Blame Deeky.
[Previous Targets of My Arbitrary Ire: Carrot Top, Jared Fogle, Baby Luv, The Federlines (wah wah wah!), TomKat, Carrot Top (again), "Dog" Chapman, Rick and Kathy Hilton, Dr. Phil.]
I'm Mad at You Just Because I Know Who You Are
Blame Deeky.
[Previous Targets of My Arbitrary Ire: Carrot Top, Jared Fogle, Baby Luv, The Federlines (wah wah wah!), TomKat, Carrot Top (again), "Dog" Chapman, Rick and Kathy Hilton, Dr. Phil.]
Ha
Shaker Silvia in Munich found this editorial cartoon in her local paper this morning and scanned it so we could all enjoy it. Says Silvia: "As you know, President Bush is currently touring Europe. And no one cares. Because, right now, it's the 2008 UEFA European Football Championship - everyone's watching soccer."
"Tor" means "goal."
James Carville Needs a Big Bag of Shut Up
Democratic strategist James Carville told CNN Wednesday that former Vice President Al Gore should reprise his role as the No. 2 on a Democratic ticket.And if I were Al Gore, my only decision would be whether to sock or laugh in Carville's face next time I saw him.
"I think if I was Senator Obama I would say the biggest economic problem we face is the biggest national security problem and the biggest environmental problem," Carville told CNN's Wolf Blitzer on the Situation Room. "And if I were him, I would ask Al Gore to serve as his vice president, his energy czar, in his administration to reduce our consumption and reliance on foreign energy sources."
Btw, the "energy czar" idea is a good one—one that people considerably smarter and paid considerably less than Carville have already made—but there's no reason or particularly compelling rationale for its being run out of the vice president's office.
Sasha and Malia Racism/Sexism Watch (/ORMUSBD Part Fifty-Five)
That may be the saddest title I've ever blogged.
Via Ottermatic, I just learned that the Michelle Obama Watch site started by Gina of What About Our Daughters? is up and running. So I went over to check it out. The three most recent entries were about things I already knew about, but then I saw this headline: "Even the Wee Michelles Aren't Off Limits: Artist Uses Image of Obama Girls Labeled 'Nappy Headed Hos.'"
Christ.
You know, this morning I almost wrote a comment on Jeff's last ORMUSBD post in response to people who say they're surprised by the instances of blatant racism they're seeing. It was going to be something along the lines of, "If there's a silver lining here, it's that a lot of white people are learning this is not a 'post-racial' society, and blatant racism is not merely fringe behavior -- to say nothing of covert and institutional racism. Being surprised by this shit is privilege at work."
I didn't post it, partly because I got distracted and partly because I thought it sounded too smug, as if I don't have the blinders of privilege strapped to my own head. And I'm glad I didn't now, because that picture? Surprised me. Shocked me, in fact.
But I bet it doesn't shock a lot of people of color.
Nor does it shock a lot of women of any color to see little girls labeled "hos" in a country where 13-year-old rape victims are "vixens."
For about 2 seconds, I tried to give this artist the benefit of the doubt, thinking it was a poorly executed commentary on the stereotyping of black girls and women in this culture. Then I read his ridiculous, cliched, and totally insufficient response to the controversy:“My mission as an artist is to raise dialogue and conversation about substantive things,” he says, staring through arty glasses that did not have any lenses. “There’s so much media time spent on superficial things — like celebrities. My point is to bring substance back.”
And then I looked up and read that the exhibit also included:... a picture of Barack Obama’s “Audacity of Hope” switched to “The Audacity of Black Hope”, a giant penis on the wall next to a sign saying “once you go Barack”, [and] hanging nooses.
There aren't even words.
And I shouldn't be shocked, but I am. That is my privilege.
Update: Here's a more specific statement of intent from the artist (thanks to gogogidget in comments).
"It's art. It's not supposed to be harmful. It's about character assassination — about how Obama and Hillary have been portrayed by the media." He added, "It's about the media."
Of course it is.
Journamalisming Par Excellence
You may recall that, back in March, a disturbing video was being circulated of what appeared to be a marine throwing a live puppy over a cliff. (You can still see the video here, if you are so inclined.) At the time, some of the awesome investigative journamalists of the rightwing blogosphere decided the video was a hoax, based on their expertise in the fields of sound waves, microphones, and how American troops can do nothing wrong.
Oops.
The Marine Corps is expelling one Marine and disciplining another for their roles in a video showing a Marine throwing a puppy off a cliff while on patrol in Iraq.Realistically, a big part of the reason the proud members of the Fighting 101st Keyboarders were so certain this video was fake is because a lot of them still just don't understand how totally fucked war really is. I don't understand how totally fucked war really is, either—but at least I'm smart enough to know it's not a goddamned John Wayne movie, a conflict with clear delineations about right and wrong, fought by nothing but heroes, who never need worry that their government sent them to do something bad and never do anything bad themselves.
…Marine Corps Base Hawaii said in a news release Wednesday that Lance Cpl. David Motari received unspecified "non-judicial punishment" and "is being processed for separation" from the Marine Corps.
The second Marine, Sgt. Crismarvin Banez Encarnacion also received unspecified "non-judicial" punishment.
And the only reason it's worth mentioning their failure to embrace how deeply fucked war is, really and truly, is because it's the existence of these idiot warmongering cheerleaders that makes it easier for our government to launch "preemptive wars" in the first place.
And, as ugly as it is, a dead puppy is the least of our sins in that conflagration we started by choice.
Breaking News
SCOTUS has ruled that detainees at Guantanamo Bay have the constitutional right to challenge their detention in civilian courts.
More info as it becomes available.
UPDATE:
In its third rebuke of the Bush administration's treatment of prisoners, the court ruled 5-4 that the government is violating the rights of prisoners being held indefinitely and without charges at the U.S. naval base in Cuba. The court's liberal justices were in the majority.Kennedy, Breyer, Ginsburg, Souter, and Stevens formed the majority. Roberts, Alito, Scalia, and Thomas dissented, with Roberts admonishing his colleagues in the dissent for striking down what he called "the most generous set of procedural protections ever afforded aliens detained by this country as enemy combatants." Snort.
Justice Anthony Kennedy, writing for the court, said, "The laws and Constitution are designed to survive, and remain in force, in extraordinary times."
