RevSpork

Who's up for insomnia? I sure am!

I'm beginning to think I'm allergic to a regular sleep schedule.  After alternating days of three and thirteen hours of sleep, I've been taking melatonin the past four days, and the results: one night where I actually fell asleep and stayed asleep.  The first two nights I popped the 'tonin, knocked out, and woke up two hours later and could not fall back asleep.  Tonight has been a total loss, sleepwise.  And of course this is the first time in several days I need to wake up early, in this case 7:30am. 

I have a dental appointment in the morning, and after that I'll get my haircut, so I can look less caveman-like for my delightful job interview in the sticks on Thursday, a job I might actually have to turn down (depending on which position the company may offer me) because the idea of a 2 1/2 hour commute to work (yes, 2 1/2 hours just in one direction) could lead me to commit civil unrest after less than a week on the job.  Of those five hours, three would be on a bus.  The only time I've spent three hours of my day on a bus was taking the Peoria Charter from O'Hare back to college.  And that was far more tolerable because there were only three stops the entire way, and it was a far more scenic route than Golf Road from Evanston to Schaumburg.  Let's face it: once you've been to Schaumburg, the only reason to return is Ikea's Swedish meatballs. 

Bah.  It's pushing 2:30am.  Perhaps I should try passing out again.  Wish me luck.  Maybe tomorrow I'll walk to the CVS to see if there's any other knockout drops I could try.  I hear hemlock's a pretty good sleep aid.

The $3.8 million maidenhead

I've been following this story for a while, and I've read the opinions of this young woman (mostly negative), and for the life of me, I can't understand what the fuss is about.  Neither can she.  After all, she's only putting up her virginity to the highest bidder so she can afford graduate school.

Before we set forth, let us define female virginity, at least for the sake of this blog post.  Since it can be determined so easily, the physical definition dominates in most societies: once a woman's hymen is broken, she is no longer a virgin.  However, as gynecologists (and ladies) are aware, a broken hymen can occur from non-sexual activity: an accident, horseback riding, or a medical problem.  (The writer Florence King once described a trip to the gynecologist when she was a teenager; she was suffering from unusually painful menstrual cramps, and the doctor decided to break her hymen [not in the traditional way] in hopes of correcting the problem.  So that her future husband wouldn't be offended by the lack of blood on the wedding night bedsheets, the doctor presented her with a certificate of virginity.)  The converse of this is that sexual intercourse doesn't necessarily break the hymen.  Although there are other common methods of sexual intercourse that do not involve the vagina, the broken hymen through sexual intercourse is still considered the symbol of lost female virginity, so for the sake of this post, we'll go with that.

"Natalie Dylan" (not her real name) has the religious right all worked up, probably because there's absolutely nothing they can do about this young woman and her auction.  Everything about this auction is completely legal: the transaction would take place at the Moonlite Bunny Ranch, a legal brothel in Nevada.  The auction itself is private, handled by the Bunny Ranch.  Ms. Dylan announced the auction on (where else?) Howard Stern's radio show last September, and it's been garnering publicity ever since.  And everyone involved benefits: Ms. Dylan makes a few million for less than an hour's worth of work, the Bunny Ranch gets a ton of publicity, and the winner gets laid. 

In a country where virginity pledges are frequently made (and just as frequently broken), where teenage girls kneel before their fathers in purity balls, I find it almost refreshing that someone placed a value on female virginity.  (Male virginity, of course, isn't worth a nickel.)  On the other hand, one should ask the question: what's the big deal about female virginity?

