by Shaker KaterTot
Literally the same hour I was drafting this piece for my own purposes, Liss posted the perfect set-up; not only about language, but about the language of immigration. So, though I don't comment often around here (or not near as much as I read), I figured I'd share it with the rest of you.
At Shakesville there is a general understanding that language plays a huge role in the collective reality. I don't think I have to get into the ins-and-outs of why adopting a new term into the lexicon, while a natural and positive part of any dynamic language, is a great opportunity for irresponsible people to marginalize ideas and subcultures. Therefore, we are all charged with the noble task of choosing our words carefully and applying them wisely if we are really interested in being allies in diversity.
I can't think of how many times I've explained this, both to the obvious bigots and to seemingly well-intentioned and even well-informed, progressive individuals: Illegal is an adjective, or at least it always has been.
Like adjectives are wont to do, illegal describes or further qualifies an noun so the reader/listener can better understand the noun. For instance, I could refer to a murder as an illegal murder, therefore describing that not only did a person kill another person, they did so without the grounds to hold up in a court of law.
Illegal immigrant is extrapolated from illegal immigration, thus adapted to fit the colloquialisms of a proudly uneducated nation. In the term illegal immigration, illegal is used to describe the immigration; like the aforementioned murderer, not only did this person immigrate, they did so without lawful grounds.
Take away the illegal and the terms hold distinctive amounts of power: One is murder, the other is immigration.
Put the illegal back into the equation and they suddenly hold the same, or at least comparable, weight.
But then we get into illegal's migration (ha!) into the realm of modifying a proper noun, as dictated by vernacular. Because the immigration is illegal, we the people have begun to describe the immigrant as illegal. Unlike any other crime that I've come up with, immigration, when criminal, does not have its own special name; think here of the difference between murder and manslaughter. To chock it all up to lack of understanding is overly simplistic; this is about marginalization. How do we, a nation of immigrants and descendants of immigrants (many of whom did not come here legally), effectively separate the us from the them? We define them as much by their crime as their condition, or action; therefore, not immigrant, but illegal immigrant. It becomes increasingly common to hear things such as, "She's illegal." I want to ask, "She is? All the time? Just on Tuesdays? When is this person illegal, and how is it that each and every action performed by her is illegal?" Truly, to be as illegal as these immigrants reputably are must take a lot of work.
And then comes the greatest offense of all: the complete dropping of the condition. The reference to a human being as illegal, this time as a noun.
It's not just Ann Coulter and Rush Limbaugh—the aforementioned "obvious bigots" who I am not linking. It's a common term these days. Illegals. As in, the illegals who want social services; the illegals who need to be deported; the illegal whose kid goes to my kid's school. How, in a world where serial rapists, clandestine child molesters, domestic batterers, abortion clinic bombers, presidential assassins, and yes, even plain-ol' murderers, get the privilege of having their actions, but not their very selves, defined as illegal, is it possible that this group, this group of people, with such a wide variety of motivations and dreams and work ethics and family systems and histories and identities, does not receive the same privilege?
Yes, there are undocumented immigrants who are not Latin@, but generally that is not what people are talking about when they refer to an illegal immigrant. I don't think I'm making too rash of a generalization when I say that, for the most part, the term was invented for people traveling North across the Mexican border, regardless of their country of origin. And if that isn't racism, I don't know what is.
And once it made sense to me in those terms, I realized that I have to speak up every time. Every time. Not only will I not participate, I will not allow others to do so without being acutely aware of the meaning of their words. Is Jeffery Dahmer illegal? Dick Cheney? Osama bin Ladin? If not, then why is anyone else? I want to talk about the root of all of this, and I take those soapbox moments as opportunities to open the conversation about how and why we marginalize individuals with such abandon in this country: It's a convenient way to separate ourselves, to categorize our culture, and to truncate the potential of diversity.
[Language of Immigration, Parts One and Two.]
