On November 6th, registered voters in Washington State get to decide whether some of their fellow citizens get to enjoy equal rights. I’m referring to the vote on Referendum 74, a measure which seeks to overturn the legalization of same sex marriage that passed the Washington State Legislature. Isn’t it simply amazing that the rights of individuals are subject to the vote of the majority? I must have failed my basic civics class back at Seattle Prep in the ‘60’s. Actually, we didn’t have civics at Prep, but it just seems so odd to me that some people get to vote on the rights of others. This doesn’t seem like the type of thing that should be decided by popular vote, does it?
A person may or may not believe that individuals of the same sex should be allowed to marry. Personal opinion isn’t the issue. The issue is that citizens are voting on whether a specific right should be granted to other citizens. How is this a matter of popular vote? Isn’t this a matter for the courts to decide? It is either Constitutional or not Constitutional that same sex couples be allowed to legally marry. How is it that a person can vote to grant this right or another person vote to withhold this right, regardless of their reasons for doing so? One citizen should not have the ability to determine the rights of another.
There is a precedent for insisting that the issue of same sex marriage be decided by the courts. As recently as 1967, 16 states had laws preventing blacks from marrying whites. That is the year that the ironically titled case, “Loving vs. Virginia” was brought before the Supreme Court. Richard Loving was a white man and his wife, Mildred, was black. They were married and living in the state of Virginia. In the early morning hours of July 11th, 1959, authorities entered their home, specifically their bedroom , arrested them, charged them and convicted them of a felony based on their marriage. In 1967, the Supreme Court overturned their convictions and additionally, prohibited states from passing laws that prohibited interracial marriage. The Court decided that prohibiting interracial marriage violated the Equal Protection Clause of the 14th Amendment, language that guarantees equal rights to citizens. It is this very same clause which today is being used to determine if the ban on same sex marriage is constitutional.
This is a decision that must be made by the courts. This isn’t a matter to be decided by citizens. Imagine having your rights determined by popular vote. It is interesting to consider this fact: in 1967, the year that interracial marriage bans were struck down,72% of Americans opposed interracial marriage. Forty eight percent believed in should be prosecuted as a criminal act. Fortunately, it was not an issue left to popular vote, just as same sex marriage should not be. It is demeaning and unjust to an individual to have his rights decided by another.
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Sunday, March 25, 2012
A sure sign of spring
Ah, springtime.
Today, the 25th of March, was the first day of spring. It wasn’t the real first day, of course, that was March 19th. Today just felt like spring. Low 60’s, birds chirping, runners out pounding the pavement, and that sure sign that winter is over, the re-emergence of the wife beater shirt. Nothing says, “class” quite like the wife beater shirt when it is worn in public.
The standard wife beater top actually comes in many varieties. First, there is the classic. This is simply the undershirt that has existed since before the invention of the T-shirt. Your grandfather wore this. Al Capone wore it. Men have been wearing it since the 1800’s, but it has only been 15 years or so that men have worn it TO THE GROCERY STORE. For a hundred years, it was referred to as an undershirt, so called because, strangely, it was worn under a shirt. Only in recent times has it become THE ONLY shirt.
Wife beater shirts come in two other varieties. There is the modified, which is a regular t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. Here, the essential component is arm pit reveal. Unless the pits are out there for all to admire, it isn’t wife beater material. More recently yet is the basketball wife beater. This is simply a basketball jersey that bears the logo of some professional team on the front and the name of a star on the back. Often, some dumpy 35 year old, 5’6” 230 pound guy can be seen wearing this type of jersey. Perhaps he feels that since the jersey promotes an actual team, that he is, in fact, a basketball star and that it doesn’t qualify as the tackier wife beater version. In this assumption, he is wrong.
The wife beater look has a special appeal when worn by the overweight, hairy, older gentleman, especially when he chooses to wear it where food is available to the general public. You’re in the grocery store, looking at the cottage cheese, and just as you’re about to make your selection, there he is. What do you think is going through that guy’s mind before he leaves the house?
“Maybe I’ve put on a few pounds, but damn, I still look pretty good. I think I’ll wear my underwear to the grocery store.” Nice.