There are several theories out there about the value of female virginity, from sociological to anthropological to theological.  And I could write an entire book about the subject if there weren't already more than a few out there already.  One could ask the owners and ex-owners of "their virtue," I suppose, but one will probably find just as many reasons as there are theories.  I've had my share of girlfriends as well as two marriages and dozens of female friends, and their own reasons (and, by extension, how they valued their virginity) vary widely.  Some just wanted to get their virginity out of the way; they found it little more than a nuisance and decided to lose it quietly and quickly.  Others placed a certain value on it, waiting until their wedding night to lose it.  Many others were somewhere in between, waiting for the "ideal boy," or offering it to a long-time boyfriend, or sleeping with an acquaintance in their dorm room.  Some were cold sober, others drank or otherwise medicated themselves to fight off their unease.  Some planned it weeks or months in advance, others succumbed to a whim.  There are also the tragic instances of rape or other sexual abuse.  Whatever the circumstances, they placed a certain value (presumbly non-monetary) on their virginity, and I'll bet none of them thought $3.8 million. 

Why is Ms. Dylan doing this?  Her stated reason is to pay for her graduate school studies, but given her appearance on Howard Stern's radio show, her motives do not strike me as (forgive the pun) pure.  She picked her publicity well; she chose a high-profile brothel with national exposure (it had been featured on HBO's show "Cathouse") as her sponsor, she chatted with Howard Stern, shrewdly tapping into the obvious audience to promote her and her auction.  She is not a poor little lady desperate to pay her bills.  There are other ways of paying for graduate school.  Is Natalie Dylan a fraud?  After all, it's a private auction.  It's quite possible.  I doubt it, though.  

In my opinion, when you tear away the publicity, the morals, and the sociological implacations of placing a monetary value on a maidenhead, what you have is a simple transaction.  And if our society values capitalism above other institutions, this transaction should have no more sociological, moral, or publicity value than purchasing a tangerine at the grocery store.  And maybe, just maybe, if more young ladies sold off their virtue to pathetic millionaires, folks would see the loss of virginity not as some holy icon on the mantle, but as a perfectly natural activity on the road to adulthood.  Or at least the price might go down.

One more day

Our long, national nightmare is (almost) over."

Feels like it, doesn't it? Not entirely, of course: the moment we dare look around, a lot of us think the same thing: how in the hell are we going to get out of this?

I'm sure Americans thought this in 1933 when Franklin Roosevelt gave his inaugural address. The country was in a state of near-collapse. We were scared. Then we got that line from FDR: "The only thing we have to fear is fear itself." Makes sense, doesn't it? That line achieved immortality because of its simple but universal truth.

The Bush administration not only fed on our fear, but thrived on it for most of the decade. Immediately after 9/11, Americans were in a state of shock. Many of us were fearful. At the same time, we were angry and determined. As after any crisis in this nation, we wanted to help, and we wanted our government to make sure the circumstances that led to the tragedy were fixed so that it would not happen again.

But the Bushies didn't want that. They weren't comfortable with a populace aroused to action. And they certainly didn't want us to know the circumstances that led to 9/11, let alone demand they be corrected. "Shut up, go shopping, don't question us. We know what's right. And yes, you should be scared. Very scared. Stay scared. We'll let you know when you can be scared a little more or a little less, but stay scared." Like any anti-democratic leader, they simultaneously fed us and fed off our fears, to the point where we were scared of everything. And in the meantime, the Bushies looted the nation, alienated every other nation on earth, and played us for the fools we were.

Can you imagine a more screwed-up eight years? It's been a mixture of horror and surrealism. It's like we've been living in a Ken Russell movie since the 2000 election, the most surreal of presidential elections in this country. Since then, we've lost the World Trade Center, most of New Orleans, the goodwill of the world, and our economy. We're mired in two wars, both of which are stalemates at best. Nearly every major industry in the nation is in dire straits. And practically all of it can be traced directly to the Bush administration.

We didn't vote Barack Obama into the presidency because he was black, or a good guy who can talk a good palaver, or even necessarily because we thought he was the best candidate. We voted for Obama because he was the candidate furthest away from anything Bush-y. He was the candidate who spoke to our fears with reassurance, not with exploitation. Had FDR not spoken that quote about fear, I suspect Obama would have come up with it.

