A classic Zamfir commercial. Enjoy!
More on Abby Sunderland
If you've been following the Abby Sunderland story, you may have heard reports that there will be an upcoming reality show (something that's in doubt, BTW), and that Ms. Sunderland has contemplated writing a book. Also, there are people (also WTF, this is soooo not like “Lost”) who don't like any of this.
1) Even if this whole solo voyage around the world thing was a publicity stunt, it doesn't take away from the incredible courage and skill of Abby Sunderland.
2) You have got to be kidding me if you actually think this was a publicity stunt.
When somebody says that something is their dream, I tend to believe them. As a parent, I can't imagine not being terrified at the prospect of my child being out of arms' reach in a dangerous situation for months at a time (my daughter's two, but I strongly suspect I'll feel similarly in the future). I know that Ms. Sunderland is both young, and a woman, but the insuation that Abby Sunderland's parents threw her into the face of danger in order to make a buck offends me on many levels, not the least of which is the way such accusations erase Ms. Sunderland's accomplishments.
I remember being aboard my grandparents' tiny houseboat when I was a young girl. And also, I remember puking into Tampa Bay (or maybe just hiding below deck planning to do so... I dunno, it was a long day). Perhaps some folks are underestimating the difficulty involved in sailing around the world by one's self. Plus, Abby Sunderland, despite her age, showed signs of being at least as prepared as other adventurers over the years. Ponies, Mr. Shackleton?
Attacking celebrities would appear to be one of the main uses of the internet these days. I don't care that some folks are wary of more reality TV (OMG, me too). This brave young woman was just rescued and has not yet been reunited with her family and friends. Could we please give it a rest? Thanks.
In Abby Sunderland's own words:“Within a few minutes of being on board the fishing boat, I was already getting calls from the press. I don't know how they got the number but it seems everybody is eager to pounce on my story now that something bad has happened.
There are plenty of things people can think of to blame for my situation; my age, the time of year and many more. The truth is, I was in a storm and you don't sail through the Indian Ocean without getting in at least one storm. It wasn't the time of year it was just a Southern Ocean storm. Storms are part of the deal when you set out to sail around the world.
As for age, since when does age create gigantic waves and storms?”
What she said.
On True Blood
[Trigger warning for discussions and imagery of sexual violence.]
I know there are a lot of readers here who enjoy True Blood. Please note, as you read this post, I am discussing my reaction to the show, and I am not implicitly making any commentary on your reaction, your taste, your aesthetic, your principles, or anything about you at all.
I originally tuned into True Blood expecting to like it. I like Alan Ball, and I love Anna Paquin. And I frequently like vampire stuff.
The first episode left me squirming. But I gave it a few more chances, watched a few more episodes. And then I turned it off. And I have never returned.
One of my problems with the show is that it was originally presented (though I'm told the second season is less heavy-handed) as an allegorical tale about prejudice, with a strong emphasis on gay rights. Which was problematic for a few reasons, not least of which was that the tension of the show was largely drawn from the conflict between the "good" (assimilating) vampires and the "bad" (self-ostracizing) vampires, the latter of whom are predatory, thus tacitly reinforcing the gay predator trope.
And then there was the issue of exploiting women's bodies (the first few episodes were all about the boobies!), rendering the show ostensibly an allegory about one kind of prejudice (homophobia) that relies heavily on another (misogyny)—a rather remarkably self-defeating endeavor, in my estimation, as homophobia is so inextricably enmeshed with misogyny that any show purporting to be gay-positive while simultaneously engaging in misogyny cannot actually be gay-positive at all.
But my biggest problem with the show is that I ultimately found it to be rape porn thinly veiled behind the gossamer veneer of a vampire story.
True Blood is, of course, hardly the first vehicle to use vampirism as a metaphor for sex and/or rape. And I've been told, with varying degrees of eye-rolling exasperation, that I am meant to understand that True Blood is satire, the implication (as ever) being that I am too daft, humorless, unsophisticated, uncool to appreciate the satirical genius of using nonconsensual puncture by fang as a metaphor for nonconsensual penetration of orifice in order to make an ironic commentary on intolerance.
It's a point that might hold more sway with me if I hadn't also viewed a scene of a non-vampire man (Sookie's brother, IIRC) try to rape his own girlfriend and then getting pissed because she was enjoying being raped having not realized it was he doing the raping. I'll admit quite readily I have no idea what that scene was meant to satirize, ahem.
(I haven't watched enough of the show to comment on the problematic racial aspects of the show, but I direct you to Renee of Womanist Musings and Tami of What Tami Said, who both discuss those issues, among others. They are both fans, but fans with a critical eye. They're also going to start co-hosting a podcast about the show.)
