Monthly Archives: March 2012

Misfits.

Just so yall know, I am submitting all my Hyacinth Girl goodness to the Misfit Politics site. Those guys (and lovely ladies) are doing the Lord’s work, carrying on in the grand Breitbart tradition. I follow Brandon on Twitter and he consistently cracks me up. Yall know I’m not big on soliciting attention; I figure if you want the good sh*t, you’ll find me, you know? But the Misfits are solid, and I really enjoy their stuff, so go over there and tell them how awesome they are. (And not just ’cause their posting my stuff.)

I’m actually thinking about buying a tshirt. My fave is the “I’m Here To GOParty.”

Under attack.

So who’s going to plan the march for James Cooper and James Kouzaris?

Divisive.

The Trayvon Martin case has exposed the dark ugliness and rank cynicism that comprises the heart of this country’s race-based grievance industry, of which the Revs. Sharpton and Jackson are but two of the primary beneficiaries. In a comfortable relationship with the New Black Panthers, these two “civil rights leaders” are more than happy to yank a grieving family into the national spotlight, falsely accuse whites of attacking blacks, spread outrageous rumors and lies about a case still under investigation, and thus attempt to ignite a racial conflagration.

Earlier this month, around the time the entire country became aware of the Trayvon Martin shooting, (though he was killed in February), our illustrious civil rights leaders were citing the shooter’s last name — Zimmerman — as proof that another crazed redneck white man was hunting down helpless black youths. (No doubt secretly hoping that a man with the last name “Zimmerman” would also turn out to be one of those evil Jews.) I remember seeing a photo of Zimmerman for the first time and thinking, “But that guy’s Mexican.” Fortunately, the NYT cleared it all up by letting us know that Zimmerman is a “white Hispanic.” You see? You learn something new every day! I grew up in a border town in rural Arizona and was totally unfamiliar with the term “white Hispanic.” I feel so ignorant.

It seems like every year or so, one of these cases comes along where Sharpton and Jackson and the New Black Panthers — emboldened, no doubt, by the knowledge that they’ve got a sympathetic ally in the Justice Department — see a great opportunity to jump to conclusions, further widen the rift between whites and blacks, and therefore profit in ways monetary and other, and keep all races from coexisting peacefully.

If we all got along, they’d be out of a job.

You see, I’m not entirely convinced that people of different races hate each other all that much. Yeah, there is a percentage of a*holes out there, but they aren’t in the majority. Most people, regardless of race, are just trying to find a job to replace the one they’ve lost in the recession that has been unnecessarily prolonged by this administration’s various economic missteps and wanton disregard for the fiscal solubility of our nation. And its poorly disguised contempt for the free market, of course.

Let’s stipulate that Obama and his administration are abject failures and return to the original topic, however. What can be done about opportunists and instigators like Jesse, Al and Las Nuevas panteras negras? (For some reason, my brain really wanted to write that in Spanish. Say it out loud. Sounds ridiculously cool, right?) And where is law enforcement at this juncture? I’m, like, 99% positive that if I decided to take a bounty out on, say, the jackass in the Supra that cut me off this morning, I’d get in a lot of trouble. I’m also about 99.9% positive that some of my Fed friends would come and visit me if I tweeted his address out to my 5 Twitter followers in conjunction with said bounty. I mean, we’re friends, but their jobs come first, you know? They’re cool like that.

But the Panteras can say whatever the hell they like, because racial tensions are inflamed – artificially, I might add – and if you disagree with them, you’re a racist. You bastard.

What about the marches and protests against intraracial crime? The mortality rate of young black men is disproportionately high in this country, and a majority of the perpetrators are other young black men. That’s the crime. What can we do to save them, because each and every one of those young men who die each year in intraracial violence is the son, brother, father, or friend of someone else. Someone loves each one of them, and lives are shattered by each death.

I’m not saying that Zimmerman is innocent. He killed someone, and regardless of the political opportunists and societal vultures that have descended upon this case, the parents of Trayvon Martin deserve some definitive answers as to why their child is dead. I do know that the culprit here is not white-on-black racism or the right to bear arms, but the intricacies that surround the space between displaying one’s weapon and pulling the trigger. Oftentimes, that is a very complicated moment that doesn’t necessarily translate in a way that is easy to absorb.

Things aren’t like they are on Law & Order; I’ve lived long enough to know that.

Voodoo.

