I am Troy Davis
I’m 2 y.o. & Kaiser cut my health insurance. I am the 99%
My wife and I live in different cities because we can’t find jobs in the same one. The job that laid me off would only take me back if I took a pay cut and a demotion. I can’t look for more work because I can’t pay for daycare for our kids. I am, We are the 99 percent.
TOO YOUNG TO RETIRE. Lost job. Sold home. Moved in with 87-year-old mother. Worked temp jobs for 5+ years. Cancer survivor. No health insurance. Watching retirement and savings shrink. Moved to Mexico to get needed health care. I rent a room and live on $250 a month. No phone. No car. Mom is in the hospital and I wonder, can I afford to come home? I am the 99%
I plucked these images from We Are The 99% tumbler feed. I could have kept going, as each one is as compelling as the one before it. It’s sad, angst-ridden stuff over there, which is why you should go check it out. They are us. We are them.
I don’t have any illusions or high hopes about the effectiveness of the protests; the days of naive idealism are far away from who I am now. But I think the fact that it’s happening at all is awesome and I support those taking to the streets. I am the 99%.
You all knew I couldn’t resist it, right?
In case you haven’t heard, an organization called One Million Moms (OMM) has got its flesh-toned, 98-percent-nylon-2-percent-lycra granny panties with the lace waistband all bunched up inside its uber-tight butt crack. Trust me: I’ve been to the group’s website. OMM and its members are not happy.
A child of the right-wing American Family Association, OMM has myriad reasons for its angst, best expressed—allbeeit with kweschunable grammer usidge and speling—in ironically titillating calls to action and letter-writing campaigns.
These people don’t like bunnies (the Playboy kind). They don’t like Walgreens, Rite Aid or CVS selling “v*br*tors, d*ld*s and other s*x toys.” They definitely don’t like the gays stepping on their marital turf—you should see how verklempt they are at Home Depot’s fun and wholesome rainbow float in the San Francisco Gay Pride Parade.
>And the reason for their latest you-stop-it-right-this-instant-or-I’m-pulling-the-car-over-and-you-are-walking-home, father-knows-best effort to save the world from heathens?
Ic* cr*am.
It’s true. A good chunk of Americans are hurting, the economy is wheezing like a tobacco addict smoking a no-filter Camel through her trach hole, and it all comes down to milk and sugar for these self-proclaimed one million moms, who tally only 36,392 on their Facebook page as of this writing.
According to the USDA, more than 16 million American children lived in food-insecure households last year. Meanwhile, OMM and its members are having a tizzy over the name of Ben & Jerry’s newest flavor.
In homage to a vintage and hilariously funny Saturday Night Live sketch starring a rather svelte Alec Baldwin, the soon-to-be-released ice cream is called Schweddy Balls.
A rum-flavored vanilla ice cream packed with fudge and malt balls, this combo could have just as easily been called Better than Orgasm or Goes Best with Bong Hits. But OMM probably wouldn’t take kindly to those, either. I’m sure the decision makers who were gathered around the conference table in the Department of Ice Cream Naming were well aware of the dangers when settling on Schweddy Balls.
To OMM, Schweddy Balls is the dog-whistle call to arms; it is the Marilyn Manson of confections. Obviously, it will lead to premarital sex, pot use and school shootings. Perhaps worst of all, it will turn good Christian children gay. It’s a slippery slope, folks.
But to a normal human being, Schweddy Balls is just another excuse to have dessert before dinner and chortle like a 12-year-old.
Imagine, if you will, that you’re standing at the counter in one of the Ben & Jerry’s Partnershops, their independently owned storefronts—the franchise fees of which have been waived—that provide jobs and “entrepreneurial training to youth and young adults that may face barriers to employment.” Now imagine ordering two Schweddy Balls in a cup. You are a sports fan, after all.
As if going for ice cream weren’t already completely awesome.
