Tuesday, December 12, 2017

Recharging the Battery

I’m trying not to be one of those self-righteous people who announce their backpedaling from social media with a megaphone. As if the whole world has just been relying on my (or any one person's) pithy wisdom, witty jokes, and jaw-dropping pics without which the whole internet would be a barren wasteland of cat memes and Thinx Period Panties ads.

Really, I’m just writing this last-blog-post-for-a-little-while as an explanation for myself. As a way to reckon with the fact that social media—this blog included—is cunningly and insidiously designed by mega-corporations to be addictive, outer-directed, and profiteering.

Although it feels like--and perhaps is--a necessary evil these days, much of social media is a drug of diminishing returns.

Yesterday two small everyday things happened, in which a couple of strangers—whom I know agree with me on the issue being debated—tried to start a fight with me on the internet. This happens all the time, which is why my first rule of internet engagement is not fighting on the internet.

But for whatever reason, this time, even just being baited into the fight was too much. It was the proverbial last straw. It was like that morning in 2005 when I boarded a crowded downtown 6 subway train, and although it was no different from any other NYC rush hour commute, I suddenly reached a breaking point and knew I would not spend my adult life doing this every day.

Similarly, I know I can no longer spend my nights, weekends, and early mornings spiraling down the bottomless rabbit hole over Who Is Wrong on the Internet, and thirsting for validation that I Am Right/Smart/Funny/Good on The Internet.

It’s stupid. It’s futile. It contravenes my beliefs about the value of being inner-directed. It’s bad for my mental health. It takes the final third of my life (the one that is not spent working or asleep) and fractures it into little slices that should be redistributed to my family, exercise, and human interaction.

Worst of all, it contributes--or can contribute--to the overall divisive, negative, depressing, and utterly desperate despairing zeitgeist of the Age of Trump. 

An age in which even people who agree find ways to cannibalize each other, thereby catalyzing the divide-and-conquer mission of fascism, all the while fueling the propaganda engine that once relied only on newspapers and rallies, but is now super-charged by social media and commodified outrage.

I don’t want to be a part of it anymore, no matter how much viral content I manage to create in the process. It's a devil's bargain and it isn't worth the trade-off.

So I'm trying to take some quiet time to return to the things about social media and blogging that I love. The things that are real, and that were my reasons for being so active on social media in the first place: 
Meeting new people. Connecting with people. Sharing ideas. Honing a craft. Bringing some small, brief moment of laughter or intellectual stimulation to a friend or a stranger’s day. 

I know I can do that if I just recharge my battery and return to the creative essence of why I started this blog in the first place. 
This picture of my kids on a rainy Juneau October December morning says it all. 

See you soon.

Sunday, December 10, 2017

Could Weekends With Kids Be More of a Clusterfuck? Asking for a Friend

I’m just wondering. You know, hypothetically-speaking. Because here are a few highlights, and I’m just kind of curious if maybe my clusterfuck meter needs to be recalibrated? Like maybe it's not really AS much of a clusterfuck as it feels? 

I'll let you be the judge:


6:00 a.m.: I open my left eyeball in the pitch black. I’m super excited, because I hate mornings and suddenly remember it's a Saturday, which means I can theoretically go back to sleep. BUT WAIT! JUST KIDDING! IT’S DECEMBER IN ALASKA AND IT’S ACTUALLY 8:43-- a full two hours and 43 minutes later than it feels! Which means my kids have been watching Danger Mouse and eating foraged sugar for almost three hours now. BAD. MOMMY.

9:00 a.m.: A generational showdown is underway over the condition of our shared living space. It's me and Geoff vs. Paige and Isaac, and we pepper them with questions: How do you live like this? Like ungrateful pigs in a trough? Do you know a lot of kids don't even HAVE a house to mess up like this? Weren't you supposed to clean up this painting project three days ago? Do you realize there is now an indefinite moratorium on new stuff coming into this house? INCLUDING for holidays and birthdays? Do you think I care that you don't know what an indefinite moratorium is? Do you think it sounds like a good thing? GO LOOK IT UP IN A BOOK!

