The latest shitstain

In today's episode, Newt Gingrich doesn't know what fascism is.

I suppose he's concerned about the sanctity of all three of his marriages, or perhaps the effect of these radicals on a country he worked so hard to keep honorable and moral. The man racked up eighty-four ethics violations. That's how much he loves America.

I think I just threw up a little in my mouth.

-R

At War With The Internet

So during my vacation, I visited my paternal grandparents. Lovely people - progressive far beyond the median of their generation, generous and humorous and fun to hang out with. They're strict Catholics, but they've never tried to force their beliefs on me - out of respect for my own decision-making as much as my parents, I hope. I'm always grateful for the time I get to spend with them.

Every so often, though, I'm reminded of the very small but very deep gulfs between our points of view - generational and philosophical, but primarily the latter. Very specifically, this time they both stated that they'd voted for Prop 8, in accordance with Catholic stances on marriage and homosexuality. I can't say I'm surprised, but it was kind of a kick in the gut regardless to see them on the other side of what may be the defining civil rights issue of my generation. (Kudos to Ben in SF for sparking my realization of that one.)

I didn't want to argue it with them - not after the fact, and not when I only really get to see them two days a year at best. But it got me to thinking - my grandparents are certainly not the only generally fair-minded, liberal and generous people who supported that awful legislation for reasons of their own. And I imagine a lot of those people are younger, less set in their ways, and may well be convinced to change their minds before the next time this thing comes up to public vote, as it inevitably will. I don't live in California anymore, and I'm woefully inadequate at public activism, but goddamnit, I can argue. Words are my friends.

So, I've been making it my mission to delve through the dark corners of the Intertubes, seeking out Pro-8 voters willing to discuss their motivations, and holding them up to a microscope. I'm doing my best to be respectful of their personal views - even the ones I find personally noxious and hateful - and debate it on their own territory. I guess in a way I'm arguing with my grandfather (one of the smartest and most logically consistent people I've ever known) by proxy; maybe if he's still around the next time this comes up, I'll be ready to try it.

I don't know if I'm going to change any minds with this, but it's worth trying. November 4th was a victory overall, but it was pocked with loss here and there, and this one was a real tragedy. It's very much the least I can do.

-R

It lives, kind of

(Cross-posted from my FASEBUKLAWL. Perhaps I shall write an actual blog entry tomorrow, with some trenchant thoughts on the election results that aren't just juvenile stone-flinging in the general direction of John McCain.)

I've been back in SF for a week now and jesus christ do I love this city.

It's kind of horrific how much of a difference being 21 makes - so much more to do, so many more options. Not just the drinking age, of course, but being more or less self-sufficient, with the resources and wherewithal to enjoy the City to its full potential, or at least as much as I can with a couple hundred bucks in one week (which, it turns out, is a whole fucking lot.) I feel like I understand San Francisco's status as a destination better than I did when I lived here - how it earned that capital C, so to speak.

Of course, a lot of it is just being on vacation, having no cares or responsibilities for a week, and having a bunch of friends all likewise suffused with a cheery reminiscent glow - this is a good place for that sort of thing. But even taking this into account, San Francisco still feels like the place where I want to end up. Like home.

This means, of course, that I'm going to need to make a fuckton of money, which means that I'm going to need to get my ass in gear what with doing important life/work/school-related things. Grrnnnssshhggh. I'll really need to practice that self-motivation thing, and so on. I like to think that with the election over (and HOW) I'll have more time to do things because I won't be constantly F5ing Google News; the fact is, though, I am stellar at self-distraction and always have been. So that's not likely to change all at once.

Clearly, I need to acquire a girlfriend to cajole me into doing something with my life. How does one go about doing that again? It's been a while. Fucking humans. This is, perhaps, not the best plan.

In any case, my stream of consciousness is rapidly petering out. Maybe I can at least make myself blog/note/what have you more often, and get back into the habit of writing daily. And maybe, just maybe, I can continue on with my various time-consuming hobbies while simultaneously getting my life a bit more on track, and still be a reasonably pleasant and sane human being. It's thoroughly possible.

I mean, who needs sleep anyway? The City beckons, bitches!

Other Things John McCain Can't Remember

I'm sure you're all well familiar with Senator McCain's unfortunate and moderately hilarious inability to remember the number of houses he owns. While his campaign continues to scramble to respond, Lies and Perfidy (a trustworthy source is ever there was one!) is proud to bring you a list of other things that John McCain's people are going to have to get back to you about.

-Introducing a bill that, among other things, removed the requirement for the American government to purchase Harleys, despite their pleasant roar (infinitely preferable to the ear-splitting shriek of the trance-obsessed German in its natural habitat.)

-Which little lever on the Straight Talk Express controls the Honesty Windshield Wipers, and which one is the Forthrightness Brights. Also, where's the Standing By Your Principles Dashboard Lighter again?

-The one guy who'd make a good VP candidate. You know, the guy. With the hair.

