Rage Against The Machine

Posted on June 7, 2013 by Laurie B.

I am not a great intellectual, put on this earth to ponder the great policy intiatives that our debated in state capitols and in Washington DC by our elected officials. I am not an advocate for causes, either great or lost. I am not a mover or a shaker. No one cares what my opinions are about the issues of the day. And yet I just have to take a moment to express how I feel today. Because I’m furious.

I am a simple woman. I love two things: my cats and Rosanne Cash. Not necessarily in that order, and not necessarily with the same intensity. (But don’t let my cats know–they can get fiercely jealous.) Oh, and I love one other thing: The Illusion of America.

Even though I’m cynical, more bitter than your average bear, and determined not to have my emotions manipulated by pure propaganda, I can’t help but confess that I’m a sucker for the American Dream.

Oh, sure, economically the middle class is collapsing, that much is true, as we are losing millions of decent, dependable, good-paying jobs every year. Millions of us find ourselves newly constrained by the rusted shackles poverty every passing year in this millenium as we continue to slide down the economic ladder. We not only watch our own dreams for retirement die, but those of our children as well, as it dawns us that most of what we want for them–a good education, a nice job, a solid home in a secure neighbor–is out of reach.

But, even as I see with these jaded eyes that bleak future before us, I cling tightly to the belief that America represents something Important. The things we Value, generations before us fought valiantly for. They are supposed to be mean something. Our values are supposed to be more than just empty rhetoric muttered mechanically by corrupt politicians for cheap applause.

We are supposed to Respect Human Dignity. But, we don’t. We imprison men without trial, without rights, in harsh conditions with no intention of releasing them in some sort of Kafka performance piece in Cuba. We will keep these men in prison all of their lives, even though they are innocent of any crime. We will keep these men alive to endure their inhuman, undeserved prison sentences by forcefully shoving tubes down their throat and pouring nutrients into their bodies so that they cannot die of starvation as more than half of them are attempting to do.

We are supposed to Respect the Rules of War. But, we don’t. We launch devastating bombs in areas that are not even legitimate war zones, and we kill thousands of innocent people a year in an effort to eliminate our “enemies.” Who are these enemies? We the People don’t need to know that. Who are the people that we are killing? We don’t need to know that, either–the childen, the women, the wedding parties. If they died by a bomb that we launched, then they were guilty of something.

We are supposed to Respect the Rights of Our Citizens. But, we don’t. We search them unnecessarily, coldly, callously, heartlessly, from the cop on the street to the Attorney General of the United States. All in the name of “rooting out evildoers.” We scoop up phone records of everyone and sift through it laboriously, as if we have a right to do so, looking for clues, hints, that some of us are doing something, somewhere, contrary to the laws of this land. If the things our government are doing had been reported as having been done by the Chinese instead, we would have sanctimoniously pointed a finger at their oppressive Communist government and crowed, “Ah ha! THAT is what a police state looks like! Only a government afraid of its own people would go to such links to spy on the innocent. We do not have that problem here in America. Here we are Free.”

Once these outrages are revealed, are our leaders ashamed? Embarrassed? Fearful of an angry public? No. They brazenly assert to any journalist that sticks a microphone in their face that “this has been going on for years.” (Dianne Feinstein, (D), CA) “I’m glad this is happening.” (Lindsay Graham, Senator, (R), SC) “This has helped us catch countless bad guys.” (Saxby Chambliss, Senator, (R), GA) (Countless, I imagine, in the sense that it is impossible to count a thing that does not have a quantity.) And, most chillingly: “This is what protecting America looks like.” That last quote was also from Senator Feinstein, a supposedly liberal senator from the supposedly liberal state of California. Oh, really, Senator? THIS is what protecting America looks like? Because I thought that THIS is what destroying America’s values and liberties looks like. I thought that this is what pissing on the Constitution looks like. I thought this is what government overreach looks like. But, you say this is what protecting America looks like. Must be my mistake, then. Please let me get back to looking at funny pictures of dogs on Reddit & reading snarky tweets about fascism on Twitter while you continue “protecting” us. Sorry to get my panties in a bunch.

With this latest revelation of the NSA phone records scandal, as well as the way the White House has subpoened records from the Associated Press to root out a whistleblower who, they say–and why should we ever doubt the sincerity and truthfulness of the United States Government?–compromised national security by leaking information to the press, in addition to the way the White House is persecuting a Fox News reporter for the work he did, it is becoming increasingly difficult to sit by and watch our violent, overly-secretive, abusive, unrestrained government continue to act unilaterally at home and abroad in all of our names.

I am, in a word, furious.

That’s all I wanted to say. Thank you for reading. (Unless you’re an NSA agent and, let’s be honest, you probably are. In which case you can go fuck yourself.) I’m going to the dream I have of America, where none of my cats throw up on the carpet, and they gladly share quality lap time instead of trying to claw each other’s eyes out because I let one sit in my lap and another wants–*meow!* *hiss!* *spit!*–

Sigh.

Ahem.

The dream I have of America where all my cats and I live in harmony, listening to Rosanne Cash music, dreaming of a better America.

Weight, Weight Don’t Tell Me!

Posted on May 27, 2013 by Laurie B.

On June 4th I will have reached a milestone of sorts, so I thought I would take a moment to reflect upon the last year of my life. Oh, I could join the rest of America tonight and binge-watch the new season of Arrested Development on Netflix, but then what will I do tomorrow as I laze upon the couch, hungover, in my pajamas? (Obviously, with that last remark, you can deduce that June 4th does not mark the date I stopped drinking.)

As all three of you that are reading this know, I started exercising a year ago. Monday, June 4th, 2012, to be exact.

What’s the big fucking deal?, someone other than myself surely must be asking.

Well, let’s start by giving you some visual evidence to comfort your curiousity.

Here I am almost two years ago today, in desperate need of both a haircut and a stylist to tell me that, oh, girl, pink is definitely not your color:

I still hadn't lost the baby weight (from that baby I never conceived, much less gave birth to.)

And here I am about ten minutes ago, still in desperate need of a haircut and a stylist:

Do you notice a difference? I do. And I guess that’s what I’ll chat about for a wee bit tonight.

(That’s all the visual evidence you’re getting, though, so I hope it suffices. I’m not a Jenny Craig ad, people. You will not see full body “before” and “after” shots of me in shorts and a sports bra. Some imagination is required.)

Tonight’s little essay is about the transformation I have undergone in the past year, but the natural question to ask before discussing all of that is “How the hell did you get so obese in the first place, Laurie?” (And for all of you relying solely on the Pretty in Pink picture above who are reflexively, perhaps out of Christian kindness, wanting to protest with a “You don’t look that fat to me, Laurie,” ssh. That’s sweet of you, but, trust me, there are boobs and a pot belly just below frame that would make John Goodman look svelte. I was a sausage. People that knew me at the time are piping in: “Mmm hmm. It’s true. She was a fatty.”) That is a more complicated question to answer. I will try to delve deeper into it at a later date. But, a multitude of factors contributed to my growing weight problem: I didn’t like myself, I was made uncomfortable by people’s advances towards me so I tried to eat my way into invisibility, as years passed I became more sedentary, etc. I was an all-star athlete in high school, and I walked on to my university’s volleyball team, but even then, my heyday of athletic achievement, I did not enjoy exercise.

Fast forward through twenty years of an increasingly sedentary lifestyle, and you create the pulpy pink mass that is peering out at you in the picture above.

I wouldn’t even be thinking about exercise or weight-loss were it not for my friend Amy’s initial encouragement. All the progress that I’ve made this past year is due to her influence. She signed up for a boot camp exercise program through Groupon, and if she had not pestered me to sign-up with her, I’d probably be shoving chili cheese fries in my face while watching Arrested Development on Netflix right now, (which sounds awesome!), instead of writing about this transformative year. She coaxed me to sign up at the end of March, with the idea that we we start on April 1st. Well…she started. I sighed and ignored her.

I ignored her for two months. Of course I did. I wasn’t really interested in working out. Why would I be? I hated exercise! And I had lived without it for years. I couldn’t imagine being able to do a push-up, much less surviving an hour of calesthenics. But, she led by example. I could see her energy levels were rising and she seemed to be enjoying it, so I thought I might as well give it a try.

And so I started. On June 4th, 2012.

As you might possibly imagine, (or remember, from my tweets and Facebook posts a year ago), starting was painful. Every muscle in my body screamed in resistance. I had absolutely no stamina and could do very few things without stopping and gasping for breath.

After exercising on June 4th, 2012, this was my first tweet:

I’m alive. But, I haven’t broken out into a sweat & felt nauseated so quickly since entering that raw oyster eating contest. #exercisesucks

And this was my follow-up:

Did you hear that? I just climbed the stairs to the 2nd floor and my thighs screamed “FUCK YOU!”

By the second day of exercise, (Wednesday, June 6th):

I just shouted “Fuck!” so loud when I sat down to pee my neighbors must think I bought the audio version of 50 Shades of Grey. #ThighPain

So, at least I was finding the humor in the agony I was enduring. That was a good sign. (Honestly, though, I did scream “Fuck!” I remember that as though it were yesterday.)

Friday, June 8th:

Tonite we had to do dead man crawls into pushups for 30 yds. I faceplanted into the astroturf after 10. I literally munched carpet.

And from the 12th:

“Okay, Poop Shoot. I ate a salad. Talk to you in an hour!” is what I WOULD tweet, if I didn’t have self-restraint and a filter.

(That last tweet has nothing to do with exercise. It simply makes me laugh.)

From June 13th, 2012:

During tonight’s workout, I grunted so loud a nurse came over to see how dilated my cervix was. She said it was too late for the epidural.

And on it went, each day to the next. I kept showing up for more abuse. Possibly because I was looking for inspiration for more hilarious tweets. Or possibly because I was beginning to feel better.

I knew by the end of the second week that exercising for an hour three times a week was having a beneficial effect on me. So I just kept going. And now it’s been a year.

Oh, I have not followed the three times a week regime religiously. And there have probably been weeks where I’ve eaten and drank more calories than I’ve burned off. But I have kept going, through the highs and the lows.