12:00 p.m.: We're between soccer games, and have already driven the same stretch of beat-to-shit Juneau pavement back and forth about 74 times. We now have exactly thirty minutes to buy used ski boots next to the going-out-of-business gun store. Just typing that sentence makes me want to fall through the floor for 100 different reasons. The only thing missing is a minivan, mom jeans, and a box of ammo. But I'll tell you what's NOT missing. A lot of whining about what size feet Paige and Isaac actually have at the end of their legs. THESE BOOTS FEEL TOOO TIIIIIGGGHHHT! THAT'S HOW THEY'RE SUPPOSED TO FEEL! And so on, until the kids are practically standing with both feet in a single giant boot and still claiming it's too small and tight, and it's 47 degrees anyway on New Planet Earth so who even cares about ski boots.

1:00 p.m.: Second soccer game, this one for Paige's team. I just mowed down three grilled chicken tacos from Breez-In in a carton off my lap in the car, and let my kids buy juice to shut them up. I'm watching Isaac hit pinecones with the empty plastic juice bottle as far as he can, and then count the number of steps back to the pinecone in, again, 47 degrees and sideways rain.

2:30 p.m.: Paige has "dance pictures" and is under strict orders to dress up like Jonbenet Ramsey for said pictures. I force her to shower for the first time in a week. Apart from her unwillingness to bathe, Paige, who will be all of ten on New Year’s Eve, is in full-blown tween ASSHOLE mode. The eye-rolling. The back-sassing. The "fresh mouth" and "tone of voice" as my parents used to call it. It's in full effect, and it's all I can do to resist grabbing her chin in my hand, squeezing it like an orange, and spitting into her face that WE DON'T TALK TO OUR PARENTS WITH THAT FRESH TONE OF VOICE!!!!

6:00 p.m.: Babysitter arrives and I can finally start tying one on and eating salami and cookies at a couple of Christmas parties. I make sure to eat and drink as much crap as possible to ensure the next day will be awesome.

10:00 p.m.: Return from parties to kids still awake, having baked "cookies," and refusing to go to bed. I remind them that IT'S A TREAT TO HAVE A BABYSITTER AND IF YOU DON'T GO TO BED THIS MINUTE WE ARE NEVER GETTING YOU A BABYSITTER AGAIN!

11:00 p.m.: Finally get kids down for the night and eat three of the "cookies," which are actually just like these round, sugar dough-bricks with a butter and sugar glaze on top adorned with those gross little cinnamon decorative candies and something else that's green but definitely not a vegetable. 


6:00 a.m./8:43 a.m.: Repeat yesterday’s wakeup routine, but with new flair. The kids are on the couch fighting like two cats in a sack over a blanket and whose feet are on whose. PAIGE STOP KICKING ME ISAAC YOU'RE STEALING ALL THE BLANKET ETC. I CAN'T TAKE ANOTHER SECOND OF THIS! I'm already being nagged for playdates, so I start text-stalking parents, and immediately get accused of ignoring my family because I'm on my phone.

9:30 a.m.: I gulp down two cups of coffee and instantly have to crap my brains out due to what I put my body through at the aforementioned Christmas parties. While I'm trying to take a shit in peace, I hear FUCK FUCK FUCKETY FUCK ASSHOLE MIDDLE FINGER YOU'RE A FUCKING SHIT HEAD ASSHOLE! I'm forced to scream from the bathroom down the hall to STOP USING THAT LANGUAGE OR YOU'RE GOING TO GET MOMMY AND DADDY IN TROUBLE AND END UP IN STATE CUSTODY IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT!?!??!?


11:15: I am now subjected to more "gymnastics" in my living room with promises of future cleaning and reading. I try to make Paige remove her Jonbenet Ramsey eye makeup and she refuses. Quite the opposite: she insists that I text AND email AND call her dance teachers to see if she is going to get to move up a level next session, and every five minutes asks me if they've emailed or texted back yet.

The day isn't over yet, not even close. Monday feels like a distant mirage of an oasis in the Sahara. I choose to commit the weekend's exploits thus far to the internet for posterity. 

After all, I don't want my kids to say I never did anything for them.

Friday, December 8, 2017

Your Kids’ Worst Messes

I put out a call for submissions of your kids’ worst messes and y’all delivered. For those of you who are smart enough to not have kids, or have your own messy room/house, enjoy this new form of birth control!

Thursday, December 7, 2017

I Am the Sun! The Ultimate Authority On Hot Takes!

