Thursday, May 31, 2018

The Most Alaska Text Ever

This is an actual text a friend of mine who's from Ketchikan (but lives here in Juneau) sent me last night:

And it got me thinking, WOW. This really is the most Alaska text EVER. If I found a big pile of black fur in New York City (and maybe I have?) chances are it was a dead 25 pound rat that I tripped over in my thigh-high Doc Martens on the corner of Avenue D and Houston in 1991. 

It was certainly not a bear (those were in the Bronx zoo only) who took a shit in my garden (I lived in an apartment building and we killed all our house plants) and "ripped fur out of its ass."

'Tis the season, though, for what a friend from Kodiak (home of the Grizz) called "little bitches"--but I call "bears"--to crap giant hairy butt plugs out of their asses. When I tweeted this text yesterday, some smarty-pants know-it-all ursine biology genius was quick to point out that this is what bears do post-hibernation. 

Knowing nothing about bears other than that they are enormous, lumbering, scary, destructive raccoons who will fucking CRUSH YOUR HEAD LIKE A WATERMELON if you stand between them and an empty jar of Crunchy Jif, I decided to "research" the "bear shit butt plug." 

Here's what I learned, courtesy of the North American Bear Center (whatever TF that is).

The bear hair butt plug is called a "fecal plug." It's made from dried-up "intestinal secretions and cells that continue to slough off the inside of the digestive tract during hibernation."

Oh and also you guys? "pieces of footpads are also found in fecal plugs," (dissecting fecal plugs is someone’s job, I guess?!) because while the bears are sleeping, they "begin to shed the calloused soles of their feet . . . and lick their tender feet and ingest pieces of the pads." They also lick and groom themselves, which is how hair ends up in there. And "most bears in northern regions remain in dens so long that they develop extra large fecal plugs," which have an odor that is "not unpleasant."

This could not be more undignified! JUNEAU BEARS EAT THEIR FEET AND MAKE AN EXTRA LARGE FECAL PLUG OUT OF IT YOU GUYS. I'm actually trying to imagine what this would be like as a human. You'd basically chew your toenails and extra foot skin while semi-passed out for three months and then crawl into a garden and take a giant crap full of your own hair. Then you'd get elected 45th President of the United States.

"Extra Large Fecal Plug" sounds like a punk band I would've seen at CBGB (again, back on the Lower East Side in 1991). It's certainly not something I'd ever imagine getting texted about.

Wednesday, May 30, 2018

These Two Tweets are Going Down in Histor—

I didn’t actually finish the title of this blog post because I was banging my head against the wall while on Roseannebien and had amnesia for a second, but I think I meant to write that these two tweets are going down in history. 

When future civilizations study the fall of the American Empire, there will be entire chapters devoted to the two-day span in which the President of the United States met with Kim Kardashian to “discuss prison reform and sentencing” and the United States Geologic Survey somehow had to warn American citizens not to make s’mores over a volcano.

Even everything that’s happened since 11/9/16—which dare I say is more than enough—these two tweets alone offer enough of a reason for us to just totally pack it in as a country.

With the help of a hostile foreign power and a couple of billionaire tech bros, America elected a bankrupt pathological liar, illiterate sociopath, white supremacist, confessed sexual assailant, ex reality-television star to the highest office in the land. That person--who remarkably manages to embody all of these qualities at once--then invited serious public policy input from a person who embodies the concept of "famous for being famous," named her daughter after a direction on a compass, and is most renowned for publishing a coffee table book full of selfies of her own ass.

Not one day earlier, a bunch of scientists--all of whom must be beleaguered beyond measure by now--had to tell the American people not to roast marshmallows over an erupting volcano. In fairness, this warning was in response to an individual twitter user who asked if it was "safe to roast marshmallows over volcanic vents? Assuming you had a long enough stick, that is? Or would the resulting marshmallows be poisonous?" So there's no evidence anyone has actually done this.

Yet. YET.

Assuming I had a "long enough stick," the first thing I would do is jam it into one ear until it went through my brain and came out the other ear in order to recalibrate by IQ to that of the average American who thinks it's a good idea to stand on the edge of an erupting volcanic crater with a graham cracker, a Hershey Bar, and a Stay Pufft and yet ONLY worry that the "resulting marshmallow would be poisonous."

Basically these two tweets tell you everything you need to know about These Crazy Times.™  

Sorry, world, we tried. 

Tuesday, May 29, 2018

I Just Want a Sensory Deprivation Chamber in My House is That Too Much to Ask?!

Is it? No really. Is it? I don’t think it’s too much to ask to have a sensory deprivation chamber installed in my house. In fact, if the United States was a truly just society, the government would issue one of these puppies to every new parent. Like, they wouldn’t let you leave the hospital without a car seat or a sensory deprivation tank. 

I’m pretty sure they have this in Finland or Sweden you guys. Or maybe it’s Denmark. It’s definitely one of those Scandinavian countries where everyone looks like Heidi Klum, the streets are paved with paid maternity leave, and unpasteurized cheese and ABBA vinyl are easier to find than an AK-47.

If you have kids, you know: You want your ears closed deaf as a doornail to the sound of their shrieks and fighting and YouTube channels. You want the smells of their socks and craps out of your nose. You don’t want to see whatever mess it is they’re making with slime or Legos or nail polish. You want to be like those three little “see no evil” monkeys. Not forever. Just for like 10 minutes at a time every hour or so.

You want—no, you NEED—a sensory deprivation tank.

Isn’t that a reasonable request for a parent to make? Maybe not. After all, why should society bear the cost of my selfish decision to put two more humans on the ever-straining planet? It shouldn’t. But that doesn’t mean an isolation tank shouldn’t be an expectation akin to basic child care and a clean place to breastfeed in public.

Uncle Sam in conjunction with the Elon Musk of parenting (whoever he or she is) would make sure everyone got a soundproof, lightless tank filled with salt water set to the exact temperature of the human skin.

Really. It’s not too much to ask.

Monday, May 28, 2018

Do You See How it Happens Now?

"How did the good people of [INSERT COUNTRY HERE] let [INSERT CRIMES AGAINST HUMANITY] just happen? If I had been there, I would never have been a bystander."


Do you see how it happens now? Do you see the components and the ingredients? Do you see how there is an architect (Trump/Sessions); a mass of popular support for stark ethno-nationalism (the MAGA movement); victims (people of color/immigrants); a coordinated psychological campaign of disinformation and fear (Fox propaganda); bystanders (most of us); government foot soldiers with badges and guns (ICE); and activists (the ACLU, advocacy groups, some of us individuals, we hope)? 