Having lived in San Diego since 2006, I’d like to think I’ve become immune to idiots. There are “normal” people here, but they are the exception that proves the rule. It’s rather been like living in a foreign country — a foreign country that looks a lot like America circa 1999. There are actual yuppies (and aspiring yuppies) here for Pete’s sake. I keep waiting for Patrick Bateman to show up, having aged ten years and moved to the West Coast because New York was getting a little too uncomfortable, if you know what I mean.

Any way, idiocy has become less novel and more blase with each passing year spent here. Yet still, even I am sometimes taken aback by the maddening ignorance displayed by my fellow San Diegans. Over the weekend, an Iraqi immigrant was murdered in El Cajon, in what the police are calling a possible hate crime. (I’m not a fan of the term, but whatever.) This is a terrible crime, a brutal end to a young woman’s life, and of course, every jackass with a mic has got an opinion. So I’m flipping through the AM stations this afternoon, and I come across this guy, Merrill, who is railing against the obvious racism at play in this horrible situation.

He cited his time in the Midwest amongst “a lot of rednecks” as proof that too many people see someone who is “brown” and “wearing a headscarf” as a terrorist. He then proceeded to mock anyone who dared question the “hate crime” angle, especially those who brought up the topic of — shhh — honor killings. He was ridiculing the idea that honor killings are on the rise in this country, and that people who worry about those sorts of things are fantasists.

Just as we don’t know what happened in the Trayvon Martin case, we also don’t know what happened in Shaima Alawadi’s case, and prudence is therefore to be advised. A note saying “Go back to your country” could be an indication of a hate crime or it could be a red herring. I know some very fine SDPD officers and I think we should let them do their job before casting aspersions on anyone.

Granted, I didn’t hear but ten minutes of Merrill’s show — he could very well have made many eloquent, well-reasoned arguments to support his viewpoint. I don’t really care. More than anything, it was the dismissal of the idea that honor killings are on the rise that irritated me. Women and girls are being killed by family members in the name of honor at an alarming rate in this country and throughout the Western world. This isn’t domestic violence, as it is often classified in America, this is killing a woman — often brutally — under the guise of maintaining one’s family’s honor. How ambush-killing someone who trusts you implicitly is somehow honorable is beyond me.

My problem isn’t with this AM talking head; I’m usually listening to something else at that time anyway. It’s the prevailing belief in American culture that bad things simply cannot happen here. Bad things are already happening here. In Arizona, New York, Texas, California, Missouri — the list goes on. Canada. Britain. France. The Netherlands. All of the traditional capitals of the West have been touched by this decay. Violence against women happens under various guises. Discounting one form because it seems too politically volatile or distasteful does its victims no favors.

What we call civilization is but a thin veneer on the surface of our primitive human nature. It is easily stripped away in tribal situations, in cases of radicalized religion, in times of strife. Just because you don’t believe it can happen doesn’t mean it won’t. It’s not like it’s voodoo or anything.

Man’s world.

And I thought the more traditional Christian marriage guides were oppressive. I’ve yet to read one that gives a how-to on domestic abuse.

This is so backward, so outrageously wrong. It’s the 21st century and though we don’t have flying cars, we’ve come to a place where the majority of the world’s population is what would be considered “civilized.” There’s no place in civilized society for unapologetic violence against women. We’ve supposedly come so far, but this book was found not solely online, as one would expect, but in bookstores in Canada, arguably one of the most civilized places on this planet. (Although Canada did produce Mark Steyn.) And it sold out.

Nice.

As the rise in the number of honor killings in the Western world finally becomes impossible to ignore, we have to actually pay attention to the plight of women in Islam. Women are viewed as stupid and yet dangerous and their treatment under shari’a is cruel and demeaning. And, on occasion, fatal.

Islam is a man’s man’s man’s world and no place for a woman or a girl.

I’m shocked.

Duh.

Welcome to the last several decades.

Exit question:

What the hell are the French police doing, camped outside that murdering POS’s house for the last 24 hours? Sh*t or get off the bidet.

Crackwhores in Armani.

I’ve waited awhile to write about the shootings in Toulouse, partially because I believe the victims deserve more than a few angry words and snarky comments about the “religion of peace,” and partially because the children murdered were very close to my child’s age, an occurrence which fills the hearts of most mothers with an icy terror. You see your child’s face instead of the victim’s. Your rational brain stands by helplessly while the animal fear of losing your child pummels you with the imagery the actual mother of the deceased must have witnessed. You find yourself praying for a woman you will never meet, and for the first time in at least a week, hope that Hell is real and that bastard murderer will suffer tremendously for all eternity. The picture accompanying this article in the Telegraph is devastating. I look at it, I read the details of the murders, and I wonder, who has it in them to kill children in cold blood?

