Can We Talk About George?

In the fire-hose of stories about men (well, mostly men, there was Mariah Carey, who I gather is a popular singer) abusing their social and professional leverage to inflict themselves sexually on relatively underpowered members of the gender of their choice, the George Takei story seems to be provoking wind in the grass, and crickets.

It bothers me. The story, the denial, and the silence. Briefly, a model and actor named Scott Brunton suddenly went public with a story he claimed to have “been telling [privately] for years,” in which Takei secured his phone number during or shortly after a breakup Brunton was enduring, later invited him over for drinks, and then, while Brunton was in an intoxicated haze — seeming to suggest a Cosby-like drugging — committed what we shall call manual sexual interference. Brunton says he pulled himself together, resisted, objected, and left.

Takei’s response is right out of a familiar playbook. He is “shocked and bewildered,” he has “wracked his brains” trying to remember who Brunton is, and such conduct is “antithetical to his nature.”

I want to believe Takei, the creator of a beloved sci-fi character, snarky gay activist of a dozen PSAs, hero of the Resistance to Trump’s America. But I can’t wriggle away from the observation that he sounds like the Mayor of Casablanca here. Or like scads of men with moral, social and political leverage who have discounted accusations of sexual bad behavior.

Let me hasten to remark that the world is not black and white. In my teens, I was a little on the ruthless side. The Bard College Campus Christian (we only had one) could have lodged a complaint against me for sexual harassment. His evangelizing was obnoxious and his bony frame was toothsome, and he oozed dick-in-a-knot sexual thwartedness at every pore. But really, it would have been classier not to put the blocks on him after he said he wasn’t interested, even if he kept sending mixed messages. On the other hand, I was nineteen, and had imbibed the myth that all men really, really want to get laid, just as some men have apparently internalized the idea that all women really want it. I grew up.

Takei, at the age when this allegedly happened, was forty-two or -three. At that age I was going through a divorce, had had a lot of time to grow up, and would not have forced myself on a carrot.

So if the story is true in whole or substantive part, even if it was half a lifetime ago for Takei, and something he would never repeat — part of a past self, say — it is something that a man should own. Maybe it’s not true and Brunton is an opportunist or has been put up to it, but then, that’s what Roy Moore says about his accusers. Maybe I will be able to go on enjoying my fondness for the man who satirizes homophobes and inspired a terrific musical and fenced his way through the Desilu sound stages. But I don’t like the story so far. And no one is covering it past the moment it broke, not even to the extent of the apparently well loved Kevin Spacey’s misdeeds (seriously: contemporary pop culture has long gotten away from me; I know he was something in something). This should not be the case; we love it when a Christian tightass founders, but a hero of social justice? Sorry, all flesh is grass.

The comic Louis CK — another showbiz person I wouldn’t know if I sat on him — issued a mea culpa that resonated over Twitter and hence into my news feed, to the effect that yes, he’d been an asshole; yes, he realized now what damage he’d done; yes, he was going to retreat and reflect. I don’t know if that’s redemptive, but it at least amounts to owning your own shit. Again, I don’t know the facts of the Takei case, but I may be the only person to react (on his Twitter feed) by saying that an apology of this sort would be the best stance if there is any truth in what Brunton said.  It all seems to be either “we love you George” or “you are a lying POS.” Meanwhile, most media seem asleep.

We live in a moral jungle, in which people are told that their sexuality is wicked and damning — the more so if they are gay or otherwise nonconforming — while other forces demonstrate the wink, the snicker, the implication that everyone says one thing and does another. Shit like this is going to happen until we have a social order in which an enthusiastic Yes is okay, a definitive No is respected, and everyone has learned the responsibility for seeking and abiding by the distinction.

George, I want it not to be true. But if it is, fricking own it. No one gets knee jerk exoneration, not Roy Moore, not Donald Trump, not you.

 

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Philosophers on Farting

I am a longtime fan of the Bookshelf Battler, whose blog originally featured head to head combat between geeky books for space on his bookshelf, hence the name. He has branched out into both fiction and philosophy, and the eleven-year-old boy in my soul is still braying with delight at this post that I just caught up with a few days ago. In these dark times, dear Goddess, we need all the erudite yet puerile humor we can get.

Bookshelf Battle

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Think before you stink.

Hey 3.5 readers.

I surveyed the following philosophers on the topic of farting.  Here is what they said:

Socrates – If you want to know whether or not you should fart, ask yourself if you should or should not fart.  The answer to this fart question dwells within you and by asking yourself about farts, you will draw out the answer about farts.

Plato – Before you are born, you get to chill out in Heaven, where there is a mold of everything in the world, including farts.  You forget about that mold after you are born, but the knowledge of that fart mold is still in you deep somewhere, so think real hard, and you will come up with the answer about farts.

