I don't like strip clubs. I'm not a feminist. I'm not religious. I don't have any moral objection with women taking off their clothes for money. Call me strange, but it doesn't turn me on to pay a woman to pretend to like me. Also, I don't like the fact that most of these strippers look pissed off because they are working at a strip club. Maybe I don't have a problem with strip clubs so much as I have a problem with poor customer service. Same thing at Denny's. I don't want my waitress looking pissed off when she brings me a Grand Slam. I mean, why are you so pissed off? You are an integral member of the company that makes the best hash browns in the universe. What could be better than that?
If I'm that upset that the woman serving me a Grand Slam looks unhappy--even though she gets to bath in the delicious aroma of hash browns every day--you can understand why I'm even more upset when I'm surrounded by women who look unhappy even though they get to be surrounded by the delicious aroma of sweat and dirty, old man every day.
Somehow, despite my aversion to strip clubs, I have been to more than one and will probably see more than one more before I die. Here's a history of my strip club experience.
1. Feb 2000
I'm a freshman in college and it's my friend's birthday. It's also the first time I see a girl naked. I'm not a smoker, but I end up smoking an entire pack of cigarettes on my own because in a strip club, you really need to do something with your hands.
2. April 2003
It's senior year of college and my birthday. However, it's Easter, so no one is on campus except my friend Cal who is an atheist and hates his family anyway, my jewish friend Scott who doesn't believe, or is ungrateful, that Jesus rose from the dead for our sins, and Scott's roommate who is the only student from our college who comes from another state and therefore, can not go home for the holiday. Cal asks me what I want to do, and then, without waiting for my answers, tells me, "Nudie bar!" We're in South JerZ and we're poor college kids, so we search the phone book for cheap topless bars. We find one in rural Pennsylvania with no cover. Those two things, 1) Rural Pennsylvania and 2) No cover should be a clear warning that you are better off playing Pictionary in your dorm room.
3. May 2003
I've just graduated college and am in the Philippines for a two week vacation with my dad and my buddy, Cal, the aforementioned friend who loves strip clubs. Our entire trip has been planned out by my aunts and uncles and is filled with exotic foods and once-in-a-lifetime experiences. Then, we come to the day marked on the calendar "Boys' Night Out." I had been secretly dreading this day all vacation. My aversion to going to strip clubs with friends is quite mild compared to the nausea I feel going to a strip club with my dad. And in the Philippines, you really don't know how old these girls are. So we are at a table watching possibly underage girls looking pissed off that they have to survive by being ogled by old men, while other girls their age are on MTV bitching that their Super Sweet Sixteen isn't quite super enough.
The waiter is giving Cal a shoulder rub, we assume because Cal is white and American, which to a Filipino, ostensibly means he has money. I spend the evening drinking soda (I don't even like drinking with my dad, let alone drinking and comparing stripper tits with him) and talking with some guy about the future of VCRs and whether they will be able to survive the evolution of DVD players.
4. March 2004
It's Mardi Gras weekend and I'm in New Orleans with my AmeriCorps friends and my girlfriend. All the girls have called it a night, but the boys are still staggering along bourbon street. One guy in our group suggests a strip club. "Look! There's no cover." Instead there's a three drink minimum, with each drink being about 7 bucks. Even drunk I don't find it particularly fun. And how stupid is that, to pay a three drink minimum in a club when we could be drinking on the streets watching college freshman (whose bodies are still supple and have not yet been devastated by hard living and c-sections) getting naked for free? We were young and stupid.
5. February 2009
I'm back in the Philippines. I've somehow survived the last five years without going to another strip club. Again, I'm with my dad and another friend, Dice. My cousin, Ronell, and his wife take us to dinner. She drives in a separate car. That's a bad sign. After dinner, his wife goes home and it's just the boys cruising Subic Bay, a one time U.S. Naval base. And you know what sailors love? Strip clubs. Ronell likes one called Chichiquita. "It's classier than the rest of the clubs on the strip," he says. Inside, there is a guy passed out at his chair. Three bouncers pick him up and drag him out the door.
We sit at a table right by the stage and I have to physically grab Dice to make him sit in between me and my father. No soda for me, this time. I want to get drunk and make this night disappear. Another San Miguel, salamat.
The strippers line up on stage like lobsters in a fish tank at a fancy seafood restaurant and you pick the one that looks tastiest. "Go ahead, pick a girl," says my cousin. "No thank you. I'm fine with my beer."
Maybe Ronell interprets my refusal to pick a girl as American shyness or just plain indecisiveness. So he picks a girl for me. Her name is Andrea, she's 20, or so she claims, and is not particularly attractive. I shake her hand. Ronell, on the other hand, has his nose buried in his stripper's cleavage. Perhaps she has a scratch and sniff sticker placed there. I don't know if my dad or Dice picked girls, but our table now has one for each of us.
If you've read my blog before, you probably know that I don't like small talk. I like it even less when it's with a stripper who is paid to engage in small talk with me. I don't pay the stripper directly. Instead, i buy her beer. A beer for me costs 50 pesos, about one dollar, US. A beer for her costs 250 pesos, about five dollars. Her beer is not of a better quality than mine. And I can't get a beer for myself and give it to her. The bartender comes to us, asks me "Do you want to get her a beer?" I ask her, "Do you want a beer?" And, surprise, surprise, she always nods, "Yes!" even though I don't think she actually wants a beer. I know this because she drinks her beer with ice to water it down and after the first three beers, she switches to pineapple juice which also costs 250 pesos even though pineapples grow there like poison ivy.
