So, I published the first damn chapter. I hate it. Of course. I'm going to move it and keep my beloved Shouting Down the Well for shouting down the well.
If you want to follow what's happening with Brooke (and, it's quite a tale... I can say that without fear of hubris since I stole it all from George Eliot and I think we can all agree that she was really really good... unless, of course, your only experience with George Eliot was being forced to read Silas Marner in 8th grade which probably means that you disagree with me that George Eliot was really really good, but you're wrong. She was), go here.
A quick post more in keeping with the general tone of this blog:
Yesterday, I read these story in the St. Petersburg Times comprised of reactions to the president's speech yesterday by high school students. It made me hopeful for the future. Seriously. But my favorite was a comment that I can no longer find:
"Hitler also washed his hands."
(not sure if you watched the speech - Obama urged school children to wash their hands to prevent the spread of flu).
Anyway.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Brooke: Chapter One
On a hot August Tuesday, 1991, Brooke stood on a bustling corner in the heart of downtown Chicago as the 78th averted eye and 39th irritated sigh brushed past her, her clipboard and her thinly veiled air of superiority. She rolled her eyes and consoled herself thusly: “There is still nothing more satisfying than having met one’s moral responsibility.”
I know. She sounds like an asshole. Youth and untried ideals can make assholes out of the nicest people. But we hope, and are often rewarded in our hope, that the rich complexity of everyday life will exorcise tendencies toward smugness and self-righteousness right out of a girl. It usually does. But, for the time being, Brooke is as committed to her assholery as she is to the environment. And Brooke is very committed to the environment.
Bear in mind, this was some time ago! Al Gore was too busy campaigning for Vice President to be telling us inconvenient truths. None of us turned the water off when we brushed our teeth. Thanks to the lachrymose Indian, most of us had stopped throwing pop cans out car windows for close to 20 years now. But we weren’t recycling them.
Brooke was. And she was loudly, obnoxiously, and frequently demanding that everyone around her do the same.
Surprisingly, given her passion for the environmental cause, she’d come lately to it. Through her first three and a half years at Loyola, Brooke had devoted herself wholeheartedly to a series of causes: anti-apartheid, PETA, ACT UP. She wrote letters to Lech Walesa and Gloria Steinem. She floated from worthy cause to worthier cause, with boundless energy and single-minded determination. But nothing stuck until the second semester of her senior year when, for elective credit, she signed up for an environmental ethics class. Fifteen minutes into the first lecture of the first class, she found her world both endangered and rocked. Thus was the great passion of her life (so far) born.
She worked tirelessly at all the action items suggested by her professor, putting so much effort into Chicago’s big 20th anniversary Earth Day Event that she almost flunked a history class. But she pulled it out at the last minute and graduated on time, ready to take our poor poisoned planet by storm, convinced that all the environmental movement lacked was talent, doggedness, and an extreme level of commitment.
Brooke and her extreme level of commitment spent their first post-University summer unemployed, waving placards at sparsely populated rallies, petitioning for Greenpeace, and writing passionate letters to the editor. By August, she’d grown used to feeling like a Cassandra, and secretly (not so secretly) felt pleased to be so much more prescient and virtuous than her fellow man.
This particular August afternoon, her moral obligation vis a vis petition signing having been met, Brooke returned to the Uptown apartment she shared with her sister, Celia. She found Celia sitting on the floor painting her toenails, while their neighbor, George lounged behind her on the couch. They were watching cartoons. Animaniacs. Brooke rolled her eyes. Waited. And then sighed loudly.
“Brooke,” said Celia, “Why don’t you just watch it with us instead of sighing like that. God. You can be such an asshole sometimes!”
“I might be an asshole,” said Brooke, “But at least I am an ADULT.”
Celia flipped her a bird with the hand she held the polish wand in.