And somehow, after almost a year of fluctuations and undisciplined behavior, the past two weeks have been incredible. So, maybe it takes a year of improved diet, (oh, I haven’t even begun to discuss the changes in my diet that I’ve endured over the past year, but that has contributed mightily to my transformation), and exercise before someone like me can feel the genuine benefit. I have never felt better in my life than I have this month.

What exactly does “feeling better” mean, Laurie?

Why, thanks for asking, random reader!

I simply feel, for the first time in my life, like I have energy & strength. My core muscles feeling steady and sturdy enough to control my frame. (I never knew what a “core” was until I met my trainer, Tre.) I feel like I have genuinely strong muscles. (Clearly this statement is limited to my age and my experience. I’m not trying to say I feel like I have superhuman strength or anything. In fact, I tried to pull weeds and shovel in my yard this weekend and I felt like dying after about thirty seconds of effort. So, you know. I don’t even know what saying I have “genuinely strong muscles” means. Because clearly my genuinely strong muscles are useless for yardwork.) I feel like my breathing and blood pressure are balanced. I am not suffering from chronic aches and pains. I feel like I’m starting to carry the amount of weight that my body was designed to carry. And I am enjoying the workouts now. Finally, after a year.

It always terrifies me to make proclamations like that. Because, of course, I have no idea what the future will bring. I write to you seemingly confident that I’ve “hit my stride” when it comes to the three times a week exercise regimen that I’ve been trying to maintain for the past year…but what if next week I grow absolutely bored with it and give up going all together? What if it starts to hurt? What if my desire for gelato and cheeseburgers and craft beers overwhelms whatever desire I have to exercise?

Part of me is afraid of backsliding. And part of me doesn’t even care.

The lesson, of course, when it comes to exercise, is that the motivation for this sort of thing has to come from within. You’re the only person that can motivate you to exercise and sweat and push yourself to painful limits. I can’t imagine doing this for anyone else’s approval. It’s not about your lover or your husband or your parents or your children or your friends. It really is only about you and how you want to feel about yourself.

I have been exercising for almost a year and, if a fashion designer is being generous, he would say I’ve shrunk down from an 18, (I never bought 18’s, but I probably should have), to a 10, (although I doubt I’m in 10’s comfortably. 12’s, maybe.) All that shrinkage hasn’t helped my social life, though, I’ll tell you that much.

I don’t get asked out on dates, and all I get are strange, uncomfortable stares when I approach women. (Although there was this bikini-clad exotic dancer who seemed happy to meet me for one brief moment.) Becoming fit does not necessarily improve one’s prospects. If anything, I feel more celibate now than I did a year ago. (But, that’s an issue I have to deal with, and clearly a topic for another essay.)

About the only thing that I’ve noticed as I’ve started to shed weight is that people look at me a little bit longer than before. They don’t talk to me, per se. (They certainly don’t ask me out on dates.) They just let their gaze linger. Occasionally they smile. Probably because I remind them of someone. I have that kind of face, you know. Well, my picture is at the beginning of this blogpost, so you can see for yourself. “You look like someone I know,” is something I’ve heard more times than I can begin to count. (Someday I would like to meet all these people I look like.) Cashiers and servers and people in the hospitality industry generallly act nicer to me now. But I don’t know if that’s because they’re happier to be serving a thinner person or because I’m giving off better energy because I’m not such a miserable fatty.

The above workout was one I did back in December, 2012, right after Christmas. I remember feeling SO PROUD that I finished it! That is why I had Tre take a picture of the workout and send it to my friend Jackie, who sent it to my hotmail account…(life is a little difficult when you don’t have a smartphone, okay?)

It was SO intense. It really was.

I look at it today, six months later, and I’m thinking, “Not only could I finish that, but I could start a second round.” That’s progress, baby, right?

By the way, I have no idea how much I weigh. Thanks to doctor’s visits, I know I weighed over 205 lbs before I started this exercise regime. The last time I was weighed, back in August, 2012 or so, I think I was at 186, if I’m remembering correctly. I have no idea how much I weigh now. (Probably 181. I’m kidding and being self-deprecating or whatever the phrase is for people that talk bad about themselves.)

One of my trainers, after I had been exercising for about a month or two, wondered outoud why I was exercising. She was curious to know my motivation. “What are you doing this for, Laurie?” I didn’t answer her then, and I doubt I could answer her now.

Maybe in a year it will come to me.

Stop The Insanity

Posted on May 17, 2013 by Laurie B.

It is important to remember that humans have lived on the edge of hysterical apocalypse as far back as our written history takes us. Knowing how humans love to be terrorized, it wouldn’t surprise me to discover that our ancestors were whispering fearfully about the imminent end of the world long before they invented written language. It’s just that once we learned our letters, we couldn’t wait to start writing about how soon we were all going to die.

It’s not simply that the End Times play prominently in the final chapters of the Christian Bible, for example–although that is a glaring example of the hysteria that I’m talking about–it’s that the entire basis of the Christian religion was that a)God was basically pissed at humanity, (this is after he was so pissed at us that he flooded the entire planet and started over with Noah), and the reason he even bothered to make a baby with that delightfully coy Mary was because it was time for him to kick some ass and take some names, so you better choose the right team, brother, because bad boys, bad boys whatcha gonna do, whatcha gonna do when they come for you? The prophecy of the Messiah was fulfilled when Jesus was born and aww, shit, dawg! You better watch yourself, because the Lord don’t play!

True believers were convinced that the Power at the time, the Roman Empire, had met its match and would be decimated.

True believers eagerly traveled from town to town, singing Tracy Chapman’s “Talkin’ ‘Bout a Revolution” to any Jew smart enough to listen and be converted. They weren’t trying to convert people because they wanted to share a message of love: they were doing it because they believed God was coming down to destroy the unrighteous and the end was near. This shit was going down. Jesus was going to reign victorious, so you better hop on the bandwagon, (Sure, the band only sings that one Tracy Chapman tune, but you get used to it), because he wasn’t going to take any prisoners. They meant it.

True believers were more than a little stunned when their divine little Terminator was unceremoniously executed by the very same Romans he was sent to destroy. (“I did NOT see that coming,” one of them was overheard saying later that night as he dipped his pita bread in a dish of olive oil at Jerusalem’s Macaroni Grill.) But, they quickly reset the narrative to include the highly improbable, contentious resurrection, that thing that single-handedly defines Christianity, and which, after thousands of years, has come to be associated with colored eggs and chocolate rabbits. After they successfully managed to explain away the seeming impossibility of how the Divine could be so easily killed by a mere mortal, they quickly went back to promulgating the impending end of the world, with their side being victorious. But this time they meant it.

True believers were even more stunned when, in 70 A.D., the Romans unceremoniously destroyed the most amazing temple ever built…but they quickly folded that impossible disaster into the narrative as well. (Brilliantly, I might add: “Jesus WILL come back! Oh, yes, he will! When this completely destroyed, unreparable building is rebuilt.” <a ha! Gotcha! That should keep you stumped for a few thousand years.>) And they quickly went back to promulgating the impending end of the world, with their side being victorious. But this time they meant it.

And so it’s gone on and on and on for two thousand years. Back when humans were generally ignorant and uncertain of the properties and principles that govern the universe, that fear that the end of the world was near was almost understandable in a way. After all, if you don’t know that the plague-infected fleas are what are killing all of Europe, of course you’re going to think God is trying to destroy your civilization because you slept with your sister. But, the panic, the uncertainty and the irrational belief that God is trying to murder us haven’t gone away even as we’ve grown more intelligent and have come to realize that our sleeping with our sisters in no way affects God’s mood. Polls still show that entirely too many of us believe that we’re going to be the last living generation on the planet…and we live in an era where we can transplant a face…ONTO SOMEONE ELSE’S FACE! Who is generally someone who has been living for years…WITHOUT A FACE! But, that enhanced knowledge doesn’t seem to make us feel a bit better. Every time something horrible happens,* it’s a sign that God is hell-bent on destroying us and our sinful ways. You’d think, since the Lord is all-powerful and super-duper strong and stuff and has clearly been disappointed in us ever since he created our species, (This DESPITE us having invented Angry Birds and the ballpoint pen. There’s just no pleasing some people.), out of snakes and snails and puppy dog tails, he would just play marbles with us and flick our infinitesimally small planet directly towards the sun and <poof!> problem solved. He could start over on Mars and get it right this time. (Not that God makes mistakes.)

The tenets of Christianity are a useful way for me to illlustrate how comfortable humans are existing in the last moments of time. But Christians are, of course, just one sliver of humanity–granted, a fairly large, very sanctimonious, sliver of humanity, especially in this country–that has energized itself with the warmth of impending fire and brimstone. There are other religions that do that, too. (I say confidently, so as not to make Christians out to be the most paranoid of all the Gods-fearing people on earth, but the truth is I have no idea. Are there? Sure.)

But, there has to be something evolutionarily necessary about this fear of impending doom that we’ve been hauling around for generations. It has to have a purpose, right? Or else how could something so blatantly unnecessary and stupid survive generation after generation, despite all evidence showing its worthlessness? (Like religion itself, say.)

Is the fear of impending death what spurs civilization forward? Because it does seem that the communal, peaceful societies, the ones that accept death and destruction as a symmetrical part of life that is not to be feared…they don’t seem to last very long do they? It seems like the cultures that believe an angry God metes out death and destruction as punishments find those peaceable peoples and roar right over their adorable little communities like locusts on a wheatfield.

There has to be a way to wind down the insanity, though, doesn’t there? Do we really have to get so bent out of shape over every goddamn thing that doesn’t fit perfectly into how we believe the world is supposed to be? Because it doesn’t feel very healthy to me. I don’t get the sense that our civilization is “evolving” into a higher state of consciousness. The way we scream at each other about things we don’t understand. The desperate way we try to glean divine meaning behind completely random, violent acts of Nature. Nancy Grace.