The United States is composed of human beings, and human beings are the same from Germany to Rwanda to Bosnia to Texas all throughout the course of human history.

The current humanitarian crisis at our Southern border is a good case study. I don't need to regurgitate the news to you. You can read it for yourself. But according to the Washington Post, and as reported extensively elsewhere:
  • The United States government "lost track" of 1,475 immigrant children last year. These were kids who crossed the border alone (you can only imagine how bad things were at home for them to do that) and were placed with "adult sponsors," some of whom turned out to be human traffickers.
  • Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) is living up to its name as the coldest law enforcement agency operating under the color of law today. Under the "leadership" of Jeff Sessions, children are being forcibly separated from their parents at the southern border (this is a DIFFERENT set of kids from the unaccompanied 1,475 mentioned above). These separations are not the law. This is a "policy" that Jeff Sessions made up. "The consequence of this new '100 percent' policy," reports the Post, "is that children will be separated from their parents as the adults are charged with a crime, even if the adults are seeking asylum and present themselves at official ports of entry." In other words, even immigrants seeking refuge through "legal" channels are being separated from their children.
  • Child-parent separations are being used as a tool to deter border crossings. The federal government has admitted this. Children are being taken out of their parents' arms with no assurance of when they might be reunited, and parents of children as young as 18 months have no idea where those children are for weeks and sometimes months. All to "deter" illegal immigration.
Anti-immigrant hard-liners love to come back with "but it's the law," and "no one should be in this country illegally." Listen: Everything that happened in Nazi Germany was ALSO "the law." Segregation and slavery were ALSO once "the law." I'm a lawyer. I've spent my whole career in government. I know that the law is fungible and subject to change with shifting ideas and mores of what justice is and means.

But this is nothing new. This is immoral and evil, plain and simple.

I don't give a fuck what your politics are or what the law is. Separating children from their parents and/or losing track of children is what happens in Nazi Germany and failed states that conscript child soldiers and/or deliver them to sex and slavery traffickers. It's a crime against humanity and it's being committed by government actors acting on behalf of the United States of America, in the United States of America. 

Every American--including and especially evangelical Trump supporters who claim to be soldiers for Christ and Jews like me whose families were victims of genocide--should be outraged, and everyone should be out in the streets protesting this, writing to their representatives in Congress, and voting out anyone who is unresponsive to these violations of human rights occurring on our own soil.

This is not what the troops we honor today fought and died for and continue to fight and die for. And what would Jesus do? Not what Sessions and Trump are doing. 

That's for damned sure.

Sunday, May 27, 2018

Inside My Head During a Ballet Recital of 10 Seven Year-Olds Dancing to Take My Breath Away

...OMG, this song is so bad. What movie was this in again? Ghost? With Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze making sex pottery? Wait that was Unchained Melody I think ... 

... Wait. No. TOP GUN!

... I think I had a Top Gun Nintendo game. God that game was boring. I only ever played it when Super Mario Bros. had too much dust in the cartridge ...

... I can’t believe little girls are dancing to a sex scene anthem between Kelly McGillis who is now a lesbian and Tom Cruise who is probably gay and an insane Scientologist ...

... The cognitive dissonance between what my eyes are seeing and what my mind is thinking is really quite disturbing, I must say ...

... The way Goose died was so sad and scary ... getting ejected into the roof of a plane? Oy! Poor Meg Ryan. What ever happened to her career? And also Anthony Edwards after E.R.? I wonder if he’ll get #MeToo’d. Nah, probably too D list ...

... Wouldn’t it be crazy if Anthony Edwards and Meg Ryan made a comeback with Meg accusing Anthony of sexual misconduct on the set of Top Gun? ...

... How many of these dances are left ... OMG ... TWELVE?! ... these costumes are dope AF tho ...

... They really don’t make movies like Top Gun anymore. If a dude EVER played this song for me in the bedroom I’d be calling an Uber faster than he could zip up his jeans ...

... They didn’t even have Ubers then of course. Still, I’d have run away for SURE ...

... I bet Kelly McGillis really hates Tom Cruise ... I bet Katie Holmes hates him more ...

... God, he is so gross ...

... Is this over yet?

Saturday, May 26, 2018

These Old Timey Tobacco Ads are Giving Me LIFE Right Now!

I've been off the long-form blog post grid for a couple of days. My parents are visiting, the kids finished up school and are buried in end-of-school activities, I've been working a lot on my free time, and I've been super depressed about the latest Trump human rights violations: separating kids from their parents at the southern border and the ACLU report documenting these atrocities. It's like Trump's America is a failed state that conscripts child soldiers or something. I've only been able to manage a few tweets about it, that's how mad it makes me, though eventually I hope to gather my thoughts and write something longer.

So I welcomed a distraction from a friend of mine who works in tobacco cessation in the form of these COMPLETELY HYSTERICAL old timey tobacco ads. They're a little hard to read, so I've retyped them below with a few questions as follow up.

Should a gentleman offer a Tiparillo to a marine biologist? You're swimming along, admiring a purple parrot fish and a red coral reef when you spot something truly breathtaking. A pink leg. A marine biologist. Discovering new things under water. Maybe, you pause, she'd like to discover a Tiparillo? Or a Tipraillo M with menthol. She could classify them as the thin, elegant cigar with neat tip. Mild taste? Well . . . she'd have to try one, wouldn't she? But should you offer her one? Or shouldn't you? Think fast mate, your face mask is steaming up.


1. Why is a marine biologist working with no shirt on?
2. How do you know she's a marine biologist since you only have her pink leg to go on?
3. How do you have two (much less one) packs of cigarettes on you as you're swimming under water?
4. Won't they get wet?
5. Why would a marine biologist smoke at work?
6. Why is a marine biologist wearing makeup at work, under water?
7. Do you think the ocean is a pick-up bar?
8. What is she going to do with the butts when she's done smoking? 
9. Drop them in the water to poison the subjects of her research?
10. Did your mother drop you on your head?

Should a gentleman offer a Tiparillo to a violinist?  After a tough evening with the Beethoven crowd, she loves to relax and listen to her folk-rock records. Preferably, on your stereo. She's open-minded. So maybe tonight you offer her a Tiparillo? She might like it--the slim cigar with a white tip. Elegant. And, you dog, you've got both kinds on hand. Tiparillo Regular and new Tiparillo M with menthol--her choice of mild smoke or cold smoke. Well? Should you offer? After all, if she likes the offer, she might start to play. No strings attached.


