I like you better on facebook.

We’ve all been there. Like a naiad springing out of an edenic, fauna-strewn brook babbling down a sun-splattered mountainside in order to divert your destiny from its current path, a friend request pops up. You don’t know him personally, but you see that you have at least five friends in common, and depending on who those friends are and in what circles they run, you glean as much information as you can from what he allows to be public on facebook.

The plot thickens.

You ask your friends in common about this guy, what his story is, why he’s contacting you. They say he saw your profile linked in one of their pics, liked your profile pic, and asked about you. Then a message from him appears. “Hey, ——- said you were pretty rad. I dig your book selections. Let me know if you’d like to get a beer sometime.” So you friend him, but you place him on one of your limited viewing lists, aptly titled “No Seeski.” You’re cautious, after all.

Brief conversations ensue. He forwards you an NPR article he thinks you’d like. You give him some recommendations for bars in his neighborhood. You decide to become friends. After scouring over his profile with eyes of steel wool (followed by a thorough Google search/GIS), you acquiesce. There’s a possibility there.

The anticipation mounts. You look forward to each other’s messages. He leaves sarcastic comments on your status updates, and he Likes a photo of you traveling through Mexico last summer. You link a Jon Stewart clip to his Wall, and he loves it. That’s it. It’s time to meet. Pick a spot, shave your legs, tell your friends and let them idealize the outcome (and let your cynical brain believe them for the time being), and show up confident and optimistic.  

And then this happens.

You knew you shouldn’t have skipped the obvious red flag that he didn’t know what a naiad is. And that he listed “Fast and the Furious” as one of his favorite movies and supports Ron Paul.

***

We’ve gotten into discussions about this in class many times before, and I was explaining it to one of my 17U volleyball players last night before practice as she was talking about how hard it was for her to focus in class. Because the generation that is just entering college this year has no knowledge of what the world was like before the Interwebz (and has collectively had cell phones since it was about 10, and has access to 500 TV channels at once, etc.), it wants instant gratification in the classroom, needs to be constantly multitasking, and easily loses focus on what is being taught. So while it has 1500 friends on facebook, half of whom are people they’ve never met who probably live on the other side of the planet, it doesn’t have the communication skills to shake hands with a neighbor, talk to someone face-to-face, or communicate properly. Which then rolls over into the classroom, the workplace, and society.

Who needs to subscribe to a dating website when you have facebook for free? I’m sure the success rate is pretty similar.

Oh, world. You just get kookier and kookier with every passing year.  

Feminists are to blame for Herman Cain’s penchant for sexually harassing the ladies. Duh.

I’ve written on politics before. I’ve written on feminism before. This is nothing new. And as the election draws closer (wait, it’s still a year from now, right? Mmmkay, just checking), and the cavalcade of sideshow GOP candidates continues parading their inane soundbites over FoxNews’s airwaves (the Tea Party circus is why clowns absolutely petrify me), I was planning to save my supreme rants about the ineptitude of the partisan pissing contest our country has been participating in for way too long, as the welfare of its citizens plummets into obscurity, for another time closer to the general election, so as to allow more posts about not-as-snarky things. Living in a tropical paradise has ameliorated some of my trademark cynicism. Who the fuck knew?

And I was initially going to let the whole Herman-Cain-sexual-harassment debacle slide. Partly because the farcicality of his running in the first place is beyond ludicrous. Partly because the thought of “sexual” describing anything to do with him kind of makes me want to vom. But mostly because, like the majority of the rest of the GOP candidates, Herman Cain’ s presence will eventually peter out as his ephemeral novelty inevitably wears thin (a la Perry and the ever-clovenfooted Bachmann, drive-thru abortions and all).

Granted, after watching his press conference yesterday, I was a little pissed. His ingratiatingly priest-like piety was obviously false to the extent of common sense, as saying he’s never done anything to anyone is just juvenile and unrealistic; his unbelievable, Creon-esque hubris and flat-out bombastry in light of a very grave situation was annoying, yet characteristic at this point: and his blaming of both journalists and then, more pointedly, the “liberal media” is beyond infuriating, as 1) being coverd by Reuters, the AP, and CNN is just a smidge different than being subjected to the hounds of hell known as TMZ, as the reputations alone of the former speak to their credibility of responsible journalism, and 2) wasn’t just, like, a week ago that you were blaming Rick Perry and then Mitt Romney for bringing this up in the first place? But really it was the “liberal media”? That’s about as clear as your stance on abortion. And FTR, liberals want nothing more than for you to get the Republican nomination, you jackhole. Jesus.   

But then I saw this clip this morning. And my feminismz got all riled up. And then I promptly went out, castrated the first male I saw, and raised his bloodied carcass above me while loosing a battle cry. Oh, wait. That’s not what feminism promotes. What a novel fucking concept.

