I thought I would share the letter I wrote:
Representative Fox,
I'm troubled by what I read in the Globe today.
http://www.boston.com/news/local/rhode_island/articles/2011/06/28/in_ri_hopes_fading_for_gay_marriage_bill/?page=1
Though I applauded your courage in coming out, it seems that courage ends there.
Rhode Island isn't so dissimilar to Massachusetts outside of being small (and broke). Many Catholics don't care as much as you might think (just the loudmouth archdiosese). In fact, most I know don't buy into everything the church says. I should know, my entire family is Catholic. Also, when they find that society doesn't implode because all citizens are treated equally, they do tend to loosen up. I offer New Hampshire as a case-in-point. They are even less socially-evolved than Rhode Island but somehow they made it work. So then why would you support civil unions over marriage? I think you're looking out for your own rear end, because you think it's safer to do what is easy rather than what's hard.
Please don't even try to position yourself as being strategic on the issue, you are being a coward and an uncle Tom. Shame on you. You know Civil Unions are nothing more than separate but equal treatment under the law and therefore, nothing more than a sham. How you could sell your own people short to take the safe way out makes me question your character.
Any temptation I've ever had to move to Providence after your Pride festivities has since dissipated when I learned of your position on this issue. If GLBT people cannot even rely on their gay elected officials in their own state, I can't see why they would stay put where they are clearly not welcome. Especially when there's two "free states" close by. You have no prayer of attracting the educated creative-class professionals it takes to grow an economy as long as your people truly aren't free. Pandering to the old farts who'll soon be dead is a recipe for disaster.
It bears repeating: shame on you.
Heath McKay
Democrat (and happily gay-married professional)
Boston, MA
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Am I jaded or is it just "Low T"
Birthdays, my own in particular, make me introspective. With the specter of a passing year looming, I begin to wonder if the most interesting years have passed me by. Now that's not to say I'm unhappy or that my life, which can be summed up as being married to a great guy, with a good job and two wonderful dogs, is at all a let-down. It really isn't. It's just that it seems a lot like the goal, not the journey towards it. And then, suddenly, the age of 37 seems very old indeed.
I'm not sure how this happened so quickly. Nothing really seems to be that long ago. I remember being an anguished teenager pretty vividly. Now I'm an anguished adult. Childhood, which seemed to take forever, is really just a blink when you take the sum of those years and add them to 17. Thinking about it is depressing.
And as much as I try to wrap myself in the comfort of nostalgia (which my slightly younger husband mocks), listening to the music of my youth (or even someone else's youth), really seems to only punctuate the passage of time. Seriously, if I listen to disco -- which I love, I start to feel bad for people who are old enough to have lived through that era knowing that whatever aging drama I'm suffering through must only be amplified by the fact that they are past the halfway point in life. Next stop: Depends undergarments, maybe some shuffleboard at a raisin ranch and all too soon, death.
And I think "I'm headed there too." And it will come in the same blink it took to get here.
This internal dialogue seems to really put a damper on my ability to enjoy a moment, perhaps because I'm constantly reminding myself to enjoy the moment so much that it has passed.
Also, as I've gotten older, I've started to approach situations with expectations. Having had formulative years that really were pretty damn fun (or at least, I remember them that way), I carry that expectation of beguilement with me into situations. Then I find even the novel has little by way of novelty. In the rare occasion situations don't come up wanting or I realize that I'm too tired to have that much fun. Really, what the fuck?
Is life over the age of 35 underwhelming by design? Did we evolve to wind down from thrill-seeking to comfort zone for our own good? Seriously, when you're chasing after a buffalo (or whatever) on the plains of Africa the last thing you want to worry about is an old fart who thinks he can keep up.
Maybe we are hardwired to be jaded so we don't get lured away to danger (or in my more modern case, a dance club) and stay the fuck home, by the fire, telling stories -- passing on what we have and what we know as our last useful act in life.
Or maybe, now that I have a commercial to put my mind to the possibility, it's all wrong. This isn't how it's supposed to be. I might just have low T.*
*Low T is short for Low Testosterone, for those of you who are safe from the American pharmaceutical industry's marketing machine.
I'm not sure how this happened so quickly. Nothing really seems to be that long ago. I remember being an anguished teenager pretty vividly. Now I'm an anguished adult. Childhood, which seemed to take forever, is really just a blink when you take the sum of those years and add them to 17. Thinking about it is depressing.
And as much as I try to wrap myself in the comfort of nostalgia (which my slightly younger husband mocks), listening to the music of my youth (or even someone else's youth), really seems to only punctuate the passage of time. Seriously, if I listen to disco -- which I love, I start to feel bad for people who are old enough to have lived through that era knowing that whatever aging drama I'm suffering through must only be amplified by the fact that they are past the halfway point in life. Next stop: Depends undergarments, maybe some shuffleboard at a raisin ranch and all too soon, death.