Since I turned off True Blood in the first season, I've caught a scene or two when I've flipped on the telly after the channel was left on HBO when it was last turned off. Suffice it say, when I've given it a few minutes to try to dissuade me of my original opinion, I have only regretted lingering. The sexual imagery is plentiful, and although some of it is rather splendid, there are enough scenes featuring a blurriness around (or overt disregard for) consent, combined with violence, that I am as likely (or more likely) to be triggered than turned on by the sexual imagery in True Blood.
So, okay, I don't watch it. I know how to change a channel.
But as True Blood returns for its third season, marketing for the popular show seems to be everywhere, and some of the imagery is graphically violent. I was rather shocked to see Entertainment Weekly's cover featuring Anna Paquin, two bloody holes in her throat, flanked by Stephen Moyer and Alexander Skarsgard, two of the men who play vampires, bearing their fangs, Moyer's responsibility betrayed by the blood smeared across his face.
What I'm struggling with is the fact that this representation violence somehow "doesn't count," because it's about vampires.
The metaphorical rape scenes don't count because it's about vampires. The actual rape scenes don't count because it's about vampires. The sexually-charged violence doesn't count because it's about vampires.
Kind of like how the endorsement of an unrealistically puritanical abstinence, abusive love triangles, stalking, retrofuck chivalry, female self-sacrifice for love, ,and other disturbingly anti-feminist messages served up to young girls don't matter when the story is about vampires.
If I were a more cynical person (the author raises her eyebrow and purses her lips), I would suggest that the great thing about the current vampire trend is how you can get away with all sorts of inappropriate content you couldn't otherwise, any criticism of which can be summarily dismissed with: "It's about vampires. Vampires aren't even real. What are you—stupid or something? Christ, what a hysteric."
I've heard that about me.
Compare and Contrast - Part 1
I read several articles at the NY Times site Monday which resonated together in my mind for a couple of reasons. I explore those connections in this post and two to follow.
This article in last Friday's Times describes, "A new period of life (which) is emerging in which young people are no longer adolescents but not yet adults”. That would be here in the U.S., where more middle-class twenty-somethings are continuing their education, putting off marriage and child-rearing (if they intend to do either), and being supported, at least in part, by their parents while doing so.
There's another article in Sunday's Times about the path from childhood to adult responsibilities. This route is considerably shorter. It is, however, also being sponsored in part by the same USian baby boomers who are helping to support their own progeny's extended, and very different, journey. Children as young as nine have been enlisted in the military forces of Somalia's Transitional Federal Government, a government which the United States has chosen to support as part of its — oh, we're not calling it a War on Terror, anymore, are we? That was so unsophisticated, so Bush league.
Nevertheless, the Obama administration, not limiting itself to pursuing terrorists through Intelligence and Criminal Justice channels, continues to vigorously pursue the policing of the world, deciding who should govern various nations, as part of its counter-terrorism strategy. Somalia, which has been in a state of chaos and armed struggle since the dictatorship of Mohamed Siad Barre was overthrown in 1991, is considered by the U.S. government a potential breeding ground for terrorists.
Naturally, then, it falls to us to keep these terrorists from being bred, which we evidently intend to accomplish by propping up a weak government which actually governs very little, and providing military support, including some training and payment of Somali government soldiers. This is a strategy we've pursued here, there, and pretty much everywhere we see an opening.
Alwil is one of those soldiers. His U.S. subsidized salary is $1.50 a day some days; other days — nothing. Alwil is about 12 years old; neither he nor anyone else is sure. "He should be in school," says his commanding officer. "But there is no school." Says Alwil, asked what he enjoys, "I enjoy the gun."
But then, it's all Alwil has known since he was seven, when he joined a militia to survive, having been abandoned when his family fled the country. So it seems that the way you avoid breeding terrorists is to enter, with your great wealth, an ungoverned, violence-riven society where children are learning nothing but how to fight, and make sure they do their fighting on your (meager and somewhat unreliable) payroll. Strategery — we're still doin' it.
Article 3 of the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child begins:1. In all actions concerning children, whether undertaken by public or private social welfare institutions, courts of law, administrative authorities or legislative bodies, the best interests of the child shall be a primary consideration.
It would be difficult to argue that this statement is being adhered to by either the U.S. or Somalia, with regard to these child soldiers.
Conveniently, the only two countries which have failed to ratify that Convention are the United States and Somalia. Said then-presidential-candidate Barack Obama of that fact:It is embarrassing to find ourselves in the company of Somalia, a lawless land.
