Because there is a growing and increasingly vocal "pro-life" contingent in the Democratic Party (see: Congressman Bart Stupak and his BFF Senator Ben Nelson), we are hearing ever more frequently about the Triumvirate of Acceptable Abortion Exceptions: Rape, incest, and threat to the life of the pregnant woman.
(It used to be life or health, but then a bunch of straw-ladies got late-term straw-abortions after changing their silly little lady-minds about having straw-babies and made up straw-lies about "mental distress" to get them, so now wise "pro-life" proponents limit the exception only to women who risk death due to an identifiable physical complication of pregnancy, and none of this bullshit about fake things like mental health, snort, that only exist in the fevered daydreams of Oprah guests.)
So. The Exceptioneers are Very Concerned about exceptions for pregnancies as a result of rape or incest—always with the two separate and distinct categories, never connected with the more appropriate "and/or," but treated as mutually exclusive possibilities, which might give someone who didn't know better the impression that the Exceptioneers think a father impregnating his property daughter is only icky because of the potential chromosomal clusterfuck to our otherwise pristine gene pool (!)—and threat to the life of the pregnant woman. And they are very proud of their Highly Principled Concern, shouting these exceptions at anyone who listen, as evidence of their magnanimous compassion.
They must trust that no one of any consequence will ever examine their position too closely, lest it become side-splittingly evident that they are merely mendacious opportunists attempting to straddle a compromise between the pro-choice and anti-choice positions that doesn't exist, trying to pretend into being their imaginary Principled Moderate Middle Ground with rhetoric that's absolutely nothing more than a classier way of saying, "Suffer the consequences, slut."
Only if you were raped (and provably so, in one of those infallible courts of law that never favors rapists, lest you think you can claim to have been raped and just handed access to an abortion like you have autonomy over your own body or something), or became pregnant as the result of incest, or you will probably die if your pregnancy continues, should you be allowed to have access to abortion. But if you want an abortion for any other reason under the sun, well, fuck you, you should have kept your legs closed.
Leaving aside that "I don't want to be pregnant" is all the reason any woman should ever need, the Exceptioneers' position also excludes a multitude of things that are just as out of any woman's control as any of their precious exceptions: If you were raped but can't prove it, if you had a contraceptive failure, if you just lost your job, if you found out the fetus will die as soon as it's born, if you're pregnant by someone who became abusive, if you've been diagnosed with a non-life threatening illness, if your existing child has become ill, if your spouse has become ill, if your parent has become ill, if your psychiatric medication is incompatible with pregnancy, if you lost your health insurance, if…if…if any of these things, tough shit for you. Should have kept your legs closed if you weren't prepared to RAISE A CHILD IN ANY CONCEIVABLE CIRCUMSTANCE IN THE WORLD!!!
It would be genuinely hilarious that there are people who believe "Don't ever have sex unless you will be absolutely prepared to parent in whatever circumstances you find yourself nine months from now" is a reasonable position, if those people didn't have so much control over reproductive and health policy.
What's rage-inducing about the Exceptioneers is that they obviously haven't given any thought at all to the inconsistency of their position (or spoken seriously to anyone who might inform their opinions with some "facts") if they're willing to concede that being forced to carry to term a pregnancy created by rape can totally fuck you up, but don't understand how being forced to carry to term a pregnancy that you didn't plan and don't want can totally fuck you up, too.
How ridiculously incapable of self-reflection can one be that one is able to acknowledge that rape (forcing a woman to do something with her body she doesn't want to do) is a Terrible Thing, but the denial of abortion (forcing a woman to do something with her body she doesn't want to do) is a Moral Imperative?
I'm really hard-pressed to see why I should be any less contemptuous of a man who sits at a big mahogany desk in Washington making decisions about my body without my consent than I should be of a man who used physical force to make decisions about my body without my consent.
Undoubtedly the Exceptioneers would be outraged and horrified to be compared, even obliquely, to sexual predators.
As well they should be. I am horrified to have to make it. But anyone who holds the position that zie should be able to legislate away my bodily autonomy and supersede my consent about what happens to my body shouldn't be too goddamned surprised by the comparison.
Still. Nothing would please me more than to never again have to worry about someone else having control over what goes into or comes out of my vagina, to never again have to worry about someone who views forcing me into doing something with my body that I don't want to do as an acceptable consequence, as the "just desserts," for behaving in a way they deem irresponsible, or unattractive, or inappropriate for a woman to behave.