1. Sexual harassment is no joke. It’s a psychological shit-storm for anyone who has been victimized by it, and there are very real, damning consequences for those victims if they ever have the support, both emotional and financial, to make their cases known. So when FOUR different women come forward, at least one involuntarily, to speak up about one man, especially when one of these instances is clearly sexual assault, if not borderline sexual battery, it does become more than he-said-she-said. It becomes he-said-they-said.
2. Blaming Herman Cain’s current political embroilment on feminists who want to be offended? Wow. Yes, because these women wanted to be offended by sexually harassment, as they had nothing else really going on in their days. (This, coming from Mary Matalin of all people.)
3. These women are obviously fabricating these accusations because opening up about being sexually harassed is such a goddamn blast and the victims always win, amirite?! Clearly, Sharon Bialek’s pure intention is to be the frontrunner on next season’s Dancing with the Stars.

One of my classmates and I got into a discussion the other night after class. In all honesty, he blamed the current downfall (it only fell yesterday) of society on feminists, stating that the nation would be much better off with a mother at home to raise the children while the father worked. I then clued him in that the 1950s weren’t as idyllic as people usually assume and that June Cleaver was probably rocking vodka-cocktails-with-a-Valium-chaser by noon. Feminism isn’t about saying that one gender is better than another or that women shouldn’t be shackled by the bounds of marriage and child-rearing. It’s about women having a choice to do what they want with their own lives, and not having that choice made for them by, traditionally, a patriarchal oppressor.

 But what do I know? I’m just a chick. I should be baking a dude a pie somewhere. Fucking democracy and opportunity at education that allows me to think freely of my own volition and have access to voice my opinions!

A little perspective, please…

I had this morning free – my last class for the week was last night, I don’t have too much homework this weekend, and it was another gorgeous day in Honolulu. So instead of going for my usual run through the hills overlooking downtown, I opted to go for a solo hike through the Hawaiian rainforest back to Manoa Falls. But as if I really needed a legitimate reason.

The trailhead for Manoa Falls. Le-effing-gorge.

The hike was so lovely: a bamboo thicket, trees that reached upwards for what seemed like forever, mountains absolutely blanketed with dense, tropical vegetation. I basically hiked through Jurassic Park, just minus the carnivorous reptiles ribboning my entrails with one fell swoop of their razored-clawed hands. And the falls themselves were just gorgeous. Tall, cascading, glittering: the usual adjectives used when describing beautiful tropical waterfalls. Duh. Standing there, listening to nothing but the splashing water and a few errant birds calling out to the morning, was just one of those moments that hits Reset on your brain. And then a light rain began to fall. Shivers.

One giant, gorgeous waterfall, please. Yes, I'll take one of those.

After some extended halcyon moments just soaking it all in, I began my hike back down, crawling over slippery boulders, ducking beneath tree branches thicker than my torso, watching the sunlight filter through the canopy to the path below, and marveling at just how goddamn lucky I was to be in that exact spot at that exact moment in time.

It's a tree. A tree like me!

As I hiked back toward the trail-head, I encountered a few fellow hikers who were just going up. And then some more. And then some more. Hey, I’m all about people learning about nature and how to sustain an ecosystem, especially one as fragile as a tropical rainforest’s, so knock yourself out and don’t be an asshole by leaving a McDonald’s wrapper on the ground.

But each person I passed asked me the same thing after we exchanged nods and good-morning smiles: “how much longer until we get there?” Each of my responses conveyed a longer hiking time as I got closer back down to the trail-head, obviously, but also coupled with my quizzical squint. Because with each question, I became more and more puzzled.

You’re hiking through a rainforest up in the mountains of Manoa, dude. You’re already “there.”

Canopy cruising...

Now, I know that sounds very armchair-Buddhist of me, and who the hell am I to be doling out such perceived pearls of wisdom, and it’s very easy for someone in my position to wax philosophically when I have a roof over my head and food (well, just copious amounts of black coffee at that early point in the morning) in my belly. But I also wasn’t wearing a fanny pack on a hike through the rainforest.

Have a cocktail at noon. Burn your (house) slippers. Seize the day.

(Also, purely for vanity’s sake, I’m posting the clip of the Hawaii Five-0 episode I was an extra in. No. 11, yo. This is rationalized because I was seizing the proverbial day. I fucking love this Honolulu.)

Christians in College, or The Day Darwin Died.

I love college. Obviously. I’ve been either a student or a professional in higher education for going on 12 years now. (Fuck me running. Twelve? Pffft. I don’t look a GD day over 29.) Ideally, it’s a place where a student matures both analytically and socially into, fingers crossed, a maturely reasoning adult who can make critical decisions of his own volition, and not just because someone told him to do so <insert Fox News rant here>. I will always defend the concepts of tenure and academic freedom; the promotion of a college education is something I believe should be instilled in every student from the word “go”; and while college may not be for everyone, everyone should at least have access to some form of it.

Seriously, just walking onto campus every day gives me squishy guts.

So when I see shit like this, of course nothing short of a rage blackout will ensue. C’mon now. Have we met?

Let it be known: I have nothing against Christianity, or any religion for that matter, or even religiously affiliated colleges (as long as they provide a whole education). And while I defected from Catholicism what seems like ages ago to the chagrin of my Italian-Catholic (bestower of the most virulent strain of Catholic guilt onto their progeny) mother, I’d still consider myself somewhat spiritual, subscribing to the church of Don’t Be a Giant Asshole to Others. 