And I think "I'm headed there too." And it will come in the same blink it took to get here.
This internal dialogue seems to really put a damper on my ability to enjoy a moment, perhaps because I'm constantly reminding myself to enjoy the moment so much that it has passed.
Also, as I've gotten older, I've started to approach situations with expectations. Having had formulative years that really were pretty damn fun (or at least, I remember them that way), I carry that expectation of beguilement with me into situations. Then I find even the novel has little by way of novelty. In the rare occasion situations don't come up wanting or I realize that I'm too tired to have that much fun. Really, what the fuck?
Is life over the age of 35 underwhelming by design? Did we evolve to wind down from thrill-seeking to comfort zone for our own good? Seriously, when you're chasing after a buffalo (or whatever) on the plains of Africa the last thing you want to worry about is an old fart who thinks he can keep up.
Maybe we are hardwired to be jaded so we don't get lured away to danger (or in my more modern case, a dance club) and stay the fuck home, by the fire, telling stories -- passing on what we have and what we know as our last useful act in life.
Or maybe, now that I have a commercial to put my mind to the possibility, it's all wrong. This isn't how it's supposed to be. I might just have low T.*
*Low T is short for Low Testosterone, for those of you who are safe from the American pharmaceutical industry's marketing machine.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Are you Loko?
The RGUs are up in arms about Four Loko, a malt energy drink (it probably tastes like antifreeze) that's being referred to as Blackout In a Can. Naturally, college students, who are often new to the pleasures of drinking and therefore new to the concept of limits, are binging on it. Never missing a chance to practice their 'concerned face' for the cameras, newsanchors for the sensationalistic media are all over the story like Snookie to a warm body (or a large barnyard animal).
Four Loko is not unlike many energy drink + alcohol combos. The 'upper' aspect of the caffeine makes people feel energetic and often that they can stay up and drink more. Mixed in there is the 'downer,' good old alcohol. It has the same effects as Red Bull and Vodka only nobody has to take the trouble to mix it.
Naturally, stupid people are drinking entirely too much, they are getting sick, parents are demanding answers (you know, because they never saw or heard of anyone drinking too much in college) and they are blaming...*drum roll*...the drink.
As usual, personal responsibility never comes up in this conversation. Who has any use for that? They want this product off the shelves tout de suite.
Now as usual, I have to hearken back to my own college days. Did I drink? Yes. Of course I did! Did I need to get my stomach pumped? No. Did I wrap my car around a tree? Absolutely not. Did I die? Apparently not. Did I turn out to be a functioning member of society? What it means to function remains up for debate, but I'm here nontheless.
You see, I didn't have helicopter parents, but then, my Dad was a cop. While you would assume that would mean he would be tougher on us -- and he was in some aspects, Dad's realm was in reality. He would see first hand what teenagers -- even the supposed 'good kids' -- were up to on every weekend detail he worked. All said, I guess that was nothing compared to some of the other more sinister stuff he'd see on the beat. Presumably as a result, I was constantly being warned about the evils of the world, but I was also being educated about how to make my way through it.
For example, he knew my sister and I were going to drink, but he made it clear that if we did so, we were not to drive. If our friend was driving, they were expected to remain sober. If not, we were to call Dad who would give us a ride home, no questions asked and no lectures. Then again, if we didn't do the right thing, in all probability any number of his cop friends would be on the lookout for us anyway. Ahh, small town America.
The point is, we were expected to take personal responsibility for our actions. We knew what alcohol did, how it affected us, what the meaning of moderation was and by the time we got to college, drinking wasn't a really big deal. So while my friends binged and binged hard, I looked out for them. Maybe the RGUs who sent them away to school should be thanking my parents?
While I don't want to bruise myself, or those who spawned me, with all this back-patting, my point is this: at some point your kids will become adults -- perhaps not perfect ones, but full grown people who need to make their own choices and accept the consequences of their actions. You cannot sanitize their world for them -- it won't work, many have tried and failed. In addition to annoying the rest of us, you're wasting valuable energy fighting an uphill battle that's more about your fears and need for control than it is about raising your children. Once they leave the nest things are out of your control, so maybe it would be better to prepare them for life's experiences in the hopes they'll navigate them responsibly rather than try to send them off in a bubble?
Of course, if your kids are super-stupid, please do the rest of the world a favor: buy them a case of Four Loko and tell them to go for a swim.
Four Loko is not unlike many energy drink + alcohol combos. The 'upper' aspect of the caffeine makes people feel energetic and often that they can stay up and drink more. Mixed in there is the 'downer,' good old alcohol. It has the same effects as Red Bull and Vodka only nobody has to take the trouble to mix it.