Try not to get caught up in the apocalyptic waves that are constantly pummelling this nation. Our civilization did not collapse, and we were not reduced to eating our young when 19 men used planes as bombs on 9/11, so stop freaking out about Muslims destroying this country. Just because millions of Mexicans and Guatemalans want to live in this country with dignity and respect, that doesn’t mean that we’re all gonna be speaking Spanish, watching Telemundo, and praying to Our Lady of Guadalupe. We’ll survive with them out of the shadows. In fact, we’ll live better because of it. Please stop acting like being forced to endure a background check when purchasing a gun means that civilization is going to end. Wanting to raise tax revenues so that we can pay for our society to function does not mean that we’ll be forced to live like Kevin Costner in Waterworld, using a filtration system to drink our own pee. If we have to raise the age of social security a year, it doesn’t mean that all of our elderly are going to die in the gutter, alone, smelling like Kevin Costner’s pee.

(Of course, the irony of this is it sounds a wee bit like I’m suggesting that, if we don’t stop acting like every bad thing that happens signifies the end of the world, it’ll mean the end of the world. Give yourself a cookie if you figured that out, too.)

Maybe I would just be happier with zeitgeist panic attacks if the people who are upset would hold up more accurate signs of protest. Why not just say what’s really on your mind?

“I CAN’T UNDERSTAND HOW THIS PLANET COULD POSSIBLY FUNCTION WITHOUT ME!”

“I HAVEN’T HAD A CHANCE TO BREED YET!” or, if you regret your offspring, “I HAVEN’T MADE ONE I’M PROUD OF YET!”

“I DON’T WANT SOME RANDOM STRANGER TO HAVE THE POWER TO RANDOMLY KILL ME.”

“I DON’T WANT TO DIE OF STARVATION, THIRSTY, SHOVING DRIED CORN INTO MY MOUTH!”

“I WANT TO BE IMMORTAL!”

“I DON’T WANT ANYTHING TO CHANGE, EVER, BECAUSE CHANGE ALWAYS MEANS SOMETHING BAD IS GOING TO HAPPEN.”

“SERIOUSLY, FUCK, YOU MEAN I’M GOING TO DIE? ARE YOU SHITTING ME?”

“I AM AWED AND OVERCOME WITH TERROR KNOWING THAT NATURE CAN MANIFEST ITSELF IN WAYS THAT WREAK SUCH DESTRUCTION THAT MY 2,100 SQUARE FOOT HOUSE CAN BE REDUCED TO FIREWOOD IN ABOUT FIVE SECONDS AND I AM HELPLESS TO DO ANYTHING TO PREVENT IT SO IT MUST BE THE WORK OF GOD.”

That last one might be a little too long to fit on a sign. That person might need to hire a banner-pulling airplane.

You’re going to die. You won’t be nearly as famous, respected, rich or remembered when you die as you wish you would be. You’ll be lucky if all of your kids even like you. (The ones that act like they do secretly just want your money.) You probably won’t die when you want to, and it’ll probably be a lot more painful than you’d wish it would be. That doesn’t mean that you should freak out about every little bit of news that collides with your worldview. Bad shit is going to happen to you. It doesn’t mean that God is punishing you. It just means that you’re alive. Just try to enjoy that.

*(I mean something grand in scale, of course. Someone getting their face eaten off by achimpanzee or another human being clearly high on some malevolent narcotic is not seen as a sign of God’s vengeance. Probably because that would make God seem to be pretty petty and psychotic, a Hannibal Lecter with a Messiah-complex.)

Who Has Two Thumbs (Up) & Off-Beat Opinions About Movies?

Posted on November 11, 2012 by Laurie B.

I am not artistic. I do not have a creative bone in my body. I am not woken up in the middle of the night by inspirational visions that propel me to craft incredible works that will uplift all who hear them. (Unless, of course, lucid dreams in which I’m having interesting conversations with P. Diddy at his home in the Hamptons count as inspirational.) I do not have an artist’s temperment or mindset.

In my (extremely) general (read: probably wrong) experience, artists are flighty people. I have a difficult time having conversations with many of them, because they do not appear connected to anything remotely reality-based. I cannot tell if that affectation of spaciness is their true personality or if they think they have to act like Andy Warhol in order to be considered “artistic,” or if they are under the influence of drugs or if they are suffering from a mental disease, but whatever the cause, it is difficult for me to relate to them. I find most of them to be vainglorious, narcissitic idiots.

I am such a practical, grounded, realistic thinker that it borders on stern frigidity. It is highly important to me that things make sense. Illogic disturbs me. Terrifies me, to be more precise. The scariest movie I can think of, one that I am still, to this day, incapable of watching, is Disney’s version of Alice in Wonderland. Things HAVE to make sense to me, or I lose my motherfucking mind. I do not necessarily have to agree with the logic of the presenter. But I have to be able to discern a pattern, a point, a line of reasoning that makes sense on some level. Whether or not I agree with that reasoning, as long as I can detect it, I am not turned into a quivering, gelantinous, intellectual mess.

Knowing that’s how I view the world, the fact that I cannot relate to many artists isn’t that surprising at all, when you think about it. If they have a grounded approach to life and an approach to their art that makes sense (to me), I’m fine. If they’re wandering around the world acting as if at any moment they’re going to start flinging their feces on the wall, (I’m looking at you, Joaquin Phoenix), I recoil from them. (Although, really, who wouldn’t?)

All of that jibber-jabber aside…I love movies. I love to be told a great story.

Story-telling is as woven into the fabric of human history as is our love of pets. As is our desire for sex. (Sounds like a helpful guide: Pets & Sex–The History of Us.) Stories allow us to bond through shared emotion. Stories educate us about the human condition. Or, in the case of The March of the Penguins, they educate us about the penguin condition, which, surprisingly, has turned into one of the more popular subsets of conditions that movies attempt to document. (I’m looking at you, Happy Feet 2.) Stories allow us to feel pain without actually having to experience actual tragedy. They allow us to laugh which, I hear, is the best medicine. Stories are very medicinal.

Stories told well enough can actually alter the human condition. The stories in the Bible, for example, are so popular, powerful, and well-known that they have actually influenced the way that human beings create their societies. The stories in the Bible are so powerful, in fact, that billions of people actually think that they are real. A great story can BECOME reality.

Stories can be told by artists through many mediums. Songs tell stories. As do paintings. Dance. Photography. Sculpture. I mean, okay. It’s safe to theorize that ALL art is attempting in some way to convey a message, to evoke a feeling, to tell a story.

But, movies are my go to story-telling device. And I LOVE a good story.

So. Those are the factors inside of me that shape my reviews of movies. 1)I am not artistic. 2)Nonsensical, illogical artistry drives me, quite literally, insane. 3)I loves me a good story! Everyone with me so far?

I explain this to you as a way of trying to warn you, in advance, that I tend to rip into movies that do not live up to my standards. Okay, basically, all of this was written as a way to let you know that I plan on shredding the new James Bond movie in my next blogpost. Assuming I get around to writing it. Extremely critical, judgmental writing does not recharge my batteries. If I become too self-righteous and indigant, I start to feel depressed. It can be tedious and exhausting. But, this shiny new 007 movie is such a steaming pile of crap that it has to be done. I have to do it. For you.

There will be spoilers. There will be mockery. There will be so many points of contention that I am confident that anyone who reads it will want to respond with “Fuck, Laurie, relax. It’s only a movie.”

I bet you just can’t wait to read it.

I guess I better get started on writing it.

I simply wanted to warn you first.

Nothing To Fear But Fear Itself

Posted on November 8, 2012 by Laurie B.

FDR: “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” Congressman 1: “And spiders!” “Well, yes. And spiders. That goes without saying.” Congressman 2: “And snakes!” “Yes. Snakes, too.” Congressman 3: “Don’t forget werewolves!” “There is no such thing as werewolves!” ~ Robot Chicken

I worked as a polling assistant all day yesterday, the day America renewed its faith in Barack Hussein Obama. This morning my feet feel exactly as if yesterday they stood in heels for 14 straight hours on a cold, linoleum floor, so I would like to take a moment to sit down and try to explain my views about the election and what it means to me. (If that ‘moment’ happens to evolve into several hours and a foot massage, so much the better.)

Let me explain to you why last night’s Democratic victory makes me feel good.

In order for me to do that, I need to explain to you what kind of person I am. Perhaps some of you are similarly wired. Or, maybe you will think I need to seek psychological treatment, (up to, but not limited to, pharmacological remedies and/or electric shock therapy), as quickly as possible. I don’t know. However, I want to explain how I tick on the off-chance you will see that, while I am a product of my culture and society, (just like you), I am not a mindless drone for the Democratic Party. (For one thing, I’m not a member of the Democratic Party.)

“Okay, Laurie. Stop talking to us like we’re fucking idiots. We get it. Come on. I don’t have all day to read your blog. I have laundry to fold and guns to clean. Let’s go.”

(For starters, I’m the kind of person that has continual conversations with you in my head. And in my head you curse. A LOT. You should really work on that.)

Okay. Here we go.

I am a fearful person.

I have dealt with fear my entire life. As many of you know, by the age of five I was being molested/raped with routine regularity by a family friend. Holding in that anxiety and fear from such an early age undoubtedly helped shape the fear-riddled person I became. I stare at perpetual optimists with fascination, (and more than a little suspicion), because I have no idea what it feels like to be that happy. (To this day, nothing makes me quite as uncomfortable as an excessively sunny personality.) I cannot remember what it feels like to not be worried about what lurks around unfamiliar corners, or in the hearts of people who claim that they love you. There are other reasons why I am a fearful person, of course: I never received a lot of praise as a child; I grew up in a strict, sometimes physically abusive household. I watched all of my older siblings get the crap knocked out of them on a regular basis. As the youngest, I tried very hard to do everything right to avoid the same fate, but I wasn’t always successful. When I entered high school, I tried to overcome some of my fear by relying on my brother for support. He rewarded me by begging me to fuck him so that he could lose his virginity. (Since I had already lost my virginity to the man who raped me as a child, he helpfully pointed out, it would be no big deal for me, as I had “done it before.”) Needless to say, that took me back to square one in the C’mon, Laurie! Conquer Your Fear! Category. I was afraid to make close friends because I was afraid of revealing secrets about my family. And, as if all those emotional triggers weren’t bad enough, I had your basic fear of heights, fear of enclosed spaces, fear of choking, etc, to deal with, too.

