Shut the Hell Up, French Guy

I read this article and, honestly, it sort of made me sick: "Suddenly it may be cool to be an American again". (I'll post the link to my page if you're a masochist and want to read the entire thing). The gist of it is this: Now that Obama's been elected president, Europeans et al have decided to stop treating individual Americans like shit. How very generous of them. The writer of the article describes the following incidents:

Last spring, after the Bush administration recognized Kosovo's independence, a Serb who overheard my American-accented English lobbed a beer can at me in central Vienna. He missed, but spat out an unflattering "Amerikanac" and told me where to go.

On another occasion, an Austrian who heard my teenage daughter chatting with a friend pursued her, screaming, "Go Home!"

The Hell? This behavior is seriously fucked up. Even if you admit to the fact that the American government is imperfect, and that some heinous acts have been committed by individuals under the direction of that government, why take it out on a teenage girl, who has zero voice when it comes to the election of that government?

I had my own experience with anti American sentiment when I went to Mexico in March 2003. Obviously, there was an unpopular war just getting underway at that time. I was having fun spending my American dollars, money that everyone was very eager to receive. When I was approached by a deaf boy selling pencils on the streets of Cancun, I agreed to buy one but only had a couple of dollars cash. The boy got angry because he expected the "rich American" to give him more for his cheap ass pencils. So he drew his finger across his throat and said "Death to Americans". Creepy. And also very eye opening for a 26 year old woman on her first trip out of the country. I never realized how much we were hated.

And yet, everyone I know is honest, hardworking, big hearted. And they are all Americans. From what I can tell, Americans are always among the countries offering aid to those in need. Aid that no country experiencing crisis has ever refused. I can't imagine anyone ever telling an American ready to assist with money or manpower to "Go Home". Many people around the globe clamor to emigrate to this country, to either attend our schools, escape persecution, or pursue their own happiness, otherwise known as "The American Dream". And how many Americans have given their lives on foreign soil to preserve the freedoms of men and women who they have never even met? The waters on Omaha Beach were colored red by the blood of servicemen on June 6, 1944. Why is all the good that American does or has ever done discounted or forgotten?

The writer of the article stated that at times he felt the need to lie about his nationality, to deny being American, in order to avoid a nasty confrontation. I find it extremely sad that anyone should have to feel shame about who they are or where they come from. I, for one, am tired of feeling like I am somehow innately selfish or ignorant because I am American. But I guess now that Obama's president elect, I don't have to feel that way anymore. Obama's the saint that saved America...from what I don't know.

The writer ends the article this way:

I'm a marathon runner, and I have a red, white and blue singlet that I've seldom dared to wear on the Continent. Marathons are difficult enough without enduring catcalls and jeers from spectators.

But my best friend and training partner — who is French — just gave me his stamp of approval.

"Will you wear your Stars and Stripes shirt now? You're allowed!" he told me.

Thank you so much Mr. Douchebag Frenchman for giving this man permission to express his national pride. Yes, pride in a country who sacrificed so many young men's lives to rescue France from the clutches of Nazi Germany. But I guess this French man has the benefit of living in a perfect country, under a perfect government, where every citizen is completely enlightened, and only does good and angelic deeds (except, of course, for the occasional jeering at American marathon runners)

So it seems overnight, the international opinion of Americans and their government has taken a complete Uturn. Well, if there is any truth to this article, then my opinion of the rest of the world has taken a pretty sharp turn too. Guess what, rest of the world? I don't need your fucking permission to feel good about myself or my country. I voted for Obama, and I hope he does everything he promised to do. But HE HASN'T EVEN TAKEN OFFICE YET and people are already acting like he is the Second Coming of Jesus Christ. I guess my point is, why did it take the election of Obama for the world to start seeing that America is not a land of demons? Why was it okay for someone to throw a beer can at someone last Spring just for being an American, and all of a sudden this:

"She was a stranger, and she kissed me. Just for being an American.It happened on the bus on my way to work Wednesday morning, a few hours after compatriots clamoring for change swept Barack Obama to his historic victory. I was on the phone, and the 20-something Austrian woman seated in front of me overheard me speaking English.Without a word, she turned, pecked me on the cheek and stepped off at the next stop."

