Guest Post by Shaker Faith
The California Supreme Court, one year ago, affirmed the right of same sex couples to marry. We already know that our Supreme Court believes that this right is ours. I want to remind people of this before we get into gear for protests if need be. It's important that we always know who we're angry with and why we're angry. Barking at cars is not effective in advancing our political and personal agendas.
Today's decision is not about the right to marry technically - and in this case, technically is all that really matters.
Technically, this decision is about whether or not Proposition 8 on November's ballot was constitutional. Whether it was a revision or an amendment. If it was a revision, then the referendum process is not sufficient. This decision isn't about same sex marriage but about the referendum/initiative process in California - even though it is deciding the fates of millions of California couples.
Arguments made on both sides were not about whether marriage should be allowed but whether the people of the state of California get to decide on certain rights and how that should work -- whether by legislation or by referendum.
We'll know in about 2 hours what the Supreme Court decides. I hope people remain non-violent if the court does not decide to overturn the amendment. While anger is important and useful, violence never is.
Crossposted at That is so Queer...
Prop 8. What it's really about.
Such a Good Kid
Yet again, alcohol has turned a perfectly nice young white man* into a hatemongering lunatic:
A Winthrop man charged in an alleged gay-bashing attack in Provincetown this weekend was described in his well-heeled, waterfront neighborhood yesterday as a "good kid."Sure. I lost track years ago of the number of times I've gotten drunk and committed a hate crime, because everyone knows that alcohol is magical bigotry juice that fills a person with prejudices they don't hold and even a mere hint of which they've never previously exhibited.
Eric Patten, who's slated to be arraigned on felony assault and hate crime charges today in Orleans District Court [for attacking two lesbians while spewing homophobic slurs and shoving one of them through a window], is a 23-year-old Boston College High School graduate known as a do-gooder among neighbors in his Winthrop enclave.
"I was surprised. I just can't believe it," one neighbor said of the violent charges levied against Patten. "But alcohol is a crazy drug. It does crazy things to people."
The neighbor, who requested anonymity, said Patten, the son of a well-to-do family, is "the type of kid who would run across the street and help carry in the groceries."Seemed like a good kid. Seemed very respectful.
"He's a very good kid. Very respectful," the neighbor said.
I'm not sure how many times we, as a culture, are going to have to do the shock-that-a-good-white-boy*-could-do-a-bad-thing before we finally lay in its grave at long last the idea that a characteristic we privilege (including being a Christian) confers an inherent goodness upon the people who exhibit it. Decency is a choice—a choice we must make every day, every time we face a decision where there is opportunity to do the right thing or the wrong thing. One may be a Good Kid in one moment and not in the next; we all have the capacity to help carry groceries and we all have the capacity to throw someone through a window in hatred. There are no "Good Kids" who lack the facility to do terrible things—only kids whose privilege is presumed to render unnecessary the lessons of compassion that make the commission of terrible things vanishingly unlikely.
We still haven't learned that the secret is expecting more.
--------------------------
* I'm not identifying Patten as "straight," because I don't know for certain. He could be a closeted gay man reacting to internalized homophobia; or he could be a gay man (closeted or otherwise) expressing a hatred of lesbians, which is rare but does happen. In any case, I'm not going to guess about his sexual orientation; it's irrelevant to his victims and irrelevant to the hate crime designation, anyway.
More Sotomayor
MB beat me to the punch, but I wanted to note two things from this CNN article about Sotomayor's nomination:
As she has risen through the judicial ranks, Sotomayor increasingly has drawn the ire and opposition of conservatives...Once again, I read conservatives' fantastical nightmares about a liberal candidate for some position, and all I can think is: If only. In reality, Sotomayor is moderately liberal, appointed to the US District Court in '92 by then-President George H.W. Bush, who isn't exactly known as a liberal firebrand.
"Judge Sotomayor is a liberal judicial activist of the first order who thinks her own personal political agenda is more important that the law as written," said Wendy Long, counsel to the conservative Judicial Confirmation Network.
"She thinks that judges should dictate policy and that one's sex, race and ethnicity ought to affect the decisions one renders from the bench."
Secondly, Iain emails about the article: "Brought home to me just what an awful state journalism is in. Other than her name, it gave me absolutely no independently verified facts about Sotomayor whatsoever—just a list of things that different people have said about her. This is all that most people will hear. I'm so accustomed to this now that I almost didn't notice."
And so gets laid the infuriatingly insipid groundwork for our national conversation about one of the 9 people who frequently make life-changing decisions for us all.
It's Sotomayor
This is from MSNBC:
President Barack Obama tapped federal appeals judge Sonia Sotomayor for the Supreme Court on Tuesday, officials said, making her the first Hispanic in history picked to wear the robes of a justice.I'm sure the wingnuts have a full barrage lined up and ready to fire -- Joe Scarborough was citing her "far-out" rulings this morning -- but that's what they've been gearing up for since before Souter announced his retirement: they were going to be against anyone President Obama nominated just as an autonomic response. And there have been the threats of a filibuster by some Republicans, who have conveniently forgotten that just a few years ago, when Samuel Alito was nominated and the Democrats muttered about blocking his appointment, they termed filibustering a judicial nominee as unconstitutional. But that now that there's a Democrat in the White House, it's perfectly acceptable. Rail on, supercilious twits.
