Preaching To The Choir During Practice

It’s best if we accept the reality that Trump speaks to the vacuum of compassion in his followers. All their life Trump Apologists (Trumpologists) have known on an instinctive level that they lack something most other people have, but can’t quite grasp what it is.

Trump is their Jack from Lord Of The Flies because he validates Trumpologists lack of empathy and need to destroy things and take pleasure in other’s pain – they grunt and nod as Trump eschews the Conch and the Rules of Law and Decency.

The sooner we accept this the sooner we will be able to break free from the notion these folks can be reasoned with.

They don’t WANT to be reasoned with, they don’t want a middle ground – they don’t want to live peacefully.

What they want is for you to abase yourself to their God, and mouth their beliefs and surrender your Civil Rights to their religion.

They want to control your life and be in charge of who you can marry and where you can live and when you will have babies – and even WHEN YOU WILL DIE.

To that end I offer my Brothers and ReSisters a basic template of how to respond to ANYONE ignorant enough to insist Donald J. Trump is a good President.

You won’t change a Trumplogst’s mind, but you will help other Resisters who read it to shake off the continual gaslighting from the Administration and Russia (but, I repeat myself), and the numbness from the never-ending fire-hose of terrifying and infuriating news.

Think of the following paragraphs as Colorform Facts that you can mix and match for the Trumpologists in your life. Use them all – or use just one.

Copy, paste, share, and use in good health. It will always be here when you need it. Most people don’t have the time to put together and fact check a list like this that has taken me 2 ½ years to curate.

So, Sing It Loud! Sing It Proud! Raise up your voice and speak the TRUTH my Brothers and ReSisters!

Sure, I’m preaching to the choir, but it’s so damned EASY to forget what we’ve been through – and sometimes the Choir needs practice:

 

Journalists should be jailed and or killed. Mexicans are rapists & Blacks are lazy. POWs aren’t heroes because they got caught & US soldiers with PTSD aren’t strong. A woman questioning him has to be on the rag. Syrians should be put in concentration camps, and deported. Muslims should have to register and wear ID tags and mosques should be closed.

Trump cruelly derided the grieving parents of a Gold Star soldier, while himself taking 5 deferments from Vietnam. When asked which foot had the bone spur that allowed him a medical deferment after playing 4 years on the college tennis team Trump told the reporter, “You look it up.”

During a campaign rally Trump viciously mocked Serge Kovaleski, a physically disabled New York Times reporter, who pointed out that Trump was pretending to have personally witnessed the thoroughly debunked urban legend that thousands upon thousands of Muslims were cheering in New Jersey on September 11, 2001.

Donald Trump incites violence at his rallies and believes protesters deserve to get beaten up by wistfully pining for “the old days when they’d be carried out on stretchers.” Encouraging violence, he promised to pay the legal bills of anyone assaulting a protestor in the crowd.

Before declaring his candidacy Trump faced more than 4,000 lawsuits on everything from fraud to unpaid bills, contract disputes and sexual discrimination.

Trump has been found guilty and fined twice for violating the Federal Fair Housing Act, due to his management company’s egregious policy of racial discrimination against African Americans.

He was forced to pay a $200,000 fine to the New Jersey Casino Control Commission for denying blacks casino floor jobs and forcing black employees to be removed from sight when Donald and Ivana visited.

He made fraud, racketeering and elder abuse charges vanish from his bogus Trump University by paying off tens of thousands of plaintiffs, whom he defrauded to the tune of $50 million.

He has contributed no money to charity – None. His Foundation is not only uncertified, it is being investigated by the state of New York due to good-faith donations being misused. Paperwork shows nearly half-a-million dollars in charitable funds were used to pay Trump’s personal obligations of legal bills and fines on his for-profit business, including a $120,000 penalty from the city of Palm Beach for code violations by his prized Mar-a-Lago Club. Beyond that, Trump made an illegal political gift of $25,000 to Pam Bondi – the Florida Attorney General who conveniently decided not to press charges on Trump and his Trump University. He used $40,000 to buy oil paintings of himself and even paid his son’s $8 Boy Scout fees out of the charitable fund.

He lies when it’s easier to tell the truth, claiming to be the first person to predict terrorism in the United States.  Trump continues to flog the lie that his first wife competed as a skier in the 1972 Olympics for Czechoslovakia, even though it’s easily verifiable that the Czechs didn’t even field a team that year. A marker on the third green of his Virginia golf club boasts of the 100% pulled-out-of-his-ass ‘River of Blood’ Civil War imaginary battle – and Trump unironically goes so far as to say of the historians who vehemently deny any fight took place within miles of the course, “Where they there?”

He is a thin-skinned narcissist who rage-tweets about anyone who disagrees with him, going so far at one point as to encourage people to watch a non-existent sex tape of Alicia Machado, former Miss Universe from Venezuela, when she detailed his fat shaming of her.

A raging racist, he spent several years and thousands of dollars ‘investigating’ Barack Obama’s birth certificate, encouraging Birthers, and conveniently ignoring the fact that no matter where Obama was born in this great big wide world, his mother being an American citizen MADE HIM ONE, TOO – with all the accompanying privileges, like being President. Please note that John McCain was born in Panama and Trump didn’t say ‘Boo’ when McCain ran for President because he was a white dude.