In short, by the time I left home for college, I basically lived in fear of everyone and everything.

I explain all of this to you as a way of saying I understand the power of the politics of fear. Fear, in my mind, is little more than a feeling of weakness, of helplessness. You’re trapped by forces outside of your control that are going to hurt you. Those forces are trying to humiliate you, use you, discard you, degrade you, or even kill you.

I understand fear.

Fear leads to anger. It leads to short fuses and red hot tempers. Fear can make you view complete strangers as potential enemies. It can make you view loved ones as potential enemies, too. Fear can cause you to repress emotions that make you feel vulnerable, such as unadulterated joy. Fear builds walls and breaks down relationships. One way to avoid being hurt by others is for you to hurt yourself first, so fear can lead to substance abuse and self-destructive behavior. Fear can prevent you from listening to differing points of view, because if all that you have in world is the worldview that you have shaped through your experiences, the last thing you want is someone to come along and try to change it.

I understand fear. And the Republican Party’s platform is based on little else.

Oh, the Republican Party’s entire reason for existence is to create a political avenue for the aristocracy and Corporate America to create favorable laws and tax rates which will increase their wealth and their stockprices. But, once you get past the “We’ll lower your taxes” mantra, all the Republican Party tries to do is scare the shit out of people. Immigrants are taking your jobs! (I studied for years to be able to harvest that lettuce, and that goddamn Guatamalan woman with four kids took it from me!) Gays are ruining your marriage! Barack Obama is going to take your guns! Lazy (black) people are going to sit on their asses all day playing XBox and collecting unemployment while you bust your hump pulling down two full-time jobs! (I would have had a third job, but that damn Guatamalan! Grrr! <fist shake>) Barack Obama is gutting the military! Iran is going to invade us and impose Shar’ia Law! ABORTION! ABORTION! ABORTION! We’re going extinct because we’re killing unborn children!

From massing in large numbers at political rallies with AK-47’s strapped to their backs to claiming that Obamacare was going to intentionally kill senior citizens, the Republican Party has made sure that this country has been filled with uncertainty and dread for the past four years.

Now that this election has been decided, though, I would like to just say I wish the Republican Party would try a new tack. I spent the past two years having my fear receptors rubbed raw by the likes of Roger Ailes, Karl Rove, Rush Limbaugh, Mitch McConnell, Michele Bachmann, Ann Coulter, Mike Huckabee, Sarah Palin, and I would just like to express how thoroughly fucking sick of it I am.

Since I have lived with fear my entire life, and because I am white, and because I grew up in a conservative household that idolized Ronald Reagan, I should, by many metrics, make an ideal recruit for the Republican Party. I should simply embrace the fears that they stoke and have faith that they will protect me from that which terrifies me the most.

But, life didn’t really work out that way.

Maybe it’s exactly because I have lived with fear for so long that I so violently reject the messages the Republican Party perpetuates.

It is HARD to live life as a fearful person. The self-destructive behavior. The inability to sustain long-lasting, trusting relationships. The anger. The flashes of rage. The distrust. It all takes an enormous toll. Essentially, I’ve spent my entire adult life working to reduce fear’s controlling grip over me. Luckily, I’ve made a lot of progress. (I would not be here in this frame of mind if I hadn’t.) I wish very much that others would do the same. I wish that others would work hard to free themselves from the destructive vice grip of not only republican ideals, but their own personal fears as well. Because an individual’s emotional fears, the ones that constantly control their personal life, can easily metastisize into a political worldview in which every new concept or unfamiliar group is a threat.

Here’s another thing that exhausts me about Republican fear and hate: The way they point fingers at “others.” The way they call people outside their clique “takers” or “victims” or “incapable of fostering a sense of personal responsibility.” I can only speak for myself, but that offends me because I know the challenges I have had to overcome on my way to becoming a better person. I know the inner demons I’ve battled, the anxiety I fought to keep from spiralling out of control. I know how I used alcohol to blur my perspective so that my detachment from reality wasn’t as obvious to myself or others. I spent all of my twenties in a quasi-fugue state, being so emotionally detached that the only person I related to was the literary figure Holden Caufield. Remember him? From “Catcher in the Rye”? (Please don’t ask me about that book. I cannot for the life of me remember the plot, nor do I wish to. All I know is Holden Caufield felt like he was constantly on the outside looking in, which is exactly how I felt in my twenties. That and I am supposed to kill Ronald Reagan for Jodie Foster someday.) In my mind, I can see the rocky paths I traveled down and the horrible choices that I made. I can see where I failed to make connections with people because I didn’t have the skills necessary to do so. I know what it feels like to live in dread in the closet, terrified that those tiny relationships I did manage to build would be destroyed if those people knew I was gay. I can trace changes in my life to critical moments of connection when, through the inifinite patience, my friends and lovers stuck by me despite the fact that I was an emotional challenge. I know how delicate it felt, re-wiring my brain to feel new emotions. I can remember what it felt like to mentally force myself to not freak out about intimacy. In other words, I know what it feels like to take personal responsibility, to improve oneself. And so, yes, it pisses me off when Republicans so callously refer to people like me as “victims” and “takers.” It pisses me off when they have such a reckless disregard for, and a complete lack of appreciation of, the struggles that define all of us. It annoys me to no end when they act as if they are the only group of people who are familiar with personal responsiblity. But it REALLY pisses me off when ordinary people nod in agreement at the words being spoken by those heartless millionaires. I wish those ordinary people would stop being trapped by their own fear, would stop allowing themselves to be manipulated and realize that when their leaders point the finger at the “others,” and speak about them with such revulsion and disgust they are actually pointing their fingers at EVERYONE. Including them.

As I struggled to become a more secure, less terrified, well-rounded individual, it would have been easy for me to allow that journey to make me MORE selfish. (Fearful people, are incredibly selfish. They don’t intend to be–it’s just the nature of their state of mind. They’re panicked, you see. Constantly. And living on that edge of anxiety and uncertainty makes a person react to most of what life throws at them from a perspective of self-preservation. “Fuck all of you all, I am dying over here–I have to do what’s right for ME” is the typical mindset of a fearful person.) But the beautiful thing about letting go of fear is that it leaves more room in your heart for more positive emotions. When you do not have to confront your fear every single minute of every single day, you have time to feel empathy for other people where before you wouldn’t allow yourself to. As the fear lessens, you feel a softness inside of you that, (if you’re not afraid of it), allows you to embrace compassion. And you realize that compassion is not a weakness to be feared. When you have gone decades of your life without it, when you are flooded with compassion you realize that it’s a gift to be cherished, not something to be mocked and scorned. Compassion is not weakness. It takes a tremendous amount of strength to have compassion for others.

I understand fear. I understand that it cannot be conquered alone.

As I have bumbled through my life, making mistakes left and right, dealing with the violent, unintended, lonely consequences of living an angry, fear-filled life, I have come to appreciate how important the connections are that we make in this world. There is no way that I could have made myself a better person alone. The friends that loved me unconditionally. The strangers who, on the way to becoming lifelong friends, appreciated me almost instantaneously, making me feel valuable and special. Yes, I’ve taken personal responsibility seriously as I’ve aged–but that doesn’t mean I made my improvements solely by sheer force of will. I’ve needed a community of people to help me, to have patience with me. They’ve forgiven me when I’ve made mistakes. They’ve accepted my apologies when I’ve treated them rudely or selfishly. They’ve helped me see that I don’t need to be perfect and smudge-free in order to be a better person.

Through it all, as I’ve become less fearful, kinder, more understanding, and more appreciative of my community, my country, my planet as a whole, the Republican party has congealed into this tight, dense ball of hatred and fear. Maybe that is why the starkness of their positions hits me hard. They have spent the past fifteen years tapping into the very same emotions that I am trying to reduce and eliminate on a personal level!

They’ve made “liberal” out to be a pejorative. “Feminazis.” “The gay agenda.” “Illegals.” “Welfare queens.” “Urban youth.” “Ragheads.” “Muslims are terrorists.” “We don’t want to become like Europe.” (That one I’ve never understood. Really? Happy? Healthcare? Rule of law? Relative peace and properity? Yeah. Fucking Europeans! Fuck those guys!) Republicans treat EVERY group with contempt and disdain. And it is SO stressful.

So, as this election cycles revved up, that undercurrent of disgust towards all the subcategories that make America “America, Fuck Yeah!” started to get churned up a bit faster and thicker by the Republicans. And when it does you sit there, a person who has struggled her whole life to overcome fear, a person who has fought to be brave enough to proactively engage with society and humanity, and you listen to that white noise, (unintentional pun), and you grow…fearful.

Ever since the Republicans started gunning for the White House in 2010, the fear has grown in me.

“Fox News is so pervasive, and so dominant and so biased–they are feeding people this fear 24/7! There is no way they are not changing people’s opinions!”

“I mean, if Coca-Cola can remain the world’s top beverage supplier simply through it’s effective use of advertising, you cannot tell me that Fox News isn’t branding millions of its viewers with its message of fear and contempt.”

“The Republicans show no remorse whatsoever when they say such disrespectful things about gays, about Muslims, about women–their confidence is surely powerful enough to convince millions of people that their views must be right.”

“Everyone who needs to feed their family is afraid on some level of not having enough money to survive. Maybe that fear of being unable to provide for one’s family is enough to panic millions of Americans to vote for a man who will only succeed in making the aristocracy richer.”

“Maybe human beings are incapable of being truly compassionate towards each other. Maybe we have to fear and hate people that are different from us. Maybe we’re genetically hardwired to hate. Maybe that is how humanity has functioned for hundreds of thousands of years. (Or 6,000 years, depending on whether or not you think the Bible is real.) Maybe conservatives just use that Jesus guy as a convenient cover to allow them to tap into their biases and fears without guilt.”

Those are just some of the worried, uncertain thoughts that have flitted through my mind over the past two years.

It didn’t help that the Republican candidates running for office throughout the country in numerous state races have been even more anti- than their supposedly moderate presidential ticket. When you sat back and looked at the big picture, and saw the extent to which their insidious fear had stretched across the country, it was enough to make your stomach lurch.

