Let’s Fund Some Abortion

Let’s have an abortion thread. Anybody game?

I’m not surprised to see abortion coverage slipped into the health care bill under current consideration in Congress. It only makes sense to proponents of the public option to cover a woman’s decision to suck the life out of her womb at her neighbor’s expense. And why not? We’re expected to collectively house, feed, clothe, educate and possibly imprison her ill-conceived git at public expense if she’s irresponsible.

I had a discussion many years ago with a man I still respect and love, one who is solidly conservative, a republican stalwart, a fierce Rush acolyte, a true red meat, ideological right winger.

We were discussing abortion and he told me that he would rather pay, through his tax dollars, for a woman’s early abortion than raise her child for life. Declared it was less expensive in the end. It all came down to money and the eventual degradation of wider society being populated by a raft of dysfunctional, unwanted, poorly raised, low I.Q., uneducated individuals voting, corrupting and altering the fundamental basis of our republic. Figuring that he and the country would be better served overall by publicly funding abortion, he chose spending a cheap $300 to drain a lax womb over the tens of thousands it would take to support a wider pool of neglected welfare babies who would ultimately undermine his tax paying vote and alter the state of our nation with their warped, subsidized, ignorant mindsets.

This man doesn’t like abortion, believes it to be murder, but when it comes to public policy, society at large and his money, he finds abortion to be the cheaper alternative, financially and socially. We had this talk over twenty years ago. Amazing how well his rationale has stood up.

Maybe Margaret Sanger’s harsh brutality had it right. A field of weeds should be plucked before they spoil the entire crop.

Cuba

However, as I do not feel myself a victim, I raise my skirt a little and show my legs to the two men who follow me everywhere. There is nothing more paralyzing than a woman’s calf flashing in the sun in the middle of the street. Nor am I wooden like a martyr, I try not to forget to smile, because giggles are hard stones in the teeth of the authoritarian. So I continue my life, without letting them turn me into a whiner, with only one regret. Ultimately, everything that I live today has also been the product of my silence, the direct result of my former passivity.

Yoani Sanchez of Generation Y

Yoani was recently beaten by Castro’s thugs. Because she dares to write of her life in Cuba.

We cried in each others arms in the middle of the sidewalk, thinking about Teo, for God’s sake how am I going to explain all these bruises. How am I going to tell him that we live in a country where this can happen, how will I look at him and tell him that his mother, for writing a blog and putting her opinions in kilobytes, has been beaten up on a public street. How to describe the despotic faces of those who forced us into that car, their enjoyment that I could see as they beat us, their lifting my skirt as they dragged me half naked to the car.

Coming Undone

The formica countertop smelled of cleanser, fine grains of grit brushed her cheek, grazing her face as it bit the surface. Back and forth for the past ten minutes, the repetitive stroke wearing a sharp edge on her last very nerve. Calves cramped from arches stretched up higher than her six inch heels, a slow burn edging towards home tucked into her lower back. Enough. She reached between her legs, softly ran her nails along his tightly tucked sack, took them firmly in hand, expelled a soft breath of pleasure and called him home. He happily obliged her command a few strokes later. Then he wanted to talk.

Men will talk. They can be some right chatty bastards after sex, filling your head with endless words, surrounding the space with flagrant bits of soft appreciation, murmured nonsense and brash, bold claims.

I’ve yet to meet the quiet, strong man who doesn’t lean comfortably into his own space after a satisfying round in the sack with a glorious bed mate, tight hand holds giving way to intimate cracks. Loud men fall low, growly bits of sweet true offered up in quiet voices, after years spent climbing walls stacked high with their own hubris. Serious men feel safe to loosen that secret cache of caught laughter, shy men bank off curves of eloquent magnificence. All under the touch of a good woman. Unclasp the brass hook of a man and you’ll always find the sweet center.

Men need intimacy to find words, women need words to find intimacy. Quite the conundrum.

Nyquil Makes Me Bark

I like a man who plainly states that Nyquil makes him bark, gives up a homemade recipe for the foul brew, then admits, a few posts down, that a daughter’s love notes make him cry. Meet Physics Geek, I think he’s cool. Plus he has jokes. We (as in the royal we, meaning me) already know that he appreciates good looking women, possesses a fine sense of irony and holds sensible views. He doesn’t post often, but he makes up for the skimpy offerings with high quality bites, go pay him a visit. Now for the joke, an oldie but goodie which I am going to shamelessly post in full, but you must promise to click his link. This man deserves a visit, he’s seriously good. And he makes me smile.