(And I’m not saying that my Jack-Catholic status grants me some sort of allowance to pass judgment or anything. Pffft. As if I need allowance to pass judgment. Hello? It’s called human nature, and judgy-wudgy was a bear. Of course I’m going to pass judgment. After that, it’s up to you to make me not think you’re an idiot.)

Ready? Break!

A) I would kick a puppy to see something that was informative and convincing without the use of such transparent fucking rhetoric that, honestly, borders on propaganda. Showing only scowling, old, male instructors? The ominous music? That really sophisticated pie graph that I’m sure is just the epitome of quantitativeness? Poor Jay, suffering in persecution as images of Vitruvian Man and The Thinker (DaVinci and Rodin totally had an agenda, yo.) attack him at warp speed? Hey, renob: showing misappropriated news footage in an effort to demonstrate how “experts” and “facts” have been wrong throughout history in order to support your conclusion that all science is wrong is not only a Communications Studies cardinal sin called a fallacy (in particular, affirming the consequent), it’s as unethical as the day is long: people predicting an ice age in the “1970′s” (apparently, that weatherman in the leisure suit predicted it for an entire decade [and misuse-of-an-apostrophe alert!]), because they were not clairvoyant, could not foresee the ridiculous spike in global warming that our world population of 7 billion monster consumers would cause in four ensuing decades; and doctors, of course, promoted cigarettes, as Big Tobacco had a major stake in benefiting from the medical community doing so, and they paid it handsomely.  

B) Obviously, science is wrong at times. One has to be wrong in order to get to being right. Did Pasteur hit it on the first shot? No. Should he have stopped trying? Take a swig of milk and you tell me. And it’s just like religion. Or does Christianity just hope people are going to forget about the Medieval, Roman, and Spanish Inquisitions; the witch trials; thousands of years of the dogmatic engendering and perpetuating of discrimination; and Timothy McVeigh?

 C) ”Don’t let this happen to you”? What, get an education? Be forced to analytically think about what your statements convey? Be open-minded to cognitive change at a moment in your life when critical, post-adolescent development of identity actually occurs? Or should I just read a bunch of academic language that sounds intelligent, not analyze the source (or who is funding the source), and take it at face value because an “authority” told me I should? College fail.

“You mean that abortion, cigarettes, and interracial dating, concepts omitted from the bowdlerized dictionary decreed as Truth published by the Bob Jones UP (the only tract of its kind allowed on campus), actually exist in this world?”  

The implication that college is a big, frightening place where professors brow-beat you into agreement with their thoughts and their thoughts only; where you’re going to fall prey to the secular world, hit a frat party, and ruin your paragon-of-virtue existence; where you’ll be persecuted because you call yourself a Christian; and where you’ll have falsities, disguised as “facts” shoved down your throat (yes, the Family actually exists, and your PoliSci class is not controlled by demonic forces because you learned about it there) is beyond annoying.

Are all professors ideal? No, and you’re allowed to call them out on their bullshit, as long as you can back it up. Are you forced to go to a frat party? No, and if you say you are in order to ”fit in,” you’re a sheep and you deserve to be smacked upside your damn head. Will you be persecuted? No, asking you (and the College Republicans) to defend what you say is not persecution, it’s called argumentation, and it’s a skill necessary in life if you ever want to live with your head out of the sand. Are you going to come in contact with theories that rock your world and cause you to rethink what you’ve been told all of your life? Yes. It’s called an education.

Welcome to college.

The Gay Mafia put a hit out on Beauty and the Beast. And it was fierce, bitches.

I loved Disney movies as a kid. I vividly remember my sisters and I almost peeing our collective pants when Dad picked us up from school one day in 1991 and surprised us with The Little Mermaid on VHS (back when it took flicks almost a year to go from theater to VHS; they cost at least twenty bones; watching a movie was a BIG DEAL and a treat; and that distinct, oversized, white plastic [probably laced with inordinate amounts of BPA] case meant you had just gotten your grubby little paws on a Disney movie). I almost got excited just now. Jesus, that Disney cult shit runs deep.

And while the princesses aren’t exactly the greatest role models in the world (Ariel: you forfeited your literal voice in order to get with a dude you’ve only ever seen and who only reveres you because you’re a babe with a rack-to-waist ratio that would make Barbie look like she could lay off the second helpings; Snow White: your value lies in your ability to clean house and cook, and you’re utterly immobilized until a prince happens to wander by and pull you from your death sleep with a life-giving kiss [he gave life, he can also take it away], implying that he gets to keep you as his wife/cook/housecleaner forever; Jasmine: you are part of a caste system that regards women as male-owned, commodified chattel, and you reaffirm this system when you elevate your boyfriend to this level before you will marry him), a young girl’s burgeoning self-esteem relies more heavily on parents active in her life and an existence away from a television screen. Taken with a grain of salt, I dig a good Disney cartoon. And Libby’s face just lights the eff up and pretty much detonates my biological clock when she watches the opening credits to The Sword in the Stone. 

But I tell you what. Disney needs some more queens working for them.

 

Rico, the little, gay man who lives inside of me who presents himself while I perform musical theater and/or need to decorate a space, just about shat himself.

And all is now right with the world.

Bachelorette Party. FTL.