 

Beyond all of this – NEVER forget this is a man who has promised state sponsored murder and torture of children, and who thinks the Press exercises entirely too much Freedom.

This self-imagined dictator promises to violate the 1st, 2nd, 4th, 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th, 9th, and 14th amendments, as well as end abortion, civil rights, voting rights, marriage equality and the EPA.

He has proudly broken every Commandment Christians purport to hold dear, except murder – and he brags of being able to shoot someone in the middle of 5th Avenue without it costing him a single follower.

He is working in cahoots with Putin – and no matter how they try to deny it – Trump is ON TAPE begging straight into the camera for Russia to hack Clinton’s emails, which they did.
A ‘Good President’ wouldn’t sentence thousands of children to death, and let 9 million more lose their insurance coverage – as happened at the end of September, when the CHIP bill was not reauthorized.

A ‘Good President’ wouldn’t let the Pre-existing Conditions clause die, or allow Health Insurance Companies to sell worthless policies, or refuse to tell it’s citizens about ACA policies with subsidies.

A ‘Good  President’ wouldn’t let the people of PR die of cholera and thirst. A ‘Good  President’ wouldn’t golf while the people of California are being burned alive and out of house and home.

A ‘Good President’ doesn’t spend 1 in 3 days at his own properties, exhausting the Secret Service budget in weeks that was meant to last a year.

A Good Man doesn’t make fun of POWs and soldiers who died for our country, or a Mayor who is pleading for the very lives of her constituents.

Oh yeah – A Good HUMAN would never, ever, ever “Grab Them By The Pussy!!”

 

 

 

 

 

Advertisements

Indian Summer and Casual Racism

Every autumn we get hammered with the cheerful phrase Indian Summer, and every fall I grit my teeth about such a hateful phrase.

The expression conjures up bluebird skies, and the last of the leaves. It’s warm in the sun, too cool in the shade, the afternoons are short, but the days are wonderful for finishing up those projects from the summer. You think of burning leaves and hot cocoa and crackling fires.

The problem is that the phrase is an ugly centuries-old pejorative that has no place in polite conversation or society, much less being hollered by the local weatherman.

The epithet comes from colonial days and their hatred of our First Nations people; it refers what they saw as the deceitful nature of a populous who resisted being invaded and murdered. To their twisted way of thinking, anything Indian was duplicitous and untrustworthy by nature.

Quite simply it means a false summer that will be taken away.

Indian Summer is as bad a pejorative as Indian Giver. Both should be stricken from our everyday usage.

Imagine saying Al Roker jovially calling the warm snap in October a ‘White-Folk’s Summer’ and all of us vaguely agreeing with the connotations of White Folks being synonymous with treachery.

Put in any other nationality, race or creed – ANYBODY – and you immediately see how inappropriate it is. But, we grew up hearing it and don’t question the etymology.

Well, consider yourself informed. Now you can no longer hear or use that phrase without knowing it’s dirty secret. You can’t unring the bell.

Call it a warm snap, a brief respite from the cold, a lovely part of Autumn. Hell, call it your favorite time of year. But, for the love of dignity and manners, and out of respect for our brethren – Can we PLEASE stop calling it Indian Summer?

Losing the First Amendment to Putin’s Trolls

When did the First Amendment become a wedge issue, and what’s the point of having it if you can’t exercise your rights freely?

The narrative has been successfully changed from NFL athletes taking a knee to protest racism to them hating America, the Flag and First Responders.

I am FLABBERGASTED – fucking flabbergasted – at people buying into the meme of football players making too much money to protest. This is a Fox News ‘politics of envy’ gambit. Where was their outrage at the overcompensated game show host who became president? Beyond that, WHY is it a problem for well compensated people – athletes or otherwise – to speak up for the oppressed?

The fact is: People who have succeeded have a moral responsibility to help those who are oppressed, and not pull the ladder up before they get their turn. It’s the same reason I donate to the food bank: Because I needed it once and I’m in the position to help, and feel morally obliged to put my hand out to lift up those I left behind.

What kind of horrible people would successful athletes be if their attitude was ‘Fuck you – I got mine, you get yours’? That’s EXACTLY why I hate the current iteration of the GOP, with their bootstraps and prosperity gospel.

This issue has Putin’s Trolls and Russian bots all over it. It reeks of the bullshit from the election. Did you think Trolltopia in Macedonia – the city of 10,000 hackers, trolls and spammers who do Putin’s bidding – was going to go away when Trump was putsched in?

America is literally fighting over our First Amendment rights! How can this be?

How can it be that so many people have been manipulated into saying folks have no right to have a political opinion because of the amount of money they have? There’s not means test for using the First Amendment. Because if there is, how long will it be until we don’t have ENOUGH money to have an opinion?

The other false narrative I’ve seen pushed is that the flag is more important than the Constitution and the Bill of Rights, itself. I’m sorry – What?

Soldiers don’t swear to defend the flag, FFS.

Oath of Military

If you’re THAT offended for the flag over at people exercising their rights, perhaps you should put a bit of thought towards the flag clothing and hats and cups and coozies for sale  on Herr Trump’s site.