This isn’t to say that the wife beater looks any better on the tanned, athletic, youthful types. The problem with younger guys who go for this look is that they invariably couple their big reveal undershirt with their big reveal underpants, the sagging, bagging trousers that look like the wearer is hiding something back there, and perhaps he is. This general look of public undress is usually enhanced by a tattoo or maybe twelve tattoos, signifying to all who see him that he is tough and very, very sexy.
So, as spring jumps to life and baseballs are flying and daffodils are sprouting, let’s take a moment to savor that true sign of spring: the guy wearing the wife beater shirt in the ice cream section of the local super market.
Today, the 25th of March, was the first day of spring. It wasn’t the real first day, of course, that was March 19th. Today just felt like spring. Low 60’s, birds chirping, runners out pounding the pavement, and that sure sign that winter is over, the re-emergence of the wife beater shirt. Nothing says, “class” quite like the wife beater shirt when it is worn in public.
The standard wife beater top actually comes in many varieties. First, there is the classic. This is simply the undershirt that has existed since before the invention of the T-shirt. Your grandfather wore this. Al Capone wore it. Men have been wearing it since the 1800’s, but it has only been 15 years or so that men have worn it TO THE GROCERY STORE. For a hundred years, it was referred to as an undershirt, so called because, strangely, it was worn under a shirt. Only in recent times has it become THE ONLY shirt.
Wife beater shirts come in two other varieties. There is the modified, which is a regular t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. Here, the essential component is arm pit reveal. Unless the pits are out there for all to admire, it isn’t wife beater material. More recently yet is the basketball wife beater. This is simply a basketball jersey that bears the logo of some professional team on the front and the name of a star on the back. Often, some dumpy 35 year old, 5’6” 230 pound guy can be seen wearing this type of jersey. Perhaps he feels that since the jersey promotes an actual team, that he is, in fact, a basketball star and that it doesn’t qualify as the tackier wife beater version. In this assumption, he is wrong.
The wife beater look has a special appeal when worn by the overweight, hairy, older gentleman, especially when he chooses to wear it where food is available to the general public. You’re in the grocery store, looking at the cottage cheese, and just as you’re about to make your selection, there he is. What do you think is going through that guy’s mind before he leaves the house?
“Maybe I’ve put on a few pounds, but damn, I still look pretty good. I think I’ll wear my underwear to the grocery store.” Nice.
This isn’t to say that the wife beater looks any better on the tanned, athletic, youthful types. The problem with younger guys who go for this look is that they invariably couple their big reveal undershirt with their big reveal underpants, the sagging, bagging trousers that look like the wearer is hiding something back there, and perhaps he is. This general look of public undress is usually enhanced by a tattoo or maybe twelve tattoos, signifying to all who see him that he is tough and very, very sexy.
So, as spring jumps to life and baseballs are flying and daffodils are sprouting, let’s take a moment to savor that true sign of spring: the guy wearing the wife beater shirt in the ice cream section of the local super market.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
What's sexy?
OK, I’ve had it. I’m angry. Burned. Waxed. Pissed. Here’s my story.
I’m a 61 year old guy who was in my local gym today, pedaling my elliptical machine like it was a matter of life and death, which it may be, trying to get rid of a few unwanted pounds. Well, maybe 20 unwanted pounds, but at least I know they have to go. Before I jumped on the machine, I grabbed the November 28th issue of People magazine, just one of the garbage mags in a stack by the machines, something to pass the time. What attracted me to this particular read was that the cover DID NOT feature a brokenhearted Kardashian, an angry Kardashian, a pregnant one, a recently split up one or any kind of Kardashian at all. In fact, this particular issue of People was one of their biggest sellers, the one that features the yearly "Sexiest Man Alive”. I noticed that this year’s winner is an actor, Bradley Cooper. I’m familiar with one of Mr. Cooper’s movies, Limitless, which I rented recently. Not bad, and based on the beefcake pictures of this fellow on the printed page, lifting weights, loving his dog, it was clear that he was sexy. No problem. I have no problem with that.