But it seems the demands of running the U.S. and, it apparently follows as does the night the day, as much of the rest of the world as we believe we're entitled to, require us to do more than keep company with Somalia. Now we have their children on our military payroll, by proxy. This is presumably a bit more embarrassing.
It isn't as though the U.S. government approves of the use of child soldiers. On Oct. 3, 2008 then-President Bush signed into law the Child Soldiers Accountability Act. This law imposes a fine and/or prison term "for knowingly recruiting, enlisting, or conscripting a person under 15 years of age into an armed force or group . . . or attempting or conspiring to do so, knowing such person is under 15 years of age" and promulgates various rules covering prosecution of both U.S. nationals and aliens who violate the act. The legislation was authored by Sen. Dick Durbin (D-IL) and acquired 7 bipartisan co-sponsors in the Senate, including Sen. Durbin's then-fellow Illinois Senator, Barack Obama.
But Presidentin' is hard; priorities must be set. U.S. officials are "concerned" about the use of child soldiers, according to the Times article. They say they are trying to get the Somali government to be more careful about the age of their recruits. There are many factions fighting for control of Somalia, and the Transitional Federal Government is desperate for soldiers. Said a Somali official, "We were trying to find anyone who could carry a gun.”
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 (Liss) and a biracial queerbait (Deeky) telling it like it actually is from their perspectives. Hilarity ensues.]
Oh. Oh my. Oh my.
[Trigger warning.]
Guess what? Glenn Beck has a new book out, in a self-created genre he describes as "faction," or "fiction based on fact." I like to call it "wiggle room."
More guess what: It's worse than you think. We're talking Battlefield Earth bad.
The book (Which Beck "wrote" with a team of three writers; yes, like Hollywood's best, more writers can only mean better writing!) is more or less a ridiculously transparent ploy to vacuum even more money out of the wallets of the Tea Party:First, a quick summation of the plot, such as it is. The protagonist, Noah Gardner, works for an impossibly powerful public relations firm in Manhattan that has been the driving force behind pretty much every political and cultural movement of the 20th century. Their latest and grandest scheme is the culmination of a lengthy plot to change the United States into some sort of ill-defined progressive plutocracy, and the catalyst for this change is a nuclear explosion that will occur outside the home-state office of "the current U.S. Senate majority leader," which happens to be at the same address as Harry Reid's Las Vegas offices. The nuclear attack is to be blamed on the Founders Keepers, a Tea Party-like group -- led by Noah's love interest, Molly Ross -- that is working to foil the plot.
Expect lots of blar-de-har trashing of this "book" (Hey, just like this post!) all over the progressive blogosphere, and tons of money being dumped into Beck's coffers. Same as it ever was.
I just have one question. Seriously, where do wingnut writers come up with their names? Noah Gardner? Really? Molly Ross? Beck and his team are giving Jerry Jenkins and Tim LaHaye a run for their money.
Even more guess what: Women get the amount of depth and respect that you'd expect.Noah and Molly find themselves in bed together early in the book after a harrowing experience at a Founders' Keepers rally. They agree to sleep in bed together because Molly is too scared to sleep at home, but Molly insists that nothing sexual will take place. Noah agrees, on the condition that she "not do anything sexy." She presses her cold feet against his legs, and Noah responds:
Yeah."Suit yourself, lady. I'm telling you right now, you made the rules, but you're playing with fire here. I've got some rules, too, and rule number one is, don't tease the panther."
Jesus has left the stadium
I'm sure you all recall Touchdown Jesus:
I used to drive by this all the time when I lived in Cincinnati. I remember when it was built. I was always amused by the fact that right across the highway is the Hustler Hollywood store.
Touchdown Jesus, however, has left the stadium. His game is over:
MONROE, Ohio - The famous King of Kings statue at the Solid Rock Church in Monroe has been destroyed by a fire.You can view video of the fire here. According to the article, the church says Jesus will be resurrected, er, rebuilt. It cost them $250,000 last time. They also said they didn't build it the first time to impress but to give hope to people because Christ, was, you know a booster. Maybe this time they'll build it to...pop:
The 62-foot tall statue of Jesus constructed out of styrofoam, wood and fiberglass resin caught on fire after the right hand of the statue was struck by lightning during the severe thunderstorms around 11:15 p.m. Monday evening.
The only thing left of the 16,000 pound statue is the metal frame.
Monroe Fire Chief Mark Neu said the statue was fully involved in fire when crews arrived.