(1) A piece of commentary, typically produced quickly in response to a recent event, whose primary purpose is to attract attention; (2) A piece of deliberatively provocative commentary that is based almost entirely on shallow moralizing in response to a news story, usually written on tight deadlines with little research or reporting, and even less thought.

With hot takes quickly overtaking whataboutism, propagandist psychological warfare, weaponized information, and outright hypocrisy as the primary mode of communication in the Age of Trump, I would like to remind everyone on planet earth that I am THE SUN and therefore the final and ultimate authority on hot takes.

With the help of Wikipedia, which is where I always go to read about myself (don’t forget to donate to their fundraising campaign!), let me explain why:

I am “by far the most important source of energy for life on Earth,” and I am YOOGE: 1.39 million kilometers to be exact, i.e. 109 times bigger than earth, with a mass 330,000 times that of earth, accounting for 99.86% of the total mass of the solar system.  

I am big. Like, BIGLY big.

In fact, except for Jupiter and Saturn, the rest of the solar system accounts for only .002% of the solar system’s total mass, which means earth’s total mass is even smaller than that, which means each hot take written by any given person on the internet is, like, .000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000001% of the total mass of the solar system, or less.

In other words: Your. Hot. Take. Is. Vaporized. Cosmic. Dust. Smaller. Than. An. Atom.

Don’t let my status as a “yellow dwarf” fool you, either. This isn’t my first rodeo. I’m 4.6 billion years old, for fuck's sake, and I’ve seen some shit. 

I came up from nothing. I formed from “the gravitational collapse of matter within a region of a large molecular cloud.” My “central mass became so hot and dense that it eventually initiated nuclear fusion in its core.” And although I’m “roughly middle aged,” I have “not changed dramatically for more than four billion years and will remain fairly stable for more than another five billion years.” 

All of which is to say, I’ve been around for a loooong time, compadres, and I’m not going away anytime soon. No matter what Mercury said about me grabbing her ass that one time.

Indeed, my “enormous effect” on earth has “been recognized since prehistoric times” and some cultures even recognize me as a GOD. A GOD! I’m even the basis for time itself! I am “by far the brightest object” in the sky, and have a strong magnetic field. A certain magnetism, if you will. Ask anyone. Neil DeGrasse Tyson, maybe. I’m so bright it hurts. Literally, looking at me directly can destroy your eyeballs.

But perhaps the biggest reason that I'm the last word on hot takes is my heat. 

Like do you even KNOW how hot I am? You need to have paid attention in trig and physics to even comprehend this. My core is 1.57 x 10 to the SEVENTH K. I don’t even know what a "K" is in this context, and neither do you unless you’re a scientist. But suffice it to say, IT IS VERY HOT.

Like I am hotter than everything from Jay Z dropping a surprise album to Donald Trump’s twitter take on Little Rocket Man. So every time you go to write a hot take, remember this:

You are not the sun, so your hot take is shit.  

Wednesday, December 6, 2017

2 Live Crew Lyrics Rewritten for Woke Hipsters in 2017

The school bus in 6th (?) grade in 1989 was something else, lemme tell you. It seemed like evvveerrry boy had a cassette of 2 Live Crew and was playing it on a boom box, screaming out AH ME SO HORNY ME LOVE YOU LONG TIME at the top of their lungs. 

And for better or worse, you just know that shit would NOT fly now. So I rewrote some of 2 Live Crew's lyrics from As Nasty as They Wanna Be for Woke Hipsters in 2017.

There's only one  any number of equally valid ways to have a good time
Fuck that pussy and make it mine patriarchy where the sun don't shine
Figure out what she's into and then sort of like, feel it out, bro.Lay the bitch on the bed, flat on her back
Hold her legs up high, make the pussy splak
You can put her in the buck by sittin' on a sink
Wrap her legs 'round you, now take this DICK!

--Put Her in the Buck

There's only one any number of equally valid places where we can go
Where the price is right just to fuck a ho depending on what you feel like doing
It's always popular with the girls and the guys
Cause for all my money, it's the best buy
Ten dollars, two hours is the time of the stay There's no cover charge
It's more than enough time to slay
Each room has a bed and also a sink This microbrewery has the best BOGO deal
So you can also catch live music there on Wednesdays, I hear. wash your dick after fucking the pink
But be careful of the things that you use
Cause you can get arrested for sex abuse
So as you hit the door and the panties drop
Whole lot of suckin' and fuckin' at the Fuck Shop

--The Fuck Shop

You in my house now, you talkin' all that shit so please, go on. Didn't mean to interrupt.
So get the fuck out, you sorry ass bitch I'm sensing a tension between us right now
You come in my house, eatin' all my shit micro-greens
So get the fuck out, you sorry ass bitch I think we need some space right now?

