it. Researchers were most surprised when the data indicated that Bill Clinton, who they thought would be the poster child of Ultrasexuality, was a simple charismatic horndog with a craving for power and a multitude of reasons to get away from his wife.
Further research will have to determine the social implications of Ultrasexuality, and what legislation should be considered to protect Ultras from discrimination by "normals," (the derisive term they use to designate the non-ultra majority).
Above all, the public is urged to remember that Ultrasexuality is not a problem in and of itself. It is hoped that acceptance and understanding will increase with awareness.
Ultrasexuals are people too.
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