Hosted by Mary Pickford.
Question of the Day
Referencing something I wrote earlier today about Noah and Molly (Oof!) living in a Thomas Kinkade painting:
If you could live in a particular artist's paintings, which artist would you choose?
I've always been fond of the work of Caravaggio, but damn, even the gloommeister in me wouldn't want to live in his grotesque world of martyred saints and pouting cherubs. I guess maybe I'd go with Maxfield Parrish, because it seems nice in his world:
[Click image to embiggen.]
This is so the worst thing you're going to read all day.
[Trigger warning for fat hatred.]
"The Moments That Make Us Fat," by CNN Senior Medical Correspondent Elizabeth Cohen, whose medical training evidently did not include passing mention that there are reasons people are fat other than eating too much/the wrong things, nor that there are reasons people eat too much/the wrong things other than lack of willpower.
Monkey Business
Not only is Florida changing the rules for hiring teachers, the net effect being driving capable and ambitious people out of the business, they're bringing back creationism.
Mr. Wise does not get the concept of "critical thinking." That's when you offer two theories based on the same factual evidence, not on one being based on scientifically-based evidence and the other being taken from a faerie tale.As lawmakers wrestle with financial and policy challenges that could affect the quality of education in the state, one influential legislator is also hoping to change the way evolution is taught in Florida public schools.
Science education advocates are alarmed by a bill before the Legislature that they say could force teachers to challenge evolution at the expense of settled science.
Stephen Wise, chairman of the Senate Education Committee, has resurrected legislation he authored in 2009 that calls for a "thorough presentation and critical analysis of the scientific theory of evolution." Wise's bill failed to pass in 2009.
The critical analysis approach originated at the Discovery Institute, a think tank that supports the teaching of intelligent design, which holds that evolution alone cannot explain life, which is so complex that it must have had a creator.
Sen. Ronda Storms, R-Valrico, led another battle over evolution in 2008, but the Legislature failed to pass her bill that would have given protection to teachers who criticized evolution.
Storms' bill was filed in response to science standards adopted that year by the State Board of Education, which for the first time used the word "evolution" instead of such terms as "biological change over time." The standards also required more intense and detailed teaching of the concept.
Wise, R-Jacksonville, thinks his evolution bill may have a better chance this year because there are more conservatives in the Legislature and because he chairs a substantive committee.
"Why would you not teach both theories at the same time?" Wise said, referring to evolution and what he called "nonevolution."
"You have critical thinking in school," Wise added. "Why would you not do both?"
The proponents of "intelligent design" must know that they are on shaky ground. If creationism was real, there would be no need to legislate to have it taught on the same level as proven science; it would be as incontrovertible as gravity.
Or is that "intelligent falling"?
Graphic from Dependable Renegade via SFDB.
Cross-posted from Bark Bark Woof Woof.
FYI
[Previous FYI: Rick Astley; Eddie Murphy; The Eurythmics; Eddie Rabbit; Sinéad O'Connor; Was (Not Was); Bon Jovi; Kenny Rogers; Bobby McFerrin; Starship; Dead or Alive; Right Said Fred; Edie Brickell and the New Bohemians; Salt n Pepa; Nelson; The Cure; The Soup Dragons; Europe/BushCo; Elton John; Eddie Money; Human League; Glenn Frey; Van Halen; Alanis Morissette; Depeche Mode; The Beatles; The Proclaimers. Hint: They're better if you click 'em!]
The Overton Window: Epilogue and Afterword
Okay, friends, this is it. My final post on The Overton Window. (Until the movie adaptation, anyway.) It's been a long ride, hasn't it? Seven months and 50,000 words and I don't know how many comments. I am, honestly, a little relieved to done with it, and a little saddened too. It feels like breaking up with an old lover. An old lover who wasn't particularly good in the sack and thought discussing tax code was the kind of thing that might give me a boner.
