Can't You Write Anything New?

I just started my own blog, this one, the one you're reading. It looks like I sat down and write 38 posts over two days, but I am SO not prolific like that. I wrote two different blogs for radio stations: KGO in San Francisco and Y-101 in Fresno, and these first two days of posting is really just me transferring those posts over. KGO-era entries are primarily focused on news and politics, while the Y-101 posts are decidedly lighter, discussing pop culture stuff. Multi-talented, I am.

The older posts have their "born-on" date at the bottom. In bold. So you know.

New posts will be forthcoming...

Your Kids Need to Masturbate

A teacher in Utah (figures!) is under fire for "crossing a line" in her 8th grade sex-ed instruction. While the school won't give any details about the alleged misconduct, a parent is quoted as saying his kid learned about "anal sex, oral sex, masturbation, mechanical instruments to enhance masturbation and historical instances of self-abortion with a hanger." Are 14 year olds too young to hear any of this? Recent statistics have shown that oral sex amongst junior high students has risen meteorically in the last decade; so they're already familiar with the concept. And even when I was in junior high there was always the girl that was kind of slutty and did things other girls wouldn't. Don't you think that if kids (especially girls) were taught the truth about the exchange of sex for power they would be less likely to make bad decisions? They might be less likely to try to keep that hot guy by objectifying themselves and giving away the cow for free, so to speak.

Now, I'm not really sure why the discussion of anal sex would come up in 8th grade, other than to tell the girls that it's not true that women like it or that it's not really sex. This "not really sex" attitude can be directly tied to the proliferation of abstinence-only education, by the way. Telling teenagers that intercourse is a sin and will either saddle you with a baby or give a disease that will make your parts fall off only leads their underdeveloped brains to think, "Well, then, I'll avoid real sex, but stick whatever I want wherever else I want and it doesn't count!" And if the majority of this country is so hot and bothered to reduce the number of abortions women get, wouldn't historical instances of the terror of illegal abortion help them make up their minds about risky sex? If they were getting proper birth control education, also, we would have a real chance to reduce abortion rates. Instead you get idiot girls who just learned to shave their legs having babies that are doomed to grow up and repeat the cycle. These are the people who end up on Maury Povich, you know.

And the masturbation information? AWESOME. Boys get a crash course from the minute they hit puberty, obviously; but girls are left twisting in the wind when it comes to honest discourse about their bodies and what we're built for. Masturbation is just as important to girls and it has been to boys since time immemorial--more so, I think, since girls are usually the ones prostrating themselves for approval and using sex to get love. If all teenagers spent more time fondling themselves at home instead of groping in a car or wherever they do it nowadays, we'd all be better off.

Originally written 6.08

Don't Get Your Nerd On Without Me

Comic-Con has descended on San Diego, geeks in a thick blanket over the city like locusts devouring a midwest crop. The geeks, my brethren, they gnaw at the new movie and TV footage unveiled there; they gnash their chompers at the bastardization of precious geek-verse commodities; their antennae wiggle waggle when they detect Olivia Munn from Attack of the Show anywhere nearby. These are my people, as my husband likes to remind me.

When I was a little kid I was positive I was going to grow up to have superpowers or be a vampire. And when I say positive, I mean pillowcase-on-the-shoulders, jumping off the couch, waiting for my mad flying skills to kick in. And why wouldn't it happen? I wanted it badly enough. I was a relatively well-behaved child, which is to say I had ethics even when I was being a brat. I could use my powers for good, not evil, with a couple of brief pit-stops for mischief or good-natured trickery. No super-villainy. As a vampire I would only feed on evil-doers, of course. And then I'd be able to amass a great fortune and travel the world and have long flowy hair and perfect skin. I would scrunch my face up and concentrate on moving that pencil over there with my mind. I would stay perfectly still and close my eyes and will myself to hear people's thoughts. Now I'm a good judge of character, and very occasionally I'm a little bit psychic, but I'm also visible and bound by gravity and of average strength. Not super.

All those people at Comic-Con? They aren't super either. Maybe it's that we're not willing to contain our imaginations. Maybe it's that we needed to fit in somewhere, and the best place we fit

is on alternate planets, in other galaxies, anywhere but here. Maybe we have a predilection for homemade costumes made from shiny synthetic fibers and a vast collection of Pogs we need to get rid of. It makes no difference, because the last thing a Comic-Con attendee is going to do is pass judgment on a person according to socially-mandated standards of "normal." If you get Green Lantern and The Green Hornet mixed up, though, stop drop and roll, dude. Get out of there.