This issue isn’t about the Flag, though. It’s about our inalienable First Amendment rights as Americans and our Constitution. The Flag is nothing more than a physical representation of the rules and instructions on how to operate the Republic, and that which we hold most dear.

In the 1943 U.S. Supreme Court decision of West Virginia V Barnette regarding forcing people to say the Pledge of Allegiance, Justice Robert Jackson wrote: “If there is any fixed star in our constitutional constellation, it is that no official, high or petty, can prescribe what shall be orthodox in politics, nationalism, religion, or other matters of opinion or force citizens to confess by word or act their faith therein. If there are any circumstances which permit an exception, they do not now occur to us.”

It’s not Trump’s place to tell people how and where they can be patriotic Americans.

It is OUR place, however, to fact check every damned meme and story we want to buy into or we are spreading evil and lies, too.

We must also speak up, speak out and protest. We’d all better start using our First Amendment rights before it’s just a ghost of the past that we daren’t even whisper about.

The First Amendment: You’d better use it before you lose it.

Resist, my friends. Resist.

Use It Or Lose It

***The following is a restored version of the original piece I wrote on this. The updated version is chronologically next, titled ‘Losing the First Amendment to Putin’s Trolls’*****

When did the First Amendment become a wedge issue and what’s the point of having it if you can’t exercise your rights freely?

The narrative has been successfully changed from NFL athletes taking a knee to protest racism to them hating America, the Flag and First Responders.

I am FLABBERGASTED – fucking flabbergasted – at people buying into the meme of football players making too much money to protest. This is a Fox News ‘politics of envy’ gambit. Where was their outrage at the overcompensated game show host who became president? Beyond that, WHY is it a problem for well compensated people – athletes or otherwise – to speak up for the oppressed?

The fact is: People who have succeeded have a moral responsibility to help those who are oppressed, and not pull the ladder up before they get their turn. It’s the same reason I donate to the food bank: Because I needed it once and I’m in the position to help, and feel morally obliged to put my hand out to lift up those I left behind.

What kind of horrible people would successful athletes be if their attitude was ‘Fuck you – I got mine, you get yours’? That’s EXACTLY why I hate the current iteration of the GOP, with their bootstraps and prosperity gospel.

This issue has Russian bots all over it. It reeks of the bullshit from the election. Did you think Trolltopia in Macedonia – the city of 10,000 hackers, trolls and spammers who do Putin’s bidding – was going to go away when Trump was putsched in?

America is literally fighting over our First Amendment rights! How can this be?

How can it be that so many people have been manipulated into saying folks have no right to have a political opinion because of the amount of money they have? How long until we don’t have ENOUGH money to have an opinion?

The other false narrative I’ve seen pushed is that the flag is more important than the Constitution and the Bill of Rights, itself. I’m sorry – What?

Soldiers don’t swear to defend the flag, FFS.

Oath of Military

This issue isn’t about the Flag – It’s about our inalienable First Amendment rights as Americans and our Constitution. The Flag is nothing more than a physical representation of the rules and instructions on how to operate the Republic, and that which we hold most dear.

In the 1943 U.S. Supreme Court decision of West Virginia V Barnette, Justice Robert Jackson wrote: “If there is any fixed star in our constitutional constellation, it is that no official, high or petty, can prescribe what shall be orthodox in politics, nationalism, religion, or other matters of opinion or force citizens to confess by word or act their faith therein. If there are any circumstances which permit an exception, they do not now occur to us.”

The only thing we can do is speak up, speak out and protest. We’d all better start using our First Amendment rights before it’s just a ghost of the past that we daren’t even whisper about.

The First Amendment: You’d better use it before you lose it

 

 

Fake Men and Angry Women, Part 2

 

It’s been an interesting couple of weeks in Fake Men and Angry Women Land.

Fake Man got himself an honest-to-gosh viral Tweet while Real Me got back a stalker I thought I shook 15 years ago, *plus* I got a private message from a total stranger who thought it was perfectly fine to swoon and ponder over my ability to give him a blow job.

I’m curious, David Thomson from Houston, Texas: What did you think would happen when you sent me that message? Did you think I would be wet in the drawers because some anonymous chump thinks the way to compliment a woman is to tell her that she’d probably be good at gobbling your knob? Were you expecting cyber-sex from a desperate, thankful sperm receptacle? Did you honestly think I’d hop on a plane to show you my prowess in choking on your pubic hair? Sigh!

Or, perhaps you thought I wouldn’t say anything at all, that I’d be embarrassed, or most likely ashamed?

Did you mistakenly think MY part in your tableau was to silently endure ONE MORE asshole reducing my value to sex?

Boy did you think wrong.

Let me be perfectly clear, Dude-Bro David Thomson from Houston Texas: I wouldn’t play your withered skin flute if it was the very last instrument on Earth.

Big Dick and the Twins will NEVER go to the Moist Drive-In Movie. Baloney Pony is not on the Menu. The Crotch Cowboy won’t be riding into the Canyon. Your Disco Stick has no Partner. The Kipper Ripper has nowhere to play Hide-And-Go-Seek. The Flesh Submarine will not be descending into the Cave.