It was not immediately clear whether this ruling, unlike the first two, would lead to prompt hearings for the detainees, some of whom have been held more than 6 years. Roughly 270 men remain at the island prison, classified as enemy combatants and held on suspicion of terrorism or links to al-Qaida and the Taliban. (Link)
Six Years
Threaded between the days and months and years of politics and culture, the posts and pictures and film of people and things with influence and consequence in orders of magnitude only history will tell, has always been something simpler, smaller—in the grand scheme of things, anyway. Though it wasn't a conscious design, part of this blog has always been a love letter to Iain, aka Mr. Shakes, filed mostly under the unassuming header "News from Shakes Manor." There are too many of them to repost in whole, but, on the occasion of our sixth anniversary, I've compiled some of my favorites below, because, clear and true, they tell the story of my heart.
There are a hell of a lot of reasons I love the bloke, but one of the most important, which hasn't changed since the day we met, is that he interests me. There's no one with whom I'd rather hang out or have a long, tumbling conversation. And that makes me like the hell out of him, too. He's my best friend.
Happy Anniversary, honsel. I love you.
October 15, 2005
Shakes (waking up sleepily, rife with fall allergies): Mmph. Glurg.
Mr. Shakes: Hoo are ye feeling, Tschoobs?
Shakes: Yucky. My dominant nostril is all stuffed up.
Mr. Shakes: Bwah ha ha ha! Yer doominant noostril? Bwah ha ha ha!
Shakes: What? It's a real thing! Everyone has a dominant nostril!
Mr. Shakes: I knoo, boot noo one talks aboot their doominant noostril! Noo one says "My doominant noostril is all stoofed oop!"
Shakes: Shut up, turd.
Mr. Shakes (hopping on bed and speaking in mocking-Shakes baby voice): Woe is me! My poor wittle doominant noostwil is awl stoofed oop!
Shakes: I hate you.
* * *
October 21, 2005
Wednesday night, while watching the Astros-Cards game…
Shakes: Such a weird way to pronounce that name—Ohs-walt.
Mr. Shakes: Aye.
Shakes: We should start telling people our name is pronounced McEee-wan.
Mr. Shakes: I'm shoore there are people who proonoonce it McEee-wan.
Shakes: No there aren't.
Mr. Shakes: Yes, there are.
Shakes: Not.
Mr. Shakes: Are.
Shakes: Not.
Mr. Shakes: Are.
Shakes: Not.
Mr. Shakes: We coold be trendsetters, and demand that we be called the McEee-wans, and then there woold be.
Shakes: But if we'd be trendsetters, then you're admitting there are no people who currently call themselves McEee-wan.
Mr. Shakes: Ooh, you've goot me! Coongratoolatoons! You've woon the Great McEee-wan Debate of 2005. Lincooln and Dooglas woold be soo prood!
In the ensuing tussle, I'm certain there was reference made to my doominant noostril.
* * *
November 4, 2005
Background: I never hear my name. Mr. Shakes has an ever-broadening reservoir of ridiculous nicknames for me—Tschoobs, Tubbs, Chubbs, Chunkles, Boobs, Bubles, Bublekins, Bawheed, Nushtelhead, Dushtels, Hen…the list goes on and on, one nonsensical moniker after the next, specifically designed to make me laugh (and inevitably successful in said endeavor).
Last night on The Colbert Report, Stephen's guest was Rep. Stephanie Tubbs Jones, D-Ohio, who he christened Judge Tubbs. I knew immediately this was not going to bode well for me.
Mr. Shakes: Bwah ha ha ha! Joodge Toobbs! That's what I'm gooing tae call ye froom noo on, every time ye pass joodgment oon me.
Shakes: Oh no.
Mr. Shakes: Ooh yes! Joodge Toobbs!
Shakes: Shut up.
Mr. Shakes: Oooooh, Joodge Toobbs has rooled! I moost shoot oop!
Shakes: Seriously. Shut up.
Mr. Shakes: I'm gooing tae get ye a gavel foor yer Christmas pressie, Joodge Toobbs.
Shakes: I don't need a gavel. I'm just going to smack you upside the head.
Mr. Shakes: Here coome da joodge!
Damn you, Stephen Colbert.
* * *
February 14, 2006
By the time Mr. Shakes and I shared our first kiss in London's Norfolk Square, we had already exchanged "I love you"s, already had our first fight, already planned to marry. We did everything backwards; it was only after we had come to trust one another implicitly and confessed our deepest secrets that we gazed into each other's eyes for the first time. It was only after spending so much time apart that we were finally able to spend time together.In retrospect, it seems impossibly crazy—and thoroughly unlikely. A brief online encounter between two people, 4,000 miles apart. Emails, IMs, phone calls. Exchanged pictures. Books sent through the mail. Foolish convictions that it would all translate seamlessly into real life when we finally met.
And then, on August 9, 2001, we did.
I flew into London the night before, arriving at 7:30 am. I dumped off my bags at the hotel and freshened up a bit in their tiny WC; the room wasn't ready yet. And then I wandered around for awhile—a neighborhood I knew, and I was glad to be back in the area. Though I was jittery with nerves, walking its familiar streets was comforting. I bought a paper at the corner shop, peered into the windows of a great little Greek restaurant where we would eat two nights later, with my girlfriend Miller. When the time came, I made my way to King's Cross, and looked at the giant arrivals and departures board, to find out on what platform I should wait. I went to the bathroom and peered at myself in the mirror. I looked like shit—exhausted, scummy with travel, my hair tied up in a messy twist. I went back to the platform and nervously chain-smoked, and then the train was pulling in.
People were pouring out of the train, and I watched them walk toward me as I slouched against a column, my knees weak and my heart about to pound right out of my chest. When I saw him, my back went straight. We held each other's eyes. He came to me and I wrapped my arms around his neck—he leaning down and I on my tiptoes, to accommodate the difference in our height. "Hi, Lissie," he said, against my ear.
We started to walk out of the train station, and at a V, he started to veer the wrong way. I grabbed his hand. "This way," I said, and pulled him gently. Our fingers stayed entwined as we walked out into the air, the noise of the London streets. We chattered nervously about our respective trips as we made our way to the tube, to head back to the hotel. On the train, we stood, looking at one another and babbling nonsensically and bumping into each other with the motion of travel. And by the time we reached Paddington Station, and walked above ground, the nerves were disappearing. We crossed the street and walked to Norfolk Square, and on the corner, across from the park, he dropped his bag and pulled me to him and kissed me.
