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.

POINT-Counterpoint: I'm 34 and single! Woo hoo!

I am 34 and single. No husband. No kids. Definitely edging slowly toward society's margins.

On most days, I am psyched to be where I am in my life. On those days, I am single by choice, and it's the right one. On other days, I find it challenging, to say the least, to maintain a positive spin on my spinster-hood. It's an ongoing debate in my head, and the topic is, "When I am 80 years old and sitting in a rocking chair reflecting on life, will I be OK with never having married?"

POINT: Damn It Feels Good to Be a Spinsta!

When I was visiting Indiana this past weekend, I spent a bit of time with my friends and their children. One friend, a mother of three, asked me what I had done earlier in the day. I mentioned that I took a long, leisurely trip to Target, an exciting event since I don't have easy access to one in DC. She laughed at the idea of a trip to Target being fun, noting that she "probably spends way too much time in Target."

I am not so lame that I equate being single with the freedom to go to big box stores for pleasure rather than to buy toilet paper and diapers. But, it does point to the biggest reason being 34, single, unfettered and financially independent ROCKS: I can do what I want, when I want. Fuck yeah.

My nights are mine. If I want to go home and watch an X-Files marathon or Face-Eating Tumor on the Discovery Health Channel, I can. (And since I have given up roommates, I can do this without judgment. Mostly. I can feel society judging.) If I want to go to yoga class at 8pm, I can. If I want to hit a tranny bachelor party at a gay bar in Dupont Circle, I can do that too. And I have.

My weekends and vacations are mine as well. I play soccer rather than drive kids to and from soccer. No in-laws to visit and pretend to like over the holidays. No social obligation to attend the weddings of my husband's lame co-workers. I'm planning the vacations I want ... a rim-to-rim hike in the Grand Canyon and a trip to Chile in 2009. Last year, after I quit my job and took two months off to hike and camp around the west, a married friend with two kids lamented, "Man, I would kill to do that. But it's just not an option anymore." Another friend who is going through a divorce confided that, on a positive note, he now would be able to go on the type of vacations he preferred.

Sometimes I feel like I've passed a tipping point, where it would be really hard to get married and give up some of my independence. The idea makes me a little claustrophobic. I honestly can't even imagine it. I can't imagine me as part of a we.

Stay tuned for COUNTERPOINT: Fuck! I don't want to end up like Eleanor Rigby!