1. Why does a classical violinist find "the Beethoven crowd" "tough"?
2. What do you mean by "open-minded?"
3. Like freaky in the sack, I assume?
4. What makes you a "dog?"
5. Having two types of cigarettes on hand, or just actually being a little bitch?
6. What do you mean by "she might start to play" with "no strings attached?" You mean down to fuck for one night, right?
7. Does she prefer Bob Dylan or Joni Mitchell--which is more fuckable?
8. How did you manage to get her into your apartment with this trash-ass game?
9. What if she DOESN'T like the offer?
10. Did your mother drop you on your head?

Dipping or smoking? Dipping. Why? Better for my sex life. What do you mean? While some are outside smoking, I'm inside working. It's really not work when you enjoy what you're doing. Skoal: Welcome to the Brotherhood. (Warning: This Product May Cause Mouth Cancer).


1. Is brown, tobacco-drenched saliva really better for your sex life?
2. Is your job getting mouth cancer?
3. Do you enjoy getting mouth cancer?
4. How is it a job if you actually pay to buy a product and it gives you cancer?
5. Do you think she likes the taste of brown, tobacco-drenched saliva?
6. Who is in this brotherhood? Other men with tobacco-drenched brown saliva and mouth cancer?
7. Is she paying any attention to you anyway?
8. What's up with that one raised eyebrow?
9. Do you really think chewing tobacco is going to lead to your getting fucked tonight?
10. Did your mother drop you on your head?

Wednesday, May 23, 2018

The NFL Embodies Nearly Everything I Loathe About Society Right Now

It’s actually pretty amazing, when I stop to think about it, how a single organization can embody almost everything I hate about society right now in a single, odious jackpot. And yet, the NFL continues to level up this ignominious status. Let’s review:

Misogyny/Tolerance of Domestic Violence & Violence against Women

A detailed analysis of post-2000 data performed in 2014 by FiveThirtyEight shows that although arrest rates among NFL players are low compared to national averages for men of the same age, they soar above the average for similarly-compensated professionals. Domestic violence accounts for 48 percent of arrests for violent crimes among NFL players, compared to an estimated 21 percent nationally. And what is the NFL doing about that? Not too much! The NFL is a business, and their employees’ propensity for DV doesn’t bother the NFL or its fans enough for them to do anything about it at all. Generally, the NFL “investigates” these incidents, blames the victim, imposes a cursory suspension, and moves on. A normal employer would be concerned if a large chunk of its workforce was beating up their wives and girlfriends. Not the NFL.

Forced Jingoism

Somewhere along the way, standing for a song and saluting a flag became a more meaningful expression of patriotism and respect for the military than a basic knowledge of American civic and the civil liberties our military is sworn to protect and defend. The NFL has fully bought into hard-right and white bald-eagle goose-stepping brand of neo-fascist jingoism that our current President loves to propagate. Today, the organization announced a new policy mandating that players on the field “shall stand and show respect for the flag and the Anthem,” or risk being fined. The NFL is a private employer and it can do what it wants from a constitutional standpoint. But if a government actor ever did something like this, it would be unconstitutional and un-American AF. Ironic, isn’t it?


Closely related to the above, the NFL’s forced jingoism has a manifest racist undertone. As the artist and activist Bree Newsome said on Twitter today, the NFL’s new policy “is codifying racism into the game of American football to suppress free speech. The NFL—which receives $ to promote the military—is creating a game rule that specifically penalizes Black athletes’ protest of racism & police violence. NFL athletes are majority Black.” She’s right. At the start of the 2014 season, at least, NFL surveys showed that the league is approximately 68% Black. Incidentally, according to 2015 research from the Pew Foundation, the active-duty military that the NFL is valorizing was 40% racial and ethnic minority groups as of 2017. Are they allowed to peacefully protest their government or nah?

Hollow Charitable Gestures as Public Relations Stunting

Who could forget the NFL “Pink October” breast cancer awareness scandal in which the league’s efforts to sell fans their pink merchandise only yielded 8.01% of that money toward cancer research, the equivalent of “couch change teams find after cleaning out their stadium suites,” as Julie DiCaro wrote in Sports Illustrated in 2015. The NFL cares about women’s titties when they’re bouncing on the sidelines and at strip clubs, but not under a microscope for cancer research. As with domestic violence, the NFL’s consideration of women extends only as far as its bottom line.

Terrible Labor Practices/Cover-Ups of Dangerous Working Conditions

By now, everyone knows about the 2017 findings in a Boston University study showing that chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE) is far more prevalent in NFL players (who are subjected to repeated hits to the head) than the general public. The irrefutable conclusion was that football has a big concussion problem, but it’s worse than that. Just like its fellow public health robber barons in the guns and tobacco industry, the NFL worked hard to hide the truth about concussions and brain damage in its work force. NFL-defenders like to rail against the high salaries of the players, but these are economies of scale. Player talent is so valuable because it is rare. Relative to the enormous growth in profits in the NFL and TV contracts, as of 2015, player salaries have not kept pace, because NFL does not revenue share in the way other professional sports, e.g., baseball, do. Yeah, football players make a lot of money for the short period of time that their labor is usable. But the NFL is just another big business that treats its labor like shit.

Glorification of Male Violence

Football is a violent game that promotes and celebrates aggression and violence, things that are already in abundant supply in America. That doesn’t make it too different from, say, boxing; but the NFL is unique in the sheer organized massive scope of its profiteering off violence and the promotion of the worst values in American society.

Tuesday, May 22, 2018

The White House Sinkhole is the Sign from Satan America Has Been Waiting For!

Y’all. Y’ALL

Apparently, there is a SINKHOLE forming on the North Lawn of the White House, and all I can conclude is that this is the sign from Satan that America has been waiting for. FINALLY, the Dark Lord and Ruler of the Subterranean Underworld of Lucifer's Kingdom is going to answer the nation's prayers and reclaim his hellfire-orange prodigal son.

Don't ask me what a sinkhole is. What do I look like, a fucking geologist? According to this article in the FAILING NEW YORK TIMES, some Hollywood liberal elite scientician snowflake leftist cuck said that a sinkhole is simply "fluids interacting with solids" under gravity in the "legitimate swamp" of Washington, DC, and specifically NOT the "gates of hell opening."


As everyone knows, science is total bullshit and I call bullshit on this. 'Member just last year? When a sinkhole also just HAPPENED to open up at Mar-a-Lago a.k.a. "the Winter Whitehouse?" Are we supposed to believe that TWO sinkholes just HAPPENED to open up in front of BOTH of Trump's houses?