I can't wrap my brain around this. Hopefully, this article isn't representative of what is really happening around the globe. I know that you can't believe everything you read. But it disturbed me, nonetheless, and I just had to share the feelings it stirred up in me with all of you. I'm damn proud of being an American. And now the guy that threw the beer can, the Austrian who screamed at a teenager on the street, and most of all the arrogant French asshole who is conceited enough to believe we need his fucking blessing to wear our national colors with pride, are all on my shit list. They all suck beyond words and yet somehow they believe they are better than the Americans they crap all over. They better not ever step foot on this soil. Because, as Eminem says "When I fucking see you dog, I'm swinging on you". That is all.

Tot the Vote

A few days ago, Liv and I were watching TV and an Obama campaign ad was running on-screen. She turned to me and said, "I like Bawack Obama, mommy. I like his face." When even a toddler has an opinion about the political candidates, you know that the candidates have really done their job and done it well. In my opinion, toddlers and children are a disenfranchised group in our society and I for one am not going to remain silent about it any longer. Olivia has as much a right to vote as anyone, especially when you consider the fact that a lot of adults vote or don't vote for a particular candidate based on wrong information, physical appearance, or just political affiliation.

Personally, I try to plow through all the information out there - from canvassers, magazine articles, news shows, debates. But at the end of the day, its all so overwhelming. Who do you trust? Who's telling the truth? Who's manipulating truth? What really is the best plan for the trajectory of this country? I'll be the first to admit, I'm a political simpleton. I've always been more interested in historical political climates, rather than current ones. So take what I'm about to say for what it's worth in light of that.

I've been bursting with rage lately about one particular issue. Here it is: I can not tell you how many people I've talked to or read about who have said they would not vote for Barack Obama based on the following reasons:
1. His middle name is Hussein and therefore he must be a terrorist.
2. His father was a Muslim, and therefore he is a Muslim, so he must be a terrorist.
3. I got an email that said Barack Obama was a terrorist, so he must be a terrorist.

Honestly, when I hear these things come out of people's mouths it really does fill me with the incendiary rage of a million suns that my daughter, who is 3 years old, cannot cast her vote come election day. Because in her itty bitty toddler head, there has to exist more sense and reason than in the adult minds whose two brain cells gave birth to such irrational ideas.

To address the first issue: Guess what? My middle name is Alison. And Stanley Allison Baker shot Wayne Walters in the back of the head for $50. (He's also ugly and ate a disgustingly gluttonous last meal, but that's a whole other story). So in applying the theory that Obama is a terrorist loving Muslim because of his middle name, then I must be a gluttonous, ugly, murderer. Seriously, that whole way of thinking is THAT stupid and THAT fucked up.

Second issue: Let's just assume for a second that Barack Obama's father was a Muslim. And for fun, let's also assume that Barack Obama is, himself, a practicing Muslim. So. Fucking. What? There are millions of hard-working, good hearted, peace-loving people who practice this religion in this country and throughout the globe. To paint an entire religious group with one brush based on the acts of a small proportion of that group is the height of ignorance, in my humble opinion. To say that all Muslims are terrorists is like saying that all Christians are polygamists and pedophiles because a small CHRISTIAN group called the FLDS thinks that marrying 14 year olds to grown men is A-Okay.