Obama won't fix everything right away, and he knows it as well as we do. We know these fixes may take years. And he might even screw up on occasion. But he won't compound his errors by scaring us. The only thing we had to fear was Bush himself, and his ass is out the door.

Krispy Kreme wants to eat your fetus

As some of you long-time readers are aware, I've been burned before in the right-wing loony news (remember the I-69 brouhaha?), but this time, in the spirit of journalistic (or blog-tastic) accuracy, I did a little more delving, and it turns out it's true: A pro-life group is attacking Krispy Kreme, tasty doughnut-maker, for supporting abortions.

Just how are they supporting abortion? This Tuesday, on Inauguration Day, Krispy Kreme is offering a "free doughnut of a customer's choice."

What's got the pro-lifers (specifically, the American Life League) in a pro-life snit? The word "choice." That's it. You think I'm falling for another one, don't you? Nope. Here it is.

I could go on with jokes about how anything with the word "choice" in it could cause otherwise red-blooded Americans to want to abort fetuses. Choice cuts of meat? Hoo boy. Your choice of 12 CDs for a penny? Not so bad. Devo's album "Freedom of Choice"? You are SO screwed. But no, I think the press release speaks for itself. With pro-lifers like the American Life League going off the deep end, moderates on the issue like yours truly are left struggling to convince others that, no, I'm not that crazy. It's enough to make me abort my lunch.

An impatient man

There's something about waiting for word on a job that ups the suspense so much, you can't do anything else.  Everything stops.  Will the Reverend get a job?  Stay tuned. 

I was told last week, after my second interview, that I'd get word of whether I got the job...this week.  It's Thursday now, and I'm losing my mind.  I've hardly looked for work all week, haven't done many chores, ignored the cats...it's as if any movement, any sign of doing something, any lack of waiting, might prevent me from getting The Phone Call, or will somehow jinx the whole thing. 

This attitude, of course, is stupid.  Interview or no interview, job prospect or no, I should keep going.  There's no guarantee that an interview, even a second interview, will get me the gig.  Since I quit my Borders gig six months ago, I've had five interviews - all of which netted me zilch.  This fact, more than anything, should get me off my ass and throw myself back into looking for work, but somehow I can't quite do it. 

I'm not a waiting person.  I'm not a patient man.  I've never been able to sit still.  So why does waiting for a simple phone call stop me cold?  Why does waiting for a simple phone call or e-mail keep me in bed, or squidding on the computer, or dawdling around the apartment?  What the hell is wrong with me?

I just want to know.  That's all I ask.

Do as I say, not as I do

The above sentence sounds like hypocrisy, but it's not.  The only reason I say what I do not do is only because I lack the clout to do so, so I'm stuck with merely saying it.  (Got that?)  This post begins a short series of challenges I dare to solve in writing but not in action.  This is also known as an editorial. 

Part 1: Blagojevich and Burris

Problem: Blago, happily corrupt since the previous century, nominated Roland Burris, mild-mannered former comptroller and attorney general, to fill Barack Obama's old Senate seat.  Blago did this although he had previously promised not to do so.  Burris is an amusing character, combining an aw-shucks demeanor with an ego so huge, he keeps his resumé in a cemetary.  He's given zillions of bucks to Blago's campaign chest, but everything seems to be on the square.  Only a technicality prevents Burris from taking his seat in the Senate, a technicality much of the Senate clings to like a lifesaver.  Blago has now been impeached, and the odds are pretty good that he and his scary hair will be tossed out of office.  However, the process could take months, and given the state of the nation and the Senate's not-so-filibuster proof majority, Democrats really can't afford the empty seat (actually, three empty seats, depending on the Minnesota lawsuit and the pending replacement of Hilary Clinton).  Obama wants the matter settled, and fast.  What to do?

