That's just how I roll.

I love yoga. Not the touchy-feely kind! God no. I love a yoga class that makes me sweat and my muscles shake. When I have a good yoga class, I feel strong, healthy, and eager to see how far I can push my body. But there's one yoga posture that can erase any goodwill I accumulate about my body in yoga class: the shoulder stand. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.

I hate it because gravity is not kind. When I lift my legs up and align them over my hips, everything sliiiiiiiides dowwwwwwwwn and forms two solid rolls of fat. And of course, with my chin pressed to my chest, I can do nothing but glare at my fat rolls for a good five minutes. It's like the final showdown scene in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, except without Clint Eastwood and his cigar. I expect a dramatic swell of music as I stare down my blubber.

The irony is, yoga geeks say this posture is supposed to stimulate the thyroid gland and boost metabolism. All it makes me want to do is put on my baggy sweat pants and Google "fat festishism." Or "bulimia."

When did Ikea go all Stanley Kubrick?

I bought a chair from Ikea this weekend. The inside front page of the assembly instructions included the graphic below.

What the hell? This character is like some demented cross between the Schmoo and the masked frequenters of the sex club in Stanley Kubrick's Eyes Wide Shut.

Why does he have pitchforks for hands? And why is his nose growing out of the side of his head in the 3rd panel?

My grammar skills came later in life.

But how friggin' cute was I?

Things that make you go ew.

I was watching TV last night when I saw a commercial for the PedEgg, a "revolutionary" egg-shaped cheese-grater for feet callouses. As someone with nasty soccer feet, I admit I was semi-intrigued by this commercial.

That is, until the camera zoomed in to show a woman opening up the PedEgg and dumping her skin shavings in the trash can. Seriously, I almost hurled.

The commercial boasts that PedEgg is designed to collect skin shavings in a "convenient storage compartment." Isn't that enough? Do I need an Extreme Close-Up of the skin flakes pouring into the trash can to believe it?

It reminded me of this time I went to the doctor because I couldn't hear out of my ear. The nurse had to irrigate my ear canal to dislodge some waxy build-up (barf) that she caught in a kidney-shaped bowl.

NURSE (after she finished): Do you want to see it?
ME: Um, see what?
NURSE: Your earwax.
ME: No! (pause) Do people often ask to see it?
NURSE: Oh yeah. I get old men in here all the time who want to see the huge chunks that come out of their ears.

I have never been able to shake that visual. And now I have the "cascade of skin flakes" image to keep it company.

What a moron.

The Los Angeles Times reported that President Bush called President-Elect Obama last night and said the following:

Mr. President-elect, congratulations to you. What an awesome night for you, your family and your supporters. Laura and I called to congratulate you and your good bride.

I promise to make this a smooth transition. You are about to go on one of the great journeys of life. Congratulations and go enjoy yourself.

This reads like a cheesy wedding toast by a drunk best man. You and your good bride? What the fuck does that even mean? She's the First Lady now, moron. "One of the great journeys of life?" This ain't going to be a honeymoon to Disneyland, Mr. Bush. President Obama will be spending a lot of time picking up the pieces from your eight year "journey."

Good bride. Whatever. Good BYE.

Hope.

Over the last two years, I have resisted Obama-mania, for a lot of reasons. I disagree with him on energy policy, for one. I worry about his willingness to compromise for the sake of compromise. Mostly, after 15 years in DC, I was skeptical (and cynical) about his claim that he can somehow transcend the partisan politics that are so entrenched in this town. I voted for him, but without the fervor of most Obama supporters.

But tonight, seeing the huge outpouring of human emotion across the country after Senator Obama hit 270, witnessing people in conservative states like my home state of Indiana reject fear and vote for change, listening to Rep. John Lewis talk about what the Obama victory means to him as someone who fought for civil rights in the 1960s ... I decided.

I am giving in to hope. After the travesty of the last eight years, I am allowing myself to believe that President Obama can lead us forward.

His acceptance speech moved me not only in its honesty and humility but in its earnest and urgent call to action. Voting isn't enough; now, as a country, we need to get to work. These words actually moved me to tears, so I am going to repeat them here.

The road ahead will be long. Our climb will be steep. We may not get there in one year or even in one term. But, America, I have never been more hopeful than I am tonight that we will get there.

I promise you, we as a people will get there.

There will be setbacks and false starts. There are many who won't agree with every decision or policy I make as president. And we know the government can't solve every problem.

But I will always be honest with you about the challenges we face. I will listen to you, especially when we disagree. And, above all, I will ask you to join in the work of remaking this nation, the only way it's been done in America for 221 years -- block by block, brick by brick, calloused hand by calloused hand.

What began 21 months ago in the depths of winter cannot end on this autumn night.

This victory alone is not the change we seek. It is only the chance for us to make that change. And that cannot happen if we go back to the way things were.

It can't happen without you, without a new spirit of service, a new spirit of sacrifice.

So let us summon a new spirit of patriotism, of responsibility, where each of us resolves to pitch in and work harder and look after not only ourselves but each other.

Hard work, sacrifice, and service never sounded so good. Bring it on.

Fuck shit cock balls.

Today, the Supreme Court took up a dispute between the television networks and the Federal Communications Commission over whether the government can fine the networks for the "fleeting" use of profanity on live television.

Historically, the FCC held that expletives used in passing did not constitute indecency. Only repeated swearing would trigger indecency charges. Then, in 2003, Bono dropped the F-Bomb during the Golden Globe Awards, saying "This is really, really, fucking brilliant." The FCC freaked out and said broadcasters are liable for even a single profane word heard in programs aired between 6 a.m. and 10 p.m.

Not surprisingly, the adjective profane has its roots in religion. It comes from the Latin for "not admitted into the temple" or "out in front of the temple" and evolved to mean "unholy, not consecrated."

As a non-religious person, I find it so odd--so fucking odd--that "we" have deemed certain words to be bad or obscene no matter what the context. I mean, Bono was using the F-Bomb to describe how incredibly awesome something was. But somehow, the F-U-C-K-I-N-G letter combination makes it profane, even though it had nothing to do with the dirty sinful act of The Sex. But if he had said, "This is really, really, freaking brilliant," it would have been OK, even though the intent behind the adverbs was the same.