The night is long. There's a language barrier between me and Andrea and it's too loud to hear anyway. I guess most patrons of Chichiquita are not concerned about hearing their strippers' answers to question like, "So, are all of you strippers friends? Do you guys get together for coffee after work?"
I keep drinking and trying to come up with conversation topics like, "Who's the biggest bitch you have to work with here?" She asks me questions like, "Can I hold you?"
"No."
"Do you want to go to the VIP room?"
"No."
At some point, she brings it to my attention that my dad and his stripper are gone. "Your dad is in the VIP room," she says. "Another San Miguel, please," I say. My parents are divorced, so I don't feel like my dad is doing anything wrong. At the same time, you don't want to picture your dad in the VIP room. And he's in there for a long time. I don't have a watch on so I don't know exactly how long, but I'm pretty sure four or five girls danced on stage during the time he was gone. At two crappy pop songs per girl, plus one crappy pop song in between girls, that's probably a solid half hour at least.
Towards the end of the night, my stripper asks me if I would get her three red wines to cover the rest of her quota. Quota? You mean you weren't sitting with me this whole time because you were regaled by my fascinating dinosaur trivia? My heart is broken. But she should be happy she had such an easy night's work with me. She got paid and didn't have to get tested in the morning.
Mercifully, the night comes to an end. We leave. I give Andrea a firm handshake goodbye. My dad probably thinks I'm a queer and wishes Dice was his son instead. I ask no questions and in the car, try to let the buzz wash away all my memories as my dad tells them about his stripper and the VIP room.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Monday, December 22, 2008
a mystery to me
Can anyone explain to me why the Entenmann's Company persists in making the "Plain Donut?" If you've ever been to a meeting where they have a box of Entenmann's Assorted Donuts laying out, have you ever seen anyone grab the Plain Donut first? My only guess as to why this least liked of all doughnuts still earns a spot next to its far superior contemporaries, "White Powder" and, the apogee of all fried dough treats, "Chocolate Covered Yellow Squishy Cake," is to serve as a form of punishment. If you see someone eating a Plain Donut, you know he got to the meeting late. For that sorry son of a bitch, the flavorless, brown doughnut he's forcing down with coffee is no treat; its a humiliating Scarlet Letter he has to wear to show everyone he's the guy who can never be anywhere on time.
I know someone out there is saying, "Armin, that doughnut is there for the person who doesn't want the calories that are packed in the more delicious doughnuts." But, if you don't want calories, you probably shouldn't be eating anything with the name Entenmann's in the first place. This doughnut has all the ass widening capabilities of the other two without the desired yumminess. Eating this doughnut is like contracting gonorrhea without even getting to have sex with the hooker.
Wow, even I'm surprised by how much invective this stupid doughnut has provoked in me. You'll have to excuse me, someone recently gave me a half eaten box of Entenmann's Variety Pack Donuts and I just ate three Plain donuts which I dunked in my bitter tears of disgust.
Monday, November 24, 2008
successes
I had two goals I wanted to accomplish when I accepted the job with Northwest Airlines. Neither goal had anything to do with the betterment of customer service or improving myself intellectually, physically, or morally.
The first goal was to fly a lot of places for free. In less than a year, I think I've already accomplished that fairly well. But the second goal, which I kept private, had alluded me for the longest time until this past friday.
While working in baggage service, I was trying to find contact information on an unclaimed bag and instead found a shopping bag full of dildos! It was just like that song by War, "Spill the Wine" because there were "tall ones, short ones, brown ones, black ones, round ones, big ones, crazy ones..." It was like finding Santa's sack of presents if Santa catered to horny middle aged ladies. Maybe this passenger worked for the non profit group, Toys for Twats.
So, there you go, my second professional goal of finding a shopping bag full of dildos in a passenger's suitcase has come to fruition. Excuse me while I go find some Purell to bathe in.
The first goal was to fly a lot of places for free. In less than a year, I think I've already accomplished that fairly well. But the second goal, which I kept private, had alluded me for the longest time until this past friday.
While working in baggage service, I was trying to find contact information on an unclaimed bag and instead found a shopping bag full of dildos! It was just like that song by War, "Spill the Wine" because there were "tall ones, short ones, brown ones, black ones, round ones, big ones, crazy ones..." It was like finding Santa's sack of presents if Santa catered to horny middle aged ladies. Maybe this passenger worked for the non profit group, Toys for Twats.
So, there you go, my second professional goal of finding a shopping bag full of dildos in a passenger's suitcase has come to fruition. Excuse me while I go find some Purell to bathe in.
Friday, November 14, 2008
home, sweet home
A new coworker of mine who tries to flirt with me even though she doesn't realize her body fat versus personality ratio* is too high for me to be attracted to her, asked me where in Portland I lived.
"Up in St. Johns."
"Oh... isn't that the ghetto?" she asked, a bit alarmed.
"I guess."
It's hard to answer this question because it's abrasive for a couple reasons. First of all, people have different qualifiers for ghettos and since I doubt most people who use the word ghetto for a neighborhood have dedicated extensive time into researching that neighborhood's poverty levels or crime statistics, I have to assume their judgment is based on hearsay or having seen graffiti and minorities in the area when they got lost there one time. I remember when I was living in Baltimore, both my parents thought I was living in the ghetto, not because they had gone door to door to discover the median income of the Waverly district was below the national average, but because they saw many more black people on the streets than in Lincoln Park, NJ.