The Language of Immigration, Continued
Good
Dr. Sanjay Gupta has withdrawn his name from consideration to be Surgeon General. For reasons noted here and here, I'm pleased that he withdrew.
(Although I'm not remotely convinced that the next candidate will be better. Which is not a commentary on Obama's nominating skillz, but a commentary on how entrenched fat-hating and misogyny is even within the medical community.)
Question of the Day
Apropos of this thread, what part of your body do you find most difficult to manage for modern expectations of public appearances?
Patchy complexion? Ashy skin? Frizzy hair? Lazy eye? Jiggly boobs no bra will hold? Feet that demand unfashionable shoes? Permanent five o'clock shadow? Kudzuesque nose hair? Scars? Birthmarks? Deformities? Fess up.
(I love how that list doubles both as "Things That Are Culturally Unacceptable" and "The Interesting and Beautiful Markings of Individual Humanity." Funny how that works, innit?)
In all honesty, my fat is probably my biggest (ha) breach of public etiquette, expectations-wise, for most of society, even though I ceased giving a shit about my fat ass being a problem for other people a long time ago. Other than that, it's pretty much just my aforementioned melasmas, the brownish spots which you can see on the sides of my cheeks in this picture.
(That was a pic of Spudsy and me, but he didn't want that picture of him posted, so I covered him with my BFF The Hoff.)
ETA: 1,000 points to anyone who's brave enough to show a picture of their "flaws," which are, of course, completely acceptable here and have a real probability of being considered lovely by your blogmistress.
Fancy a Picture Show?
Melissa and I were talking recently about the Shakesville meet-ups, and another favorite event of ours, B-Fest. The meet-ups are always popular, but we realize that not everyone can come to Chicago to attend, particularly if they're only happening over one evening. Something bigger might be in order, and I suggested a film festival. Liss and I have gone to B-Fest together twice now, and while it's always a good time, I don't think I want to go back (for various reasons). Most Shakers seem to enjoy Psychotronic movies as much as Liss and I (and Deeky!), so I'm proposing a "Shakesville B-Fest." (Uh, after we rename it, of course!) I suggested a few things to make it a little more comfortable (and easier to attend) for all:
1. Rather than a 24-hour marathon, which is difficult for some folks for various reasons, I suggested splitting it up over two days. I was thinking, a 12 hour movie marathon one day, then a party that evening (like the past meet-ups), then another 12 hour marathon the next day. Also, keeping in mind that people might travel from far away, having the festival take place over a couple of days might help justify the trip. ;-)
2. Unlike some other festivals, time would be given between films to allow for a real-time bathroom break, without having to race back in order to not miss anything, ahem.
3. I was thinking of hosting it in a hotel conference room (or something similar) rather than a movie theater, as this would allow people to bring their own seating: lawn lounge chair, inflatable seat, air mattress; whatever makes sitting through ten hours of flicks more comfortable! (Perhaps I could work out a package deal with a hotel?)
4. Attendees will pick the festival lineup. We will come up with a list of titles, and I'll set up an online voting site so people can check off their top titles. I know that sometimes you'll look at a festival lineup and there's one or two (or three) movies that you'll really enjoy, but you're rather "meh" about the others. This would give everyone a say in what we watch. Some examples of possible titles Liss, Deeks and I threw out:Dracula Vs. Frankenstein
We'll also probably put together a thread in the future to take suggestions, as long as they're something we can find. Get the idea?
The Call of Cthulhu
976-EVIL
Tormented
Night of the Comet
Killer Klowns from Outer Space
Dragonslayer
The Giant Claw
Santa Claus
Plan 9 from Outer Space
It Conquered the World
Attack of the 50-Foot Woman
And, of course, Robot Monster!
Anyway, this is just to announce the idea, and give a very, very bare-bones outline of what I'm planning. I'd just really love it if we could get some sort of idea of attendance. If you think this would be something that you'd seriously consider attending, please let me know in comments!
Update: As Melissa said in comments, this is not intended to be a for-profit event; other than operating costs, we will not be making any money off this.