The ball's in your court, Exceptioneers.
On Abortion Exceptions: "Rape, Incest, Threat to Life"
Monday Blogaround
This blogaround brought to you by Shaxco, publishers of Liss' Guerrilla Bookstore Reorganization for Dummies, which is filed under "cookbooks."
Recommended Reading:
Echidne: Benignly Neglected?
Andy: More Cases of Papal Negligence Emerge in Sexual Abuse Scandal
Tristero: Priest Accused of U.S. Abuse Still Working in India
Bree: The Growing Trend of Celebrity Weight Loss Program Endorsements
Susie: Life on the Edge
Bethany: Hitchcock Spot
Leave your links in comments...
Today's Edition of "Conniving and Sinister"
See Deeky's archive of all previous Conniving & Sinister strips here.
[In which Liss reimagines the long-running comic "Frank & Ernest," about two old straight white guys "telling it like it is," as a fat feminist white woman and a biracial queerbait telling it like it actually is from their perspectives. Hilarity ensues.]
Adventures at Barnes & Noble
This weekend, Iain and I were at Barnes & Noble, where I picked up a copy of Upton Sinclair's The Jungle, because I can't find my copy (I probably lost it to the same place I lose most of my lost books—lending it to someone), and I haven't read it in a long time and Iain's never read it. It's now more than a century old, and the continued exploitation of workers makes it still-relevant. Depressing.
Anyway, as we were browsing, Iain sort of made a chuckle-gasp noise and then hissed at me, "Lisssssss! Look at this fooking fing!"
He held up the book and made an eesh! face, pointing at the cover art. History's Worst Decisions, featuring the image of a snake coiled around an apple with a bite taken out of it.
Was the worst decision depicted the acquisition of knowledge, or the Creation of Woman, I wondered…? Probably both, amirite, fellas?! HIGH FIVES!
Later, I decided to do some guerilla bookstore reorganization, and carried all three copies of Glenn Beck's Arguing with Idiots into the Humor section—which, not by coincidence, methinks, is directly across from the "Current Affairs" section, which is positively littered with trash from Beck, Sean Hannity, Michelle Malkin, Ann Coulter, et al.
Liss lift us up where we belong / Where the eagles fly / On a bookshelf high…
I had a momentary pang of guilt about the 10 seconds of extra work I had created for a B&N employee, but then I remembered that I've returned to their rightful place countless misplaced books left on random shelves by lazy shoppers in that store over the years. It ought to be enough karma to ensure that any progressive who discovers that shit will find it hilarious, and any conservative who gets pissed deserves the aggravation.
On Inclusion at Shakesville
Not infrequently, the issue of inclusion/authorship at Shakesville comes up in threads here, or at other blogs, or arrives in my inbox. Typically, criticisms center on my not writing enough on a particular demographic of which I'm not a part or an issue that doesn't directly affect me, or not writing about them/their issue in the right way, or leaving too much of this or that to guest contributors, or not featuring enough guest contributors of a particular marginalized group.
So let me just take a moment to explain again my philosophy on this stuff.
As I once said to Renee regarding what issues still need more attention, "the list is endless. There are so many issues of concern to marginalized people which are all but invisible within mainstream culture—so much 'conventional wisdom' about sex, race, sexuality, gender expression, body size and stature, disability, mental illness, addiction, class, religion (and lack thereof), sexual assault, etc. that needs to be challenged. Any lack of parity in any place among any people means that we've still got work to do."
The truth is, I'm not sure I can talk about anything "enough"—which is not a backhanded way of avoiding all critique, but an honest attempt to address a reality that is true for every single marginalization about which I write. There is a lot of goddamned teaspooning to do.
Saying that doesn't mean I believe I'm above criticism on either the quantity or quality of my blogging on any issue. It means only that I engage in good faith concerns about content at Shakesville, or the lack thereof; if you bring to me a complaint regarding this or that getting less attention than it needs, I likely agree and hope you will work with me to do something about it.
Which brings me to guest posts.
Let me go back to something else I said in that interview with Renee:
I don't find that I have difficulty balancing interests; there's not a finite amount of space at Shakesville, so I don't feel as though anything ever has to be sacrificed in favor of something else, except insomuch as it comes to what I personally have time to cover—although, as regards issues of intersectionality, I'm obviously not the best person to cover every issue, or even most, anyway. I struggle more with trying to find people who are willing to bring their unique perspectives to Shakesville, who can speak to experiences and intersectionalities I simply don't have.