3rd issue - I got an email about 40 times that told me that my deodorant was giving me cancer. At the time, I thought: I'd rather get cancer than smell like body odor. And it looks like I made the right choice, too, because I smell good and I don't have cancer yet. I also got an email that told me if I didn't pass on some shitty chain letter to 10 people that I was going to die within 7 days. I deleted it and guess what? I'm still alive. The Gap was supposed to send me a $20 gift certificate for forwarding an email, and I'm i(red) because I think I was decei(ved). The point here is: Just because somebody wrote an email saying "Please pass this On, It's of urgent national security" or some other bullshit intended to make you feel like a fucking super spy, it doesn't mean that it's true. People send lots of horrible things via email, like viruses and fluffy, dancing kitty cats telling you how much you are loved. And if people don't stop believing all that shit, I'm going to go all "Stanley Allison Baker" on their asses. Because I have to. Because Alison is my middle name, you all.

I don't have a political agenda here. I really don't. I don't have the answers to anything. I honestly don't give a rat's ass who you or anyone is voting for. I do respect all opinions, so long as they are based on truth and logic and if a person has a credible reason for holding them. I mean if someone said to me, "I won't vote for Obama because I don't believe he has the ability to fix our economy", I can totally get that.

I'm voting for Obama, personally, but it really pissed me off when I heard that Madonna put up some video at her concert comparing McCain to Adolf Hitler. To me, that was an abuse of her celebrity status. But someone concluding that McCain is just like Hitler because of seeing that would be the same as believing Obama is a terrorist because of a damn email. The smears go both ways in this campaign.

I think my daughter is smart and I really respect her instincts. Her opinion is obviously not the only reason I'm casting my vote in Obama's direction, but I have to admit it makes me feel happy to know that she likes his face. I say let's start the toddler suffrage movement! Tot the Vote in 2012!

Suicide is Painless

I've been thinking a lot lately about morbid things. And also about things that I hate. It's been a while since I've written anything for you all to suffer through. Mostly because I've been having difficulty putting my thoughts into any cohesive order, but also because most of what I think is none of anybody's damn business. Oh, but I kid. I really do believe thoughts are meant to be shared, no matter how random or scary or bizarre. We live in a fucked up universe full of fucked up people. Doesn't it help to feel less alone in all that fucked-up-ness?

You want to know what I hate right now? I want to say this right, because its important to me, but I'm not sure I can really put into words exactly what it is and why I am so annoyed. You know the montage of images that are always shown in the beginning of television shows? Along with the theme song there is this onslaught of smiling faces of all the characters. Smiling face. Smiling face. Smiling face. Oooh sad face followed by a hug. Smiling face. Silly antic. Smiling face. After a while, I get nauseous. This is the beginning of the process. Eventually my nausea gives way to an overwhelming desire to destroy things. And the final stage is a complete loss of all will to live.

The worst opening montage of all is for The Hills. Especially the one snippet where you see models getting dressed for a fashion show and THEIR BONES ARE STICKING OUT all over the place and I guess I'm supposed to feel all inspired by these Halloween skeletons to "feel the rain on my skin" when honestly I think that would be pretty painful when you have no fatty tissue whatsoever to cushion the fall of said raindrops. La La La - No one else can do it for you, only you can let it in. You know what else no one can do for you? Eat food. And also stop dating that asshat Justin Bobby guy with the weird hats and even weirder tics. Jesus Christ. Okay, we all had one of them, I guess. And they are young. And I was just as stupid about Keith as any of them are about all their jerks. But it doesn't stop me from wanting to wring their scrawny little necks when they whine about how bad they're being treated whilst chewing tiny bites of food. It would be okay with me if they just fucking admitted that they liked being treated like shit. The one that really grates is Heidi with her one billion tons of make up and her emotionally abusive fiance and her extraterrestrial ability to morph into an entirely different person within the span of a single year. She looks like a mannequin. I hate her guts.