Bad Grrl
I am a failed student of Beauty Standards 101.
I'm about to turn 35, and I have no idea how to do my hair or makeup. I've never, ever, been good at doing my own hair—which is why I've had variations on a bob at different lengths and combinations of layering for more than half my life now, except when I've just let it grow and grow to my waist before getting it chopped again. And I've never, ever, been able to put on makeup worth a damn. I tried to apply liquid eyeliner once and was nearly mistaken for a meth-addled raccoon by wilderness control, which was the comparatively successful attempt of my infrequent forays into makeup-wearing.
The whole thing has always amused me, and it never really mattered—except now I've got melasmas on my cheeks, probably because I've got PCOS, and people are starting to ask what happened to my face. I'm afraid Iain's going to start getting sideways glances, because they look like bruises, so I figured I'd maybe try to cover them when we went out or wev.
He doesn't care, of course.
So I got this makeup, and I was just sitting and staring at it like it's the ingredients of a rare Greek stew I've been asked to make, having never even tasted it, when the phone rang. It was Portly Dyke. She asked what I was doing.
"Realizing that if I were lost on a desert island, I'd look exactly the same as I do now."
And because she is a bad grrl, too, she knew exactly what I meant, and she laughed.
Number of the Day
12. The percentage of American homeowners with a mortgage who were "at least one month late or in foreclosure at the end of last year."
One out of eight.
Of those who have one of the infamous subprime, adjustable rate mortgages, an astounding 48% are behind on their payments or in foreclosure.
Shaker Gourmet: Chili
Our recipe comes from Shaker Siobhan_the_Not_Very_Evil, who notes: "for those in more rural areas, the dried and powdered chiles are easily found online".
This is on my list to try! I loves me some hot & spicy.Chili
2 lbs beef – 90 or 93% lean
1 green pepper, chopped
1 red pepper, chopped
1 yellow pepper, chopped
3 large Poblano chiles, chopped
2 Habenero chiles, minced small
5-6 cloves garlic lightly crushed (just enough to get the paper off)
1 large onion, chopped
1 28 oz can whole tomatoes (fire-roasted) lightly pulsed
1 14 oz can fire-roasted diced tomatoes
1 28 oz can tomato puree
1 15 oz can hunt's tomato sauce
2 dried guajillo chiles, torn into flat pieces, toasted (10 seconds a side in a dry pan until they lighten in color and release their fragrance), and pulsed with ½ the puree
2 TBSP Ancho chile powder
1 tsp Chipotle chile powder (more = spicier)
2-3 tsp Cumin
1 TBSP Dried cilantro
Salt to taste
2 cans red kidney beans
--Salt the beef and brown over med high heat in a large skillet (I use a 13", 6 qt skillet). When the beef is good and brown, add the onions, garlic and peppers (except for the guajillos in your tomato sauce) to the pan and sweat in with the beef – don't drain the fat (that is why you are using very lean beef).
--When the onions are starting to turn translucent, add the tomatoes, tomato sauce and all the spices. Reduce heat to low/med low, cover, and simmer for 2 hours, stirring every ½ hour or so.
--After 2 hours, taste and season as needed. Drain and rinse beans, and add to chili. Cook uncovered 20-30 more minutes.
Makes a TON.
If you'd like to participate in Shaker Gourmet, email me at: shakergourmet (at) gmail.com Include your Shaker name and a link to your blog (if you have one).
Gray Skies Are Gonna Clear Up...
Put on a gay face!
Civil Union Bill Passes Illinois House CommitteeSPRINGFIELD, IL -- An Illinois House committee passed a bill today that would extend legal recognition and many of the benefits limited to married couples to same sex couples.
The Religious Freedom and Civil Union Act (HB2234) passed the Youth and Family Committee with a vote on Thursday, March 5. The bill now goes to the full House for consideration.
“We are gratified that the members of the committee understand the importance of recognizing and extending legal protections to Illinois same-sex couples and their families,” said Rick Garcia, director of public policy, Equality Illinois. “These couples make our communities stronger and deserve to have the same protections and benefits as their heterosexual counterparts.”