Get up off yo' ass, and clean up all this shit your collection of Arcade Fire bobbleheads
Look at you, you sorry ass, low-down raggedy bitch you've always looked kind of like my sister. Hahah, I know that sounds kind of weird and random.
You sittin' 'round my house, smokin' all this shit
So get on out my house, you slimy ass bitch I'm wondering if you still have my travel mandolin and that dab rig I loaned you.

--Get The Fuck Out My House

For reals, I want to go to a wedding where 2 Live Crew's "Fuck Shop" is the couple's first dance, because they met at a 2 Live Crew concert. Admit that would be seriously amazing.

Dudebros Licking Actual Feline Pussycats With a Silicone Tongue is the Zenith of Nope

Guys. Guys guys guys GUYS.

Sometimes a product comes along that is just so unbelievably WTF, it merits a detailed takedown of its fuckery and begs to be dragged into next year. The “LICKI Brush” is one such product, and by all indications, IT IS NOT FAKE NEWS.

“Have you ever wanted to lick your cat?”

This is the first question posed on the LICKI Brush Kickstarter page, and the answer, at least from me, is a NO so loud it would drown out a sonic boom generated by a mushroom cloud over Asia while the entire North Korean navy was in the middle of marching band practice.

Now before you unfairly tar me with the “she-just-hates-cats-and-is-therefore-a-horrible-and-mean-human” LICKI Brush, it’s true that I now hate cats, because they turn my face into a red, swollen, bilious mess of tears, snot, and crusty scabs. Also they are generally mean and ungrateful, and who needs more of what I already have in spades in This Life.

But I grew up with cats, and didn’t always hate them.

First there was Tana and Jerry. Tana had a lot of long hair and was so dumb she would look for bugs after she ate them. When Tana died, we got Marmalade, who at 23 pounds was clinically obese. Unrelatedly, my grandmother was convinced that Jerry and Marmalade were in a May-December homosexual feline relationship.

Then Jerry died of old age, and we got Sergeant Pepper (Pepper for short) who was born with feline AIDS in the back of a bodega and who quickly became Marmalade’s adopted son or perhaps lover, we are not really sure. 

In any event, Marmalade ultimately perished from kidney failure after a round of dialysis (I shit you not) and Pepper finally succumbed to diabetes after years of insulin injections. To say our family was dutiful cat owners would be an understatement, as my parents spared no expense to keep these four shedding messes happy and alive as long as felinely possible.

Sometime in my teens, though, I developed cat allergies so severe that I can no longer go within ten feet of a cat without my whole face exploding unless I have at least three Benadryls on board.

But even in my most cat-friendly days, I don’t think I could or would have put a “high-quality, soft silicone brush, designed to feel pleasurable to [my] cat’s sensitive skin” in my mouth and simulate feline licking behavior. 
Nor would I worry that “as a human,” I would be “left out of the intimate licking ritual” with, “at best, a one-sided licking relationship” with my cat.

It's like, I'm totes good with "at best, a one-sided licking relationship" with an animal, and preferably a zero-sided licking relationship. Indeed, at WORST, I would have a two-sided licking relationship with cat hair.

Using the LICKI Brush is advertised as an “oddly meditative practice” that helps you “develop a deeper relationship with your cat.” 

I can only speak for myself of course, but my idea of an "oddly meditative practice" is eating weed candy and coloring in butterflies with gel pens. Not putting my face into a cat, pretending to lick it with a plastic tongue, and then calling an ambulance to take me to the hospital in anaphylactic shock.

In my own personal experience, cats don’t give a fuck about having a relationship with you, deep or otherwise. They want a clean litter box and a bowl of Fancy Feast, and then you can fuck off to hell as far as they’re concerned. Maybe the LICKI Brush will change thousands of years of feline indifference to humans, but I doubt it.