There are, at this point, two chapters left: The epilogue and the afterword. The afterword is the longest section of the book, at nearly thirty pages. It's where Beck lays out the "factional" parts of his story. They're sort of like footnotes, I guess, but without the annoying superscript. Here's an example, just to give you the idea:
More from Chapter 3:
Virtually the entire speech that Arthur Gardner gives in the boardroom is based on fact; of course, in keeping with his character, he presents his own version of those facts. Here are a few specific examples:
Committed $8 trillion to those that engineered the financial crisis: David Goldman, "The $8 Trillion Bailout," CNNMoney .com, January 6, 2009, http://money.cnn.com/2009/01/06/news/economy/where_stimulus_fits_in/index.htm
Social Security is a Ponzi scheme: Jeff Poor, "Cramer: Social Security a Bigger Ponzi Scheme than Madoff's," Business & Media Institute,
A hundred thousand billion dollars: Also known as "$100 trillion," this is a chilling estimate of our unfunded Social Security and Medicare liabilities. Pamela Villarreal, "Social Security and Medicare Projections: 2009," National Center for Policy Analysis, June 11, 2009, http://www.ncpa.org/pub/ba662
$17 billion in underfunded union pensions: Nick Bunkley, "Automaker Pensions Underfunded by $17 Billion," New York Times, April 6, 2010, http://www.nytimes.com/2010/04/07/business/07cars.html
We're borrowing $5 billion a day from Asia: Statement of C. Fred Bergsten, Director, Institute for International Economics, February 2-4, 2005, http://www.uscc.gov/hearings/2005hearings/transcripts/05_02_3_4.pdf
In keeping with the overarching theme of The Overton Window, it's not very interesting reading. There is, however, the occasional nugget. Like this:
In Chapter 11 we hear from spirited conspiracy theorist Danny Bailey for the first time. Danny is the kind of guy who likes to string together a variety of facts in an attempt to make something crazy sound plausible. His speech is important because it shows how selected facts and truths can be used as the foundation for an overall thesis that is entirely fictional.
I think if anyone knows about theses that are entirely fictional, it would be Beck. I wonder if he at all understands irony. Your guess is as good as mine.
That is, essentially, the afterword. If you're interested in all the links and explanations, by all means, get down to your local library and ferret out a copy of the book.
On a slightly different subject, if you'll allow me to digress, there has, along the way, been some question as to which character is supposed to represent Beck. I actually have that answer. Straight from the horse's ass's mouth, as it were. From an interview last year:
The two characters, Noah and Molly are actually, when I started this years ago, were actually my business partner and I, without the … well we never had sex.
For the record, Noah and Molly never had sex either. Beck, unsurprisingly, doesn't know what happens in his own book. Maybe he's thinking of something that happens in the sequel. "This is actually only half of the book I originally outlined. This ends at the halfway point. But we a) ran out of time, and b) I didn't want to inflict an 800-page book on people." I suppose I should thank Beck for not dragging this garbage out another 500 pages.
The whole interview is terrible, nothing but softball questions and Beck's meandering answers. Beck speaks and makes little sense, which I guess is a lot like his TV show. I tried to watch it once, and all I could wonder was, "What is he talking about? This is so incoherent. How is this even on TV?" Ah well, someone's tuning in, no? Beck says he spent two years writing this heap, which just doesn't seem possible. He claims to have "channeled a little George Bernard Shaw" too. Which is, of course, laughable.
The best part, for me, was this quote: "The only problem with [The Overton Window] was the book could be so dated by next week." Ummm... no. That is soooo not the only problem with the book.
Read the whole thing here, if you're so inclined.
One other note: If you've missed any of this (how could you!) and want to catch up, older posts in the series can be found by clicking here. Also, for posterity's sake, the posts have been archived at their own site here. Of course, as with most everything I write, they've been cross-posted at my own blog too.
To the epilogue, the final bit of our tale.
"A month to the day has passed" and Noah is in some sort of detention center. I'm not really sure what it is. It's kind of a prison, or maybe rehab. Noah is in a work program where he writes press releases for the NWO. Whut? Yeah, I dunno. If you're expecting this thing to suddenly start making sense, you're certainly a lot more optimistic than I.
This wasn't a prison, not at all, the welcoming committee had gone on to emphasize. This complex and its surrounding buildings might have been originally constructed as a prison, but funding cuts and changes in policy had orphaned the place in recent years. Local officials in the small Montana town nearby had been delighted to learn that their costly investment might finally be put to profitable use, providing local employment and helping the country deal with its recently declared emergency.