I. Don't. Think. So.

There's only one explanation for this:  Satan (which keeps autocorrecting to Stan, for some reason) wants his #1 bottom bitch back, and that is none other than Donald Trump. Satan/Stan keeps trying to draw Trump down into the ninth circle by opening the gaping maw of hell under Trump's crusty-ass fungus feet. 

Impressed with his work, Satan/Stan prob thinks Trump is simply going to waste on planet earth. After all, he's got all seven deadly sins rolled up into one gelatinous burnt sienna mass of curdled turkey waddle: pride (never admits he's wrong); greed (self-explanatory); envy (see, e.g., Jeff Bezos); gluttony (Happy Meals); wrath (You're Fired); and sloth (more golfing vaycays than any motherfucker alive, much less the dude who's supposedly in charge of the free world).

So while America coasts on fumes with this fuckstick at the helm, Satan is down in hell watching like WUT. GIVE ME BACK MY BOTTOM BITCH!

It's the only possible explanation.

Monday, May 21, 2018

David Beckham at the Royal Wedding is My Confidencespiraton

I continue to maintain that royalty in general—and the Royal Wedding in particular—is ridic AF, and that the level of public interest in it cannot readily be excused by “this is a welcome bit of good news” or “let’s enjoy some nice fashion” or “stop being such a grouch” or “isn’t it wonderful how Aryan aristocracy is sort of blunting their racism in 2018 a little” or whatever. 

Because in fact, royalty is just a bunch of entitled rich people making the world wax their proverbial car in public for no reason at all for centuries, and killing and colonizing people in the process; that is, before they became modern-day philanthropic cartoons of themselves in ridiculous hats.

That being said, David Beckham at the Royal Wedding is FULLY my #1 confidencespiration. 

I thought I invented this word, but then Google once again proved there’s no such thing as an original idea anymore, if there ever was. Whether I invented it or not, David Beckham at the Royal Wedding is my definitive consfidencespiration.

I mean, look at this guy. This is the face, body, and demeanor of someone with ZERO doubts about himself. And why should he have any? 

He’s a filthy rich Anglo-Saxon male professional athlete married to a fashion icon. He has a litter of children that he made with his tatted-up virile body, and he appears to have embalming fluid in his veins where blood should be. He is wearing a perfectly-tailored, double-breasted three-piece suit and, apparently, all of his natural hair. The way he’s holding those designer sunglasses and the look on his face basically say, “I dare you to make me feel even .000015% bad about myself for any reason whatsoever today.”

This is the vibe I want to project into the world every day of my life. I want to feel about myself the way David Beckham looks at the Royal Wedding. It’s hard to imagine—in the context of my simple, Plebeian peasant life—what it would take for me to exude this sort of confidence, but I imagine that day would go something like this:

6:50 a.m.: Wake up well rested without hitting snooze (on a regular alarm clock) even once, learn from NPR that Donald Trump resigned after being criminally charged with treason.

7:00 a.m.: Get on scale, discover overnight loss of 10 pounds and yet still somehow know I’m not dying of dysentery. Look at Prozac and Vitamin D; decide neither is needed because I’m too happy.

7:15 a.m.: Get dressed and look fierce AF (or as fierce AF as possible (AFAFAP) while working only with a wardrobe from Nordstrom Rack). Take perfect, uninterrupted crap at home.

7:30 a.m.: Achieve 100% compliance from my children in departing the house (e.g., no toothpaste on the sink, breakfasts and lunches made timely with no caterwauling over who got the last Nature Valley Almond Butter Biscuit).

8:00 a.m.: Arrive at desk exactly on time with no voice mails or emails awaiting me. Boot up computer without any updates or crashes.

12:00 p.m.: Am told I am absolutely right about everything by at least three superiors and one subordinate re: a myriad of issues, all before 12:01 p.m.

4:00 p.m.: Am told by my boss to leave work early because I am spectacular and deserve it. Check mail at home, find only checks.

5:00 p.m.: Get on treadmill without children saying a word to me because they are quietly doing their homework together at the kitchen table; bust out four miles in 30 minutes and finally achieve the long-elusive runner’s high instead of the more common runner’s suicide-instinct.

6:00 p.m.: Eat healthy dinner as a family, including many vegetables that everyone happily gobbles up before which both children are bathed and have homework completed and have not fought for even one minute.

8:00 p.m.: Achieve perfect bedtime compliance from said children, before which they have folded and put away their own goddamned laundry all by themselves and without being asked.

9:00 p.m.: Put iPhone in a gun safe; Get into bed and read educational nonfiction book about economics or world health before drifting off to sleep for a solid 9 hours.*

Then and only then can I bend it like Beckham at the Royal Wedding.

*In this scenario, Eddie Vedder is also my husband who goes down on me every night like it’s his second job after being a rock star.

Saturday, May 19, 2018

Going Down With the First Wave

“It doesn’t hurt to have seeds,” my friend said tonight. 

Unlike me, he and his wife have a lot of skills. Skills that will serve them well in the zombie apocalypse or a nuclear blast or whichever comes first. Skills that lots of people here in Alaska have, which I do not. Skills like shooting your own hot dogs and growing your own peas and pickling your own carrots and driving a boat and fixing a gaping wound with duct tape. Skills like that. Skills I’m too lazy and old to acquire, and have zero plans to acquire.

“It doesn’t hurt to have seeds,” I said, but I don’t need to have seeds.” I assured my friends I had no plans to piggy back on their panic room or dry goods storage like some World War Z-era ant-and-grasshopper fable, because I am going down in the first wave.

Here’s what I mean by that: if we’re at a point where I find myself needing seeds to live, I just don’t want to be alive anymore. Like if I can’t drive to Costco to buy seventeen toothbrushes and a gallon of Adams Crunchy Peanut Butter, then I fold. I’m out. I am walking away from the table.

Yeah yeah, I know. This is how it used to be, but the fact is, I was lucky enough to be born in the era of indoor plumbing and 26 different types of mustard, and I’m not going back to caveman times or even Little House on the Prairie times when you spent six hours a day squeezing a cow’s titties for one glass of milk.

No thank you.

I have no interest in zombie and disaster prepping when I’m just going to surrender to the zombies or the radiation anyway, instead of scrapping with my fellow survivors for the last can of Spam and exist in survival mode until we die anyway. Everyone can count on me to just be done with existing when there’s no more drive-thru espresso stand, and therefore one less mouth to compete with.

BUT WHAT ABOUT YOUR CHILDREN, YOU SELFISH BITCH?! I’m glad you asked! THEY were born here and have pliant minds and ingenuity. They’ll be just fine.