I know Comic-Con is TOO BIG. I've been there. It's lines for years and crowds like you've never seen outside of countries with severe civil unrest; it's embarrassing to see some studios and execs pimp projects like freak show barkers. There are people at Comic-Con who have never even picked up a comic book, much less held one by its spine with gloves on. I don't give a flying fig. The purists are still there. The ones who tied the pillow case around their shoulders and jumped off the couch. I am them. We are a tribe.

Originally written 7.09

Megan Fox Can Do Whatever She Wants

Let's spend a minute, shall we, extolling the virtues of the non-manufactured movie star. The celebrity who refuses to let his or her publicist craft tidy little soundbites for public consumption that always contain the words "grateful," or "fortunate," or "team effort."

Let us praise the actors and actresses who don't seem to care one whit what reporters or media types think or blog about them; and who figure the fans of their movies will either like them as people or they won't. These are the people who seem the most authentic out of all the shiny happy Hollywood confections that are trotted out on our screens on a daily basis. They get irritated, and show it. They are perfectly comfortable with themselves (as much as anyone can be) and they don't hold back with the sardonic or the personal information just because their current film appeals to tweens. They are rarely apologetic, but typically VERY compelling on screen--probably because they let their insides show on their outsides already.

I'm talking about people like Shia LaBeouf and Megan Fox from the Transformers movies. Shia is well known for running off at the mouth and offering up information that might make a less squeamish person urp in their Wheaties. I am not squeamish, though, and therefore find it amusing and, yes, strange, that he finds his mother the sexiest woman alive, or that he watched his parents have sex and smoke weed and engage in all-around bohemian activities. Megan Fox has already admitted to being bisexual and entertaining a serious crush on a stripper; she's claimed to essentially be a man in a girl's body; and she's talked about the fact that she loves smoking pot and doesn't get why everyone's so effing bent out of shape about it. Katherine Heigl from Grey's Anatomy is notoriously plain-spoken, and might have tanked her movie career because of that fact. But in a business that is molded and injected with artifice as a rule, even abrasive bluntness is an applause-worthy quality. Bloggers, media critics, and the like have called this sort of behavior in stars inappropriate, diarrhea of the mouth, yadda yadda; and I don't agree. Those critics seem to be trying to get actors to all fit in the same neat little box, where they act well and look good and try to avoid any pesky human foibles. Boo to that.

Now, this is where I make a distinction. There are actors who say what they want to, and never come off as inapporpriate. Take Tom Hanks. That guy doesn't give pat answers to anything, doesn't come off as generic or practiced--he comes off as the single nicest guy on the frickin' planet because he probably IS that guy. On the flip side, actors like Sean Penn say whatever the hell they want, too, but very easily project "I'm an asshole" with every answer because he's defensive any time anyone asks him anything, even if it's about ice cream or puppies.

Encourage spontaneity in our celebrities. Encourage spontaneity in yourself. Don't think about every single thing you say before you say it. Unless it's really racist or something. That's just rude.

Originally written 6.09

Idiot vs. Shrew--Place Your Bets!

These were my initial impressions of the Jon and Kate Plus 8 nightmare, summer of 2009:

I hate covering reality programming in my entertainment reports. Unless it's a competition show like American Idol, Top Chef, or So You Think You Can Dance, reality shows tend to leave me covered in an oily film that won't budge with any amount of Ajax and vigorous rubbing. So when the Jon and Kate Plus 8 drama started to unfurl a couple of months ago, I held off as long as I could.

I had seen the show, I was familiar with the archetypes represented by overbearing and bossy Kate and laid-back (catatonic?) Jon. Yes, she had a tendency to emasculate. No, he had very little idea what was actually going on at any given moment. The children are all very cute and age-appropriately irritating. Fine, capitalize on your ridiculous decision to bring sextuplets into the world. You can afford their therapy when they grow up. And then came the adultery and lying and cries of "woe is me with my huge house and motorcycle and free vacations--all these cameras are just too much!" And that's when it became a publicity juggernaut.