Noah, unfortunately, is having a little trouble adapting. His first PR gig was something of a fiasco, so he'd been booted out of the non-prison's penthouse suite, and sent closer to steerage. Whoops!
This failed assignment had been pretty straightforward: He was to write up an in-depth piece for the news, outlining the inner workings of the recent homegrown conspiracy that had nearly led to the destruction of Las Vegas and San Francisco. The story was to be told from his own point of view as a courageous hostage and unwilling insider.
His first draft was rejected immediately; there'd been a consistent undertone in the text that seemed to paint the ringleaders, the Founders' Keepers, in a subtly but unacceptably positive light. His second try wasn't an improvement, it was even worse. The strange thing was, if only out of self-preservation, Noah had been trying hard to write what they wanted, but the stubborn truths just kept elbowing their way in.
After an informal inquiry, this first glitch was chalked up to the lingering effects of the Stockholm syndrome, that passing mental condition through which hostages sometimes develop an odd sympathy for the cause of their captors. For the time being it was determined that, until he was better, Noah would be given less-demanding duties and an additional editor to watch over his work.
I know I keep bringing this up, but Stockholm syndrome after one bad date? Really? That seems as likely as Noah and Molly falling desperately in love after their weekend spent, largely, not together at all. And what "stubborn truths" did Noah know about the Founders' Keepers? Molly told him her mother had founded the group. What else? Since that moment, Noah's hardly had time to research them, has he? He was drugged, rescued, had a couple cab rides, flew in a plane (with Molly in reticence mode), jumped out of a car, witnessed a nuclear explosion, was interrogated, and sent to rehab. Is that about right? I don't see much free time in there for catching up on the Ragnar Benson reading list. This book is really rucking stupid.
There was no shortage of things to do, large and small. A lot of PR spin needed to be applied to the changes that were already well under way across the country. Noah was given a stack of small writing tasks, mostly one-liners and fillers that required far less of a commitment to the web of new truths being woven for consumption by the press and the public. For one of these jobs, he was to simply come up with a suitably harmless-sounding name for a new Treasury bureau that would be put in charge of the next wave of government bailouts for various failing corporations and industries.
This was the work of only a few seconds; Noah called it the Federal Resource Allocation & Underwriting Division.
Of course, not trusting his readers to see the joke, Beck has to explain "The five-letter acronym for this new government bureau would be FRAUD." Yeah, duh. In fairness, when I was ten and read The Plague Dogs I totally did not get the joke about Animal Research, Scientific and Experimental. But I'm not a child now. And neither are Beck's readers.
Once you know the truth, Molly had said, then you've got to live it. What she'd apparently neglected to add was that you'll also tend to randomly tell it, whether it gets you into trouble or not.
Whoops! And, barf! Living the truth isn't easy! It's tougher than putting a "freedom isn't free" bumper sticker on your car, that's for sure.
There's some text here explaining how Darthur is controlling the media and keeping everyone in a constant state of fear. Noah brushes his teeth, and cleans the toilet and does a lot of pondering. He falls asleep and has a dream about Molly's cabin.
Snow fluttered down outside the wide windows, big flakes sticking and blowing past the frosted panes, an idyllic woodland scene framed in pleated curtains and knotty pine. He was sitting in front of a stone hearth. A pair of boots were drying there, with space for another, smaller pair beside. A fire was burning low, a black dutch oven suspended above the coals, the smell of some wonderful meal cooking inside. Two plates and silver settings were arranged on a nearby dining table.
A simple evening lay ahead. Though it might seem nearly identical to a hundred other nights he'd spent with her, he also knew it would be unlike any other, before or after. It always was; being with Molly, talking with her, listening to her, enjoying the quiet with her, feeling her close to him, thinking of the future with her. Every night was like a perfect first date, and every morning like the first exciting day of a whole new life together.
Like Molly had said, such a simple existence certainly wasn't for everyone. But the freedom to choose one's own pursuit of happiness— that's what her country was founded on, and that's what she was fighting for.
I get the distinct impression Molly and Noah, in the dream, live in a Thomas Kinkade painting. I guess that is preferable to living in a Bruegel painting. Which makes me wonder, since I could really not give two fucks about Noah's dream, what it would be like to live in an Escher painting. Probably frustrating. You're trying to get to the bathroom but you keep ending up on the living room ceiling when all you really wanna do is pee.