Secondly, the fact that this coworker was shocked that I live in what she believes is a ghetto implies that I don't look "street" enough to handle living in the "ghetto." Understandably, the Northwest Airlines dress code strictly forbids me from wearing all the ice I frequently adorn, not to mention my Glock, but I assumed my "thug life" personality would shine in my every day speech, my way of checking in customers ("window or aisle, bee-atch?"), and my incessant origami folding. Do i have to drop an expletive-laced rap album with hooks featuring Pharrell on your cracker asses to prove I'm street? Believe me, if I have to, I will.
Anyway, I moved into my roommate Ross' condo in St. Johns over the summer and, I have to say, I've seen and lived in worse places. Yes, I know, I have a tendency towards martyrdom and want to always make it seem like I suffer with a stiff upper lip through trials that would kill the average man. If we both order soup at a restaurant, I will make the offhand comment that my soup is colder and less evenly seasoned than yours, but still forge on and eat it without nary a tear, so you can see how tough I am. I know, I'm a tool. So it's perfectly understandable if you think this is a trick and that I'm saying St. Johns is not so bad so that when you come to visit me, you'll be horrified by the gang rape and car fires in the streets and go back to your opulent, Rodeo Drive worlds and tell your tea time coterie that your friend Armin is nonplussed living in the ninth circle of hell.
At the same time though, St. Johns is not the prettiest neighborhood. I joke that the main employer of most residents in St Johns is Oregon Video Lottery. I've broken up a fight between toothless men in the street. In the public library, the vast majority of the patrons are not bibliophiles, but kids and old men checking Facebook for girls and I actually heard this lovely conversation paraphrased in there one day between two guys in stained beaters and large belt buckles:
"Yo, D, did I tell you I got shot?"
(jealous) "Really, where?"
"At Marie's party."
"Who did it?"
"I don't know. We just heard some shots and I got hit in the ass." (limps away)
The first time I rode the bus in my new 'hood, I was amazed by the crowd gathered at the stop. As I saw each possible bus go by, I realized I was the only one at the bus stop with the intention of actually riding a bus. For the rest, this was a club house, sort of a Peach Pit if they were the original cast of 90210, which they did not resemble at all. Two shaggy looking twenty somethings had found an abandoned milk crate of free Little Debbie Blueberry pies left on the street and were gorging themselves, the gobs of purple filling splattering on their beards and worn out cargo pants. Three other joined in the buffet; if nothing else, there's a sense of community in these parts. However, one woman with a droopy right eye was upset with one of the fellas at the feast; she turned to me, but without addressing anyone in particular, lamented, "He ain't sharing his cornbread." It's true, I concurred, hoping the damn bus would just get here already. One guy did indeed have a hunk of cornbread crumbling in his hand and did not offer her any. I guess she's not a fan of abandoned Little Debbie pies.
When I was younger, I fancied myself a bit of a nomad, a bohemian type--fringe, if you will--and these St Johns folks with their seeming lack of aspirations and simple desires, would have seemed cool to me. Maybe i'm getting snobby, or my privileged upbringing is truly showing now, but I'm getting a bit sick of it all, the loitering, the constant toping, the swearing, the smoking and gambling.
But, at the the same time, the rent is great, I have a roommate I don't detest, there's free pool and dollar happy hour PBRs at Slim's, free Wifi at Ladybug Coffee where the owner thinks my name is James and I've been too embarrassed to correct her.**
Sometimes I'll walk the four blocks from my place to the Willamette River to really enjoy my neighborhood. I sit on the docks if it's nice out, under the auspices of the great St. Johns Bridge, which reminds me of a giant green dragon crossing the river. The boats below are like remora feeding on its scraps and its head rests in the middle of downtown, its teeth made up of dive bars and coffee shops, while its tail circles the last pocket of wilderness left. That's a side of St. Johns even an uppity fat chick would love.
*I try to be politically correct with my blog, so I realize this might have ruffled some feathers, specifically, the feathers on fat people. Notice, I said the ratio was too high, not her weight. So for example, if her body fat was very high, but but her personality was like a Tina Fey and Sandra Dee from Grease mashed up, then maybe I'd be interested. Conversely, if her personality was significantly worse, but she had the looks to back it, then flirt away.
**If you don't correct someone the first time they say your name wrong, you never will because every subsequent time they call you that misnomer, you'll have a harder time pretending you just heard them wrong.
******
Letters
(in reference to an entry in which I did not pay a restaurant bill because I didn't have cash)
Adam writes: Has New Jersey figured out ATMs yet?
Yes, I understand I could have found an ATM while my friend was on the phone for twenty minutes. This is often known as the "Bathroom Quandary." You're waiting for something, say a friend picking you up, and you ask, "Do I have enough time to go to the bathroom?" You say, no, better wait. And you wait, and then ten minutes later say, "Dammit, I could definitely have gone to the bathroom already! But now I definitely don't have enough time." So you wait another ten minutes and now you're really pissed and have to go badly, so you pee behind an alley or something and your friend pulls up as you are walking out the alley zipping your fly. And unlike every other time you take a piss, you can't lie and say, "yes, i washed my hands" when you're walking out of an alley.
John Cocktoastin writes: I'm fine if you want to call yourself married to anyone. I just don't see why the government needs to be involved in it.
I have to agree that if marriage is a religious term with religious meaning, then it should have nothing to do with government. Here's a video worth watching:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cVUecPhQPqY
"Up in St. Johns."
