Really, for real, legitimate

This blog entry started out two weeks ago as my own commentary/slant on pro-life versus pro-choice. Then the shit hit the fan with Todd Akin and his idea of “legitimate rape” which is fortuitous timing.

I don’t take personal issue with Todd Akin’s use of the phrase “legitimate rape” for two reasons. First of all, everyone slips up and says something stupid once in a while. A politician constantly speaks in public, and is more likely than you or I to say things that their opposers won’t like. I personally think both Democrats and Republicans are idiots to call for him to step down; there’s no reason why he should. Second, Rep. Akin is not coming completely out of left field with his statement because he is, in fact, representing the viewpoint of many pro-life supporters. This topic has taken center stage to that point that nearly 18 months ago in April of 2011, Ms. ran a cover story calling for the FBI to change the definition of rape. (see http://msmagazine.com/blog/blog/2011/04/20/rape-is-rape-no-more-excuses/) So you see, this battle’s been going on for a long-ass time.

What I do take issue with is the reasoning behind the definition of “legitimate”, which here could be translated “valid.” What, then, makes a rape “invalid”? If a person has not consented to sex, but another person goes ahead anyway, that is legitimate, valid rape. It is an act of sexual violence against someone who cannot otherwise defend themselves. I personally know of a woman whose husband had sex with her while she was in a deep sleep due to her prescription medication. Is this considered rape or is it a case of the wife paying her dues to her husband even though she wasn’t conscious? (Note: I realize that women are not the only ones who get raped. It’s a sad exertion of domination over the powerless. However, women are the only ones who can get pregnant, which is why I’m addressing that specifically.)

I also take issue with the idea that “the punishment ought to be on the rapist and not attacking the child.” Okay, fair enough that the rapist should be punished. But what about the woman?? Rep Akin seems more concerned with the unborn embryo than with the fully-formed person who has been violated against her will and now, according to his line of reasoning, must permit the product of an unwanted situation to develop inside of her. Why should she be punished? She should, instead, be allowed to decide for herself what she will do.

Part of the problem, as I see it, is that people like Rep Akin are not personalizing the issue, they’re not putting a face on so-called ‘legitimate rape.” What if a beloved female family member of theirs was raped and became pregnant as a result? Would the fault be dropped squarely in her lap as though she must not have said ‘no’ or fought hard enough? Or would they at last be able to dig around deep within themselves and scrounge up some compassion, realizing that the decision to keep or abort needs to lie with the true victim, the woman.

And that, dear readers (I believe there are about five of you, even though only one of you has commented), brings me to the controversial topic of pro-life versus pro-choice.

Contrary to what pro-life supporters may say, pro-choice does not equate pro-abortion. Rather, pro-choice means that the choice of what to do about the life of the unborn baby is up to the woman in question, not the government, and not anyone else who us unconnected with the conception of the child.

For my own body, I am pro-life. No matter the circumstances, I don’t think I could ever bring myself to terminate the life growing inside of me. I say that now, but I honestly don’t know what I would want to do if I were raped. However, I have no right to sit in judgment of women who have decided on this course of action. It must be the choice of each woman. The government should keep out of the affairs of a woman’s reproductive rights, which includes blowhards like Rush Limbaugh calling a young woman a slut simply because she would like access to the same thing he has: the joy of sex. While I’m on that topic, in my own lifetime, which has not been long in the grand scheme of things, I have known of men who abandoned their pregnant girlfriend. What choice then does the woman have when she is left on her own to fend for herself? Rush Limbaugh can stick his cock anywhere he wants and doesn’t have to deal with any responsibility. Men have been doing it for centuries. Why are some of them so reluctant to give us that same power? Oh….because..right, it would give us power. I answered my own question.

Speaking of government keeping out of personal affairs, it should also be a woman’s choice on how she will feed her child (attention, Mayor Bloomberg.) Not all women can breastfeed. For some, it is physically painful. For others, especially women who must return to full-time work, it is logistically impossible to be able to feed an infant as often as required, short of hooking herself up to a milking machine that one sees on a farm. If formula were to be restricted, how would gay parents feed their infant children? Perhaps Mayor Bloomberg can reinvigorate the wet nurse franchise.

To summarize, kids, the government needs to mind its own business and give equal rights to men and women. Class dismissed.

This week’s thoughts that aren’t long enough to merit their own individual blog

Celebrity DUIs

Why does a celebrity DUI make the news EVERY time it happens Can you imagine how clogged up the news would be if EVERY person with a DUI, celebrity or not, made the news? That's all we'd hear! There would be no Pussy Riot news updates, no political updates (though at this time of year in an election year, I might be glad to see that one go the way of the dodo)

Just in these past two weeks it's been country singer Randy Travis, Crocs founder George Boedecker, Jessica Simpson's dad, and adult film star Jenna Jameson. Enough! If DUIs are happening this frequently, then it has ceased to be news. Stop reporting it!