Noah's dream is interrupted when an orderly with a dinner cart arrives.
"Say, I see you here every day, and it occurred to me tonight, we've never been properly introduced."
Noah put down his tray on the side table inside his door. "I'm Noah Gardner."
The man nodded, and casually glanced left and then right down the hallway before he answered, quietly, "My friends call me Nathan. I've got a message for you," he said. "Would you mind if I came in for just a moment?"
Uh oh! Nathan has a message! How skullduggerous! I mean, right, it's gonna be skullduggerous? Nathan didn't invite himself in to tell Noah to put away the checkerboard when he was done with it because no one likes a messy rec room. Of course, Nathan wants to be sure Noah understands the importance of the message, and naturally slams Noah into the wall of his non-cell. Whut? Yeah.
Noah found himself pushed hard against the wall with a forearm pressed against his neck and the other man's face close to his.
"This is a wake-up call," Nathan hissed. "You're in a valuable position, my friend, and we need for you to snap out of it and start doing the work we need done." He adjusted his grip on Noah's collar, and continued. "Now listen closely. Tomorrow, at your job, you sign into your computer right before you leave for the day, but you don't sign out. Here's a key." Noah felt something shoved roughly into his pocket. "You're going to leave it under the mouse pad on the desk two places down from yours, to your left. Got all that?"
If anything, the teabaggers are consistent in their treatment of Noah. The never miss an opportunity to abuse him or otherwise treat him like garbage. I can see why he is so fond of them. And their plan seems to be to use Noah's access to get to sensitive data. Which was the same plan they used to steal the Powerpoint. And somehow, Darthur and the NWO is gonna fall for this again? Brother, Big Brother is pretty incompetent.
Nathan tells Noah to eat his dessert and then walks out. Noah jabs his spork into the pie on his plate and finds something unusual. "It was Molly's silver bracelet." Oh, barf.
He held it close to his eyes; maybe the words engraved there were a little more worn than they'd been before, but he would have remembered them even if they'd been gone completely.
She was alive. Whatever other message he'd been hoping for, whatever guidance he'd been seeking, this was better. Not just a plan, because a plan can be defeated. This was a foundation.
Huh? Okay, whatever, nevermind. I ain't even going to get into the difference between plans and foundations and how either of those were represented by Molly's bracelet. Noah is a lunkhead, so is Beck, as is his ghostwriter.
As he returned to the bedroom he remembered the key he'd been given and he pulled it from his pocket. It was wrapped in paper, and, as he unfolded it, Noah saw the simple words written there, in Molly's familiar handwriting.
"We're everywhere. Stay with us; I'll see you soon. The fight starts tomorrow."
Fin.
Seriously. That's the end: "We're everywhere. Stay with us; I'll see you soon. The fight starts tomorrow." This is, I suppose, the moment that really sets our hearts a-pounding, the hair on our neck standing up in awe at the inspiring finale. But all I can mutter is a half-assed "meh." Especially when I think about how fuck all really happened up to this point. And what did happen, like the nuclear detonation, really didn't even involve the hero or the heroine.
Our protagonists have been supporting characters in their own novel. How tragic. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if this novel had anything interesting to say. If anything interesting had happened. Hell, I can't really say anything uninteresting happened, because, truthfully, almost nothing happened. I'm not going to count cab rides, by the way.
I've read plenty of bad writing in my day. I've written plenty, for that matter. But this is the worst thing I've ever read to come out of a major publishing house. I've stated before, there seems to have been minimal, if any, editing done. It's sloppy, nonsensical, inconsistent. It's an embarrassment, really. It's hard to believe something this awful could come from the same people that publish R. L. Stine's work.
I don't know how many copies this thing sold. I know Beck has a built-in audience huffin up just about anything he farts out. My local library had twenty copies on the shelves. I imagine it lined Beck's faux-everyman pockets with more cash than he'll ever spend. Critically speaking, every review I saw concluded that the books was awful, and at the same time it holds a 4 stars out of 5 rating by Amazon's customers. Obviously, someone likes him.
I'm not one of those. And after reading The Overton Window, I like him even less.