There was no real physical description of the murderer given – far be it from me to cast aspersions on any one ethnic or religious group – and I find that rather curious. I read that the “jihadist’”with “links to al Qaeda” quite possibly filmed his sick murder porn to upload it to the ‘net – who does that? Who watches that? The same people that watched Danny Pearl’s murder? The same people who downloaded Nick Berg’s beheading?

The violence against Jews in Europe is extremely troubling. At least it is to people who have no stake in the continual victimization of the Palestinians. Mark Steyn has an example of the kind of idiotic moral equivalence that was inevitably trotted out in the wake of this kind of depravity. Violence against Jews is the symptom of a much larger problem, as history has shown us time and again, most notably in the last century, and no amount of politically correct, culturally sensitive, morally equivalent claptrap can change that.

We – civilized, non-child-killing, and, for the most part, sane people – cannot wish this away. There is no way to deal diplomatically with a group of people who believe they are divinely called to murder eight year olds. Or three year olds. Or anyone else who might be interested in living their life in the relative liberty provided by Western civilization. Attempting to coddle, to mollify, to acquiesce will only lead to more violence and more intimidation. To dumb it down to a level even the libbiest lib can understand: If you give the bully your lunch money, he will be back tomorrow for more.

If it was true in grade school, how is it less true today? You either punch that bully right in the mouth, knocking out some teeth and hopefully incapacitating him, or you meekly get used to starving at lunchtime. I don’t know about you, but I’ve always thought that punching was a better strategy. Since I am a girl, most of my punching was done in the figurative sense, which makes it no less scary. Facing off with some chick twice your size in the hallway outside your eighth grade lit class is a spike of adrenaline, even if your war was fought with words and bitchiness. She might punch you. But at least you stood your ground. At least you didn’t grovel and beg, or cry and whine. At least you didn’t become the lackey, the apologist. The appeaser.

Bibi was willing to say what the French were afraid to say – what the world was unwilling to say, because at some level, antisemitism is now an acceptable form of hate. Oh, one can attempt to qualify one’s hatefulness by relabeling it “anti-Zionism” or “anti-colonialism” but it’s still antisemitism. Dressing a toothless crackwhore in Armani and Louboutins does not make her an “escort.”

It just makes you a john.

inveterate scars wasn’t really dead, just zombie dead.

So I’ve written about a book I’m reading and some art I’m loving over at my other site, inveterate scars. You can check it out if ya want.

I really am curious.

I’ve got two thoughts I’d like to share before I fall asleep:

1. There is something very wrong with the story we’re being sold about the soldier who went on the killing spree in Afghanistan. People — normal people — don’t just wake up one day and decide to go on a murderous rampage. The story in the media is that this guy was totally normal but snapped. I don’t buy it. There had to be signs.

2. There’s a chance that this kid who was found guilty in that Rutgers cyberbullying case will be deported back to India. Why can he be deported for his crimes but the illegal immigrant from Mexico who kills a cop or molests a schoolkid or rapes a college coed gets to stay here indefinitely?

Home is hot and arid.

What is it in my blood that renders country music and summer nigh interchangeable? It feels like summer outside today, so it’s time for some Miranda Lambert. “Gunpowder & Lead” is my personal favorite.

There will always be a bit of the redneck in my blood. Comes from riding in trucks on the dusty banks of irrigation canals and out into the empty desert for nearly two decades. I love that girl. We were usually listening to Primus or the Misfits or the Ramones, but Miranda Lambert will do.

You know, they say you can’t go home again (who are these They people? They say a lot of sucky things) but what they don’t tell you is that you CAN go home, drink some beer and work out at Emancipation CrossFit with some people that are basically family.

I’ve got to make a trip to the desert. Soon.

Just a thought.

So I was thinking about it, and though I love the depth of history out here in the desert — all the missions and pueblos and abandoned cemeteries and ghost towns and whatnot — I realized that I feel terribly unconnected to the history of this country living all the way over here. I don’t get to take a lot of vacations on account of the cost of living out here in Cali, but back when I was in middle school, my family went on a trip all across New England. It was pretty awesome and I hope to do it again sometime.