Most words have little meaning without context; it's the context that lets us know whether the person using the words intends to inflict harm.

Let's look at the word "girl." Some people take offense when the word "girl" is used, even in casual conversation, to refer to an adult woman. From a feminist perspective, the word "girl" is belittling, as no one would ever casually refer to adult male colleagues, for example, as "boys." But the word "girl" itself is not taboo; people use it all the time, without controversy, to refer to young female children. Even the word "boy" in the right context is derogatory and racist, as it was used by whites to assert racial superiority in the segregated south.

Linguist Mario Pei once said: “Objections to taboos and euphemisms are of no avail whatsoever. Both constitute a definite part of usage, and both will continue, presumably, as long as language (any language) exists.” So true. Language evolves, and people will find or even create new words to connote the negative meaning they want. Ban the word fuck on TV, characters will start to say frak. Tell kids they shouldn't call the mentally disabled "retards" and they will start calling them speds instead.

The whole thing is just so silly to me. Kids will eventually learn that the word fuck exists as both a noun, verb, adjective, and adverb--and that it is awesome. Isn't it more important to teach our kids that how we use words can hurt people, rather than banning certain words from the public domain because of some weird sense of puritanism?

OMG, I'm so mortified, the police saw the super-absorbent tampons in my purse.

In college, a woman known campus-wide as "Crazy Jenny" sat at the exit of the library and half-heartedly peered into students' bags to make sure they weren't stealing anything with a Dewey Decimal Number on it. Every time I had to open my bag for her, I resented it. Not because it was a huge burden to open my bag, but because it was such obvious bullshit. If I wanted to smuggle out a book, all I had to do was bury it at the bottom of my bag, since she clearly wasn't going to do more than peek into it with one of her crossed eyes.

And now, the DC Metro system is going to deploy a legion of Crazy Jennys to conduct random searches of Metro riders' bags to "to deter terrorist attacks and increase the overall safety of the Metro system."

You can probably HEAR my eyes rolling. I mean, just five months ago the police busted a Metro station manager after she told an undercover police officer that she could hook him up with prostitutes and a sex party for $100. She even used the Metro loudspeaker to pimp. This is the frontline against terrorism?

Metro officials said the new plan to randomly search riders' bags was not in response to a specific threat "but prompted by increased security concerns before next week's election and the inauguration as well as by the Sept. 11, 2001 terrorist attacks and later bombings of commuter trains in Madrid, London and elsewhere." Helllllllooo, a fucking MONKEY could have figured out that the Metro system is vulnerable to terrorist attacks. And, by the way, it is 2008. If the Metro system is so vulnerable, what the hell have the Metro Powers That Be been doing for the last seven years?

Moreover, the actual program is total B.S. and will do absolutely nothing to make people safer, just more annoyed to be commuting another day to a soul-sucking job in a nascent police state. According to Metro, inspections could take place at any Metro facility at any time. But, just before a random inspection at a specific station, Metro Transit Police will post signs alerting riders to the inspections. Surprise! Not. Individuals who refuse to have their bag or bags inspected will not be allowed to enter the Metro system with those carry-on items, but they will be free to leave the system with their items.

So, a bad guy (or his scouters) notices that Metro is checking every 12th bag or something at Capitol South Metro Station. Instead of taking his statistical chances, he decides to walk 4 blocks to the Federal Center SW Station instead. Duh.

Of course, Metro threw a thinly veiled disclaimer into its press release, just in case people think the program is lame. "If the initiative we are announcing today does nothing more than remind us all that there are people in the world who have vowed to do us harm, and that vigilance is the key to defeating them, then this program will have succeeded."

So, if the program helps instill fear in people, it is a success. Is that what we have come to as a society? As long as people are looking over their shoulders, giving the stink eye to people who look Arab, and assuming that the white powder on the Metro platform is anthrax, then we are all better off?

Right.

Random searches are not going to deter anyone or keep would-be terrorists "off balance." Short of strip-searching everyone on their morning commute, what can we do? Nothing, probably, except cross our fingers and push for foreign policy that doesn't piss people off. That may sound flippant, but I honestly would rather live in a society with risks than in a city dominated by searches, uzis, police tape, roadblocks, and Crazy Jenny.

ADDENDUM: My friend "Sarah Jane" suggested that I carry around a bag with weird stuff in it in case I get searched. Like a bunch of sex toys. Or clumps of hair. Or headless Barbies.

Why does a TV show make me so angry?

Have you seen the new Fox TV show Fringe? I fucking hate that show. I hate it enough that I post comments about how much I hate it in chat rooms. I hate it so much that I purposely watched it again last night so that I could write about my hate in a semi-educated manner.

Why so much hate? I can't stand shows like According to Jim and Til Death and would never watch them, but I don't feel the need to proselytize about my hate for those shows. Just Fringe.

This hate is completely irrational and a little pathetic, I admit. I totally need to get laid. Not denying that. But while I am not getting laid, I am going to explain why I am such a hater.

The show centers around FBI Special Agent Olivia Dunham, mad scientist Walter Bishop, and his genius son Peter (aka Pacey from Dawson's Creek) as they investigate events involving fringe science, such as telepathy and reanimation. If you are thinking, wow, this sounds A LOT like the X-Files, you are right.

In fact, there are so many similarities, I think X-Files creator Chris Carter could sue J.J. Abrams for violating his intellectual property rights. Of course, the X-Files borrowed from other science fiction, no question. But Fringe, at its core, is the X-Files, without the originality, charm, subtlety, and of course, Mulder and Scully.

This, fundamentally, is why I hate Fringe. It offends me. It cheapens something I admire and value. I hate it for the same reason why Hollywood (so far) hasn't remade classic films such as Gone with the Wind. It is impossible to imagine anyone but Vivien Leigh playing Scarlett O'Hara. It is impossible to imagine Gone with the Wind remade with CGI or in HD. Some things are better left untouched, unremastered, and unadulterated.