If confirmed by the Senate, Sotomayor, 54, would succeed retiring Justice David Souter. Two officials described Obama's decision on condition of anonymity because no formal announcement had been made.
Administration officials say Sotomayor would bring more judicial experience to the Supreme Court than any justice confirmed in the past 70 years.
A formal announcement is scheduled for 10:15 a.m. ET in the East Room of the White House.
Obama had said publicly he wanted a justice who combined intellect and empathy — the ability to understand the troubles of everyday Americans.
Democrats hold a large majority in the Senate, and barring the unexpected, Sotomayor's confirmation should be assured.
If approved, she would join Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg as the second woman on the current court.
I'm guessing, based on her confirmation to the federal bench in 1998, that she'll be confirmed by more than 80 votes in the Senate.
Bio of Judge Sotomayor here.
HT to TPM.
Crossposted.
California Supreme Court to Rule on Prop 8 Today
Just an FYI, today at 10 a.m Pacific time, the California Supreme Court will issue an opinion on the constitutionality of Proposition 8.
"...[L]eaders from both sides of the ... issue have predicted that the California justices will uphold the ban but also allow approximately 18,000 same-sex marriages from last summer to stand." I am not sure how that is even legal, but hey, that's activist judges for you.
Advocates of equality are gearing up to overturn the ban as soon as the November 2010 election, should that prove necessary. Fingers crossed, it won't.
The opinion, when released, will be available here.
From Memory to Oral History
*This is a blending of previously published posts.*
In the top drawer of my parents' dresser, my dad keeps souvenirs of his time in Vietnam. When we were kids, we loved the money from Taiwan and the yellowed letters. We weren't so interested in the little medal in the black box. He'd tell us, time and again, to stay out of his stuff. But Daddy was a big pushover and we couldn't resist the allure of that treasure.
When I got older, I realized the medal was a Purple Heart. He'd been a Radio Telephone Operator and had gotten shot in his neck and shoulder. We used to trace the scars--not finely or precisely done, they resemble railroad tracks. They are firm lines that rise up from his skin, the result of an infection and keloids.
I moved the Purple Heart from the drawer and into my mom's china cabinet, a display that matches nothing else in there. "Why'd you do that?" he asked. "Because I don't think you should keep it buried," was my snappy answer. "Mm-hmm. Except you don't tell me what to do. I'm your father; you're not my mother," he said. But he left it alone.
My dad doesn't talk about VietNam. He used to, he says, when he was young. But then people would ask him things like, "Did you kill anybody? What is that like?" And he'd get so angry, so offended, that he thought it was better just to make the subject taboo.
So there are only three occasions on which I've been able to get a little bit of his story. I interviewed him once for a Vietnam and Watergate class I took while working on my Master's. Basically, I just let him talk. My professor, himself a VietNam vet, found the transcript riveting. My dad has a way with words that can keep you enthralled. I remember that my professor smiled and repeated my dad's words about arriving "in country." "I haven't heard that in a while," he said.
The second time was for a colleague [in graduate school] whose dissertation was about the war. He wanted to know more of my dad's story. Again, my dad opened up a little. "An RTO?" my colleague said, when I shared my dad's memories. "He had a dangerous job."
All I could say was, "Really?"
"You have to keep his story, elle," he told me. "Whenever, however he wants to tell it."
Finally, I went to DC a couple of years ago. My dad has never been to the VietNam memorial. I asked him if there were names he'd like me to shade. He thought for a while and then gave me three. One of them included an old guy that they'd looked up to. By old, my dad meant 27. So I got there, with my friend John, without paper or pencil (didn't think to bring it). In my purse, I had an envelope, that I tore open, and a golf pencil. We looked in that book, found the sections of the wall, got down on our knees and shaded the names. When I went to Louisiana a few weeks later, I presented it to my dad sheepishly. "I didn't have paper," I said. "It's okay," he said rubbing his thumbs over the shadings. "It's okay." Still, I felt badly.
When my parents moved last winter, my sister and I helped pack an old dresser while my dad supervised. There, in the top, was the money and the letters. And inside a Ziploc bag, was the envelope. "Daddy!" I said, surprised. It was his turn to look sheepish. "Aw, Ugly," he said, "I told you it was okay."
Since I first wrote this post for Veteran's Day in 2006, my father has mentioned his time in SouthEast Asia to me one other time, after hearing "Taps" on youtube, an experience that was triggering for him.
Upon hearing it, he said, "That is a sad, sad song."
I asked him was it only played at funerals.
"Oh, no. Sometimes when you get back from a battle, they play it in honor of those who died. It's especially hard on you when it's a good friend," he explained.
"I got so very tired of hearing that song in Vietnam."
Memorial Day
I'm back in Perrysburg, the town where I grew up. It's a small town in Ohio, a suburb of Toledo, and when I was a kid in the 1950's and '60's, it fit all of the images that small towns in the Midwest have: tree-shaded streets, neat homes, lots of churches, and a main street -- Louisiana Avenue -- with little shops like the drug store with the fountain, the dime store, the barber shop, the hardware store, the bakery with the smell of bread baking and the sweet scent of icing, and the bank with the solid stone exterior. They're all still there, just under different names now, and my parents, who still live there, still call the drug store by its old name, even though it's changed owners and become a jewelry shop. In the winter the Christmas decorations line the street, and each Memorial Day there is a parade that starts at the Schaller Memorial, the veterans hall, and proceeds up Louisiana Avenue, taking a turn when it reaches the Oliver Hazard Perry Memorial ("We have met the enemy and they are ours...") and marches down West Front Street past the old Victorian homes that overlook the Maumee River.