Answer: Seat Burris and get it over with.  The Senate can't hold out forever - legal precedent is on Burris's side, he's a solid Democrat, and there's no proof he did anything illegal to be selected by Blago.  (If we find out later Burris paid for the pleasure of sitting in the Senate, the body can vote to expel him, an action better grounded in legal precedent and thus harder for Burris to win a case if he chose to fight expulsion.)  And let's face it: as cynical and craven Blago's action was, his selection of Burris is totally legal.  Seat Burris, give him a couple tiny subcommittees to play with, and let him at least function as a senator. 

So Burris is in the Senate.  Will he run in 2010 to keep the seat?  I think he will regardless of any "deals" he might make with Senate leadership, the reason being that any deal like that has nil chance of holding up in court, and Burris would find it easy to break.  Let him run in 2010 - unless he turns out to be a fantastic Illinois senator, he will not survive the primary.  As much as he'd like to think otherwise, Burris is tainted with the Blago slime; he'd have to run a primary campaign with few campaign contributions, few major endorsements, and little support from the Illinois congressional delegation. 

But if the Senate could only hold out until Blago is tossed out of office...uh, no.  Let's say the Senate refuses to seat Burris and holds fast against the lawsuit by the would-be senator until Blago is removed from office.  His successor, Pat Quinn, then names a "proper" successor to Barack Obama, and the Senate moves to seat that person.  Do you honestly believe Roland Burris will say "okey dokey," drop his lawsuit, and fly back to his political consulting firm?  Yeah, right.  What we'd have is a massive political mess oozing through the court system for months, during which time the seat would still remain empty.  And by the time it got resolved (more than likely in Burris's favor), it would be about that time for the 2010 senatorial campaign to get started.  In other words, a bunch of wasted time, wasted energy, wasted money, and a thistle in Obama's sock as he attempts to get the nation back on track.  Which is probably what Blago really wants out of this brouhaha.  And if the race card didn't get played during this time, I'd not only eat my hat, I'd eat my wife's hat too.  Oh, wait, it already has been played.  Never mind. 

So my opinion: seat Burris, give him a coaster and a Pepsi, and let it go until next year.

Wasting away in Holidayland

I need to speed up again.  I've slowed down a lot since Xmas and haven't bounced back yet.  When you have a job, you're essentially forced back into Reality Land; if I had a nickel for every facebook status on Sunday that read, "...is not looking forward to tomorrow," I'd empty out quite a few gumball machines, presuming there are any gumball machines left on the planet that still take nickels.  So many of you plopped into bed, got up eight hours later, and dragged your ass to work.  Some did this the day after New Years, others right after Xmas.  Then there are the unemployed, for whom the holiday vacation never seems to end. 

For a lot of folks, the holidays are a time to slow down, or at least shift emotional gears from work to home.  You're going to see relatives, you might be cooking, you're finishing up shopping for family and friends, you're going to have the kids out of school for two weeks.  For those looking for work, it's the same deal: your work search slows down, you're spending more time doing holiday stuff, and you devote an entire string of days not only not looking for work, but not even thinking about it.  Besides, there are few jobs posted out there because those people in charge of posting jobs (who, after all, have jobs) are doing the same thing most folks with jobs are doing: getting ready for the holidays.  So I spent very little time between Xmas Eve and New Years Day looking for work.  And unfortunately, I got used to not looking.

Now people have gone back to work, forced back into the work mindset.  People whose jobs include posting jobs are posting away.  But mentally, I'm still in Holidayland.  There was no prospect of getting up to go to work to jolt me out of Holidayland, so my brain still resides there. 

Holidayland is a nice, quiet, sleepy place when the holidays are over.  It's like hanging out at your college campus between semesters: the students are away, the campus bars have open tables on Friday nights, and you practically own the quad.  Problem is, you really don't belong there.  There was a sound, logical reason the campus was empty in July: students didn't need to be there.  And as peaceful and quiet Holidayland is in the middle of January, I shouldn't be there.  My presence there is anomalous; I'm not supposed to exist there.