It’s the time-honored, hallowed tradition to which every woman, standing at the precipice of her sojourn into marriage, must dutifully adhere: when close confidantes, friends to whom she has poured out her soul over the years in secrets, and wishes, and dreams, gather to congratulate and celebrate in her happiness as she begins this newest chapter in her life; when the giving of meaningful gifts, carefully chosen for the importance they symbolize over the course of an entire friendship, conveys a sense of inherent sisterhood; when wishes for ultimate prosperity are bestowed, celebrating the amazingness that is two people pledging their lives to one another.

It’s the repeated pounding of Washington Apples from shot glasses emblazoned with cartoon penises while a sweaty, thong-bedecked stripper wags his wang in the makeup-smeared face of the hammered bride-to-be?

I think I missed a memo.

(Class started this week, and I need to get back into semester-paper and conference-paper writing mode. Extra points for correctly identifying the [long-winded] thesis in the opening abstract.)

Why Bachelorette Parties Suck, by Kara McManus

As an attendee of upwards of twelve bachelorette parties, I can say, quite candidly, that bachelorette parties are lame. Through careful (observational) research, testimonial evidence, and a lot of really non-objective personal bias, I will explain, in this small thesis, why bachelorette parties are an antiquated practice that undermine the foundation of the impending marriage. Because the traditional practices exhibited at bachelorette parties are sexist and unoriginal, and because bachelorette parties have been celebrated in our hegemonic culture to the point that one feels one must throw one in order to have the “total” marriage experience, women are expected by their peers to engage in this potentially incredibly detrimental activity, thus perpetuating the practice and leading women to falsely believe that they are, in fact, fun.

The concept of the bachelorette party was birthed out of that of the bachelor party (FTR, I’m not a huge fan of throwing an -ette on the back of a word and calling it samesies feminism, as it insinuates that this altered version of the original is acceptable because it is smaller, daintier, and more feminine, which is lame in a “separate, yet equal” paradigm of thinking [don't anyone ever buy me a dinette set]). In the same vein that the traditional dinner given to the groom by his groomsmen that was the original intent of a “bachelor party” has morphed into getting shit-wrecked and heading down to the local strip joint in order for Kandi Starr to shove her silicone-enhanced tits into your face, the bachelorette party has devolved from what was supposed to be the feminist equivalent to the male version into a chance for chicks to wear the sluttiest clothing possible, get gassed, dance on tables, and (the coup de grace) watch a dude take his pants off for money. So in order for women to have the equal right to have a party before they get hitched, women have to equally engage in equally unattractive behavior? Still waiting to see how this is a boon for feminism. Still waiting. Still… waiting… 

Usually, this unattractive behavior occurs because we are a society still obsessed with (and repressed about) sex. Until we stop living under the pretense that people are virgins until their wedding night (as people are getting married later in life, the sexual revolution kind of helped with the upending of that antiquated concept of virginity being a male-owen commodity [by the father, then passed to the groom], and, save the kids on the God Squad who get married at 18 because they really love Christ [and really want to get it on], people have realistically realized that you need to see what you’re getting before you sign the lawfully binding contract, as the blind canoeing the blind on a wedding night can lead to some unforseen surprises [but does it get any bigger?]), we, as a society, will be subjected to watching women go out on their bachelorette party nights festooned in pageant sashes, cardboard-and-rhinestone tiaras, cascading veils, and an assortment of plastic accoutrement (straws, jewelry, and light-up garters) all covered in the likeness of a damn penis. (Note: there is an entire industry dedicated to this, on top of the “wedding industry.” Red flag, people.)

Now, just from fashion’s point of view, this is horrendous; I’m not going to ruin the outfit I’ve carefully selected to enhance my flyness by sticking multiple buttons that emit sonar while flashing lights like a Japanese cartoon all over my couture, especially when said buttons are blasted with a caricature of a veiny dick. Please. But secondly, reveling in all of this dick-dom only preserves this notion in our society that sex should remain taboo, as these women are only being open about it during a patently uncharacteristic, singular moment in their lives, on an unrealistic night of debauchery, mayhem, and veritable rebellion against the accepted standard of feminine comportment. (And thirdly: come on. You’re not a virgin. The jig is up.)

As though the wang theme that runs at a constant throughout the night isn’t enough, usually a bachelorette party involves a male stipper. Hooray. So on top of being forced to wear some plastic jewelry (probably created in a Burmese sweatshop by a five-year-old for pennies) that, save for the giant dick charms dangling from them, looks oddly reminiscent of little-girl dress-up accessories, I now have to observe as Razor, the unnaturally shaved second-string wrestler from the local community college, lubes himself up in baby oil and gyrates around the bachelorette with some seriously sub-par Patrick Swayze moves? Awesome. A) don’t do Patrick’s memory wrong like that. And B) severely unattractive. I don’t even think I’d find David Beckham in a thong attractive (although if I found David Beckham in a thong somewhere, all bets are off, amirite ladies?!). The only women who find male strippers attractive are either post-menopausal and think that Steve Guttenberg will forever be the standard of hotness or not-out lesbians who are trying to front heterosexuality for whatever reason.