Crews were able to use water from the pond in front of the statue, however, the fire burned very quickly, according to police.
The statue was grounded, but for some reason it did not absorb the lightning strike.
The Hustler Hollywood store, however, remains untouched and is perfectly fine.
Also Smart
Gary Brooks Faulkner entered Pakistan last week to do what the CIA, Blackwater, the Pakistani armed forces, James Bond, Jason Bourne, and Dudley Do-Right were all unable to do: Kill the fuck out of Osama Bin Laden.
Faulkner, a construction worker from California, was detained by Pakistani officials on Sunday. Faulkner "told investigators he was on a solo mission to kill Osama bin Laden, a police officer said Tuesday." Authorities giggled at the notion until they searched him and found weapons.
He was reportedly carrying a pistol, a sword and a pair of night vision goggles. Everything that's needed to capture the world's most wanted man. Well, almost everything:
Faulkner was also carrying a book containing Christian verses and teachings.Better luck next time, Faulkner!
When asked why he thought he had a chance of tracing bin Laden, Faulkner replied, "God is with me, and I am confident I will be successful in killing him."
What I'm Listening To
There's no paraphrase required for the video, because it's just a static image of the single's album cover. The lyrics to the song are here.
Thanks very much to Shaker Mimi for passing it along. She said she's "kind of in love with it" at the moment, and now I am, too!
Eye Care
Last week I had trouble with one of my contact lenses, in that it disappeared. At first I thought I lost it, but upon further investigation, it turned out that in the rush to get ready for work (and perhaps a sign of progressive absent-mindedness) I had put both lenses in one eye. Hilarity ensued.
I took the opportunity, though, to schedule an eye exam, and also to change eye doctors since I had moved away from my previous "eye-care professional," as he billed himself. My new doctor and I share something in common; we were both students at the University of Miami and have some mutual acquaintances from those days. He checked my vision (all's good at least in terms of health), but my lenses were so badly made that one -- the left one -- had caused my cornea to form a ridge, which added to my vision impairment. He took me off the left lens completely, leaving me with only correction for my right eye. That's actually not a bad thing since thanks to my strabismus, I don't use both eyes together. Since I am far-sighted in one eye and near-sighted in the other, I can use them independently and have as close to normal vision as a person could hope for at my age. I still need the drugstore readers for work since we use a lot of fine print. But I'm down to wearing only one contact lens now, and it's working out fine.
So basically I'm wearing the modern version of a monocle, joining some pretty interesting company in that fashion statement...
Distinguished company indeed.
Crossposted.
What a Mystery!
Every election, the GOP rolls out its tired lines about how their policies are really better for people of color, especially Latin@s and Black USians, and sends out Michael Steele to express wonder on Fox News at why those silly brown folks keep voting for the Democrats in larger numbers.
Yeah, it's a real chin-scratcher why the Republican Party has trouble getting people of color to vote for them.
Elle, as always, gets the final word on this one.
Question of the Day
Springing from the comments in today's open thread:
Are you a hat person? If not, what "kind of person" are you? What's your accessory?
I am a hat person; I wear caps a lot (not baseball caps, I like duckbills), and I have a derby similar to the one in today's OT pic. I'm also a "tie person," I have lots of neckties, but I particularly love wearing bowties. Tucker Carlson nearly ruined it for me. And yes, I can tie them myself.
As The Doctor says, "Bowties are cool."
Bird Watching
This young ibis decided to check out the yard and the canal behind my house from a new perch. I'm used to seeing them hanging out in the yard, but I think it's the first time I've ever seen one up the fence.
Quote of the Day
"Why do basically people with money have good health care and why do people that live on lower salaries not have good health care? You know, health should be a right for everyone."—Barbara Bush, former first daughter and current president of Global Health Corps, an organization which "aims to mobilize a global community of young leaders to build a movement for health equity."
Tree.
Apple.
Today in Smart
Police officers arrested a 20-year-old Gilbert man who allegedly tried to trade marijuana and an iPod for an iPad.I'm sure you can guess what happened next: Walker and his pal showed up with the shit, showed it to the undercover detective, and were promptly arrested.
According to the Gilbert Police Department, Jacob Walker posted an advertisement on Craigslist.com indicating that he wanted to trade an Apple iPod Touch and marijuana for an Apple iPad. He included pictures of both in his ad.
Gilbert police Sgt. Mark Marino said detectives replied to Walker's posting and set up a meeting for Wednesday at Val Vista and Warner roads.
Insert requisite commentary about how this shouldn't even be a crime and pot should be legal.
That said... Dude, don't weed-barter on Craigslist, ya dingus!