Naturally, stupid people are drinking entirely too much, they are getting sick, parents are demanding answers (you know, because they never saw or heard of anyone drinking too much in college) and they are blaming...*drum roll*...the drink.
As usual, personal responsibility never comes up in this conversation. Who has any use for that? They want this product off the shelves tout de suite.
Now as usual, I have to hearken back to my own college days. Did I drink? Yes. Of course I did! Did I need to get my stomach pumped? No. Did I wrap my car around a tree? Absolutely not. Did I die? Apparently not. Did I turn out to be a functioning member of society? What it means to function remains up for debate, but I'm here nontheless.
You see, I didn't have helicopter parents, but then, my Dad was a cop. While you would assume that would mean he would be tougher on us -- and he was in some aspects, Dad's realm was in reality. He would see first hand what teenagers -- even the supposed 'good kids' -- were up to on every weekend detail he worked. All said, I guess that was nothing compared to some of the other more sinister stuff he'd see on the beat. Presumably as a result, I was constantly being warned about the evils of the world, but I was also being educated about how to make my way through it.
For example, he knew my sister and I were going to drink, but he made it clear that if we did so, we were not to drive. If our friend was driving, they were expected to remain sober. If not, we were to call Dad who would give us a ride home, no questions asked and no lectures. Then again, if we didn't do the right thing, in all probability any number of his cop friends would be on the lookout for us anyway. Ahh, small town America.
The point is, we were expected to take personal responsibility for our actions. We knew what alcohol did, how it affected us, what the meaning of moderation was and by the time we got to college, drinking wasn't a really big deal. So while my friends binged and binged hard, I looked out for them. Maybe the RGUs who sent them away to school should be thanking my parents?
While I don't want to bruise myself, or those who spawned me, with all this back-patting, my point is this: at some point your kids will become adults -- perhaps not perfect ones, but full grown people who need to make their own choices and accept the consequences of their actions. You cannot sanitize their world for them -- it won't work, many have tried and failed. In addition to annoying the rest of us, you're wasting valuable energy fighting an uphill battle that's more about your fears and need for control than it is about raising your children. Once they leave the nest things are out of your control, so maybe it would be better to prepare them for life's experiences in the hopes they'll navigate them responsibly rather than try to send them off in a bubble?
Of course, if your kids are super-stupid, please do the rest of the world a favor: buy them a case of Four Loko and tell them to go for a swim.
The Two Olive Dirty Glossary
Sometimes my friends accuse me of speaking in code, which is understandable since half of them helped me come up with the acronyms and terms I use every day. Some of these may not be unique to my vocabulary. I borrow from pop culture like it's a bank -- it is, after all, what it's there for.
CDBs - Corporate Douchebags - Not everyone who works for a corporation is a CDB, on the contrary, most of us regard our careers as a way to make ends meet (a necessary evil) while inducing as little self-loathing as possible. We may even enjoy what we do to some degree (in abstract, anyway). The CDB on the other hand can think of nothing but. The CDB feels most comfortable in a suit and he/she natters on about work or business wherever they are: the gym, the elevator, an airplane or on the shitter. They are terribly self-important and unbearably self-entitled. They think their importance (however deluded) in their company translates beyond the office and annoy the crap out of all those around them.
BCDBs - Baby Corporate Douchebags - The pupa stage of the above. They have not yet attained their definition of "success," but will kiss so much ass to do it that kissing them must be akin to giving a 300 lb homeless man a rim job. The BCDB will chuck people under the bus in a very indescriminate manner, figuring wrongly that if everyone else looks bad, they'll look good.
Yeah Dudes - Think 20-something just out of college guys in Dockers and button downs, usually proto-BCDBs, hanging out after work in a bar desperately trying to bond. Their complete lack of personalities probably stem from the fact that they've had everything handed to them. They begin most sentences with "yeah dude..." as filler for the fact they have nothing real to say. In large numbers, it's almost deafening.Yeah Dudes hang out in the Yeah Dude Bar. Tucker Max, author of "I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell" is their king despite the fact that he's almost too interesting (he did something creative, after all and creatives and Yeah Dudes are like oil and water).
RGUs - Real Grown Ups - RGUs always do what their supposed to. They'll never drink to get drunk -- but will feel awfully naughty if they have that second glass of merlot. Since they only hang out with each other, they have no idea how tedious they are. Typically, their greatest aspiration is living out the American dream to the letter. These are the helicopter parents who'd leave their kids in the womb until the age of 40 if they could. The world could never be sanitized enough for their liking. RGUs are afraid of absolutely everything, but what scares them most is that they will be unable to manipulate the world around them, they shudder at the very real fact that they actually have little control over their lives and the lives of others. Rather than accept it, they'll just try harder.