George, meanwhile, jumped up off the couch like it was on fire. He ran his hands through his hair and grinned winningly at Brooke. Well, I say it was winning, and you’d probably think the same, but Brooke found it grating. It bugged her that Celia’s boyfriend was always hanging around. It bugged her even more that Celia wouldn’t admit George was her boyfriend. It especially bugged her that Celia insisted that George had a crush on Brooke, as though Brooke would be interested in a frat boy like that.
George was good looking in that blonde Midwestern, rosy cheeked, leaning towards beefy kind of way. He was also bright and convivial and far from the arrogant, entitled, frat boy Brooke had pegged him as. He worked hard for low wages as a doorman at a local tavern while studying business at DePaul. He was cheerful and sweet. But Brooke never could see the cute tree past the threatened rainforest.
George was smitten with Brooke. He had been ever since she and Celia moved into the apartment next door. Here was this skinny girl in a message tee shirt with all this pretty, long dark hair. She held forth with such ardor about saving the whales and the evil that Bush was doing in Central America. She was smart and passionate…and that hair! He’d pictured that hair countless times splayed carelessly post-coital across his chest.
Celia threw a pillow at George. “Tell Brooke what you told me.”
“Oh, yeah! The March is hiring,” said George. “I can get you a job waitressing there. You can do that a few days a week to make rent and spend the rest of the time on your environment stuff.”
“Fantastic,” said Brooke dryly, “I can wipe down the bar with my college degree. Dad will be so proud.”
“Yeah, it’ll just kill him to have to stop paying your rent,” said Celia, taking Brooke’s dryly and raising her a solid acre of Sahara.
Celia was a little more than a year younger than Brooke. She was embarking on her senior year at Loyola while working retail at Marshall Fields. She lived a very different life than Brooke, with her head firmly in this world and her feet both stylishly shod and on the ground. Secretly, though, she admired Brooke for eschewing worldly things like work and rent and what other people thought. At the same time, she resented Brooke for recusing herself from the real world and being a burden on their sad, widowed father.
“Hmmm, you may be right,” said Brooke, who'd recently donated a good chunk of her rent money to an Indian hurricane relief fund. “I guess a job like that won’t be too taxing timewise, and I will be able to spend my days on important things. George, tell them I’ll come by in the morning to fill out an application or whatever it is I’m supposed to do.”
“Will do,” said George, imagining crazily romantic scenarios: in the soft dawn light, he’d walk her home and then, at the door, she’d let her hair down and smile up at him…
You know where this is going. You know better than George. George is a sweet guy, but kind of a sap when it comes to romance (and by that I mean prone to confusing being horny with being in love). He’s also not right for Brooke at all. Celia, on the other hand… well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
George took off to go to work and Celia turned to Brooke: “Look,” she said tentatively, “Do you want to finally split up Mom’s jewelry or what?”
Their mother, dead several years now, had passed down a moderately nice collection of jewelry which she’d intended for her daughters to split upon college graduation. Their father took this to mean upon Brooke’s college graduation, and had given his daughters the box in June immediately after the ceremony.
“Oh, Celia,” said Brooke wearily, “Can’t you just keep it? You’re more into that kind of thing than I am.”
Celia said softly. “Don’t you want something that was Mom’s?”
Chagrined, Brooke nodded.
Celia rushed into the other room and returned with the box. She opened it up and pulled out a simple silver chain with a ruby pendant. “Here,” she said to Brooke, “This will look so pretty on you with your coloring.”
Brooke held up both hands as if to push something distasteful away, “Oh no! Who knows who was exploited to get that stone. We should send all that stuff straight back to Africa.”
Celia frowned and stared into the ruby. “Mom wore this whenever she got dressed up. Do you remember? She’d put on her little black dress and the ruby would pop out all red against the black. She looked so pretty. When she came home she’d come into the bedroom and kiss us good night. Do you remember? She’d come in on tiptoes, smelling of cigarettes and perfume and she’d lean over and kiss us. When she stood up after kissing me, I remember the closet light catching in the ruby and thinking how much I loved that smell and how pretty Mommy was and wanting to grow up and be her. Remember?”