[H/T to Iain.]
Today's Edition of "Conniving and Sinister"
[Today's comic suggested by Deeky. Thanks, Deeks!]
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 (Liss) and a biracial queerbait (Deeky) telling it like it actually is from their perspectives. Hilarity ensues.]
Eight
"This person, right here."
That's what Iain says, sliding his long arm around my shoulders, when someone asks him what brought him to the US. Often, it's specifically a question about how this ginger-bearded Scotsman ended up in exurban Indiana: What brought you here, of all places? the expression on the asker's face seems to say, betraying the suspicion lurking in many a Hoosier subconscious that the state is inhabited almost exclusively by those who have yet to successfully plot an escape route.
Technically, it was an immigration policy that privileges our heterosexuality, ten metric fucktons of paperwork, a visa, and, eventually, a transatlantic jet that brought him here. But he is answering the question they're really asking, about what made him want to come in the first place. And so he gazes at me with this look, this look that I dare not try to describe lest I somehow compromise its exquisite complexion, and says, "This person, right here."
In those moments, I feel very loved.
I imagine I make him feel exactly as loved in ways I don't recognize, although he'd have to tell you about that. Both of us, for our individual reasons, aren't always great at receiving compliments—and there is perhaps no greater compliment than to be expansively loved by someone who has seen you at your absolute worst and decided to stick around nonetheless. So we have moments where we squirm at being loved, or reject it outright in a fit of self-destructive pique, but it is the moments in which we can wear comfortably the love that is being offered that hang lastingly in my memory, and his, forming a web of connected points into which we can fall, our safety net, whenever we stumble.
Love is a joint pursuit, but an individual practice, which is what makes it difficult to sustain. There are moments when one person loves the other more, is more committed, is more invested, is more present. In these moments—or hours, or days, or indefinite stretches of threadbare emotional reserves—the intimacy that makes conversation feel combustible in the first flourishes of a romance can be elusive, seemingly every trace of its existence vanished from all but the faintest recollection.
And in these moments, one can do naught but gaze from the swaying cradle of the safety net up at the highwire where love resides, and think, "I'm glad we had the foresight to build this fuckin' thing."
Once a year, Iain and I do a state of our union. This weekend, on the way to our favorite restaurant for dinner, we talked about where we are—as individuals, and together. It's the longest relationship either of us has ever had, and it seems to each of us like we have just met, and simultaneously as though there is a sense of permanence that only time can convey.
When we were still apart, living on separate continents and waiting for the piece of paper that would change that forever, time dripping by at an inconceivably slow pace, one of our most frequent topics of conversation was what it would be like when we were together. Sock feet on hardwood floors on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Curled up on the couch on a wintry day, under the same blanket, reading our own books. Sitting on the porch just out of the reach of the rain during a summer storm, with the wind blowing electricity through our hair. Holding each other whenever we wanted. Going to the movies. Making dinner together in our kitchen, bumping hips and sharing a glass of wine. Never feeling again the joy of being together cast in the shadow of knowing it wouldn't last. When we spoke about how we would never take for granted the chance of being together, even then I thought we would. I figured there would come a time when not every day felt precious, when the routine of life inevitably replaced our gratitude.
But that day still has not come. Every time he takes my hand, I remember a time when it wasn't possible. Every time we fall into bed and arrange ourselves in a tangle of arms and legs, I think about the time when we couldn't. Every evening, when he walks through the door, I am happy to see him, and the memory of seeing for the first time at King's Cross station in London lays itself across my heart.
"If I can't make a relationship work with you, I don't think I could make one work with anyone," I told him in the car, on the way to the restaurant. He laughed, and said he felt the same way. There is an inescapability to our partnership that would foment a strangled desperation if we were not so well-matched; but, because we are, our entrenchment yields instead a contented bliss.
We recalled the things that we first recognized as evidence of our befittery: We both loved Lord of the Rings, and Star Wars, and Omar Khayyam. But it was really the voracious desire that welled in each of our bellies to know what made the other one tick, to uncover and understand the affections we didn't already share, that was The Thing. Never had I felt such a craving, such a need, to know another person so urgently, nor had I previously experienced such an unreserved willingness to be known.
When we reached the restaurant, Iain requested a table in our favorite server's section. As always, we chatted with her lightly for a few minutes, discussing important issues like the last season of Lost, before she turned to me and asked, "And what do you want tonight?"
This person, right here.
Tonight, tomorrow, always. Happy anniversary, Iain. I love you.
[Previously: Seven, Six, Five, Four, Three.]