Regardless, I encourage you to visit the LICKI Brush Kickstarter, because I guarantee that when you watch the videos of the LICKI Brush in action, your craydar will go on red alert. 

The dudebros in these videos look like they just got back from running IT for a Bernie Sanders rally, and here they are licking their cats like a BOSS. You can never unsee this, and will likely need to douse your eyeballs in bleach after you do.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but if the dudes who invented LICKI Brush put this much thought, work, and energy into promoting the art of human pussy-licking, they would be millionaires by now and might forget they even have cats.

Tuesday, December 5, 2017

Death of a Salesman

I’m going to rewrite this play for 2017 and call it Death-of-Myself-After-Everyone-I-Meet-Tries-to-Sell-Me-Shit-I-Don’t-Need-or-Want-and-That-Collects-Dust-the-Second-I-Buy-It.

It’s not like I haven’t tried. I have tried. But I just can’t deal, and I feel kind of bad because I’m truly not trying to drag anyone’s hobby or business model. But there is a reason I’ve worked in the public sector for almost 20 years. 

I suck at sales, and I am super uncomfortable when people try to sell stuff to me. I don’t need more stuff. I don’t want more stuff. To the contrary, I want to conflagrate at LEAST 75% of the stuff I already have in a controlled burn in the cul-de-sac outside my house, and dance around giddily as I watch it all go up in smoke.

To paraphrase George Carlin and also Lloyd Dobbler in Say Anything, I hate stuff
. I hate buying stuff. I hate selling stuff. I hate having stuff sold to me. I hate the stuff I have. I hate the stuff I don’t have. I hate the stuff I don’t know about. I hate the stuff that doesn’t even exist yet.

I even and especially hate selling stuff for my kids’ school or activities fundraisers, which is just as bad in my opinion and is absolute torture. At least then, however, I can force my spawn to troll the halls of my office by themselves and/or go door-to-door with their grubby little palms out for (arguably) a “good cause” or whatever and hope they can skate by on cuteness.

But truth be told, I would way rather just fork over the value of the coffee or wrapping paper or cookie dough or raffle tickets or whatever the fuck it is and be done with all of it immediately in one fell swoop. In fact, I just want the school and activity fundraiser sales tax to be withheld from my paycheck so I can stop thinking about it forever.

Can we do that? Can this please just be part of the tax overhaul maybe? Upon presentation of your kids’ birth certificates to the IRS? Or must we all be salespeople now?

Like I honestly can’t think of a single thing that would ever arrive in the mail or that I would buy in someone’s living room that I want, much less need. Yet these “opportunities” are everywhere. 

Frankly, I am beginning to feel like the last person left on earth who: (a) isn’t leading a direct marketing scheme; (b) isn’t participating in a direct marketing scheme; and/or (c) totally can’t deal with direct marketing schemes.

It’s super awkward, because it forces me to be kind of a dick when I don’t mean to be a dick or want to be one. But I can’t rub peppermint oil on my face and I can’t put special wrinkle creams on it and I don’t need candles that smell like warm vanilla sugar brownies or scarves or health shakes or leggings with floral patterns or any of that shit k thx bye.

I’ve got 99 problems, and wanting to stick my head in an oven over buying and selling stuff to and from everyone I know when I’m not even voluntarily in a store is definitely one of them.

Image result for salesman image

Monday, December 4, 2017

For Reals, You Gotta Be Dumber Than Shit on a Shoe to Steal a Car in Juneau

Really, it’s that simple. And I say this as someone whose car has been stolen at LEAST three times, albeit growing up in the Bronx, where it actually makes sense to steal a car.

I’m not sure whether the truck reported stolen in this Facebook post is the same vehicle that a 22 year-old with an outstanding warrant tried to register at the Juneau DMV, but regardless, the only thing dumber than stealing a car in Juneau is stealing a car in Juneau and then trying to register it with the DMV.

REALLY?! S'like, what now? I mean, I get that reasons exist to steal a car here—like joy riding and selling small parts for drugs, but by and large this is one of the dumbest crimes imaginable.

At least in the Bronx, the car thieves of yore were the Gone in 60 Seconds-type professionals who you could almost respect for their craft. 

These car thieves plied their trade in the capital of car thievery, and they knew how to override club locks and alarm systems with prodigious speed. They would zip away with your vehicle in no time flat, and off it would go into the void, destined for a chop shop to be stripped and sold for parts, or to a shady livery cab service where it would be re-purposed into a taxi you'd end up almost getting raped in someday.