They were silent for a few minutes and then Brooke said quietly, “I do. You keep that necklace, Celia. You look more like Mom than I do anyway. Next time you get dressed up, you can put on a little black dress, and wear your blonde hair up like Mom did. Put that ruby on and smoke a cigarette and all the little girls who see you will be desperate to grow up too. I’ll take these silver earrings. Do you remember these? Dad vacuumed them up one day and Mom dumped the bag out in the back yard. I wanted to help and ended up covered in dust. Mom hosed me off outside. I can wear them whenever I want to play in the hose.”
Celia smiled fondly. “Take more,” she urged. “There’s more here. What about this ring? Or these other earrings?”
“No” said Brooke firmly. “Just these. You take the rest.”
And then Brooke left her sister sitting on the couch to sort her jewelry and emotions, and went to work on a letter to the editor about the deforestation of the Ecuadorian rainforest.
I know. She sounds like an asshole. Youth and untried ideals can make assholes out of the nicest people. But we hope, and are often rewarded in our hope, that the rich complexity of everyday life will exorcise tendencies toward smugness and self-righteousness right out of a girl. It usually does. But, for the time being, Brooke is as committed to her assholery as she is to the environment. And Brooke is very committed to the environment.
Bear in mind, this was some time ago! Al Gore was too busy campaigning for Vice President to be telling us inconvenient truths. None of us turned the water off when we brushed our teeth. Thanks to the lachrymose Indian, most of us had stopped throwing pop cans out car windows for close to 20 years now. But we weren’t recycling them.
Brooke was. And she was loudly, obnoxiously, and frequently demanding that everyone around her do the same.
Surprisingly, given her passion for the environmental cause, she’d come lately to it. Through her first three and a half years at Loyola, Brooke had devoted herself wholeheartedly to a series of causes: anti-apartheid, PETA, ACT UP. She wrote letters to Lech Walesa and Gloria Steinem. She floated from worthy cause to worthier cause, with boundless energy and single-minded determination. But nothing stuck until the second semester of her senior year when, for elective credit, she signed up for an environmental ethics class. Fifteen minutes into the first lecture of the first class, she found her world both endangered and rocked. Thus was the great passion of her life (so far) born.
She worked tirelessly at all the action items suggested by her professor, putting so much effort into Chicago’s big 20th anniversary Earth Day Event that she almost flunked a history class. But she pulled it out at the last minute and graduated on time, ready to take our poor poisoned planet by storm, convinced that all the environmental movement lacked was talent, doggedness, and an extreme level of commitment.
Brooke and her extreme level of commitment spent their first post-University summer unemployed, waving placards at sparsely populated rallies, petitioning for Greenpeace, and writing passionate letters to the editor. By August, she’d grown used to feeling like a Cassandra, and secretly (not so secretly) felt pleased to be so much more prescient and virtuous than her fellow man.
This particular August afternoon, her moral obligation vis a vis petition signing having been met, Brooke returned to the Uptown apartment she shared with her sister, Celia. She found Celia sitting on the floor painting her toenails, while their neighbor, George lounged behind her on the couch. They were watching cartoons. Animaniacs. Brooke rolled her eyes. Waited. And then sighed loudly.
“Brooke,” said Celia, “Why don’t you just watch it with us instead of sighing like that. God. You can be such an asshole sometimes!”
“I might be an asshole,” said Brooke, “But at least I am an ADULT.”
Celia flipped her a bird with the hand she held the polish wand in.
George, meanwhile, jumped up off the couch like it was on fire. He ran his hands through his hair and grinned winningly at Brooke. Well, I say it was winning, and you’d probably think the same, but Brooke found it grating. It bugged her that Celia’s boyfriend was always hanging around. It bugged her even more that Celia wouldn’t admit George was her boyfriend. It especially bugged her that Celia insisted that George had a crush on Brooke, as though Brooke would be interested in a frat boy like that.