And that was that.
By the time we'd done all the official paperwork of a fiancée visa, allowing Mr. S. to move to the States, his stay predicated on our getting hitched within 90 days, we'd been in each other's presence just a little over a month, spread over a year. The rest of the time we spent apart, connected only by the internet, the phone, and the mail. A six-hour time difference meant little sleep for both of us; he stayed up too late; I got up too early. We were constantly sick with missing each other, and the worry that our paperwork would never come through. But it did—and on June 12, 2002, we were married by a judge in a 10-minute ceremony…and then we went out for burgers.
When we were apart, all we could talk about is what it would be like when we were together. Sock feet on hardwood floors on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Curled up on the couch on a wintry day, under the same blanket, reading our own books. Hugging each other whenever we wanted. Going to the movies. Making dinner together in our kitchen, bumping hips and sharing a glass of wine. Never feeling again the joy of being together cast in the shadow of knowing it wouldn't last. When we spoke about how we would never take for granted the chance of being together, even then I thought we would. I figured there would come a time when not every day felt precious, when the routine of life inevitably replaced our gratitude.But it hasn't. Every time we snuggle up on the couch to watch a film, I think about the time when we couldn't. Every time he takes my hand, I remember a time when it wasn't possible. Every evening, when he walks through the door, I am happy to see him, and the memory of seeing for the first time at King's Cross lays itself across my heart.
We did everything backwards, you see. I felt the loss of him first. And it will forever make me keenly aware of what having him really means.
(The first picture is Back Where You Belong by a Scottish artist called Jack Vettriano. The second is Edward Hopper’s Room in New York. Copies of each hang in our home.)
* * *
February 22, 2006
Because the rest of the news is depressing the hell out of me…
Last night, Mr. Shakes told me the following story, which he had dubbed My Strange Bathroom Story, and has consented to be retold for everyone's collective amusement.
"Dooring my loonch hoor, I went oover tae Boorder's tae broose foor books, and soodenly I had tae take a shite oot oof fooking noowhere. Soo I asked if they had a bathroom and they did oon the secoond floor, soo I went oop there and foond two cubicles—oone was a noormal-sized cubicle, and oone was a huge oone foor disabled people. I went tae the smaller oone, boot it was coovered in vomit, soo I had noo choice boot tae use the big oone or else I'd shite my breeks.
"Soo I goo in, and it's ridiculoos! The bog is facing a giant bay windoo ooverlooking State Street! I can't ooverstate how huge this windoo was—it went froom aboot a foot ooff the groond tae the toop oof the wall, and it was proobably six feet wide oor moore! And noothing tae coover it—noot blinds or anything, and noo brackets as if they were joost missing! What the fook?!
"Noo I have tae take a shite in froont oof the whoole bloody woorld! Acrooss the rood, there was constrooction gooing oon, and I coold make oot the woorkmen's faces. And I coold see into all the windoos oof the oopposite building—and I'm finking, 'If the people aboove me happen to look doon, they're gooing tae see my meat and two veg!' Helloo, you doodgy soods, get a good gander at my bits, didja? Quite a shoo, aye? Look at the fooking ploonker taking a doomp in froont oof a windoo!
"Had tae wipe my arse and everything in froont oof the biggest windoo knoon tae man. Fooking wankers!"
I said, "On the plus side, you probably used the cleanest toilet in all of Chicago."
"Ooh, it was fooking pristine," he said. "Good thing, too. Taking a shite in plain view is really quite embarrassing if yer toilet isn't in good nick."
* * *
March 25, 2006
Mr. Shakes has a tendency to babble. I was once talking about this with my friend Sam, telling him that Mr. Shakes babbles nonsense at me 23 out of 24 hours of the day, and he kind of laughed and said he'd like to hear Mr. Shakes' description of it. I said, "Oh, no—you think I'm doing one of those 'wife' things where everything her husband says is nonsense, but I'm telling you…he genuinely babbles utter nonsense at me constantly, like 'Shushtelled, woman. Be shushed or I'll have you dushtelled wif a nushtel!' when I'm not even talking. He'd quite plainly admit that he is a compulsive nonsense babbler." When I told Mr. Shakes about this exchange later, he agreed, chuckling proudly.
The babbling ensues most frequently when Mr. Shakes is extremely tired or very excited about something. Car trips seem to bring it on as well. We either have a passionate discussion about something quite interesting, or I get the babbling. Today was not a day for an interesting conversation.
Waiting at a light behind a Dodge Durango:
Mr. Shakes: Doodge Durangoo. They're doodgin' durangoos. What's a durangoo, anyway? They ooght tae joost call it the Doodge Turdo.
Shakes: Mmph.
Mr. Shakes: Dooge Turdo!
Shakes: Stop babbling.
Mr. Shakes: Here we goo—we're turning left noo! Turning left!
Shakes: Sigh.
Then Mr. Shakes broke into his favorite song.
She's short!
She's round!
She bounces on the ground!
Melissa McEwan!
Melissa McEwan!
Shakes: Hahahaha, omigod. [Still funny, though I've heard it no fewer than ten thousand times.]
Short and cute and round!
Round and short and cute!
Cute and round and short!
Short and cute and round round round!
Mr. Shakes: Ye knoo what happens tae shoort roond cute people?
Shakes: What?
Mr. Shakes: They marry crazy Scotsmen.
Indeed we do.
[Mr. Shakes just read this and said, "Good loord, people are gooing tae fink I'm mad!" (He is.) I said, "You should be happy you have a wife who thinks your madness is adorable." He replied, "I am. I just wish my adorability didn't coonstitute a foorm oof insanity soo severe that it verges upon the committable."]
* * *
April 28, 2006
Shakes: Rush Limbaugh got arrested!
Mr. Shakes: Foor what?
Shakes: Prescription fraud.
Mr. Shakes: I hoope he roots in jail.
Shakes (this is before I knew more about the terms of his deal): Probably not. Probably just a fine and community service or some shit.
Mr. Shakes: His community service shoold be coompulsory retirement.