There’s no way to keep a straight face in this situation, and suddenly you’re laughing right along with the kid behind the counter, a kid who might have been one of those 16 million who didn’t always have food on the table.
It’s quite possible that the kid who’s serving up your Schweddy Balls just might have struggled through school to a constant hum of hunger, performing worse academically than his more fortunate counterparts, as research has shown to be the case for kids who don’t have enough to eat. Certainly, not knowing when your next meal is coming sets up a barrier to all kinds of things, not just later employment.
And yet, there he is, serving your Schweddy Balls in a dish, laughing and working for a living wage, something Ben & Jerry’s includes as part of its three-pronged mission to address social, environmental and economic issues facing Americans.
“Ben & Jerry’s is founded on and dedicated to a sustainable corporate concept of linked prosperity,” states its website. “Underlying the mission of Ben & Jerry’s is the determination to seek new and creative ways of addressing all three parts, while holding a deep respect for individuals inside and outside the company and for the communities of which they are a part.”
OMM has a mission statement, too: “Our goal is to stop the exploitation of our children, especially by the entertainment media (TV, music, movies, etc.). Mom, [One Million Moms] is the most powerful tool you have to stand against the immorality, violence, vulgarity and profanity the entertainment media is throwing at your children.”
It’s sort of like the same goal, only totally not.
Perhaps what OMM and its members should do is set aside all the letter writing and—egads!—open a book (besides the Bible, I mean). Perhaps they should turn off the offending “entertainment media” and go do some community service. Clean up the neighborhood. Visit the elderly. Feed the homeless. Mentor a child. Maybe they should hop over to CVS, get a good v*br*tor and get over themselves.
Or—maybe they should have a blind taste test in which they take a big ol’ lick of Schweddy Balls, followed by a swig of water to cleanse the palate, and then take a big ol’ lick of sweaty balls to see if they can tell the difference.
(Published on September 28, 2011 in San Diego CityBeat).
One Love
I never really understand why people are hesitant to take their kids to the Gay Pride Parade. Over the weekend, I had several different conversations about it—since I’d planned to take Ruby—and got several interesting reactions. One couple I met at breakfast this morning said that they’d always wanted to go, but motioned toward their six-year old and whispered that they’d heard it’s “basically a porn show.” Another friend dismissed it because all the “cocks” aren’t appropriate for her daughters.
Now, the porn thing is off by astronomical distances: This is a public event with participants from all across the city. The Mayor was in this past Saturday’s Pride parade, as was Republican Ron Roberts from the County Board of Supervisors, and believe me, there isn’t anything remotely titillating or even vaguely pornographic about either of these guys. Even the public defender’s office represented with a float bearing the slogan “Getting people off since 19[something or other]!”
However, while nobody was whipping out their cocks along University Avenue during this weekend’s party, I have to admit that my friend’s concern was wholly legitimate.
I stand corrected because I did indeed see Cox at the parade. As did my daughter and my bestie’s daughter and all the many children and grown-ups and families who sat on the curb in the heat, beneath a sky the color of swimming pools, sharing sun screen and snacks and spray bottles, celebrating our gay brothers and sisters.
Ruby was very excited about all the swag, the horses ridden by the Wells Fargo people (I suppose it could be argued that bankers are pornographic), and the stilt walker.
I was excited about my friend Barbarella‘s piglet, Carnitas—who may have cured me of my bacon habit forever—and the Gay Men’s Chorus, since my friends Skip and Andy were marching.
I didn’t find Skip and Andy but they were out there and they were proud, I know.
Oh, and speaking of excitement, Ruby just about peed her pants at the sight of the man with the RAINBOW! HAIR!
Who’s not tickled by RAINBOW! HAIR!?
Personally, I was tickled by the message on his shirt because the message is the reason I bring my daughter to the parade. Love, not hate, is what I wish to instill in her.