Aristotle – The answer to a fart question isn’t with you but it does lie within the world somewhere.  Study farts and…

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Better Living Through Technology

My phones have been screwed for a week. I’m actually starting to enjoy it, even though it obliges me to conduct a daily work-around of checking the Verizon voicemail box to see if anyone’s called the landline. Some days no one leaves a message; most people want to text or e-mail, which I don’t mind. All my clients who might need to connect quickly have been advised. I hate the sound of that damn thing ringing, which it seems to do all day long. As a semi-blind lady I long ago adopted speaking Caller ID, so I don’t have to run over to the phone and squint at a teensy little screen that tells me I am being called by Organizing For America or someone’s campaign committee or the Fraternal Order Of Police, or any one of a hundred charities, causes and scams whose phone-bank representatives will, if I am so foolish as to pick up, address me by my first name with obnoxious familiarity and ask how I am today before trying to shake me down. Now I just get to hear a robot voice tell me these things.

Robot voices are big these days. In fact the only calls I have gotten in two days, on either cell or landline mailbox, are from the Verizon Robot Lady who advises me primly that “you recently called about trouble with your phone line. We believe the problem has been resolved. If your problem is resolved, press 1. If you are still encountering problems, press 2.” Then the mobile phone screen goes blank and I can’t get it back in time to press 2 and the robot lady hangs up on me and calls again later. I am mightily fed up with the sound of her voice and would like to sic Barney the Dinosaur on her, if I could find either one of them.

Every day or so someone tells me that they gave up their land line years ago and don’t miss it yada yada. I get the point, but this number is on business cards that have been floating around for years, and sometimes after a twenty-year gap people have found that card and remembered the great massages they got at Spa Lady back in the day and they call up. Plus, cell phones are no good for talking. My stepmother, Vacuums-With-Snakes, likes to call and chat every so often and I can guarantee you the call will drop twice before we are done because she only uses a cell.

When my dear friend Dorothy died — she had unexpectedly listed me as next of kin — I was left standing in my office with one client leaving and one arriving, waiting for a Fairfax County cop who had found the body in her condo to work his way out of a cellular dead spot so he could utter a complete sentence before being cut off.  That is crap. (I always thought that when people died and the police needed to notify you they actually sent an officer in person, but I guess this is better living through technology. At least they could use a real phone.)

Anyway the first time we could settle on a service call is Saturday, so I can count on a few more days of luscious silence around the house. The text message noise is a polite little triple plink, down a perfect fifth and back up. I can live with this.

Notes From My Absence

I really have to come back. I have not missed a workout, but since the US election I have been sleeping a lot and throwing up sort of regularly. Not a joke. Really throwing up.

Life goes on nonetheless.

Do Not Drop Shit On Yourself

This is really good advice for anyone. On Election Day, after voting

img_20161108_1039061, I looped around to the gym for a chest and back workout. Lately I have been hucking a pair of 45#s on my last set and for some reason, that day, the weights went down cattywumpus and the left hand dumbbell decided to teeter and crash onto my pinkie finger, the one where I always wear a ring, since like forever, long story, but the latest ones have been adjustable copper rings on account copper leaches into your system and supplements the enzyme that blocks Substance P, which is a pain neurotransmitter… oh well. Some pain got transmitted. The ring flattened into a narrow oblong,

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one end dug into my flesh, I managed to wrench it off, and double-timed up to the front desk to ask if there was an ice pack available.

Great kerfuffle ensued and one of those gizmoes was produced that, on sufficently vengeful smashing, turns into an icy gelpack which I wrapped around my pinkie while the gym manager worked his way down a form. “Were there any witnesses to the incident?” he read off the sheet. “Buggered if I know, I just dropped a weight on myself because I’m a klutz, I didn’t look around,” I said.

“Do you want an ambulance?” he asked gravely.

“The fuck?” I responded.

“I have to ask, it says here,” he explained.

We finished the form, and I went back and finished my sets.

That is sort of an omen for life going forward.

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For the curious, I worked every appointment I had booked, it actually doesn’t hurt, unless you squeeze it. Periosteal bruise is my best guess. The ring either saved me or savaged me.  I’m keeping it on my desk.

Tough Redheads

My passion for Star Trek led me to a CGI animated fan film whose hero is a badassed redhead prone to starting fights (with Klingons, even). I can relate. I am in a mood to start fights right now.

I Had A Birthday

I am now, by US law (for as long as it lasts) eligible to collect a pension should I choose. I am really kinda good for some years of pummeling butt, so I didn’t apply, but it is awesome to be recognized by people like Azahar,  who engineered the provision of a buttload of incredible sherry through the agency of the store that, funnily enough, in its earlier incarnation offered my first shit-job out of college forty years ago.

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We drank it with a birthday dinner that followed a late-afternoon screening of Dr Strange, hey, Benedict Cumberbatch stripped to the waist, what’s not to like? I think I am going to be hiding in a lot of fantasy universes for a while, such as…

Fantastic Beasts

I hate Thanksgiving, that American holiday sacred to gluttony and familial teeth-gritting, but the day following (having evaded gluttony and gritting) we did enjoy this.