Photo of the Day
There were a series of rallies around the country last week in support of Planned Parenthood against the assault by the GOP to strip away the funding it gets from the federal government. The rally in Toledo caught my attention.
[Full disclosure: I'm very close to the couple on the right.]
Daily Dose of Cute
"I may look like I am just harmlessly lying here on the couch, contemplating my existence as cat, but I see you out that window, little birds, and one day you will be mine. Oh, yes. One day, you will be mine."
Feminism 101: Helpful Hints for Dudes, Part 5
Following is a primer for men who are genuinely interested in learning about how to be a more feminist-friendly dude. Most of the information in this piece is, as always, generally applicable in terms of being decent to the people around you, but this has been written to be most accessible for men in keeping with the objective of the series, which is responding to commonly emailed questions from privileged men (here, generally meaning straight cis men) seeking advice on how to interact with the women in their lives.
[Trigger warning for misogyny; sexual violence; silencing.]
After Part One in this series ran, which recommended against playing Devil's Advocate, I received a number of emails from men who couldn't understand what the harm was in playing Devil's Advocate on feminist issues with women they care about, even if it upsets those women. Because, hey, shouldn't feminists be willing to have those fights?
I figured I should write a piece about how obliging women to play along with misogynist games can be incredibly alienating and, ultimately, a grave breach of trust, but I've already written one.
So, as part of this series, here's a re-run of "The Terrible Bargain We Have Regretfully Struck," which was originally posted in August 2009.
----------------------
Despite feminists' reputation, and contra my own individual reputation cultivated over almost seven years of public opinion-making, I am not a man-hater.
If I played by misogynists' rules, specifically the one that dictates it only takes one woman doing one Mean or Duplicitous or Disrespectful or Unlawful or otherwise Bad Thing to justify hatred of all women, I would have plenty of justification for hating men, if I were inclined to do that sort of thing.
Most of my threatening hate mail comes from men. The most unrelentingly trouble-making trolls have always been men. I've been cat-called and cow-called from moving vehicles countless times, and subjected to other forms of street harassment, and sexually harassed at work, always by men. I have been sexually assaulted—if one includes rape, attempted rape, unsolicited touching of breasts, buttocks, and/or genitals, nonconsensual frottage on public transportation, and flashing—by dozens of people during my lifetime, some known to me, some strangers, all men.
But I don't hate men, because I play by different rules. In fact, there are men in this world whom I love quite a lot.
There are also individual men in this world I would say I probably hate, or something close, men who I hold in unfathomable contempt, but it is not because they are men.
No, I don't hate men.
It would, however, be fair to say that I don't easily trust them.
My mistrust is not, as one might expect, primarily a result of the violent acts done on my body, nor the vicious humiliations done to my dignity. It is, instead, born of the multitude of mundane betrayals that mark my every relationship with a man—the casual rape joke, the use of a female slur, the careless demonization of the feminine in everyday conversation, the accusations of overreaction, the eyerolling and exasperated sighs in response to polite requests to please not use misogynist epithets in my presence or to please use non-gendered language ("humankind").
There are the insidious assumptions guiding our interactions—the supposition that I will regard being exceptionalized as a compliment ("you're not like those other women"), and the presumption that I am an ally against certain kinds of women. Surely, we're all in agreement that Britney Spears is a dirty slut who deserves nothing but a steady stream of misogynist vitriol whenever her name is mentioned, right? Always the subtle pressure to abandon my principles to trash this woman or that woman, as if I'll never twig to the reality that there's always a justification for unleashing the misogyny, for hating a woman in ways reserved only for women. I am exhorted to join in the cruel revelry, and when I refuse, suddenly the target is on my back. And so it goes.
There are the jokes about women, about wives, about mothers, about raising daughters, about female bosses. They are told in my presence by men who are meant to care about me, just to get a rise out of me, as though I am meant to find funny a reminder of my second-class status. I am meant to ignore that this is a bullying tactic, that the men telling these jokes derive their amusement specifically from knowing they upset me, piss me off, hurt me. They tell them and I can laugh, and they can thus feel superior, or I can not laugh, and they can thus feel superior. Heads they win, tails I lose. I am used as a prop in an ongoing game of patriarchal posturing, and then I am meant to believe it is true when some of the men who enjoy this sport, in which I am their pawn, tell me, "I love you." I love you, my daughter. I love you, my niece. I love you, my friend. I am meant to trust these words.