As for me, it’s a hard pass on the second wave of the apocalypse.

Friday, May 18, 2018

Lord of the Seawalk, Hear My Prayer for Unity!

O Mighty Whale, Lord of the Seawalk, Hear my prayer! I knoweth not your name—is it Willy? Ishmael? Ahab? Wally? Whalie? Whatever it is—it’s actually Tahku, I just learned—you are a bronzed God among cetaceans! 

To suggest otherwise is heresy. 

May your regal tailfin rest in its infinity pool for eternity/infinity, until the very sky crumbles around you. May your nimble breach be forever frozen in place, receding only when the sun itself explodes and the Big Bang reverses itself into the Bang Big and everything that ever existed on earth is returned to the cosmos as infinitesimal particles of atomic dust.

May no living soul ever question the prudence of your existence; for to suggest that Tier One Millionaire Dollars™, among other dollars from the High Net Worth Community™, which funded you could perhaps have been put to a different, human-being oriented-use, or that your existence is perhaps .000000000001% imprudent, is to cast undue aspersions upon your beatific majesty.

May your very soul be vindicated through successful litigation with the cruise ship industry, which everyone knows is a greedy and litigious asshole, but which we all need to survive here because Juneau is the Northern Bahamas as clearly you know from your own migrations, or more accurately, that of your sentient kin. There is also something in there about the tonnage clause, I think, which I do not understand because I am not a maritime lawyer, and neither are you, because you are a whale and did not go to law school and also you are made of bronze.

May you be shielded from the slings and arrows of outrageous Facebooking, comment boards, Twitter, and any social media campaign intended to discredit you or suggest that the public will and resources reflected in your shining bronzed barnacles should have gone to schools or opioid treatment or homelessness or whatever because as everyone knows that is a different source of funding!

May your architects smile down upon you from their perch in Heaven and nod with approval, knowing that you are encircled with love by countless cruise ship passengers wearing down jackets in 70 degree weather with a Princess Cruise Line blue plastic poncho draped over them, because there is a single rain cloud over your head.

And to that end, may the only clouds over your metal blowhole be those borne of Divine Providence, and the shadow of the Mighty Eagle, which in its patriotic glory from 50 feet above releases from its cloaca a massive dump of eagle shit right into your baleen, which I must say is not very MAGA, and is deeply disrespectful, frankly, but makes for a good photo op to the delight of the aforementioned cruise ship passengers.

May no one again in your presence mention the word “school,” unless by “school” they mean “pod,” or perhaps a school of bronzed salmon, for which I will be commissioning and soliciting donations at the earliest opportunity right after I put your pic on my Insta. 

Flex for the 'Gram, Tahku, STUNT IT LIKE YOU OWN IT!

Not since the Great Fluoride Debate of ’06 has our Southeast Alaskan hamlet been so torn asunder by a public works project. We must take our lessons from the pages of history: the Nimbus, Project Playground, that historic clock on Front Street that was actually built in the ‘80s, and all swallow a giant fucking chill pill, because really none of this matters at the end of the day.

O! Would that the greatest thing ever to divide us be a statue, and may your indomitable marine mammalian strength and fortitude, gleaming in the sun or more often the rain, serve to forever unite the masses as One.

Forever and ever, Amen.

Thursday, May 17, 2018

Walking with Isaac

Only within the past year or so has it begun to sink in that Isaac is pulling away from me; that I will never have him back again in the same way.

When he was nine months old, Geoff took both kids to California to visit their grandparents, as he does every spring break. As usual, I stayed behind because I had to work. When they returned, Isaac, wearing little footie-pajamas, greeted me with rage and upset and tears of betrayal. I felt a crushing pang of “working mother” guilt: Should I have figured out a way to go on the trip? Was Isaac too young to be away from me for a week, even with his dad and primary caregiver? Did I traumatize him for life? 

Something feels different about the mother-son relationship. It could be my kids' personalities and not their genders, but I think there is some sort of socialized gender-conformity or Freudian aspect to this too. I can feel the push-pull of Isaac’s resistance to intimacy in a way I don’t with Paige. Paige is freely affectionate and never embarrassed by me. Isaac wants to be left alone. He only wants hugs—NOT KISSES. Although he’s only 7 and a half, he doesn’t want me to wave goodbye or hug him when I drop him off at school or sports. Basically, he wants very little to do with me at this point. Or, more accurately, when he does want to be around me, he doesn’t say it directly and I have to intuit it.

That’s what happened last night when I came home from work and put on my running clothes. It was a rare warm and sunny day in Juneau; there was no way I was missing an opportunity to make my punishing after-work exercise less punishing by doing it outside instead of on the treadmill. Geoff was cooking dinner and Paige was walking around the neighborhood selling tickets to her dance show.

“Can I go running with you?” Isaac asked hopefully. I sighed inwardly, knowing that this would scuttle any real exercise I was hoping to get, but I responded with an enthusiastic “sure,” instantly recognizing an increasingly rare overture to hang out with me.

We started off down the hill from our house, with seven dollars scotch-taped into Isaac’s pocket and my iPhone playing music. The first person we saw was our neighbor, Bob, cleaning out his boat. 

“Heading out today?” Isaac asked as if he were a twenty-something deckhand on a commercial fishing vessel making small talk with a fellow fisherman. “Nope, I’m a long ways away from that still, Isaac” said Bob, engaging Isaac in conversation about his electric boat. “Most boats use gas?” Isaac asked incredulously. “Yes, a lot,” I offered. Then we saw Paul working on his garden. “I like your garden!” Isaac called out jovially.

The rest of the walk sort of went like that. Sun drunk and happy, we half-walked/half-ran down the hill. Isaac stopped along the way numerous times to make observations about the nature hiding in plain sight in our neighborhood. 

“Look! A cotton-foot!,” he said pointing to a little bird hopping around in the brush. “This is an invasive species,” he said a few minutes later, picking up something that looked like rhubarb but wasn’t. I barely know a sparrow from an eagle or rhubarb from a cactus, so it’s also increasingly obvious that Isaac is quickly outstripping my knowledge of Alaskan flora and fauna. 

"Wow, that's a big eagle," he said looking up at what indeed was a very big eagle riding thermals among the spruce trees. "I want to stop and watch him for a minute."

We arrived at the store and got a quick, sulk-inducing lesson in arithmetic when the items Isaac had selected added up to 31 cents more than the seven dollars in his pocket. He chose gum and candy instead of a spicy hot pickle, which he pronounced “too intense.” He held my hand crossing the street; I could tell he was feeling sad and frustrated about under-budgeting his purchases.