* * *
June 27, 2006
Last night, Mr. Shakes and I went over to my parents' for dinner, and my mom remembered a story from a trip we took to New York to visit her parents when I was a wee thing that prompted her to drag out an old photo album. I'm sure Mr. Shakes has seen these photos no fewer than a thousand times, but in the way one is always fascinated from any slice of a loved one's life that took place before a fateful meeting, he looked at them once again.
As he and my mom flipped through the pages, he gave a running commentary on my "wee baw heed, perfectly roond" and my "cheeky face, exactly the same; ye canny have changed a bit!" as my mom peppered his monologue with, "Look how cute she was!" And then Mr. Shakes burst out in laughter.
Shakes: What?
Mr. Shakes: Look at this one!
Shakes: What?
Mama Shakes: Ohmigod, hahahaha. What a face!
Mr. Shakes: What a face!
Shakes: Let me see it.
Mr. Shakes: How oold was she here?
Mama Shakes: Two years. She always sat in that booster chair on the floor, like it was her own little chair. So serious.
Shakes: Come on!
Mr. Shakes: That expression! Hahahaha.
Mama Shakes: I know, hahahaha.
Mr. Shakes: Lookit, she's making the same face right noo! Hahahaha.
I finally grabbed the book and looked at the picture. And yes, I was indeed making precisely the same face.
* * *
August 23, 2006
Last night, Mr. Shakes and I were lying in bed, and had just been talking about the president's fondness for farting, when I heard Mr. Shakes' gut grumbling menacingly.
"Do you have an upset tummy?" I asked.
"Aye," Mr. Shakes replied, "and the oopset's heading sooth, so get ready for soome Bushisms."
And thusly was it decreed at Shakes Manor that farts will hereafter be known as Bushisms, and gassiness as "feeling presidential."
* * *
November 10, 2006
Some would say it's spontaneous sex in atypical places, but I say it's learning new things about your partner, even after you thought you knew everything there was to know about them, that keeps a relationship spicy. Last night was muy picante at Shakes Manor, as I discovered that the mere appearance of Regis Philbin's face on our television screen is enough to send Mr. Shakes into an elaborate and passionate tirade."What is wroong wif that guy?! Fooking goods, he's soo bloody annoying! I hate joost looking at him! Everyfing he says oor doos has tae be soome fooking meloodrama, like he's the woorst Shakespearean actoor oof all time! What a wankstain! Hoo did he get famoous, foor the loove oof good?! Who the fook is he? FOOK OOF, ye wanker! Look at him—joost look at him! Ach! He makes me want tae poonch him right in his smoog wee face! Grinning like a fooking baboon. If I stepped oon him, I'd think I'd stepped in a pile oof shite!"
Who knew?
* * *
June 21, 2007
As I've mentioned before, Mr. Shakes and I are addicted to So You Think You Can Dance, mainly because it's got lots of just great dancing on it by great dancers, but also because it provides us with the opportunity to guess how long it would take our graceless fat asses to learn each routine, and whether we'd actually die trying. It's truly pathetic how much we love this show, and it has Mr. Shakes convinced—convinced!—that we are going to take dance lessons. He's got it in his head that it would be tootally awesoome if we could whip out an unexpected paso doble at a wedding some day. Well, yeah, that would be awesome, but we're both inelegant klutznutz, he's got no rhythm, and I have nerve damage that's left me with a numb foot. Walking is sustained performance art for me, and he wants me to samba. Sure.
Anyway, one thing about SYTYCD is that it has this ridiculous theme song that's just the same little snippet of music played over and over and over. It's played at the beginning of the show, while they're introducing the dancers, going to commercial, coming back from commercial, and at the end of the show. Last night during the show, Mr. Shakes mentioned: "Ye knoo, they really need tae get a loonger bit oof music instead oof joost repeating that wee jingle oontil I want tae kill myself." Which totally made me laugh, naturally.
Later, we're lying in bed, and both of us are restless and not falling asleep, but we're both trying to, and I couldn't help myself: "Nah nah nah. Chooka chooka chooka. Nah nah nah. Chooka chooka chooka. Nah nah nah. Chooka chooka chooka." (That sounded like the theme in real life, I swear.)
Mr. Shakes burst out laughing. "Soo ye fink ye can dance!" he sung.
I said, "Don't you mean: So you think you can DANCE!!!" hitting the last word with a loud, guttural, robot voice, just like it is on the show.
This sent us both into gales of giggles. I did it again: "So you think you can DANCE!!!"
Mr. Shakes started howling. "It's like they've goot Charlootte Choorch singing the first bit, and then Napalm Death cooming in foor the big finish." He put on the most angelic girly voice he could muster to sing: "So you think that you can—" Napalm Death voice: "DANCE!!!"
I did the same: "So you believe that you have an ability to…DANCE!!!"
Mr. Shakes again: "So you are informing me that you have a capacity for…DANCE!!!"
Me again: "So to my understanding you are suffering from the misapprehension that you have a talent for…DANCE!!!"
The entire bed shook with our laughter. "My throat hurt on that one," I said.
"Mine hoorts, too," said Mr. Shakes.
"Napalm is bad for the larynx," I said.
Mr. Shakes guffawed. "I doon't want tae goo tae sleep. I want tae stay oop talking tae ye all night."
"I know," I said. "Stupid adulthood."
"Too right."
We said our goodnights, again, and endeavored to try to fall to sleep, again.
Both of us were still restless. I couldn't help it.
"So you think you can DANCE!!!"
* * *
September 17, 2007
Liss: Hey, you know how there's like a million and a billion and a trillion and a quadrillion and a quintillion and a sextillion and a septillion and an octillion and decillion? What the nine one?
Mr. Shakes: [stunned by the nonsequitur of the century] What?
Liss: You know, like multiples of a million. I know all the way up to ten, except for nine. Million, billion, trillion, quadrillion, quintillion, sextillion, septillion, octillion…what comes next?
Mr. Shakes: What the fook are ye talking aboot, wooman?
Liss: Okay, like I just read this article not long ago saying that we'd have 1.2 septillion ancestors without inbreeding, if there hadn't been so much of your-uncle-who's-also-your-cousin kind of stuff. And I got to thinking about septillion, and how I knew all the multiples except the nine one.
