The Little Red Hen

"I will," said the Little Red Hen. From The Washington Post, 25 June 2018

Well, damn. I did not see this coming.

To be honest, I have mixed feelings about this turn of events, asking Professional Liar and Trump Administration Accomplice Sarah Huckabee Sanders to leave a restaurant, The Red Hen, where she was having dinner on Friday evening, June 22. It comes on the heels of both Professional Ghoul Stephen Miller and Professional Liar in Charge of Homeland Security Kirstjen Nielsen being driven out, on separate occasions, from Mexican restaurants in Washington, D.C.--in this case, by customers, not the owners.

I know people with "moral convictions" will use these events as excuses to exclude and deny service to all sorts of people, based on perceptions of race, origin, gender, appearance, sexuality, sexual orientation, religion, beliefs, politics, etc. And despite the attempt to parse the recent "gay wedding cake" decision by the U.S. Supreme Court, that the problem wasn't what you did but how you did it, the takeaway from this for some is that it's OK to persecute some "minorities" but not others. And some evangelicals see themselves as a persecuted minority. (Hint: Just because people don't like you doesn't mean you're persecuted. Maybe you've made a nuisance of yourself and wrapped yourself in the flag and Jesus's garments one time too many. Maybe you're just unlikable.)

But despite my qualms, I'm impressed with the consultation the owner of The Red Hen held with her staff and risk the owner was willing to take in order to take a stand. I don't envy the backlash she's no doubt already receiving, but I admire and applaud her actions and her explanation for why she did so.

These aren't normal times. And acting like bigots, oppressors, liars, accomplices, and oligarchs should be greeted benignly, graciously, or politely, ignoring what they do in order to feed, clothe, or house them--well, that ended the day Mexican immigrants were labeled as rapists, the day white nationalists were deemed just another "side," the day yet another black person got shot just for trying not to get shot, the day another woman was assaulted and no one suffered any consequences, the day a reporter with a disability was mocked, the day someone had the legal right to deny baking a wedding cake for a couple because they saw it as "supportive of their lifestyle," the day that ... well, you get the picture.

Gay people asking for a wedding cake aren't committing or carrying out a "lifestyle choice." Black people, Mexicans, women, the differently abled, immigrants, and all the rest of us are just trying to live our lives. With Sarah Huckabee Sanders holding this job, stonewalling and lying to the press and the American people, using religious beliefs to justify the administration's often illegal, often unethical actions--these are lifestyle choices, choices that do great harm to many people.

Last time I checked, ordering a cake from a baker didn't cause the baker physical or mental harm.

If someone denied people having dinner at a restaurant because they were perceived to be religious or evangelical or simply because they're white, I'd be bothered by that, too. A lot. And I would speak out against it. I don't accept bigotry toward anyone. I may have to remind myself of this from time to time--like all of us, I have my blind spots--but I'm not in a position nor have as my life's mission the desire to hurt or harm others. Unlike the current crowd in Washington.

In this case, simply being isn't the problem. Actively lying to, oppressing, and demonizing others, making their lives less secure, even threatening and dangerous, then expecting to get away with it without consequence, now that's a problem.

And, America, we have a problem.

We think you should see other people

"It's not us. It's you."

Broken

There are two songs running around in my head these days. This is one of them, "Broken" by lovelytheband.

Normally, the lyrics and the video would annoy the hell out of me--and they do somewhat. I'm old, folks, so the video views like yet another entitled guy fantasy about a goofy-but-you-know-really-just-so-cool guy who gets the girl of his dreams, despite his complete social ineptitude. And the lyrics represent another entitlement fantasy--applicable to guy and girl alike--about how, like, you know, we're so different from everyone else, we're so misunderstood. And yet we're the stuff of every '80s rom com or "teen picture" by John Hughes. Just insert bad-but-antiseptic Brat Pack member of your choice.

Nonetheless, the video balances out the lyrics--it's definitely not maudlin or twee--and the lyrics balance out the video--they're delivered in a sexy, upbeat, slightly wry fashion. And then the music--pure early '80s new wave pop--brings everything together in one fantastic, holy union. Bravo, my lovelies.

I still see a "damaged" Rob Lowe and a "hurt" Ally Sheedy--or some such--in angst over their misunderstanding parents, or their parents divorce, or the fact that their parents didn't send them to the Ivy League school of their choice, blah blah blah. But I'm getting past it. Like I said, I'm old, and this song really doesn't relate to me. I don't consider myself broken. Bent maybe. Bowed perhaps. Scratched. Twisted and turned. Burnt around the edges. Scorched all over. Mangled. Beat up. Battered. Exploded. Firebombed. Molotov Cocktailed. Bloodied. Tossed off a moving train. Rolled out of speeding car. Dropped from a vintage biplane with only a tattered parachute to save me from falling into a river of Australian saltwater crocodiles.  But not broken. Definitely not broken.

And yet, gosh darn it, it's such a danged catchy, and I do love me some LA pop. So why not? I'll acknowledge being broken in order to enjoy this tune.

Made in the shade

Still somewhat of a work-in-progress even after months of dillying and dallying with the mix. But done nonetheless--and just in time for summer--my latest mix, "Hot in the Shade."

I started this mix late last year, in part in response to the coming of winter but also as an homage to the people and culture of Puerto Rico, post-Hurricane Maria. I didn't stick with that theme; I couldn't do it justice. Nonetheless, I will return to it before long. I need more music from Puerto Rico along with sound effects so that the mix becomes a sound montage of and tribute to America's forgotten colony.

Es triste.

Let them not eat cake

A half-world of perversion and degeneracy for us.

But wedding cake only available in full-world.

Hair Apparent II: Days of Out Lives

Author's note: I intentionally wrote "Out" lives, not "Our." Honest.