-Jerome Corsi. (Justified: John McCain underwent extensive hypnotherapy in past years to erase from his brain any memory of Jerome Corsi's continued existence. Worth every penny.)

-The good old days when Cindy was a stunning little firecracker with an absurd amount of money, not a, well, you know.

-Which Hyjal boss drops that mainhand sword. Is it Anetheron or Azgalor? Anyway, John's saving his DKP for it, he needs an upgrade.

-A time before peanut butter and jelly sandwi - wait a second, he does remember that!

-The period of time where Rudy was a serious candidate for the presidency. (It was sometime between 9/11 and now.)

-Carol.

-Bands after ABBA. Because, you know, he was a POW. Actual excuse.

-The exact parallel of the hotly contested Texas-California border. Senator McCain is very disappointed in his inability to recall this, blaming his long years out of the military.

And the number one thing John McCain can't remember:

-Senator John McCain, the blunt, outspoken dissenter who bucked the neocon line on short-sighted tax cuts, refused to kowtow to the oppressive social conservatism of a fringe wing of his party's base, and promised to run a (relatively) high-minded campaign and not treat the American people like they were stupid and gullible.

-R

Prose

I'm working on a short-ish story which is in and of itself a prologue to a much longer work. Truly, my ambition knows no bounds.

Here's the intro, along with the first paragraph after the intro because the transition is one thing I wonder about. Comment away.

He is climbing a mountain, a steep jagged chunk of stone bursting out of the bowels of the world to wrench the breath from his lungs and the sweat from his body. Stone dust pricks at his eyes, gravel digs under his clothes into his skin, his hands are raw and bleeding, and he is still climbing. Perhaps he has been climbing forever. He cannot remember when he was not.

He is climbing a mountain because there is a woman climbing it, too, perhaps ten feet above him. She is a pale, flickering shape, with a tumbling cloud of cherry-red hair and a green dress unaffected by the tribulations of mountain-climbing. He has yet to see her face, but he is climbing after her, relentless, refusing to acknowledge his weariness as she refuses to acknowledge his presence.

He is climbing a mountain and she is getting closer, maybe eight feet now. His arm muscles are barbed vines corded around lightning, his back is ridged with terrific agonies, and his fingernails are ten tiny beacons for hordes of stinging wasps. But it could be seven feet now, only the space of a very tall man, and he keeps climbing. Her feet are bare, and this is indescribably exciting. He catches the flicker of bare legs too, and hauls himself up the jagged face of the rock just a bit faster.

He is climbing a mountain after a faceless, nameless woman, the frame of his body threatening to burst from his skin like Saint Guharrin’s. She is only a blur as he gets closer, the sweat staining his eyelids - very nearly within the reach of his arm now, and yet no clearer than when she was a dot of color in the distance. But it seems he has never seen a girl so desirable, and so he furiously scrabbles at the stone and forces his tortured body those last few strides.

He is climbing a mountain, inch by precious inch, his fingers digging into rock as if they would cut into the earth’s flesh. With one ferocious effort he stretches out his arm, and his gravel-scored fingers close around her ankle. The words are wrung from his throat, hoarse and bleeding in the air. “Your face. Let me see your face.” And she turns her head and looks down at him, smiling, and for an instant he appends the Grace of God.

Then they are falling from a mountain, his hand still locked around her slim ankle, the stones about them giving way to their weight. Her dress flutters in the air as they plummet. He cannot see her face. He cannot feel the cool blessing of her skin. He cannot find the breath to say he is sorry.

----------

Tarquin awoke to the steady hailstone tap of a knock on his door, one of those knocks that carried the intimation that this fist was using far less force than it could and very shortly would. There was hair in his mouth, vomit at the back of his throat, and a woman stirring groggily in his narrow bed. He stared at the sunlight coming in through his window and discovered that, as usual, this gave him absolutely no idea what time it was. The idea of choking down his bile and retreating to his fading dream appealed immensely, but the knocking was still coming and now the woman at his side was starting to mumble.

Bamf, content.

-R

Hnh.

It's only moderately horrifying to realize I'm the closest friend someone has in his or her life. Only moderately, I say, because there's little havoc I can wreak, but still horrifying because this person listens to me when I talk. Takes my advice. Gives credence to what I say on delicate matters. As near as I can tell, I am his/her closest confidante, boon companion, and most (perhaps only) loyal supporter.

Do not let me fuck this up.

Can we please all talk about this?

This is the funny version.

This is the one from the book.

This is the one where he gets caught flat-footed and leans on some pleasantly bleating sheep for support.

Seriously. I realize this is two months old but if anything that's more reason to talk about it, now that what puny excuse for initial furor there was has died down. Talk about it. Tell your friends. Print t-shirts. Chant it at "town hall meetings." This is not the mark of a stable and rational man with healthy relationships. And while I am a big fan of separating the political in the person, do we really want that guy talking with world leaders? For fuck's sake, turn this on him. Load up the big guns. Fire the cunt-cannon.

From now on I'm going to end every post with:

John McCain called his wife a cunt in public,
-R