We don’t need no stinkin’ mission

A couple of weeks ago, a friend asked me what my mission was, what my purpose was here on this earth. I say I don't need no stinkin' mission! I'm not supposed to be here in the first place. My presence in this life is a product of a game of Birth Control Russian Roulette. I get to do what I like, mission-free. Woooo!

Some might argue that I was meant to be. I don’t know about that, but I’m going to make sure I have a hell of a ride while I’m here. More on that later.

Birthday, baby (or is that birthday baby with no comma?)

My birthday is on February 12, which was nice when I was growing up in Connecticut because we always got that day off school as it was Lincoln’s birthday. Then we moved to North Carolina and it was “Lincoln? That's a car, right?"

I once was skeptical about signs, but as I've become more in tune to my little Jiminy Cricket in place of other people’s ideas about what my life should be, I realize I am a true Aquarius and lately I've become interested in learning the signs of people that I effortlessly connect with. (I realize that last sentence ended in a preposition, but William Safire said it was okay.)

Jane Austen

I want a Georgian/Regency-era dress. True, I have no place to wear it, but I want to be dressed like a character out of a Jane Austen novel. I think Mrs. Jennings and I are the same size.

It's just chicken, folks.

The other day, I told a trusted co-worker that I’d started a blog and I had written one whole entry. Her eyes lit up and she said “You should blog about Chick-Fil-A.” My response was “Okay!!” Granted, the story is now a few weeks old which puts it in the not-hot category, but I refrained from commenting about the entire matter on other social media sites. Now that I decided to start blogging, I can say what I like, just like every other idiot in the free world.

I didn't go anywhere near Chick Fil-A on August 1, “Chick Fil-A Appreciation day” when Christian fanatics did their Chick-in. Nor did I go anywhere near the place on August 3 Gay Kiss-in day when the gay fanatics did their Kiss-in. But the next day, I got a 4-count chicken mini and a Cherry Coke. God, that bread on the chicken minis is so good!

Here’s what I think: Everyone needs to shut the fuck up and stop getting so worked up over chicken. I know some will argue that it’s about what the top dude of Chick-Fil-A stands for and where his money goes. As so many others have pointed out, he’s entitled to his opinion. Incessant bickering on social media sites will not change other people’s opinions. Only time and personal experiences can affect that kind of change. In the meantime, I’m still going to enjoy the occasional Chick-Fil-A breakfast.

I show my support for equal marriage rights by the political candidates I vote for and by giving my money to causes and organizations that support equal rights marriage. I’m also nice to gay people (unless they’re assholes, then I’m an Equal Opportunity Asshole right back) and I don’t tell them they’re going to hell. That may seem like a small thing, but believe me when I tell you, no one likes to be told they’re facing fiery eternal damnation for something they can’t change. It’s like some guy said a long time ago about…doing unto others as you would…or something like that. I don’t know, I read it somewhere years ago. On a side note: Despite what “Christians” think, a person’s sexual preference is not something that can be changed. And don’t give me that “some of my best friends are gay.” If that were true, you would know just from talking to your gay best friends that they have had these preferences from an early age just as you’ve had your preferences from an early age. That’s what time and my personal experiences have taught me. Suck it up and be nice to each other.

Honey Boo Boo Child

I’ve watched my Facebook family post about Honey Boo Boo for weeks without having any idea what they meant. I figured it had something to do with yet another TV show obsession that bypassed me ala Shark Week or any other show that has taken the country by storm. My curiosity finally got the better of me of me today and I Googled Honey Boo-Boo. God help us all.

Since I was not born and raised in the South, I don’t consider myself a true Southerner. However, I have lived here since I was 15, and I feel that at least makes me an honorary Southerner since I didn’t high-tail it out of here as soon as I could stand on my own two feet. Understandably, then, I get offended when people automatically assume that “Southerner” is equated with slack-jawed, ignorant, and uneducated trash like something out of Deliverance. Having lived in the South as long as I have, I can assure you that it is not an accurate picture. People like Honey Boo Boo’s family give Southerners a bad name and I worry that this constant spectacle on TV will continue to fuel this misconception of the true South. It pains me to hear that family categorized as “Southern.” True, they live in the South and have Southern-ish accents, but they’re trash. They’re the parts of the South we’d rather you didn’t see.

I typically embrace violence of a verbal nature rather than physical. But in this case, I’m willing to make an exception and say that someone needs to beat the shit out of that entire family. For a split-second, I felt like beating Honey Boo Boo but then remembered that she’s only an innocent little kid and she acts the way she does because her moronic mother has permitted and nurtured this behavior. (on a side note, could people please stop referring to pageants as "a sport"? It isn't.)