George was good looking in that blonde Midwestern, rosy cheeked, leaning towards beefy kind of way. He was also bright and convivial and far from the arrogant, entitled, frat boy Brooke had pegged him as. He worked hard for low wages as a doorman at a local tavern while studying business at DePaul. He was cheerful and sweet. But Brooke never could see the cute tree past the threatened rainforest.
George was smitten with Brooke. He had been ever since she and Celia moved into the apartment next door. Here was this skinny girl in a message tee shirt with all this pretty, long dark hair. She held forth with such ardor about saving the whales and the evil that Bush was doing in Central America. She was smart and passionate…and that hair! He’d pictured that hair countless times splayed carelessly post-coital across his chest.
Celia threw a pillow at George. “Tell Brooke what you told me.”
“Oh, yeah! The March is hiring,” said George. “I can get you a job waitressing there. You can do that a few days a week to make rent and spend the rest of the time on your environment stuff.”
“Fantastic,” said Brooke dryly, “I can wipe down the bar with my college degree. Dad will be so proud.”
“Yeah, it’ll just kill him to have to stop paying your rent,” said Celia, taking Brooke’s dryly and raising her a solid acre of Sahara.
Celia was a little more than a year younger than Brooke. She was embarking on her senior year at Loyola while working retail at Marshall Fields. She lived a very different life than Brooke, with her head firmly in this world and her feet both stylishly shod and on the ground. Secretly, though, she admired Brooke for eschewing worldly things like work and rent and what other people thought. At the same time, she resented Brooke for recusing herself from the real world and being a burden on their sad, widowed father.
“Hmmm, you may be right,” said Brooke, who'd recently donated a good chunk of her rent money to an Indian hurricane relief fund. “I guess a job like that won’t be too taxing timewise, and I will be able to spend my days on important things. George, tell them I’ll come by in the morning to fill out an application or whatever it is I’m supposed to do.”
“Will do,” said George, imagining crazily romantic scenarios: in the soft dawn light, he’d walk her home and then, at the door, she’d let her hair down and smile up at him…
You know where this is going. You know better than George. George is a sweet guy, but kind of a sap when it comes to romance (and by that I mean prone to confusing being horny with being in love). He’s also not right for Brooke at all. Celia, on the other hand… well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
George took off to go to work and Celia turned to Brooke: “Look,” she said tentatively, “Do you want to finally split up Mom’s jewelry or what?”
Their mother, dead several years now, had passed down a moderately nice collection of jewelry which she’d intended for her daughters to split upon college graduation. Their father took this to mean upon Brooke’s college graduation, and had given his daughters the box in June immediately after the ceremony.
“Oh, Celia,” said Brooke wearily, “Can’t you just keep it? You’re more into that kind of thing than I am.”
Celia said softly. “Don’t you want something that was Mom’s?”
Chagrined, Brooke nodded.
Celia rushed into the other room and returned with the box. She opened it up and pulled out a simple silver chain with a ruby pendant. “Here,” she said to Brooke, “This will look so pretty on you with your coloring.”
Brooke held up both hands as if to push something distasteful away, “Oh no! Who knows who was exploited to get that stone. We should send all that stuff straight back to Africa.”
Celia frowned and stared into the ruby. “Mom wore this whenever she got dressed up. Do you remember? She’d put on her little black dress and the ruby would pop out all red against the black. She looked so pretty. When she came home she’d come into the bedroom and kiss us good night. Do you remember? She’d come in on tiptoes, smelling of cigarettes and perfume and she’d lean over and kiss us. When she stood up after kissing me, I remember the closet light catching in the ruby and thinking how much I loved that smell and how pretty Mommy was and wanting to grow up and be her. Remember?”
They were silent for a few minutes and then Brooke said quietly, “I do. You keep that necklace, Celia. You look more like Mom than I do anyway. Next time you get dressed up, you can put on a little black dress, and wear your blonde hair up like Mom did. Put that ruby on and smoke a cigarette and all the little girls who see you will be desperate to grow up too. I’ll take these silver earrings. Do you remember these? Dad vacuumed them up one day and Mom dumped the bag out in the back yard. I wanted to help and ended up covered in dust. Mom hosed me off outside. I can wear them whenever I want to play in the hose.”