I guess this could be considered Jesus porn because I was practically orgasmic at the sight of these folks. Standing there in the street watching groups of people march beneath such signs is encouraging. They make you believe in humanity and remind you that The Rock church doesn’t represent all Christians. Just too many of them.
Of course, I’d be lying if I represented the parade as all Hail Marys and Holy Water. There was a little bit of shaking, jangling flesh out there, too. And God Bless it!
So she has pasties on her nibbles. Still: Not porn. Just a little edgy. And, I’m guessing, much cooler than my flesh-toned padded bra that’s so old it has dimples. Anyway, have you been to the beach lately? Right. Moving along…
Every parade is better with queens:
In fact, pretty much every situation in life is improved by the presence of a drag queen.
However, the people you really want on your side when the chips are down (or up, no matter) is your family. Which is why PFLAG is the greatest part of the Parade every single year. PFLAG is, hands down, the very best group, float or no float.
I challenge anyone to remain stony when these people walk by. I wanted to run up and hug them. Instead I took their blurry picture with my phone.
I don’t know who Ruby will love when she grows up. And I don’t care. I just want her to love, to be loved and to be happy. I hope that’s what she is learning from me.
Who needs representatives when we have guys like Stupak?
While listening to an interview between Michele Norris on NPR and Bart Stupak, Democratic member of Congress from Michigan, I became outraged. Go figure. It’s so rare for me…
Anyway, I wrote about why I’m incensed over at The Women’s Colony. Check it out and see if you don’t agree. And if you wait long enough, the conservatives will come slithering along to tout their I-Got-Mine attitude throughout the comments section. Some of them will probably call me names, too. Oh, goody!
In the meantime, people, IT’S FRIDAY and I don’t have to go to my shit-sucking job!!! And my friend Justin posted the following video to my Facebook wall today so things are really lookin’ up. Gosh darn it, if I don’t adore Olivia Newton John. She was, and still is, totally awesome. Watch this and be happy with me despite all the craptastic news, won’t you?
C’mon, Californian’s: Let’s demand better
I ran into the mother of one of Ruby’s little classmates yesterday when I was picking my girl up from school. We’d barely gotten past the daily niceties when she said, “Well, I got my pink slip today.”
She’s a teacher and like previous years, as the state of California faces a never-ending and unfathomable budget crisis, pink slips are distributed mid-way through the school year. This year was even earlier than last. Now she’ll finish her work knowing she doesn’t have a job in the fall, wait to see what budget our deadlocked legislators hammer out and then hope to be rehired next year. This is just one teensy, tinsy corner of the tip of the iceberg-of-a-problem facing the schools in this state. Good things kids aren’t the foundation of our society or anything.
Think about this: The San Diego Unified School District is facing budget cuts somewhere in the $175 million dollar range for the coming year; the state is looking at a $3 to $6.5 billion-with-a-B deficit. (I know, your eyes are glazing. But I’m almost done with big numbers so STICK WITH ME, HERE!) Meanwhile, back at the ranch, certain decision-makers felt it was more important to put $300 million dollars toward digital whiteboards in classrooms of SDUSD schools, than it was to put it toward building repair. Now the teachers—those that are left—need additional training (with all their free time) on how to use the glorified chalk boards. And when a $200 light bulb burns out, the school is asking parents to pony up. It’s that or let the new-fangled technology gather dust and force teachers and students to get by with—gasp!—chalk. How primitive. Almost as primitive as trying to learn in a building with no heat or a leaky roof or which doesn’t have drinking fountains.
I’m not even in the public school system yet and the whole thing is totally demoralizing.
The news on education is bad. It’s bad everywhere but I’m speaking specifically of California. And to highlight just how dire things are, today is a nationwide day of action. My friend, the teacher, and her colleagues—and my daughter, but that’s pretty much a given—are all wearing pink to raise awareness. I’ll probably try to dig up something pink, too. (I’ve seen elsewhere that people are wearing red. Whatever. I think it would be best if people just make sure to wear clothes.) Throughout California, activists are going to be raising awareness about cuts to higher education through a flurry of activities.