I’ll probably appreciate it more now that I appreciate my country.

And also, I really want to visit Iceland. I’m kind of obsessed with it right now.

I’ve got a Muse. I’m just not telling you who it is. (Rhymes with “Lossbender.” Or “Lassbender.” Whatever.*)

Because Pressfield wrote Gates of Fire, upon which Frank Miller based 300 in which Michael Fassbender wore little clothing.

First of all, this is what I needed today. It’s so hard sometimes to be a “writer.” I mean, do I get to call myself that if I never get officially paid? Or if I’m not part of the cliquish “conservative blogosphere”? I can say that I don’t care, but I kind of do. The article set me thinking about what it is that fulfills me as a writer, and how writing about Obama’s oil task force just doesn’t. I’m not — nor do I care to be — a policy wonk. Or a “subversive citizen journalist.” Or whatever. I don’t desire to be the most popular kid in class, but I’d kind of like to get paid every once in awhile.

Zola was friends with Cezanne, in case you were wondering. I think of still life vases when I think of Cezanne.

Which brings me to what fulfills me. I like writing about things I like. What do I like? Books, usually written long ago by dead guys, (and some dead ladies), although Milan Kundera is still alive. I like writing about movies, though I don’t do it that often because most movies suck. I like to write about pop culture trends and music, though the only music worth writing about lately has been the music of Lana del Rey, who mixes actual vocal chops, classic old-school pop style and the disconnection of modern pop music. The result is a brilliantly dissonant and deeply cynical sweet sound. When I listen to her, I feel like she gets the joke and is the one playing it on the music industry. I could go on, but I won’t.

I write some fiction. And that’s all I’m going to say about that.

But I digress. Writing is the only thing I’ve ever really, truly loved, although history comes in a very close second. Do I need outside affirmation of my talent? The correct answer is no, but the truth is that writers are narcissists, and I am no exception. If I’m being honest, then Yes, yes I do need outside approval of my talent. I want to be appreciated. I want to be loved. Not in a Napoleonic or Roman emperor way — just in a gently adoring and possibly monetary way.

Pressfield, who has written some of my favorite historical fiction, is absolutely correct: commercial success, while nice, is not what feeds the soul of the artist. There are a lot of people who enjoy commercial success as writers that I wouldn’t exactly call “artists.” And there are real artists that enjoy commercial success, some of whom Pressfield has listed. Hunter S. Thompson used to annoy the crap out of me — until I read him. I was captivated by his voice, and I knew that regardless of why my debauched, stoner, acid-dropping loser friends in high school and college worshiped him, they had inadvertently stumbled upon a very good writer. And would never know it, as they spent most of their time drooling in the corner of a mostly unfurnished, dank apartment. Or their parents’ basement.

So, I don’t know, I guess I just keep writing and try not to care about the number of visitors I get or that I’ll probably never get “published.” I’m still better than about 85% of the writers out there, not to you know, be an assh*le about it or anything.

Secondly, I found this shocking, while also hilarious. There’s nothing funny about seventh grade oral sex how-to guides, but it was the commentary that followed that made me laugh out loud.

This:

In my day (as we oldsters say), whatever one’s tastes in this area, most interested parties managed to pick up the gist of it out of hours. You’d be amazed how much curriculum time that frees up for math, history, Latin and whatnot.

One does tend to get better at activities one enjoys.

Even as a woman in early middle age (I am, after all, over 30), I vaguely remember that teenagers like to do this kind of thing (though I never did — hi Mom!), I cannot imagine that how-to pamphlets decrease the frequency of the activity in question. Which, I guess, is not the point at all. Because the participants in the Dionysian orgy don’t really care what their government is doing. All that matters is where the maenads are leading you.

Interestingly, the maenads engaged in sexual debauchery and ritualistic slaughter -- usually on the same night. Often at the same time. First and last date.

You’ve got to get them distracted early, you know.

 

*Michael Fassbender is not my Muse. ‘Cause that would be silly. My Muse is a secret.

I’m so sorry.

This is so sick. That poor girl.

Everybody’s ripping me off.

Because what we need is a task force. I’m paying double now, spending about $50 on 10 gallons of gas instead of the $25 I paid a couple of months ago. But I am so relieved our intrepid leader is going to set up a task force. That’ll help me the next time I have to get gas.

Stupid idiot.

Somebody vote this a-hole out of office.