Bottom line, I can fucks with a Bronx car thief. Not so Juneau, whose car theft game is weak AF.

The dumbest thing about stealing a car in Juneau, of course, is that there is BASICALLY NOWHERE TO TAKE A CAR IN JUNEAU. Literally the road ends with a giant sign that says END OF ROAD in at least three different places. Juneau is a closed universe only accessible by plane or boat, and has a limited number of paved miles on which to operate a vehicle, so that begs an important question that is the central thesis of this post:

What the fuck are you supposed to do AFTER you steal a car in Juneau? 

At least one possible answer: drive it to the end of one of the aforementioned three road-endings and wait to be arrested. I suppose you could abscond with it on the ferry, but that would presumably cost more money than you’re ready to spend, since you’re stealing a car in the first place.

By the way, no sooner had I drafted this post, then coincidentally yet ANOTHER friend reported that her van was stolen, too! (UPDATE: it’s been found, thus proving my point).

For real?! 

God this is the dumbest thing ever. Like this must be the average day in the life of a Juneau car thief: wake up, slam head through dry wall, brush teeth with shaving cream, drink a Red Bull & bleach on the rocks, play Grand Theft Auto, shitpost some grammatically incorrect shade to ex girlfriend's MySpace page, huff glue, eat a spoonful of rubber cement, steal another car.

I’ve said this every day for over a year, but it bears repeating: We have reached the event horizon of stupidity. The stupid hurts. That said, any of these dumbros is welcome to my hoopty. Just do a good job stealing it so I can collect the insurance money which is def more than that POS is worth.

Sunday, December 3, 2017

My Kids Make Me Reeeeaaally Fucking Nuts Sometimes

Like, a LOT of the time, truthfully. I’ve said this before, but I’m not really a “kid person.” If you've been reading O.H.M. since the beginning, you know this. 

Before Trump, I wrote a lot more about parenting. Now, I feel compelled to write about Trump so that either: (a) my kids know I want them to grow up in some semblance of a decent planet and democracy; or (b) if the shit hits the fan, they will have a contemporaneous Handmaid's Tale-style record of What the Fuck You Did to Us.


I’m not great at talking to kids, and large numbers of them in one place scare me. Of course, I would jump on a grenade for my kids and I love being with them. Which is weird, because the amount of love I have for them, and for being with them, is SO immensely out of proportion to the level of annoyance I feel toward them most of the time.

Like there is hardly a waking minute when Paige isn't talking or moving. From the minute she wakes up until the minute she goes to sleep, she's doing cartwheels, handstands, backbends, and talking. The talking. God, the talking. So. Much. Talking. It's like this: momcanidoanexperimentmomcanyoucomedownstairswithmemomisaackickedmemomcanwehavetheipadmom?!?!?!?!?

Then Isaac--whose weekend highlights included declaring "I love violent video games" and his first real black eye (errant baseball)--is somehow ALSO always talking, albeit slightly less, and it sounds kinda like this: momcanihaveabrownieforbreakfastmomcanihavetheipadmomcanyoucomedownstairsandplaybaseballwithmemomcanyoutexthenrysmommommomomomomomomomom?!?

It's just kind of a lot, is all I'm saying. No one ever tells you that when you have kids, you'll spend the first 18 months of their lives trying to make them talk and the next 18 years trying to get them to be quiet for one fucking second so I can THINK goddammit.

And after all that, you STILL have to ask them (without giving up the jig) how Barbie and Edward from Twilight ended up in a compromising position on the coffee table, and only after extensive grilling are you satisfied it was pure coincidence. But really. LOOK at the expression on Edward's face.

No one tells you any of this. It seems like for all of the parenting books out there, there's not a single one with the chapters "YOUR KIDS' VOICES ARE ANNOYING AF BUT DON'T FEEL BAD ABOUT IT" or "DON'T AUTOMATICALLY ASSUME THE WORST WHEN YOU FIND BARBIE GIVING KEN A BEEJ.”

Really, the world could be a lot more forthcoming with this info.