* * *

As we know, I've always watched soaps, at least for as long as I can remember--and I can remember pretty far back, to the playpen era of my days.

Days of Our Lives has popped into view on more than one occasion--back in the early '70s Doug-Addie-and-Julie salad days; during the early and mid '80s "Fancy Face" (gag) Hope and Bo (aka Hopeless and Bozo) era; and in the I-live-in-Texas-now-and-everyone-I-work-with-is-watching-Marlena-being-possessed-by-the-devil times in the mid- to late '90s.

But I've been absent from the scene for a while now. I loved the punch and pathos of Nicole's (Ari Zucker) storylines throughout the 2000s and followed the delectable James Scott from his role as Ethan Cambius on All My Children to his role as E.J. DiMera on Days. But we also endured a lot of "chain-yanking" storylines-to-nowhere thanks to James Reilly, the man who brought us a possessed Marlena (Diedre Hall) and a multidimensional Kristin (Eileen Davidson) but also tortured us with tedium and frustration as Marlena became (and then unbecame) the Salem Stalker and Sami, Austin, Carrie, and Mike Horton went through various couplings and uncouplings with only Alison Sweeney (Sami) being worth the trouble of hating/loving.

I don't know what prompted me to tune into Days recently--maybe it's as simple as I was home on a weekday and caught an episode, then caught another later that week, and then another. So now I find myself semi-hooked. Not committed, mind you, but intrigued at least. We had the return of Vivian Alamain (Louise Sorel) for a while and the disassociative identities of Abigail Horton DiMera, entertainingly portrayed by Marci Miller. We had a fun few days with Marlena, Vivian, and Kate (Lauren Koslow) being locked in a DiMera mansion secret room by Abby/Gabby/Dr. Laura, whiling away the time getting the play-by-play on Marlena's demonic possession. (Kate: "Well, you never really talk about it, and I've always wondered why.") There's enough story so far to keep me entertained, although I can't say that I really care about any of the characters.

But that could also be said about my approach to TV if not all media these days, whether scripted or reality-based. It's all a bit silly, whether it's Mad Men or Neighbours, The Handmaid's Tale or Isidingo, CNN or Dos mujeres, un camino. I can't get too worked up. I really can't be arsed to care because our media-makers no longer care. It's all circuses and no bread, but I need to cut down on the carbs anyway.

I predict that the revolution will be televised, but the broadcast will be interrupted repeatedly because the U.S. President tweeted out his daily grievances and character failings, there was a school shooting or a domestic/international terrorist incident, or Samantha Bee called the First Daughter a Very Bad Word. See you next Tuesday!

However, there is one character on Days that just might make me start "caring" (or something) again--and that is Xander, played by Scottish actor and Adonis-dressing-to-the-left-in-swimtrunks Paul Telfer.

Good gods in heaven, I would rob banks, birth children, and throw puppies and kittens from fast-moving Via trains for one night with Paul Telfer. Well, not so much him the actor (although I'm sure he has a lovely personality) or him the character (a bit too dark and menacing for my tastes), but his body, particularly his chest and the millions of dark hairs that cover its shapely greatness.

And by "night," I mean at least several weeks at a stretch, until one of us got tired of the other or had to go to work to earn enough to keep ourselves well-stocked in oysters and Viagra.

In the scene above, I honestly don't know how the actors kept their minds on their lines. Even the (I'm assuming) straight ones like Eric Martsolf (Brady Black), no shirtless slouch himself (although not my type at all). I don't think that even the most hetero of the hetero could look away from those headlights burning holes into your head where your eyes used to be.

I admit that it's slightly more likely that I would vote for Donald Trump in 2020 than it would come to pass that I'd do the beast with two backs with Mr. Telfer. Therefore, I'm willing to accept an alternative, a facsimile: Sex robots!

Despite the wailing of opinion writers and gnashing of Twitter users, I have absolutely no moral qualms about this cultural turn. In fact, I am already saving for my first one. Or ten.

Seriously, sex robots could help a lot of shy people like me loosen up and get better acquainted with our sexual natures--and for once in my gol'-darned life, sex robots would be all about me and my needs, not anybody else's. I don't care how intelligent they are, artificial or otherwise. I'm not investing in a platoon of willing, horny, hairy manbots because they're smart and good conversationalists--I'm opening a tax-free investment account with RBC because willing, hairy, horny manbots would be a hot way to spend a cold Canadian winter or even a mild but humid Toronto spring, summer, and fall. I figure by the time these fuck-machines take over the world, I will be dead and gone or at least too exhausted to care. By the time these digital manwhores start making policy and throwing the normies into jail, my Paul Telfer/Xander sex robot will have stopped being an object of my lust and instead will look as dated and dowdy as my youthful obsession with Gino Vannelli and his curly, flouncy hair (both head and chest). Bring it, WestWorld. I am not afraid. This is the kind of revolution I would embrace--likely with both arms and thighs.

Despite this wankfest designed as commentary, I do tend to shy away from these sorts of slavish devotions to actors and their bodies. I pride myself on being better than that, even though I'm not, just more discreet than most of my friends. Besides, living in the big city affords me the opportunity to fall in love a million times a day on the subway, the streetcar, and the street. It's always unrequited, slightly frustrating, but does no one any harm.

Nonetheless, a night with Paul Telfer (or his compliant robotic doppelganger) might keep me off the street for a few Days or more.

Call me, Paul. Write me, Apple. Do not text me, sex robot-hating moralists. We can make this fun, we can make this work, we can live a satisfying life of no-guilt, no-disease sexual pleasure with the biggest worry to health and humanity being some burnt-out motors and a few brown-outs in the neighborhood.

Unless some asshole scientist invents digital herpes.