When I was a kid the parade was made up of the veterans groups like the American Legion and the VFW, and platoons of soldiers and veterans, including, through the 1970's, the last remaining veterans of World War I. They wore their uniforms and their medals, and those that couldn't march sat in the back seat of convertibles, waving slowly to the crowds that lined the sidewalks. They were followed by the marching band from the high school, the color guard, the Cub Scouts, the Boy Scouts, the Girl Scouts, the drum and bugle corps, floats from church groups, all of the city fire equipment, antique cars, and the service groups like the Shriners, the Elks, and the Kiwanis Club. After the last float came all the kids on their bicycles decorated with streamers, bunting, flags, and all the patriotic paperwork we could muster. My friends and I would try to outdo each other, and it had less to do with patriotism than it did with seeing how many rolls of red, white, and blue crepe paper we could thread in between the spokes of our wheels.
I was about ten or so on one Memorial Day when I spent a lot of time getting my Schwinn Racer ready for the big parade. It was a perfect day; the sky was a sparkling spring blue and all the floats, cars, and fire trucks were gleaming in the sun as the parade organized on Indiana Avenue in front of the Memorial Hall. The high school band in their yellow and black uniforms marched in precision as the major led off with a Sousa tune, and as the parade slowly made its way down the avenue we could see the crowds along the sidewalks waiting and waving. As we waited our turn we wheeled our bikes in circles, just like the Shriners in their little go-karts, and finally we got the signal that it was time for the kids to roll. There was an organized rush to lead off, and then we were slowly pedaling down the street, waving to everybody outside the library, the Chevy dealership, even the people lined up on the roof of the pizza parlor. I looked for my dad shooting movies with the 8mm camera, but didn't see him. Oh, well, it didn't matter; we were supposed to meet at the home of friends who were hosting a post-parade picnic in their backyard. Their house was at the end of the parade route, so that was the perfect place to pull out of the parade and have the first of many Faygo Redpops that summer.
But for some reason I stayed with the parade, on down West Front, and then up West Boundary and past the gates of Fort Meigs Cemetery. The floats and the fire trucks were gone, but what was left of the parade -- the color guard and the veterans -- went through the gates and along the path. There was no music now, just a solemn drumbeat keeping a steady muffled tapping. The color guard turned at a small stone memorial, and then past it to a gravesite where a family was gathered; a mother in a black dress, a father in a grey suit, and a teenage son and daughter, looking somber and out of place. The grave was still fresh, the dirt mounded over, the headstone a simple marker with a flag. A minister spoke some words, and then the color guard snapped to attention. A volley of rifle fire, then Taps, and then a tall young soldier in dress blues handed a folded flag to the mother, who murmured her thanks and tried to smile.
I suddenly realized that I felt out of place there with my gaudily-patriotic bike and my red-white-and-blue striped shirt. No one noticed me, though, and when the people started to slowly move away from the gravesite and back to the entrance, I followed along until I was able to ride slowly back to our friends' house, park my bike with all the others, and find my parents, who probably hadn't even noticed that I was not there with all the other kids running around and playing on the lawn.
Crossposted.
Now Do Something about Bank Fees, Please!
**ETA: An explanatory video at the end of the post**
From BBC News:
President Barack Obama has signed into law extensive new restrictions on the ability of US credit card companies to charge fees or raise interest rates.The BBC summarizes the major changes effected by this “Credit Card Holders’ Bill of Rights” and Boston.com offers even more detail. Just a few highlights:
Creditors cannot increase the annual percentage rate (APR) during the first 12 months of opening up an account.So, good on that front.
Creditors are prohibited from opening a credit card account for any college student who does not have any verifiable annual gross income or already maintains a credit card account with that creditor, or any of its affiliates.
Creditors are prohibited from charging a fee to make telephone and web-based payments.
Creditors [must stop] charging fees for [cardholders’] spending beyond their limits, unless the cardholder chooses to allow the issuer to process the excess spending, and restrict any "over-limit" fees.
But these damned banks!
It’s bad enough that they pay debit transactions from largest to smallest to maximize the overdraft fees you pay.* An example:
Here’s how it works: Say you have $1,000 in your account and make a series of debit transactions in this order: $25, $300, $10, and $750. Only that last $750 charge will have put you over the limit of your account (in this case, by $85). However, if the bank reorders your debits as: $750, $300, $25, and $10, you’ll be overdrawn as of the second transaction, allowing the bank to collect three overdraft fees instead of one.If a charge will overdraw a customer's account, why don’t banks simply decline it or at least warn customers that they’re about to overdraw? Well, banks love collecting that average overdraft fee of $34!