Mr. Shakes: It's impoossible tae have fooking sepjillion ancestoors oor whatever that stupid noomber is because there are moore people alive today than there have ever been—
Liss: I know, I know! I said that's how many we'd have without inbreeding, like if it was a straight shot backwards: Two parents, four grandparents, eight great-grandparents, and so on. But it doesn't work out that way, because of people marrying cousins and wev. But never mind all that. That was just where the thought about septillions came from and how I didn't know the prefix to indicate a multiple of nine.
Mr. Shakes: It doosn't matter, because noo oone uses thoose woords. They say 10 tae the poower oof soomething. Noo scientist says "quintillion" oor whatever the fook you're babbling aboot, ye wee mad fing.
Liss: Okay, just forget multiples of a million, Mr. Literal Brain. Let's make it multiple births. Twins, triplets, quads, quints, sextuplets, septuplet, octuplets, and then…?
Mr. Shakes: Noontuplets.
Liss: Non? Really? That doesn't sound right.
Mr. Shakes: It is. Noo be shooshed; I'm trying tae goo tae sleep.
Liss: I don't think it's non. Are you telling me a nine-sided figure is called a nonagon?
Mr. Shakes: Aye. Noonagoon.
Liss: "I am a nonagon. I have nine sides." Nonagon's a crappy name to have.
Mr. Shakes: Dae ye knoo hoo many sides a doodecahedroon has?
Liss: A nonillion?
Mr. Shakes: Och aye, wooman. Enoough wif the illions!
Liss: Hmm, yeah, a dodecahedron has twelve sides. I guess that makes a 1 followed by 39 zeroes a dodecillion. I don't know the eleven one, though.
Mr. Shakes: Fooking hell.
* * *
November 9, 2007
Liss: It's chillsy in here. (snuggles under favorite blanket)
Mr. Shakes: Yoo're always chillsy, wooman! Except when yoo're hoot! Hoonestly, wooman, if it's oone degree less than seventy, yoo're freezing, and if it's oone degree moore, yoo're boorning alive! What a screwball!
Liss: A screwball?! Bwah ha ha ha!
Mr. Shakes: Yeah, yoo're a screwball, ye wee mad fing.
Liss: A screwball?! A screwball! Ha ha ha! Do you want go on some madcap high-jinks, or should we just engage in some fisticuffs, Old Timey Husband Type Person?
Mr. Shakes: Be shushtelled, Apple Cheeks.
Two screwballs engage in a round of fisticuffs.
* * *
December 08, 2007
During a marathon Trivial Pursuit session this evening, I unexpectedly tapped into a heretofore undiscovered talent: I can talk like a cattle auctioneer—and, unaccountably, reading everything superfast and in the flat, nearly-robotic monotone of an auctioneer totally circumvents my usual propensity to stutter like a gormless douchenozzle; instead, every word comes out with otherwise elusive crystal clarity.
I began reading all the questions that way, which sent Mr. Shakes into an absolute fit of hysterics. He was laughing so hard he was coughing and sputtering and alternatingly begging me to stop and declaring it the funniest thing he's "ever fooking heard!"
There's pretty much nothing in the world that satisfies me more than making him weep with laughter, so this is definitely a skill that I will call upon in future, even if I never stumble upon a corral full of adoptable calves and eager livestock consumers looking for someone to make their collective dreams come true.
* * *
January 28, 2008
[Yesterday, while engaging in one of our favorite dorktastic pastimes—looking shit up on Metacritic, mainly to get cheap thrills from reading bad reviews of dire-looking rubbish like Meet the Spartans.]
Mr. Shakes: Oohmigood! Meet the Spartans goot a metascoore oof eight! EIGHT! "Extreme dislike oor disgoost!" [laughs hysterically]
Liss: [laughing] What was the highest score?
Mr. Shakes: Firty-eight! [38]
Liss: Oh my!
Mr. Shakes: The Oonion gave it a zeroo. Ha ha ha! Listen tae this: "Meet the Spartans gamely alternates between oonfoonny gay jookes and violent pratfalls foor a good 80 minutes, finding time foor noot oone, boot two musical dance noombers set tae 'I Will Survive'."
Liss: Priceless.
Mr. Shakes: I canny remember ever seeing a filum get a metascoore in the single digits befoore.
Liss: Nor can I. What was There Will Be Blood's metascore?
Mr. Shakes: Ninety-two.
Liss: Well, look at that! Add them together and they make the perfect film.
Mr. Shakes: When we were watching There Will Be Blood, I was finking: This filum is oone "I Will Survive" dance noomber away froom perfection.
* * *
May 01, 2008
Iain walks into the office, having just arrived home from work…
Iain: Hiya, apple cheeks. What'd ye write aboot today?
Liss: I just posted something about how people insist on spelling your name I-A-N.
Iain: Och aye, all the bloody time! Oof coourse, they alsoo ask me if the Loch Ness moonster exists, soo the whoole I-A-N fing is really joost the first step oon the staircase oof stupidity that I face every day.
* * *
Onward toward six more...and more...
Top Chef Open Thread
Chef Tom Colicchio will drink. your. milkshake!!!
He will also eat your liver with fava beans and a nice chianti. Oops, no. My mistake. That's Hannibal Lecter. Chef Tom Colicchio will make you a nice pâté served with a garnish of fresh mixed beans and a glass of the vintage wine of your choosing.
Question of the Day
Who was the best (pre-college) schoolteacher you ever had, and why did you love her/him?
Aside from my dad, who was my economics teacher in high school (a situation the school tried to avoid, but he was the only one teaching the only honors course; it was actually great and we both loved it), I can think of about a dozen teachers that I adored for different reasons. The one who first popped into my head, though, was Mr. Norman, my creative writing teacher, who was not just a great teacher in the classroom but taught me a hell of a lot about the kind of person I wanted to be.
Caption This Photo
Forget the caption - Just let me take the pup home!
(Via CuteOverload, of course.)
Let's See, Keys, Wallet...
...Top Secret Documents... wait a second... D'OH!
LONDON - Secret government documents on al-Qaida and Iraq were left on a commuter train, prompting a major police investigation into the latest in a series of embarrassing security breaches, British officials said Wednesday. The documents belonged to a senior intelligence official in the Cabinet office and were found by a passenger on a London commuter train Tuesday. The envelope was then passed to the British Broadcasting Corp.You know, in my profession, any documents containing any sensitive, personal, "eyes only" information never leave the office. Never. Just a suggestion.