Of course, if you ever got a chance to talk with ordinary Republicans who were going to vote for Mitt Romney, they swore up and down that the Republican message is not about fear or hate. “It’s about lower taxes and freedom for businesses to succeed,” they would say. Right. And the Civil War was about “states’ rights.” We get it.

Of course, the illogic of that is that EVERY American wants effective tax policy. Everyone wants to pay just enough in taxes to keep our society running smoothly. No one wants the little man to get crushed under the burdens of an unfair government. No one wants our country to resemble some feudal society where the king spends money on lavish castles and unnecessary wars, raising taxes whimsically on his subjects while disregarding basic human rights and watching his serfs in the fields suffer. No one wants that, not even Democrats. Not even SOCIALISTS. So, I think it’s quite possible that, if all you wanted in life was for small businesses to thrive, you would be perfectly comfortable voting for Democratic candidates because THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT THEY WANT, TOO.

But, no.

You don’t vote Democrat, do you, Mr. Average Random Republican? You side with the party that wants to outlaw mosques and make it mandatory for women who want abortions to undergo additional painful, invasive, unnecessary medical procedures. You want to live in world in which medical care is controlled exclusively by private insurance companies. You want to spend billions on electric fences at the border and you want to give our border patrol the authority to shoot anyone entering our nation illegally. Even though you say you are for gay rights, you choose to vote for a party that openly advocates bigotry of gays, that wants to prevent people who have loved each other for decades the right to get married in our secular, non-theocratic society. You want to vote for a party that thinks the best way to deal with the issue of immigration is to treat people who have lived in this country their whole lives as second-class citizens. Actually, you don’t want to treat them as citizens at all. You want to deport them. Even if they’re 19 and have lived here since they were 2. Even if they’re valedictorian of their school. Even if they live right next door to you. You would rather their families be torn apart than work to address how to fix the problem of immigration humanely. You want to lock every prisoner away and throw away the key. And you don’t want to eliminate the death penalty, you want to speed up the process. You want to make it easier for our government to murder citizens. And you want to support ALL OF THAT and then look me in the eye and tell me, “You’re crazy, Laurie. The Republican Party platform isn’t based on fear.”

(Another way to ratchet up the fear in my gut is to make it obvious that the fear is being ratcheted up in this society while at the same time vociferously denying that the fear is being ratcheted up. Which, I think, was essentially the plot of the classic Ingrid Bergman film “Gaslight.”)

Needless to say, by the time Election Day rolled around, my nerve endings were raw. I was convinced that the billions of dollars being spent by outside interest groups, the non-stop brainwashing on Fox News, and the somewhat stagnanting economy were going to bring an overwhelming number of people to the polls with pitchforks and torches to figuratively run the Obamonster out of town. The prospect of watching a state like Missouri elect a rape-friendly Skeletor like Todd Akin to the Senate made me sick to my stomach. I was expecting the worst, and despairing of what it meant.

And what it would have meant is that you can never get rid of fear, Laurie. It will always exist. It will always be primal. It is too powerful for the majority of people to defeat it. You might be proud of yourself for having conquered some of the fear in your life, but you will never truly conquer it. Not here in America.

When the results started coming in, and they were generally in favor of the Democrats, I didn’t want to gloat about it to Republicans. I simply felt…joy. Unadulterated joy. Happy that this country, the one that tweets with me and argues on Facebook with me, and that hears the same messages from the same politicians as I do, collectively came together and said, “Yeah, haters. I don’t think so.” In individual races across the land, we voted for marriage equality. We refused to elect Tea Party politicians who glibly referred to rape pregnancies as God’s gift. We faced the fear and uncertainty of a foundering economy and did not panic by throwing out the man who is trying to steer us out of this. We did not let Mitt Romney become president simply because he said “I’ll create 12 million jobs!” during the first presidential debate.

In other words, we faced down our fear. As someone who knows how strong it can make a person to do that, all I can say is that I’m excited about what that means might be in store for our nation.

And that is what makes me feel good about last night’s election.

The Taming of the Prude

Posted on May 13, 2012 by Laurie B.

It has been extremely quiet in my house for hours now. I think it is because I am still in shock that I have finished reading “50 Shades of Grey.” I did it. From cover to cover, I absorbed every word. It was, without a doubt, the longest Penthouse Forum letter I have ever read. I need to purge myself of the emotions and opinions the reading of this book has given rise to. And, since I am unfamiliar with the proper procedure required for a kona coffee colonic–I don’t even know where I would find kona coffee–please allow me to cleanse myself with this little essay, (although I am certain that a coffee colonic would give me much more energy. You drink those, right? (Note to self: Do further research on ‘colonics.’)) If I commit all my thoughts to the page, perhaps I will stop continually tweeting about the sheer awfulness of this novel. For the past few days all I have wanted to do is tweet snarky, spiteful, (albeit righteously inventive and hilarious), comments about this terrible book. I would like to go back to tweeting about my cats like a normal person, if you don’t mind.

I only have myself to blame for this. No one forced me to read this book. I CHOSE to endure this pain. So, in that respect, I am incredibly similar to the main character, (a woman I will forever refer to Anastasia Whats-her-Face, if only because her last name escapes me at the moment and I’m too afraid to open the book again to look it up.) You see, every once in awhile, if circumstances permit, I like to try and catch up on some of the pop culture that swirls around this morbidly obese, yes, I would like fries with that and, yes, I would like chili AND cheese on those fries country of ours. It helps me feel connected to this Vitamin Water-drinking, Spanx-wearing, Dancing With the Stars-watching society that typically leaves me feeling befuddled and slightly out of place. So, if everyone at the office is reading a bestseller, then, God help me, I’m gonna crack that book open and find out what all the fuss is about. The obvious flaw in this line of reasoning is that reading what “everyone else is reading to find out what all the fuss is about” only leaves me feeling more befuddled and confused by this world once I realize what a heaping pile of crap said best-seller is. (That lonely feeling of separation is not reserved for horrible literature, of course. I feel the same way when I’m surrounded by people excitedly talking about how much they enjoy the food at The Olive Garden. Really, people? Really? And I’m a woman who, when circumstances demand it, will eat Chef-Boy-Ardee ravioli straight out of the can…cold. Yet even I know that The Olive Garden is shit.) And EVERYONE in my office was, is, or has been planning on reading “Fifty Shades of Grey.” (So, Encyclopedia Brown, do I work in a office populated by MEN? For the answer, turn to page 68.)

Now.

I am not a stupid woman. Stubborn, thoughtless, tempermental, irrational and oh! so obese, yes. But stupid? No. I KNOW that some of you, (probably you), are dying to read this book, this “50 Shades of Grey.” It wouldn’t surprise me if at least one of you, (probably you), is masturbating to it right now. And for those of you that are going to be exploring this book in the near future, I assure you–I have no intentions of spoiling the “plot” for you. (I put the word plot in quotation marks because this novel has one in much the same way that an adult movie does. It’s not exactly “important.”) All I really want to do is take a brief moment of your time to explain in broad strokes why this novel makes me angry enough to want to forcibly sterilize any young woman caught reading it, so as to prevent her from spreading her clearly flawed genetic material, is all.

Please allow myself a moment to self-identify myself. (Tip of the cap to Mr. Mike Myers with that last sentence. (He said something similar in one of the Austin Powers movies.)Whatever happened to that crazy bastard, anyway? You make one, four of the worst movies of all time and all of sudden you’re relegated to doing voicework as a Scottish ogre. What? I’m digressing? Holy shit! I AM, aren’t I? Sorry! Where was I?) I am what I like to call “a lazy fucking feminist.” And, for those of you not “privileged” enough to live in my brain, a “lazy fucking feminist” is a rational human being with tits. (Copyright.) I tend to view people intellectually, not genitalialy. (Copyright.) (So, as you can see, right there I am clearly not a candidate for appreciating this particular style of book.) I strongly believe that women are the equals of men, allowing for some very natural, obvious differences in the sexes. (Men, for example, will for all time clearly dominate in the Peeing in a Bottle category. Women, on the other hand, will forever lead in the Ability to Squeeze a Bowling Ball out of Your Crotch category. So, it’s a wash.) And, were I a spiritual person, I would prefer to follow a religion that had a female creator, since a)women create all life and b)horrific, angry, powerful natural disasters like typhoons, tornadoes, volcanoes and floods could only possibly come from a female goddess on her period. (Am I right, ladies, or am I right? Up top!) The “lazy” part comes in from the fact that I don’t study feminism. Camille Paglia irritates the shit out of me for some reason. My feminism stems more from common sense and from admiring the lives of strong women such as Katharine Hepburn, Anna Quindlen, Molly Ivins, Rosanne Cash, Maria Bamford, etc. than from actually trying to educate myself intellectually. (Who has time for that?)

I DO NOT subscribe to the age-old, paternalistic notion that intelligent, outspoken women need confident, brazen, arrogant men to “tame” them. I do not subscribe to the notion that women secretly fantasize about being raped or dominated or controlled. I do not subscribe to the notion that a woman is not complete unless she has a man.

(That being said, I really need a man to come over and powerwash my house or replace the sparkplug on my lawnmower.)

I realize this is just a story. A shamelessly pornographic story about a wealthy, cold man who is into dominant/submissive sexual roleplay and the woman who loves him. Symbolically, though, this story chaps my hide more than that brown plaited leather riding crop she is so fascinated by.

Because, conveniently, this woman is Purity itself. (Does “Anastasia” mean purity or innocence in Russian? It wouldn’t surprise me in the least.) So, her feminity is of the purest, most perfect kind. 1)She has never been in love before. 2)She is a virgin. 3)She is completely unaware of her own beauty which, apparently, is enough to stop the wealthiest man in the Pacific Northwest in his tracks. And, oh, 4)she has never been drunk, even though she has spent the past four years of her life at college. In PORTLAND.