The bill guarantees some of the rights and responsibilities to persons in civil unions that are currently granted to persons in civil marriages. Among those rights are the ability to participate in healthcare visitation and decision making for one’s partner, survivor benefits and the right to make disposition decisions about deceased partner’s remains.
The bill also re-affirms religious institutions’ right not to solemnize a civil union.
“This bill asks for no special rights, only to grant all families access to what most families now are given automatically under the law,” said Representative Greg Harris (D-Chicago) the chief sponsor of the bill. “We have families in our districts in committed relationships, working hard every day, who when faced with sudden tragedy may desperately need these rights tomorrow or the next day.”
Equality Illinois lined up an impressive list of witnesses to testify before the committee.
The Reverned Suzanne Anderson-Hurdle a Lutheran pastor, mother of three and a Chaplain for her local fire and police departments gave testimony in favor of the bill.
"It seems odd to me that some who tout the idea of family values would push for the defeat of this bill. Their position is incongruent with the nation of family values and seems to lack integrity," said Pastor Suzanne. "It is both naive and ethnocentric to say that the "family" is mom, dad and children. This is not the reality for so many people -- gay or straight and it discounts the experiences of so many people in our communities.
Dr. Randy Georgemiller testified on behalf of the Illinois Psychological Association.
"Heterosexual and homosexual relationships are essentially equivalent in terms of their psychological and social functions and therefore discriminatory policies are unjustified" Georgemiller told the committee. "Government recognition of relationships affords a variety of benefits that are favorable to the couple’s physical, financial, and psychological well being. Just as for heterosexuals, a committed relationship offers a positive sense of self, self worth, and mastery, and provides some insulation from mental and physical disorders."
Gail Clodfelter of Springfield noted the protections that she and her husband have that are denied to her gay son and his partner.
If passed by the full General Assembly, Illinois will join a handful of states to recognize civil unions joining .
In Illinois, the County of Cook and the cities of Oak Park and Urbana have domestic partner registries, but the registries convey no benefits to registrants. The above jurisdictions, the State of Illinois and Chicago extend domestic partner benefits to their gay employees as do numerous Fortune 500 companies.
More of this, please!
A Very John Waters Bankruptcy Hearing
As some of you may already know, I was recently distracted by a 65-page document.
It's not something most people want to talk about (their bankruptcy) -- but I simply cannot continue to think of myself as a truly sharing person if I refrain from regaling you with the following tale (every word of which I swear to Ceiling Cat is completely true and wholly unexaggerated) -- because the story is simply too quirky to keep to myself.
Shamelessly Truncated Backstory: Filed for personal bankruptcy. Received summons to "341 meeting" -- aka "meeting of creditors".
So, yeah, I was nervous.
Not nervous in the "I'm hiding something" way -- more in the "I realize that the trustee may be a raging homophobe, or be having a really bad day, or I might look just like his horrible ex-" kind of way. (Because -- yes, servants of the court are supposed to keep that shit out of it, but sometimes, they don't.)
I was that kind of nervous.
Now, I live in a tiny little town, so there was a bit of driving involved in order to get to my 341 meeting, which was to be held in the municipality that I shall simply call BigBoxStoreO'Ville (or, as it is referred to locally: BigBoxO'Hell -- the town that you go to if you want anything from Home Depot, Staples, or Petco, etc. -- but the town that you don't go to at all, if you can help it).
So, with the drive, I had an extra hour and and 15 minutes to feel that nervousness.
Two stalwart companions accompanied me. One of them drove while I checked and rechecked the Mapquest directions in the jump-seat of her truck. (I know, I know -- this doesn't sound so awfully quirky yet, but be patient -- it gets better.)