"Oh... isn't that the ghetto?" she asked, a bit alarmed.
"I guess."
It's hard to answer this question because it's abrasive for a couple reasons. First of all, people have different qualifiers for ghettos and since I doubt most people who use the word ghetto for a neighborhood have dedicated extensive time into researching that neighborhood's poverty levels or crime statistics, I have to assume their judgment is based on hearsay or having seen graffiti and minorities in the area when they got lost there one time. I remember when I was living in Baltimore, both my parents thought I was living in the ghetto, not because they had gone door to door to discover the median income of the Waverly district was below the national average, but because they saw many more black people on the streets than in Lincoln Park, NJ.
Secondly, the fact that this coworker was shocked that I live in what she believes is a ghetto implies that I don't look "street" enough to handle living in the "ghetto." Understandably, the Northwest Airlines dress code strictly forbids me from wearing all the ice I frequently adorn, not to mention my Glock, but I assumed my "thug life" personality would shine in my every day speech, my way of checking in customers ("window or aisle, bee-atch?"), and my incessant origami folding. Do i have to drop an expletive-laced rap album with hooks featuring Pharrell on your cracker asses to prove I'm street? Believe me, if I have to, I will.
Anyway, I moved into my roommate Ross' condo in St. Johns over the summer and, I have to say, I've seen and lived in worse places. Yes, I know, I have a tendency towards martyrdom and want to always make it seem like I suffer with a stiff upper lip through trials that would kill the average man. If we both order soup at a restaurant, I will make the offhand comment that my soup is colder and less evenly seasoned than yours, but still forge on and eat it without nary a tear, so you can see how tough I am. I know, I'm a tool. So it's perfectly understandable if you think this is a trick and that I'm saying St. Johns is not so bad so that when you come to visit me, you'll be horrified by the gang rape and car fires in the streets and go back to your opulent, Rodeo Drive worlds and tell your tea time coterie that your friend Armin is nonplussed living in the ninth circle of hell.
At the same time though, St. Johns is not the prettiest neighborhood. I joke that the main employer of most residents in St Johns is Oregon Video Lottery. I've broken up a fight between toothless men in the street. In the public library, the vast majority of the patrons are not bibliophiles, but kids and old men checking Facebook for girls and I actually heard this lovely conversation paraphrased in there one day between two guys in stained beaters and large belt buckles:
"Yo, D, did I tell you I got shot?"
(jealous) "Really, where?"
"At Marie's party."
"Who did it?"
"I don't know. We just heard some shots and I got hit in the ass." (limps away)
The first time I rode the bus in my new 'hood, I was amazed by the crowd gathered at the stop. As I saw each possible bus go by, I realized I was the only one at the bus stop with the intention of actually riding a bus. For the rest, this was a club house, sort of a Peach Pit if they were the original cast of 90210, which they did not resemble at all. Two shaggy looking twenty somethings had found an abandoned milk crate of free Little Debbie Blueberry pies left on the street and were gorging themselves, the gobs of purple filling splattering on their beards and worn out cargo pants. Three other joined in the buffet; if nothing else, there's a sense of community in these parts. However, one woman with a droopy right eye was upset with one of the fellas at the feast; she turned to me, but without addressing anyone in particular, lamented, "He ain't sharing his cornbread." It's true, I concurred, hoping the damn bus would just get here already. One guy did indeed have a hunk of cornbread crumbling in his hand and did not offer her any. I guess she's not a fan of abandoned Little Debbie pies.
When I was younger, I fancied myself a bit of a nomad, a bohemian type--fringe, if you will--and these St Johns folks with their seeming lack of aspirations and simple desires, would have seemed cool to me. Maybe i'm getting snobby, or my privileged upbringing is truly showing now, but I'm getting a bit sick of it all, the loitering, the constant toping, the swearing, the smoking and gambling.
But, at the the same time, the rent is great, I have a roommate I don't detest, there's free pool and dollar happy hour PBRs at Slim's, free Wifi at Ladybug Coffee where the owner thinks my name is James and I've been too embarrassed to correct her.**
Sometimes I'll walk the four blocks from my place to the Willamette River to really enjoy my neighborhood. I sit on the docks if it's nice out, under the auspices of the great St. Johns Bridge, which reminds me of a giant green dragon crossing the river. The boats below are like remora feeding on its scraps and its head rests in the middle of downtown, its teeth made up of dive bars and coffee shops, while its tail circles the last pocket of wilderness left. That's a side of St. Johns even an uppity fat chick would love.
*I try to be politically correct with my blog, so I realize this might have ruffled some feathers, specifically, the feathers on fat people. Notice, I said the ratio was too high, not her weight. So for example, if her body fat was very high, but but her personality was like a Tina Fey and Sandra Dee from Grease mashed up, then maybe I'd be interested. Conversely, if her personality was significantly worse, but she had the looks to back it, then flirt away.
**If you don't correct someone the first time they say your name wrong, you never will because every subsequent time they call you that misnomer, you'll have a harder time pretending you just heard them wrong.
******
Letters
(in reference to an entry in which I did not pay a restaurant bill because I didn't have cash)
Adam writes: Has New Jersey figured out ATMs yet?