So now the Gosselins are doing the decidedly un-Christian thing and calling it quits on their marriage with no visible attempt to get counseling or outside help. The show will continue taping after a brief hiatus, since they owe TLC 40 episodes this year-- and we the viewer will get to watch these kids transition through one of the most difficult periods of their lives. It's just gross. TLC and both parents will shower them with more presents, more trips, more toys, in an effort to keep them happy enough to smile and giggle and act like kids who do NOT have freshly divorced parents. This whole situation and the fact that any of the Gosselin children will be able to see their parents' marriage implode on tape for eternity is how people end up drinking themselves to death, or getting married 7 times, or getting knocked up at 16. This is how people end up with tassles on their boobs with a stage name like Dusty or Blaze.

Jon's attitude on the "special episode" was ridiculous. He let Kate rule the roost, huh? Perhaps because she was the one who gathered together all of the disparate pieces of their lives, public and private, and kept them on track. Jon, in the meantime, acts out like one of the children when he feels slighted, instead of having a real live conversation with his wife. Maybe if he had spent more time reading and less time flirting in high school he'd be articulate enough to communicate his needs. Jon is going to end up one of those sad sack paunchy guys with a suspiciously full head of hair-plugged hair that attempts to fit into the Big City lifestyle and recapture his early 20's as if he had never contributed to the creation of 8 defenseless yet powerfully noisy small people. "Hey hey," he'll say all swagger and bratty frat boy attitude, and try to pass himself off as a swinging single who just happened to have some TV exposure once a long time ago. And then the girls will recognize him and throw drinks in his face and kick him in the shins because he's got 8 FRICKIN' KIDS and should act like it. He's an immature tool.

And the first person to come up with a reality show that blends that dating show The Cougar and a Brady Bunch style reality show tracking blended families should sign Kate up now. It'll be her weekend to have all 8 of hers, and she'll go on a group date with some random man that has 7 kids of his own and then they'll get married and film it and call it Kate and Dean Plus 15! or whatever. Before then she will have abruptly switched her public persona from one who is overbearing and mean to the one who wanted to work the marriage out, and she'll have climbed up on her cross and firmly nailed herself there.

And the kids will hate them forever.

Moderation Is For Suckers

This is when I lay my drug philosophy out on the table. Marijuana is not a drug. Pot, grass, ganja, chronic, smoke, dope, reefer, the kind bud, trees, sticky-icky...all words for a plant that already grows on the planet, that doesn't kill people on their first try, and that doesn't in any way make people so violent that they want to slice you with an exacto knife.

I've experimented with many a chemically-based narcotic (not recently,obviously--I'm too old for the hangover and I really like sleep now); and some of my worst memories are directly connected to that period in my life. Meth can make you insane, crawling with phantom bugs and picking at your own skin; acid won't go away until it runs its course, and god forbid you kick off your trip on a bad note, in which case you're stuck in an alternate reality for hours. Cocaine makes people talk your face off about incredibly ridiculous topics, and is cost prohibitive. Prescription drugs are an illusion-- there's less stigma because doctors give them out, but the danger they pose is exponentially higher than a drug like pot because everyone has access to them. Opiates string you out and turn you into Amy Winehouse. Ecstasy leads to bad decisions of a sexual nature for a lot of people, and it melts your brain (evidenced by the ridiculousness of rave culture.) PCP can make you capable of ripping someone's arms off and beating them with 'em (although I don't think people do PCP anymore.)

And every terrible decision I've made between the ages of 16 and 23 can be linked to the single most dangerous drug of all-- alcohol. I was a big whiskey girl. Jack Daniel's if I was broke, Maker's Mark if I wasn't. Double shots with a Jack and Coke chaser. Double shots with a beer chaser. Kamikazes, lemon drops, dirty martinis. Flaming Dr. Peppers and Irish car bombs. If it was a relaxed evening at home, vodka collins or a greyhound. I loved drinking and getting drunk the way mamas love their babies. And when I quit, 6 1/2 years ago, it was the hardest thing I'd ever done. Because booze makes you feel powerful. Sexy, confident, above it all. You are a vision of sophistication and swank. Until you black out every day and knock people over and gain 50 pounds, and start to lose your friends and the guy you love.