Does anyone else see pole-dancing in Honey Boo Boo's future? “A dollah make me hollah.” Sure, sweetie, the Kardashians and the Hilton sisters used to say the same thing when they were 6 years old. You know her Go-Go juice will eventually be infused with vodka. Probably in two years when “Mama June” thinks she’s old enough to learn how to handle her liquor. She drinks this special juice to “give her umph” as her mother so eloquently put it. I suppose a couple of grams of coke will be introduced as her new umph-giver once the Red Bull-Mountain Dew concoction isn’t working for her anymore.

Maybe I should start folding my gut into a puppet roll and declare that people “don’t know a good thing when they see it.”

Puke in a pan...it's what's for dinner.

It gives me great relief to say that I don’t have a husband and children who hurl this question at me at 4:30 every night the way my father and my siblings and I did to my mother when I was growing up. However, like clockwork, every day at 4:30, my stomach grabs hold of its metaphorical broomstick and bangs on the ceiling, shouting “Eh! What’s for dinner?!” in a rough New York City accent (In this scene, the part of my stomach will be played by that repulsive green being in the Mucinex commercial, wife-beater tee and all.)

Usually "dinner" is some sort of starch, either rice or pasta, and a chicken breast, if I’ve remembered to thaw it in time. If not, that’s what the microwave’s Auto Defrost setting is for. About half-way through my meal, I remember that I neglected to make a vegetable, so I cram a handful of the pre-bagged, pre-washed spinach into my mouth. There, that’s my vegetable serving for the day.

I wish I had my sister’s culinary skills. She opens the cabinets, scans its contents, and 45 seconds later, will begin preparing the meal. Without fail, it is always delicious. I, on the other hand, have the culinary skills of a college student who adds Thai hot sauce to Top Ramen and calls it a meal. But I can eat like a trooper.

I try to branch out, but the culinary wherewithal is missing. Tonight's dinner was (supposed to be) chicken fettuccine Alfredo. It actually ended up being cooked chicken and spaghetti, thrown into a bowl. I then added spaghetti sauce, 1/2 of a small container of sour cream (the other half went in the alleged black bean dip I made yesterday; that was just mashed black beans, cheese, sour cream, and cumin), several handfuls of cheese until the pasta mixture looked cheesy enough, and Greek seasoning, again which was added until it looked like "enough." Once in the bowl, it looked like someone started eating it but changed their mind mid-chew. I popped it in a 350º oven for 30 minutes.

It still looked like someone was sick in the pan, but it smelled like pizza and didn’t taste too bad either. Now I have at least two more meals out of it.

Breaking Dawn, the film

I’ll be perfectly honest. I never had any interest in vampires. I’ve never been able to understand the obsession our society seems to have with this phenomenon. Years ago, I had to be coaxed into watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I drew the line there, refusing to watch its spin-off, Angel (unless it was a good Spike episode). I never really got into Dark Shadows, I’ve only ever seen the Bela Lugosi version of Dracula, and I can’t understand the fascination with True Blood. I’ve tried to give it a chance, but again, the fascination escapes me.

So, as it happens, I never saw any of the Twilight films until November of 2011. I think it’s fair to say that it wasn’t just my aversion to the vampire spectacle that kept me away. It had a lot to do with the throngs of screaming teens at every new Twilight premiere. I tend to shy away from anything that prompts such a hysterical reaction. When I finally succumbed to the films, it was Thanksgiving weekend and I was spending it in the mountains of North Carolina with my best friend and her family. On Black Friday, all the women except myself went shopping. The men stayed behind and watched football on the upstairs TV. I’m not sure what I hate more: football or vampires, so I stayed downstairs, channel-surfing.

After a fruitless 30 minutes of surfing, it became clear that I wasn’t going to find anything interesting to watch. The first three Twilight films were sitting in front of me on the ottoman. I rolled my eyes and thought “*sigh* fine….I’ll watch these.” I knew Twilight was first, but I had to look at the dates on the back of the DVDs to figure out which one to watch next. God forbid I watch the Cullens and the wolves fight a vampire army before Edward ditches Bella to kill himself in Italy.

Here we are, almost a year later. While I have all the Twilight books and movies, I relentlessly heckle both the films and books a la Mystery Science Theatre. (On a side note, I think people who have only watched the films should also read the books. I actually like Bella and Edward better in the books. They're playful with each other and not always so morose and intense like they are in the films.)

I particularly enjoy heckling the film Breaking Dawn, part 1. I watch that film when I have a yen for a good comedy. Poor Bill Condon. The director behind, in my opinion, a great film like Dreamgirls gave us, in BD1 many unintentionally hilarious moments. (I can’t wait for the new Breaking Dawn film in November. What comedic bits are in store for us there?) For instance:

1)Pattypoo (my nicknamed for Robert Pattinson) sounding like Forrest Gump when says to Carlisle in front of Bella "It's breaking her bones now." I always say the line with him and add "Jenny." Sometimes I actually say it, sometimes I just add it in my head.