Then tomorrow, a group of activists, including the California Federation of Teachers (CFT) and other unions, labor leaders, religious leaders and business leaders (yes, business leaders, too!), will begin a 7-week march from Bakersfield to Sacramento. The purpose of this March for California’s Future is to engage people and create a dialogue about the realities facing this state and the dire need to change the course we are currently on. To understand the purpose and goals of this march, please read this short piece. This isn’t just about education. This is about the future of California (hence the name, go figure) and, too, the rest of the nation.
I will be writing about this over the coming weeks, and posting excerpts from an interview I did with Jim Miller, a professor at San Diego City College and one of the organizers of the March. And I will be hoping that that all this hard work pays off, that my friend has a job in the fall, and that the education system gets better before my child is ready to graduate high school.
Going Rogue or Somewhere Over The Rainbow
I had dinner and drinks last night with two friends from my adoption group. One of them has three adopted children. Her eldest, a 7-year-old son, is from Haiti. My friend went there to meet him when he was ten days old. She lived there for 100 days, as is the requirement of all adoptive parents. She and her husband stayed at the Hotel Montana, a place she will never be able to revisit because, like most of the buildings in Port-Au-Prince, it was flattened in the January 12th earthquake. Her son’s homeland is demolished, his people suffer more than they did when he left there and what remains is part of his story. The anguish this tragedy has caused my friend and her family cannot be understated.
Not surprisingly, the number of orphaned Haitian children has spiked exponentially, with parents going so far as to relinquish their kids to orphanages in the hopes that they might receive food, water and medical care. It’s a terrible problem, the solution to which will require leadership, international cooperation, many open hearts and some innovative thinking.
However.
An overflow of “orphans” does not mean there is a giant green light in the sky giving the go-ahead to any Tom, Dick or Job who fancy themselves in God’s image, to swoop in and label children with name tags, tell them they’re going to Disneyland and secret them off to be raised up right. Even if they were “just trying to do the right thing,” as their spokeswoman initially claimed. And even though they have since admitted they knew what they were doing was wrong. Does that bear repeating? Yes, I think it does, and in all caps, too:
This group of self-important crusaders—without adoption experience or proper paperwork or association with an orphanage or even knowledge of international charity—people who probably didn’t know two weeks ago whether Haiti was to the West or East of Boise, KNEW WHAT THEY WERE DOING WAS WRONG.
Another term for it would be “illegal.”
The now-jailed Americans are members of the Southern Baptist Convention, an organization “which has extensive humanitarian programs worldwide,” according to the Associated Press. Which begs the question: With the many “extensive humanitarian programs”—aka, bribery in the form of salvation in exchange for acceptance of a Western view of God but let’s not split hairs—wasn’t there a more appropriate and organized outlet for these nice folks from Idaho to display their do-goodery?
Something tells me they didn’t need to airlift themselves to Haiti to find what they were looking for. Like Dorothy, they could have gone into their own backyard if they wanted to be heroes. I suppose it does help one’s image as The Great White Hope if you’re saving impovershed black kids, as opposed to white ones. Memo to the Renegade Ten: Though perhaps not in the potato state, there are plenty of the former in the foster care system right here in the U.S. of A. In fact, they wait approximately 9 months longer for a placement than their white counterparts. Sure, 9 months is a longer wait than a flight to Haiti. But hopefully, it will be less time than the sentence you receive.
These selfish, presumptuous people, who knowingly engaged in child trafficking, have put unnecessary stress on the decimated Haitian judicial system and will end up doing the same here in the U.S., where they will likely be prosecuted. They hurt proper adoption practices in Haiti, which are currently stalled. They are taxing the relief efforts of organizations on the ground, since now they need to be housed and fed and looked after, which is to say nothing about the one who has required medical attention. And now their lawyer has the balls to say they’re being treated poorly, that “[t]here is no air conditioning, no electricity. It is very disturbing.”