You get adult (in the best sense) ideas, and a Polish Jew in 1920’s New York who can bake, and the Thunderbird. The one who belongs in the sacred lands of the First Nations. I wept.

I even refrained from starting a physical altercation with some yuppie twat who brought her toddler kid into the restaurant where we had settled on our pre-film dinner, fired up her FaceTime app and indulged in a loud kid-assisted conversation with some distant family cohort. Hello, asshole. The whole restaurant does not want to hear your Precious Sneauflake blatt or your relatives blather.
But, y’know. I could be watching the movie or I could be in the police station across the street, trying to think of magical ways to erase these philoprogenitive scumsuckers from time and history.

Hanging in for a future. Watch this space.

 

 

 

 

 

Is It Just Me?

Am I the only person who is depressed and disgusted that Bob Dylan has won the Nobel Prize in… Literature?

Does the word even mean anything any more?

I was never going to reach even the bar of being published for money, much less the Nobel committee, but this is like a shitbag in the face to anyone who ever sweated blood trying to make a work of fiction into a solid and living thing, or went back to a cycle of poetry year after year, shaping it like a bonsai tree.

I guess all of us who ever wanted to build something worthwhile out of words ought to just go fuck ourselves, or learn to sing in an abrasive, obnoxious tone of voice.

Buddy

Gillian went on a road trip.

She’s my client, the one on whose clothes Nickel Catmium likes to roll and perv, and I swear in between massages she never stays put. This time she hauled ass down to North Carolina, in the company of one of her “coveninis,” on account she is a committed and playful Wiccan who does earnest spells on behalf of her friends, in this case, someone tackling the quotidian horror of chemotherapy. They were occupied for the weekend putting up frozen homemade soup and performing hair spells for abundant regrowth as the pre-emptive head-shaving took place.

On the way back through some wide spot in the North Carolina road system, Gillian heard a thonk under her car and a succession of flap-flap-a-dab-a-daps as she rolled on. Pulling over at the nearest sign of intelligent life, she was told that about three miles on there was “a tire place,” where someone could at least get her car up on a lift and discern what had gone amiss, as the obvious conclusions like a blown tire didn’t seem to be responsible.

Substantially close than three miles, she saw a large illuminated sign reading Mechanic on Duty, which on closer inspection fronted a tractor maintenance and repair business. Surmising that anyone there could at least scope out her problem, she pulled over and stuck her head in the door, to be greeted by a purple-faced, white-haired redneck who seemed distinctly well into the late day’s drinking ration.

“Y’all lost your bumper liner here,” he said. “Used to they put these things on with solid clips. Now it’s all cheap plastic shit. See here? All in shreds. I can cut it off and stop the noise, throw it in the trunk so you can show it to who’s-ever does your car work. Bumper’ll rattle a little but no harm. How’s about?” Well that was fine, said Gillian. They stashed the damaged part, and as she was ferreting in her wallet the redneck added “Now, I don’t know if y’all are interested, but we got some of the best shine around here, just pulled off a new batch. Care for a slash?”

Gillian pleaded a weak head and the need to drive, but their new friend was undaunted. “Give you a good price. This ain’t like you read about where drinkin it can kill you, you gotta pull off that first few gallons. Don’t sell that part, it’s about a hunderd thirty proof.”

“Yow, you could put that in the gas tank,” said Gillian.

“Y’all hear that generator out back? Whatcha think that’s runnin’ on?” winked their new friend.

Gillian forced a twenty into his hand, and as they piled into the car, he said “Well if y’all get back through here, you know where to find the good stuff okay? My name’s Buddy.”

“Of course it is,” said Gillian as she got back into the car, and floored it.

Gillian usually brings me the pain relief unguent of the locality when she travels, which is typically far and wide. This time, she came back empty handed. All to the good, I figure.

His Majesty

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Torvald has been having a difficult week, which is one reason I’ve not posted in ages; that, and the heat, which melts your brain.

I fuss over him a good deal, my fluffy Viking. His appetite flagged again about eight days ago, something which was going to happen, given that his kidneys were never going to completely recover from the heart medications that have kept him alive since May of 2015. He is thinner, and spends less time bounding and more time just chilling (though he can still show a clean pair of heels off the sofa back), but he is still every inch a king.

He does not really want to eat, but he’ll let me, without a fight, give him cream in a dropper and cat food by hand, and it perks him up at the cost of two thirty-second indignities every day. The vet said there might be ups and downs. I’ll take what I get, so long as his life is still about catting, not just surviving.

In the evenings he jumps onto a platform on the porch, or stakes out the fascinating Buddy Door (which leads to the upstairs where the senior cats are secured when Torvald is up and about). Occasionally there is a conversation through the cellar door, which is almost all glass, and a white tippy paw thrust under it to try to get at Nickel or Fergie.

As long as he holds like this, tired but seemingly happy, there will be no trips to the vet.

I carve out moments to contemplate his unquenchable majesty.