And apparently, when Purity meets Carnal Desire…well. You get “50 Shades of Grey.” Which means that a 21 year-old woman can go from a virgin who has never once pleasured herself, (Really? Not even once, lady? What were you doing as a 13 year old?), to being able to masterfully control her own orgasms in three weeks time. Oh. And she can experience both external AND internal orgasms. One just as easily as the other. AND she has multiple orgasms with very litle down time. AND she can give professional-grade blowjobs AND successfully roll condoms on with no practice or previous experience.

I sound a little jealous.

And I am, of course, because all of that is preposterous. I certainly hope that no one who reads that yearns to be that ideal woman. The only thing that would make her sexual capabilities slightly more ridiculous is if she could also tie the perfect Windsor knot and make the most delicate blueberry crepes in bed WHILE being serviced from behind for her third orgasm of the night. (Of course, if she knew how to replace the sparkplug in a lawnmower, maybe I wouldn’t be so critical of her…but I digress.)

Anastasia Whats-her-Face clearly is representative of an ideal. And this novel chose to take that ideal and give it submissiveness and curiousity and obedience to some of the sickest, most degrading, controlling, domineering, arrogant behavior, displayed by a man who puts the freak in control freak…and then the author has the audacity to call that love. It is the same old story that has been told throughout the ages. And the lazy fucking feminist in me is sick of it.

I’ll let you know what I think of the second book in the series when I finish it.

Legalize It

Posted on May 9, 2012 by Laurie B.

Thunder and lightning rained down on this part of North Carolina late last night, after the polls closed. I’d like to think it was God sending a message to Billy Graham, (a famously non-political preacher who recently came out in support of the anti-gay marriage amendment), along the lines of “You’ve fucked with me for the last time, boy.” I’d like to think that the heavy rain signified God’s support of his gay children by telling them, “Don’t worry: I’ll still make it rain men.” But. It was just a thunderstorm. And today I awake in a state that hates homosexuals so much that it chose to inscribe discrimination into its state constitution.

I just want to take a moment or two to briefly touch upon this horrid moment in history.

I worked at the polls yesterday.

Regardless of the bigotted, short-sighted, hurtful thing people are doing with their votes, be it voting for Rick Santorum or amending a state constitution to say that the only recognized union will be that of a married man and woman, there is something beautifully restorative in watching democracy play out at a polling station. You are surrounded by people who care enough to vote. That is a noble, amazing thing. They don’t plot in dark basements to overthrow the government with anthrax and fertilizer bombs, (well, maybe they do), but on election day they bravely choose to make their voice heard by taking the singular action to vote. While it is happening, it is a gloriously refreshing thing. It’s only after the votes are tallied and you realize what all those proud citizens have done that you begin to doubt democracy.

Voter participation was heavy all day. There is nothing like a discriminatory amendment to get people out to the polls, I guess. Either that or North Carolinians were incredibly excited to finally help nominate Mitt Romney. Whatever happens in history when this horrible amendment goes into effect, it certainly cannot be said that a small minority of primary voters decided the fate of this. There were over 500,000 early votes cast, and I overheard the chief judge at my polling station saying at one point that we were close to 50% participation in our precinct. People made their voices heard.

And what the state of North Carolina wanted to be heard saying was “WE ONLY VALUE HETEROSEXUAL MARRIAGES HERE.”

In light of that, I would like to make just a couple of observations.

1)For my so-called libertarian friends out there who despise the federal government, who find it onerous and intrusive and injust; for those that prefer “local” government, and who suggest that it is somehow better than a national government, please note that a state, not the federal government, wrote discrimination into its constitution yesterday.

2)Gay people exist.

If you accept that gay people exist, then you need to ask yourself what rights they should be entitled to. (If you do not accept that gay people exist, please re-read 2) above.) Since they are human beings and Americans, they deserve all rights available to every citizen.

Constitution amendments can be repealed, of course, and perhaps one day this one will. Until such time, life and love outside the legal bounds will continue.

If This Blog Is a-Rockin’ Don’t Come a-Knockin’

Posted on August 22, 2011 by Laurie B.

Author’s Disclaimer: I am not a musicologist. I am not an audiophile. I don’t write musical reviews, either as a hobby or professionally. I don’t even know what the great singer/songwriter Leonard Cohen meant when he wrote “the 4th, the 5th, the minor fall & the major lift” in that song “Hallelujah” except I think it has something to do with music and it sounds really beautiful when Jeff Buckley sings it. I just love music. (Except for jazz. Sorry, jazz.) So, allow me to be clear: the views that are about to be expressed are my own and are based soley upon a lifetime of listening to music in cars, in bars, thru headphones, in bed, or at concerts, nothing more. They are not based upon the remotest hint of a working knowledge of song structure or musical skill or, (what’s the word?), CHORD PROGRESSION, as I possess none of that. I don’t even subscribe to Pitchfork magazine, although I totally should. If it feels like I’m about to lecture you about music, just relax. I’m not. And, since I’m blissfully ignorant about this subject, everything I am about to say could be totally wrong. Feel free to let me know if you think I am. There IS a comment section somewhere around here. Or, you know. You could just write your own essay about the subject instead of being a dick to me about my views. I’m just saying. Oh. And, yes, I think I DO have to mention Rosanne Cash in every goddamn blogpost I write, thank you very much. I am seriously considering changing the title to “What Would Rosanne Cash Think?” It’s rumored that if I mention her in a hundred posts in a row, I get a pony.

On Tuesday, August 2nd, 2011, I drove two hours to Asheville, North Carolina (“Where Lattes Meet To Hike the Appalachian Trail”), to listen to Ms. Rosanne Cash speak about her memoir “Composed,” which had just been released in paperback the week before. (As of this posting, it was #17 in the Biographies/Musicians category on Amazon “We have a Category for That” dot com. Which 16 people in the music world could possibly be more interesting/intriguing than Rosanne Cash?, I wonder softly to myself. Well, apparently, six of them are Keith Richards, which is completely understandable. Patti Smith, a recent Rock & Roll Hall of Fame inductee, also tops the charts ahead of Ms. Cash. Well done there. But…what’s this? Ace Frehley!? ACE FUCKING FREHLEY has a book that is more popular than Rosanne Cash’s?! From KISS? The guitarist? And not the cute one with the star painted on his face, but the other one? I mean, that is just wrong on so many levels. I realize that only two people read these posts but, for the love of humanity, please, click on the above link and buy “Composed,” if for no other reason than to restore sanity to the universe by putting Ace fucking Frehley in his proper place, which is well below Ms. Cash on the Amazon sales chart. Buy six copies if you have to. Together, we can change the world. Thank you.)

(Am I done here? What was I talking about? I got so distracted by Ace fucking Frehley that I have completely lost my train of thought. Oh, right. I saw Rosanne Cash speak.)

Now, for those of you who don’t know, (I’m not going to name names but Lachey Turner just the other day was overheard saying, in this exact order, “Rosanne Cash, who is that? I have to Google this woman to see what she looks like. Oh! She’s pretty!” She particularly liked the Interiors album cover photo. I said, “Yeah, but that was the year she was getting divorced from her husband. It was a rough time. She looks depressed, dontcha think?” “No, but I like it! She looks mean!” To each their own.), Rosanne Cash, a professional artist in her own right, is the daughter of famed music legend Johnny Cash, (and if you don’t know who Johnny Cash is, you can just stop reading right now and go back to whatever it is you do in your underground lair–hunting for albino catfish, licking lichen-covered rocks for nourishment, searching for The One Ring to Rule Them All, I don’t know–I don’t have time to explain him to you. I’m surprised that you have internet access in such a remote pit of hell, though.), and she has been making some of the richest, warmest music in America for about 30 some odd years, which is an amazingly long creative streak for someone who just recently turned 36. (Did anyone else just hear that? I think that was the entirety of cyberspace swooshing the expression “KISS ASS!” down on me through the ethernet. It was very loud. Really surprised no one else heard that.) Okay, so she’s slightly more aged than 36. Whatever. My obsession, my rules.

When she’s not making music, thinking about making music, or tweeting about making music, Ms. Cash apparently hits the road to talk to the public about that book I mentioned earlier, where people proceed to ask her questions about music. Which brings me to the point of this essay.

Another swoosh: THANK JESUS! SHE GOT TO THE POINT OF HER ESSAY! Everybody–you can come back: She got to the point. She got to the point, yes, she did. Praise be to God, the Glory and the Light. Here she go. She gonna get to the point right here:

On that lovely, warm, Carolina blue day, a man and his wife drove TEN HOURS from Florida to hear Ms. Cash speak. So, say what you want about how much I adore one of the greatest singers in America, but not only am I not alone, I’m not even on the top of the charts so, you know. Bite me. And when it came time for him to ask her a question, it broke my heart. To paraphrase, he talked fondly of the music he listened to back when Rosanne was getting started in the business and wanted to know where all the good songwriters were today.

Two things that immediately struck me when he asked that question: One, Ms. Cash looked exhausted. As if she felt the enormous complexity of the essence of what he was asking while simultaneously realizing that she had been travelling for several days in a row, was completely brain-dead, couldn’t even BEGIN to launch into a dissertation about today’s modern music scene and, Jesus Christ, did she really need a glass of wine like, NOW. That really did seem to flicker on her face, I swear. And, two, people are really hungry for some guidance in this vast, teeming swamp of energy and information we call Life. I am here today to try and cover that second point.

When I hear people say “They don’t make music like they used to” or “The era of the great songwriter is past” or, even more directly, “Kids today don’t know what good music is,” what I hear is “My best music memories are tied to when I was a teenager necking with Mandy Leitner in the backseat of my daddy’s car and I don’t know how to make new ones.”

If you’re like me, then you suspect that humans learned to communicate via music before they learned how to speak. This, I believe, is what makes the otherwise tedious Close Encounters of the Third Kind resonate with so many of us. It is communication at a primal level. And it is something that we can universally appreciate even if we do not understand the language in which the lyrics are written. Human beings will continue to make music long past the point where we can write language longhand and long after you and I are gone. Since there are approximately 13,000,000 bands on MySpace, though, perhaps the problem older people have today is finding it.