Seven pages stamped "UK Top Secret" included the latest government intelligence assessment on al-Qaida and Iraq's security forces, the BBC said. The documents were also stamped "for UK/US/Canadian and Australian eyes only." The first page was dated June 5, the BBC reported.
Ya think?The security breach is the latest in a string of government data losses and comes as Britain pushes for an expansion of its national DNA database — already the largest per capita in the world — and works to finalize plans for an ID program.
"This is just the latest in a long line of serious breaches of security ... further highlighting the most basic failures in this government's ability to maintain our security," said Pauline Neville-Jones of the opposition Conservative party.
A computer containing sensitive details on 600,000 prospective military recruits was snatched from the car of a Royal Navy recruitment officer in central England in January.
The data included details of candidates' religions and some banking records. It was not encrypted.
In another breach, tax officials last year lost computer disks containing information — including banking records — on nearly half the British population.
"There should be strict guidelines about when such secret documents are outside carefully monitored premises," said Chris Huhne with the Liberal Democrats, the third largest opposition party.
The Power of Fake Product Placement
I love this. From Publishers Lunch:
Fake Book In New Movie Helps Closest ReprintIf someone wants to feature a book called Screw Schminner Schmeauty in a 2009 summer blockbuster, I'd be much obliged.
AbeBooks.com reports that fans of the Sex and the City movie are looking for a book featured in one scene--Love Letters of Great Men--that does not exist. The site says they have received hundreds of requests. The AP reports that "the closest text in the real world apparently is Love Letters of Great Men and Women: From the Eighteenth Century to the Present Day, first released in the 1920s and reissued last year by Kessinger Publishing." That thirty-two dollar paperback has risen to No. 114 at Amazon.
AP
CNN: Lowering the Bar
Shaker ASharpie1 passes along this update on the "incest father" story at CNN, charmingly headlined "Incest dungeon teen wants to see ocean."
Incest dungeon teen. Wow. It wasn't bad enough that her grand/father, who held 19-year-old Kerstin, her mother, and her siblings captive in his custom-built dungeon, was deemed "incest dad" and her mother deemed "dungeon daughter"—now she's the incest dungeon teen. Fuck's sake.
And despite the fact that her mother, Elisabeth, had been repeatedly raped by her father during the 24 years he held her against her will in an elaborate underground dungeon concealed by a series of locks and trapdoors, while he created fake letters from her to give the impression she was part of a cult, and fathering seven children she bore—one of whom died, three of whom never saw daylight until April, and three of whom he and his wife raised after he claimed his "missing" daughter left them on their doorstep with notes she couldn't care for them, CNN nonetheless says:
Kerstin is the oldest daughter of an incestuous relationship between her mother, Elisabeth, 43, and Elisabeth's father, Josef Fritzl, 73, according to police.Hmm, yes, well, I suppose it was a relationship, in the technical sense that a butcher has a relationship with a pig, too.
In good news, Kerstin, who had to be put into a medically-induced coma after being brought to the hospital in April for multiple organ failure, is physically recovering well and is spending her time being amazed by things like pop music and watching clouds move across the sky.
Of course there will lots of long-term recovery issues for the whole family, but they are in counseling and, according to a family attorney, "There is incredible joy among them" that they are moving forward together. And once again I stand in awe at the strength and resilience of my fellow humans.
Wednesday Blogaround
What's the frequency, Shakers?
Recommended Reading:
Elle: Where to Begin
Vesper: Brain Researcher Experiences Nirvana
Tigtog: Why the inverted commas?
Lauredhel: "Don't write a poem about rape."
Katecontinued: Waste Waste Basket
Phil: Under Scrutiny (For fans o' Jack!)
Leave your links in comments.
Obama Racism/Muslim/Unpatriotic/Scary Black Dude Watch Part 53
Time to open the Big Box 'O Loopy! We all know Michael Savage is completely insane; one of the best things we can hope for out of an Obama presidency would be Savage's head go kerplooey. He's also come up with one of the weirdest racist labels yet- Obama is an Afro-Leninist! Aieee! Whatever that means! Aiiieeeeeee!!!
On his radio show, Michael Savage stated of a picture of Sen. Barack Obama: "It is actually a halo Photoshopped around Obama's head. The arrogant one, the one with big ears, the man who has accomplished nothing, the Afro-Leninist -- Obama, that is." Later, referring to Sen. John McCain, Savage stated: "[H]e continues to appease and appeal to those who will never vote for him. This is ... the classic behavior of the country-club, checked-pants Republican that is fundamentally finished. And maybe it's time for them to be finished. But then again, what do we have as an option? An Afro-Leninist who's achieved nothing?"Afros are scary.
See the link for other Savage rants about Obama, if you can stomach them. Oh, and before we start complaining about Obama "halo" pictures, let's just remember the Little King enjoying this treatment for years.
[Obama Racism/Muslim/Unpatriotic/Scary Black Dude Watch: Parts One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen, Eighteen, Nineteen, Twenty, Twenty-One, Twenty-Two, Twenty-Three, Twenty-Four, Twenty-Five, Twenty-Six, Twenty-Seven, Twenty-Eight, Twenty-Nine, Thirty, Thirty-One, Thirty-Two, Thirty-Three, Thirty-Four, Thirty-Five, Thirty-Six, Thirty-Seven, Thirty-Eight, Thirty-Nine, Forty, Forty-One, Forty-Two, Forty-Three, Forty-Four, Forty-Five, Forty-Six, Forty-Seven, Forty-Eight, Forty-Nine, Fifty, Fifty-One, Fifty-Two.]
Hillary Sexism Watch 106
And the beat goes on…
Transcript:Well, at least someone on that panel has some sense.
MICHELLE BERNARD: Well, here's what -- here's the interesting point. In voting for the Iraq war policy, Mrs. Clinton almost ran -- she ran almost like a Republican, and she really ran like a man. And in the end, it could be said that that's what really did damage to this historic campaign by a woman.
CHRIS MATTHEWS: She ran almost like a man?
BERNARD: She ran as a man. You would -- most people would expect a male candidate to be the person who was going to vote pro-war -- Iraq war policy and for a female candidate to vote against it. It was absolutely the reverse here, and that's what hurt her in this campaign.
MARGARET CARLSON: And any woman thinks she has to prove that she's as tough as a man –
BERNARD: Yes.