2) the talking wolves. Oy with the poodles, that was excruciating. Now, when I went to see BD1 I had not yet read the books, so that scene seemed to come out of nowhere. Then I read the books and thought “Oh, they communicate via telepathy.” After I read the books I understood what an important scene it was and why it needed to be in the film, but it still remains a major WTF moment for me.

3) Edward trying to save Bella by biting her all over. He looked like a cartoon character when they go to town on corn on the cob. I expected to hear a typewriter *ding* every time he hit the end and started working his way back up.

4) When Taylor Lautner took his shirt off in the opening scene of BD part I, I said in my best Chris Rock voice "Good Lawd, Taylor Lautner done took his shirt off...lookit the titties [pronounced tittehs] on him!"

While I’m on the subject of vampires, I’m weary of hearing people say things like “vampires don’t sparkle.” “Vampires don’t [whatever else they do in Twilight that they don’t do elsewhere.]” You know what else vampires don’t do? They don’t fucking exist. They are fictitious creatures. They can’t be repelled with garlic or crosses, you don’t need a nice sharp piece of wood to stick into their hearts, they don’t disintegrate when you slay them, and they don’t kill you violently. So no matter how much you would like for Bram Stoker, Joss Whedon, or even Alan Ball to be the leading and/or final authority of the vampire canon, the fact remains, vampires aren’t real. Therefore anyone can create a new vampire canon in any way that strikes their fancy. So stop bitching about what Stephenie Meyer decided to do with her vampires and move on with your life. Take up knitting or something!

Who Am I?

I’m not pretty, never have been.

I’m not skinny, never have been.

I’m not slutty.

I’ve come to terms with the fact that, despite my undying devotion to music, especially rock, and its artists, I’ll never be the girl that someone writes a song about. I’m not the one you see backstage at concerts (see aforementioned non-prettiness and non-skinniness. Though I feel certain that some musicians would overlook those deficiencies if I were willing to provide a decent BJ.) So who am I? Oh, you know who I am; you've seen me, and probably shaken your head at me.

I’m the one lining up at the venue 2-3 hours before it opens, ensuring my spot up front, right next to an amp. Never fear, I’m dorky enough to care about my hearing, so the earplugs are in my pocket. I’m also the one waiting by the stage door after the show, waiting for the chance to get a photo with the musicians I admire and maybe, assuming that my verbal diarrhea is in check, chat with them a bit.
That’s right, I’m something of a superfan, or as some people term it, a “groupie.” My groupiedom started in 2005 with bands like Raleigh-based Guns n’ Roses tribute band Appetite for Destruction, Winston-Salem-based Mudjunkie, and Greensboro-based Sweet Libertine.

In October of that year, I kicked it up a notch. I flew up to New York for the SOLE purpose of seeing Queen + Paul Rodgers. While I enjoyed the show immensely, I learned one very important lesson: do NOT fly up the day of the gig. That way, the flight can still be delayed without heaving me into a panic because of arriving 30 minutes prior to “curtain.”

Fast forward to 2012 and my groupiedom is on a whole new level. I’ve traveled to 7 different cities throughout the U.S. to follow British rock band The Darkness, a band I’ve loved since early 2005. I’ve also seen Cincinnati-based rock band Foxy Shazam about 7 or 8 times this year . How to really rock if you’re not skinny, pretty, and/or slutty (this schedule should count as a job, given the time my friends and I invest)

Schedule

• Scope out the venue around 3 or 4. Find out where the stage door is to meet the band after the show. Check to see if anyone has started lining up yet outside the venue. Eat a good dinner since this will be the last time before the gig that we’ll get some food.

• Get in line as early as 5 pm (assuming doors at 7). My friends and I are usually 2nd or 3rd in line by this point, which will ensure us a spot right up front.I’ve heard that in some cities, fans start lining up early than that, but so far that has not been my experience.

• Drink as little as possible during the show, reducing the need for bathroom breaks. I usually steer clear of alcohol because I don’t want my senses dulled, especially if it’s a band I really like. However, I usually do keep one or two bottles of water to stay hydrated during the show. My friend hastened to point out that being up front as often as we are for specific bands means that they see our faces often and we get their drumsticks and picks. Well, it's more accurate to say that THEY get drumsticks and picks. I can't catch worth a shit, so I don't even bother trying. It's like trying to catch the bouquet at your friend's wedding. Ugh, no thanks.

• The moment the show ends, rush to the bathroom since it has now been several hours since my last piss break.

• Adjourn to the stage door to await the exit of the band.

• Return to hotel and pass out as soon as my head hits the pillow.

There you have it, kids. The only way to really rock the night away (again, with the assumption that one of the 3 above-mentioned adjectives apply to you.)