Five years earlier, I had accompanied a friend to her 341 meeting at the courthouse in downtown BigBoxOVille, so I thought I knew what to expect -- a tiny, run-down courtroom, clerks and attorneys and clients lingering in the hallways -- however, when I checked Mapquest against the address in my meeting notice, it didn't look like this was the same location that I remembered, but rather, some other place called: Gateway Center.
I knew that BigBoxOVille had been doing a lot of downtown renovation, so I imagined "Gateway Center" as some kind of chromy/glassy edifice -- a bustling hub of civic offices and civil servants -- all sexy-whole-foods-indirect-lighting and spacious entryways, with busy receptionists residing cooly behind sleek corian counters.
Which vision hadn't exactly made me less nervous.
There had been something tired but friendly about the old courthouse where I had sat with my friend in her hour of need -- a dumpy, frayed-around-the-edges feeling that carried a reminder that people in their thousands had passed through this place -- winning cases and losing them, being found innocent and guilty, being arrested and posting bail, marrying and divorcing -- it put the proceeding my friend was about to endure into some kind of perspective for me. Nothing new under the sun, and all that.
Imagine my surprise when, as we drew closer to our destination, I called out the address to my friend once more and she said:
"Huh? Well, then . . . this is it. We're here."
And "Here" was . . . . ? A strip mall.
Not just any strip mall, either -- this was one of those tiny, sad strip malls from the 80s -- there were six spaces on the mall sign at the edge of the parking lot, but only four of them contained signage (and it turned out that two of the businesses listed were no longer in operation).
As we pulled into the parking lot, I felt an unexpected rush of relief.
I believe that what came out of my mouth was:
"A strip mall? A fucking strip mall? A fucking dying strip mall?!?! Wow. If they don't have any more respect for themselves than this, what am I being all nervous about?"
Let me paint the scene: Dingy. Dismal. Shabby. Dinky. ("Not a nice place you have here, Joe.")
Two spaces were occupied at one end of the mall, and then a series of echoing, empty, glass-fronted caverns stretched to the other end -- presumably once occupied by entrepreneurs who, in their haste to depart, hadn't even bothered to retrieve their signage.
I scanned the markers above each door for "Suite D". There it was -- but it, too, seemed empty. (Turns out the Bankruptcy court met next door to Suite D -- more on this in a bit).
The two enterprises carrying on discernable trade in the mall were: 1) A rather cute coffee-shop/deli, and 2) A Dollar Store, prominently festooned with signs saying: "CASH ONLY!" and "NO Checks" and "Credit Cards Not Accepted".
Which just seemed so . . . . perfectly perfect. My relief deepened.
Being a believer in all things woo-woo, my compatriots and I had been affirming all the way to BigBoxOVille that today, we would navigate to the "Utopian Version" of Bankruptcy court. We declared that we would experience the day as affirming and uplifting and educational and expansive.
It was starting out well, I had to admit. The setting alone had stimulated my sense of humor.
Since I had insisted on arriving an hour before the actual meeting time (I have similar tight-assery around catching airplanes), we decided to explore the coffee-shop.
Imagine my delight when I found that they make their own doughnuts from scratch, every morning.
Heaven. We do not have a doughnut shop in our town, and I refuse to use the sacred word "pastry" when referring to the rubbery items passed off as donuts at the local Safeway.
AND! -- The barrista chap behind the counter was almost certainly a Friend of Dorothy, who connected with us in a manner that indicated that he suspected that we, too, had more than a passing acquaintance withToto's mistress.
Better and better.
We pretty much had the place to ourselves at first, as we sipped coffee (a rarity for me) and bit into what I like to refer to as: Wheels From The Divine Chariot.
People came and went -- some nervous and pacing, others calm and bored (the latter, by their dress, were, no doubt, attorneys waiting for their clients' 341 meetings) -- but get this -- I'm 95% certain that every single person that I saw during the three hours I was at that mall was there for -- Not-Suite D.
Which was a whole 'nother interesting twist -- because that coffee shop would probably be filing for bankruptcy itself, if it weren't for . . . bankruptcy court. (I adore the occasional brush with ouroborian reality.)