CARLSON: -- and she did that early, and then it turned out to be to her detriment.
MATTHEWS: I'm not touching this. Phil Griffin [sic], you want to get in here? He can have a piece of this discussion about what's the appropriate gender role –
PHIL BRONSTEIN: I'm not -- I don't think I'm touching this.
A couple of interesting points here: One, yet again a perfect example of how sexism cuts both ways. By saying Clinton "ran like a man," it's a smear against women via its implication that there are limits to what are acceptable identities and behaviors for women—but it's also a smear against men via its presumption that men are innately more pro-war than women.
Two, it just continues to (bitterly) amuse me that, despite being extremely close on most issues, Obama has the reputation for being a liberal and Clinton has the reputation for being "almost like a Republican," despite the fact that when I saw her on the campaign trail, I found that she "spent over an hour talking about and answering questions about policy in amazing detail—and, throughout, she spoke the language of the labor movement specifically and progressives generally; there was no rightwing framing, no triangulation. She was impressively blunt about the Republicans playing class warfare and about her determination to raise taxes on corporations and the rich, and she was much more explicitly anti-corporate in some of her statements than I expected. At one point, I leaned over to KenBlogz to whisper, 'This woman is a communist!'"
None of that can be news to anyone on that panel. (At least, it certainly shouldn't be.) So going on about how she ran "almost like a Republican" is pure, unadulterated poppycock.
It's as wholly dependent on ignoring the content of Clinton's stump speech as saying she didn't run "as a woman" is. I don't think Clinton could have made the media—especially the one-celled organisms that populate Hardballz—forget that she was a woman even if she'd wanted to (see: this 106-part series), but a candidate who talks about being a mother, being a daughter, being a working woman, the importance of women's suffrage, the particular healthcare needs of women, et cetera is hardly running "like a man" by any reasonable definition.
I wonder what Bernard imagines Clinton having run "like a woman" might have looked like. Perhaps she should have served tea to reporters at every campaign stop, or worn a frilly frock. Or maybe running like a woman means not running at all.
Politics is a man's game, you know.
I Am NOT For Sale
by Shaker ouyangdan
It is no surprise that Myspace and Facebook are not overly progressive or that they frequently have questionable or even outright offensive things on them. I do a pretty good job of avoiding most of it, but some of the advertisements (in my south Canadian accent that is "ad VERT is ment") are unavoidable, like the wretched bridal ads that I mentioned yesterday, or the disgusting "Sexy Politics," as mentioned at Feminsting recently.
But my biggest annoyance isn't the advertisements. It happens to be a new application that has taken social websites by storm -- the "Friends for Sale" or other similar and similarly named applications. The premise is exactly what it sounds like, you auction your friends off, buy them from each other, and claim them as your "pets." The application also sends out messages to your friends telling them just how much you "paid" for them, and invites you to "see how much you are worth."
From Myspace: I'm worth $884. How much are YOU worth?
From Facebook: The Developer's Description: Buy and sell your friends as pets! You can make your pets poke, send gifts, or just show off for you. Make money as a shrewd pets investor or as a hot commodity! Friends for Sale is the bees knees!
See? How much fun is that? Let's pretend that our friends are objects that we can buy and sell for our amusement! There is absolutely no problem with treating people like property and stripping them of their own autonomy, is there? If you think there is something wrong with that, then you must just not have a fucking sense of humor! Because buying and selling your friends is the bees knees!
Get it? GET IT?
I don't have tolerance for treating people as objects for fun and amusement. It is not funny to buy and sell people. I routinely ignore them, but I am pretty much thinking that I need to be more vocal about my disapproval of such things. I am starting with this blog post.
Not funny, Myspace and Facebook. Not in the least.
But I guess I am just another humorless bitch, aren't I?
Except I'm not. It's not "just a game."
Because, like I have said before, now more than once, we are dealing not only with words and their meanings, which are big and heavy all on their own merits, but because we are dealing with actual people. Real fucking human beings.
I am sick and fanfuckingtastically tired of "it's just a game," "lighten up," or "it's all in fun" being arguments for why the shit like this is acceptable as a form of entertainment. I am more than tempted to just say "hey, asshat, your privilege is showing" to people who think that it's just a game and they personally are not causing anyone harm (a fact which i believe is still up for debate), but this time it is coming from people whom I respect, and some of them I love, and with some of them I have forged bonds.
And that makes it harder to just point at brilliant posts by incredible writers better than me and tell them to educate themselves. It also makes me realize that the people I know IRL may not have all of the background and enlightenment that I have found via my online community of friends (as I experienced with a friend of mine on Myspace yesterday. For some reason it still surprises me when people are unwittingly blind to sexism and misogyny). I will give these people one free pass, and I will point to the wealth of knowledge on Al Gore's internet *throws poppy petals*.
The reason why Friends For Sale isn't amusing is because the actual sale of real human beings is affecting real people all over the world, and in our very own backyards who don't have the privilege of seeing it as "just a game." For some people there isn't the amusement of pretending to buy and sell people or the sheer thrill of seeing how much people are willing to spend to make them their "pets." They already know how much someone is willing to pay to force them into sex, or to have them torn away from their families and sold into farm labor or slavery in the US or Canada or Western Europe or anywhere else. They already know what the value of their lives is in dollars.
And they can't just log out or "ignore" the application. They are stuck. And it sure as hell isn't amusing.
And no one here is laughing.
The many many organizations dedicated to stopping human trafficking aren't there because it's funny or amusing, and I am sure that they would have a similar reaction to mine in regards to this "game." Or maybe being so angry you could cry and spit isn't as common as I thought.
For the link challenged or number people, I have some numbers for you:
It is estimated that 600,000-820,000 people are trafficked every year.
Of that number, about 70% are women and girls, and at least 50% are minors.
What's really funny is that it seems that the funniest things are those that only disproportionately impact women and children. I am seriously LOL right now. Cuz it's just a game! See? It's not hurting anyone!
They are forcibly taken, lied to, and otherwise not according to their own free will removed from their homes with a promise of a better life, sometimes sold by their own families. They are taken for many reasons, including forced prostitution, farm and domestic labor, or (one I didn't even know) for the forcible taking and selling of their internal organs.
It just gets funnier.