Well, for starters, try not to freak out about the fact that musical styles change. It’s not like the kids today started that trend. I mean, when you think about it, according to Fred Phelps, America started feeling the wrath of God as soon as Elvis Presley took the stage. But, when you go back even further, Beethoven caused a stir by being different than Mozart, who was really nothing more than the Elvis of his day. (Maybe he was more the John Lennon of his day. But you take my point.) So, this variance in musical styles goes back millenia. It is not something that portends the collapse of music as we know it. If anything, it speaks to the brilliance of the art form. The notes on the page haven’t changed since Mozart started jotting them down, and yet we keep finding a squillion different ways to use them. That should make the average listener of music feel excited about what is coming, not depressed about what has passed.

Once you accept that change is not something to fear, oh, the world of possibilities that become available to your ears. (Except for jazz. Sorry, jazz. Although I did recently listen to Miles Davis’ “Kind of Blue” album TWICE and it didn’t suck. So, there. That’s me being gracious about jazz.)

Now. I’m not gonna lie to you. (Except about Rosanne Cash’s age.) There is some music out there today that is just horrible. There are some songs out there so horrible that they make me want to study quantum physics so that I can invent a time machine so that I can go back in time to the moment that Justin Bieber’s parents meet so that I can destroy their budding romance so that I can prevent him from ever being born. But for every “Baby, Baby” that is being released today, at least we can all count ourselves lucky that we don’t hear Bobby Goldsboro’s “Honey” every time we turn on the radio. (Please note that “Honey” was once a number one song in America. Back in the 1960s. Back when music was supposed to be so awesome. Back when they had THE BEATLES. So, you know, cut the kids today some slack. Because nothing, not even Rebecca Black, makes me want to shoot myself in the face like “Honey.” Not even “Seasons in the Sun.” Editor’s Note: Okay. “Seasons in the Sun” is actually my favorite song of all time. I’ve only recently learned that it makes other people want to shoot themselves in the face. I refer to those people as “idiots.” But, I wanted to include it here in the Batch of Horribles so that you can see that I understand the world does not revolve around my musical tastes. Although, obviously, it probably should.) And I don’t care how much you try to convince me that Eric Clapton is God, “Sunshine of Your Love” is a horrible fucking song, and if you weren’t so busy eating mushrooms and trying to get laid the summer it came out, you might be able to realize that, too.

So, really, old timer, once you accept that the world of music today is just as vibrant and as rich as back when Neil Diamond was topping the charts, an entire universe of music opens up to you. It simply becomes a matter of discovering what you like.

Were you a fan of Neil Diamond? Well, are you familiar with the musical stylings of Death Cab For Cutie? They’ll make your toe tap. Were you a fan of Gladys Knight & The Pips? Have you heard of Sharon King & The Dap Kings? Oh my geez. She’ll make you slap your mama. Country music more to your liking? Well, the Zac Brown Band is making some great music. You should check it out. Or, if you are a Merle Haggard afficianado, this new fellow named Jeff Bridges just came out with a new album that might be just what you’re looking for.

Foreign music is so much more exciting today. It’s beyond just the British Invasion. Jens Lekman is incredible. Personally, I love Robyn, too, because I’m wild and crazy like that. Oh, and I cannot let another minute go by without mentioning one of the truly most exciting pop groups to emerge from England in quite some time, Florence & The Machine.

For pure rock & roll, I have been in love with Kings of Leon since the early aughts. It’s never too late to learn about them, but I would start as soon as possible, as the band is starting to fracture. Who knows if they’ll ever make another album? Family bands and mega-rock stardom will do that to you. But, every single album that they’ve made is amazing.

For perfect pop stylings, I don’t know how anyone could find fault with Mates of State. Their Rearrange Us album is one of my frequent go-to’s when I need a little pep on my commute home.

Since I don’t write about music for a living, I don’t even know how to describe My Morning Jacket’s music. But, if you want to listen to a band that tries to capture soaring symphonic melodies through their electric guitars, you might want to check them out. They definitely know the roots of American rock and roll. And, then, of course, you can’t mention roots of American rock and roll without bowing with ultra respect to one Mr. Jack White.

The beauty of talking about how much exciting music is being created is that I haven’t even begun to scratch the surface here. There is almost too much great music out there nowadays to keep track of. But, if you’re looking to get started, go to that metracritic.com website I mentioned earlier. Or, you can just follow Rosanne Cash on Twitter and pay attention to whomever she is listening to. You can’t really go wrong there. Just don’t ask her to mention everyone she loves after she’s had a hard week of work. She’s liable to just stare at you blankly while reaching for a bottle of chardonnay.

If You Have Air Conditioning, You’re Living the American Dream!

Posted on July 21, 2011 by Laurie B.

Does anybody remember the plot of Ghostbusters II? I haven’t seen it in a long time, but there was this really evil force in Manhattan, (more evil than Donald Trump, even!), who was trying to unlock this portal to hell and unleash demons on an unsuspecting public. And this evil force was manifested in some sort of ectoplasmic goo that, as soon as it touched people, caused them to have horrible feelings of anger and rage and made them do the most heinous things to each other. (It’s possible that I’m getting the plot of Ghostbusters II confused with Cocoon, and the goo with Steve Guttenberg.) Anyhoo. My point is that, in the movie, (at least how I remember it), this evil just kind of built up gradually, imperceptibly, touching a random person here or there until it surrounded the public and was almost impossible to stop. (At the climactic scene where hell is about the be unleashed on earth, cue the Ghostbuster’s theme song, Bill Murray saves the day, end credits.)

I think in today’s tough economic times, the Republican Party is Vigo the Carpathian from Ghostbusters II, and the goo that is being spread is this angry, hurtful myth that lower taxes and less government regulation reduce poverty and lead to greater economic wealth for the general public. If Bill Murray doesn’t step in soon, it’s only a matter of time before hell is unleashed on earth.

I think it would be easier for Marcus Bachmann to admit that he is gay than it would be for most people to talk about poverty. No one likes to think about it. Certainly no one wants to admit that in a country as great as ours it even exists. Hell, the only way I seem to be capable of talking about it is to act like it is some hidden away problem that isn’t anything my friends suffer from. Republicans take advantage of this. Because there is this reluctance to discuss the subject, because there is so much shame attached to the concept of poverty, conservative aggressively attack the issue by questioning its existence, demonizing the poor and doing everything they can to further reduce government assistance to them. What makes the conservative attitude more appalling right now is that they are being this aggressive towards the poor while we are suffering through the Second Great Depression.

But, let’s start from the beginning. What exactly is poverty?

I think that we can all agree that, as far as we know, thanks to the government subsidized cheap commodities of corn and soy, America is not teeming with famine-ravaged refugees streaming across the border to Mexico for help, as they are streaming into Kenya from Somalia. So, yay Team America! You’re not Somalia. But is that it? Is that the standard? “Sally Struthers isn’t trying to airlift you food, so quit complaining, you’re not poor?”

There is, of course, more to it than that, especially in a country with a standard of living as high as ours.

Even though we are not starving in the streets, there are homeless, working poor parents with children in this country. There are people lining up by the thousands hours in advance to apply for housing vouchers in this country. There are people dying because of a lack of access to dental care. There are people waiting for hours to attend free clinics to get their teeth cleaned or the blood pressure checked because, even though they work three jobs, they can’t afford health insurance. So. What is poor? Are only homeless people poor? If you can afford rent, if you can make a car payment, if you can pay your electric bill, does that mean that you are not poor? To some on the right, that is exactly what that means. If you have an obese child or you own a cellphone, you clearly can afford to eat and you can afford luxuries. So, you’re not poor, you’re just horrible with money. If you only budgeted with a little bit more discipline, you’d be able to climb up the economic ladder. Your failure to get ahead is your own fault.

Now, in my mind, I define being poor as a level of economic hardship that limits a family’s opportunities. So, a person who has straight A high school children but who cannot afford to send them to college, that person is poor, as their dreams for a better life are limited not by their intellectual abilities but by the size of their wallet. A person who lives paycheck to paycheck, who cannot afford to set any money aside for retirement, that person is poor. They are at the complete mercy of economic tides that they have no ability to protect themselves against. A person who is forced into bankruptcy or forced to sell their house because of unexpected medical bills is also poor. And, of course, people who suffer from even more economic hardship than that: the women who work 40 hours a week for $8.00 an hour but who have to file for food stamps and Medicaid because their wages are not enough to live on. Elderly people with no savings, homeless people, the mentally ill, people who have no ability to support themselves with a trade or an occupation, the list goes on and on. I believe the US Census estimates that about 15% of Americans, or about 45,000,000 people, live in poverty. And, in my mind, I can see that. I see them every time I go to Dollar Store or a Wal-Mart. I can only imagine what I would see if I looked in places that truly terrified me.

Of course, all of the people I’ve described above would probably be considered middle class in a country such as Somalia or Kazakhstan. But that false comparison doesn’t erase the fact that in this country they are on wobbly rungs of the economic ladder and they have no social mobility. They are poor in this country, even if they own relatively cheap, abundant electronic devices, such as answering machines or DVD players.

Here’s the arrogance of anti-government assistance advocates: they actually argue, in public, no less, that if you have a refrigerator and a VCR or any one of dozens of other cheaply made, readily available electronic devices, (such as a coffee maker), you are not poor. If you were poor, you wouldn’t own the $150 window air conditioning unit. In other words, according to some policy makers on the right, if you’re not living in a thatch hut pounding kava root into mush with a mortar and pestle while flies lay eggs on the mucus membranes of your malnourished children, then you’re wealthier than the richest people on the planet were 100 years ago.

Anyone who has studied American history is vaguely familiar with the phrases “A chicken in every pot” or “40 acres and mule,” even if they have no idea what historical events those phrases are associated with. (The first was the campaign slogan of Herbert Hoover in the year before the first (!) Great Depression, and the second stemmed from promises of slave reparations General Sherman made during his March to the Sea at the end of the Civil War.) And, of course, this is the Land of Milk and Honey, where the streets are paved with gold. America’s identity is replete with references to wealth, and dreams, and freedom, and opportunity. So. DOES the United States have an obligation to create, at the very least, a minimum standard of living?