Fringe is completely derivative of the X-Files, in big ways (FBI agents investigate paranormal activity potentially linked to an international conspiracy) and in smaller ways. One example: on the X-Files, Mulder and Scully frequently busted out flashlights in dark rooms, often providing the only lighting in the scene and creating the show's trademark creepy ambiance. In the Fringe episode I watched last night, Olivia (the main FBI agent) took out a flashlight of her own at a crime scene ... in broad daylight.

What amazed me the most about last night's Fringe episode was that it borrowed from not one, not two, but at least three X-Files episodes to cobble together a single plot. In this episode, a serial killer kills women to extract their pituitary glands in order to slow a rapid aging process. I immediately thought of the classic X-Files episode in which a genetic mutant killed people to extract their livers so that he could hibernate for 30 years and yet another X-Files episode in which an African immigrant in need of certain hormones killed people to extract their pituitary glands. In another scene, the mad scientist admits that he used to be part of a government program designed to cultivate soldiers. This immediately reminded me of the (somewhat ill-advised) X-Files mytharc involving the government plot to create super-soldiers out of alien DNA. (OK, it sounds stupid when I write it).

In addition to being completely derivative, Fringe has a fatal flaw: the show lacks a skeptic and therefore lacks a constant, a basis in reality. From Episode 1, the seasoned FBI agent Olivia was quick to believe in the crazy ass shit the mad scientist was dishing out--you can talk to your dead boyfriend telepathically as long as he hasn't been dead for more than 6 hours!!! As annoying as Scully's incessant "Mulder, you aren't suggesting that..." and "Mulder, do you expect me to believe..." was at times, Scully's skepticism kept the show honest. Without a skeptic, Fringe is like MacGyver on paranormal steroids. In last night's episode, the FBI agent was able to solve a crime using an "electric pulse camera" to capture the last electric impulses that traveled along a murder victim's optic nerve and therefore reveal what she saw before she died.

Over-reliance on this sort of deus ex machina = boring. If, when confronted with a seemingly intractable problem, the mad scientist can just say, "Oh, we can solve that, all we need is a flux capacitor, some chicken wire, and a set of 30 weight ball bearings"--without a single character batting an eyelash--then I am not interested.

My hair is racist.

This weekend, after experiencing yet another bad haircut, I made a solemn vow: I am never going to let an Asian man or woman cut my hair again.

I have had my hair cut on several occasions by men and woman of varying Asian descent--Korean, Japanese, Chinese, Vietnamese. In general, these stylists spoke poor English, suggesting to me they were recent immigrants (as opposed to second or third generation) who likely received much of their early training in Asia. With Asian clients.

Asian hair, in general, is bone straight and thin. My hair, on the other hand, was tailor-made for the 1980s: big, wavy, full of texture, and easily shellacked into gravity-defying shapes.

Every time an Asian stylist cuts my hair, I hate it. They either (a) cut my hair all one length, allowing my hair to settle into an unflattering triangle shape, or (b) cut too-short layers into my hair, giving me a little Sarah Palin up-do poof without the folksy charm.

Conclusion based on anecdotal evidence: Asian stylists don't know how to cut my hair. I'm sure that this isn't true across the board, and I've never had an Indian or Pakistani stylist, but ... I vowed this weekend, after yet another triangle-shaped haircut, NEVER AGAIN.

The difficulty, of course, comes when calling to make an appointment at a salon. When the receptionist suggests a stylist, I can't ask, at least not without sounding icky, "Is he Asian?"

So, this morning, I call a new salon to make another appointment to get rid of my triangle hair. I make an appointment to see a guy named Frank. I don't ask his ethnicity and instead roll the dice that Frank is a white boy's name.

Wrong. Turns out Frank is Asian, too. Don't they make flaming homosexual white male hairstylists in DC?

Of course, I let Frank cut my hair anyway. I told him over and over that my hair is wavy, that I like it wavy, that I am low-maintenance, and that I rarely blow my hair dry. He spent many, many minutes blowing dry my new Posh Spice hairdo and using a flat iron to straighten it.

My hair looks kinda cute now, but I won't know its true nature until I wash it and let it do its thing. So, the judgment is out on Frank. Will he buck my Asian stylist stereotype, or will he be Exhibit F proving that my hair is racist?

I don't want to think about Uncle Joey having sex, OK?

In 1995, my friend Peter introduced me to the best 'fuck you' anthem ever written: Alanis Morrissette's "You Oughta Know."

It was a slap in the face, how quickly I was replaced.
Are you thinking of me when you fuck her?

It was every college girl's feminist anthem, blasted in dorm rooms to repair wounded egos after drunken hook-ups gone bad.

Today, while listening to my Ipod at work, "You Oughta Know" came on. Still awesome ... but ... it doesn't pack the same punch.

Maybe it's because I'm not 21 anymore. Maybe it's because I am so single/unattached/frigid that I can longer relate to this kind of angst. Or, perhaps, just perhaps, it's because we now know that the man who inspired this song is kind of an asexual doofus.

Comedian Dave Coulier--better known as "Uncle Joey" to the Olsen twins on Full House--recently confessed that he caused Alanis' angst.

Uncle fucking Joey? Really?

Uncle Joey inspired her to scream, And every time I scratch my nails down someone else's back I hope you feel it...well can you feel it?

I'm sure he's a nice, funny guy. But he was on Skating with Celebrities, for pete's sake.

I wish I could erase this piece of trivia from my consciousness. Because now, when I hear this song and start singing along with the first verse, I inevitably visualize Alanis going down on Uncle Joey in a theater.

As precocious Stephanie Tanner always said to her wacky Uncle Joey, "That's rude." And kinda gross.

FOR SALE: Frosty genitals

Americans are justifiably bullshit-pissed about the $700 billion bailout of Wall Street, especially since the executives who reigned over the whole mess are going home at night to their mansions with regulation-sized squash courts. While these executives are sleeping soundly in their 400 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, Americans are buying billions in the most toxic mortgage-backed securities that no one else wants.