I had a second interview on Monday for a part-time gig, and I should find out if I got the job sometime next week.  I also return to volunteering at Open Books on Thursday, and I hope that will provide a substitute work jolt.  Either way, I need to get my ass out of Holidayland.  It might be peaceful, but it's boring as hell.

The most amazing luck

Life as a sentient being can be complicated.  There are many reasons for this: most have to do with civilization and its arcane rules and regulations thrust upon us.  Technology certainly plays a role: nothing complicates life more than attempts to simplify it.  Even within the rigamorole of modern life, however, there are questions with easy answers; answers so simple, it's not even necessary to speak them aloud.  So when my phone rang this morning, and I saw my aunt's name on the caller ID, I knew the answer to my question before I even picked up the phone. 

My grandmother was 89 years old.  She had been fighting off pneumonia recently and was feeling better, but when you're pushing nine decades, any illness can turn on a dime.  According to my aunt, she died peacefully.  She was my last grandparent to pass away. 

We had an interesting relationship, my grandmother and I.  I lived with her and Grandpa during my adolescence.  She was the peacemaker in a family that really, really needed one.  Sometimes she failed in her role, but for the most part she kept the rest of us from murdering each other.  She was the keeper of hard truths, but hid many of them for the sake of family harmony.  She could be blunt: "Richard, your sense of humor is warped!" is my fondest of her assessments of me.  When her hands were cold, she'd call me over to warm them with my own.  Even as a cranky, depressed teenager, I never denied her my hands. 

She hated to cook, yet nobody taught me more about it.  A funny story: I was helping her with Sunday dinner as I usually did.  The Sunday menu was typical: pasta (usually ziti) with red sauce (as an Italian of an older generation, she called it "gravy"), and sausage, meatballs, and neckbones (grandma and I loved gnawing on the neckbones) to flavor up the sauce.  While making the sauce, she accidentally poured sesame seeds into it.  I pointed it out to her, and she was horrified.  We didn't want to start over with the sauce, so we decided to keep the seeds in there and not tell anyone.  The sauce was a hit; everyone complimented her on the sauce and didn't notice the extra ingredient until we told them halfway through the meal. 

She put up with a lot from me, and I loved her without reservations.  We had our own routines.  We played Rummikub in the kitchen, occasionally Scrabble.  We drank coffee while we played, chatted about things.  I don't know if I was her favorite grandchild, but she tolerated my quirks, which was just as important.  She did not approve my quirkiness, mind you.  She didn't applaud me when, for example, I borrowed her razor to shave my face and instead sheared everything between my forehead and waist.  In instances like that, her face would turn stony, and she'd remind me as to the state of my sense of humor.  She was incredibly - and impressively -unflappable.  How could I not love her? 

Overall, my life has been short of good fortune, but in the case of my grandparents, I had the most amazing luck.  I got to know all four of them very well.  The first of my grandparents to pass on didn't until I was twenty-one years old, and my grandmother's death this morning came weeks after my thirty-eighth birthday.  How lucky I am to have known, and been loved by, all four of my grandparents.  I have been blessed by their knowledge, affection, and experiences.  I can only hope they are together now, sitting at the back porch, drinking cocktails and watching their warped grandchild express his affection for them by typing a loving blog post in his underwear. 

New Year's was pretty damned good, too

Tori and I's third NYE party was a frigging blast.  I want to thank those who showed and made it a great time.  Among the highlights:

- Tori's vodka punch.  How does someone who doesn't drink concoct a mind-blowing alcoholic beverage?

- watching the - literally - gayest NYE television program ever with CNN's bash starring Kathy Griffin and Anderson Cooper, whom I think made it quite clear which team he bats for. 

- the horns, oh those party horns. 

- Tori's annual NYE pigs in a blanket, which still confuses us as to why they're so darned popular.

- The "red vs. non-red" word game. 

- The New Years toast with pink champagne.  Sorry, elmegil, it wasn't on ice. 

- The guests who made it so entertaining: you know who you are.  Thank you so much for making our third NYE the best one we've had.

Regards,

the rev.