Yes, I understand I could have found an ATM while my friend was on the phone for twenty minutes. This is often known as the "Bathroom Quandary." You're waiting for something, say a friend picking you up, and you ask, "Do I have enough time to go to the bathroom?" You say, no, better wait. And you wait, and then ten minutes later say, "Dammit, I could definitely have gone to the bathroom already! But now I definitely don't have enough time." So you wait another ten minutes and now you're really pissed and have to go badly, so you pee behind an alley or something and your friend pulls up as you are walking out the alley zipping your fly. And unlike every other time you take a piss, you can't lie and say, "yes, i washed my hands" when you're walking out of an alley.
John Cocktoastin writes: I'm fine if you want to call yourself married to anyone. I just don't see why the government needs to be involved in it.
I have to agree that if marriage is a religious term with religious meaning, then it should have nothing to do with government. Here's a video worth watching:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cVUecPhQPqY
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Guest Blog: The Civil Book on Knitting
I'm sure very few of you tune into ATKU for its vigorous political exploration just as few people watch TMZ as a guide for spiritual awakening. But here's a guest blog on a topic that deserves attention and I promise the next blog will be back to your standard low brow fare: "Armin Steps in Dog Poop...Again."
*********
Nov 5, 2008
This is a remarkable time in American politics. This is a remarkable time in California politics. In the span of twelve hours, my sense of pride for the national stage has become tinged with a sense of frustration and embarrassment within my state. At the time of this writing, news organizations have begun to acknowledge the success of Proposition 8, which now will explicitly write bigotry into the state constitution of one of the country's most progressive states.
How did this happen? Who is against a state government legally recognizing the decision of an effort between two human beings to build their lives together?
Unlike other hot button political issues, the opponents of same sex marriage fall under an easily identifiable umbrella. Of the 52% of California voters who supported a ban on same sex marriage, I would wager a lot of Armin's money that the respondents overwhelming cited a religious aspect to their decision.
After numerous discussions with people, here is my personal summary of the arguments against gay marriage:
I. Marriage is a sacred (read: religious) institution and it must be protected at all costs.
II. Semantics. The word marriage is a religious one. God (who likely doesn't exist) told his followers that marriage is defined as between a man and a woman (or between a man and a 17 year old woman, a 16 year old woman, and a 12 year old woman in the Mormon definition).
(As an aside, the Mormon Church has sent tens of millions of tax-free dollars in this election to California to ban same sex marriage.)
III. The slippery-slope. If society legitimizes the act of two men living together (or two women for that matter), where does it stop? (Answer: When a man tries to marry his plasma screen television).
IV. Marriage should be set up to produce children. Gay people can't do that. (oh yes they can!)
Do any of the above hold water? Argument I can be easily deconstructed by one simple task: those who cite this should meet my parents. Heterosexuals have been screwing up the sanctity of marriage for centuries. Why can't we let we let gay people have a shot at doing the same thing? Shouldn't religious groups have an even greater political campaign to stop heterosexuals from getting divorced? "I'm sorry Beth. I know your husband beats you to within an inch of your life at least once a week. However, God looks badly on divorce. The Lord wants you to endure the beatings because he has a special place in heaven for you if you do." (Yeah, the intensive care unit.)
Argument III is simply asinine. Isn't this on the list of reasons for why Rick Santorum was voted out of office?
Arguments IV is extremely weak. No one would suggest infertile heterosexual couples shouldn't be together.
Finally, I would like to address Argument II: Semantics. This is undoubtedly the most common argument I have encountered. Many open-minded religious people (yes, even I know that this term is not an oxymoron) tend to use this approach. However, this argument falls flat, too.
It's true, I am not an accomplished etymologist, nor am I even a garden-variety linguist. Even so, I know this: while the word marriage has its roots in religion, it now has been woven into the secular fabric of society.
This marriage-is-a-religious-word argument is also disingenuous. Why so much attention on the word marriage? Why not other religious words, such as damnation, brimstone or myrrh? Oh wait a second... I have one: bible. We can all agree that the word bible is religious in nature. We can all agree that along with the word marriage, bible has bled into our secular lexicon. A search on Amazon.com produces many book titles that have nothing to do with religion. I haven't heard of any religious groups acting to remove such sacred tomes as The Barbeque! Bible or the Knitter's Bible. How could that be? Don't the same people who insist the word marriage is sacred view the word bible as sacred? Shouldn't they call it something else? The Civil Book on Knitting has a much better ring to it, doesn't it?
Aside from one ambiguous dream I had long, long ago, I am a simple heterosexual man. I do not happen to have any really close gay friends that were directly affected by the success of Proposition 8. Instead, I believe in equal rights and a secular country. The fight against same sex marriage has made me realize the tremendous influence religions still have in American life. People have a right to be religious. Religions do not have a right to be political.
And with this experience firmly rooted in my political perspective, I plan on spending the coming decades donating, volunteering and supporting the fight for same sex marriage in any way I can. I see this as the singular issue with many gains for nonreligious people to make. In 2008, religion should be a vestigial part of our society. It had its place in history. It has nothing more than a minimal place in the future.
Mike Calvert
Berkeley, California
michaelgcalvert@gmail.com
*********
Nov 5, 2008
This is a remarkable time in American politics. This is a remarkable time in California politics. In the span of twelve hours, my sense of pride for the national stage has become tinged with a sense of frustration and embarrassment within my state. At the time of this writing, news organizations have begun to acknowledge the success of Proposition 8, which now will explicitly write bigotry into the state constitution of one of the country's most progressive states.
How did this happen? Who is against a state government legally recognizing the decision of an effort between two human beings to build their lives together?