This site is why I love the Internets: www.buymyshitpile.com. This site allows you to use a form to "submit bad assets you'd like the government to take off your hands. And remember, when estimating the value of your 1997 limited edition Hanson single CD MMMbop, it's not what you can sell these items for that matters, it's what you think they are worth." My favorite things that people have posted:

Snow Penis: $5 million

Hannah Montana 3-D Glasses: $200,000

23 Pairs of "Like New" Men's Underwear: $963.97

My Girlfriend: $99.99

I don't really have any assets, unless you count my X-Files collection. (After the disastrous X-Files movie, this might count as a "bad" asset that needs to be marked down.)

I think I would like to sell my piece-o-crap TV that has wood paneling on the side. You have to whack it just right to make the sound work sometimes. But it turns on! PRICE: I would like a snow penis, please.

But falling off the wagon feels so good, oh yes! Yes! YES!

Inspiring hope for chronic masturbators/fornicators everywhere, David Duchovny has checked out of rehab after successfully completing treatment for his sex addiction.

Here's my question.

For alcoholics or drug addicts, there's no such thing as "just one beer" or "just one hit off the apple bong." So, if he really is a sex addict, as opposed to someone with sexual compulsions/general asshole-ness, does that mean he can never have sex or jerk off again? If he has sex with his hot hot wife, is that the equivalent of "falling off the wagon"?

Happy National Unmarried and Single Americans Week!

George: I was free and clear. I was living the dream. I was stripped to the waist eating a block of cheese the size of a car battery.

Jerry: Before we go any further, I'd just like to point out how disturbing it is that you equate eating a block of cheese with some sort of bachelor paradise.

I just wanted to wish all of my single, untethered friends a happy National Unmarried and Single Americans Week, endorsed by the Fresno Friends Social Club in Clovis, CA! Do something to celebrate. Have a one-night stand. Watch an America's Next Top Model marathon while naked and eating a brick of cheese. Plan your next vacation to a non-Disney-themed locale (assuming the global financial apocalypse holds off).

Capital punishment

Let's take a moment to admire the fine Chinese craftsmanship.

Since the media can't question the beliefs or experience of Sarah Palin without facing accusations of sexism, it is up to the free market to answer the question, who is Sarah Palin?

By introducing the first line of Sarah Palin action figures, the free market is alerting potential voters that she is either (a) an android with man-hands in an androgynous pantsuit; (b) Baby One More Time Britney; or (c) Lara Croft, if Lara Croft shopped at Forever 21.















The ENORMOUS nerd in me wonders ... could my X-Files Scully action figure take on the Palin action figure in a dance-off or bar brawl? Some factors to consider:

HAIR: PalinActionFigure has an up-do that works in the office but looks awkward on the dance floor. ScullyActionFigure's hair is red and cut in a cute bob that looks awesome when doing the running man. EDGE: ScullyActionFigure

SUIT: PalinActionFigure's suit is reminiscent of X-Files Seasons 1-3 Taupe Pantsuit Scully, before the show could afford a stylist and decided to throw a bone to the horny nerds on the Internets who saw Scully as a "thinking man's crumpet." EDGE: ScullyActionFigure

BODY: PalinActionFigure is 12 inches tall and has 21 points of articulation. ScullyActionFigure stands 6 inches tall and can bend only her elbows. Also, in addition to having cankles, ScullyActionFigure's leg is contorted in such a way that she has to lean on MulderActionFigure just to stand upright. EDGE: PalinActionFigure

WEAPONS: PalinActionFigure comes equipped with a leg-holstered .45 handgun to shoot moose, abortion doctors, and rogue Russians crossing the Bering Strait. ScullyActionFigure has a 1998-sized cell phone that doesn't even have a texting plan or Bluetooth capacity. EDGE: PalinActionFigure

Wow, we are neck and neck here.

So, like any good contest, like say, a presidential race, I am going to base my decision on how they look from the neck up.

FACE: PalinActionFigure's face is frozen in an expression that says, "If you even think of having premarital sex, reading a blasphemous Harry Potter book, or contradicting God's will, I will scorch your soul with my Bionic Eye Lasers (after I take off my $600 Kazuo Kawasaki glasses, of course)." ScullyActionFigure's face, frozen in her trademarked look of skepticism and consternation, seems to be saying, "If you even think of hurting my AlienBaby or hitting on MulderActionFigure after he gets out of rehab for his sex addiction, I will fuck your shit up." EDGE: ScullyActionFigure for being a bad-ass.

Scully wins! And I am a NERD with too much time on her hands!

The good news is, there is a God. The bad news is...

Havens Corners Church in Blacklick, Ohio generated some news coverage with its pop-culturally relevant church sign, of course referencing Katy Perry's omnipresent song.

Did anyone else giggle at the town name? Blacklick? I guess it would have been funnier if it had been [insert euphemism for vagina]lick.

The church has since removed the sign, but not because people were outraged by the bigotry. Instead, the pastor said many residents of Blacklick had never heard the song before (where the hell have they been?) and were confused. For a brief moment, hetero men in Blacklick were freaking out about the fate of their eternal souls.

I can't wait to see what people have to say about THIS sign from Sarah Palin's former church.

OK, OK, I created that sign on the Internets, but it's scary because it comes close to the truth. In a speech before the Wasilla Assembly of God a few months ago, Gov. Palin asked the audience to pray for the successful construction of a $30 billion national gas pipeline project: "I think God's will has to be done in unifying people and companies to get that gas line built, so pray for that."

Gulp.

God forbid average people actually empower themselves

After I heard Rudy Giuliani introduce Sarah Palin last night and listened to her acceptance speech, I literally felt sick to my stomach and so agitated that I couldn't sleep.

I am not going to write about Gov. Palin's experience relative to Senator Obama's, her daughter's pregnancy, her ability to shoot a moose or the many half-truths and straight-up lies in her speech. (I encourage everyone to read this AP article about the latter). Instead, I want to express my utter disgust with how Giuliani and Palin mocked community organizers and how the buffoons in the audience lapped it up.