From an article written by Representative Carolyn Maloney (D-NY):
In 2007 alone, banks and credit unions collected $17.5 billion from overdraft fees, according to the nonprofit Center for Responsible Lending (CRL). CRL has also found that the overwhelming majority of customers, 80 percent, would prefer that their debit card transaction simply be denied rather than covered for a fee.For a few years now, Rep. Maloney has been working on legislation that would offer customers some relief from the overdraft racket. In her words:
I have reintroduced the Consumer Overdraft Protection Fair Practices Act(H.R. 1456) in the U.S. Congress, which would require notice to customers at the ATM or point-of-sale terminal when a purchase is about to trigger an overdraft -- and would give consumers at the transaction point a choice of whether to accept or reject the overdraft service and associated fee.Debit card use is the source of almost half of overdraft fees. That is particularly costly to customers:
My bill would also require banks to get their customers' permission before signing them up for an overdraft program, and it would prohibit banks from manipulating the sequence in which checks and other debits are posted if it causes more overdrafts and maximizes fees.
Debit-card overdraft loans are more expensive than overdraft loans from any other source, including overdrafts by check. Debit-card overdrafts cost people $2.17 in fees for every dollar borrowed, compared to check overdrafts, which cost $.86 per dollar borrowed.Or, put another way:
Most debit point-of-sale overdrafts are small, averaging less than half this $34 fee, meaning that these overdraft loans cost nearly $2 for every dollar advanced to cover the shortfall.Banks claim to do customers a favor by automatically enrolling them in “overdraft protection.” Belying their generosity is the fact that many banks don’t allow customers to opt out of the involuntary overdraft protection plans—I can’t understand why they don’t get customers’ permission first, especially given the fact that most would prefer the transaction(s) be denied.
Bankers are resistant to changes like those proposed by Rep. Maloney. Says one Fred Solomon, all you have to do to avoid the charges is know your balance! Only, in the real world, if you’re out running errands or you make a number of small transactions, it’s sometimes difficult to keep a running balance at all times. Also, some of us fallible people make errors in subtraction and addition. Balances fluctuate, particularly when you use your debit card: a transaction might appear as an authorization, disappear, then reappear days later and wreak havoc on our accounts. Sometimes, companies place a hold on more funds than we actually use, lowering our available balances and potentially causing us to overdraw while the funds are on hold. And I know I can't be the only person who's written a check, noted it in my register, but weeks later, when I'm four pages further on in the register, the long-held check posts to my account and I have to adjust my balance because I'd forgotten about it.
Overdraft fees disproportionately affect the young—who use their cards more and make more small purchases—and people with low incomes—who can ill afford to pay back the exorbitant fees. On top of the fees themselves, some banks charge a daily or weekly fee if your account is in the red. With regards to low-income bank customers, bankers’ admonishments that you can easily track your balance via text message or online banking is especially hollow. Many people with low incomes don’t have contract cell phones (which typically require credit). On the pre-paid plans** (problematic, in and of themselves), text messaging costs extra.
Online banking is not always at their fingertips. We've long noted the digital divide between "the rich and the poor." Having internet access at home could mean 1) having to have a landline,*** which requires credit, the ability to pay the monthly bill, and the willingness to increase that bill by as much as $50 or $60 to include internet service and 2) being able to afford a computer and related upkeep. I was also angrily amused by this little helpful tip (found, admittedly, in an article that is wary of banks and debit cards but only because it suggests credit cards as a better alternative):
Keep a cushion of money in your account to avoid bouncing checks or debits. Decide that you are not going to let your account fall below a certain amount, like $1,000; when you see it getting close, transfer money into it from another account. If you don’t have the money to replenish it, then you should cut back on spending.A cushion? A thousand dollars? Multiple accounts with money in them? Umm…
A couple of years ago, my small-town Louisiana bank began to engage in an even more insidious practice. Let’s say you have $15 in the bank. You use your debit card for $6. That authorization reduces your available balance to $9. A $12 check posts to your account that night. You are charged a $34 fee for that, even though the debit card transaction is still only in authorization or memo-post stage. Now your account is in the red, -$37. Well, the next night, when the $6 actually posts to your account, you are charged for that, as well. Now, initially you had $15—shouldn’t one or the other of those transactions have been paid without fee, since they were both below $15? And if the reason the check caused a fee was because money was withheld from your balance for the debit card transaction—why do you have to pay a fee on the debit card transaction?
I remember reading an article about other banks doing it last summer, but I can’t find it! What I did find was this more succinct explanation in the comments here:
Some banks use a process called paid on available and a pending debit card transaction will hold the "available" balance before the transaction even posts to the account.Another description is here. In addition to the double charge the first commenter I mentioned discusses, I am also particularly troubled by the fact that this can happen with debit card purchases (not just the check example I used)--you swipe your card, go over, you're immediately assessed a fee, even if you make a deposit before the end of the banking day.
This can cause other items to overdraw the "available" balance, causing an overdraft, plus when the actual transaction goes through, it will charge an additional overdraft if still negative. Basically, a pending debit card transaction can cause 2 overdraft fees using this method.
I'm not at all saying that customers should overdraw their accounts and face no penalties. What I'm asking is, with the way the practice is (d)evolving, how is this distinguishable from predatory lending--excessive rates and fees that disproportionately affect the most vulnerable customers while banks find more and more ways to assess them? I mean, while reading, I ran across articles that mentioned that not only are customers not warned they're overdrawing their accounts and being extended credit they didn't ask for, but banks that do set a number of maximum overdrafts per day set the number high, at six or seven, so that you can rack up $200+ in charges in one day. Like payday loans, overdraft fees can dig you into a hole out of which it seems impossible to climb. You don't even opt-in or get info on the ridiculous interest rates of what amounts to an overdraft loan.