Unlike other hot button political issues, the opponents of same sex marriage fall under an easily identifiable umbrella. Of the 52% of California voters who supported a ban on same sex marriage, I would wager a lot of Armin's money that the respondents overwhelming cited a religious aspect to their decision.
After numerous discussions with people, here is my personal summary of the arguments against gay marriage:
I. Marriage is a sacred (read: religious) institution and it must be protected at all costs.
II. Semantics. The word marriage is a religious one. God (who likely doesn't exist) told his followers that marriage is defined as between a man and a woman (or between a man and a 17 year old woman, a 16 year old woman, and a 12 year old woman in the Mormon definition).
(As an aside, the Mormon Church has sent tens of millions of tax-free dollars in this election to California to ban same sex marriage.)
III. The slippery-slope. If society legitimizes the act of two men living together (or two women for that matter), where does it stop? (Answer: When a man tries to marry his plasma screen television).
IV. Marriage should be set up to produce children. Gay people can't do that. (oh yes they can!)
Do any of the above hold water? Argument I can be easily deconstructed by one simple task: those who cite this should meet my parents. Heterosexuals have been screwing up the sanctity of marriage for centuries. Why can't we let we let gay people have a shot at doing the same thing? Shouldn't religious groups have an even greater political campaign to stop heterosexuals from getting divorced? "I'm sorry Beth. I know your husband beats you to within an inch of your life at least once a week. However, God looks badly on divorce. The Lord wants you to endure the beatings because he has a special place in heaven for you if you do." (Yeah, the intensive care unit.)
Argument III is simply asinine. Isn't this on the list of reasons for why Rick Santorum was voted out of office?
Arguments IV is extremely weak. No one would suggest infertile heterosexual couples shouldn't be together.
Finally, I would like to address Argument II: Semantics. This is undoubtedly the most common argument I have encountered. Many open-minded religious people (yes, even I know that this term is not an oxymoron) tend to use this approach. However, this argument falls flat, too.
It's true, I am not an accomplished etymologist, nor am I even a garden-variety linguist. Even so, I know this: while the word marriage has its roots in religion, it now has been woven into the secular fabric of society.
This marriage-is-a-religious-word argument is also disingenuous. Why so much attention on the word marriage? Why not other religious words, such as damnation, brimstone or myrrh? Oh wait a second... I have one: bible. We can all agree that the word bible is religious in nature. We can all agree that along with the word marriage, bible has bled into our secular lexicon. A search on Amazon.com produces many book titles that have nothing to do with religion. I haven't heard of any religious groups acting to remove such sacred tomes as The Barbeque! Bible or the Knitter's Bible. How could that be? Don't the same people who insist the word marriage is sacred view the word bible as sacred? Shouldn't they call it something else? The Civil Book on Knitting has a much better ring to it, doesn't it?
Aside from one ambiguous dream I had long, long ago, I am a simple heterosexual man. I do not happen to have any really close gay friends that were directly affected by the success of Proposition 8. Instead, I believe in equal rights and a secular country. The fight against same sex marriage has made me realize the tremendous influence religions still have in American life. People have a right to be religious. Religions do not have a right to be political.
And with this experience firmly rooted in my political perspective, I plan on spending the coming decades donating, volunteering and supporting the fight for same sex marriage in any way I can. I see this as the singular issue with many gains for nonreligious people to make. In 2008, religion should be a vestigial part of our society. It had its place in history. It has nothing more than a minimal place in the future.
Mike Calvert
Berkeley, California
michaelgcalvert@gmail.com
Thursday, October 23, 2008
straight talking
In June a mysterious guest blogger was the first person besides me to ever write a post in All the Knots Undone (see: Friday June 20th, 2008; Guest Blog: A Comment on Sweeping Generalizations). He was very disappointed by the lack of comments. We're such sluts for attention.
First of all, I love the idea of a guest blog. Before the hip hop industry killed it with overuse, I loved when bands had tracks on their albums featuring members of other bands. I was that douchebag that just had to share useless trivia about songs with cameos, "You do know that's Paul McCartney singing back up for Donovan, right?" Also, I love when all the artists of the Sunday comics decide to switch strips and take a crack at their colleagues' stories. It's like wife swapping only less morally objectionable and more sanitary. A guest blog can add a nice, refreshing change of voice.
More pragmatically, a guest blog is good because it adds filler to a blog that I do not update on any regular basis. So I will put the invitation out to people if anyone feels like doing a guest blog, like Cal, who, for anyone who has met him, would assume has plenty to say to fill up his own blog, but would rather scavenge readers off a long rotting blog.
Anyway, if you haven't read his entry, it was about how he's cautious about making broad generalizations at social gatherings for fear he'll offend someone. This coming from a man who at a work dinner raised his glass in a toast and accidentally said "Chink" instead of "Clink" in front of multiple Chinese Americans.
What Cal/Sir Thaddeus McDougal really wants is to eradicate "small talk." He's sick of it as I imagine many of you are, too. Trivial, banal formalities in conversations that we all use and from which we rarely deviate on a first meeting. A friend of mine in Boston had just joined Match.Com and she said her biggest pet peeve is guys who have questions ready. I told her I always have questions prepared and she was flabbergasted, "I don't believe that, Armin, because you don't have any problem talking to people." "Of course I don't have a problem talking to people because I have a bunch of questions ready before I meet them." She's lying to herself if she doesn't believe every adult has questions prepared for social situations because as long you're not agoraphobic or hermetically sealed in a plastic bubble, you should have had enough social encounters to compile a list of default questions for ice breakers, conscious or not. "Where did you go to school?" "Where did you grow up?" "What do you do for a living?"