The two relevant ideas there are: I am not always the best person to speak about everything; and: Personal narratives are an extremely powerful bit of teaspooning.
I am immensely grateful to the women and men of color, LGBTQIs, parents, women and men who are differently- or disabled, chronically ill, atypically partnered, non-American, recovering addicts, formerly homeless, abuse survivors, etc. who tell pieces of their stories and share their perspectives at Shakesville. Because marginalized people's stories often aren't told in the mainstream (or told with some fucked-up agenda), it's incumbent upon us to tell our own stories on our own terms wherever we can, to fill that void, to be unrepentant and loquacious raconteurs every chance we get, to talk about our bodies, our struggles, our triumphs, our needs, our lives in every aspect. It's our obligation to create a cacophony with our personal narratives, until there is a constant din that translates into equality, into balance. Making the personal public and political is so important—and I want to use Shakesville toward that objective as best I can.
Part of the reason I can write with a particular passion about feminist issues is because I am a woman, and fat issues because I am fat, and queer issues because I have been in a queer relationship, and sexual assault issues because I am a survivor of multiple sexual assaults. One of the earliest widely-linked posts at Shakesville was my post The Sound of My Voice, in which I came out as a survivor of sexual assault. And one of last year's most widely-linked posts at Shakesville was Shaker Anonymous' post Breaking the Silence: On Living Pro-Lifers' Choice for Women. Both of those are personal narratives that no one else could have written—and it is impossible to underestimate the difference between someone writing a generic post about rape or adoption and someone talking about her rape or giving up her child for adoption.
I cannot write a post like that about chronic disease, or any disability but my own, or being trans, or being gay, or being a woman of color, or being a man who feels the bootheel of the patriarchy on his neck, or being a dwarf, or any one of a million things, which means if I don't open up this space to people who can, those posts won't exist at Shakesville.
I opened this space and made it a group blog with guest contributors because I am one person with one person's experiences and intersectionalities. I opened it up because I am flawed; I fuck up; I fail; I commit sins of omission; I can't and don't do enough on a variety of issues. I opened it up because I will never be as strong an advocate for your needs as you are—and no one else can tell your story.
I also don't have time to make myself familiar—to the degree of confidence and expertise that I require before I write about something, so I can answer questions that readers will inevitably have on any new subject I introduce—with every issue that someone wants me to cover. I get hundreds of emails every day, and many of them are from people admonishing me to familiarize myself with their issue and get to work on their behalf.
I'm not asking anyone to feel sorry for me; that's just the reality of running this blog. Lots of people want a piece of my time, and telling me to learn about something doesn't actually create more of it, which is what I need to be able to cover a new (to me) issue.
Issues about which I can write with clarity and confidence are frequently issues in which I've been immersed for years. When I write a post about a particular issue, and someone comments on my ability to perfectly put into words what they've always felt but have never been able to articulate, that's not magic. If innate talent plays any role at all, it's a vanishingly small part compared to the decidedly unsexy role of daily practice and hard work.
When I write about a subject I know inside and out, it shows. And when I write about a subject I don't know inside and out, that shows, too. I don't like writing about things I don't know a hell of a lot about—because I am more likely to get something wrong, inadvertently offend the people most intimately affected, end up being counterproductive to the cause, be generally unhelpful and make a hash of it.
I have no interest in pretending I know everything about everything, which is why I invite people to write in this space with me.
That's not an abdication of responsibility as a feminist or as a progressive. It's just the best I've got to balance my finite output against infinite needs, to facilitate inclusion, to avoid appropriation, and to make available whatever little platform I've got to my allies.
So, please: If you don't see here what you'd like to see, pick up your teaspoon.
[Originally posted in similar form on March 24, 2009.]
Umm...
The link to this Flickr gallery filled with photos of signs at tea party rallies has been floating around the internets for about a week. It's pretty much stuff like this:
I'm far from perfect when it comes to spelling and grammar, so I'm not all that comfortable with sneering at these as examples of stupidity in the tea party movement. (Although I really am boggled by the, as Digby mentions, arrogance displayed in the "Speak English!" signs.) If anything, I think these signs are a fascinating look at how scattered the tea party "goals" are, (Wait, is this about taxes? Or immigration? Or the zomg birth certificate? I don't even know what this is supposed to mean.) and how much racism and sexism lurks beneath the surface.