Tandem Writing AssignmentThe following is a true story received from an English professor.

You know that book “Men are from Mars, Women from Venus”? Well, here’s a prime example of that. This assignment was actually turned in by two of my English students: Rebecca (last name deleted) and Gary (last name deleted).

First, the Assignment:

English 44A
SMU
Creative Writing
Prof. Miller

In-Class Assignment for Wednesday:
Today we will experiment with a new form called the tandem story. The process is simple. Each person will pair off with the person sitting to his or her immediate right. One of you will then write the first paragraph of a short story. The partner will read the first paragraph and then add another paragraph to the story. The first person will then add a third paragraph, and so on back and forth.

Remember to re-read what has been written each time in order to keep the story coherent. The story is over when both agree a conclusion has been reached.

And now, the Assignment as submitted by Rebecca & Gary:

Rebecca starts:

At first, Laurie couldn’t decide which kind of tea she wanted. The camomile, which used to be her favorite for lazy evenings at home, now reminded her too much of Carl, who once said, in happier times, that he liked camomile. But she felt she must now, at all costs, keep her mind off Carl. His possessiveness was suffocating, and if she thought about him too much her asthma started acting up again. So camomile was out of the question.

Gary:

Meanwhile, Advance Sergeant Carl Harris, leader of the attack squadron now in orbit over Skylon 4, had more important things to think about than the neuroses of an air-headed asthmatic bimbo named Laurie with whom he had spent one sweaty night over a year ago. “A.S. Harris to Geostation 17,” he said into his transgalactic communicator. “Polar orbit established. No sign of resistance so far…”. But before he could sign off a bluish particle beam flashed out of nowhere and blasted a hole through his ship’s cargo bay. The jolt from the direct hit sent him flying out of his seat and across the cockpit.

Rebecca:

He bumped his head and died almost immediately, but not before he felt one last pang of regret for psychically brutalizing the one woman who had ever had feelings for him. Soon afterwards, Earth stopped its pointless hostilities towards the peaceful farmers of Skylon 4. “Congress Passes Law Permanently Abolishing War and Space Travel.” Laurie read in her newspaper one morning. The news simultaneously excited her and bored her. She stared out the window, dreaming of her youth — when the days had passed unhurriedly and carefree, with no newspapers to read, no television to distract her from her sense of innocent wonder at all the beautiful things around her. “Why must one lose one’s innocence to become a woman?” she pondered wistfully.

Gary:

Little did she know, but she had less than 10 seconds to live. Thousands of miles above the city, the Anu’udrian mothership launched the first of its lithium fusion missiles. The dim-witted wimpy peaceniks who pushed the Unilateral Aerospace Disarmament Treaty through Congress had left earth a defenseless target for the hostile alien empires who were determined to destroy the human race. Within two hours after the passage of the treaty the Anu’udrian ships were on course for Earth, carrying enough firepower to pulverize the entire planet. With no one to stop them, they swiftly initiated their diabolical plan. The lithium fusion missile entered the atmosphere unimpeded. The President, in his top-secret mobile submarine headquarters on the ocean floor off the coast of Guam, felt the inconceivably massive explosion which vaporized Laurie and 85 million other Americans. The President slammed his fist on the conference table. “We can’t allow this! I’m going to veto that treaty! Let’s blow ‘em out of the sky!”

Rebecca:

This is absurd. I refuse to continue this mockery of literature. My writing partner is a violent, chauvinistic, semi-literate adolescent.

Gary:

Yeah? Well, you’re a self-centered tedious neurotic whose attempts at writing are the literary equivalent of Valium.

Rebecca:

Asshole.

Gary:

Bitch.

Tempests In Teapots

I know I’m supposed to be gnashing my teeth and howling in outrage over the president’s latest protocol faux pas, but I honestly couldn’t give a flip if Obama is busy groveling like a pig-tailed coolie before Japanese royalty overseas. My low opinion of the man’s politics prior to this recent ankle grab isn’t going to change and I’d rather save my righteous disgust for issues that actually matter, little things like bailouts, buyouts, healthcare, cap and trade, two wars, massive deficits, unfunded mandates, the looming crisis this country is facing if we don’t reform social security, medicare, medicaid.

You go ahead and turn purple, feast on your indignation. I’m going to take a pass.