Celia smiled fondly. “Take more,” she urged. “There’s more here. What about this ring? Or these other earrings?”
“No” said Brooke firmly. “Just these. You take the rest.”
And then Brooke left her sister sitting on the couch to sort her jewelry and emotions, and went to work on a letter to the editor about the deforestation of the Ecuadorian rainforest.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
The 300th Post
And it's gonna be so lame! I really am working on the book and so not really planning to blog, but this thought hit me today and I wanted to share...I'm hosting a baby shower in a couple of weeks and I decided to do cupcakes instead of cake. This is because it's all women and I've noticed that women tend to eschew cake, but they will eat a cupcake. Why do you think that is? Or do you think this is an entirely fallacious observation?
Personally, I never turn down cake in any way shape or form (except coconut because coconut is gross).
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Hiatus?
I'm taking a break from Project Runway: The All Star Challenge to blog. I think I may have forgotten how to pay attention to television anyway. Which is sad, because I LOVE Project Runway. I love Tim Gunn. If he and Cat Deely were to ever join forces, the sheer power of their combined charm, taste, good looks, and genuine supportiveness would cause peace to spotaneously burst out in the middle east... AND in democratic townhall meeetings!
I'm also taking a permanent break from arguing about healthcare on the internet. Instead, I'm putting my little money where my mouth is and I went to Act Blue and gave them $25. If you want a public option too, give them some scratch. We got Barack Obama elected by raising money $25 at a time. Let's give the congressional dems a taste too. I know the cynics disagree, but I think we got a real shot at this thing. (I notice the people who say the public option is dead are the same people who thought Obama was going to lose the election. To quote CNN, just sayin'!)
And while I'm taking breaks from reality television and arguing healthcare, I'm taking a break from life too. We're heading off to scenic downtown Lake Ojiboki, Iowa for a few days of R&R and when I get back, I'm going to try to start really writing again. Which means also a break from this bloggy thing.
My plan is to try and get really disciplined about this thing. That said, all is not lost my 1.5 fans! If all works out as planned, I'll serialize weekly. If all works out as planned. Of course, when has THAT ever happened?
But one rant for the road. You know what really chaps my hide? People who refer to the president as "Barry." I get it. Barack is evidently some kind of subtle anti-American affectation and completely and entirely unrelated to the great, grand, gone Poobah of the Republican party having gone by Ronald instead of Ronnie. As Atrios so eloquently (and frequently) says: the stupid, it burns!
Adios for a few weeks!
I'm also taking a permanent break from arguing about healthcare on the internet. Instead, I'm putting my little money where my mouth is and I went to Act Blue and gave them $25. If you want a public option too, give them some scratch. We got Barack Obama elected by raising money $25 at a time. Let's give the congressional dems a taste too. I know the cynics disagree, but I think we got a real shot at this thing. (I notice the people who say the public option is dead are the same people who thought Obama was going to lose the election. To quote CNN, just sayin'!)
And while I'm taking breaks from reality television and arguing healthcare, I'm taking a break from life too. We're heading off to scenic downtown Lake Ojiboki, Iowa for a few days of R&R and when I get back, I'm going to try to start really writing again. Which means also a break from this bloggy thing.
My plan is to try and get really disciplined about this thing. That said, all is not lost my 1.5 fans! If all works out as planned, I'll serialize weekly. If all works out as planned. Of course, when has THAT ever happened?
But one rant for the road. You know what really chaps my hide? People who refer to the president as "Barry." I get it. Barack is evidently some kind of subtle anti-American affectation and completely and entirely unrelated to the great, grand, gone Poobah of the Republican party having gone by Ronald instead of Ronnie. As Atrios so eloquently (and frequently) says: the stupid, it burns!