We began our walk back up the steep hill, and Isaac retrieved a long stick from the ground. “This is going to be very useful,” he announced, “for marshmallows and hot dogs, but also I want to put this bag on here like a bozo.” (He meant “hobo”). 

I filmed him for a minute and twenty seconds explaining how to clean and prepare fiddle head ferns for eating, and asked him if I could share it on my blog. He said yes, but then when we re-watched the video together, he asked me to take it down because he claimed he had “made a mistake” and didn’t want to sound ignorant. I tried to explain that no one would care, that people would be interested in hearing his botany lesson, but he was insistent so I honored his wishes. He asked me to explain a #Resistance yard sign in front of a house, mistaking it for a for-sale sign, so I told him to read it out loud and then explained what it meant.

I thought back to that moment 15 minutes earlier when Isaac held my hand crossing the street. I was conscious of the fact that he will not want to hold my hand very much longer, or very frequently. I’m 40 and Isaac is almost 8, and I know I’ve made a choice. The more time that goes by, the more I can blame the passage of time for my choices, but the fact is I am not having any more babies (if I can help it), and I’ll have lots of other chances to go for a run.

I’m glad I chose walking with Isaac.

Wednesday, May 16, 2018

The President of the United States Called Undocumented People Animals Today

Let that sink in. I’ll wait. Of all the scary crazy that Trump has unleashed on us in his 1.5 years in office, calling undocumented immigrants “animals” is a new low, and one that should not go unremarked upon.

Let’s unpack this MoFo.

Trump made this terrifyingly genocide-friendly remark at an “immigration roundtable” at the White House with administration aides, California law enforcement, and political leaders. Even under the best of circumstances, roundtables, stakeholder groups, panels, and listening sessions are often futile and punishing. 

But an immigration roundtable led by Donald Trump? That sounds like a special kind of circus, which it was, because Trump once again revealed the lengths to which his racist ass will go to slander and dehumanize non-whites.

Let’s be clear about something: the dehumanization of humans is a fundamental ingredient—a prerequisite really—to genocide. It’s like flour in a cake. You can’t bake one without it.

In order to effectuate ethnic cleansing, internment, eugenics, and other evil and unspeakable violations of human rights, you need to convince those who carry out your policies that their targets are less than human. 

Most people aren’t sociopaths, so the architects of the transatlantic slave trade and of genocide in countries like Nazi Germany, Bosnia, and Rwanda had to convince participants in these atrocities that the targeted group were apes, rats, cockroaches—animals. Only then is it possible for most people to treat them as such. And more than that, genocidal lunatics also have to convince the populace that their actions are just and necessary for the good of the nation.

It might be 2018, but Donald Trump’s dangerous rhetoric has dark historical precedent. Dark, especially, because usually those who are not victims are bystanders, and those who are not bystanders are participants. Anyone in a government-issued uniform can convince themselves of anything. History has shown us as much.

We must not be bystanders in 2018 America.

Tuesday, May 15, 2018

I Have Tried and Failed to Muster a Fuck About the Royal Wedding

I have, I really have. And I just can’t do it you guys. 

Even for someone who gives PLENTY of fucks about stupid shit—like what flavor of Doritos is the best (it’s Cool Ranch) and whether you can buy the dust as a seasoning/drug to snort (you can’t)—I simply do not have a single, solitary fuck to spare for the imminent union of Prince Hot Ginge and Meghan Markle.

Not a one.

I gave zero fucks about my own wedding to a ginge (aka I didn’t really have one per se) and I have a hard enough time distributing what limited nuptial fucks I do have to the weddings of my friends and family, where such fucks are needed or at a least expected.

So I don’t have any fucks left for these two, and I’ll tell you why.

The main reason is that it’s RIDIC AF that there is even such a thing as kings, queens, princesses, and princes in 2018. IN REAL LIFE?! I mean, it is downright laughable when you think about it.

Like seriously. This is someone's job. Being a PRINCE. Or PRINCESS. in 2018. Like wut. "Hi, here I am. Let me rest my bejeweled scepter against this golden lion as you kiss my ring hello. I'm a character from the Little Mermaid, and literally there is Disney on Ice and pink plastic castles in every little girl's room that look like my house, except also everyone in my family is inbred but in a very FANCY way not a gross TRASHY way and it's completely fucking crazy." 

Monarchy is a ridiculous form of government and everyone knows it, so the only thing worse than being a prince in 2018 would be to be a prince in a democracy where you are actually a JOKE version of a prince. 

And that is basically what Prince Hot Ginge and Megan are to the rest of the world.

I'm not trying to drink the haterade on these two or throw shade just for shade's sake. I'm sure Prince Hot Ginge and Megan are lovely people with complex thoughts and lives and careers who have done many wonderful things. 

I'm just saying: the idea that you could actually with a straight face introduce yourself as a KING or a QUEEN or a PRINCE or PRINCESS or even a DUCHESS and not snort-laugh out loud at yourself every time you said it is unfuckingfathomable to me.

The fact that a prince and princess are getting married and the whole wide world is going to watch it on TV is a really amazing thing when you think about it. And not amazing in a good way. Not in a bad way, exactly. But definitely not in a good way.

As for me, I'll probably still watch footage of this the day after and read about Megan's dress while I'm eating a six-inch Subway turkey sandwich at my desk like everyone else. But I'm going on record in advance to register my view that the concept of a "royal wedding" in a 2018 democracy is more ridic than Santa Claus marrying the Tooth Fairy.

Monday, May 14, 2018

Transcript of the Trump-Hannity Nightly Phone Call

According to a recent report in The Hill, Sean Hannity is:
One of a few dozen people who have access to Trump’s official phone line, and the two speak on the phone nearly every night after Hannity’s show. Current and former White House officials familiar with the relationship told the magazine that the conversations help Trump ‘decompress’ at the end of the day.
Welp, O.H.M. is the only place on the internet with an exclusive transcript of last night’s conversation!

Donald: Sean, OMG, Hi.

Sean: OMG! Donald! Hieeeeyyyyy!

Donald: Your show was like, SO AMAZING tonight. Also, I like, SO totally can’t believe what Robert Mueller is doing right now.

Sean: I know, right? It’s a TOTAL witch hunt.

Donald: TOTAL. It’s really, really SAD.

Sean: What are you wearing to work tomorrow?

Donald: I was thinking those 45 cuff links and an extra-long tie with Scotch tape

Sean: OMG I was thinking the same thing! Can we be twinsies?

Donald: Toooootally.