To put it in a way you’re SURE to understand, David Thomson from Houston, Texas: I wouldn’t suck your dick with YOUR mouth.

Have I made myself perfectly clear Brosephus Andronicus?

Super.

Stalker (2)

Now let’s talk about my stalker.

Less than a day after publishing Part 1 of this piece, where I detailed the excessive abuse a woman with an strong opinion gets online, I received a Facebook friend request from a man who stalked me at the turn of the century.

Phred seemed like a harmless enough fellow when I met him at the Denver Press Club some time around 1997, assuming he was a journalist. He wasn’t, though – he was a bus driver hanger-on who had a small amount of money to spend at the then-struggling club.

We were mildly friendly in a club with a few hundred members. I knew he had a thing for me, but I was not interested in him in the least. He asked me out a few times (Okay, MANY times) and each time I declined politely. My built-in true-to-life excuse was that I’d sworn off dating until my son was old enough to go out with friends, himself. I had 2 failed marriages and thought perhaps the best thing to do was re-evaluate my priorities: I knew I only had so many hours in a day to work, sleep and do mom stuff. If I started dating then that time would only be able to come from my son, and I didn’t think that would be fair.

One afternoon, during the summer of 1998 (if memory serves), Phred approached me as I was leaving the Press Club, clutching a fist full of gift certificates for the Denver Broker, a restaurant that passed for swanky back in the day. It was famous for being situated in an old bank vault and for an all-you-can-eat bowl of iced shrimp to start the meal of red meat. It was the epitome of Denver in the mid-80s oil boom, but it was now the late 90’s tech bust and the old lady was a bit frayed at the edges. They tried to offset the lack of upkeep by dimming the lights, but that just made it drearier.

Swag, gift certificates, concert and sports tickets were a stock and trusted non-taxed item in the journalism trade – it’s what made us put up with with endless shit deadlines and asshole bosses. The only thing more certain than the sun rising in the east is that the Press will show up for free food and booze.

“Hey, you wanna go spend some freebie gift certificates with me next week?”

“Umm.. Well… Are other people going to be there? This isn’t a date, right?”

“No!”

“Will other people be there?”

“It’ll be a party!”

“But, not a date.”

“Not a date. In fact – I can even be the designated driver. I can pick you up after work – I work really close to your condo.”

I was in a rush, and gave him my number so that we could finalize plans.

I was halfway home before the obvious question bubbled to the surface: “How does he know where I live?” I told myself he must have heard me say at some point I had to drive to Golden, and it’s not a big town after all, and I put it out of my mind.

It was a warm afternoon when we went to the Broker a week later. My son was spending the night at his Grandma and Grandpa’s, just a few miles away. Phred showed up about 10 minutes early, and when I answered the intercom instead of buzzing him up he insisted we needed to go NOW! because the cab was waiting.

The cab?

The Cab?!

There were about 14 cabs in the entire city of Denver at the turn of the century, and they all did a loop between the airport and downtown. I don’t think I had ever seen another cab in the foothills of Golden in… well – EVER. I hadn’t ridden in a cab since I lived in New York City 20 years before.

The phrase, “Hurry up – the cab is here,” mentally felt like the ‘Vweeep!!’ of a needle screeching across a record.

It was a ridiculous extravagance for a 15 mile ride downtown (in rush hour) that I never would have agreed to under any circumstance had I known in advance, one that put me in a place where I felt vaguely obliged to him for spending the money I didn’t want and didn’t ask him to spend.

Clearly Phred didn’t think this was a date: It was something much bigger.

I stood outside my building looking at the yellow cab. Every instinct was telling me not to get in that cab. My lizard brain was yelling ‘Run, you fool!!’ I almost turned around, and maybe I would have saved myself a bucket load of stress and fear. Probably not. People like him don’t take no for an answer.

Instead, I bent to the pressure of the cabbie tooting his horn, and allowed myself to be manipulated into feeling bad that Phred would get stuck with the cost of the cab if I backed out. I wouldn’t admit it, but I was nervous and felt like I was being backed into a corner. And on top of all that was the youthful certainty, “I got this. I can control the situation.”

The meal itself was inconsequential, except to say I insisted several times we weren’t out on a date, and he nodded at the middle distance. Do I need to say no-one else was there?

Perhaps the highlight of this intimate tête-à-tête happened between the too-rinsed-to-be-slimy bowl o’ shrimp and the cold prime rib: It was him taking the red linen napkin and blowing his nose into it vigorously, and then handing it to the server. I nearly vomited.

Yes, the meal finally ended. Yes, I straight armed him as he tried to get cuddly in the cab back. And, yes, he was VERY angry I did not invite him up, mentioning all that money he spent that I hadn’t asked him to.

I jingled my keys, and told him I had to pick up my son, and nearly left skid marks on the way out of my own place. I sat in the 7-11 parking lot not knowing if he would still be in front of my building when I got back. I decided to park in front of a different building and took the back way in.

After that things started to get weird.

Just as I got home from work a few days later he called, the hale-and-well-met-fellow, acting like he hadn’t been pissed when I turned him down on our Not-Date. I was relieved he was being jovial and ended the call as soon as I could.