Adios for a few weeks!
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Three Only Loosely Related Thoughts - None Even Bordering on Political
So, I accidentally quit smoking. I didn't mean to, only I ran out a few weeks ago. I used to have this nightly habit: once the dishes were done, work caught up on, child nestled all snug in her bed: I'd lean over the sink with a drink and a cigarette. It was awesome. But then I smoked the last one in a pack and every time I thought about running across the street to get some more, I figured I'd probably end up shot in a robbery or hit by a car and then the newspapers the next day would say "Mother,40, Killed Running Across the Street for Smokes." And since there's nothing shamier than smoking, they'd probably find some way to throw in how much I weigh. So, I just sort of fell out of the habit of leaning over the sink with a cigarette and when I did my life insurance bloodwork, my blood came back negative for nicotine.
Who'd of thunk?
Of course, if I find myself in the presence of one who has not accidentally quit smoking, I quickly metamorphose from someone who doesn't smoke to someone who "doesn't smoke."
***********
All day today I felt really fat and gross and jiggly. I have a rule that I'm not allowed to use the phrase "I feel fat" around my daughter. It is one of many fond wishes that I manage to, if not kill, at least thwart the body shame that women pass from generation to generation. My mother was almost always on a diet which was a shame because really loves food and would have been gorgeous even if she'd weighed 30 pounds more than she did. It'd be nice to be able to really relish a meal without feeling guilty about it almost immediately after. Maybe that can happen for Laney.
What's weird, though, about my particular body issues is that they're pretty fleeting. Today I felt fat and gross and jiggly. Tomorrow, I'll put on heels and a dress and then on the way to work I'll catch some guy checking me out and I'll feel great about myself.
There's a sad little self esteem irony, huh?
**********
Poetry hour! I decided to read poetry to Laney tonight. She never wants to do it, until we get a poem or two in to Where the Sidewalk Ends. If you have kids, you can totally hook them on poetry with Dreadful. Just make sure you really burp at the end.
The thing about Shel Silverstein, though, is that his poetry is only ostensibly for kids. As you leaf through, you'll stumble across a poem that's so wistful and lovely you know there's no way a six year old would get it. Shel slipped it in there for the mommies and the daddies. Like this one. Read it aloud. It's Shel Fucking Silverstein - you can read THAT much poetry, can't you? Aloud?
Forgotten Language
Once I spoke the language of the flowers,
Once I understood each word the caterpillar said,
Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings,
And shared a conversation with the housefly
in my bed.
Once I heard and answered all the questions
of the crickets,
And joined the crying of each falling dying
flake of snow,
Once I spoke the language of the flowers...
How did it go?
How did it go?
Sigh. It's so wonderful watching your kid speak that language but, dammitalltohell, isn't it sad knowing that you never will again?
Downer, huh? Click on the link for Dreadful. It's awesome. Especially if you really burp.
Who'd of thunk?
Of course, if I find myself in the presence of one who has not accidentally quit smoking, I quickly metamorphose from someone who doesn't smoke to someone who "doesn't smoke."
***********
All day today I felt really fat and gross and jiggly. I have a rule that I'm not allowed to use the phrase "I feel fat" around my daughter. It is one of many fond wishes that I manage to, if not kill, at least thwart the body shame that women pass from generation to generation. My mother was almost always on a diet which was a shame because really loves food and would have been gorgeous even if she'd weighed 30 pounds more than she did. It'd be nice to be able to really relish a meal without feeling guilty about it almost immediately after. Maybe that can happen for Laney.
What's weird, though, about my particular body issues is that they're pretty fleeting. Today I felt fat and gross and jiggly. Tomorrow, I'll put on heels and a dress and then on the way to work I'll catch some guy checking me out and I'll feel great about myself.
There's a sad little self esteem irony, huh?
**********
Poetry hour! I decided to read poetry to Laney tonight. She never wants to do it, until we get a poem or two in to Where the Sidewalk Ends. If you have kids, you can totally hook them on poetry with Dreadful. Just make sure you really burp at the end.