But guess what? Pot doesn't do any of those things. It doesn't make you want to eviscerate people. It makes you a bit hungry for chocolate and peanut butter. It doesn't make you lie to your family while you turn around and sell their silver. It does make you want to invest in surround sound for your entertainment system for the next time you watch "300." It doesn't lead you to vehicular manslaughter. It does make Jim Carrey funnier.

In an ideal world no one would self-medicate because we'd all be as happy as baby animals in the springtime. We'd all be able to deal with our pain, our insecurity, our ill-fitting skin. But it's not. And drugs are a part of our culture. Can we get realistic please? Can we prioritize? Can we fight meth and X like the scourge they are and leave marijuana out of it? Because seriously-- no one was ever killed or robbed by a hopped-up pothead. He or she was far too busy journaling about the existential nature of Snoopy.

Originally written 1.08

Stop Having Children, All of You

One of the topics on a talk show I produced once was open birth records, and whether or not adult adoptees should have the right to seek out their birth parents, even in closed adoptions. There were a lot of adoption stories, from every perspective, and then there was this one caller. She didn’t make it on the air. She cried, and unloaded a tragic tale of having eight babies when she was very young, and how she had to give them all up for adoption, and she thought about them all the time, and could I please tell the whole world for her?

I was disturbed on a few levels, not the least of which was the extent to which the crying made me uncomfortable. Most of all I couldn’t get past the eight children. EIGHT. Even pre-birth-control-pill, I can’t forgive it. Gross overpopulation of the planet combined with the economic realities of having children should be enough to discourage rampant breeding, but it’s not. Just because we are biologically capable of bearing multiple children doesn’t mean we should ignore all of our higher brain function. We aren’t animals, and a litter of mini-me’s (mini-them’s?) only tells me that a person is narcissistic. It isn’t people like Stephen Hawking or Joss Whedon or Tina Fey who are having five kids. It’s Jethro and Lita in the rental house on the corner with the toys all over the lawn, and the stolen cable, and the kids all covered in canned cheese product. I can’t make sense of encouraging that.

What does make sense, if someone is wired to want a large family and has closely examined his or her motivations, is to do everything in their power to adopt a child. I know it’s hard, I know it’s expensive, I know little white babies are scarce and Angelina Jolie adopted the rest. But it makes more sense to share some of that love and attention with children who weren’t wanted when they were accidentally foisted onto the planet. They have no one to love them, to tuck them in at night and cherish them. That, to me, is profound, and worthy. I get that some people don’t think they are capable of loving a child that they didn’t make in their image; again, examine the narcissism and look deeper. We are all capable.

Originally written 11.07

I Grossed Myself Out Today

KGO topic: the clap. There is a marked increase in cases of chlamydia, gonorrhea, and syphilis in the United States, and Gil asked the fundamental question: why are we wasting money on abstinence-only education? Federal money is actually preventing children from getting accurate safe sex and birth control information. Federal money goes to programs that hope-to-God teenagers don’t figure out how their bodies lock together. Federal money is NOT preventing junior high girls from having oral sex in record numbers. And as a feminist aside, someone needs to tell these little boys the meaning of the word reciprocation. You see where I’m at on this subject. So I needed to book a guest who was all about the “purity” and waging war on popular society and its slutty, slutty ways.

It happens rarely, but sometimes I have to call an organization that runs counter to everything I’ve ever believed in. I booked that crazy family member from the Fred-Phelps-Church-of-Abhorrent-Behavior not long ago; I had to be nice to John Bolton when I talked to him; and today, I booked Leslee Unruh. She is the head of an abstinence clearinghouse, as well as a true-believer in the anti-choice movement. Planned Parenthood practically has a dossier on her. I’m inherently mistrustful of females in the business of legislating other women’s bodies. Men who do it are just ignorant idiots, but women who do it are missing a piece of their soul. The fact that this woman is also a homophobe is just icing on the bile-cake. But I needed her to talk to Gil about her side, the foreign side, the side I will never ever get. And she did a good job, objectively speaking. But it disturbed me on a profound level that I had to be conciliatory to someone like that. That I had to use my phone voice and that I had to waste my effervescent wit on her. Those were jokes I’ll never get back!

