I'm not sure exactly when it happened. I don't know what brought it about. But the ugly truth is there for anyone to see. We are a nation of ill-bred, ill-mannered douche bags. Where once we kept our thoughtlessness under wraps for fear of judgement, we now wear it as a badge of patriotic pride. When we do see the problem of Rude America, we see it only in others. We identify a cause of rudeness only so that we may sit in judgement on The Rude. If we recognize any rudeness in ourselves, these causes quickly become our excuses. And the cancer grows while we all sit smugly by.
If we are to survive, we must confront The Douche Bag Within.
One of our fave scapegoat/excuses is TECHNOLOGY. TECHNOLOGY has advanced so rapidly, etiquette simply can't keep up. "How are you supposed to send an apology? Phone, voicemail, email, text, facebook page or tweet? It's just so overwhelming. I don't know what to do."
Sure you do. Apologize. Immediately and sincerely. But we've become so divorced from any real regard for each other that the numerous methods we have of communicating have simply made us more efficient douches. National Burn A Quran Day has a Facebook page. Sarah Palin tweets her support for Dr. Laura's on-air use of racial epithets. Perez Hilton posts an invasive shot of underage Miley Cyrus (and cell-phone toting Peeping Toms everywhere realize they are on a lucrative career path.)
These shocking examples are made possible by the less outrageous acts of Everyday Douchebags. You know one. You are one. Do you have loud cell phone conversations in public places? Do you text while someone else is talking to you? Do you decline to put spaces between your words when you email, saving a few precious seconds by rendering your message incomprehensible to your reader? Yep. You're the Douchebag.
Another easy target is reality tv. It has made us vulgar and gossip-hungry. Except that it hasn't made us anything. (Except insufferably dull conversationalists.) TV producers knew we were a nation of catty bitches and farting frat boys and they figured out how to make money off that. Well-crafted drama, scripted and performed by seasoned professionals was shoved aside in favor of a tasteless parade of "real" people vigorously over-sharing, artificially manipulated to produce tears and screaming matches, the losers swept aside each week and forgotten. They are the Gladiators and We, The Emperors.
Personal dignity and regard for others. If we'd had them to begin with, the producers would have been selling us new game shows for the last decade, instead of this endless gross-fest.
Finally - The American Family. The sharpest of my readers will already have noticed that Dr. Laura, Sarah Palin and the Quran burners ARE the American Family. They are its most vocal proponents, the self-appointed Keepers of American Morality. They oppose anything - from sex ed to rock music - which compromises their control because, they argue that the home is the proper sphere for teaching kids right from wrong.
So what do we think kids learn from watching Mommy make Daddy a "God Hates Fags" sign to wave in front of the cameras? My guess is they learn that God Loves Douche Bags.
Still - hope springs eternal and from the least likely places.
My Man and I went to Spaceland last week to see The Spits - a Seattle-based punk band. They took the stage at midnight, by which time the crowd was hyper and trashed. As we jockeyed for a good position in front of the stage, I got jostled. It was no biggie. No bruises were left. My drink wasn't spilled. I've certainly survived worse. But the jostler stopped, looked me in the eye and said,
"Sorry 'bout that."
And moved on. It doesn't sound like much but it almost never happens. I'm small. I get thrashed about mercilessly in crowds. And no one ever apologizes. Ever.
The show started and so did the moshing. And the moshers - I am not making this up - took care of each other. They moshed. They moshed real good. But when someone went down, they were helped up. The pit stayed in the pit - the moshers respecting the crowd-imposed boundary. And everyone was happy. Happy to be sharing a communal moment of music and beer and raw energy. Happy to be around other people. If punk rockers can play nice, surely the Tea Partiers could make an effort.
Our nation is bitterly divided. Our culture and government have descended into a perpetual shouting match in which nothing is ever resolved and cheap shots are the highest possible victory. The disregard we show for each others' feelings is a way of dehumanizing our fellow man. Once Americans stop seeing each other as countrymen, we're done. Shark bait. Sitting ducks. Too many people hate us for us to be so eager to hate each other.
So - for the sake of the nation that bore you - mind your manners. A few suggestions. Pick 2 to try tomorrow. And Be the Change.