There are the occasions that men—intellectual men, clever men, engaged men—insist on playing devil's advocate, desirous of a debate on some aspect of feminist theory or reproductive rights or some other subject generally filed under the heading: Women's Issues. These intellectual, clever, engaged men want to endlessly probe my argument for weaknesses, want to wrestle over details, want to argue just for fun—and they wonder, these intellectual, clever, engaged men, why my voice keeps raising and why my face is flushed and why, after an hour of fighting my corner, hot tears burn the corners of my eyes. Why do you have to take this stuff so personally? ask the intellectual, clever, and engaged men, who have never considered that the content of the abstract exercise that's so much fun for them is the stuff of my life.
There is the perplexity at my fury that my life experience is not considered more relevant than the opinionated pronouncements of men who make a pastime of informal observation, like womanhood is an exotic locale which provides magnificent fodder for the amateur ethnographer. And there is the haughty dismissal of my assertion that being on the outside looking in doesn't make one more objective; it merely provides a different perspective.
There are the persistent, tiresome pronouncements of similitude between men's and women's experiences, the belligerent insistence that handsome men are objectified by women, too! that women pinch men's butts sometimes, too! that men are expected to look a certain way at work, too! that women rape, too! and other equivalencies that conveniently and stupidly ignore institutional inequities that mean X rarely equals Y. And there are the long-suffering groans that meet any attempt to contextualize sexism and refute the idea that such indignities, though grim they all may be, are not necessarily equally oppressive.
There are the stereotypes—oh, the abundant stereotypes!—about women, not me, of course, but other women, those women with their bad driving and their relentless shopping habits and their PMS and their disgusting vanity and their inability to stop talking and their disinterest in Important Things and their trying to trap men and their getting pregnant on purpose and their false rape accusations and their being bitches sluts whores cunts… And I am expected to nod in agreement, and I am nudged and admonished to agree. I am expected to say these things are not true of me, but are true of women (am I seceding from the union?); I am expected to put my stamp of token approval on the stereotypes. Yes, it's true. Between you and me, it's all true. That's what is wanted from me. Abdication of my principles and pride, in service to a patriarchal system that will only use my collusion to further subjugate me. This is a thing that is asked of me by men who purport to care for me.
There is the unwillingness to listen, a ferociously stubborn not getting it on so many things, so many important things. And the obdurate refusal to believe, to internalize, that my outrage is not manufactured and my injure not make-believe—an inflexible rejection of the possibility that my pain is authentic, in favor of the consolatory belief that I am angry because I'm a feminist (rather than the truth: that I'm a feminist because I'm angry).
And there is the denial about engaging in misogyny, even when it's evident, even when it's pointed out gently, softly, indulgently, carefully, with goodwill and the presumption that it was not intentional. There is the firm, fixed, unyielding denial—because it is better and easier to imply that I'm stupid or crazy, that I have imagined being insulted by someone about whom I care (just for the fun of it!), than it is to just admit a bloody mistake. Rather I am implied to be a hysteric than to say, simply, I'm sorry.
Not every man does all of these things, or even most of them, and certainly not all the time. But it only takes one, randomly and occasionally, exploding in a shower of cartoon stars like an unexpected punch in the nose, to send me staggering sideways, wondering what just happened.
Well. I certainly didn't see that coming…
These things, they are not the habits of deliberately, connivingly cruel men. They are, in fact, the habits of the men in this world I love quite a lot.
All of whom have given me reason to mistrust them, to use my distrust as a self-protection mechanism, as an essential tool to get through every day, because I never know when I might next get knocked off-kilter with something that puts me in the position, once again, of choosing between my dignity and the serenity of our relationship.
Swallow shit, or ruin the entire afternoon?
It can come out of nowhere, and usually does. Which leaves me mistrustful by both necessity and design. Not fearful; just resigned—and on my guard. More vulnerability than that allows for the possibility of wounds that do not heal. Wounds to our relationship, the sort of irreparable damage that leaves one unable to look in the eye someone that you loved once upon a time.
This, then, is the terrible bargain we have regretfully struck: Men are allowed the easy comfort of their unexamined privilege, but my regard will always be shot through with a steely, anxious bolt of caution.