Saturday, December 2, 2017

I Should Have Known Better

(1) Fighting with people on the internet and; (2) lashing out at my fellow citizens. By 10:00 p.m. last night, I'd already violated two of my four key precepts for Being My Own Light in The Age of Trump, and it was 1:00 a.m. before I could finally fall asleep.

My anger overwhelmed my tiredness and better judgment, as well as the advice my husband, Geoff, always gives me: Your writing speaks for itself. Fighting on the internet is a stupid, contrived form of entertainment. Focus on other things. 

But this time, it was irresistible.

The nation had just witnessed some epically venal conduct by the United States Senate, including my own Senator who I’d been contacting endlessly

She and her colleagues had just enacted a tax overhaul that was more retro than Duran Duran in a DeLorean, and that many Very Smart People know for a fact will have dire consequences for our society. All to sell out the public interest to corporations and the ultra-rich in new and unprecedentedly shortsighted ways.

Of course this is nothing new: corporate ownership of our democracy began decades ago, and continues unabated. But only now--with 71 year-old Donald Trump and 75 year-old Mitch McConnell--two white, male, ultra-rich, Baby Boomers (okay, Mitch was born in 1942 so maybe he’s not technically a B.B.)--did my rage come into stark relief.

These two hideous-in-every-possible-way men are the most visible public face of this legislation for two of the three branches of government, as well as the current economic and planetary crisis we are in. So I tweeted something about how Baby Boomers were responsible for this mess, and people were pissed. 

Baby Boomers on Facebook and Twitter (the same ones who drag millennials for getting trophies, by the way) blocked me, called me “ageist” and a "selfish ungrateful shit." Some reminded me that they too opposed the tax plan, were the architects of the social justice movement, the civil rights era, and the opposition to the Vietnam War.

I know this, of course. 

My 72 year-old mother is an old hippie who was one of ten women in her medical school class. She has spent her entire career in public mental health and is still working full time. She kept doing that work, watching as more and more of her colleagues started shilling for Big Pharma and moving to huge houses in the suburbs. 

She lost friends. Real friends. My parents lost real friends to money and politics. So I get it. I know there is a schism in the Baby Boomer generation, and that it's not fair to "paint people with a broad brush" based on when they were born. 

But just as I know that my white skin and good education give me many unearned advantages and privileges, the time and place of my birth does as well, and I think it is okay to admit that those privileges exist, and that they have consequences, without taking personal offense. 

After all, my mom doesn't get mad at me when I tell her that part of why I don't live in New York City anymore is that I can't afford to. I don't have the kind of pension she has. Those don't exist anymore. I don't own valuable real estate that I bought cheap. That doesn't exist anymore, either. My dad really resents being lumped in with his generation, though, and I should have known that people would be mad and wouldn't get what I was saying.

I'd assumed folks would be able to handle this point--however crudely expressed--because I certainly don't take offense. I'm usually not offended by vitriol I get just for speaking my mind, with everything from my ideas to my looks picked apart and maligned. If I was, I couldn't write this blog.

And yet yesterday I felt offended by other people being offended, and round and round you go. Being offended is a waste of time, because it shifts the focus away from community and ideas, and back to individual defensiveness in self-indulgent, narcissistic ways that don’t move society forward. 

I found myself guilty of this, and it sucked.

That's when I decided to just calm the fuck down and return to the two precepts of not engaging anymore and not turning on my fellow citizens as a way to express anger about where our country is right now.

I woke up to a beautiful snowy day and the opening weekend of skiing at Eaglecrest, our municipal ski area and a local treasure in my opinion. I ran an indoor 5K with Paige for Girls on the Run, an amazing organization that works to promote confidence, self-esteem, physical and mental health, social consciousness, kindness, and assertiveness in girls. 

There were leaders there. The future leaders of our community. I’m sure of it, just as I'm sure that a future President of the United States was at a women's march somewhere in 2017, or maybe even running in that 5K today.

I chose instead to focus on that, and suddenly I felt a whole lot better about the world.

Friday, December 1, 2017

White House Counsel Ty Cobb: Future Statement on the Indictment of President Trump

Today’s news indicting President Trump has absolutely nothing to do with President Trump, who remains as committed as ever to Making America Great Again.

The President literally has no idea who he is. He’s never met the guy or spoken to him in person. He talked to himself only briefly over the phone last year for approximately 15 minutes.