Community organizers, who can be paid professionals or volunteer citizens, work to empower communities to solve a local problem by building a base of concerned people, mobilizing these community members to act, and developing leadership from and relationships among the people involved.

Rudy Giuliani's schtick in his speech was to compare McCain and Obama as if we were just potential employers looking at their resumes "objectively." After going through McCain's qualifications, Giuliani started in on Obama's experience as a community organizer, with a note of derision in his voice. He then stopped to giggle, and said "maybe this is the first problem on the resume," while the crowd started laughing and chanting "Zero! Zero!"

So, let me get this straight. The day after the Republican National Convention focused on the theme of "service," Giuliani mocks people who have opted to devote their time and even their careers to helping other people improve their communities. Nice. And Barack Obama is the elitist?

This set the tone for Sarah Palin's later reference to Obama's experience as a community organizer. She said, with notable sarcasm, "I guess a small town mayor is sort of like a 'community organizer,' except that you have actual responsibilities." (Yeah, like trying to decide which books to ban from the local public library).

This is where Sarah Palin lost every ounce of my respect. Truth be told, I think she is a right-wing nutball, but I can respect her right to have a different opinion than mine, even though I think it is wrong. I can respect that she is a successful, articulate woman who made a career by engaging and listening to her community at PTA and city council meetings. But last night, she (articulately) regurgitated a speech, written by a former Bush speechwriter, that summarily dismissed the value of this community-level engagement and shat upon the very people she once represented in her small town, people who may not have the responsibilities of a mayor or governor but who feel every bit responsible for the health and quality of life of their families and neighbors.

The fat cats in the audience hooted and hollered at the idea of a "community organizer" because they know, they KNOW, that community organizers in the spirit of Martin Luther King, Jr. and the late Senator Paul Wellstone challenge the status quo. Judged by their belly laughs, those guys in the big cowboy hats like the status quo. A lot. Jon Stewart summarized the collective sentiment best: "To everyone out there trying to make a difference in their communities, FUCK YOU. You are bunch of asses!"

Flashback of Irony: In his 1989 inaugural address, President George H.W. Bush reminded Americans of his call for "a thousand points of light," community organizations that "spread like stars throughout the Nation, doing good."

Sigh.

Nothing communicates prosperity like fresh asphalt

The Washington Post reported today that the District Department of Transportation (DDOT) has started a $2 million project to re-pave and "spruce up" a large stretch of Pennsylvania Avenue in time for the January inauguration of Jobama or Pain, as I've taken to calling the two presidential tickets (trademark pending).

The kicker: the road doesn't need re-paving. Not a pothole in sight. But DDOT says Pennsylvania Avenue is a "showcase for DDOT" and wants it to "look perfect for Inauguration Day." This makes Pennsylvania Avenue sound like a bride visiting the TriBeCa MedSpa before her wedding day. "This is your special day, and you need to look like a princess. How about a little Botox, some wrinkle-filler and some airbrush tanning to freshen you up for your wedding photos, you old hag?" Don't forget the bridesmaids.

All the cosmetic surgery in the world won't make you a princess, just deluded and a little fucked up, like the DC government.

Seriously? $2 million to pave a road that doesn't need paving? At a time when gasoline prices are on the rise and global warming is drowning polar bears, our scarce transportation dollars should go toward making it easier for people to take public transit. Instead, the DC government spends $2 million to Botox a road.

In the meantime, the DC Metro system, alone among major U.S. transit systems, does not have a dedicated source of revenue for capital improvements. As a result, the Metro continues to experience breakdowns, delays and disruptions due to deteriorating infrastructure and equipment problems, making the daily commute even more soul-sucking than it already is.

I guess the DC government is guessing (correctly) that the pomp of the Inauguration will serve as a bright, shiny object to distract people attending the festivities or watching them on the TV from DC's reality: under-performing public schools, rampant child poverty, violent crime, and glut of political hack douchebags. Oh, and that taxation without representation thing.

But the pavement is so beautiful!

Whistle while you work to shut the hell up

To the guy behind me in the interminable airport security line who has been whistling for the last 20 minutes:

SHUT THE FUCK UP!

Do you really think anyone wants to hear your painfully off-key rendition of whatever little ditty you are composing in your head? Do you think this is creating a positive, relaxing ambiance for your fellow travelers?

It's not. You are the squeaky wheel of a dysfunctional shopping cart. You are the squeaky floorboard of an annoying upstairs neighbor. You are a squeaky door that prevents a horny teenager from sneaking out of his parents' house.

Did the numerous people turning around to give you the Stink Eye not clue you in? Or did you take this as encouragement to continue to torture your captive audience?

Forget waterboarding. The CIA should hire YOU.

My lapel pin can see the emptiness of your soul

I vowed to stay away from politics in this blog, as to not get into trouble at work. So, please consider this a post about jewelry, accessorizing, and all things sparkly.

Last fall, the media had a field day when Senator Obama stopped wearing a flag pin on his lapel. (He's wearing it again, of course).

Given the Great Flag Pin Controversy of 2007, I took note of two things when Senator McCain announced today that he had chosen Alaska Governor Sarah Palin as his running mate.

(1) Senator McCain was not wearing a flag pin. Doh! Where's Tim Gunn when you need him?

(2) Gov. Palin's flag pin, on the other hand, was patriotically-enhanced and blinged out. Her flag pin said, at least to me, "I am a patriot. Maybe you didn't hear me. I AM A PATRIOT. I am a woman who does not hesitate to boldly accessorize, who is not afraid to use red, white, and blue rhinestones to shine the sparkly light of truth on anti-American values. Why is your flag pin so puny? Size matters. Holla!"

What, inanimate objects don't talk to you?

Some call it addiction, others call it method acting

Given my obsession with the X-Files, I had to comment on the recent story that Fox Mulder himself, David Duchovny, has checked into rehab for sex addiction.

I 100% guarantee that his wife, the awesome and hot Tea Leoni, caught him cheating. I also 100% guarantee that we, the voyeuristic public, will soon hear more about Duchovny's extra-marital affairs. His press release was a preemptive strike against someone going public.