And theme music in general is downright insidious (the dictionary so perfectly defines this word as harmful but enticing). I haven't seen Family Ties in about 20 years but that Sha La La La at the end of it's theme song still works it's way into my mind eating valuable brain cells like a tape worm at regular intervals. And Full House. God. Full House. "What ever happend to predictability?" What ever happened to song lyrics that made sense and didn't make we want to invent a time machine, go back to the dawn of man's cultural awareness, and murder the neanderthal who liked the sound of two sticks tapping together before he could go share it with the rest of the clan? Honestly, there is some music that makes me wish there was never music. But there are some theme songs that I absolutely adore. Silver Spoons. Here we are, face to face, a couple of silver spooons... Love it. So I bought Tina a CD one year for Christmas that had a bunch of TV theme songs on it. One of the songs was called "Suicide is Painless" and I thought what kind of fucked up show was that the theme song of? Turns out its that doo doo doooo doo doo doo song from MASH. That show definitely makes me want to commit suicide if I ever see it for a few minutes by accident, with that frizzy haired lady and Hawkeye trying to be funny around makeshift operating room tables. Compared to watching that show, suicide IS painless. But I think it really depends on the suicide.

Yeah, I know. Totally heavy subject. Here's the thing. I saw this episode of Dr. Phil called "The Bridge" and it was about this guy who did a documentary where he taped footage of people jumping off the Golden Gate bridge. It is seriously one of the creepiest things. You'll be happy to know (I'm assuming) that I could never jump off of a bridge. I don't know why anyone would pick that as the way to go. Like, hey moron, how about an overdose of opiates so you can go out feeling momentary, albeit artificial, pleasure? Yeah, your life sucks but does that mean you have to end it in such a craptastic way? But I guess you can't be thinking too straight if you're offing yourself anyway.

So then I start thinking about the note: that final note that most people write to explain or apologize to the loved ones left behind. What does one say? I think I would die of old age before I could ever decide what my final words would be. I would seriously obsess about the grammar, the content, the eloquence. I would spend so much time on that damn note that I would probably end up forgetting why I wanted to commit suicide in the first place. I wonder if anybody ever just wrote "You should have treated me better". Heh. There was this couple on the show whose daughter committed suicide after they got in a fight and her mom said "You should start being more grateful. Because with all the money we're going to be spending on your college tuition, me and your father could be taking a trip around the world every year". And then they grounded her. And then she jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge. I think she over-reacted just a tad. But I really wonder what her note said. Maybe she wrote: "Mom and Dad, Have fun on your trip around the world! Love, Megan" That would have been awesome. I mean the whole thing is a fucking tragedy. I feel super sad for all involved, but I can also be a little objective about it because I don't know these folks. The moral of this little story is, if you're going to go all bat-shit crazy and kill yourself at least try and find a way to be cool about it.

So now is the serious portion, where I have to go all PC and say "Suicide - Don't Do It" ala Heathers. Seriously, you all. There is nothing cool about slit wrists, OD's, or nooses. But sometimes when I hear about things so terrible, I have to find a way to laugh about it. Otherwise, I would start crying and just never stop. You'd find me in a fetal position in a dark room working on my "Note" by way of candlelight. So let me laugh about suicide, and crappy theme songs, and don't go all after-school special on me. Okey dokey?

Necies Pieces

Did you ever meet a character? I mean not in the stupid "He's a character" way, but in the way that makes you think you are actually in a sitcom right now conversing with the wacky foil and there's a laugh track playing in all the stupid glory of the moment? There's a woman who works in the office next door. Denise is her name. She drives a blue SUV with a vanity license plate that reads: NECIES. She's always baking things that don't really taste good. One time she gave me a piece of banana bread and I ended up wrapping it in a napkin and putting it in my purse because I was afraid to leave it in the trash where she might see it and then get her feelings all hurt and whatnot. And then I forgot about it and it ended up drying out and and I had all these disgusting crumbs and little pieces of walnut at the bottom of my purse mingled with the buttons, coins, safety pins, candy wrappers that had been gathering in there for many months. It made me want to throw up a little bit.