What pushed me over the edge was a series of photos of all sorts of guys on page 108. This page was entitled, “Sexy at Every Age”, and it showed photos of some famous guys, some less famous, grinning out from the glossy page. Athletes, actors and musicians, all of them. OK, no problem. I figure, what’s sexy about an overweight, 61 year old retired teacher with white hair? Not much. Beneath each photo, the guy’s age is given, starting with a 20 year old kid named Tyler Posey. I don’t know who Tyler Posey is, but maybe he’s sexy, I don’t know. The rows of photos continue, guys in their 30’s, 40’s, 50’s. Pierce Brosnan, age 58. Sexy, no question. That’s James Bond, my friend. In the lower right hand corner of the page, age 59, Liam Neeson. Sexy, OK? Big guy, talented, whatever. Before I turn the page, I try to imagine who will represent guys in their 60’s and older. Robert DeNiro? He’s got to be 60 something. How about Clint Eastwood? He’s 80, and if Dirty Harry ain’t sexy, there’s no such thing. So, pedaling my elliptical faster in anticipation of finding out what popular culture finds sexy in a guy my age, I turn the page and…nothing. Nada. Zip. The list of “sexy at any age” ends at age 59. The next page features another kid, Zac Efron, age 24, sitting in a convertible, screwing with his hair. At least the page wasn’t a Viagra advertisement.
So that’s it. A guy can be sexy at any age, unless that age is 60 or older. So, this is what I figure: if People magazine devotes an entire magazine to the sexiest man alive, the editors believe that I am either not sexy or that I am dead.
And so, I pedal on.
I’m a 61 year old guy who was in my local gym today, pedaling my elliptical machine like it was a matter of life and death, which it may be, trying to get rid of a few unwanted pounds. Well, maybe 20 unwanted pounds, but at least I know they have to go. Before I jumped on the machine, I grabbed the November 28th issue of People magazine, just one of the garbage mags in a stack by the machines, something to pass the time. What attracted me to this particular read was that the cover DID NOT feature a brokenhearted Kardashian, an angry Kardashian, a pregnant one, a recently split up one or any kind of Kardashian at all. In fact, this particular issue of People was one of their biggest sellers, the one that features the yearly "Sexiest Man Alive”. I noticed that this year’s winner is an actor, Bradley Cooper. I’m familiar with one of Mr. Cooper’s movies, Limitless, which I rented recently. Not bad, and based on the beefcake pictures of this fellow on the printed page, lifting weights, loving his dog, it was clear that he was sexy. No problem. I have no problem with that.
What pushed me over the edge was a series of photos of all sorts of guys on page 108. This page was entitled, “Sexy at Every Age”, and it showed photos of some famous guys, some less famous, grinning out from the glossy page. Athletes, actors and musicians, all of them. OK, no problem. I figure, what’s sexy about an overweight, 61 year old retired teacher with white hair? Not much. Beneath each photo, the guy’s age is given, starting with a 20 year old kid named Tyler Posey. I don’t know who Tyler Posey is, but maybe he’s sexy, I don’t know. The rows of photos continue, guys in their 30’s, 40’s, 50’s. Pierce Brosnan, age 58. Sexy, no question. That’s James Bond, my friend. In the lower right hand corner of the page, age 59, Liam Neeson. Sexy, OK? Big guy, talented, whatever. Before I turn the page, I try to imagine who will represent guys in their 60’s and older. Robert DeNiro? He’s got to be 60 something. How about Clint Eastwood? He’s 80, and if Dirty Harry ain’t sexy, there’s no such thing. So, pedaling my elliptical faster in anticipation of finding out what popular culture finds sexy in a guy my age, I turn the page and…nothing. Nada. Zip. The list of “sexy at any age” ends at age 59. The next page features another kid, Zac Efron, age 24, sitting in a convertible, screwing with his hair. At least the page wasn’t a Viagra advertisement.
So that’s it. A guy can be sexy at any age, unless that age is 60 or older. So, this is what I figure: if People magazine devotes an entire magazine to the sexiest man alive, the editors believe that I am either not sexy or that I am dead.