1. When you bump into someone, stop and say "Sorry 'bout that."
2. When you ride an escalator, stand to the right so that people in a hurry can pass you.
3. Thank people for doing their jobs. It makes a big difference in their day.
4. Next time you're at a party, make an effort to include an outsider in your conversation.
5. Return phone calls within a maximum of 48 hours.
6. Learn the first names of your neighbors and get in the habit of asking them about their day.
7. If you have a dog, pick up its poop.
8. If you smoke, keep your butts out of the gutter.
9. Don't make the person on the other end of the phone more important than the person standing in front of you.
10. Begin every conversation - with your Mom, a collections agent, a cab driver or your ex-husband - with "How's your day been so far?" And listen to the answer, even if you don't care. Compassion is a muscle. Use it or lose it.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Monday, August 9, 2010
The Gentleman Is Correct In Sitting
Anthony Weiner is mad as hell and correct in not taking it anymore.
For those of you just joining us - the New York Congressman drew attention last week by losing his cool on the floor of the House. When a detractor attempted an interjection, Weiner refused to yield - instructing the gentleman to sit down. The fit of rage was brief and full of compelling points, none of which have been mentioned in any reference I've heard to the incident. Which is just more of the maddening detachment that got the man so worked up in the first place.
Peoples' lives are real. Covering your ass is not. Did I just lose the gentleman?
Politics requires a certain remove. One cannot make life and death decisions everyday if one is too close to the lives in question. It's a game and if one wishes to create positive change, one must learn to play it. But knowing this is no excuse for not doing your job, whether you're an elected representative or a regular citizen.
Consider the comfortable remove of California gubernatorial candidate Meg Whitman who ignored the political game entirely for most of her adult life before deciding to make it her career. I don't follow this at all. You found politics so tedious and irrelevant that you couldn't find time to do the absolute minimum - and now you want the people to entrust you with an elected position of enormous responsibility at a time of extraordinary challenges? I'd like a little more info, ma'am.
But I'll only get well-rehearsed responses from her on how not voting was "wrong" and some lame dribble about being focused on raising a family. (Which by the way, was a primary argument against allowing women to vote in the first place. Way to represent, sista.) I'll get whatever her handlers have told her to say in order to cover her ass. She's just playing the game.
And why shouldn't she? She's spent a fortune getting a seat at the table. What's our excuse? Any intelligent person will likely dismiss my concerns with rolled eyes and pre-scripted excuses about how the system is corrupt and no one can do anything about it. It's a weak argument because it isn't real. It's just the pre-scripted response that the guy on the street gives to cover his ass.
No. The gentleman will accept responsibility. The gentleman is correct in accepting responsibility.
Our officials work for us but we're too lazy (or sorry, focused on raising our families) to properly oversee them. We complain instead of taking action because we delude ourselves into thinking that politics is separate from our lives. This is every bit as reprehensible in an ordinary citizen as in a Congressman. You should vote yes if you think something is the right thing. Your decisions are real. Healthcare, education and the environment are real. So forget about your ass and do your job.
Barbara Grizzuti Harrison once said, "I refuse to believe that trading recipes is silly. Tuna casserole is at least as real as corporate stock."
Indeed. Times are tough, folks. We need to get real with each other. Be accountable and demand accountability. We need to understand that participating in the political system IS taking care our families. Voting is at least as real as tuna casserole.
The Diva's Fancy Pants Tuna Noodle Casserole
8 oz. egg noodles
1/2 an onion, diced
2 tbsp. butter
2 tbsp. flour
Kosher salt to taste
1 c milk
1 c shaved 3 cheese blend (parmesan, romano, asiago)
6 oz. canned tuna, drained
15 oz. can of peas, drained
1. Heat the oven to 350 and grease a 2 quart casserole
2. Boil the noodles to al dente and drain
3. Melt the butter and fry the onion til it's transluscent and the house smells yummy
4. Add flour and salt and stir to combine well
5. Add milk and whisk until the sauce gets thick. Go easy on the heat for this part.
6. Add cheese and stir to combine well
7. Add tuna, peas and noodles and stir to combine well
8. Pop it in the oven for 30 minutes
Serve warm with cracked pepper.
Serve cold on second day with Sriracha sauce.
Breathe easy.
For those of you just joining us - the New York Congressman drew attention last week by losing his cool on the floor of the House. When a detractor attempted an interjection, Weiner refused to yield - instructing the gentleman to sit down. The fit of rage was brief and full of compelling points, none of which have been mentioned in any reference I've heard to the incident. Which is just more of the maddening detachment that got the man so worked up in the first place.
Peoples' lives are real. Covering your ass is not. Did I just lose the gentleman?
Politics requires a certain remove. One cannot make life and death decisions everyday if one is too close to the lives in question. It's a game and if one wishes to create positive change, one must learn to play it. But knowing this is no excuse for not doing your job, whether you're an elected representative or a regular citizen.