I'm skeptical of the concept of "sex addiction" and even more skeptical of the idea that you can go to rehab for it. I think of rehab as a place to go and detox--to work through the physical addiction to drugs and alcohol--and start psychotherapy that will continue after the stint in a rehab facility. What does "detox" for a sex addict look like? Is it possible Duchovny is physically addicted to porn or his own penis? Will his penis experience the shakes, agitation, and the DTs? Or is "sex addict" just a euphemism for "philandering asshole"?

Of course, this is Hollywood, so maybe this is all some complex exercise in method acting. Actors who employ the method prepare for a role by replicating the emotional and physical condition of the character. Well, David Duchovny has a long track record of playing horny buggers. Duchovny started his career with the soft-core Red Shoe Diaries in 1992. Fox Mulder's porn collection was a running gag on the X-Files. In 2006's Trust the Man, Duchovny played a guy who deals with a personal crisis by watching prolific amounts of porn and and having an affair with a divorced mother from his son's school. He also recently won a Golden Globe for his portrayal of the sex-crazed Hank Moody on Showtime's Californication (which I love, by the way). In one of the first episodes, he fucks his ex-wife's 16-year-old step-daughter. One of his character's best lines: "I won't go down in history, but I will go down on your sister."

Or maybe this is a case of life imitating art. If you can call the film Trust the Man art.

Now that I think about it... I sensed something suspicious when I took my Mulder and Scully action figures to see the new X-Files movie. They disappeared into my purse about 20 minutes into the film. I assumed it was because of the movie's sophomoric plot and poor writing. Guess the dialogue wasn't the only thing that was wooden. Boing!

A dragon lives forever, but not so little boys

I love it when I read an article in the Wall Street Journal that sounds like an article from The Onion, like this one: When Good Lizards Go Bad: Komodo Dragons Take Violent Turn.

When good lizards go bad? We aren't talking about the fucking gecko from the car insurance commercials going postal. These are FUCKING DRAGONS. What did you expect?

The article discusses recent encounters between humans and the dragons living in Indonesia's Komodo National Park, which is home to 2,500 dragons and nearly 4,000 people. The locals claim that the "once-friendly dragons have turned into vicious man-eaters" and blame ... wait for it ... American environmentalists (pussies) for the dragons' collective bad mood.

Now, Americans--even American environmentalists--are more than capable of turning altruism on its head, meddling in local affairs, and making matters worse. No question. But in this case, the villagers are claiming that the Nature Conservancy, like some sort of eco-mistress, has destroyed the locals' relationship with the dragons, making them go all Glenn Close on humans. Basically, the Nature Conservancy, the dirty whore managing the park, ended the locals' practice of domesticating the dragons by feeding them deer parts and sacrificial goats.

Sadly, a little boy died a year ago when a dragon attacked him while he was peeing in the jungle in the middle of the night. But, as the PR flack for the Indonesian subsidiary of the Nature Conservancy said, maybe the boy "shouldn't have crouched like a prey species in a place where dragons live."

BECAUSE THEY ARE FUCKING DRAGONS.

The article notes that Komodo National Park's human population is much larger than it used to be; as such, humans are encroaching more and more upon dragon habitat. The dragons can smell what mama is cooking in the hut and get hungry. Without the sacrificial goats tied to the hitching post, they look for the next best thing. Little Johnny. Or, in this case, little Mansur.

Although I certainly don't wish upon a star that wild animals will maim little boys or anyone else for that matter, I have little sympathy for people attacked by bears and other animals in the wilderness, caged animals at the zoo, or "tamed" animals in the circus. The animals have their instincts, and we have ours. Our instincts tell us that we are morally superior to Mother Nature, entitled to do as we wish, and therefore immune to her fury. A wild animal's instinct, if triggered, is to remind us how wrong we are.

In 2001, a Komodo dragon kept in the Los Angeles Zoo tried to eat the foot of Phil Bronstein, Sharon Stone's (now ex) husband. But really, who could blame the dragon? I mean, check out the photo. Between the eyebrows and the awesome two-tone mustache, he looks delicious. And probably kosher.

What decade is this again?

I hit the Pentagon City Mall this weekend to buy a dress for an upcoming wedding. It never ceases to amaze me that 80s fashion has made a comeback. I mean, I rocked the 80s hair with the best of them and worshiped Molly Ringwald's style in Sixteen Candles and Breakfast Club... but in retrospect, the 80s were not the pinnacle of fashion.

In fact, we seem trapped in the 80s and early 90s in several aspects of pop culture. Maybe in some small way we are trying to re-live the good ole days, back before the terrorism threat color spectrum, Britney Spears, and reality TV "grief porn" that caters to our basest desires to watch people struggle to overcome adversity, be it obesity or an obstacle course.

A few examples:

HAVEN'T I HEARD THIS BEFORE? During the first half of 2008, Bon Jovi and Bruce Springsteen had the two highest grossing concert tours, followed by Van Halen at #3 and the Police at #10. Madonna kicked off her new world tour this weekend. I guess when the musical alternatives are Miley Cyrus, the Jonas Brothers, American Idol retreads, and a collection of nameless bands that all sound like Nickelback, it is best to go old school when forking out $250 for a concert ticket.

HAVEN'T I SEEN THIS BEFORE? The fall TV lineup also has a retro flavor. Remember when those crazy kids Brandon and Brenda moved from Minnesota to Beverly Hills and tackled timely issues like teen pregnancy, anorexia, and whether to hit the Peach Pit After Dark before curfew? And remember how everyone at West Beverly High looked like they were about 30, receding hairlines and all? Well, someone at the CW thought that Beverly Hills, 90210 needed revisiting, so we get a new "edgy, contemporary" 90210 this fall, complete with Jennie Garth and Shannen Doherty, who really are in their 30s now and have promised not to get into another fist fight. Not to be outdone, NBC is giving us a "reinvented, updated" Knight Rider, sans The Hoff and his furry man-chest.