Speaking of strippers, how is this idea of “living it up” with your friends on your “one last night of freedom” before succumbing to “the old ball and chain” until one of you dies a healthy manner in which to enter one’s marriage? Now, I’m Miss Monogamy, and I always have been. But regardless of how two people got to the marriage point in their relationship, unless you’ve got some freaky secret contract a’brewin’ between the two of you, marriage is supposed to be off-limits to anyone else’s grubby little paws. I understand partying to celebrate happy tidings, but paying for someone who isn’t your intended get booty-ass nekkid for your specific entertainment seems like a super-sketch way of translating that maybe you aren’t really ready for marriage.

Surely though, it’s allowed because it’s tradition! Tradition, at one point or another in history, also stated that a man could legally beat his wife as long as the switch he used was no bigger than his thumb and that adultery was a sin punishable by death. Whoops. I’m not a huge fan. So while I love you and I’m grateful that you invited me to the party, please don’t jump up my ass if I don’t want to drink my cocktail through a plastic penis straw. The idea that I’m giving it a blow-job for everyone in the bar to see is crass, and, let’s be honest, there’s probably enough BPA in the plastic to put a date-rapist to shame.

***

So ladies, enjoy the moment. Do what you will. Live in the now. Just know that photos live on the interwebz forever, and you’re just a camera phone away from explaining to your parents and future in-laws, whom you so stupidly friended on facebook, why a picture of you with your skirt hiked up over your ears while taking a Blowjob shot out of a male stranger’s crotch exists in cyberspace.

FTR, my idea of a fabulous bachelorette party includes cocktails at high noon in couture with my amazing girlfriends and never referring to myself as a bachelorette in the first place.

Michele Bachmann’s treatment is not sexist. Your treatment of her as a victim of sexism is actually anti-feminst though.

We all know I’m a feminist, and labeling me as such is about as ingenious as telling me I’m tall. Obvious meter is off the charts right now.

And I’ve written before about what it means to me to be a feminist. A male friend back in Portland, in an effort to be sarcastic, would continually mock the label, notion, movement itself: “What? We let you vote. We let you drive cars. What more do you want?” Ha.

Even if he couldn’t articulate it, his underlying thought process revolved around the question of what is the point of being a feminist now? After the sexual revolution? After the burning of bras? (I mean, besides fighting for equal pay and reproductive rights, and against double standards and sexual objectification.) It seems that unless there is some sort of tangible evidence, something people can see in our visually dependent culture that constantly perpetuates this concept that only seeing is believing (Plato is simultaneously rolling his eyes and shaking his head from the great beyond right now), then something is moot, unworthy, forgotten.

Why am I harping about this? Beating this dead cheerleader of a theme that permeates my blog?

Because calling Michele Bachmann out for what she is, bat-shit crazy, is not a sexist move, and labeling it as such is not progressive, even if the criticism is written by a woman. In fact, it actually aids in derailing the movement.

Newsweek‘s photo of Bachmann is unflattering, yes. But if you think we live in a world without bias, you’re just as nuts and uninformed as she is. Editorial bias exists on every plane imaginable, and it’s up to Tina Brown, fully aware of the repercussions, to make that executive decision. (P.S. only citing the instances that cater to your thought process, Grose, when multiple covers depicting male politicians in unflattering shots exist as well is just as editorially biased as Brown’s decisions). Newsweek isn’t necessarily overtly liberal as much as it is supposed to be informative and thought provoking. Michele Bachmann is fucking crazy, and Sarah Palin is a joke (referring to the other cover that Grose references in her article); so portraying them for what they are isn’t sexist. It’s legitimate. However, crying “sexism!” over the perceived unfairness in representation only detracts from feminism, as you’re piggybacking onto a cause that Republicans generally don’t otherwise believe in, thus undermining the verisimilitude of the movement and all it has fought for. 

Hillary has appeared on multiple Newsweek covers. She’s not portrayed as psycho, or wallowing in the throes of menopause, or cutesy. She’s portrayed as an incredibly genius woman who isn’t afraid to get shit done without resorting to blatantly obvious inflammatory, incendiary political tactics to do it. When Michele Bachmann and Sarah Palin stop purporting themselves to be justified politicians (when they have no experience, ability, or a single policy they can name during an off-the-cuff interview) instead of just pawns that the Republican political machine is manipulating to breathe some life into the party, maybe they’ll stop getting shitty Newsweek covers. In the meantime, quit claiming you’re a feminist because you think you’re illuminating some major dichotomy in gender representation. 

Until we live in a world where we stop judging female politicians on their fashion instead of their politics (and this is cyclical, people; the media report on what their audience wants, so get your acts together and demand something a little more in-depth than criticizing Nancy Pelosi’s choice in color palette), then female politicians will continue to be seen as girls playing at a man’s game, and this misnomer about what is truly feminist will continue to exist. And I will continue to write about it.

That being said, sorry for just getting to this now, and the lack of writing, in general, as of late. You see, I just moved to Honolulu to get another master’s degree, and all of this beach bumming, sand-volleyball playing, and paradise living has really been taking up a lot of my time. I know; I’m terrible.

Eff Mesopotamia. The cradle of civilization, as revealed in a Summer’s Eve commercial.

Yowza.