Anyway.
The creator of this gallery has coined the term "Teabonics" as shorthand for "badly written teabagger signs," and that term is being spread all over the progressive blogosphere.
Seriously? Teabonics? I'm not the only person out there flabbergasted by this fauxgressive bullshit, am I?
"Ticked Off" Protest Tomorrow in NYC
by C.L. Minou, who blogs about trans and feminist issues for such esteemed locales as The Second Awakening, Below the Belt, and Tiger Beatdown, when she is not destroying the fabric of America by spending a weekend at a hotel in New England.
So there's a protest being organized for tomorrow in New York against the Tribeca Film Festival's decision to give "Ticked Off Epithet-That-I'm-Not-Going-To-Repeat With Knives" it's world premiere. I plan to be there, and I hope New York area Shakers can make their way down (bring a candle in memory of Angie Zapata).
Now, over here we've talked about the million and one reasons that this entire project—but most especially, the trailer—its fan-failing-tastic, but I thought I'd review some of the more pernicious defenses of the film that have been floating around the 'Nets of late. Just in case you need to defend against the concerned. (I won't touch upon the normal silencing tactics, like the appeal to the Law of Conservation of Protest or the Razor of Lighten Up, It's a Joke.)
It's a revenge fantasy, and that's good, right? I'm not going to touch on the morality of revenge fantasies (mostly because I've been guilty in that regard myself), but it's important to note two things: First the absolutely despicable use of the real life tragedies of Angie Zapata Jorge Mercado. We've all talked about that. But the trouble doesn't stop there: as Gina notes, director Israel Luna made the film because, essentially, gay revenge fantasies are played out and trans folk are the next in thing:
I didn't want to write about a male gay bashing victim. That's a story we've seen all too often, and I wanted to do something more modern and I thought "Whose story do you never see on the news these days?" It's not gay men—it's transgenders.It seems the word most strongly associated with this film shouldn't be revenge—it's appropriation.
But he says it's part of the culture he knows! And his trans friends use say um, you know, all the time! All that may be true. I myself have known a few trans subcultures that superficially resemble Mr. Luna's mise-en-scene. I'm not even incredibly freaked out about the obvious dragginess of all the trans characters, because there are definitely trans drag queens.
But. This film deliberately invokes trans experience. The trailer mentions a murdered young woman who lived a life nothing like that of the characters in this story. And the truth is, many trans folk don't live a life anything like the life depicted in this film. (Most trans women of my acquaintance wouldn't have a name like Emma Grashen even to do sex work.) The film deliberately conflates trans and drag experience in order to provide the most exploitative titillation possible to the audience—to keep you always aware that these are "really" men, not women.
Well, it's a transploitation film. It's, like, a homage to the blaxploitation films! Only with tra—okay, okay, that word. And here is where we move into the really offensive territory. Folks, the "ploitation" in blaxploitation is there for a reason. Most of the films of that genre were made by white directors, producers, and writers, and furthered a whole host of lazy stereotypes under the thin cover of finally giving African-American actors leading roles. So to use the idea that this is a throwback to a fun genre is to be stupendously clueless.
But wait. It's even worse. Most of the first films of the "blaxploitation" genre were actually made by black people. Movies like Sweet Sweetback's Baadasssss Song (directed by Melvin Van Peebles), the original Shaft (directed by acclaimed photographer Gordon Parks), and Cotton Comes to Harlem (directed by Ossie Davis) not only were all directed by black people, but were also very different from the cheaply exploitative films that followed in their wake, once they proved that there was an audience eager to watch actors who looked like them on the big screen. Take, for example, Shaft: Beneath its sensationalistic (if often beautifully shot) exterior, there are messages of racial solidarity, standing up to a prejudiced power structure, and perhaps most importantly, an African-American man as a private investigator, post-war cinema's favorite male heroic myth. (And notably, his office isn't uptown in Harlem, it's downtown on Times Square, the metaphorical heart of New York City.)
For Luna's defenders to hide behind the idea that they are making a harmless, campy trans version of "blaxploitation" movies is to ignore the proud origin and subsequent ugly history of the genre. It's not even the contextless cluelessness of, say Tarantino, who at least obviously loves both the films and the people who made them. It's to shortcut the whole idea that stories about a marginalized community should originate in that community.