WHY WON'T THIS GUY GO AWAY? David Hasselhoff, an 80s icon, is everywhere these days. He's on that terrible but popular show America's Got Talent, ironically judged by The Hoff and Sharon Osbourne. He's been in the tabloids for his messy divorce and even messier fall off the wagon. And now, he has formed his own social networking site, HoffSpace, to allow people from around the world to "come together and get a conversation started over me." Seriously. As of this morning, HoffSpace had 14,712 members, all furiously friending each other and gathering in worship. Maybe we should send The Hoff over to Russia to settle its dispute with Georgia.

THE COLD WAR WAS MORE CUT-AND-DRY THAN THE WAR ON TERROR. In addition to its fashion and classic coming-of-age movies, the 80s were defined by the Cold War. In that regard, the recent skirmish between Russia and Georgia (this Georgia, not that Georgia) seems very retro. Presidential hopeful John McCain seems almost relieved to be talking about the evil Russian empire instead of Osama bin Laden and the economy, saying "We're all Georgians now." The sad thing is... McCain has experienced a bump in the polls because of his rhetoric on Georgia, even though I guarantee you the majority of Americans can't find (non-confederate) Georgia on a map. But, thanks to awesome 1980s movies like Spies Like Us and decades of us-versus-them rhetoric, Americans think Russians are sinister. It's quite striking how the news media has embraced the story arc of the big bad Russian bear invading the innocent neighboring democracy, even though Georgia picked the fight and has a dubious human rights track record of its own.

I admit, growing up, I was scared to death of nuclear war. I remember puking after hearing that Ronald Reagan had bombed Libya in 1986, even though the whole thing had little to do with the USSR. (I had yet to fine-tune my foreign policy analysis). In the 6th grade, I participated in this nerdy competition called "Future Problem Solving." Our task was to answer this question: "The USSR has launched a nuclear missile at the United States. You are the President. What do you do?" The other nerds and I came up with an ingenious plan to erect a giant plastic bubble that could repel the nuclear missile. Surprisingly, we didn't win.

And to think I was worried about the global shortage of food and potable water.

The Washington Post revealed last week that U.S. sperm banks are running out of frozen Nordic sperm. Det er noget skidt!

Since May 2005, the United States has banned sperm banks from importing the little swimmers from Europe for fear it might spread mad cow disease. As you may know, people who eat meat from animals infected with mad cow develop Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease in rare cases. So, yes, the FDA has made sperm a food safety issue, adding yet another dimension to the age-old "spit or swallow" debate.

Continuing on the food theme, Claus Rodgaard, who runs the Cryos International sperm bank in New York City, says the demand for Nordic sperm remains high, but Cryos has "just a few crumbs left." Apparently, American sperm connoisseurs are particularly fond of Nordic sperm crumbs, because the of the donors' blue eyes, blond hair and "tendency to be tall and have advanced degrees." Also appealing, according to the Nordic Cryobank of Copenhagen, is the Nordic donors' sincere, rather than monetary, motivations for donation. (So this makes the sperm more ... philanthropic?)

Who are the faceless, tragic victims in the Great Frozen Nordic Sperm Shortage (GFNSS) of 2008? The Post article talked about the desire of one woman to give her "beautiful Viking baby" a full sibling by using the same donor (nicknamed Sven) she used for her first pregnancy. Thwarted by the GFNSS at U.S. sperm banks, this woman has flown to Copenhagen three times to be inseminated with sperm from the donor. Inquiring minds want to know ... did she call around to find a sperm bank with Sven in stock, like you would a pair of pants at the Gap, or did she track down the real Sven and ask for a charitable donation?

With the shortage of Viking sperm, it's a good thing we have Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie committed to providing the world with genetically superior babies.

No one will really be free until nerd persecution ends.

I think I found my calling on Craigslist (hat tip to my soccer teammate who pointed me toward this ad):

LOCAL FRATERNITY SEEKING HOUSE MOTHER
We are looking a female roommate between 35-50 years old and divorced. We need a “house mom”, who can help advise us on all matters pertinent to the college male: women, alcohol, school work, etc. Potential roommate must like to party, socialize extensively with younger men, and provide motherly comfort. Applicant must be comfortable with tenants referring to her as “mom.” This is the chance of a lifetime, do not pass it up! So if you fit our description and our [sic] looking for a rejuvenating life experience, please contact us immediately!

I am willing to bet good money that this 'frat' is a bunch of guys from the George Washington University math club who live in a group house in Foggy Bottom. And that sounds awesome. What would be better than playing house with a bunch of nerds? After all, as philosopher Lewis Skolnick noted, jocks only think about sports, nerds only think about sex. We could have crazy nerd orgies where we screen old episodes of the X-Files and Battlestar Galactica, smoke pot while talking about the meaning of pi, and play nerd 'truth or dare':

Nerd: Would you rather live in the ascendancy of a civilization or during its decline?
Me: Poindexter, do you want to fuck or what?

Some people blame Hollywood for desensitizing kids to violence...I blame Hollywood for making me wanting to hang out with nerds by bombarding me with images of nerd triumph during my formative years. I mean, who didn't want to be Kelly LeBrock in 1985's Weird Science? I worshiped her ability to rock the 80s hair and spandex while giving Anthony Michael Hall and the other guy the courage to stand up to a biker gang. And who didn't want to hang out with Lamar in 1984's Revenge of the Nerds? He's got a rockin' rhythm and a hi-tech sound that'll make you move your body down to the ground, after all.

Who am I kidding. I can't blame Hollywood. I came out of the womb a nerd. As a kid I used to study the Encyclopedia and take notes about astronomy in a spiral notebook. I wore sweat pants to junior high. I went to math camp. And I haven't grown out of it. I now own X-Files action figures. I love creating databases. I like debating the finer points of grammar.

I'd make an awesome nerd house mom. Too bad the 'frat' is looking for a divorcée.

Just Say No

In high school, my family moved to a suburban development with a lot of rules about aesthetics. House paint from a pre-approved color pallet. A certain number of flowering shrubs and trees per acre. No bass boats in the driveway (god forbid).