Consider the comfortable remove of California gubernatorial candidate Meg Whitman who ignored the political game entirely for most of her adult life before deciding to make it her career. I don't follow this at all. You found politics so tedious and irrelevant that you couldn't find time to do the absolute minimum - and now you want the people to entrust you with an elected position of enormous responsibility at a time of extraordinary challenges? I'd like a little more info, ma'am.
But I'll only get well-rehearsed responses from her on how not voting was "wrong" and some lame dribble about being focused on raising a family. (Which by the way, was a primary argument against allowing women to vote in the first place. Way to represent, sista.) I'll get whatever her handlers have told her to say in order to cover her ass. She's just playing the game.
And why shouldn't she? She's spent a fortune getting a seat at the table. What's our excuse? Any intelligent person will likely dismiss my concerns with rolled eyes and pre-scripted excuses about how the system is corrupt and no one can do anything about it. It's a weak argument because it isn't real. It's just the pre-scripted response that the guy on the street gives to cover his ass.
No. The gentleman will accept responsibility. The gentleman is correct in accepting responsibility.
Our officials work for us but we're too lazy (or sorry, focused on raising our families) to properly oversee them. We complain instead of taking action because we delude ourselves into thinking that politics is separate from our lives. This is every bit as reprehensible in an ordinary citizen as in a Congressman. You should vote yes if you think something is the right thing. Your decisions are real. Healthcare, education and the environment are real. So forget about your ass and do your job.
Barbara Grizzuti Harrison once said, "I refuse to believe that trading recipes is silly. Tuna casserole is at least as real as corporate stock."
Indeed. Times are tough, folks. We need to get real with each other. Be accountable and demand accountability. We need to understand that participating in the political system IS taking care our families. Voting is at least as real as tuna casserole.
The Diva's Fancy Pants Tuna Noodle Casserole
8 oz. egg noodles
1/2 an onion, diced
2 tbsp. butter
2 tbsp. flour
Kosher salt to taste
1 c milk
1 c shaved 3 cheese blend (parmesan, romano, asiago)
6 oz. canned tuna, drained
15 oz. can of peas, drained
1. Heat the oven to 350 and grease a 2 quart casserole
2. Boil the noodles to al dente and drain
3. Melt the butter and fry the onion til it's transluscent and the house smells yummy
4. Add flour and salt and stir to combine well
5. Add milk and whisk until the sauce gets thick. Go easy on the heat for this part.
6. Add cheese and stir to combine well
7. Add tuna, peas and noodles and stir to combine well
8. Pop it in the oven for 30 minutes
Serve warm with cracked pepper.
Serve cold on second day with Sriracha sauce.
Breathe easy.
Monday, August 2, 2010
The Undeclared War on Domesticity
Please allow me to introduce myself. American Girl. Downtown dilettante. Amateur philosopher and overworked artist. I'm the girl at the farmer's market buying organic produce and realizing I've again forgotten my eco-friendly cloth carrier bag. The chick at Red Zebra repeating my intention to get to bed early every 20 minutes before staggering out at 2AM with everyone else. The gal who writes a song everyday in the car on my way to wherever I'm calling "work" that day. And the loft-dwelling lady with Donna Reed aspirations. That last word is important. I rarely achieve my dream of domestic design bliss. But I don't stop wanting it. A well-tended home is a grander dream than a shoe closet.
But I am alone in this. Right?
I didn't grow up in Betty Crocker land. This isn't about nostalgia for anything from my own life. My mom worked all the time, like I do. She was a good mom - folded my laundry, packed my lunches and made my Halloween costumes. But she wasn't the type to plan a menu or decorate a cake or keep an herb garden. She had other stuff to do. But the first time I decided - on a whim - to get up and make the recipe for chicken enchiladas I saw in a magazine ad for cheese, I was sold. The smell wafting from the oven. Watching the cheese melt. The gleeful surprise from my family when they found a home-cooked meal on the table. Immaculate and unparalleled satisfaction.
But life took me through stints in artsy fartsy theater and existentially-induced nausea and all-night parties and jazz jazz jazz. And I had a new set of friends among whom the domestic arts were NOT revered. They were - if anything - a brutal manifestation of the continued subjugation of women. My awesome new pals bragged about their utter incompetence in the kitchen. And why not? We were designing a new way of being. One that worked for US. And being at home meant you had nothing to do. Any effort expended to improve your own home was an admission that you had time for drudgery and were thus, less than fabulous.