A shitty bargain all around, really. But there it is.
There are men who will read this post and think, huffily, dismissively, that a person of color could write a post very much like this one about white people, about me. That's absolutely right. So could a lesbian, a gay man, a bisexual, an asexual. So could a trans or intersex person (which hardly makes a comprehensive list). I'm okay with that. I don't feel hated. I feel mistrusted—and I understand it; I respect it. It means, for me, I must be vigilant, must make myself trustworthy. Every day.
I hope those men will hear me when I say, again, I do not hate you. I mistrust you. You can tell yourselves that's a problem with me, some inherent flaw, some evidence that I am fucked up and broken and weird; you can choose to believe that the women in your lives are nothing like me.
Or you can be vigilant, can make yourselves trustworthy. Every day.
Just in case they're more like me than you think.
Quote of the Day
"I've dispatched Hillary to the Middle East to talk about how these countries can transition to new leaders—though, I've got to be honest, she's gotten a little passionate about the subject. These past few weeks it's been tough falling asleep with Hillary out there on Pennsylvania Avenue shouting, throwing rocks at the window."—President Obama, hilariously joking (ahem) at the Gridiron Club Dinner last week, about how Secretary of State Hillary Clinton's got her silly little girl panties all in a bunch about what she reportedly feels is the president's insufficient interest in supporting the Arab revolutions that are toppling undemocratic regimes.
Shaker Mod Scott Madin, who gets the hat tip, noted in an email: "I was actually kind of shocked that any president would take shots at any member of their own administration like that." To which I can only add: Yeah.
It really reminds me of that terrible moment during the campaign when Obama would give up only "You're likeable enough," without looking at Clinton save for a sideways glance, after she was asked (incredibly) by a debate moderator how she feels about being unlikable, and she graciously noted how "very likable" Obama is.
Which, of course, was not the only time Obama was snide toward Clinton, and why I disliked him as a person, if not a candidate, during the primaries.
You know, I really wasn't officially in the bag for Clinton during the '08 election, back when everyone from here to Fuckistan and back again was making the accusation, but I sure the fuck am now.
What Do You Get for the Man Who Has Everything?
A big bag of shut up, that's what.
Donald Trump got a little bit birther-curious in his interview with ABC News, saying of President Obama's time growing up in Hawaii: "The reason I have a little doubt, just a little, is because he grew up and nobody knew him."Please enjoy your gift, Mr. Trump. No, really. PLEASE ENJOY IT. Immediately.
Trump was speaking with Ashleigh Banfield in an interview that aired Thursday morning, and said "that anybody that even gives any hint" of not believing Obama was born in Hawaii, "they label them as an idiot."
"Let me tell you, I'm a really smart guy," Trump said. "I was a really good student at the best school in the country. The reason I have a little doubt, just a little, is because he grew up and nobody knew him."
"You may go back and interview people from my kindergarten," he continued. "They'll remember me. Nobody comes forward. Nobody knows who he is until later in his life. It's very strange. The whole thing is very strange."
[Via @EricBoehlert.]
Reason #1,456,921 I Shouldn't Be Watching American Idol
Because every time I am obliged to lay my eyes upon the super-shucks über-annoying Scotty "Babylockthemdoorsandturnthelightsdownlow" McCreery, I can't stop thinking about how he looks, sounds, and acts exactly like George W. Bush.
Barrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrf.
Every time he's on the screen, I just start writhing and screaming and barfing, because he has the same goddamned agip-gip, Amurika-Jesus-and-apple-pie, privileged arrogance masked by false I'm-just-a-country-boy humility, heh-heh demeanor as Mondo Fucko. They both even love baseball, for Maude's sake. BARF!
Seriously! Look at this bullshit!
Video Description: A kid who looks, sounds, and acts exactly like George W. Bush auditioning for American Idol.
Barfinating. He'll probably win the whole fucking thing.
House votes today on NPR
[UPDATE] The House voted 228 - 192, passing HR 1076.