But people like her need to exist in order to provide me with contrast. Without that side’s promotion of shame and restriction and close-mindedness, I have no context. No one to be the wrong to my right. No one to inspire me to arm myself with the knowledge I need to be an able foe to my ideological nemeses.

Wow. I’m like Buffy The Ignorance Slayer.

Originally written 11.07

They're Slimy and Noisy and Poop A Lot

Can a person like kids, love them, even, and yet still not want to have nay of his or her own? Does that make sense? Is my biological clock on mute, or snooze? I look at babies and toddlers that I know or am related to and I find them endlessly fascinating. They are strange little monkeys, all spazzy and strange and full of id. They say nonsensical things, if they say anything at all, but they are comfortable with expressions of base human instinct like biting, hitting, and flirting. And manipulation. They are amazing in their ability to soak up knowledge, but they are also so self centered as to border on sociopathic narcissism. And yes, I'm still talking about 2-year-olds.

The point is that itty-bitty kids are something I have an affinity for. We get along; we see eye-to-eye, metaphorically. Now, I'm a bit more in touch with my inner toddler than some, but I also believe that I treat them like people, not like legacies or investments, so that might give me some different perspective. But the thought of getting pregnant, getting fat, then having your insides pushed outside by a foreign human being makes me want to run for the hills. There is no mystery to the miracle of childbirth-- there is only bodily fluid, pain, and the overall sense of being some sort of sweaty, breeding animal. That's according to my two closest friends/moms, who thankfully are very honest about their experience. Why would anyone sign up for that? And why am I thinking about signing up for that? Am I serious?

There will be no childrearing in my immediate future, this I can guarantee. But I want to know just how it is that people make up their minds to have a baby. Why do they do it? How do they justify the discomfort and terror and expense? What if the kid turns out stupid? And I don't mean developmentally disabled, I mean stupid. If my kid ended up a Republican, or a terrible student, or something else unimaginable, how on Earth would I love them? Am I a terrible person for even thinking of such a thing? Maybe. But at least I'm honest.

Originally written 11.07

Hillary Clinton and I Are Not Your Bitches

From Stanley Crouch: "On TV, Clinton seems by turns icy, contrived, hysterical, sentimental, bitter, manipulative and self-righteous. In short, dehumanized by the mysterious dictates of technology, she takes on qualities that most people hate."

 She has been called a ball-buster, a whiner, an ice queen; her suits are mocked, her displays of non-robotic behavior are mocked; Chris Matthews has thrown away whatever journalistic integrity he might have clung to before by being openly biased against her.  Under the guise of a tough political race, Hillary Clinton is being defined by her gender.  I don't care if you don't believe it.  When women like Camille Paglia go so far as to chastise her for not connecting with today's feminists, and women across the country are still pissed off by her decision to stay with her husband after he cheated on her, we are not playing on a level field.

And I'm over it.  The first time I was ever called a bitch I was ten years old.  Not because I was mean to someone, or malicious, or rude; but because I spoke.  I have always been unabashedly opinionated.  I have never suffered fools, or b.s.  Even at the age of ten I was defiant in the face of societal gender traps, and expected everyone else to follow suit.  I am not defined by my gender, I am defined by my intelligence.

I've been called strident, obnoxious, loud; the favorite of my high school peers in the '90's was "dyke."  (Short hair, skater clothes, and avoiding dances could really set you back at that time.)  Girls are not well rewarded for being independent thinkers, not if it comes with a forthright personality.  You can be smart, but don't be all flashy about it.  You can have opinions, but not too many, or you're uppity.  You can be ambitious, but don't aspire to jobs men already dominate.  I get called agressive, when a man would be called assertive. 

Hillary Clinton is perfectly qualified for the Presidency.  She's smart, savvy, and well-connected.  She's already two up on the current President right there.  Her choice of pantsuits is irrelevant.  Her decision to stay with her husband is irrelevant.  If I hear one more person refer to her voice as shrill, I'm going to lose it.  And my voice doesn't do that upper register thing, so it's nothing but irate verbal evisceration if I get that mad.  Anyway, Bill Maher and Chris Matthews are often shrill, and never get called on it.  And President Bush is practically illiterate.

Don't define me, or Hillary Clinton, by our lady parts.