Amongst the nervous-/pacing-type customers was yours truly.
I would get up from time to time, go out into the parking lot, through the entry next to Suite D, down the narrow hallway to the door with one little peeky-hole type window in it, and then I would wrestle with the choice of just going in now and seeing what was going on in there, or wandering back to Oz and Priscella Queen of the Dessert (who had also seen fit to bring some free truffles to our table, because he "just needed to taste-test them so that I could describe them to customers, and they're really too big for me to eat a whole one, but if I split them into four pieces, well, that leaves a piece of the maple-citrus and a piece of the almond fudge for each of us!").
So, we're all like: "Get out! -- free Chocolate? I love the Utopian Bankruptcy Alternate Universe!"
In one of my pacey/nervous moments outside, I ran into an acquaintance from a nearby town who used to be a client, in the parking lot.
"Portly?" she queried.
I queried back, delicately, cautiously: "Are you here for . . . the same reason I'm here? . . . . . . Suite D?"
"Yes. Yes, I am -- but it's a good thing. Really." She looked into my eyes after we hugged, and repeated with more emphasis, "It really is a good thing."
As she walked off to her car, she added: "By the way, they're more than an hour behind."
Having now wired myself up with unaccustomed caffeine (and weighed myself down, with unaccustomed pastry), I decided to go into "the room".
It was an ordinary, large, conference-type room, with conference-type chairs, a low acoustic-paneled ceiling, and flourescent lighting. A roster outside the door listed, in alphabetical order, the cases that were being handled today -- fifteen or so cases to the hour, each hourly group organized from A-Z -- I was the last person on the roster for the day.
I squeaked the door open and tried to enter without drawing undue attention to myself. Forty or so chairs were arranged in rows at one end of the room, with a big desk up front, and a set of chairs off to one side where sat The Attorneys (or so I surmised, because I recognized one of them from his picture on the business card he had enclosed in the letter he sent some weeks earlier).
Oh, and about those letters -- those letters that began arriving in the mail the day after my bankruptcy filing became a matter of public record?
To date, I have received four letters from attorneys who all began their missives with "Dear Portly: I noticed that you are filing Pro Se, and would like to notify you of my services . . . . ", but who all also managed to end their missives with some variation of ". . . . . . because you really don't understand how dangerous it is to represent yourself in these matters". I have received four credit card offers, and 42 (count 'em! Forty Two!) offers of pre-approved car loans (at an average of $32G each -- which is something like $1,344,000.00 worth of car loans). As my Beloved said when these letters started arriving: "Oh look, dear -- vultures."
My compatriots and I sat and watched as each person or couple was called up to sit at The Desk, where The Trustee swore them in and repeated the same basic script over and over again ("This is a copy of your petition. Did you see these documents before you signed them?", "Have you listed all your property on these documents?", etc., etc., etc.).
I listened to the little bits of their stories that the questions brought forth. Of all the 25 or so cases that preceded mine, only one seemed the slightest bit questionable to me -- all the others were stories of health crises, business plans gone awry, unforeseen circumstances, or people just trying to make ends meet in tough times.
When the Trustee reached the end of the docket ahead of mine, he addressed the 11 am group (which I was in) and gave us a little briefing about what would happen next.
He was serious but kindly, and went through the speech (which he has probably given a nonnillion times) efficiently, while peppering it with a few wry witticisms that had this room full of nervous people chuckling aloud from time to time. He had a wonderful style of deadpan humor, but he maintained the decorum of his office at all times.
I was impressed.
Especially when he said stuff like this: "So -- you need to cooperate with me. No, actually, you have to cooperate with me. It may seem unfair, but the truth is, this is an unequal relationship -- you have to cooperate with me if you want your bankruptcy to be discharged."
I appreciated his honesty, and his clear attempt to put us all at ease as much as he could under the circumstances. He was extremely funny in his serious way, and he looked tired -- and very human, which I also appreciated.