And she talks. A lot. "So many non sequiturs, so little time" seems to be her standard operating procedure on any given day. If I so much as say "Good morning" to her, or "God Bless You" when she sneezes, she's standing at the door of my office telling me about how she went shoe shopping at Value City and bought a pair of sneakers for $5.99. And right after that she yammers on about her boyfriend's terrible car accident, complete with head trauma that left him on disability. I know. I KNOW. That's a sad story. But now they're engaged and getting married! And no doubt having the tackiest wedding since this one:

Do we all know this type of person or is it just me? Does anybody else know someone who seems to exist only to fascinate and annoy you in a million different ways? It's like how I felt about teachers in elementary school: like they didn't exist outside of that context. I know on a rational level that Denise is a real, alive type of person with complex feelings and hopes and dreams and all that shit. But there is a part of me that can't accept that she has a soul.

What stuns me is the fact that I am weirdly drawn to her. I engage her in conversation. I tell her that her food tastes great. I even told her to bring in her photo album from her first wedding where she made head pieces for all her bridemaids out of tulle and glue and fake pearls. I want to see it. It's like this THING. I need to see that photo album and experience the monstrosity in all its plastic floral centerpiece splendor. Maybe I'm more of a masochist than I thought. I mean I know that I have the capacity to inflict pain on myself in a lot of intense and strange ways, but this is beyond that. And now I'm thinking about Saturday Night Live. Remember the skits about Pat? Well maybe Denise is Pat.

You know the truth is that she seems like a really nice lady. So I don't mean to sound like a bitch, even though I kind of am. I'm just starting to think about my own damn self, and what I look like to the people around me. What character am I playing in this fucked up universe? I see that 90210 "what character are you" app floating around, so I know that I'm not the only person who wonders about this type of thing. Maybe I don't really want to know the answer to that question. It's just all too meta, I guess. Like if I knew what insignificant stupid role I really played in this world I'd collapse into myself and turn into this black hole, or be like two mirrors falling on one another into infinity.

What is Left

When I die, my friends and family are going to have an interesting time. I mean after they get over all the blah blah cry cry griefcakes, they are going to have about 20 years worth of my writings (journals, emails, poetry,love letters) to keep them busy reading for another 20 years. It'll almost be as good as me being alive. Maybe better as then they could put me back in the ratty old manila folder when they get sick of my incessant bullshit.

Lately, I've been thinking that my time is nigh. Whether or not I'll meet Jesus or Beelzebub when I go is a toss up. I'm sort of keen on meeting either one. Of course the Satan I picture is more the Al Pacino version from the Devil's advocate than the Dante's inferno clever psycho. Don't get me wrong, they're both equally entertaining. I just don't feel like burning alive or having my head put on backwards or having to swim in human excrement for all eternity. That would get old real quick. Oooh...you know what would be cool? The Christopher Moltisanti version of Hell, what with all the Irish guys playing Poker. I wouldn't mind losing every hand. I lose every hand now when I play Poker and I'm still alive and not yet cursed to eternal damnation. And they were all smoking and drinking up a storm. How much would that rock?

I highly doubt there's even hangovers in Hell. God should have made Hell an eternal raging hangover. I think that would be more of a deterrent than fire and brimstone even. Is God even the one that picks the tortures or is it Satan? You know how Dante's Satan made the condition of hell fit the particular sin of the damned? I wonder what clever punishment he'd come up with for the likes of me. I don't have one particular sin that I do. I just do a bunch of tall to grande ones. Sin 1: I spend lots of money at Starbucks that should be spent helping starving children. Other sins include hating people and objects for no reason, misspelling a word on a photo book I made, and swearing, like, a whole fucking lot.

Anyway, I've been wondering lately why I have kept all of those writings. I'm not arrogant enough to consider it a "body of work" nor am I naive enough to think I'd receive any post-humus accolades for a bunch of crap poems and a creepy, self-indulgent journal that might as well bear the glitter words "My Secret Diary" and be locked up with an ineffective, tiny padlock. It makes me sad to think that when I bite it, THIS will be the legacy. Piles of words, descriptive of angst, sophomoric stabs at sonnets, lewd limericks for a lover, lamenting the agony of eating, lamenting the agony of not eating, alone, alone, alone, so very alone as brought to you by my strange, cryptic style where sometimes the sounds of words are more important than their meaning.