So while I am glad for the Credit Card Holders’ Bill of Rights, please, somebody, do something about these banks!
ETA: This video explains the "Gotcha Fees" and the disproportionate effect on the young:
(H/T Los Anjalis)
(Crossposted)
_____________________________________
*They do the same with checks. I remember years ago, my bank paid checks in check number order. Now, they pay them from largest to smallest.
**Pre-paid phone plans are something the rabid right has never heard of, apparently. God, am I glad I missed all this.
***Poor people are among those least likely to have a landline.
Class Act
**Trigger Warning**
Earlier this week, RNC Chairman Michael Steele said that from now on, the Republicans would challenge President Obama and the Democrats directly.
The honeymoon is over. We are going to challenge those policies that we believe are wrong, and we are going to do so without apology and without a second thought.This, then, must be an example of what he was talking about when he said "class" and "dignity."
But there is a very important distinction I want to make here.
We are going to take this president on with class. We are going to take this president on with dignity. This will be a very sharp and marked contrast to the shabby and classless way that the Democrats and the far left spoke of President Bush.
She’s the 69-year-old speaker of the House of Representatives, second in the line of succession and the most powerful woman in U.S. history.Cute. But I thought they said they were going to be direct. So why didn't they just come out and say "Nancy Pelosi is a c*nt" and leave it at that?
But when you see Nancy Pelosi, the Republican National Committee wants you to think “Pussy Galore.”
At least that’s the takeaway from a video released by the committee this week – a video that puts Pelosi side-by-side with the aforementioned villainess from the 1964 James Bond film “Goldfinger.”
The RNC video, which begins with the speaker’s head in the iconic spy-series gun sight, implies that Pelosi has used her feminine wiles to dodge the truth about whether or not she was briefed by the CIA on the use of waterboarding in 2002. While the P-word is never mentioned directly, in one section the speaker appears in a split screen alongside the Bond nemesis – and the video’s tagline is “Democrats Galore.”
Oh... it wouldn't be classy.
(To be fair, Mr. Steele said the GOP would take on the president with class and dignity. Anybody else, however, must be fair game.)
Cross-posted.
More
This, you may have noticed, is a blog about teaspoons.
It is a blog about increments of measurement so infinitesimally tiny they haven't been given names, about glitches in the Matrix so swift and subtle that they are more easily missed than noticed, about tangible particles of a thing called progress not visible to the naked eye.
It is a blog about hope—not the kind that's packaged and sold in anti-aging creams, soda pop cans, or even political campaigns—but the real thing: A hopefulness that radiates like whoa from the pores of indefatigably optimistic dreamers, who close their eyes and tilt their faces up toward the sun and imagine a future where equality and freedom are not aspirational concepts, but defining features of every human life.
It is a blog about connection, and the realization that we are all in this thing together, and the resolve to be all in, because we make a difference in this world, for good or ill, because we know there is no neutral; there is no moral ambiguity in staying silent; there is only standing up and saying no to the indignities one human visits upon another, or saying yes.
It is a blog of wildly unreasonable expectations, because unreasonable expectations are the seeds of progress.
One of the greatest American advocates for progress, a gentleman you may have heard of named Dr. King, is not remembered for giving a speech about his resignation to the status quo. He is remembered because he admonished us not to wallow in the valley of despair and exhorted us to envision big things and told us to never be satisfied with less. He said to the world, "I have a dream," and that dream was what many people might have called in its time an unreasonable expectation.
Eradicating any kind of bigotry is, by definition, an unreasonable expectation—because institutional bigotry is deeply entrenched. Prejudice is ancient. Only a fool would imagine it can be overcome.
Except, of course, that it can be. Bit by bit. Particle by particle. Teaspoon by teaspoon. Person by person. Prejudice is ancient, but it dies with its every carrier and must be taught again. And it can be unlearned. Bit by bit. Particle by particle. Teaspoon by teaspoon. Person by person.
Patience, it takes, and determined sanguinity, to create people filled with expansive love and intractable respect for one another in a culture that casts us as enemies.
And it takes unreasonable expectations, the seeds of progress.
Thus, every time someone asks me, greets my bellicose display of unreasonable expectations with, the exceedingly un-progressive question, "What do you expect?" I will answer the same as I always do: I expect more.
Of course the Republican Party is racist. What do you expect?
I expect more.
Of course lots of male bloggers are misogynists. What do you expect?
I expect more.
Of course some television show is homophobic. What do you expect?
I expect more.
Of course some feminists are transphobic. What do you expect?
I expect more.
Of course there are ablest jokes in sitcoms. What do you expect?
I expect more.
Of course there are fat-hating jokes in advertisements. What do you expect?
I expect more.
You can't expect people to mess with iconic cultural images just to give a nod to diversity. It will upset people.
The fuck I can't. I expect more.
I'm not ironically detached, I'm not apathetic, I'm not resigned, and I'm not contemptuous of bleeding hearts. I am a greedy bitch with voracious expectations, and I dream long and lustfully of a better world that is both my muse and objective. I want it like the cracked earth of the desert wants rain, and I will neither apologize for nor amend my desire because of its remove from the here and now; its distance encourages my reach.
