Carrie Prejean, You’re No Anita Bryant

Same as it ever was?

I’m old: I have several silver hairs sprouting up around my temples just like Earth-2 Superman, pop music makes me angry, and if I don’t get to bed before 11 PM, I tend to be forgetful at work the next day and wander away from my cubicle.  And, like most old people, I am of the firm conviction that everything was way better when I was younger.  The rock stars wore more makeup, the movies had more space ships, and the tv shows had more hair.  Hell, even the bad things were somehow cut from a finer cloth than the bad things we’re stuck with today.  When I was younger, bad things were bad in a way that had meaning and gravitas.  These bad things–like the nuclear threat presented by the Soviet Bloc, and the belligerent wholesomeness of The Lawrence Welk Show– represented the culmination of a generation’s worth of massive-scale ideological brinksmanship from which there could be no turning back.   I’m talking about a time when the “zealot” pigeonhole was big enough to house more than just a contingent of Middle Eastern malcontents; back in the day, bad things and their respective attendants truly believed in their causes.  And they meant business.  With this historical perspective in mind, I really have a hard time taking Carrie Prejean seriously.  After all, I remember Anita Bryant.

A Modest Gay Marriage Proposal

Gay marriage was defeated by popular vote in Maine this week, delivering the cause a stunning roundhouse punch right in the Guccis.   I, for one, have spent this week marinating in a dark concoction of vinegary frustration and venomous fury to the point that if I were to be tossed onto a grill and parcelled out on paper plates, I have enough taint to inflict at least 20 serious tummy aches at a church picnic. 

The Triumph of Awkward

The Constellation of Awkward: and we all shine on…

“Awkward” is a star.  I’m not sure how it happened or who exactly is responsible, but the word is everywhere.  It’s…hot, which is an odd place for “awkward” to be, but let’s face it, anywhere “awkward” goes instantly becomes an odd place, hence its genius.  It’s a pinch of an off-recipe ingredient delivering the ringadingding  punch that lands an ordinary meal on the mat, leaving it to wonder who the hell it is and how it got there.  (Try introducing some cinnamon to Hamburger Helper sometime to appreciate the flavor of this analogy.)

Giftmas (TM) 2009 Shopping Guide!

My copy of the Harriet Carter catalogue arrived this weekend, ushering in the auspicious Giftmas (TM) 2009 season!  Sure, it may seem a little early to start preparing for that beloved annual non-denominational, consumer-driven, mass-craze-behavior frenzy tradition, but I march to the beat of a different drummer.  Harriet Carter is her name.

Yard Sale!

Handmade sign and adorable toddler: the only promotional devices God intended. And by “God”, I mean my beautiful wife. Who else?

Say what you will about the suburbs (no wait, allow me: they are pretend nowhere towns filled with soulless, greedy honkeys who like to pay a lot for coffee at space/time intervals approximating every third city block), the burbs really can’t be beat for rolling out bang-up quality yard sales.  This is owed to the simple fact that these greedy honkeys have a knack for acquiring a lot of shit they have absolutely no use for nor any appreciation of the value of said shit.  The suburban yard sale is sort of like a modernization of  American Indian potlach in which the wealthiest chiefs demonstrate both their power and benevolence by just giving  lot of valuable shit away, only add a cup of Starbucks and minus the underlying mission statement.