Sean: Wait . . . did you hear Crooked Hillary got lost in the woods in Chappaqua AGAIN?

Donald: OMG seriously? That is soooooooo funny. She’s SUCH a loser. She's like, an even bigger loser than Cryin' Chuck Schumer and Liddle Bob Corker and Pocahontas and Sleepy Eyes Chuck Todd all put together.

Sean: I know, right? Her pants suits are hideous too. And that voice? UUUGH. Meanwhile, what are we gonna do about all these leakers?

Donald: Ugh, the leaking is so lame. Total traitors and cowards, by the way.

Sean: Oh, BIGLY. It’s like the fake news media doesn’t even CARE about Uranium One and Hillary’s emails. Such bullshit.

Donald: I know right?! SUCH bullshit! 

Sean: Same with all these illegals. You like, HAVE to build the wall, Donald.

Donald: Oh I’m TOTALLY building the wall and Mexico is SO paying for it. BIGLY!

Sean: You’re the BEST, Donald. I love you.

Donald: No YOU'RE the best. You’re like, the only person on TV who ever tells the truth.

Sean: No you.

Donald: No you.

Sean: No you.

Donald: No you.

Sean: What are you wearing?

Donald: You mean, right now?

Sean: Yeah . . . *sound of heavy breathing and zipper*

Sunday, May 13, 2018

Mom Macabre

"Oh my GOD," she whispers under her breath. "Look at this one. This one was just a baby." Her green eyes, a mirror image of mine, grow wide as she leans in and squints at the tiny headstone. "You know, Elizabeth," her voice descends to that somber register and tone she takes when she's about to drop literal science. "Babies used to die all the time before there were vaccines and antibiotics." 

I'm paying rapt attention. I conjure a vivid image in my nine year-old mind: a woman who looks like Mary from later-season Little House on the Prairie. A doctor making house calls at a cabin in the woods. A fire in the wood stove. A blizzard raging outside. The mother wailing as she rocks back and forth in a wooden chair, begging the doctor to save her febrile infant.

"See, right there," she points. "It says right there: May 6, 1894- April 11,1895. She wasn't even one year old." 
She clucks her tongue and shakes her head as we wander among the headstones of another old east coast cemetery, dry brown November leaves and acorns crunching underfoot, hunting for the most tragic cases we can find.

My mom's fascination with death was as much a fixture of my childhood as a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies might be in a more conventional household. It was just something my mom did: thought about death, talked about death, worked around death. It was part of who she was. 

Death was to be feared and avoided, but it was never to be buried or ignored. It was to be discussed. Acknowledged. Thought about. Revered, almost.

She'd watched both her parents die of cancer; lived with her senile Yiddish-only speaking grandmother for a year; was abandoned by her biological family; and placed in foster care with complete strangers all before she turned 13. 

She wanted to be a nurse, but her high school guidance counselor encouraged her to go to medical school. So she had, abandoning a PhD in chemistry to become an internist and then a psychiatrist. She was depressed and anxious when I was young, and constantly working to overcome her childhood traumas.

"Are you scared of dying?" I asked her recently. It was probably the millionth question I'd asked her about death in the course of my lifetime.

“Not at all," she answered, definitive. "I always assumed I would die young, like my mother. I never thought I would live to this age. So I sort of look at every year of living as improbable and remarkable." 

My mom isn't on social media and doesn't care about Mother's Day. But I still want to thank her for working so hard on her mental health. She had such a shit childhood, and worked so hard to recover from it with no modeling and no roadmap. I know how much I'm winging this mom thing, and my mom was winging it even more, with her hands kind of tied behind her back, psychologically speaking. 

This was someone who thought she invented grilled cheese and that she was the only person who farted and just generally had no one to answer her questions about anything. She made up explanations for stuff as she went along, and had to figure out lots of very basic things on her own. She’s still completely addicted to chocolate, she claims because people kept bringing it after her mother's funeral and eating it comforted her.

There's an old joke that the only two certainties in life are death and taxes, but not for my mom. For my mom, there are three certainties in life: death, chocolate, and cemetery tourism.

Saturday, May 12, 2018

Maria Montessori is Helping Isaac Find His Inner Bro

For reasons that are too boring to explain—preschool machinations, public school lotteries, conflicting educational theories—Isaac goes to Montessori public school, and Paige goes to regular public school. Which probably explains why only Isaac has ever come home having cut the sleeves off his shirt with a pair of scissors.

Maria Montessori has a sort of cultish following, the complex rules of which I still don’t fully understand after all these years; but from what I can tell, it’s a child-guided thing where you learn math with beads, follow your dreams of “abiding curiosity,” and eschew cartoons and talking animals. Like you can cut pickles, wash windows, and brew Kombucha all day, or you can invent a new form of calculus and write a Russian novel. 

It’s all the same to Maria. 

So I can see why Isaac followed his “inner dudebro” last week and ended up looking like Danny Zucko from Grease or the Fonz. 

Isaac has long been guided by his inner-dudebro. Even before he could talk, he loved dinosaur teeth and shark jaws and anything involving wheels or sports. As you can see from the photo collage below, these heteronormative tendencies have endured into his childhood, and now encompass his hair and clothing.

I can imagine exactly how this went down. He was hot, he told me. And the number one rule of his classroom—which is a great rule for life in general—is “you are responsible for your own happiness.” I’m sure his teacher asked him how he was going to solve his temperature issue, and in true Montessori fashion, Isaac derived a hands-on solution.

I’m all about choosing my battles, and hair and clothes are two battles that I categorically reject. Fortunately, almost all of Isaac’s clothes are rags already, so what’s one more shirt full of stains and holes? Aren’t the sleeves of a stained and too-small shirt a small price to pay for pedagogical purity?

Maria Montessori says yes.

Friday, May 11, 2018

I Will Not Be Fully Woke Until Every Square Inch of My Body is Covered in Glitter

This is the conclusion I’m starting to reach you guys. 

Glitter pits. Glitter bush. Glitter eye makeup. Glitter sunglasses. Ship your enemies glitterGlitter glitter glitter glitter GLITTER. Fucking glitter is everywhere. According to the internet, Glitter Pits are a BFD summer 2018 style and "the latest feminist beauty trend to make you sparkle."


As I mentally, physically, and financially prepare for my first bikini wax of the summer season emerging from the long, dark, hairy winter, I'm forced to reconsider and just let myself turn into the gorilla that nature intended me to be. 

But first, a quick trip to JoAnn Fabrics for a gallon of silver glitter. Because glitter, my fellow bitchez, is the key to wokeness. 