Don't bother asking me what I expect.
You already know the answer.
Movies You Can't Netflix: Megaforce
(As I mentioned earlier, I've not one, but two (!!!), autographed stills from this film hanging in the study at Château Deeky. God bless the beasts and the Bostwicks for putting Sharpie to paper and making me an exceedingly happy spandex aficionado. This film, sadly, has not been released on DVD. Yet.)
A lot of phrases have been used to describe Megaforce, most of them variations of "shitty." The range seems to go from "pretty shitty" on one end, to "really shitty" near the middle, to "unbelievably shitty" down at the far end of the scale.
But let me tell you something: They are wrong. All wrong.
Megaforce is so blissfully self-aware, so steeped in the knowledge that it is nothing more than a silly film about motorcycles and spandex, that any attempt to take it remotely serious automatically fails. Megaforce is critical kryptonite. Try to take a swing at it, you'll see. It's like trying to punch a ghost: There is nothing to hit.
This film is fluff and it knows it. From Barry Bostwick's nudge-nudge-wink-wink performance to the ludicrous storyline, everything about this film is ridiculous. And that is its genius. It's one thing to be a crappy film; it's another thing altogether to be a crappy self-important film.
But, anyway… to the story.
Megaforce is a top-secret elite fighting force made up of volunteers from all the world's free countries. There's a guy from Japan, a guy from Mexico, a guy from Dallas named Dallas. And there's Ace Hunter, the group's leader. He's in charge since he's the only one with a rank, plus he's always dressed in gold spandex.
Hunter isn't very bright. But he's a nice guy and has a lot of confidence. That's not to say he's stupid, no. But he's a man who clearly knows his strengths, riding a motorcycle that shoots rockets chief among them.
Meanwhile…
Mercenaries from Gamibia have been breeching the border of neighboring Sardün and destroying model factories with fireworks. Sardün spent a lot of time building those little models, and the smell of burning plastic is making them nauseous. So Sardün asks Megaforce for aid to stop the attacks.
The delegation from Sardün consists of Zara, the Sardünian President's daughter, and Bryne-White, commander of the Sardünian armed forces. Now, let me mention that Zara appears to be an Indian, and Byrne-White is clearly an Englishman, and Sardün, when we finally see it, looks rather like Nevada. For a moment I thought the Zara/Bryne-White relationship was some clever commentary on Raj, then I remembered I was watching Megaforce, and quickly came to my senses. I'm not sure where Sardün is exactly, but it's pretty much indiscernible from Gamibia, which looks a whole heck of a lot like the same place Megaforce is headquartered. All look suspiciously like the Silver State. (Hooray for economic locations!)
Zara and Byrne-White tour Megaforce's headquarters, which is, of course, hidden deep inside a cave somewhere. They meet the team's scientist, see lots of high tech machinery, and get a look at Megaforce's formal wear. These outfits may actually be worse than the spandex suits. Imagine Jean-Paul Gaultier's even gayer brother designing a new outfit for Cap'n Crunch, and you'll have an idea of what I am talking about.
Sure, Ace still manages to look good in his outfit, because he's that fuckin' cool, but Dallas, well, he looks like Woody Harrelson vacationing at Neverland Ranch. Despite this, Zara is impressed enough to lobby to join Megaforce on their strike into Gamibia. Maybe she wants one of those Cap'n Crunch outfits of her own. Even though she's a decorated veteran of the Sardünian military, Ace doesn't think she has what it takes to be a member of Megaforce. Nonetheless, he agrees: If she can prove herself worthy, she can come along.
Zara's tests seem to consist of playing a primitive video game followed by skydiving to "The Love Theme From Megaforce." During the vetting Zara and Hunter fall in love, not so much because they're attracted to one another, but because that's what happens in situations like these. By "situations like these" I mean, of course, "films about motorcycles and spandex." They do seem genuinely fond of one another, despite having no real reason to be. But it's kind of cute, like when two people in an arranged marriage accidentally fall for one another.
Despite her excellent performance in the arcade and in the air, and his obvious desire for her, Ace refuses to let her go on the mission. No, she'd just be in the way, the 60 men of Megaforce are a finely tuned machine, and she'd just be a distraction. Still, Ace asks her for a date, telling Zara to meet him in London after the mission.
It is also revealed that Guerera, top mercenary and leader of the Gamibian Army, just happens to be an old pal of Hunter's. More than an old pal, really, they're more like best friends. They've known each other since their days at the Academy (What academy? Don't ask questions like that, they're not important.) Somewhere along the way, Guerera followed the money. Hunter, of course took the high road, defending freedom.
Anyway, the plan is for Megaforce to sneak into the heart of Gamibia, blow up some of their models, and then flee across the border to Sardün. Not wasting any time, Megaforce parachutes into Gamibia on their motorcycles and in their jeeps. Allow me to repeat that. Megaforce parachutes into Gamibia on their motorcycles and in their jeeps. On their fucking motorcycles, people! Suddenly, I have a new favourite movie.
Things go well. Too well, actually. The Gamibian stronghold is destroyed, left a mass of burning plastic, flaming barrels, and overturned jeeps. Megaforce disappears into the night, having taken nary a casualty. Now to the rendezvous point for re-supply, then to Sardün and safety.