Just watch.

1. Hold on a second. I’m still vomming.

2. Okay, for reals here? The most powerful thing in the history of the world is a woman’s vagina? Wait, Kara, you’re a feminist! Fuck, yes it is! Now let’s go castrate something! Gaw. <smacking palm against forehead> Now, granted, a woman’s reproductive system is a wonderful, amazing, supremely fabulous thing that should be protected at all costs; however, compartmentalizing a woman and defining her worth throughout history based solely on her organs (and, consequently, her ability [or inability, in which case, you're SOL, sweetheart] to reproduce offspring) is the same logic employed by Roman dictators, medieval kings, and sex traffickers. There’s a reason why Grendel’s mother was the only dynamic, vocal, heroic female character in Beowulf and also, not coincedentally, the only female literally demonized (and if anyone wants to read my argument on this, you just let me know).

3. I like how the majority of the scenarios in this commercial are based upon the notion of romantic partnerships in which men would die for “love,” even though in the scenarios, save the last in which the woman in the grocery store has an epiphany and feels the urge to purchase a product made of synthetic chemicals that will purportedly make her vagina smell like Tropical Rain or English Garden or something, romance was the last thing that was of any concern to the rulers of the patriarchial cultures. Marriage was a political tactic, out of which men could stray in order to quench their lust, yet women were strictly forbidden, and a woman’s virginity and/or ability to conceive were a male-owned commodity.  That’s why Isolt got shafted, Anne Boleyn got beheaded, and Cleopatra got figuratively demonized (although I will give the producers credit, in that even though Cleo’s look is stereotypically trite, at least they correctly made her dark-skinned). 

4. Can we just talk about the heteronormative connotations of this commercial? According to this logic, if a vagina (not necessarily the woman – I just want to state that again) is the most powerful thing in the world, and men will fight, be skewered, die for it, then the partnership between man and woman is equally more powerful than anything else in the world, i.e. a homosexual relationship, thus dictating that homosexuality is inferior, ”the other”? Good Lord. Everyone from King James I (y’know, the guy who did the modern Bible); to Lorca, Proust, and G. Stein; to to Alexander the Great; to Virginia Woolf; to Sappho; to Rachel Maddow (huge girl crush); to Saladin were/are either bi or homo. Plato would be piiiiiiised to hear this, yo.     

5. Um, douching is so unhealthy. There’s a reason why calling someone a douchebag is pejorative. Sticking the equivalent of a baster up your vagina, pumping your lovely lady parts full of a vinegar-based solution, and letting it drain back into a plastic bag is actually the perfect recipe for bacteria growth, which, magic of all magicality, results in one mother of a yeast infection. Dude, we’re talking about Summer’s Eve here. Did you honestly think it was all Tropical Rain and English Gardens? It’s a self-cleaning reproductive system, people. Douching was introduced in the 19th century and promulgated throughout the 20th century by the modern medical community as a method of institutionalizing “healthcare” and leaving midwives banished the realm of witch-doctors. Stay away from the douche aisle. And, similarly, the Jersey Shore. 

6. Insinuating that you need a product to “clean” your vagina insinuates that its natural smell is a somehow bad, noxious, terrible thing that needs to be covered with harmful materials created in a lab somewhere in order to make its odor more reminiscent of Tropical Rain or a fucking English Garden (because who DOESN’T want a vagina that smells like a GD florist shop?!). Newsflash: it’s not. It’s not bad, or noxious, or terrible, yet proselytizing that it is leads to body image issues in girls like you wouldn’t believe. And, seriously, if you’re that worried about it, A) shower daily, and B) eat some fresh pineapple.

7. No, this isn’t empowering because it shows men as completely predictable idiots caring only about sexual gratification, because when a woman uses her sexuality to get ahead or in order to appease said sexual gratification, it’s the opposite of empowering. If anything, it shows the advertising team who is behind this absolute gem as pandering to some completely inane heterosexual gender stereotypes. High five! Not so much.  

I mean, come the fuck on. The transparency of this commercial is just ridiculous. And blatant. And insulting to someone’s intelligence. It’s not funny, nor is it complimentary to women. It’s just really hitting at the lowest common denominator. Which, I’m not going to lie, should have succumbed to natural selection a long time ago, but maybe I’m just too optimistic for my own good.

In any event, maybe I need to go into advertising.

Age ain’t nothin’ but a number. Unless you’re R. Kelly, but that’s a different level, entirely.

I just turned the big 2-9. Hold the GD phone.

What’s interesting, to me at least (enough that I would re-enter the blogosphere from the self-induced hiatus I took for the past couple of months whilst I contemplated the inanities of the universe and my place within it), is that the formicative sensation of my youth seeping out of my body I completely associated with what I formally called the slow descent into 30 (which was once upon a time my Scary Age) has yet to manifest.