The thing about Shel Silverstein, though, is that his poetry is only ostensibly for kids. As you leaf through, you'll stumble across a poem that's so wistful and lovely you know there's no way a six year old would get it. Shel slipped it in there for the mommies and the daddies. Like this one. Read it aloud. It's Shel Fucking Silverstein - you can read THAT much poetry, can't you? Aloud?
Forgotten Language
Once I spoke the language of the flowers,
Once I understood each word the caterpillar said,
Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings,
And shared a conversation with the housefly
in my bed.
Once I heard and answered all the questions
of the crickets,
And joined the crying of each falling dying
flake of snow,
Once I spoke the language of the flowers...
How did it go?
How did it go?
Sigh. It's so wonderful watching your kid speak that language but, dammitalltohell, isn't it sad knowing that you never will again?
Downer, huh? Click on the link for Dreadful. It's awesome. Especially if you really burp.
Two Notes on Two Amendments
First Amendment: I am not infringing upon your first amendment rights if I call you rude or stupid or ill-informed or a giant sucker. I am exercising mine.
Second Amendment*: If you think your rights as an American are being infringed upon because you are not allowed to carry a loaded sidearm into a presidential rally, you are nuts. Nutsaroo. Nutty McCrazypants.
Also, if you are Chris Matthews, you should not be giving a forum to Nutty McCrazypants.
Finally, if you are Chris Matthews and you ignore my good advice and have Nutty McCrazypants on your show, you can at the very least insist that he articulate what American freedoms are being lost BESIDES the right to carry a loaded weapon into a presidential rally.
Sigh. Sometimes I love Chris. Other times, I want to punch him in the junk.
* Typically I hate it when a blogger answers a question that hasn't been asked. Like when they say "I don't like cats. And, no, I don't think kittens should be drowned for sport." Are you familiar with that stylistic meme? It's creepy; a way for the writer to articulate her point and then assume that anyone who disagrees does so because they're bonkers. That said, I do feel like I should mention that, no, I don't think guns should be outlawed. I don't know many people who do. I think if you want to own a gun, don't have a criminal record and will abide by sensible gun control laws (like, you know, you can't bring one into a presidential rally), more power to ya. Guns scare the shit out of me. But so do junebugs. And I don't think junebugs should be illegal.
Second Amendment*: If you think your rights as an American are being infringed upon because you are not allowed to carry a loaded sidearm into a presidential rally, you are nuts. Nutsaroo. Nutty McCrazypants.
Also, if you are Chris Matthews, you should not be giving a forum to Nutty McCrazypants.
Finally, if you are Chris Matthews and you ignore my good advice and have Nutty McCrazypants on your show, you can at the very least insist that he articulate what American freedoms are being lost BESIDES the right to carry a loaded weapon into a presidential rally.
Sigh. Sometimes I love Chris. Other times, I want to punch him in the junk.
* Typically I hate it when a blogger answers a question that hasn't been asked. Like when they say "I don't like cats. And, no, I don't think kittens should be drowned for sport." Are you familiar with that stylistic meme? It's creepy; a way for the writer to articulate her point and then assume that anyone who disagrees does so because they're bonkers. That said, I do feel like I should mention that, no, I don't think guns should be outlawed. I don't know many people who do. I think if you want to own a gun, don't have a criminal record and will abide by sensible gun control laws (like, you know, you can't bring one into a presidential rally), more power to ya. Guns scare the shit out of me. But so do junebugs. And I don't think junebugs should be illegal.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Loudmouths
It has gotten LOUD out there, hasn't it?
Think of those dimwits screeching about socialism and how Barack has six letters in it and so does Hitler and A HA STALINISMCAKES!!!!! This leaves me wanting to stand on a chair and scream "WHYAREYOUSUCHAGIANTDOUCHEYDUMMY?" You can see how I might be concerned about the productivity of such a move.