But…
While refueling in the Gamibian outback (AKA Henderson, NV), a Red Cross chopper swoops into Megaforce's camp. And guess who is onboard. Guerera! He's come to offer Hunter a deal. You see, Megaforce's attack was so successful, Gamibia is considering it an act of war. Sardün has no choice but to deny them safe passage across their border. Guerera tells Hunter that if Megaforce lays down their arms, he'll offer Hunter safe passage out of Gamibia. Apparently the rest of the team is expendable, so Hunter declines the offer.
Still, there is only one way out of Gamibia. Megaforce needs to make it to the dry lake bed, meet up with their plane and fly out to safety. Unfortunately, as Guerera explains, his battalion of tanks sits on the edge of bed, prepared to annihilate Hunter and company. So, what will happen?
Hunter explains: "The good guys always win, even in the Eighties."
He's got his bike, he's got spandex, and don't forget, he's got a date in London. There's no stopping him…
Salem or Bust
Shaker Ali_K emails:
So in the last couple weeks this anti-choicer has decided to plant himself in the median of the busy road leading to my work. He's all by his lonesome and there's not even a hospital or doctor's office nearby, let alone a Planned Parenthood, so I'm not entirely sure why he picked out this particular corner. At first he was holding a sign that had some generic version of "Abortion is Murder!!!11eleventyone" but yesterday he decided to up the ante.What's an idle fella with a pitchfork to do when there's no witch-killin' mobs to populate anymore?
Now he also has a pitchfork. With baby doll parts stuck on the tines.
Originally I was wondering if it would be worth it (to me) to flip him off or scream some obscenities at him as I pass him every day but when I saw that yesterday (and again this morning) I just had to laugh. Now I want to go up to him and tell him that he's single-handedly changed my worldview, and that I don't think that would have happened if it hadn't been for the pitchfork.
Mozza: 50
Happy Birthday, Old Man.
Today is Morrissey's 50th birthday. I'm not normally in the habit of recognizing celebrity birthdays (with rare exceptions), but, as anyone who's spent more than about three seconds at Shakesville is well aware, I've wiled away more than half my life in ardent awe of Morrissey, a man whose songs I once described, quite sincerely, "as familiar, as much a part of me, as my own thoughts. I sing Smiths songs in my sleep." It was Morrissey whose song (with The Smiths) "Shakespeare's Sister" led me to A Room of One's Own, which would later have a particular relevance in my life—and possibly yours.
My life, since about age 15, has been set to a Smiths/Morrissey soundtrack. I remember seeing the video for "How Soon Is Now" on 120 Minutes, the first glimpse I ever had of my future; I remember hearing Viva Hate in its gorgeous entirety for the first time and knowing my life would never be the same. It was as if someone had pulled aside a wall of ivy to reveal a hidden path meant just for me; it was the first moment I started to feel like the grown-up I would become.
Me with Morrissey as he signs a postcard for me—and I tell him it's a pleasure to meet him, and he responds, quite genuinely and sweetly and looking me dead in the eyes, "The pleasure is mine, my love," from which I have never recovered.
People who visit Shakes Manor, if they have the misfortune of walking through the shitpit that is our garage, are greeted by a framed, autographed poster of Morrissey sitting by the door that leads into the kitchen. Sometimes they ask why it's not hanging up somewhere—and the truth is because it feels a little silly. I treasure it, but I'm not 15 anymore.
Then again, Morrissey was never David Cassidy.
It was not any other pop idol of my youth to whom I turned when nothing else could bring me solace after being raped at 16. No other singer sent me to the library, searching out Virginia Woolf and Oscar Wilde, or to the dictionary, looking up words in the lyrics that were beyond my (generally more than adequate) vocabulary. (He is, after all, reports The Scotsman today the "greatest lyricist in the history of British popular music.") There is no other artist in my collection whose CDs never get dusty, because they contain songs relevant to me at 15 and relevant to me now and every point in-between, songs I need and want to hear often, always.
Frequently, I am affectionately teased by friends about my ardor for Morrissey, about my encyclopedic knowledge of All Things Mozza, about the fact that I can listen to those same damn songs over and over and over, without ever getting tired of them. Sometimes, I'm told I am envied that there exists music that means to much to me.
I remember the day that I bought Vauxhall and I. It was a beautiful day in March, 1994; the sun was shining and the air was crisp—a perfect spring day. My then-boyfriend and I walked to the music store from our college dorm and each bought a copy, then went back to his room to listen to it. (He had the better stereo.) We laid on the floor, with the bright morning light shining in through the windows, and smoked Dunhills and let the new album wash over us. I smiled as I listened to Mozza tell me to hold onto my friends:
Resist or move on; be mad; be rash
Smoke and explode; sell all your clothes
Just bear in mind, there just might come a time
When you need some friends…
It has always seemed like good advice. I hold onto my friends, and I have long held onto the man who sang the words in the very same way I hold onto my friends. Dearly. Tightly. Loyally. With gratitude.
On Mozza's 50th birthday, it seems only right I should thank him for the rare and wonderful gift he has given me—a passion that has sustained and accompanied me throughout the last twenty years of my life. What an opportunity. What a treasure.