In Cal's effort to extirpate (i'm studying vocab words for the GRE) meaningless, superficial banter, Cal will often bring up more provocative conversation topics than your typical "So what do you do for a living?" Let me make it clear: he is never trying to be rude or specifically make someone uncomfortable. He just values conversation and thinks he'll learn a lot more about a person and be more engaged if he brings up thought provoking topics.
When he met my friends in Portland, he made a bold statement, something along the lines of "Every guy watches porn, even married men," while in the company of a married couple. He wasn't trying to offend the couple or get the husband in trouble. I don't actually remember why he brought it up. I think he'd just rather talk about porn than the weather.
I've explained my stance on small talk to Cal and others:
I hate small talk. I find it boring and repetitive. At the same time, i think it's an absolutely necessary first step when meeting someone. People are generally not comfortable sharing very personal things about their lives the first ten minutes they meet you. Generally the only people who do that are the ones that smell like cat pee on the bus, oblivious to the fact you are reading a book and avoiding eye contact (yes, I'm now that east coast asshole that gives JerZ a bad name because he isn't friendly and doesn't want to hear about your day in the county jail).
If you ask small talk questions, then you as a listener should be able to pick up on something said that can lead to a slightly more substantial question. Slow, plodding conversations, like the herding of cattle. Tedious, but with an eventual destination. And so, as much as I'm tempted, I do not bring up porn at company parties.
Here's a summary of some of the more common small talk conversations I have over and over in my life. By sharing these with you, I realize I'm revealing myself as a complete and utter sham. Any of you who may have once thought I was clever will now realize it's all a rouse. I'm not clever at all; I have fake conversations in my head all the time predicting all the likely things the people will ask in any given circumstance and come up with cute replies. Nothing too fancy or it will sound rehearsed. Here a simple example. You get a hair cut. You go to work. What small talk statement will your coworkers say?
I'll give you a minute to think about it. Okay, pencils down. Did your answer look something like this?
"OOh, you got a haircut!" or "Nice haircut," or "did you get a haircut?"
If I'm getting a haircut, I picture this conversation in my mind and come up with cute replies, polished and ready for the next day at work:
1) Yeah, i thought it would make me faster at (whatever a common task is at work). You know, make me more aerodynamic." [this one does not work if your job is professional swimmer because then this answer is not cute, just obvious]
2) Yeah, I wanted to look more like (name of bald guy in the office).
3.) No jerk. I'm undergoing chemotherapy. [this is actually a very bad reply]
Pretty simple. Now next time you see me, you can throw me for a loop by asking something i'd never expect you to say like, "Why do you wear pink panties?"
"uhh... no, jerk. I'm undergoing chemotherapy." See? Now that didn't work well at all, did it?
Armin's Common Conversations
1. Conversation with random co worker at work on Monday morning
Random Coworker: "Hey, how was your weekend?"
Armin: "Too short"
Both: Hahaha
2. Conversation i have with pilots when I ask them permission to close the airplane door.
Armin: "Alright Captain, we have everyone on board. Is there anything else you need before I close the door?"
Captain: "How about a million dollars?"
Armin: [Polite laughter] "If I could make a million dollars appear, I wouldn't be here, would I?"
3. Conversation while the song "Don't Stop Believing" is playing.
Average american: "I love this song."
Armin: "I fucking hate Journey."
Average American: "Why? How could you possibly hate Journey?"
Armin: "I don't know why. I just do."
4. Conversation while the song "magic man" by Hart is playing
Armin: "I hate Fleetwood Mac."
Average know it all American: "Actually, this is Hart."
Armin: "I know that [pretending to know that]. I just hate Fleetwood mac and wanted to share that with you."
I'd love to hear your horribly repetitive conversations... chances are, i've been on the other end of a script with you already.
First of all, I love the idea of a guest blog. Before the hip hop industry killed it with overuse, I loved when bands had tracks on their albums featuring members of other bands. I was that douchebag that just had to share useless trivia about songs with cameos, "You do know that's Paul McCartney singing back up for Donovan, right?" Also, I love when all the artists of the Sunday comics decide to switch strips and take a crack at their colleagues' stories. It's like wife swapping only less morally objectionable and more sanitary. A guest blog can add a nice, refreshing change of voice.
More pragmatically, a guest blog is good because it adds filler to a blog that I do not update on any regular basis. So I will put the invitation out to people if anyone feels like doing a guest blog, like Cal, who, for anyone who has met him, would assume has plenty to say to fill up his own blog, but would rather scavenge readers off a long rotting blog.
Anyway, if you haven't read his entry, it was about how he's cautious about making broad generalizations at social gatherings for fear he'll offend someone. This coming from a man who at a work dinner raised his glass in a toast and accidentally said "Chink" instead of "Clink" in front of multiple Chinese Americans.
What Cal/Sir Thaddeus McDougal really wants is to eradicate "small talk." He's sick of it as I imagine many of you are, too. Trivial, banal formalities in conversations that we all use and from which we rarely deviate on a first meeting. A friend of mine in Boston had just joined Match.Com and she said her biggest pet peeve is guys who have questions ready. I told her I always have questions prepared and she was flabbergasted, "I don't believe that, Armin, because you don't have any problem talking to people." "Of course I don't have a problem talking to people because I have a bunch of questions ready before I meet them." She's lying to herself if she doesn't believe every adult has questions prepared for social situations because as long you're not agoraphobic or hermetically sealed in a plastic bubble, you should have had enough social encounters to compile a list of default questions for ice breakers, conscious or not. "Where did you go to school?" "Where did you grow up?" "What do you do for a living?"