I saw him in the weeks to come at the Press Club, refusing his drink offers and doing my best to avoid him. I voiced my concerns about him to a few of the bartenders. The linen-napkin-as-a-handkerchief story never failed to raise a gorge with loud protestations.

When I continued to avoid him at the club he began to sit in front of my condo, waiting for me to get home, and calling when I turned on the lights. It took me a few week to figure out what was going on. “Damn! He sure has good timing. Why, I just got home and turned on the lights—-Ohhh.”

On a hunch I came home one night and I didn’t turn the lights on for 15 minutes. When I turned them on he called seconds later. He was calling from his cell phone in the lot below me.

I felt sick. He knew my schedule.

I began parking in another lot in the complex, leaving my lights on always, so he would not know when I was coming and going.

He began to call incessantly.

I got caller ID

For months I avoided him and his calls.

Finally, in a fit of pique he stole my Day-Timer calendar out of my latched bag at the Denver Press Club, pretending to find it on the floor just after I’d left. Several people – including the bartender – tried to stop him from removing the book from the club, but he pushed his way out the door. An hour later he left a message on my home phone, “I have your Personal Planner. I guess NOW you’ll have to talk to me and see me in person.”

I went to the police where he lived to report the theft, and they said “the crime didn’t happen here”. I went to the police where I lived and they said ‘It didn’t happen here.” I went to the police in Denver, where it happened, and the rotund desk jockey suggested, “Just go out with him a few times. It’s all he wants. It’s not like he’s hurt you.”

Yet.

I went to the management at the Denver Press Club, where the club manager, Carmen, said “Eh… It’s a He-Said She-Said thing.” He-Said She-Said? The son-of-a-bitch had my address book, calendar, bits and pieces of writing and my sketches in a book he refused to give back unless I met with him in person – and I HAD IT ON TAPE!!!

I stopped going to the club.

I will only say the situation was resolved nearly a year later when a former club member, who, upon retrieving my Day-Timer, suggested Phred make himself mighty scarce when he saw my car in the lot, and to never ever call me again. It was only when another man ‘claimed’ me (in his mind) that he backed off.

I couldn’t bring myself to touch the thing when my planner was given back to me, and a dear friend bought me a new brown, leather checkbook wallet I have to this day.

Fake Men Real Women Wallet (2)

 

It was good for a couple of years. He didn’t call, I never saw him at the club.

Then, one day, just before I left Denver for a decade, I was having dinner and someone sent over a drink. I asked the bartender who my benefactor was and she pointed down the bar to Phred: 5 years older, 40 pounds heavier, and waving like an old friend.

In a rage I leaned over the bar and poured the drink into the service sink, and handed the empty glass to the bartender, all the while giving Phred the stink eye. He looked confused.

In a ball of fury I went up to him and dressed him down at the top of my voice in front of a bar full of people, “I don’t want your drinks or your smiles, you Fucking Freak!! You stalked me nearly 2 years! I had to move! I had to change my fucking phone number because of you, you pathetic psycho! FUCK. OFF. LEAVE ME ALONE!! NEVER, EVER CONTACT ME EVER AGAIN!!!”

You can imagine my delight at finding his friend request after a searing piece about on-line abuse.

That crazy son-of-a-bitch saw that piece about being harassed, and in *his* mind he thought, “Hey – remember that women I got told in no uncertain terms to leave alone? Looks like she could use another aggressive male in her life.”

So – to be clear, Phred Riggs: The next time you see my name on Fabebook scroll past. If you see me at the Denver Press Club – walk on by, asshole, and do not attempt to interact with me. I am not interested in you in any way shape or form. You are crazy, and the shit you did 20 years ago? I will make sure you go to jail if you try half of that shit today. If you ever, ever trespass on my property again you will live to regret it. These are promises I will keep Phred.

 

 

McCain's Conscience 1 Week Twitter Activity (2)

While Real Me was getting stalked and offered the treat of a stranger’s One-Eyed Trouser Snake, Fake Man was knocking it out of the park by averaging nearly 30,000 views a day on a week where I only bothered tweeting on 4 days.

In his first month Fake Man garnered 70% of the followers it took Real Me took a year to get. Fake Man says all the things without repercussion that once caught a ration of shit when Real Me said it. Fake Man has not gotten called a name ONCE. Not once.

But, I took it further. I began posting the same things on Fake Man’s twitter account and on Real Me’s Facebook page.

Perhaps you recall this throw away comment from my feed?

McCain FB Message (2)

 

Facebook was whole-heartedly ‘Meh’ for Real Me, with 25 likes off 5 shares from my 332 friends.

On the other hand, Twitter fucking LOVED it from Fake Man!

Tweet Activity McCain_LI (2)

Fake Man got 2,040 likes, 329 re-Tweets, and 84,000 views off of 60 followers.

If you squint real hard you can see the difference in the numbers.

Fake Man saw his Twitter followers raise by 50% in 3 days, and got ridiculous traction for saying ‘Oh, fuck him’ regarding Bernie Sanders possible run in 2020. Really, internet? 71 likes for ‘Oh, Fuck Him’?

Oh Fuck Him Tweet 1_LI (2)

It’d be funny if it wasn’t so pitiful.