And the songs that saved your life
Yes, you're older now
And you're a clever swine
But they were the only ones who ever stood by you
The passing of time leaves empty lives waiting to be filled
I'm here with a cause
I'm holding a torch
In the corner of your room
Can you hear me?
And when you're dancing and laughing and finally living
Hear my voice in your head and think of me kindly...
Happy Birthday, friend. You've meant the world to me and still do.
Friday Blogaround
Happy Friday, Shakers! I've been away for the past week, but I'm back and catching up on blogs. Here is what I've been reading this morning:
Zuska: Zuska's Outreach Project for D00dly D00ds. As part of her ongoing effort to point young proto-feminist men towards good feminist books and blogs, Zuska is hosting a blogular discussion of Allan G. Johnson's The Gender Knot: Unraveling Our Patriarchal Legacy. Her readers will be discussing the book, one chapter a week, starting on Wednesday, May 27th.
Historiann: Lessons For Girls (I also came across this at Zuska's place, so H/T to her.)
Michael Ruhlman: Cookbooks That Teach
Language Log: MSM Science Bait
Christine Miserandino: Book Review: Revised and Updated - Coping with Prednisone
Marc Fitten: Marc Fitten's Indie 100
I'm going on an extensive book tour in support of my new novel, VALERIA'S LAST STAND. Only, to spice things up, I've decided that while I'm on the road, I will visit 100 independent book stores and blog about what I think makes them unique. It's a road trip, from city to city -- 100 stores, as long as it takes.(H/T Maud Newton)
Cognitive Daily: Musicians have better memory--not just for music, but words and pictures too. Dave Munger responds to the American Idol Finale as only a cognitive scientist can!
Nisha Chittal at Racialicious: The Mainstream Media Ignored Delara Darabi. New Media Didn't
Leave your links, folks!
Drug Rehab: Serbian Orthodox Church Style
[Trigger warning for violence.]
Vreme, a magazine based in Belgrade, has uncovered a rather disgusting course of treatment from a supposed rehabilitation center named Crna Reka. Part of their treatment involves outright violent beatings of patients to help cure them of their addictions:
In the video posted on Vreme's website on Friday, a young man believed to be a patient at the Crna Reka rehabilitation centre is seen being beaten repeatedly with a shovel, and then punched and kicked in the head by two men in sports gear.The one spot of good news is that Serbia's human rights monitor is planning to bring charges of torture to the center, which I'm hoping will result in its closure, followed by some serious jail time for the staff and "clergy."
The incident takes place in a room displaying Christian icons.
The priests at the facility said the beatings were a necessary part of the therapy for drug addiction and were carried out with the consent of patients' parents.
A former patient said that sometimes they would be told to form a circle around a "bad one" and watch them being beaten by the priests and other staff.
"They would hit him with clubs, shovels, fists, bars, belts, whatever they got their hands on," he told Vreme.
Oh, and BBC? The video shows a blatantly clear beating, so you can remove the quote marks from your "Outrage at Serbia 'beating' video" headline.
No Sense, No Class, No Respect
by Shaker Scott Madin
Monica at TransGriot writes about Jay Mohr, a fellow who makes his living as a comedian and actor. Mohr, as I understand it, called into a radio sports talk show hosted by Jim Rome (I don't know anything about him), and here's how it went:
[partial transcript starting about 1:45] Mohr: I'd like to talk about the basketball playoffs, I'd like to talk about "King" [LeBron] James, this guy could actually be greater than Michael Jordan. I'd like to talk about Kevin Garnett. This guy's the Michelle Obama of the Celtics: he doesn't really do anything, but damn, he looks good, doesn't he, Jim? Michelle Obama—that is a big dude. When Barack plays pick-up games at the White House, you know he picks Michelle as at least his forward, maybe his [center], depending on who's in Congress that day. That has to be like being married to Elton Brand. She is a big. dude. I like when she put her arm around the Queen of England and she put her in a headlock and told her, "I've been waiting 200 years to put my arms around you, lady!" I love that. I like how she shaved off all her eyebrows, and then drew them back way too high into an arch and then straight back down, so she always looks super surprised. She kinda—Michelle Obama kinda looks like the Count on Sesame Street, that's great. [mimicking the Count] "One, ah, ah, ah. One black President, ah, ah, ah."For bonus fun, starting around 3:30 Mohr also jokes about a football team recruiting their starting lineup by "look[ing] through a book of mugshots," followed by "Manny [Ramirez] being Manny, taking drugs that make you look like a tranny!" (a reference to the ex-Red Sox, current Dodgers player's recent positive test for performance-enhancing drugs), a second "Manny the tranny" 'joke' and some racist mockery of Ramirez's accent and intelligence.
I haven't got much to say about the content of Mohr's "jokes" here: I know I don't need to belabor for this audience why they're so objectionable. But Llencelyn shared Monica's post on Google Reader, and I thought it deserved a larger audience.
Rome's website is here, and it looks like at least one of his features is sponsored by Chevy. According to Wikipedia, he's syndicated by "Premiere Radio Networks, a subsidiary of Clear Channel Communications," and also hosts a show on ESPN. Judging from the clip, I'm guessing writing to Rome's show will not be productive, but contacting Clear Channel, ESPN, and/or advertisers (in a quick search I wasn't able to find out anything about other advertisers, but Chevy's contact page is here) might be more effective.