By the time my turn came, there were only the four of us left in the room -- my two compatriots, the trustee, and myself.
He called my name and I took my seat in front of The Desk.
Before he turned on the tape recorder, I said: "You know, you may have a future in stand-up."
He raised his brows a bit as he peered over The Desk at me (uh-oh), and said: "Not gonna go there."
At which I straightened my ass up and did what I was supposed to do -- just affirmed that I would tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the blah-blah-blah, and answered simply "Yes" and "No" to his questions.
But I swear that there was a little twinkle in his eye.
I had the sense that he was in that difficult place where his role prevented him from connecting with me fully as a human, but I honestly had the sense that he wanted to make that connection. I can relate to that. When I was a social worker, I was often in situations where the requirements of my role as a professional impinged upon my ability to relate to my clients in certain ways. Which is one reason I stopped being a social worker.
I'm a stubborn little thing, though. Once the tape recorder was off, I said to him:
"Seriously. You helped put me at ease today, during an experience that could have been much more difficult for me. Thank you."
He didn't really respond to that, but there was that little tiny twinkle again, and he asked me about my tiny town and how it was weathering the current financial climate. Next summer, our peninsula will become a virtual island for 3 months, right in the middle of tourist season, because of a bridge closure. He said: "I just wonder how [tiny town] is going to hang on."
Then we left, and he left, and the lights went out in Not-Suite D for the day.
My compatriots headed back to Oz for a few minutes, to get some of the day-old pastries to take home.
I went to the Dollar Store.
The CASH ONLY!!! Dollar Store.
Next to the bankruptcy room.
I spent five dollars and forty-three cents. The cashier there didn't need to use her cash register, because everything in the store is $1, and she has memorized the sales tax for every integer from $1 to $150 (I asked her). She just counts up your items and says: "Five Forty-three."
I purchased:
1. A pair of reading glasses (which I needed)
2. A pair of compact flourescent light bulbs (which I needed)
3. A package of those funky light bulbs that are supposed to look like candle-flames and which are the only light bulbs that fit the dining room fixture (which I needed)
4. A knife sharpener (which I needed), AND
5. A lobster cracker (which I hope to need someday)
Because it just seemed like a fitting end to the day.
Quote of the Day
"We consider this murder."—Marcio Miranda, a lawyer for the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Olinda and Recife in northeastern Brazil, after a judge granted access to an abortion to a nine-year-old girl carrying twins after being raped by her stepfather.
Though abortion is illegal in Brazil, judges can make exceptions based on extreme circumstances, like, for example, an 80-pound child whose uterus is too small to carry one fetus to term, no less two.
Still, the Catholic Church wants to you know that this raped, impregnated, nine-year-old survivor of a life-saving surgical procedure to terminate her pregnancy is a murderer.
[Via.]
A Certain Smile, A Certain Annoyance*
First, the good stuff. This is just too sweet:
First daughters Malia and Sasha Obama got a big surprise after school Wednesday: a brand-new swing set.This is my favorite part:
They squealed with delight upon seeing it, a spokeswoman for the first lady said.
President Barack Obama and his wife, Michelle, went to work while the girls were at school, having the set installed on the south grounds of the White House within sight of the Oval Office, where their father spends plenty of time.
"They ran right for it. They were really, really excited. All four of them," McCormick Lelyveld said.That just makes me smile. The Obamas just seem to take so much joy in each other; the image of the four of them running to enjoy their new swingset, a childhood icon that brings up fuzzy feelin's in me anyway, just really makes me feel good. Sigh. Good stuff.
Okay, if that bit makes you feel as good as it made me feel, don't read on. Just enjoy the glow.
I found this via Digby, who wryly states at the end of the post titled "Presidential Pork":
The girls named the swing set "checkers" and gosh darn it, no matter what Michelle Malkin says, they're going to keep it.
That made me laugh, but an ugly little thought bubbled up. "I'll just bet Malkin won't be able to leave this alone." Sure enough, from Digby's comments:
Michelle Malkin has already tied this to the stimulus billThey point to Malkin's Twitter (and I'm really beginning to fucking hate Twitter) that isn't so much "linking" as it is "total snark fail."