This is where liberals veer one way and conservatives veer straight into the outstretched arms of Vigo the Carpathian.

As best as I can tell, Republicans claim that they want every citizen, (and they DO mean citizen–you illegal “aliens,” as they so compassionately call you, can go fuck yourselves. Preferably across the border.), to achieve the American dream. And they strongly argue that the ONLY way every American is going to achieve their potential is if taxes are ridiculously low and there is no government interference with personal attempts to create business whatsoever. If the government would only stop being an oppressive overlord, making unnecessary demands on its citizenry merely to suppress their freedoms and make itself more powerful, people would get back to work, incomes would rise, and Jesus himself would return to earth to pass out free passes to Disneyland to Jew and Gentile alike.

The problem with that belief is that it is complete bullshit.

Capitalism in the multi-national corporate industrial sense in which we know it today hasn’t been around for very long. It wasn’t very long ago in our history, you may remember, when we had people like Vic Morrow telling people like Levar Burton, “I do say, my good sir, would you mind picking that cotton and placing it in that basket for me? Why, thank you very much.” And so, while the idealized vision of the country held by a typical conservative seems wonderful and simple and rooted in basic truths, it really has no basis in fact.

First and foremost, let me simply state the obvious: Taxation is necessary to run a country effectively. We didn’t rebel against England because they were taxing us. We rebelled against them because we didn’t have a say in how they were taxing us. This current anger we feel about high federal taxes only serves to make the top one percent of our population wealthier. The only real purpose of keeping taxes at historical lows is to ensure that the wealthy hold onto more of their money and the government has even less of it to do their job effectively. (Their job, of course, being to protect the public good and maintain the health and well-being of its citizenry.) I know, that’s pretty obvious, but I had to get that out there.

Second, the economic system that we love in this country, capitalism, creates poverty. It just does. If it didn’t, it would be called socialism or communism. Capitalism is not designed to spread wealth among all people. It is designed to funnel wealth to people at the very top of the pyramid. The people on the bottom who do not possess enough ambition, ingenuity, luck, or connections invariably are left with nothing. They live on the barest of wages, if they are lucky enough to find work at all. And, in this modern industrial world, they cannot even lay claim to small plots of land on which to grow food for survival. In fact, as corporations grow in power and capital is even more concentrated at the top, it is only government regulation, anti-trust laws, laws against unfair trading practices, etc., that prevents them from taking it all. If we didn’t have public-minded government policies put in place to protect us against the greed of corporate interests, our society would more closely resemble feudal Russia, with its handful of aristocrats and millions of serfs than it would the rosy, middle-class, robust, democratic, (as long as you weren’t black or another minority!), society of America in the 1940’s & ’50’s. (Not that the Republicans aren’t working hard to destroy even those few remaining barriers to complete oligarchy, mind you. They are.)

Unfortunately, poverty is going to exist regardless of how much we work to alleviate it. That is an unpleasant, hard truth. The question is, even though we cannot eradicate it entirely as if it were smallpox, does our government have a moral obligation to assist the poor? Should government do as much as it can to offer them pathways to upward mobility? Does government assistance help people improve their circumstances, thereby reducing the number of poverty-stricken people? Is there a point when government should throw up its hands, say “Oh, this isn’t working,” and completely disown the poor? Is the government exaggerating how many poor people there are in this country? Why on earth would it? Should they stop wasting taxpayer dollars on programs designed to help the poor, as studies show that almost all of them own refrigerators, (something not even Louis XIV owned in France, and he was a KING!), so it is obvious that they’re doing fine? Wouldn’t it be better for all taxpayers, in fact, if we just executed the poor if they can’t pay their bills? Do we really have to worry about poor people, when it is so patently obvious that they don’t care about themselves? If they’re not strong enough to survive on their own even when things are incredibly desperate, does the government have the legal authority to kill them? After all, they’re not really helping anyone, right? And their drain of society’s resources is the sole reason why our economy is in decline and why our deficits are so massive.

Sorry about those last few questions. No Republican talking head or policymaker has posed questions about the sensibility of executing poor people en masse…yet. I simply got carried away, carrying Republicans’ heartless views of the lower classes to their logical conclusions. I probably have a little of that Ghostbusters II goo on me. Ever since Ronald Reagan and his “government IS the problem” message has infected the public, we’ve become a greedier, more self-interested society. Not surprisingly, in that time, corporations have become wealthier and more powerful while average Americans have slipped deeper into poverty. And the further we slip into poverty, the harder Republicans come out arguing whether or not poverty even exists and aren’t we in fact making a big deal out of nothing?

They are better educated than most. They certainly have more money, and they have access to more resources. Not only that, but they can continue to pound their message into the American psyche while the rest of us have to work two or three jobs just to keep from sliding one more rung down the ladder. So Vigo & Friends are definitely winning, even though their arguments are outright lies and make no sense.

If Bill Murray doesn’t show up soon, y’all, we’re totally screwed.

Praying the Gray Away

Posted on July 7, 2011 by Laurie B.

You know, just like k.d. lang and Eddie Izzard, I’m a lesbian. So, naturally, you would think that I would have an opinion to offer up on the historic passage of a gay marriage bill in New York state last week. Unfortunately, my having inserted my hand into a woman’s vagina during intercourse makes me no more qualified to talk about gay marriage than it makes me qualified to be your gynecologist.

That being said, I have never let a lack of qualifications stop me from talking about anything. If that were the case, I would have nothing to prattle on about except the refreshing, icy deliciousness of a Coca-Cola Slurpee or the advisability of chain healing as a resto shaman in World of Warcraft. So, slide down, friends, and let me slip my opinion into you. It will probably feel cold and you might feel a pinch, but just relax. It will all be over soon.

I don’t know which part of me is prouder of the New York legislation: the lesbian in me or the atheist in me. Oh, did I forget to mention that I am an atheist? Yes, I am. And as Ellen becomes more popular and more straight women become comfortable with admitting that of course they wouldn’t mind being kissed by Angelina Jolie, who wouldn’t?, what I’m discovering is that what most straight people here in the South find strangest about me isn’t my sexuality or the fact that I love dunking french fries in mayonaisse, it’s that I don’t believe in God. That just seems to blow people’s freakin’ minds. To go through life without a belief in a (meat-lover’s) supreme being is stranger than existing without lungs. Or, if you’re a supporter of a certain scandalized congressman from Brooklyn, it’s stranger than going through life without receiving a twitpic of Anthony Weiner’s bulging BVDs. (If you haven’t received one yet, just wait. People in rehab always relapse.)

So when Governor Cuomo signed the law last week that allows people of the same sex to marry one another, the atheist in me took a deep sigh of relief. Because what seems to be continually ignored in the fight for gay marriage is that, in an attempt to “protect the sanctity” of marriage, religious leaders have been surreptiously co-opting the concept of marriage from the secular world. (That must piss straight atheists off to no end.) And while the victory in New York does not put an end to that effort by religious figures in other states, it at least has a bracing effect that can help bring the concept of civil marriage back into the discussion.

Although I am an atheist, I understand that society loves its religious ceremonies and traditions. Tradition, be it a bris or a hot dog eating contest on the 4th of July, is an important part of civilization. It helps us stay connected to our heritage and provides us with an identity. That being said, the tradition of getting married is not exclusively a religious one. Civil marriages are not a new concept, malovolently created by scheming homosexuals determined to destroy the universe with their same-sex attraction and uncanny fashion sensibilities. Essentially, every time a religious leader publicly speaks about protecting marriage, saying that it is nothing more than a sacred covenant with God, and that God has decreed that it is a ceremony to be performed only between a man and a woman, they insult homosexual and secular people alike. I mean, assuming that you don’t live in a religious theocracy. And I thought, whether conservative or liberal, the one thing we loved about this country was the fact that we weren’t one of those. It’s nice that people with particular religious faiths want to have their God sanction or annul their marriage, whichever is necessary at the time, but when widows file for survivor benefits, those checks aren’t signed by Jesus. And if your church doesn’t currently recognize your heterosexual marriage, while that may be painful for you, you know full well that you are still considered married in the eyes of the law even if you have to marry that heathen slut in shame down at City Hall instead of in St. Andrews.

And, of course, it should be able to go completely without saying that the principles, concepts, justifications, and rules surrounding marriage between a man and a woman have been evolving for hundreds of years, and that what our society today holds sacred as marriage in no way resembles the biblical definition of acceptable marriage.

In the space of time between now and when Noah built that aardvark, we’ve come a long way, baby. Now, I’m sure that many a religious zealot would like you to believe that the evolution that society has undergone since Eve invented the appletini, (just a reminder: religious dogma is not my strong suit), is a sign that we are going to burn in Hell, and that we are condemned to spend eternity wishing we had at least one less impure thought in our lifetime. And I think it is clearly obvious to anyone with even a speck of a brain that yearning for the past in such resolute fashion is completely preposterous. What Fred Phelps and fire-breathing preachers of his ilk are essentially saying is that ALL change since the beginning of time goes against God’s will and is a sin deserving of God’s wrath. That is the basic argument, and why gay marriage is a horrible, destructive thing. Which is REALLY ironic coming from the mouths of supposed Christian leaders, when you think about it. Because, of course, arguably the biggest catalyst for change in the western world occurred 2,000 years ago when a man whose mama probably used to call “Jay Jay” stood within one of the largest temples built to honor God and said, (in the best Samuel L. Jackson voice he could muster), “Some shit gonna CHANGE up in this here muthafucker!” That is why humans have advanced more than, say, rocks. Because we learn. We grow. We love. We evolve.

I mean, that is so blatantly obvious that it seems to be a complete waste of your time, my time, and the Lord’s time to even mention it. (But, in his defense, the Lord can get a lot done in one day, so it probably didn’t take him very long to read this.)

Now that I have gotten that out the way we can go back to talking about the hot lesbian love action.

I think it’s great that two people who love each other can get married. Seems like a perfectly rational thing for a sane, civilized society to allow.

Thanks for your time. If you feel the need to pray for me, please remember to enunciate: I would like you to pray the gray away. With an ‘r’.

Please. Hold Your Applause 'Til The End.

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