That's not even hipster irony. That's just being a douchebag.
But trans women are in this movie! Yeah, and Rock Hudson was in a bunch of movies that implied heterosexual marriage was the only path to happiness, and even Nathan Lane played straight for a bunch of years. Given the incredible scarcity of roles for trans actors—I mean, I love Felicity Huffman and all, but the movie had the word trans in the title and the main role was still played by a cis actor?—I'm not surprised that trans people worked on this movie. And more power to them. I'm not in the habit of criticizing the ways that people try to come to terms with their oppression.
But trans people didn't write the film. They didn't produce the film. They didn't direct the film. They didn't edit it afterwards. And they for fuck sure didn't make the trailer. All those have a hell of a lot more influence on the final result than their performance.
And about that word—surely it's okay to use it if you're being... Seriously, don't. And Israel Luna should know better—as somebody who works for the Dallas Voice, he should remember (or they should remind him) about the furor they stirred up last year when they declared that RuPaul had made it okay to use the word tra**y and us poor trans folk should not get our panties in a twist. Or maybe he does remember, because he's enacting the exact same appropriative, inappropriate BS where in people in the gay community get to tell people in the trans community how we should refer to ourselves, present ourselves, and—hi, Christian Soriano!—allow ourselves to be slang expressions for all that is ugly, dowdy, and in poor taste about women.
Well you know what? We're not going to listen. This time we're going to make ourselves heard. Because we're tired of our dead being marginalized, overlooked, and even used as advertising material for a cheap gimmick of a film.
Spring Has Sprung
It is officially spring now that Dougie has sniffed a bluebonnet. I think this might be the cutest thing that has ever happened. Ever.
Dougie the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel in a field of Texas wildflowers. Photo by TheLadyEve.
Happy spring, unless it isn't where you are, in which case I wish you the very best weather for your current season!
Happy Birthday, Space Cowboy!!!
Happy Birthday to youuuuuuuuuuuuuu!!!
Happy Birthday to youuuuuuuuuuuuuu!!!
Happy Birthday to the spaciest space cowboy
in all of Spacecowooooooooooviaaaaaaaaaa!!!
Happy Birthday to youuuuuuuuuuuuuu!!!
And many moooooooooore...
On Autism Awareness Month…
Hi all y'all!
Let's jump right on in, shall we?
My older brother is autistic.
His name is Bill.
He’s aphasic, so he doesn’t speak in sentences or all that often…and he’s a charmer, loves to eat sometimes foods all the time and is a master of the barbeque grill (with supervision…lots and lots of supervision).
Growing up with autism in my world has taught me a lot about communication…about the power of sound, the meaning behind high pitched wails or low rumbling laughter.
Autism has taught me the precious value of a hug or a kiss…of eye contact or a quick glance…of a tickle and the giggles it inspires.
I have lived my entire life with autism.
For me and mine, autism is…it just is. Sometimes it’s a pain in the ass and sometimes it is the most amazing thing, but autism is a constant thing not limited to months or years or days when walks take place.
Autism Awareness Month often brings with it a lot of stories about autistic children. I understand why, because so much rides on early diagnosis and therapies and education. But my brother is 39 years old…he’ll be 40 this July (Lawd, have mercy!)…and not enough attention is given to autism after a child with autism becomes an adult with autism.
So, be aware…that my brother’s life isn’t wretched or sad. My sister and I work very hard to make sure that it isn’t.
Bill is not a cure that didn’t happen or a diagnosis…he’s a human being, who gets up every day and goes about his bitness.
Some days are good.
Some days are not so good.
I could say the same about my life.
Be aware…that autistic children will become autistic adults. A body doesn’t grow out of autism. That is not an argument against advocacy for autistic children…but rather a challenge to advocates to extend our work beyond programs for children.
Be aware…that there is a strain on loved ones and that not all of us are parents. I am my brother’s co-guardian and, as such, I often find myself wading through the world of programs and funding…of Medicaid and the Department of Mental Health…of wants versus needs. My sister and I balance our role as sisters with our role as guardians…and we are not the only ones doing it. Families need to plan for a life, not just a childhood…they need support and education on how the system works once a child becomes an adult.