I admire people who can coolly and calmly address issues. Once I saw Molly Ivins, Bill O'Reilly and Al Franken on the same panel. O'Reilly was typically red-faced, incoherent and furious. Franken kept interrupting him, trying to correct, as O'Reilly laid slander and stupidity upon stupider stupidity and slandery slander. Molly Ivins just sat there taking notes and then, when called upon, revealed herself as the smartest, savviest one there. Hold back, take notes, and then destroy them with the force of sheer logic. Franken was delighted. O'Reilly had on his "Fuck it! We'll do it live!"face. It was awesome.
Barack Obama seems to have driven the right completely bananas. I mean, Rush Limbaugh is up on his show telling his audience, who, let's face it, probably ain't the sharpest tacks in the toolshed, that if Obama gets his way, it will be the end of representative democracy and that a bunch of men in black (or black men, which sort of seems to be implied) are coming to kill your grannies.
So, is yelling back helpful or not? I keep waiting for Obama to pull a Molly Ivins (she would have loved him, I suspect, and also been wildly disappointed in him. There are no words for how much I miss her hilarious, kind and trenchant analysis). The problem is that there's no moderator. No one seems to be calling on the folks who've held back and taken notes. It's all heat and no light and it really sounds like the leading conservative voices in the media are dog whistling some pretty heavy shit.
I'm kinda freaked out. But I also remember during the primary, when K.O. did a special comment about how Hillary Clinton was dog whistling an Obama assassination. Dude, I fucking HATED Hillary Clinton during the campaign, but even I thought that was pushing it. (Hillary will, I'm sure, be glad to know that I once again love her and have left all that primary craziness behind). Are we lefties freaking out over nothing? Surely there can't be that many people who really think that Barack Obama is a stalinist, muslim, kenyan usurper who hates old people and mentally disabled babies, right? Right? RIGHT?
Think of those dimwits screeching about socialism and how Barack has six letters in it and so does Hitler and A HA STALINISMCAKES!!!!! This leaves me wanting to stand on a chair and scream "WHYAREYOUSUCHAGIANTDOUCHEYDUMMY?" You can see how I might be concerned about the productivity of such a move.
I admire people who can coolly and calmly address issues. Once I saw Molly Ivins, Bill O'Reilly and Al Franken on the same panel. O'Reilly was typically red-faced, incoherent and furious. Franken kept interrupting him, trying to correct, as O'Reilly laid slander and stupidity upon stupider stupidity and slandery slander. Molly Ivins just sat there taking notes and then, when called upon, revealed herself as the smartest, savviest one there. Hold back, take notes, and then destroy them with the force of sheer logic. Franken was delighted. O'Reilly had on his "Fuck it! We'll do it live!"face. It was awesome.
Barack Obama seems to have driven the right completely bananas. I mean, Rush Limbaugh is up on his show telling his audience, who, let's face it, probably ain't the sharpest tacks in the toolshed, that if Obama gets his way, it will be the end of representative democracy and that a bunch of men in black (or black men, which sort of seems to be implied) are coming to kill your grannies.
So, is yelling back helpful or not? I keep waiting for Obama to pull a Molly Ivins (she would have loved him, I suspect, and also been wildly disappointed in him. There are no words for how much I miss her hilarious, kind and trenchant analysis). The problem is that there's no moderator. No one seems to be calling on the folks who've held back and taken notes. It's all heat and no light and it really sounds like the leading conservative voices in the media are dog whistling some pretty heavy shit.
I'm kinda freaked out. But I also remember during the primary, when K.O. did a special comment about how Hillary Clinton was dog whistling an Obama assassination. Dude, I fucking HATED Hillary Clinton during the campaign, but even I thought that was pushing it. (Hillary will, I'm sure, be glad to know that I once again love her and have left all that primary craziness behind). Are we lefties freaking out over nothing? Surely there can't be that many people who really think that Barack Obama is a stalinist, muslim, kenyan usurper who hates old people and mentally disabled babies, right? Right? RIGHT?
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