Do you remember this blast from a few weeks ago?

Nick Cage What Have I Done

That meme I made along with 2 comments got 60,000 impressions on Twitter and a total yawn on Facebook.

I’m not saying Facebook should clap hands better – I’m saying Twitter laughs its collective ass of at the jokes they think a man is making. To be certain, not every one-liner I make as Fake Man gets traction on Twitter, but not one post I’ve made on Facebook has achieved anywhere near the traction that Fake Man gets on Twitter daily with the same material – and Fake Man has only ¼ the Twitter followers Real Me does on Facebook. What does that say about how we’re willing to hear things from men that we aren’t from women?

Ever thus it was to the woman who learned it was better to sell my jokes to men and have them be told and laughed at, rather than trying to tell them myself and have most of the crowd look at me like I was showing a dog a card trick.

Now? It’s not so much about anyone laughing.

In the space of 2 years men think it’s okay to shout down a woman – most especially if the man doesn’t know a damn thing about what they’re spouting off upon. It really didn’t used to be that way.

Men have come to believe that demanding and screaming and pretending they are in charge is the same thing as actually being in charge. Their justification for continued abuse is more about the need for rage and control than about anything intellectual.

The worst thing you can do to a man like that is ignore them and make them feel unimportant – unless maybe you laugh at them. Laughing is cause for primal rage.

The day after I published part 1 of this piece I started to have people post to my wall the story of the woman beaten to death in front of her children by her husband on their anniversary, while on a family reunion cruise in Alaska, just 6 hours after the trip got underway. The reason why Daddy brained Mommy with a blunt object, the young child who fled the cabin in mortal fear told the crew? Mommy laughed at Daddy.

“Men are afraid that women will laugh at them. Women are afraid that men will kill them.” Margaret Attwood

Post Script:

Real Me is keeping screen shots of Real Abuse and plain old dickish behavior that is happening with alarming frequency that I’ll address in Part 3.

Keep Resisting. Please.

It’s the only thing we have.

Trump Zombies and Violence

Greg Gianforte’s election to Congress in Montana after assaulting a reporter has exposed the violent truth about Trumpers: They have decided they didn’t want to have to think critically and wanted a lawless bully to clear out a safe space for them using force.

45 would be NOTHING if not for his Cult followers. They aren’t misunderstood souls who have been led astray. No – these people have waited their whole lives for a stupider, meaner, more vindictive version of Reagan.

They fucking LOVE him and his scorched earth policy.

These were the people in school who stood behind the bully and egged him (or her) on. They often lacked the intestinal fortitude it took to be an honest-to-god bully, but could be counted on for malicious snickers and ostracizing as well as violence under the cover and protection of a group.. They were conferred power and status through their association with said Bully and flaunted it when the Bully was not around.

They are the tribe in Lord of the Flies that put Jack in charge and followed him into savagery.

They willfully and with malice choose to support a corollary of anarchy – it’s not that there are no rules, it’s that they are ignoring any that don’t suit their purpose of regaining a position of being the shitter and not the shittee. Oh, sure, they’re still getting shat upon in spades, but they’re okay with it if they can do a little shitting of their own.

The people who support him – the Public and Politicians – are all motivated by the same thing: The acquisition of Power

They are willing to allow 45’s destruction of the Constitution and looting of the Treasury if they can get a taste of the action.

Gianforte’s assholery didn’t spring up out of Zeus’s forehead. People *like* the tough talk and promises of cutting the safety net out from under other people – and they’re SURE it will never happen to them. Lest we attribute his victory to early voting, remember Gianforte raised $100K in the 12 hours after this hit the news cycle.

Whenever you’re tempted to reason with a Trumpologist remember that this is not an isolated incident. The Governor of Texas joked about shooting Journalists on Friday and it received a collective yawn. There are Press pens at 45’s events that are nothing more than modern day stockades. My god – POUTS assaulted the Prime Minister of Montenegro when he shoved him in the chest – and Trumpologists are *giddy* that he’s showing people who’s boss.

Assaults on and the arrest of Journalists are becoming all too common and not getting nearly enough coverage – by which I mean none at all on the Fox propaganda mill. 2 reporters in the last 10 days were arrested for asking politicians questions. Press and protesters at the Turkish Embassy were beaten by Erdogan’s goons and that goes by unprocessed in the never ending shit geyser.

Violence against political opponents and the press have become normalized and encouraged. It is only a matter of time before a member of the Press is murdered, and before this implied violence makes its way further than a murderous White Supremacist in Portland.

There is a serious mental illness problem in America. Its face may be Donald Trump, but its heart are Trumpers: The 2 in 5 adults who think violence is an appropriate response to questions or intellectual disagreements. Their brutality is vindicated by a man like Trump, and his “I’ve had ENOUGH of rules!!” behavior gives them permission to ignore facts and embrace their cruelty. The really frightening thing is they’re just getting warmed up.

 

Infectious Fascism and Someone Else’s Beer

Our local liquor store had been in business since the early 1980s, when the shopping center was built. The original owner passed it along to his 3 sons when he died, many years ago. There was nothing special or fancy about the shop, which had long, wide shelves stocked full of not-too-high-priced wines and liquor that tended to come in the Handle Size. They did a brisk trade in beer, $1 shooters sold out of an empty fish tank on the counter, and “Oh, jeeze! We’re all out of vodka/wine and I’m almost home!” purchases.