Disturbing about covers it. I feel really sorry for their plight. They must be suffering so.
Like a timeout for a toddler, they should sit in that jail cell until rainy season so they can contemplate the nature of what they did in their Lord’s name.. They should be left to feel a little bit hungry as they think about the entitlement which led them to believe that rules and laws and formalities and bureaucracies don’t apply to them. Then they should be brought home, prosecuted and sent a bill for expenses.
Who wants to place bets they get off with time served and glowing interviews on all the morning shows?
While complete tools, they’re not the *sharpest* tools in the conservative shed. And on that note, happy Friday!
H/T Nick Stoffel, baby lover extraordinaire, KPBS producer and my friend. Yes, I’m name dropping because I’m just a star fucker at heart.
Go Figure
I have something to say about citizens bringing guns to Presidential events.
Which is perhaps more inflammatory than the swimsuit worn by that…person…in my previous post. Or, perhaps not. You be The Decider.
Memo to the fear-mongers
The House Minority Leader John Boehner says that bringing Guantanamo detainees to the United States for trial and future detention is “…the first step in the Democrats’ plan to import terrorists into America.” I’d like to point out to Mr. Boehner that we don’t need to import any terrorists because we’re breeding them, incubating them, nourishing and growing and arming them right here at home.
Maybe Boehner is just confused. In his world, a terrorist is brown and Muslim. The reality is that the domestic Boogeyman looks a whole lot more like the reflection Boehner must see in the mirror each morning: Angry and pink-faced and pent-up and somehow disenfranchised.
ter⋅ror⋅ism
-noun
- the use of violence and threats to intimidate or coerce, esp. for political purposes
- the state of fear and submission produced by terrorism or terrorization
- a terroristic method of governing or of resisting a government
I am unspeakably sickened by today’s murder of Dr. George Tiller, a man who dedicated his life to womens’ health, despite myriad intimidation tactics and at least one previous attempt on his life by psychotic idealogues who piously claim to be “pro-life.” Because my feelings at the news of this loss are so surprisingly strong, my instinct is to say that I’m as devastated as if I had known Dr. Tiller. But that would be insulting to those who did know him and love him, because there is no way my grief could ever compare to theirs. I mourn alongside them, though. And I wish I’d known him. He sounds like the kind of human being I would have liked to have known.
The method and unjustness of Tiller’s death is horrifying. It’s stomach-turning and fist-pounding and knee-buckling all at the same time. That a self-righteous whack-job could walk into a church and gun a man down during his time of worship simply because a part of the man’s job is disagreeable, is an unfathomable tragedy. It’s a tragedy for his family and his patients. But it’s also a devastating tragedy for women everywhere in this country.
It is disturbing on a molecular level because it feels like the proverbial shot fired from the bow of a ship, an open declaration of war. Of course, this war has been on for a very long time as this is not an isolated incident: Violence at the hands of “pro-lifers” is uncomfortably commonplace. But this feels particularly frightening given U.S. Marshals are being deployed to protect workers of women’s health clinics and the patients who seek their services.
Imagine being a woman in Wichita who, tomorrow, needs to walk into a Planned Parenthood to get her birth control pills. Or a pap smear. Or counseling. Or, yes, an abortion. Imagine being the people who work in these much-needed clinics all over the United States, a country whose Constitution protects a woman’s right to choose. Women should not be afraid to make choices about what is best for their health. Doctors and nurses and administrators and counselors should not be afraid to do the work they’ve been trained to do. That it should be so is wholly un-American.
The man who murdered Dr. Tiller is a terrorist and those in the pro-life movement who support what he’s done are terrorist sympathizers. They are Evil-Doers. These vile people are different from those 19 men who flew planes into the twin towers only in the God they worship.