As far as we know, this conversation took place while the President was aimlessly wandering the halls of the residential quarters of the roach-infested White House in a silk bathrobe, muttering to himself about the LYING FAILING FAKE NEWS with its TERRIBLE RATINGS and the WITCH HUNT and being treated SO UNFAIRLY by everyone except Sean Hannity and Alex Jones from InfoWars.

The President perhaps also re-tweeted himself on occasion, and may have briefly played a round of golf against himself at Mar-a-Lago. But apart from that, President Trump has little to no relationship with himself, and has long ago distanced himself from himself.

President Trump is a bit player in his own administration, and today’s indictment is reflective of that fact. This indictment—and indeed the Special Counsel’s investigation—is simply an unfortunate distraction from the administration’s main objective of doing what the American People sent President Trump to Washington to do: drain the swamp.

President Trump has had little to no role in fulfilling his campaign promises, and this indictment does nothing to change that fact. He has no idea what he is doing, what he has done, or what he plans to do, and never has.

He is delusional at best and demented at worst. The White House has ordered a psychiatric review and an MRI of his frontal lobe. The results of those evaluations are pending, and we expect them to fully and promptly exonerate President Trump of any reliable cognitive functioning and therefore any wrongdoing. This is called mens rea. It’s a Latin term used frequently in my field.

The person indicted today is a a two-bit real estate developer in office for fewer than 365 days and known for turning everything he touches into a steaming pile of elephant dung. He has no connection whatsoever to the President. 

The President's soul has been safely deposited into seven horcruxes: a toupee, a taco bowl, a golf club, a breast implant, an unsecured Samsung Galaxy Note 7, a KKK hood, and a tacky chandelier hanging in a crumbling hotel lobby in central Moscow.

Please be aware that I have a very distracting mustache and am named after/related to one of the most bigoted athletes ever to wear a baseball glove. 

Um . . . I lost my train of thought. What was I saying?

Photo by: Stephen Voss

Photo: Stephen Voss

Thursday, November 30, 2017

I Fixed Matt Lauer’s Shitty Apology

I relied on the work and advice of one of my favorite writers, Ijeoma Oluo, to fix Matt Lauer's recent apology for sexual abuse and harassment:

There are no actually some words to express my sorrow and regret for the pain I have caused others my victims--women with lives, careers, families, aspirations, and humanity--by my dehumanizing words and actions, and for once I am going to try to do what no other man in this situation has managed to do this year so far, which is to make a credible public apology that doesn't ultimately come off sounding like a bunch of self-serving bullshit. 

To the people I have hurt, I am truly sorry. As I am writing this I accept that I can never realize the depth of the damage and disappointment I have left behind at home and at NBC and also, again, in the lives of the many women whose mental and physical integrity I violated continuously with impunity over many years, wielding my position of power and authority in service of my own sexual dominance and gratification, resulting in untold and unknowable harm both to these women and to the contributions they could have made to their field if not for my misconduct.

Some of what is being said about me is untrue or mischaracterized, but there is enough truth in these stories to make me feel embarrassed and ashamed. I refuse to call my victims liars, because the truth is that I whipped my dick out at work on a regular basis for no good reason, and given my stature and public profile, my selfishness likely impacted my reporting on matters of national import, and, inevitably, the consequences that flowed from that reporting. 

I regret that I had to wait like a coward to be accused in order to confront my misconduct before taking ownership of it, because I was hoping no one would ever come forward and it would all just go away and I could continue to make millions of dollars a year. my shame is now shared by the people I cherish dearly.

Repairing the damage will take a lot of time and soul searching and I'm committed to beginning that effort. It is now my full time job, because I was deservedly fired from my other job. The one where I sexually harassed and abused women. I know there is no such thing as asshole rehab, so I will not stoop to declaring that I am going to "therapy" to make it all better. 

The last two days have forced me to take a very hard look at my own troubling flaws what I did to the women I have irreparably harmed in ways I can never know. It's been humbling. For once, this really isn't about me, except to the extent I manage to understand rape culture and how sexual harassment affects victims and the lasting impacts of my conduct on those victims. I do not expect anyone's forgiveness, and will now use the power that I previously abused to intimidate women and get off, and channel it instead, in a productive way, to somehow make sure no man acts like I did ever again.  I am blessed to be surrounded by the people I love. I thank them for their patience and grace.

Image result for matt lauer images