And so, I pedal on.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Girl gear
I now live in Spokane, where I have resided for the last 3 months. I always knew it was cold in Spokane, and it is, with night temperatures into the teens and sure to get colder as winter goes on. These frigid temperatures have led me to make an important discovery however. Women's garments, specifically “leggings” are warm and comfortable. These are the long underwear that women wear. I think they call them “tights”, and they certainly are. Regardless of what they are called, they are cozy. I’ll admit I was a little hesitant to slap these things on. I've always fancied myself as something of a man's man: rough exterior, lots of foul language, infrequent bathing, excessive television, those sorts of things.The whole idea of wearing women’s clothing set me back, not that there is anything wrong with men wearing women’s clothing. I’m a pretty open-minded guy. It was just never my thing. It was only at my wife’s urging that I gave these a try. These tights are not like men’s longjohns, which are thick and bag in some really uncomfortable places, and have a really complicated fly arrangement that is ridiculous for the purpose intended. These girl tights don’t bag, and…no fly. I imagine they have no fly because of the difference between male and female plumbing, but regardless, women’s tights give a sleek, streamlined appearance. I squeeze into these babies and look like a regular ballet dancer, albeit an overweight, 61 year old one. And so, as winter deepens, you'll find me shopping in the ladies department, thank you very much. That's just the way it is.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Connected
When I first moved to my fair city of Spokane six weeks ago, I couldn’t get any internet, television or land line telephone. The guy from whom I bought the house had disconnected the cable and cut the wires. It was a major 30 day production getting hooked up. I might as well have been in Antarctica for a month. My only connection to the outside world was my cell phone with limited minutes. People would say, “Isn’t it freeing be to be disconnected? There’s only crap on tv anyway. The internet is just so much garbage, and how sweet it must be to not have a home phone.”
I hated it. I like the crap that is on tv, thank you very much. I can blow away hours on the internet researching very important stuff like real estate prices in Croatia. The best and worst thing was having this little cell phone and its 1,000 minutes per 30 days. I’d call somebody up and watch the minutes slide away like I was bleeding out. I really found out who I considered my friends to be. My cell phone would ring and I’d see who was calling. I had to ask myself, “Is this guy worth 10 minutes? Eight?” Being put on hold was the worst. “Thank you for holding. Your business is important to us.” No it isn’t. If my business was so important to somebody, they would hire someone to answer the damned telephone. Finally, at the end of my 30 days, I had exactly 3 minutes left on my account. I got 1,000 new minutes the next day and walked around like some guy who just hit the lotto. Money in the bank, baby. I got 1,000 minutes.
I found myself going to Starbucks and getting wired on caffeine at night. I became a regular, just so I could use their free wi-fi. Baristas started looking at me funny, like I was some kind of late night latte pervert, hanging out until I was kicked out at closing. An internet junkie looking for a fix, that was me.
Then, it was over. I’m connected to the world again. I can watch really stupid television programming any time I want. I can go online without having to waste my money on the overpriced pastries and coffee that Howard Schultz sells. I’m back in the world, and I’m loving it.
I hated it. I like the crap that is on tv, thank you very much. I can blow away hours on the internet researching very important stuff like real estate prices in Croatia. The best and worst thing was having this little cell phone and its 1,000 minutes per 30 days. I’d call somebody up and watch the minutes slide away like I was bleeding out. I really found out who I considered my friends to be. My cell phone would ring and I’d see who was calling. I had to ask myself, “Is this guy worth 10 minutes? Eight?” Being put on hold was the worst. “Thank you for holding. Your business is important to us.” No it isn’t. If my business was so important to somebody, they would hire someone to answer the damned telephone. Finally, at the end of my 30 days, I had exactly 3 minutes left on my account. I got 1,000 new minutes the next day and walked around like some guy who just hit the lotto. Money in the bank, baby. I got 1,000 minutes.
I found myself going to Starbucks and getting wired on caffeine at night. I became a regular, just so I could use their free wi-fi. Baristas started looking at me funny, like I was some kind of late night latte pervert, hanging out until I was kicked out at closing. An internet junkie looking for a fix, that was me.