According to the Wiki gods, 2/3 of women trafficked are from Eastern European and former Soviet Union countries.
14,000 people are trafficked directly into the US each year.
600-800 are trafficked into Canada, an additional 1,500-2,200 are trafficked through Canada into the United States.
And I could go on.
But I don't really think I have to. At this point if you can't see why it isn't funny, amusing, or just a game, then I have lost you and you have missed the point. And you are reading the wrong blog.
The fact that you can turn off the application or can find it so amusing screams of privilege and reeks of ignorance. I can't stress enough that by regarding it as just fun is simply normalizing the horrors that hundreds of thousands of people live through each day. Every minute. Every painful second. I guess that if you just pretend that it's a game and that you aren't hurting anyone then you are free to ignore those people and not even have to deal w/ what that means. That these are actual people, not just online personas that we buy sell and trade. Sure, I suppose in some way it is fun to buy your friends and make your new pets dance or show off for your amusement.
But I don't get it.
And it's not "just a game."
I Am Carnie Wilson
This started as a comment in response to Lesley's open letter to Carnie Wilson (in response to Wilson's appearance on Tyra, in which the woman who broadcast her gastric bypass surgery on the internet complains that people now pay too much attention to her weight), but it got so long, I decided to make it a post. Here you go.
I love this letter, but I actually can muster some sympathy for Carnie by remembering back to the first time I got fat again after a very "successful" diet. I had so totally believed that I was in the tiny percentage of folks who would keep it off forever, I just kinda kept going "Buh?" every time I went up a size, until I was officially fat(ter than before), at which point I was utterly devastated. I felt ashamed enough just knowing that my friends had witnessed the transformation and knew how "weak" I was; if it had been public, I don't know how I would have gotten up in the morning.
That in itself might not be enough to engender any real sympathy for Carnie -- hey, I didn't ask the whole world to congratulate me on my weight loss! -- but here's what does: I totally would have asked the whole world to congratulate me if I'd had an outlet to do so. The only reason I didn't was because nobody knew or gave a rat's ass who I was. As it was, I was one of the worst small-time, local diet evangelists ever, because I really believed the following things:
I was a huge troll, basically. (And it's not lost on me that my fat acceptance evangelism is in some ways just the other side of the coin.) If someone had put a mic in my hand, I totally would have babbled smugly for hours and given them permission to broadcast it anywhere they liked. So in retrospect, I'm extremely grateful that I am not famous and I didn't even know about blogs back then.
Having said that, I can't believe Carnie Wilson hadn't dieted and gained it back a kabillion times before the surgery, so she loses a little sympathy from me on the "You should have freakin' known better" front. Except... she was no doubt assured by doctors, advertising, Oprah, whomever, that gastric bypass weight loss would be permanent. That's how they sell it -- why else would anyone put herself through it? It's easy for fat acceptance activists to say, "Well, duh," but we're extraordinarily well-informed about the dangers and the failures of the surgery. And sadly, a whole lot of people who get the surgery are not so informed -- even if they've done what looks like due diligence
If you Google "gastric bypass risks," you get a whole lot of pages from doctors giving the standard spiel: "X, Y, and Z could happen, but they probably won't, and if you stay fat, you'll die soon anyway." The internet is flooded with people talking about how awesome WLS is, how even the nastiest side effects are totally worth it, how having surgery that leaves you permanently malnourished will feel like the best thing you ever did when you fit into a size whatever dress. So don't listen to those killjoys who say it's too dangerous and you might gain it back anyway! They're just jealous!
There's so much of that noise out there that even if you do come across some horror stories, you can brush them off as anomalies. And keep in mind, people considering WLS have almost certainly, at some point, bought into the idea that they can diet the weight away permanently, even if the vast majority of people can't. When you've already engaged in that degree of magical thinking (which I sure have, so I'm not judging) a new set of risks and failure rates doesn't hold any real meaning. Other people have to go in for multiple subsequent surgeries to correct problems. Other people can't ever eat solid food again without vomiting. Other people gain the weight back anyway. Other people die. Not you. You? Are just going to get thin.
If The Obesity Myth hadn't come out when it did, there's a chance I could still be desperately searching for the magic bullet instead of preaching that there isn't one. So no matter how much I want to say, "You should have freakin' known better, Carnie," I relate to her a little too much to leave it at that. I even had a twinge, upon looking at the old Thin Carnie People cover Lesley linked to, of remembering how awesome it felt to be the tiny person (metaphorically) standing in the huge pants. The whole world really wants to congratulate you when you lose a lot of weight, as if triumphing over your own hunger and genetic predisposition is an accomplishment on a par with... well, something that's actually an accomplishment. It's fucking intoxicating. You've spent your whole life hearing how ugly, lazy, and disgusting you are (if only from your own brain), and now here you are being praised for your hotness and discipline at every turn. It's only natural to think, "See, this is the real me, not that fat slob I was before!" and want to shout that from the rooftops. (The reality, of course, is that you were probably both hot and disciplined before you lost weight, but you didn't have the confidence to work the hotness and you didn't even count all the hard work and tenacity you displayed in your daily life, because there wasn't evidence of it right there on your ass for all the world to see.) Accordingly, when you start to gain the weight back, it's only natural to think the real you is receding, not returning. Which leads to the next diet, and the next and the next, and then maybe the surgery, if something doesn't jar you out of that cycle.
So I can't help but feel sympathy for Carnie Wilson being stuck in this position of having made her weight loss unbelievably public, only to find the same obsessive attention turned on her weight gain. I can't help it because I still am Carnie Wilson somewhere down deep, even if my public persona (to the extent that I have one) is now "that Kate Harding chunky chick." I don't hate my body or fervently hope, let alone try, to erase parts of it anymore -- but I will never forget how it felt when I did, or how it felt when I managed, briefly, to erase dozens of pounds and was constantly lauded for it. I don't condone weight loss for its own sake, I don't believe it's a wise gamble, and I think people who do lose a lot of weight should really shut the fuck up about it, if only because one's shame over the almost inevitable rebound is directly proportionate to the amount of crowing one's done over the loss. But that doesn't mean I don't get it. I will always get it.
So if Carnie Wilson ever decides to make peace with her body and finds her way to the fatosphere, she'll be welcome in my little part of it, anyway. I'll even send her a free "I am Kate Harding" T-shirt.