Hold the GD phone. Again. Know what? Just, g’head, just leave it off the hook for a second. (I fully realize that anyone under the age of 18 reading this will probably have a hard time figuring out how a phone can be “off the hook.” Like, is it at a cool party or something? <sigh>)

I’ve recently realized that a lot of women see their age as an expiration date (SATC was way more ground-breaking than people give it credit for, BTW). Ever hovering on the horizon is the idea that as one ages, one’s chances at fulfilment (however individually defined, but usually by marriage) dwindle and wither, until a self-proclaimed, previously annointed point that the clock runs out and she’s associated the rest of her existence as one that is determined by the feeding times for her hoards of cats. And I won’t lie: I did too. It’s hard not to in a society where rom-coms (make me vom) pit heroines with fabulously unattainable NYC advertising jobs at 24 in story-lines that climax with a sybaritic syncope and a marriage proposal from the reformed bad boy after defeating the villainous 35-year-old “spinster“; the media spend inexhaustible amounts of time lamenting, wailing, keening Jennifer Aniston being over 40 and childless, while one has to go into March-hare investigative mode to find a nugget of info about the civil wars in Africa; and Juliet, the chick from a sixteenth-century work people modernly correlate to the very quintessence of L-O-V-E, was 13. (You say it was a tragedy; I say Shakespeare was a satirical genius).

Where has this re-evaluation of my aging come from? Time to break it down (Lord knows my OCD ass loves a list!):

1. Nine of my friends are getting married this summer. Nine. And while some of them are truly in it to win it, I feel as though some of the others have been levitating around 30, freaked out, turned to whomever they were currently with, and pulled the trigger because they feel some sort of pressure (from family, society, themselves) to be at a certain point in their lives by a certain date, pinning marriage as the culmination of their adult lives. FTR, do you know how expensive that shit is? Engagement party gift, bachelorette party gift, bridal shower gift, wedding gift? For nine people? I love y’all, but y’all be making me broke.
2. My dad, probably the most important person in my life, could put Jack Kerouac to shame with all the l-i-v-i-n’ he’s done in his lifetime, and I definitely take after him as the black sheep of the family. He didn’t marry until past what was the social norm in the early 1970s, and even then, he lived his dream. Wanderlust may be genetic.
3. I’m moving to Honolulu in two weeks to get another master’s degree, meaning I’ll graduate two months before I turn 31. I would say it’s a suspension of reality, but who’s to say that everyone’s reality has to be the picket fence, 9-5 job, and 2.5 kids? My reality for the next two years is going to be nerding out in academia, palm trees, and sand volleyball every day. This is the dynamite, and it just went BOOM.
4. In honor of totally flagrant vapidity, I still get carded. Narcissus may have just been misunderstood.

My mother, travel agent for guilt trips par excellance, in a blindly grasping attempt to get me to stay in Portland, recently called and tried to set me up with a friend’s son who is supposedly tall, educated, around my age, and “just the nicest guy.” A month before I move. Anyone who knows my mother would laugh at her typical antics, but because I do not subscribe to her philosophy that marriage defines a person, especially marriage by a specific age, we fundamentally disagree. So while she will continue to pray novenas in order to palliate what she sees as my tragic peccadillo, I forbid her from giving out my digits.  And seriously, if this dude is really all of the above and he hasn’t been snatched up in this city that has been running a dearth on available, non-psycho tall guys for years now, then he’s either dealing with some ex-partner baggage of epic proportions or he’s a troll. Do. Not. Want.

I had a conversation with a smart, talented, beautiful woman I met yesterday while out boating along the le gorge Columbia with some of the loveliest people I’m lucky enough to be friends with. As we reclined in the sunshine on the swim deck, wine in hand, she told me she was 38. Firstly, she looked about 27. Secondly, and most importantly, she elucidated that while she’s not opposed to marriage, she’s counting home ownership, business ownership, sailboat ownership, passport and visa ownership, life ownership as the accomplishments she’ll go down with when her chi runs out and she sluffs off the mortal coil. And her openness was fucking refreshing, I have to say. No qualms, no shame, no revealing of “real” age in susurrated sotto voce, as though God would smite her hot ass down right there because she gave away the forbidden secret.

While she and I only met yesterday, I got all reflective and shit (this aging thing might actually be working for me). And I believe that the dissipation of the frightfulness of aging is inextricably tied to my close friends. Sara is a verifiable genius who pushes herself outside of her comfort zone on a regular basis; Lish has the confidence of a Spartan and has moved solo to wherever she pleases four or five times now; Lizzie is completely magnetic and follows her heart to happiness, regardless of what others may think of her; Sara P. is on her Ph.D. now, chooses schools based on where she wants to live next, and has traveled this planet more extensively than Superman; Cher owns about 26 different businesses, is driven beyond belief, and isn’t afraid to make herself vulnerable. We’re all roughly the same age, we’re all not married, and we’re all not covered in scales because of it (who knew?!). 

Marriage is neither the end nor the beginning of someone’s existence. It’s a happy occurrence along the way that may or may not actually occur. Either way, life is lovely, aging is radical, and the future is what you make of it.

My pal Devon, an wonderfully conscious, open woman who should teach free courses to the world on how to be an all-around fabulous human being, said to me while we were out playing sand ball the other day that one’s thirties are so much better than one’s twenties. When prodded as to why, she responded that in your thirties, you know who you really are, you do what makes you content, and, honestly, you have more money than you ever did scrounging around at that part-time job you held down while going to school. Altogether, rather fantastic.