Then, it was over. I’m connected to the world again. I can watch really stupid television programming any time I want. I can go online without having to waste my money on the overpriced pastries and coffee that Howard Schultz sells. I’m back in the world, and I’m loving it.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Room 202
It has been a while since I've blogged on. My summer has been spent selling my home, which I accomplished, and buying another. If ever there was a buyer's market, this is it.While I've been waiting for our new home to close, my trio ( man, woman, fat and flatulent dog) have been holed up in a motel for almost three weeks. It hasn't been that bad, except for one thing: an event I call the daily Breakfast Battle.
This place where we are staying offers a measly little breakfast in a small dining room. One thing I've noticed about Americans: no matter how disgusting the fare, no matter how meager or unappealing the meal, when the words"FREE FOOD" are advertised, my fellow countrymen and I line up and jostle for position like starving Somalians. Starving Somalians would probably have better manners.
If this sounds like I am being overly critical of my motel mates, well, it comes from living here for three weeks.This is about survival. I've come to think of this place as home, and if this is home, who are all these people in my dining room every morning? The one- nighters are the worst. Who do they think they are, grabbing the last bagel or draining the coffeepot just when I'm about to get my caffeine fix? These folks are here today and gone tomorrow. What ever happened to the notion of seniority? Particularly irritating is when some overnighter kid takes the last little package of jelly. Those jellies are a particular favorite of mine, and here comes some diminutive human grabbing the last one, as though I just checked in. Sorry, kid. Not gonna happen.
We have two more nights here, and it's for the best, for I have become more and more aggressive in the breakfast line. I'm a big man, and lately it has occurred to me to use my superior size to gain the breakfast I desire. My big body is especially effective in shouldering smaller people out of the way, especially women. If some female is making her move for the last muffin, BAM, I'm not above slamming her out of the way, much like a hockey player might take an opposing player to the boards. It's just a muffin, but it's free, and it's mine.
Being tall is another advantage in the breakfast room. When some kid is positioning himself for some morsel that rightfully should be mine, I employ a technique I've developed which I call "going over the top". As the youthful midget extends his hand to grab the desired breakfast object, I come in from above and snatch it. Lately, I've noticed parents giving me the evil eye.I don't care. I was a teacher for 32 years and parents gave me the evil eye all the time.
So now I rest, for tomorrow is another day and another battle to be waged.
This place where we are staying offers a measly little breakfast in a small dining room. One thing I've noticed about Americans: no matter how disgusting the fare, no matter how meager or unappealing the meal, when the words"FREE FOOD" are advertised, my fellow countrymen and I line up and jostle for position like starving Somalians. Starving Somalians would probably have better manners.
If this sounds like I am being overly critical of my motel mates, well, it comes from living here for three weeks.This is about survival. I've come to think of this place as home, and if this is home, who are all these people in my dining room every morning? The one- nighters are the worst. Who do they think they are, grabbing the last bagel or draining the coffeepot just when I'm about to get my caffeine fix? These folks are here today and gone tomorrow. What ever happened to the notion of seniority? Particularly irritating is when some overnighter kid takes the last little package of jelly. Those jellies are a particular favorite of mine, and here comes some diminutive human grabbing the last one, as though I just checked in. Sorry, kid. Not gonna happen.
We have two more nights here, and it's for the best, for I have become more and more aggressive in the breakfast line. I'm a big man, and lately it has occurred to me to use my superior size to gain the breakfast I desire. My big body is especially effective in shouldering smaller people out of the way, especially women. If some female is making her move for the last muffin, BAM, I'm not above slamming her out of the way, much like a hockey player might take an opposing player to the boards. It's just a muffin, but it's free, and it's mine.
Being tall is another advantage in the breakfast room. When some kid is positioning himself for some morsel that rightfully should be mine, I employ a technique I've developed which I call "going over the top". As the youthful midget extends his hand to grab the desired breakfast object, I come in from above and snatch it. Lately, I've noticed parents giving me the evil eye.I don't care. I was a teacher for 32 years and parents gave me the evil eye all the time.