Question: Was the new White House swing set paid for with porkulus $? It's, you know, "infrastructure." ;) #tcot #stimulusLiterally, these people are unable to take the slightest bit of joy, hope or cheerfulness out of anything. It would be sad, if Malkin wasn't such a vile, hollow shell of a human being.
Christ, I hate that woman. Picture the kids on the swing... go back to your happy place...
*Post title taken from this lovely album, which I think I'm going to have to listen to now, after experiencing Malkin unpleasantness.
Prop 8 Hearing Open Thread
Both Pam and Faith are liveblogging the Prop 8 hearing in California today.
Shaker rrp emails to say: "I'm not sure that you can get the stream at the California Channel. It's getting a lot of traffic. The judges that are asking a lot of questions are ones who voted for pro-equality. But they are being hard on the lawyers trying to get 8 tossed out."
*bites nails*
UPDATE: MSNBC's live streaming is embeddable, so here it is:
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Make Way for the Bionic Eye
There's more astounding medical progress to report on this week, as a man who had been blind for 30 years has regained some sight, with the help of the Argus II retinal implant.
It uses a camera and video processor mounted on sunglasses to send captured images wirelessly to a tiny receiver on the outside of the eye.
In turn, the receiver passes on the data via a tiny cable to an array of electrodes which sit on the retina - the layer of specialised cells that normally respond to light found at the back of the eye.
When these electrodes are stimulated they send messages along the optic nerve to the brain, which is able to perceive patterns of light and dark spots corresponding to which electrodes have been stimulated.
The hope is that patients will learn to interpret the visual patterns produced into meaningful images. [...]
Ron, who has not revealed his surname, told the BBC: "For 30 years I've seen absolutely nothing at all, it's all been black, but now light is coming through. Suddenly to be able to see light again is truly wonderful.
"I can actually sort out white socks, grey socks and black socks."
Lost Open Thread
Last night's episode will be discussed in infinitesimal detail, so if you haven't seen it, and don't want any spoilers, move along...
Actual Headline
Why is John McCain being such a jerk?
Uh, has Salon ever heard of John McCain, aka Punk McNasty, the jerkiest jerk in all of jerkdom? Being a jerk is what he does. He's a professional jerk with a PhD in jerkitude. He's the patron saint of megajerks whose jerkery is so powerful that even ordinary jerks must gain +20 jerk resistance before looking him in the eyes. He's such a jerk that his favorite sandwich is jerk pork. He is the Jerkmaster 6000.
That McCain is being a jerk doesn't warrant a bemused headline. If he stopped being a jerk for three seconds, then you might have something.
"Klaatu barada nikto, baby."
Via Steve Benen, who got it from Ron Chusid, a wing-nut warns of the danger of the same-sex marriage slippery slope that goes megabytes beyond Rick Santorum:
David Gibbs III, a lawyer who in 2005 fought to keep brain-damaged Terri Schiavo on life support, told rally participants gay marriage would "open the door to unusual marriage in North Carolina. "Why not polygamy, or three or four spouses?" Gibbs asked. "Maybe people will want to marry their pets or robots."Show me a hunky android that can give informed consent to sign a contract. If so, he'd be a sentient being, and as we all know, androids have rights, too.
Or maybe you go for the strong silent type...
Hey, whatever spins your hat. Live and [beep] let live, I say.
*HT to PaultheSpud for the correct terminology in the title.
Happy Birthday, Phil Barron!
Happy Birthday to youuuuuuuuuuu!
Happy Birthday to youuuuuuuuuuu!
Itriedtofindacakewithacatthatdidn'tlooklikeoneofyourscuztheneatingitwouldbe creeeepyyyyy!
Happy Birthday to youuuuuuuuuuu!
(Even though Phil's a very, very, very part-time contributor, he still gets a cake because I say so!)