Yesterday I posted about the totally necessary emergency meeting called to discuss a bill, HR 1076, that would pull all of NPR's federal funding. This bill was introduced Tuesday. Today, the House is going to vote on it. You can watch live coverage via C-SPAN. Starting at 11 am EST, the House is debating H.Con.Res. 28 ("Directing the President, pursuant to section 5(c) of the War Powers Resolution, to remove the United States Armed Forces from Afghanistan") and that's blocked for two hours of time (it is currently being aired, so you can watch that on the C-SPAN link). After that, this afternoon, will be the debate and vote on HR 1076.
Oh HELL No
[Trigger warning for rape culture, victim-blaming, misogyny, racism.]
So, one of the ways racism and misogyny manifest in local and state governments is via legislated dress codes. Of particular popularity in recent years is legislation seeking to prohibit saggy pants, which were never a problem when it was just older white men's buttcracks hanging out in public, but are tantamount to a sign of impending apocalypse when it's young black men (and young white men emulating black men) with droopy drawers and young women with visible thong-tops above low-slung jeans roaming the streets.
Naturally, because she believes in Family Values like covered underwear, Florida State Republican Kathleen Passidomo vehemently supports the "sagging pants" bill which would establish a statewide "student dress code of conduct." How she chose to express her support for this bill, however, is remarkable in its audacity, even for a Republican: Passidomo invoked the Cleveland, Texas gang rape case in which an 11-year-old girl was raped by 18 young men, flatly asserting her clothes were the cause of the crime.
"There was an article about an 11 year old girl who was gangraped in Texas by 18 young men because she was dressed like a 21-year-old prostitute," Passidomo declared.Apart from the heinous victim-blaming, which utterly relieves the perpetrators of any responsibility (while simultaneously suggesting that men can't help themselves from raping a woman if she's "dressed provocatively"), carelessly perpetuating the erroneous belief that following some dress code will protect children from rape is also an exceedingly dangerous game to play.
"And her parents let her attend school like that. And I think it's incumbent upon us to create some areas where students can be safe in school and show up in proper attire so what happened in Texas doesn't happen to our students," she added.
Abiding and indulging false notions about what inoculates children (and adults) against sexual violence has the inevitable effect of giving communities an excuse for not being vigilant about the things that actually support endemic sexual violence.
Passidomo's ridiculous victim-blaming isn't just cruel and wrong; it enables predators, who count on the reliable investment in comforting myths to create opportunities they can exploit.
Protip: Pants don't stop rapists. Dismantling the rape culture does.
Top Chef Open Thread
Image from last night's show: Because snorkling and cooking on a stormy beach over a sawed-in-half oil drum is obviously the best measure of how good a chef someone is, right? Four Michelin stars for best flippers! Watch out for manta rays, cheftestants!
Question of the Day
What's your favorite non-traditional and/or little known holiday?
Given my Finnish ancestry, I'm all about St. Urho's Day, which is today.
Number of the Day
[Trigger warning for homophobia.]
$350,000: The amount of money Newt Gingrich covertly funneled to anti-gay hate groups last year.
This is so the worst thing you're going to read all day.
[Trigger warning for rape culture; misogyny; anti-Semitism.]
I don't really understand why Jodie Foster is described, in the first few paragraphs of Stephen Galloway's Hollywood Reporter cover profile, as the "moral avatar" of American pop culture.
That's a decidedly strange term to use to describe anyone who isn't (say) a character in a Gabriel García Márquez novel, and, even if it weren't, I'm not sure Jodie Foster would immediately come to mind if I were tasked with identifying the celebrity who most embodied whatever it's meant to convey.
And if I couldn't imagine by what measure or principle Galloway came to this perplexing conclusion before I read the following passage, I was even more confounded afterwards:
As for Polanski's complicated character and the resurrection of his rape charge in the U.S., "That's not my business," she says.Of course not. Everyone knows the most responsible—and moral!—way to respond to the rape of a 13-year-old child is fastidious indifference. It's just unseemly to invade a rapist's privacy.
And, after pages of Foster waxing poignant about what a great person Mel Gibson is, and how not her business Roman Polanski's child raping habit is, all I could do was lolsob when I came to this perfect, hilarious, horrible passage:
It's striking that Foster, who's perceived as such a moral force, is forgiving of men like Polanski and Gibson who are so much less adulated than her. But it's equally striking that both have achieved the one professional goal that has eluded her: recognition as a major director.Striking. Yes.
Or something.