Be aware…that our lives are a different kind of normal.
I grew up knowing that eventually my sister and I would have to take on a guardianship of some sort. I confess that I used to fret about it…I watched my mother become consumed by advocacy and the search for a cure and I worried that I’d never be able to be a sister for all the demands of being my brother’s advocate.
But be aware that my different kind of normal is a life full of happiness and bitchitude and laughter and tears. We have challenges and set backs and achievements and victories.
More often than not, we share a meal…catch up on what’s new…and communicate with each other in a way I never dreamed was possible until it simply was.
Not a life of regrets and guilt, but a life where sometimes my brother gets on my last nerve…and that’s okay, because all brothers can work a nerve.
Sometimes I worry about my brother’s future and happiness…and that’s okay, because people who love each other want the best for each other and sometimes fret over shit like that.
April is Autism Awareness Month…a month out of a year in the lives of millions.
Be aware.
Organize.
Share.
Love.
Act.
Live.
This I write for my brother Bill, lover of sometimes foods all the time, who I love beyond measure even when he works my last nerve.
Crossposted from AngryBlackBitch.com!
Open Thread
Hosted by Sriracha hot sauce.
This week's open threads have been brought to you by condiments.
Condiments: Hiding and/or enhancing the taste of your food since 1486.
Dateline: Poopsburg
Last night, Iain and I were having a conversation about 19th century literature (whatever, we're nerds!), which inevitably came around to Charles Dickens, and as we debated the merits of his work (Position Iain: He tends to go on a bit; Position Liss: Much of his work was written as serials for the newspaper, so he's better read a chapter a night before bed than in multiple-hour sessions; Position Iain: Good point!), I noted that one of the things I loved most about Dickens is his playfulness with language.
I have not read Knud Sørensen's Charles Dickens: Linguistic Innovator, but I have always meant to get my hands on a copy of it. Sørensen identified more than a thousand (!) neologisms coined by Dickens.
And Dickens was a master of the eponym. Next time you call someone stingy a scrooge or someone sanctimonious a pecksniff, tip your hat to Mr. Dickens. In fact, next time you chuckle at "Benjamin H. Grumbles" or "Butch Pornstache," consider the source of that humor lies in Dickensian eponyms. (Dickensian eponym—how meta!)
All of which is a very long way of saying I love Dickens because he invented words. When I was a wee thing, writing "books" on scrap paper and stapling them together and selling them to my grandparents for 10¢ apiece, if I couldn't think of a word I liked, I made one up.
(Sometimes I would later learn that I hadn't made up a word, but had merely just used an existent word that was then beyond my child's vocabulary. I was very proud of "grumping" until I discovered it in my dictionary.)
I recall being teased about using a "made-up word" in middle school, and of later learning that Dickens and Shakespeare were linguistic rebels, and of slowly coming to understand that new language and ideas about social justice—especially conveyed via humor or satire—were inextricably linked. I wasn't weird; I was part of a tradition!
When Space Cowboy asked as a Question of the Day what sniglets we've coined, I noted: "Basically, half my vocabulary is comprised of sniglets. Which is only right, given that I'm Shakespeare's Sister, and Shakespeare was the original snigleteer." The Shaxicon (more meta!) is thus full of my silly neologisms (wev, testerical, clusterfucktastrophe, fatsronauts, misogysaur, misogybag, homomentum, fauxgressive, douchehound, Apatowcalypse...), and will no doubt continue to be routinely restocked with all manner of absurd (and occasionally meaningful) eponyms, portmanteaus, and neologisms of various stripes.
Which means it was really only a matter of time before "Poopsburg" ended up in the New York Times.
What a great day for America!
The Virtual Pub Is Open
[Explanations: lol your fat. pathetic anger bread. hey your gay.]
TFIF, Shakers!
Belly up to the bar,
and name your poison!
Do You Know This Man?
"Authorities are asking for the public's help in identifying a mentally disabled man who was dumped on downtown Los Angeles' Skid Row months ago and doesn't even know his full name. ...[He] has 'Jason' tattooed on his arm. He does not remember his birthday and has no idea where his family might be. When police ran his fingerprints, the name Jason Missel popped up. But, that name doesn't exist under Social Security computer systems. ... Jason says he lived in Las Vegas before he was dropped off in Los Angeles. He's pleading for his family to claim him."
[H/T to Shaker Marste.]