So we lost the Presidency. So old white dudes with Mayflower last names, six ex-wives, and turkey neck waddle to rival your grandma's stuffed Thanksgiving Butterball are still trying to pass laws in our vaginas. So we're still getting a dick in our face at work and the dudes who whipped out their dicks only have to sit out a couple months in the #MeToo corner with a dunce hat on before everyone starts feeling sorry for them again and gives them a show on cable or a column in the newspaper or a book deal. So we still make 70 cents on the Dude Dollar™. So there are literally fewer of us running big companies than DUDES NAMED JOHN.

Let all that marinate for a second. Especially the John thing. I'll wait. Ready? Okay.

But Reba McEntire is Colonel Sanders in drag and we can dip our pubes in glitter to make them less disgusting to men and Insta-ready and Coachella-friendly and HAWT AF.

Look people. I'm the first person to admit that I have an issue with hair. A very non-feminist issue. I don't like it. Not one bit. I spend a lot of time and money depilating myself in all sorts of ways. With lotions. With razors. With wax. I do not like it on my legs. I do not like it on my brows. I do not like it in my pits. I do not like it on my face. I do not like that thick black hair, I do not like it anywhere. I could literally write the Green Eggs and Ham of hair removal, and it's all because I'm conforming to a patriarchal standard of beauty and am 100% part of the problem. I can fully admit that.

But is GLITTER really the answer? Like does glitter really advance the cause of feminism any more than just shaving in the first place? I'm not so sure.

In the meantime, I'm going to write "Black Hair and Glitter," with apologies to Dr. Seuss.

Would you like it here or there?
I would not like it here or there
I would not like it anywhere
I do not like black hair and glitter
Despite that it's a trend on twitter.

Would you like it
In your pits?
Would you call 
Your waxing quits?

I do not like it in my pits
I do not want to call it quits
I do not like it
In my pits
I will not call my waxing quits.
I do not like that thick black hair
I do not like it anywhere.

Would you put glitter
On your box?
Just to look
Like a young fox?

Not on my box
Like a young fox
Not in my pits
To call it quits

I do not like that thick black hair
I do not like it anywhere!

Wednesday, May 9, 2018

You Know You Are on an In-State Alaska Airlines Flight When ...

... You can tell EXACTLY who’s getting kicked off the plane for being drunk and unruly before it even takes off.

... You’re proven right about the above within 5 minutes of noticing said drunk and unruly passenger.

... Said passenger says “you gotta be kidding,” insisting he should have been warned about the “no flying while visibly intoxicated” rule “at the bar.”

... Most of the plane is visibly intoxicated.

... A flight attendant cuts someone off from buying more booze in a stern voice.

... Two dudes in cammo won’t stop talking loudly about their fishing trip for 1.5 hours.

... Two dudes in cammo won’t stop talking loudly about their hunting trip for 1.5 hours.

... Two dudes in cammo won’t stop talking loudly about their temp work on the Slope for 1.5 hours.

... Two state workers won’t stop using the word “stakeholder groups” for 1.5 hours.

... The number of canine passengers outnumbers the humans.

... The number of watermelons, cans of Coke, and bottles of Tide in cargo outnumbers the humans and canines.

... Your plane is decidedly NOT the jewel of the fleet.

... The turbulence is cray and everyone is asleep like wut.

... Someone offers to hold a screaming baby and it’s not even weird.

... No one is taking pics out the window.

... Half the carry-ons are those big black hard cases the state gives you for field work of some kind.

... All the crosswords in the Alaska Airlines magazines are half done.

... There’s an empty can of Snus and a 3/4 eaten sleeve of McDonald’s fries in the seat pocket in front of you. Neither one is yours.

... The aft lavatory is looking a little rough around the edges.

... The whole back of the plane is a high school soccer team.

... The whole front of the plane is a high school choir group.

... First class gets a luke warm washcloth, a ceramic coffee mug, and nuts. Full stop.

... They’re out of the fruit and cheese plates, but not the tapas, thank God!

... You know one in three people on this flight by name.

... Someone’s got an Oxygen tank, face mask, or other evidence of medical tourism.

... You pretend not to see the other two, whose names you also know.

... Half the plane is wearing X-tra Tuffs.

... You score yourself a ride home from the airport before the plane lands.

Tuesday, May 8, 2018

Beware the Flexing of Performative Wokeness

Or performative anything, really. Especially virtue signalling.

Shakespeare said it best, if not first: “the lady doth protest too much, methinks.” Like so much of the Bard’s best work, Queen Gertrude’s line from Hamlet embodies and distills a fundamental precept of human nature: the louder someone is, the more likely it is that they’re trying to muffle something they don’t want anyone else to hear.

This axiom was once again realized this week in a thoroughly-reported New Yorker article revealing that New York Attorney General Eric Schneiderman—a public cheerleader of #MeToo—had sexually assaulted four women and was resigning his position.

I wasn’t surprised at all by the perceived incongruity between Schneiderman’s performative feminism and his private assaultive conduct. 

This happens in many contexts: a “family values” mayor who campaigns on a platform of homophobia and clamors about the perils of gay marriage is outed as carrying on a same-sex affair. A charlatan brags vociferously about his vast wealth, but won’t show the public his tax returns to prove it, not even when he stumbles ass backwards into the United States presidency. A lawyer boasts about his extensive big city trial experience, but when you scratch the surface, it turns out he only ever Bates stamped documents in the basement of a warehouse in Scranton.

Point is, it’s often the loudest champion of something who is secretly doing the exact opposite thing—it’s like a mild dissociative identity disorder of some kind. 

I encountered this in college a bit: men (boys, really) had and projected an image of themselves that was frequently at odds with their lesser natures and animal impulses. The same dudes who would virtue signal by walking around with a battered copy of Das Kapital, quote Pablo Neruda from memory, and go to Ani DiFranco concerts would transform into something quite different and at once predictable in the privacy of a dorm room at night.

If you were lucky (and I always was), it was nothing criminal or reportable. It was more subtle than that; a slipping of the mask that revealed in one touch or one glance that these trappings of wokeness were nothing but a means to an end. A part of the game. A Trojan horse. A way for boys who knew what Ivy League girls wanted to hear to worm their way into their confidence, and then still behave in those intimate moments—and the moments and days or months to follow—like the standard-issue drunken frat boys that they so contemptuously condemned in the light of day.

So I guess what I’m saying is that I’m not the least bit surprised by the Schneiderman story. A person with real character or commitment to a cause never tries to prove it. They don’t need to. Because the true test of character or commitment is how you behave when no one else is watching.