But I never bought it. It struck me as inexcusably lame to take pride in ignorance, especially when the result of it was being unable to take care of yourself. My fashionista crowd dutifully educated themselves on trends and gossip, while cultivating a childish dependence on take-out and freeze-dried and readymade food products. Then the same girls would moan incessantly about weight gain and dull skin and persistent colds. They would swap product recommendations and talk juice fasts, charging arrogantly toward a future of excessive consumption and excessive waste. Their lives were entirely store bought. Cupboards devoid of anything perishable. Bathrooms crammed with half-used lotions and potions, languishing forgotten behind the newer arrivals. The boxes, bottles and cartons needed to transport this life from the manufacturer to the consumer piled up next to overflowing wastebaskets. The veggie pizza and over-packaged salad arrived regularly at the door - salt and fat conveniently prepared by someone less fabulous than we.
The message was clear: Carrie Bradshaw uses her oven for storage.
But those girls went the way of all my other ill-conceived youthful experiments. Now I make my home in the heart of the city, surrounded by books, music, art, thoughts... And homemade Cream of Cucumber soup a la Julia Child, garnished with cucumber slices and chopped fresh dill and served on my urban jungle balcony.
2 perfect post-rehearsal suppers:
1st Night Menu:
Julia's Cream of Cucumber Soup served warm
Spinach salad with cheddar and almonds, dressed in oil and vinegar/salt and pepper
Broiled Cod rubbed with olive oil and Tom Douglas Rub With Love Chicken Rub
Mounds (yeah, the candy bar. I spent a while on the soup. Had to keep everything else simple.)
2nd Night Menu:
The soup served cold
Egg noodles stirred with cottage cheese
Cheddar slices and Olive Oil/Cracked Pepper Triscuits
But I am alone in this. Right?
I didn't grow up in Betty Crocker land. This isn't about nostalgia for anything from my own life. My mom worked all the time, like I do. She was a good mom - folded my laundry, packed my lunches and made my Halloween costumes. But she wasn't the type to plan a menu or decorate a cake or keep an herb garden. She had other stuff to do. But the first time I decided - on a whim - to get up and make the recipe for chicken enchiladas I saw in a magazine ad for cheese, I was sold. The smell wafting from the oven. Watching the cheese melt. The gleeful surprise from my family when they found a home-cooked meal on the table. Immaculate and unparalleled satisfaction.
But life took me through stints in artsy fartsy theater and existentially-induced nausea and all-night parties and jazz jazz jazz. And I had a new set of friends among whom the domestic arts were NOT revered. They were - if anything - a brutal manifestation of the continued subjugation of women. My awesome new pals bragged about their utter incompetence in the kitchen. And why not? We were designing a new way of being. One that worked for US. And being at home meant you had nothing to do. Any effort expended to improve your own home was an admission that you had time for drudgery and were thus, less than fabulous.
But I never bought it. It struck me as inexcusably lame to take pride in ignorance, especially when the result of it was being unable to take care of yourself. My fashionista crowd dutifully educated themselves on trends and gossip, while cultivating a childish dependence on take-out and freeze-dried and readymade food products. Then the same girls would moan incessantly about weight gain and dull skin and persistent colds. They would swap product recommendations and talk juice fasts, charging arrogantly toward a future of excessive consumption and excessive waste. Their lives were entirely store bought. Cupboards devoid of anything perishable. Bathrooms crammed with half-used lotions and potions, languishing forgotten behind the newer arrivals. The boxes, bottles and cartons needed to transport this life from the manufacturer to the consumer piled up next to overflowing wastebaskets. The veggie pizza and over-packaged salad arrived regularly at the door - salt and fat conveniently prepared by someone less fabulous than we.
The message was clear: Carrie Bradshaw uses her oven for storage.
But those girls went the way of all my other ill-conceived youthful experiments. Now I make my home in the heart of the city, surrounded by books, music, art, thoughts... And homemade Cream of Cucumber soup a la Julia Child, garnished with cucumber slices and chopped fresh dill and served on my urban jungle balcony.
2 perfect post-rehearsal suppers:
1st Night Menu:
Julia's Cream of Cucumber Soup served warm
Spinach salad with cheddar and almonds, dressed in oil and vinegar/salt and pepper
Broiled Cod rubbed with olive oil and Tom Douglas Rub With Love Chicken Rub
Mounds (yeah, the candy bar. I spent a while on the soup. Had to keep everything else simple.)
2nd Night Menu:
The soup served cold
Egg noodles stirred with cottage cheese
Cheddar slices and Olive Oil/Cracked Pepper Triscuits
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