In Cal's effort to extirpate (i'm studying vocab words for the GRE) meaningless, superficial banter, Cal will often bring up more provocative conversation topics than your typical "So what do you do for a living?" Let me make it clear: he is never trying to be rude or specifically make someone uncomfortable. He just values conversation and thinks he'll learn a lot more about a person and be more engaged if he brings up thought provoking topics.
When he met my friends in Portland, he made a bold statement, something along the lines of "Every guy watches porn, even married men," while in the company of a married couple. He wasn't trying to offend the couple or get the husband in trouble. I don't actually remember why he brought it up. I think he'd just rather talk about porn than the weather.
I've explained my stance on small talk to Cal and others:
I hate small talk. I find it boring and repetitive. At the same time, i think it's an absolutely necessary first step when meeting someone. People are generally not comfortable sharing very personal things about their lives the first ten minutes they meet you. Generally the only people who do that are the ones that smell like cat pee on the bus, oblivious to the fact you are reading a book and avoiding eye contact (yes, I'm now that east coast asshole that gives JerZ a bad name because he isn't friendly and doesn't want to hear about your day in the county jail).
If you ask small talk questions, then you as a listener should be able to pick up on something said that can lead to a slightly more substantial question. Slow, plodding conversations, like the herding of cattle. Tedious, but with an eventual destination. And so, as much as I'm tempted, I do not bring up porn at company parties.
Here's a summary of some of the more common small talk conversations I have over and over in my life. By sharing these with you, I realize I'm revealing myself as a complete and utter sham. Any of you who may have once thought I was clever will now realize it's all a rouse. I'm not clever at all; I have fake conversations in my head all the time predicting all the likely things the people will ask in any given circumstance and come up with cute replies. Nothing too fancy or it will sound rehearsed. Here a simple example. You get a hair cut. You go to work. What small talk statement will your coworkers say?
I'll give you a minute to think about it. Okay, pencils down. Did your answer look something like this?
"OOh, you got a haircut!" or "Nice haircut," or "did you get a haircut?"
If I'm getting a haircut, I picture this conversation in my mind and come up with cute replies, polished and ready for the next day at work:
1) Yeah, i thought it would make me faster at (whatever a common task is at work). You know, make me more aerodynamic." [this one does not work if your job is professional swimmer because then this answer is not cute, just obvious]
2) Yeah, I wanted to look more like (name of bald guy in the office).
3.) No jerk. I'm undergoing chemotherapy. [this is actually a very bad reply]
Pretty simple. Now next time you see me, you can throw me for a loop by asking something i'd never expect you to say like, "Why do you wear pink panties?"
"uhh... no, jerk. I'm undergoing chemotherapy." See? Now that didn't work well at all, did it?
Armin's Common Conversations
1. Conversation with random co worker at work on Monday morning
Random Coworker: "Hey, how was your weekend?"
Armin: "Too short"
Both: Hahaha
2. Conversation i have with pilots when I ask them permission to close the airplane door.
Armin: "Alright Captain, we have everyone on board. Is there anything else you need before I close the door?"
Captain: "How about a million dollars?"
Armin: [Polite laughter] "If I could make a million dollars appear, I wouldn't be here, would I?"
3. Conversation while the song "Don't Stop Believing" is playing.
Average american: "I love this song."
Armin: "I fucking hate Journey."
Average American: "Why? How could you possibly hate Journey?"
Armin: "I don't know why. I just do."
4. Conversation while the song "magic man" by Hart is playing
Armin: "I hate Fleetwood Mac."
Average know it all American: "Actually, this is Hart."
Armin: "I know that [pretending to know that]. I just hate Fleetwood mac and wanted to share that with you."
I'd love to hear your horribly repetitive conversations... chances are, i've been on the other end of a script with you already.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
more than meets the eye
At work, when I check people in for their flights, I ask for their ID so I can address the passengers by name. It's what we call in the customer service field, "good customer service."
One time I was checking in a couple going to Harrisburg, PA. I looked at the gentleman's name. "Thank you, Mr. Prime. Mr. Optimus Prime." While putting a bag tag on his luggage, I added, "By the way, you have the coolest parents to have given you that name."
"actually, I legally changed my name ten years ago," he said and it seems his wife took the last name Prime as well. It could have been worse. He could have been obsessed with some other cartoon and she'd be introduced at her wedding as Mrs. Tasmanian Devil. Or Mrs. Hamburgler.
"You have a pretty neat name, too," he says to me, looking at my name tag. "Arminius. Where is that from."
"I stole it from GoBots."
One time I was checking in a couple going to Harrisburg, PA. I looked at the gentleman's name. "Thank you, Mr. Prime. Mr. Optimus Prime." While putting a bag tag on his luggage, I added, "By the way, you have the coolest parents to have given you that name."
"actually, I legally changed my name ten years ago," he said and it seems his wife took the last name Prime as well. It could have been worse. He could have been obsessed with some other cartoon and she'd be introduced at her wedding as Mrs. Tasmanian Devil. Or Mrs. Hamburgler.
"You have a pretty neat name, too," he says to me, looking at my name tag. "Arminius. Where is that from."
"I stole it from GoBots."
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