One of the things that I found absolutely revolting about the left side of the aisle during Bush’s presidency was their constant mean spirited, nit picking, personal attacks on Bush. The man couldn’t breathe without being ridiculed or castigated, the left was relentless in their screeds of visceral hatred. He misspoke, uttered a Bushism, (some of which were pretty funny), and they labeled him stupid, an ineloquent speaker. He tripped on the stairs, he’s a graceless moron. He touched Merkel, he’s a classless rube who doesn’t understand statesmanship. He led with strong purpose after 9/11, he’s an ignorant warmonger, belligerent and bellicose.  He used the wrong fork, quoted a book they didn’t like, rode a bike, owned a ranch, had daughters who behaved like normal college students, he was an east coast blue blood snob or a dumb redneck from Texas, his wife was a lowly librarian, on and on and on. They’re still doing it and I hate it, it’s just ugly.

Why would I ever want to give respectful consideration to anyone’s counter ideas or arguments on public policy when they spend so much of their time showing me that they are nothing more than hysterical, myopic, obsessed, petty assholes who are far more interested in playing the man rather than the ball?

On a personal level, I believe Bush is a good man by any measure, and like any man he was going to bring his quirks, personality, habits and foibles to the White House. Obama is no different. I vehemently disagree with our current president’s ideology and world view. I can’t find any political common ground with Obama, but I still think he’s a good man, like his predecessor, and that, being human, he is going to make embarrassing mistakes from time to time while he’s in office. I’m not going to sweat this small stuff, it’s unimportant in the larger picture.

Give me a call if he’s caught screwing interns. I’ll bite if something has real meat on the bone.

My Name Is Earl

I really don’t watch a lot of TV, anything with Anthony Bourdain, Mike Rowe, Mark Harmon, or Hugh Laurie gets always my attention when I hit the remote, but if I come across My Name Is Earl, that sonofabitch wins hands down. Have y’all seen this show, hell, have y’all seen Joy? Hell, I’d fuck her. Please play the link, this bitch rocks.

 

 

Books and Sex

I’m working fast on the third adult beverage this evening and thinking about books and sex. I love books, own more than I have space for and I’m considering some of my contemporary, still breathing, favorites tonight. I thought I’d share mine in no particular order and ask yours.

Stephen King always has a place. I know many people consider him trashy, I happen to think he’s a wonderful storyteller of the first order. I especially love his characters and dialogue, they ring true. He brings intelligence, wit, humor and life to his pages. His endings can be a stretch, but getting there is always a good ride. I’m glad he’s rich, the man deserves every penny he’s earned telling great stories.

Annie Proulx blows me away. I get lost in her books and short stories, always wishing they wouldn’t end. I love the way she slowly pulls out of the station and weaves a complexity that draws me into her world. She’s brilliant. The Shipping News is one of the best works of fiction ever written, in my opinion. Her short works are masterpieces, small jewels of master craft.

A.L. Kennedy is one of my favorite novelists. My husband gave me Everything You Need some years back, I must have read this book three or four times, her other works are equally compelling. She’s dark as hell, loves the words and crafts magnificent stories of human life, much of it twisted to realistic perfection.

Alexandra Fuller gets my final nod. I was re-reading her book, Don’t Let’s Go to the Dogs Tonight, in bed yesterday. This woman puts her white childhood in Rhodesia and Zimbabwe all over the table in this book. A damn fine read. Real women and most men will like this writer, she doesn’t pull any punches.

So, what are you reading? Who do you love? No dead people allowed.

Thought I forgot about the sex, didn’t you?  I haven’t.

Shreds Of Grace

Michele let loose with a slow smile before she slung that bowling ball across ten lateral lanes towards the attendant’s head. It missed him by a good ten inches, but her smile only widened to a toothy grin of pure pleasure after our paid keepers grabbed her arms in restraint. The joy of the act was spread across her face, the defiance and capability of launching such a stealthy piece of unexpected violence satisfied her immensely. Michele was in her glory that day in the bowling alley. The other inmates on this forced trip of abnormality stood up an cheered as the bowling ball flew across the air. Bedlam ensued and we were banned from the bowling alley forever more.

Michele was insane. Tall and lanky, the color of gorgeous creamed brown sugar, she held fifteen years worth of knobby elbows and ashy knees, parading a legacy of brutal scars that were inflicted by her mother from the day she gave voice. One hundred and fifteen pounds of ropey muscle poured into a scrawny frame containing nothing more than sheer rage and the will to inflict it at random moments, this girl was a serious force of nature that our simple-minded counselors couldn’t contain.

She roomed with me until her third night in, when she arbitrarily decided the night nurse deserved a face full of shit rammed up her nose on the woman’s regular post dawn bed check. Michele spent a week in the padded cell after that bizarre attack before she chucked a blue bowling ball at that poor man’s head and was quickly released back into the care of the mother who had beaten her into clear insanity.

