maarmie's musings

Thursday, March 30, 2006

(Not So) Funny Ha-Ha

Had a funny little run-in with Jeremy this morning over a March 29 post on his blog.

How I came to know of Jeremy's blog was through this comment he left on mine. Judging from the subtitle on my blog and the not-so-infrequent topic here, I thought he was poking fun at my blog, in general, and at me, in particular.

Without hesitation, I quickly fired off a harsh comment in defense of myself, my blog and victims of domestic violence everywhere. Then, more harsh words were exchanged between us via e-mail. The result? The consensus is that this whole ordeal sprang from little more than a very unfortunate coincidence.

My modified comment can be found on the offending post on Jeremy's blog along with Jeremy's response. While I agree with him about this world being "a clusterfuck of random indecency, senseless violence, and karmic injustice," I don't agree with his last thought:

"We can take control of it for a minute at a time by laughing about it."

I think we can attempt to mentally deal with atrocities through humor, but we can't take control of them through humor. Taking control of them comes only when we no longer sit down or keep quiet. Taking control of them comes only when we sacrifice and sweat, cry and bleed.

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

The Comment Police Cometh


One bad apple can spoil the barrel. Because of this, I will be moderating comments for a while. Because I feel free to say anything I want to on this blog, I didn't mind if people wanted to say harsh things to me in response - which is why I have not deleted mean comments I may have received. But the bad apple is taking things too far and is, in my opinion, becoming a distraction.

My goal here isn't to silence valid criticism of me regarding the topics I choose to discuss, so feel free to write whatever you want in that regard. My goal is to weed out repetitious blathering and comments that have little or nothing to do with the subjects at hand.

Hopefully, I will be able to cease moderating comments sometime in the near future.


Tuesday, March 28, 2006

Film: The Girl in the Cafe

Why were you in prison?

I hurt a man.

Why did you hurt a man?

I hurt a man because he hurt a child. He killed a child.

Was it your child?

Does it matter whose child it was?

These paraphrased memorable lines are from a 2005 film titled "The Girl in the Cafe," an unrated film directed by David Yates and featuring subtle performances by Bill Nighy (Lawrence) and Kelly Macdonald (Gina).

The film has got it all: comedy, romance, politics, Iceland (Bjork!), the discussion of social issues and a character that breaks from the norm and stands up for her beliefs while everyone else sits mute. I applaud that quality in a person, and I applaud it in Gina when she finds herself hobnobbing with dignitaries at a G8 Summit conference in Iceland after a chance conversation with Lawrence, a high-level bureaucrat, at a cafe in London.

Lawrence and Gina both prove to be socially inept. But that social ineptitude doesn't keep the desperately lonely and overworked Lawrence from sticking his neck out and asking the lovely (and younger) Gina on a series of dates. By the third or fourth date, they're off to Iceland with Lawrence's coworkers and their wives. While there, Lawrence finds out a whole lot more about quiet Gina - and himself.

French People Rock!

Americans love to hate the French. After all, the French are just pussies who eat way too much fruit, cheese and snails, think Jerry Lewis is a comedic genius, speak with an accent that can only be described as faggish, refuse to help our government kill thousands of innocent people for no reason and refuse to give a fuck what America thinks about them. That's probably what Americans hate the most.

More than six months ago, I was helping a friend of mine move from Tallahassee to Tampa. As our caravan neared Perry, a town filled with forest that frequently burns and toothless and semi-toothless mouth breathers, we decided to stop for lunch. We pulled off the road at a local diner. The parking lot was filled with pickup trucks, and the menu featured pulled pork, boiled hearts of palm and a buffet filled with assorted meat slathered in BBQ sauce and soggy veggies.

When we walked in, everyone stared. My friend, after all, is part Phillipina, and they were expecting someone who looks like her to come in only after the place had closed and only with a vacuum cleaner in hand. It didn't help that I had purple hair and was wearing a T-shirt that said "Pigface," the name of one of my favorite bands. They stared extra hard after we sat down and proceeded to have a lively political discussion that included plenty of GW bashing and the expression of fierce disdain over one of the menu items: freedom fries.

Freedom fries were something I had heard about before but had never seen. For my own sanity, I put those far-fetched yarns about freedom fries in the same category with Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy. But, now, Americans' clear rejection of all things French was staring me in the face. I wanted to walk out with loud indignation. But we stayed. The lunch wasn't too good, but the waitress was super nice and gave me a second bowl of palm hearts for free.

This diatribe is going somewhere. I swear. Oh, yeah. I remember now. The French. I love them. When I set foot in Europe for the first time, I want my feet to be planted in Paris. I studied the language for seven years, and I chose French as one of my minors in college. I don't really understand why Americans find the French offensive and laughable. Could it be because the French appear to be an easy target with their frou-frou language and culture that makes them look as wimpy as the kid eating cucumber sandwiches, no crust, and petits fours while everyone else chows down on bologna sandwiches and chips?

If so, the French have a good disguise going. In reality, it appears that the French have major balls.

Hundreds of thousands of French residents have banded together against a new labor law making it easier for French employers to fire workers younger than age 26 during their first two years of employment. Opponents say the law makes it more possible for employers to "use" young employees for a couple of years without having to provide the social benefits long-term contracts would provide, according to The New York Times. Proponents say the the new law makes hiring easier, supposedly their only intention behind the legislation.

Regardless of the law's intention, the people of France have spoken. They think their government can take that law and shove it, and they have made their feelings known through strikes, demonstrations, protests and a little itty bitty of violence. The result has meant the disruption of trains, planes, buses and the Paris Metro as workers went on strike. Teachers stayed home, newspapers weren't delivered, banks remained closed, universities shut down, major violence erupted in the city center and the Bastille Opera refused to sing. Demonstrations also occurred in several other cities throughout France.