It had a coveted corner location on a major intersection with high visibility, and was next to a busy grocery store. The long floor-to-ceiling windows faced due west, which meant high cooling bills as the high altitude sunshine blasted in year round, roasting  the products on the front shelf and raising the temperature unbearably during the summer. A few years ago the Brothers balked at the raising utility prices from keeping the store cold enough to properly store their inventory, and slowly adjusted the thermostat upwards. The heat coupled with storing the wine upright – as one would store a fine vintage Yoo-Hoo – served to spoil their wares.

As if wine bottles that were warm to the touch weren’t enough, over the years the shop developed a nose-curling funk stank from their dogged insistence upon carpet, which served as a 1-way booze sponge when a bottle or case was inevitably broken, and because one of the brothers smoked indoors while doing the books afterhours.  Mmmm… the cheeky bouquet of nicotine braised in sour carpet wine!

We began shopping elsewhere, save for the times we emerged from the adjacent King Soopers, arms full of groceries (yes, we brought our own bags), and too tired or lazy to drive 6 miles round trip for a bottle of wine to go with dinner. Don’t judge me! The cork that crumbles like The Mummy is punishment enough.

Just before Valentine’s Day we found ourselves lacking the fortitude of an additional errand, the grueling 15 minute drive more than either of us could possibly handle, and so found ourselves choosing from wine bottles with dust on them.  I noticed a marked lack of champagne and other bubbly beverages appropriate for a manufactured holiday. “This is weird,” I told my husband, “Why aren’t there cases of cheap champagne stacked 5 high and 2 deep in here? In fact, there’s almost no champagne at all,” I gestured to the picked over front shelf, which was normally full of the boxed wine and cheap champagne that the Brothers counted on their clientele not being able to suss out were treated to daily solar pasteurization. It was a minor curiosity, one I chalked up to a screw up in ordering and went on with my evening.

A few weeks later, before St. Patrick’s Day, it was obvious something was up. The store was still very busy, but their stock had visibly dwindled – the shelves were no longer full, with empty spaces behind the wine and spirits.

“What’s going on?” I asked the young woman who worked there. “Not much,” she replied absentmindedly. “No – I mean ‘What’s going on here?’” She stopped and looked at me in confusion. She really had no idea what I was talking about. I gestured with my arm, “The shelves aren’t fully stocked…” She had a blank look on her face. “Are you guys remodeling? Selling?” Again, the clerk had a blank look, “No…” I left it at that, but told my husband changes were coming.

I wondered if they were going to finally move the stock out of the beating summer sun in the front window… Maybe they were going to set up a Growler station, or a tasting counter – moving forward  with the upwardly mobile neighborhood and appealing to the higher income residents who were replacing the middle income folks that had been a staple of the area when it was built 35 years ago. I had mentally moved the first row of shelves, replaced the nasty carpet with some easy-to-clean wood flooring that would brighten the space up, and show off the better selection of wine they would carry. I couldn’t wait.

At the end of March the only vodka left was bubblegum or peach flavored, the Bourbon shelves were flat-out empty, and most of the decent wine was gone. The Smoking Brother told me they were having distribution problems, but they would be getting a shipment in the following week. What he was telling me didn’t feel right – but I had been doing business with him for 16 years and gave him the benefit of the doubt by allowing him to assure me I wasn’t seeing what I was looking at.

We were gone most of April and upon returning we immediately noticed the barren shelves. Most telling is there was not a whiff of the upcoming drinking holiday Cinco De Mayo: No cut-outs of busty Latinas shucking gag inducing Lime-a-Rita beer, no garish plastic Papel Picado banners stamped with ‘Corona’, or posters of a Sombrero-sporting mustachioed stereotype peddling rot-gut tequila. You know – The Free Crap distributors beg store owners to take and give a price break for the best placement. But, there was still lots of beer – a good deal of it craft beer from start-up breweries & local brew pubs.

Several customers walked in and stopped dead, looking around at the long, mostly-empty shelves. They would do a 180 or full 360 to take it in; most left empty handed. It was clear the store was closing, but no sign indicated a last day or what was going on. I asked the only employee (someone I’d never seen before) what was going on and was answered with ‘Dunno’.

I suddenly realized: They must have sold the liquor license to King Soopers, the grocery store in the same complex. A recent change in the law allowed grocery stores to sell liquor, but only if they buy an existing license. I was happy for them in the distant way you can be when you hear good news from a stranger you’ve known for 15 years: It doesn’t change your life, but it gives you a pleasant feeling.

A few weeks later they were still open – somehow defying retail gravity. Richard walked the empty aisles with a curious expression on his face as he passed islands of bottles neatly arranged – 6 Rieslings here, 4 Moscatos half an aisle later, a lone bottle of gin in the next aisle. What stock was left would have neatly fit in 12 or 15 feet of shelf space, but instead was spread around the empty shop with the fastidious denial of a screamingly bad comb-over.