And the funny thing is, the neighbors followed these rules. I'm not entirely sure what the consequences would have been if my dad had parked his boat for the whole neighborhood to see. Flaming bag of poo flung at our door? It's not like the X-Files episode "Arcadia," in which Mulder and Scully go undercover in a hoity-toity planned community and find that an Ubermenscher kills residents when they break the neighborhood's Contracts, Covenants and Restrictions. (Yes, I can compare just about anything to an episode of the X-Files. Or Seinfeld.)

My urban neighborhood in DC has rules too. No parking pretty much ever without the express written permission of the mayor--that's a big one. Ignore it and incur the wrath of the DC parking police, the only effective branch of the city's government. The tennis court in the park just down the street has the Best Rules Ever, though. Two signs are posted on a fence surrounding the tennis court, both of which are noteworthy.

No drugs. OK, that's logical. No alcohol, OK. No weapons (besides my awesome serve, dude). Makes sense. No ... CAR REPAIRS? Huh? Really, has this been a problem in the past? What kind of car can fit through the three-foot-wide opening in the fence surrounding the tennis court? I would love to know the story behind this rule. I mean, presumably, someone at some point decided to fix up his car, and, you know, add some purple French tail lights and thirty inch fins, maybe. So, logically, he and his buddies ... pushed his car over to the tennis court?

The other sign suffers from two problems. Rule #5: I love that the sign specifies which drugs are not permitted. No smoking of marijuana. That's it. Feel free to hit the crack pipe or snort coke off a hooker's ass though. Rule #3: "Dogs Must Not Be Allowed to Be Curbed in Park." What kind of crazy ESL grammar is that? That's DOUBLE passive voice. Shudder. Also, isn't Rule #3 saying the opposite of what it means? From what I understand of the unnecessarily vague phrase "curb your dog," it means, "don't let your dog shit on the grass without cleaning it up." So, the rule is saying "Don't don't let your dog poop everywhere." Double negative double passive voice. My head just exploded.

While we are on the topic, I don't understand why DC (and I assume other cities) has "Curb Your Dog" signs everywhere. Really, who the hell knows what that means? I read that sign and think, "Huh, do they want me to take the dog to the actual concrete curb on the side of the street to poop? Isn't that grosser? Or do they want me to calm my dog down, as in, curb his enthusiasm? Just tell me what you want me to do!"

Point-COUNTERPOINT: I'm 34 and single. It ain't all that.

In my last post, I extolled the virtues of being 34 and single. Livin' la vida loca, baby! Yeah, well.

COUNTERPOINT: Fuck! I don’t want to end up like Eleanor Rigby!

Being 34 and single is challenging for all of the reasons it is awesome. I have all of the freedom in the world, but few people to share it with. Most of my closest friends are married and have kids. So, my nights are mine, my vacations are mine, but my social reality translates this into a lot of alone time. Yes, I see the irony here... I want to share something that on most days I cherish as mine, all mine.

I could spend the next few paragraphs describing periods of loneliness and isolation, but that would be depressing. Instead, I will offer a few snapshots from the life of a 34-year-old single woman.

I get to go anywhere I want on vacation, bitches, but it probably wouldn’t be a good idea. My ideal travel destination involves a long back-country hike to somewhere remote in the mountains or desert. When hiking alone, one sprained ankle and I’m screwed. Also, as someone who has spent time alone in a tent in backwoods Idaho, I know first-hand that my mind can go to some dark places if allowed. As much as I like my Alison-time, I’ve found there’s a fine line between solitude and paranoid delusions of downtrodden lumberjacks lurking outside my tent.

So, I’ve bought into the idea of REI-sponsored and other guided back-country trips, despite my fear of awkward group dynamics and banal chit chat. Unfortunately, REI hates single people. Not really. But REI charges a “single supplement” of $799 for the Chile trip I want to go on before all glaciers disappear. As a person who supports airlines charging obese people for two seats, I guess I have to accept REI’s argument that my tent takes up the space of a couple. That said, fuck you, single supplement, for making me feel like a burden.

When minimum wage employees feel sorry for me, I wonder if I should be feeling sorry for me. After getting a higher-paying job and a bigger apartment, I decided to invest in a couch. So, I headed to Value City Furniture and found a nice saleswoman to help me out. Here’s our conversation:

Saleswoman: OK, we deliver to your neighborhood on Fridays. We will give you a four hour window for delivery.

Me: Um, I work on during the day, but I work only 10 minutes from home, so call me when the delivery truck is on the way. Cool?

Saleswoman: We don’t do that as a policy. You just have to wait at home.

Me: I just started this job, I can’t do that.

Saleswoman: What about a husband or boyfriend? Can you get him to wait for you?

Me: I’m not married. Not an option. You can’t call me?

Saleswoman (cocks her head in pity): You don’t have anyone who can wait at home for you?

Me (inside voice): No, bitch, but thanks for reminding me.

Me (outside voice): Well, I guess no commission for you. BUH bye.

I love living alone, but what if I fall and can’t get up? In one of the best episodes of the X-Files, a Pomeranian eats the entrails of its deceased owner, an elderly neighbor of Peter Boyle’s character. Dude, I don’t want that to happen to me. But recent events suggest that unless I find me some Golden Girls, I might want to think carefully before getting pets. A couple of months ago, I had a terrible stomach virus. I needed Gatorade in the worst way but could not make it to the corner store. Mortified, I had to Blackberry my former co-workers down the street and beg for their help. Last night, I passed out cold in my kitchen after my blood pressure dropped (weird). I woke up in a cold sweat with my vacuum cleaner across my body. It’s moments like that that make me feel really alone. How much do those Life Alert bracelets cost?

Huh. Writing this “Counterpoint” has made me realize that when I say I want someone with whom to share my life, I am being more pragmatic than romantic. I guess that’s mostly right. I am pretty good at entertaining myself. I don’t feel a primal need to share romantic, campfire-lit evenings with a “soul-mate.” I do wish I had a good travel buddy. Who I could have sex with on occasion.

Really, maybe I just need to advertise on Craigslist for a hot manny who isn't afraid to pitch a tent.