What do Americans do when they don't like something their government imposes on them? Whine. And not to government officials or to a larger audience in an effort to band people together, either. They whine to a friend or uncle Clete. At least the French know how to make their feelings known on a global scale and take steps toward getting for themselves what they feel is fair. After all, the government is supposed to be there to serve its people. Not the other way around.

Saturday, March 25, 2006

Dances with Nasty E-mails

Unfortunately, I have to send too many nasty e-mail messages to the men - er, boys - with whom I've had dealings recently. For those of you who are slow to catch on, "dealings" means "sex" or something resembling the onslaught - yes, I mean onslaught - of romance.

This is the latest nasty e-mail I've drafted for my latest fling. I'm not positive, but I'm pretty sure he's got a girlfriend - if that's any indication of just what a selfish prick he can be. He refers to said girlfriend as "a girl he's seeing" but they have sex without using condoms. That's more serious than marriage in my book, and I don't think he's ready for anything more serious than his weekly Dungeons & Dragons games, his Star Wars figurines, his daily 12-pack of Diet Mountain Dew and his science fiction festivals in Atlanta - his cell phone constantly hooked to his belt buckle, of course. I know this gives you an indication of exactly what kind of loser I see fit to fuck, but he's physically attractive, and, damn!, it's true: Bad sex is better than no sex.

There comes a time, though, when a line must be drawn.



I apologize for not picking up the phone last night or for calling you back. I was home, but I don't want to speak to you, and I don't want to see you.

I have many, many problems with the way you've acted, the way you've treated me, and the person you are. If possible, you are more immature than you were the last time I knew you. I hate the way you constantly grope all over me as if you were a horny 14-year-old, and I only put up with it thus far because I figured it would quickly end. But it hasn't, and you don't listen to me when I tell you to stop. That's really annoying. What's worse is that you know it bothers me, but you don't care.

Sex. You are the worst lover I've ever had. It's pretty sad that you think the night of passion has been a successful encounter if you managed to last longer than 3.2 seconds. Every time we have sex, I am left unsatisfied. Most times, I don't even orgasm. Sex is better with myself than with you. Maybe you need to stop trying so hard to do every position known to man and concentrate more on who you are with and how you can please her.

I told you I'm tired of disappointments. Several times now you haven't called when you said you would, you leave when you promise to stay, and you are either unwilling or unable to fulfill me sexually. Those are disappointments. I have been doing the math. Three strikes, baby. You're out.

Friday, March 17, 2006

Hallmark Needs a New Line

Try as I might, I can't seem to find the right birthday card or Mother's Day card to suit the shrew of a step-mother I am forced to endure. I have hated this woman since I was 15 or 16 years old, and Hallmark doesn't have a line of cards to excoriate the one you detest on that special day.

So, each year, I am forced to scan the rows and rows of pretty cards bearing flowers and syrupy rhymes extolling the virtures of this mother or that. They're never talking about MY mother, I can assure you: one who looks like a cross between Droopy the dog and a female Grinch. She is shrewd. She is crafty. She is mean. She has no boobs and no sense of humor, and she retired in her early 50s to spend her time being a professional homemaker and banker's wife.

I don't necessarily have any problems with homemakers, but this one doesn't have any kids to raise, and how many times can a floor be cleaned in a day? I have a vague suspicion she's living off the sweat of my father's brow while sitting around the house all day. When she retired, she said she'd maybe get a job as a cashier at a grocery store ("I've always wanted to do that. It looks like a fun job!") or benefit her community through volunteer work. She has yet to do either, and it's been years. When asked what she's been up to, she always offers only one word: "Things." I say, "Like what things?"

"Oh. Things."


For her birthday on March 24, I found this perfectly benign card that can be taken any way she sees fit.


Blue flowers and the word "Mom"


"Wishing you the kind of birthday you deserve so much."


Wednesday, March 01, 2006


A long time ago, the ACLU targeted me to join the organization and send them some cash for the honor. While I am grateful to the ACLU for defending everyone's right to free speech, I can't help but dislike them for defending EVERYONE'S right to free speech, everyone including every hateful bigot that crawls around in this godforsaken world. I guess another way to say what I just said is that I would like them a whole lot better if they would defend only the people who say things I agree with and put tape over the mouths of those I don't. Makes me sound like a fascist dictator, doesn't it? I guess I am.

A couple of clods have recently been thinking it wise to express themselves here with comments against both me and my blog. I would take these criticisms a whole lot better if the one who is tired of my pity parties didn't choose to remain anonymous and if the one who HATES my choice in favorite movies and thinks Betty Frieden is being driven around in a limo by satan even as I type this wasn't some kind of inbred Nazi with an IQ of 12. In my opinion, nothing he could ever say should be allowed to be said. To take it one step further, his balls should be severed so he can't decide to procreate. When he dies, it would be nice if we could all heave a sigh of relief that his genes stop with him.

The ACLU TRIED to be great during the protests of the Republican National Convention in August 2004. While protestors by the hundreds were having their civil liberties ripped away by the thugs with machine guns who called themselves cops, the ACLU was handing out little white cards to protestors telling them what to do if ever a cop tried to rip away their civil liberties and handing out the phone number of a lawyer that could help you out if you got arrested. I wrote the phone number in red ink on my arm, where it stayed for the duration of my visit. But the little white card, which I carried in my back pocket, might as well have been shoved up my ass for all the good it would do against the cops. When they want to create chaos and violence, they certainly do a good job of it. While I was there, and I was there most of that week, I never saw one hint of violence from any protestor. As a matter of fact, we were so docile, the cops got to herd us like cattle, lie to and mock us, corral and arrest us and hold us captive for days without reason or a lawyer. Where was the ACLU? Where are they now? Where are the lawsuits?

Bullies suck.