So now I rest, for tomorrow is another day and another battle to be waged.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
A losing bet on Golden Dancer
As I watch the latest installment of President Obama’s collapse as a hope for many progressives in this country, I’m reminded of that classic American play, Inherit the Wind. In this drama, Henry Drummond is a defense attorney representing a high school biology teacher accused of teaching evolution in a small town American school in the 1920’s. Drummond recounts his experience as a child, being fascinated with a rocking horse, “Golden Dancer”. He wanted that toy, and he got it, but it broke in two the very first time he rode it. “All shine, no substance. When you see something bright, shining, perfect seeming…look behind the paint.” Sadly, many of us who supported Barack Obama in 2008 are getting a dose of reality as we see the unvarnished truth behind candidate Obama, who, as president, has turned out to be just another politician, only worse, because we naively expected so much more.
I don’t know which feels worse, the performance of this president, or that I was duped into not only voting for him but also contributing to his campaign. Like an adolescent with a first crush, I fell in love with the shell, not the character. I and others were entranced by everything about Obama: his age, his race, his oratory, his cool, his pretty wife, his jump shot, his un- George Bushness, but as it turns out, it was all superficial. It was a pretty package designed to win votes, and it did. Unfortunately, after the party comes the cleanup, the job behind the fun.
Mr. Obama has been a disappointment on issue after issue to those who most supported him. Pick an issue, any issue. Health care reform? Monthly premiums have never been higher for Americans. What better evidence of the winner in the whole health care debate than this fact: in the first half of this year, the best performing sector in the American stock market has been the health care industry, up 13%. Better than energy, better than information technology, better than transportation. Obama was elected partly on the belief that the US would get out of foreign conflicts that take American lives and resources. Yet, here we are in Afghanistan, more troops on the ground than ever, a result of Obama’s own version of the Bush surge in Iraq. Earlier this year, Obama caved on the Bush era tax cuts. He may have liked to have raised taxes on the wealthy, but at the first sign of the opposition stonewall, he collapsed. This week, the president has shown his willingness to cut Social Security and Medicare in order to reduce the national debt. At every turn, Obama has been a disappointment to the very constituency that was so enamored with him just 3 years ago.
There’s a lesson to be learned in this president’s performance, though it’s a lesson this old teacher should have known all along. After all, I taught Inherit the Wind. The lesson is a simple one: if something seems too good to be true, it usually is. It’s a lesson that applies to politicians every bit as much as it applies to rocking horses.
I don’t know which feels worse, the performance of this president, or that I was duped into not only voting for him but also contributing to his campaign. Like an adolescent with a first crush, I fell in love with the shell, not the character. I and others were entranced by everything about Obama: his age, his race, his oratory, his cool, his pretty wife, his jump shot, his un- George Bushness, but as it turns out, it was all superficial. It was a pretty package designed to win votes, and it did. Unfortunately, after the party comes the cleanup, the job behind the fun.
Mr. Obama has been a disappointment on issue after issue to those who most supported him. Pick an issue, any issue. Health care reform? Monthly premiums have never been higher for Americans. What better evidence of the winner in the whole health care debate than this fact: in the first half of this year, the best performing sector in the American stock market has been the health care industry, up 13%. Better than energy, better than information technology, better than transportation. Obama was elected partly on the belief that the US would get out of foreign conflicts that take American lives and resources. Yet, here we are in Afghanistan, more troops on the ground than ever, a result of Obama’s own version of the Bush surge in Iraq. Earlier this year, Obama caved on the Bush era tax cuts. He may have liked to have raised taxes on the wealthy, but at the first sign of the opposition stonewall, he collapsed. This week, the president has shown his willingness to cut Social Security and Medicare in order to reduce the national debt. At every turn, Obama has been a disappointment to the very constituency that was so enamored with him just 3 years ago.
There’s a lesson to be learned in this president’s performance, though it’s a lesson this old teacher should have known all along. After all, I taught Inherit the Wind. The lesson is a simple one: if something seems too good to be true, it usually is. It’s a lesson that applies to politicians every bit as much as it applies to rocking horses.
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