“When’s the last day?” I asked Morose Brother who spent a decade and a half demanding I show my ID every time I used a credit card. “Before the end of the month,” he answered with his usual dourness. Looking into my eyes he said “We sold the business,” and then spit into his dip cup.  “I… did you sell the license or the business?” “We sold the business and we’ll be closing sometime before the end of the month,” he repeated with a finality that forbade further discussion.

“How could they be selling the business?” I asked Richard when we were in the car, “When there’s no business to sell? I mean… there’s no inventory – and they lease the space. The only thing of value in that store is the license on the wall.” I chalked it up to him being contractually prohibited from discussing the details of the sale.

The very next day the City seized the store for failure to pay Sales & Use Taxes.

A quick call to City Hall revealed that they hadn’t paid a dime of the taxes they’d been collecting since January, and they’d been sending in partial payments for months before that.

It suddenly became clear that the inventory sell down was really them stiffing their suppliers – everyone from Coors to small craft brew companies struggling to make ends meet – and pocketing the money.

They stole not only from their liquor distributors and the city, but from their customers as well, by not submitting tax revenue that keeps schools open, roads paved and a live voice when you dial 911.

In retrospect it was quite obvious what was happening, but I didn’t want to accept the grand theft in front of me, so I provided pretty stories about Growler Stations and wood floors that morphed into them cashing out big by selling the license for a keen profit. None of it made sense to the scene in front of my eyes, but I held on to the fable rather than accept the felony.

I had been performing Olympic-quality mental gymnastics trying to explain away the obvious because the obvious made me uncomfortable.

It was a personal microcosm of what’s happening around the country: How we’re all staring in disbelief at the emerging Fascism around us, willing it to be something else.

We’ve watched fanaticism morph into a Fascist Cult of Personality, yet refuse to name it as such because then we have a REAL problem on our hands.

We’ve heard friends, family and colleagues embrace a man whose beastly policies call for banning Muslims, gutting the EPA, drilling for oil in National Parks and Monuments, building a useless Wall, disenfranchising women, and simultaneously cancelling the insurance policies of 23 million Americans while making it unaffordable for tens of millions more.

These aren’t policy differences on things like how to best fund infrastructure improvements or whether schools should focus more on science and less on the arts. This is the fundamental rejection of the invisible frame of our Social Contract by an alarming number of Americans.

They *like* the idea that ICE officers ate lunch in a café before arresting the kitchen staff.

They’re THRILLED journalists are finally getting the beat down that’s coming to them.

They’re relieved they can stop acting tolerant and want LGBTQ folks to climb back in the closet and for anyone darker than a flat white to know their place.

These people who benefit so much from the Public Commons of Society honestly don’t care if you lose your job, house or insurance – they don’t give a tinker’s damn for anyone who loses their disability, Medicare, Social Security or any other safety net program.

“I DON’T OWE YOU ANYTHING” they shriek like a misunderstood teen, unironically running the Social Contract through Mom & Dad’s shredder after they’ve slammed the office door.

The toughest thing about watching acquaintances and those we love support such heartlessness is when we finally realize they understand fully what they’re doing. It’s much easier to deal with people when we convince ourselves they are ignorantly supporting evil policies, and that if it was properly explained they would be enlightened. Otherwise, we have to accept that an uncomfortably large chunk of America is okay with a semi-literate bully dragging us backwards 6 months for every day he is in office.

Accepting that this is actually happening is a real hurdle. None of wants to stare into *that* abyss and it’s ever so much easier not to court discord and just let sleeping dogs lie.

Please don’t be like me, though, when I watched the local liquor store go under and cheat its vendors, and I chose not to see it because I couldn’t accept the Brothers could do that. Don’t imagine people are constrained by your sense of decency, however well or little you know them.

Once we see the hard truth of Trumpers actions, we have to either accept this Fascist Cult of Personality or fight it. There is no middle ground. When you stop selling yourself on proverbial Growler Stations and wood floors to brighten the place up, you can’t unsee the unsavory and uncomfortable truth that 45’s followers heartily approve of a stratified society that plays out like Lord of the Flies – only, in this story line there are no adults to step in to save the day when things are at their bleakest. There is no higher authority to appeal to, because our current POTUS thinks laws are impractical to follow (his words, not mine).

Make no mistake that we are in dangerous territory with 45’s spreading Fascism, and we ignore it at our own peril.

During the election 45 promised the state sponsored murder of children, he promised to crack down on Freedom of the Press, and he promised to violate the 1st, 2nd, 4th, 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th, 9th, and 14th amendments, as well as end abortion, civil rights, voting rights, marriage equality and the EPA.

When you look at it this way 45 had a spectacularly successful first 100 days, now didn’t he?

Trumpers voted for him *precisely* because he promised to abuse other people and break things. They are the groupies that enable a bully to prevail, and who become emboldened by their support of him.

Trumpers like the chaos, the angst and the destruction they were promised when they voted.

It’s hard to see friends and family infected by Fascism. Worse – when they demand our tolerance while spreading this virulent disease of hate.

But, it is no longer possible to separate the Message from Man or the Masses – they own who they support and his policies, and anyone who tells you different is trying to sell you someone else’s beer.