Jackie held the walls, a girl of gracious height and significant heft, she stalked the residents and intimidated the staff into clear pools of fear. Anyone with a grain of sense was scared of Jackie. I watched her beat a small twelve-year-old boy to a pulp for the minor infraction of saying “Pardon me” in the med line and stood three feet from the counselor man, who sang a nice version of Fire and Rain accompanied by his guitar, while he had his face rearranged by Jackie. He looked at her funny. The girl stole anything that wasn’t nailed down; deodorant, nail files, tampons. If it was gone, you knew Jackie had snatched it and were wise to refrain from complaining. She filched personal items that weren’t provided by the family who never visited. She didn’t have one, another state case who was placed in any holding cell offering a ninety day stay before the social workers went scrambling to house this near grown, explosively violent young woman, one more time, praying hard that she’d fly loose, shutting their caseload forever. Seventeen was the magic number for caseworkers, they didn’t mind brushing some paint to fudge that date if it meant moving the Michele’s and Jackie’s off the rolls.

Andre  lived in the room closest to nurses station, he masturbated incessantly in the commons, stalked every new resident with determined energy. The boy was beautiful, thirteen years of genetic perfection housing a handcrafted piece of grotesquely twisted humanity. He’d been fucked three ways to Sunday before he could speak, the state didn’t catch him until he was eleven. A neighbor nearly killed him when she caught him ass raping her three-year old son. CPS had been shuffling the child through any available bed ever since. His pot habit qualified for a supervised short stint on my wing.

Karen and Janaia shared a room and a similar history. Ugly scars tracking up, down and crosswise lived on their arms, trails of unsuccessful suicide attempts marking their short lives. They emerged for drugs and food, always holding hands, never speaking to a soul, hunkered down in their in their dark room until they could permanently escape the pain. Thirteen years old and determined to die.

The halls of juvenile drug rehab may have elevated themselves since my turn in two of the countries most esteemed programs back in the heyday of the psychiatric seventies, but I suspect they’re still a dumping ground of neglected, abused, insane and severely damaged children who ended up there because of parental stupidity, neglect, foul abuse and the sheer unwillingness of adults to address their children’s needs before their own.

I met only one drug addict during my stays locked away, I expect Susan tracked her arms into oblivion shortly after she blew the janitor who unlocked the stairwell doors to her escape.

Hey Y’all

I haven’t told you a story in a very long time. I’ve been writing them, but I haven’t been sharing. I never expected this insignificant corner to garner the unasked for attention of the people populating my real life. It has put a damper on my willingness to publish certain things that might hurt my children through idle gossip or cause pain in my extended family. None of the people I love should be affected by the things I write.

I have started another site, one that’s still private, for my personal stories. I feel very conflicted about opening this site up for a number of reasons, the main one being that I feel no shame for what I write and it rubs me wrong to publish under a pseudonym. I want to be called by my name.

A man I greatly respect offered me his thoughtful perspective when I asked for his advice, he simply gave me his experience as a writer, both anonymous and public, and left it that. I admire a person who knows how to pass on a good lesson with skill and grace. I’m blessed to know some truly spectacular men of considerable accomplishment, many of them can be found leaving their personal signatures of wit and intelligence on this site, but this particular man holds some weight with me.

I’m still mulling his words and considering my options. In the meantime, I believe I owe y’all a cached story or two.

 

A Libertarian Public Service Announcement

Besides terrorists, I’m fairly obsessed with our federal government’s increasing criminalization of every last breath we take. A wonderful resource site, Overcriminalized, does a nice job of tracking federal and state legislation that’s been recently enacted or is making that slow crawl down the congressional pike towards your doorstep.

I’m quite enamored of their mission statement.

“Overcriminalization” describes the trend in America – and particularly in Congress – to use the criminal law to “solve” every problem, punish every mistake (instead of making proper use of civil penalties), and coerce Americans into conforming their behavior to satisfy social engineering objectives. Criminal law is supposed to be used to redress only that conduct which society thinks deserving of the greatest punishment and moral sanction.

But as a result of rampant overcriminalization, trivial conduct is now often punished as a crime.  Many criminal laws make it possible for the government to convict a person even if he acted without criminal intent (i.e., mens rea). Sentences have skyrocketed, particularly at the federal level.

That’s my libertarian gift to you this evening. Now go dig around their site and get all angry, then blog something wicked fierce.