PIFT - Person I'm Fake To - While Sex in the City coined the term 'frenemy' and the concept is similar, there are key differences. A 'frenemy' is either someone in your social circle you can't stand but with whom you have no direct quarrel or someone you loathe and don't trust, but keep them close by to keep a watch on them. A PIFT really is the absence of feeling -- you're nice because you have no reason not to be, but they could get trapped in a mine and you wouldn't waste the energy to applaud with the others if they made their way out. PIFTs often like you more than you could ever be bothered to notice them. PIFTs are awkward to encounter, because you'll have to make small talk so you don't seem like an asshole, but all the while you are just trying to remember his or her name for the 400th time.
Womp Womp - You know the canned sound on a game show when someone loses? Or when something unlucky happens on the Brady Bunch? It sounds a lot like 'womp womp' -- and a womp womp is just that. They are little bundles of negativity and have nothing positive to say. A womp womp is where a good time goes to die. Something is always wrong in the womp womp's world. And God forbid if the shit hits the fan in your life, because the womp womp will want to compete somehow. Did you get in a car accident? Well the womp womp probably has an inoperable tumor, so go whine somewhere else and spare yourself from feeling worse.
SO...HUM - Strung Out Hot Unfuckingbelievable Mess - Self explanatory, but it's all in the delivery. You're at a party and you see someone who looks like she just walked off the People of Walmart website. Just say, in a bored, unimpressed tone, "so....hum." And leave it at that.
CDBs - Corporate Douchebags - Not everyone who works for a corporation is a CDB, on the contrary, most of us regard our careers as a way to make ends meet (a necessary evil) while inducing as little self-loathing as possible. We may even enjoy what we do to some degree (in abstract, anyway). The CDB on the other hand can think of nothing but. The CDB feels most comfortable in a suit and he/she natters on about work or business wherever they are: the gym, the elevator, an airplane or on the shitter. They are terribly self-important and unbearably self-entitled. They think their importance (however deluded) in their company translates beyond the office and annoy the crap out of all those around them.
BCDBs - Baby Corporate Douchebags - The pupa stage of the above. They have not yet attained their definition of "success," but will kiss so much ass to do it that kissing them must be akin to giving a 300 lb homeless man a rim job. The BCDB will chuck people under the bus in a very indescriminate manner, figuring wrongly that if everyone else looks bad, they'll look good.
Yeah Dudes - Think 20-something just out of college guys in Dockers and button downs, usually proto-BCDBs, hanging out after work in a bar desperately trying to bond. Their complete lack of personalities probably stem from the fact that they've had everything handed to them. They begin most sentences with "yeah dude..." as filler for the fact they have nothing real to say. In large numbers, it's almost deafening.Yeah Dudes hang out in the Yeah Dude Bar. Tucker Max, author of "I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell" is their king despite the fact that he's almost too interesting (he did something creative, after all and creatives and Yeah Dudes are like oil and water).
RGUs - Real Grown Ups - RGUs always do what their supposed to. They'll never drink to get drunk -- but will feel awfully naughty if they have that second glass of merlot. Since they only hang out with each other, they have no idea how tedious they are. Typically, their greatest aspiration is living out the American dream to the letter. These are the helicopter parents who'd leave their kids in the womb until the age of 40 if they could. The world could never be sanitized enough for their liking. RGUs are afraid of absolutely everything, but what scares them most is that they will be unable to manipulate the world around them, they shudder at the very real fact that they actually have little control over their lives and the lives of others. Rather than accept it, they'll just try harder.
PIFT - Person I'm Fake To - While Sex in the City coined the term 'frenemy' and the concept is similar, there are key differences. A 'frenemy' is either someone in your social circle you can't stand but with whom you have no direct quarrel or someone you loathe and don't trust, but keep them close by to keep a watch on them. A PIFT really is the absence of feeling -- you're nice because you have no reason not to be, but they could get trapped in a mine and you wouldn't waste the energy to applaud with the others if they made their way out. PIFTs often like you more than you could ever be bothered to notice them. PIFTs are awkward to encounter, because you'll have to make small talk so you don't seem like an asshole, but all the while you are just trying to remember his or her name for the 400th time.
Womp Womp - You know the canned sound on a game show when someone loses? Or when something unlucky happens on the Brady Bunch? It sounds a lot like 'womp womp' -- and a womp womp is just that. They are little bundles of negativity and have nothing positive to say. A womp womp is where a good time goes to die. Something is always wrong in the womp womp's world. And God forbid if the shit hits the fan in your life, because the womp womp will want to compete somehow. Did you get in a car accident? Well the womp womp probably has an inoperable tumor, so go whine somewhere else and spare yourself from feeling worse.
SO...HUM - Strung Out Hot Unfuckingbelievable Mess - Self explanatory, but it's all in the delivery. You're at a party and you see someone who looks like she just walked off the People of Walmart website. Just say, in a bored, unimpressed tone, "so....hum." And leave it at that.
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