There is a small part of me that hopes there isn't an afterlife. Admitting that is terribly hard for me because I have a sister's soul out there depending on the reality of that concept. But truth be told, I think by the time I go I'll be more than ready for the end of Gwen. And while I'm on the truth train, here's a little factoid for you: I'm so much better at writing about life than I am at actually living it. So unless they have laptops or notebooks and writing utensils in heaven or hell, I'm not so sure my life would retain any value in those venues. Also, it really creeps me out to think about having the ability to pop down and visit the living. There are some things I just don't want to see - like people I know having sex for example. Wouldn't that be horrible to come down to check on someone and have a terrible surprise like that? What can the dead see? Are there limits to where they can go? Think about all the invisible, dead people that might be swarming around you the next time you're on the toilet. Or peeking at dirty pictures on the internet. Or lighting up your crack pipe. I shudder to think.

At the very least I have immortality in what I've left behind. Well maybe not immortality, per se. But maybe 100 years at least, no doubt a good portion of which will be spent yellowing and forgotten in a wooden trunk in a poorly ventilated attic. But for Liv's sake, should I die young especially, it does mean a lot for me to know that there will remain a window into my weird and twisted soul: A window that she can peer into when she's old enough to meet her mother, raw and unfiltered.

Whatever the end, I keep writing the story. And I hold onto the pages like heartbeats and sustenance. I write the story for me. I write the story for Olivia. My lame little story.

We only get one, and we mess up a lot.

The Bitter, Early

I see the bitter, early. It is a brutal inheritance I am unhappy to bestow. In the face of an angel, eyes sharp as razors, cheerio mouth howling long and full of anguish. Feet clad in princess sneakers, the kind with the blinking lights, kicking harder and stronger than I ever thought they could. This is nothing, I say. This is only an adult sized anger, teeming like a million fishes in a tiny bowl, over a question about apple juice. If she could access the words in her little brain - No I don't want fucking apple juice, you annoying bitch.

Then the other day. "I hate you." Calm and eerie, unsheathing a new sword.

"Why would you say such a thing, Liv?"

"I hate you."

"Silly girl."

It is hard not to react...hard. But there is nothing about hate that she can possibly understand. Is there? Do any of us really understand it, or are we conditioned by the reaction? All my "hates" are really only sadness, regret. It's easier to say I hate something, because it makes it other than myself. It separates me from the source of that particular pain. It's a detour, but it gets me where I'm going so much easier.

I have to say that I love the truth in my daughter. Everything is raw in her world. Every emotion is okay. When she says, "You made me mad", I get a chill of delight. For me its not about the "Why", but the expression of the feeling, so plain and entitled. So I say, "Let's draw your mad."

Picture after picture of the same face, each eye a sharp line, the mouth an "O", drawn by the unsteady hand of an angry toddler. Eventually the faces become happy ones, and she bounds away saying "My mad feels better, mom." I love this new ritual. I hope she can always "draw her mad" in healthy expression of unhealthy rage.

Otherwise, what will she do with it? The years of false injustices, unexplainable annoyances, petty disgusts, will amount to a bitter existence. And eventually all those pointy daggers will have no where to go, turning inwards, stabbing her own soul. No Outlet. It is an end I couldn't bear for my Olivia, my olive branch, my peace offering, my sculpted, tender avenging angel. Draw your mad, baby. Fill your notebooks. Kill a million trees with every harsh thought and despair. Damn, I hate trees. Always falling down on my dad's house and shit. The other day, another tree fell on his swingset. Now trees are trying to murder children. When I see those tree shredder trucks, it makes my toes tingle. Even in Lord of the Rings, I wanted all those tree people to get killed by the Orcs. Or whatever the fuck those creepy, hybrid beasts were called. Christmas is the best...tree after murdered tree. And then we decorate them with little balls and top them with angels and stars. Arbor Day is the worst. The trees have everybody fooled. But I know better.