Is this all a rationalization about not wanting to grow up? Settle down? Become an adult? Adulthood is a state of mind, and I’ve been there for a while. It just may not look like the conventional version of “adulthood.” And I hate the term “settle down,” because it is undeniably linked to “settling,” which is something I will never do. Words spoken by my dad: “the last thing you ever want to do is settle. It’s like going into a fight, bluffing. If you can’t take the guy, you don’t fight him. If you settle, you don’t get into a relationship, because then you’re stuck with the repercussions forever.” Coolest. Person. Ever.

Have a cocktail at noon. Burn your slippers. Seize the day.

Brewer’s Fest. Or whatever it’s called.

This is a short article I just spout off to Chinatown Newspaper, one of the ones I free-lance for in the PNDub. The specs were about summertime festivals, and I was given free reign from there. I like loose specs. Enjoy!

The scent of hops floating across the breeze that wanders up off of the Willamette, giving a much-needed reprieve from the sun’s rays bearing down upon the virgin skin on the necks of pasty Oregonians; the trilling notes of some no-name band drowning into the din created by the afternoon crowd’s shouts, laughter, and, eventually, (tuneless, carousing) song; and the sweat of your palm warming the waning amount of brew waiting patiently for your mouth at the bottom of your plastic, insignia-covered mug: welcome to Brewer’s Fest. Or whatever it’s called.

Here’s the thing: I have no idea what the actual name is. Because beer is a religion in the PNDub, it seems as though every summer weekend has some sort of festival, vigil, shrine dedicated to the alcoholic gloriousness known as microbrews. And because they all have names that sound similarly alike – Brew Fest, the Brewer’s Festival, Ale Party, Beer Bacchanalia, college redux – I don’t know which one I’m talking about, other than it’s on the Waterfront during the last full weekend in July. But, in all honesty, I couldn’t care less what the damn thing is called. I care about what delectable microbrewed concoctions are about to have a party on my tongue.

Basically, a bunch of breweries from all over the West Coast bring out their best stuff and try to impress us beer aficionados with their reserve shit. And it’s bomb. For twenty bucks, you can get your official mug and a bunch of tokens. Each token is worth a taste of beer. And that’s a good afternoon, in my opinion. Sound simple? It is. On paper.

Here’s what you need to know:

1. Everyone and his/her dog goes to this bad boy. Meaning that you’re going to have to deal with Portland’s finest, including the frat dicks/sorostitutes who graduated college ten years ago, but seem to have never gotten the memo that pookah-shell necklaces, frosted tips, and being a flaming douche canoe are no longer fashionable; the one splinter cell of hipsters who decided to forego their undying vigilance toward Pabst and transcend to micros; the hippies (enough said); and probably every one of your exes. Granted, this is the only time I am cordial with those permanently etched on my DNR List, as I am usually hammered by two o’clock, and I’ve got better things to do, such as finding out where that delicious IPA in my friend’s mug came from, than worry about appearing effortlessly cool in front of an ex.

2. Go with friends. You’ll need someone who actually cares about you to be there for when the Porta-Potty lock is broken and you need a sentry to guard against ill-timed interruptions while you’re concentrating really hard on NOT peeing on your shoes; getting good recommendations as to where to find a fantastic lager; and scoping out potential future exes. Also, it’s just a damn blast. Why wouldn’t you want to be there with your friends?

3. Don’t drive there. All of those “testers” of micros that range from 8-12% alcohol really sneak up on you quickly, and you don’t want to A) be stupid enough to try to drive home, or B) have to leave your vehicle in downtown at the mercy of the vengeful wills of unfulfilled meter maids. Just take public transpo or hitch a ride from the poor soul in your group who got nominated as DD. My friend and I were once lucky enough to show up via boat. Granted, we whored ourselves out as boat-candy in order to get on said boat by making friends with the owner about a hot minute before he shoved off, but we showed up, nonetheless, and got to work on our tans whilst sipping an extraordinary cherry-laced amber that had been aged in an oak barrel for longer than I’ve been alive. Pretty sure I saw God’s face after I drank that one, but I digress.

4. Plan to make a day of it. Hell, plan to make a weekend of it. Once you get your mug, you’re golden for the duration of the festival, and you just buy more tokens as you run out. It can get a little spendy if you’re really trying to tie one on, and there are always those miserly bastards who would be willing to sell their little sister’s virginity to get more tokens (you’ll see them – they’ll either be acting disingenuously gregarious, hoping you’ll give them your unused tokens on your way out, or just be really wasted and slobbering for free tastes from the annoyed pourers); but if you pace yourself and budget accordingly, you won’t have to break bank in order to get a good sampling.

5. Avoid the beer snobs. They’ll turn your afternoon into the eighth circle of Dante’s version of Hell as the sowers of discord who just don’t take the hint that you don’t give a flying fuck whether or not they can taste the different notes of persimmon and chamomile in whatever ale their downing.

Basically, it’s a great time. The sun, the music, the friends, the laughter, and, of course, the beer. What more could a Portlandite ask for on a warm summer’s weekend? Well, besides sun for more than just two months out of the year.

Last summer's festivavl with loves of my hot, young life. Stu was champ of the world after that one