Originally written 9.08

My Sanctum Was Violated

My sanctum was violated this week. Someone took a brick to my precious little car, my little Smurf-mobile, the only thing my husband and I own (or almost own) that makes us truly proud. We do not own our cat, she owns us, which is why I'm not including her in the pride-fest.

This is how imagine it went: "Oh look! Pretty car, parked at this place of business, in the wee hours of the morning! Let's take a look inside! There's an auxiliary cord snaking under the seat from the center console! Surely that cord is connected to something! Oh-HO! An iPod! I can certainly make some scratch selling this to an unseemly type downtown! Perhaps I can trade it for some fine bathtub meth or perhaps some time with that nice young woman on Blackstone with the pleather and the daddy issues!" Big brick, meet itty bitty window. Bye bye, personal accessory of choice. Adios, my downloaded "Glee" pilot that took 45 minutes to load. Which brings me to: the crap on my iPod that this yutz is going to find, and what it says about me. Imagine the picture he (because you know it's a dude) will draw in his head. Given his head isn't full of swiss cheese brains, all idiocy and syphilis and shifty eyes.

We build such a bond with our iPods, don't we? They are extensions of our brains in a way that no other possession can be. It holds our music. Most of us have an intense connection to the artists we love, to the albums in which we wear a metaphorical groove (love you, vinyl!). We scroll past the same albums every time, thinking we'll listen to them eventually (for me: The Donnas, Ray LaMontagne, The Cure); we have entire albums on there that only have one song we ever listen to (Ting Tings, Jason Mraz, Nina Simone.) There are the solo songs, downloaded in a fit of nostalgia (Can't Find My Way Home by Blind Faith, White Lines by Grandmaster Flash, the cover of Easy by Faith No More) and albums we've held on to since we were wee grunge acolytes in the '90's (Badmotorfinger, the "Singles" soundtrack, STP's Core.) I personally have stuff I listen to over and over again: Vampire Weekend, Soul Coughing, Ozomatli, and Neko Case. I have stuff I would never want certain of my indie rock gestapo friends to ever ever see: Timberlake, Clarkson, Aguilera, Fall Out Boy. I've got records I only listen to every once in a while, when I need to evoke a very specific mood: OK Go, Ting Tings, Patsy Cline. Then there's all the miscellany, the stuff that tickles me but doesn't necessarily fit into the current pop culture landscape: Doris Day, Rosemary Clooney, the soundtrack to the Buffy episode "Once More With Feeling," the Old Crow Medicine Show...

You get where I'm going. And yes, I do have the vast majority of this music backed up digitally or, at least, on CD somewhere. But the original chemistry of my iPod is gone forever. It was a very specific brew of music; a very specific list of alphabetically arranged artists that I was used to and loved and that my eyes skimmed with a familiarity that will never be reproduced exactly. Sigh. DAMN YOU, syphilitic philistine!

Originally written 5.09

Funny-looking and Hot NOT Mutually Exclusive

I have often been accused of being boy or girl crazy because of my ability to find beauty and sexiness in a lot of different people. Beauty is such a nebulous concept that it has to evolve and change and hinge on things other than facial symmetry or huge ta-tas, though, and I consider my tastes to be varied as opposed to indiscriminate. A woman can be less-than-thin, or have a strange nose, or a funny mole, and yet command a room when she walks in simply due to the power of her voice and carriage. A man can have sunken cheeks or flinty eyes or a prominent forehead and easily be the best choice for a hay-rolling you've ever met.

Men like Willem Dafoe, Robert Knepper from Prison Break (and the new season of Heroes, woo-hoo!) and sci-fi/fantasy staple Jeff Kober all have that dirty-sexy thing going on: they're rough around the edges, yes, but there's something going on with the voice, or the mannerisms that makes them incredibly hot to me. Most of the time it's a look in the eyes, like they could rip your clothes off before you even notice their hands are moving. And then when your clothes are off they make you their slave. Women have this going on too--Tilda Swinton is a perfect example of someone who straddles the line of androgyny in a way that intrigues me and makes me think she was born to seduce people. Maybe not people, maybe just me.

For clarification, Amy Winehouse is NOT the right kind of unattractive for our purposes--she's just too sad. Courtney Love--too sad. Sandra Bernhard--she's right up there with the best of the turn-the-lights-off-then-get-naked types of people. Mickey Rourke? Verdict's still out.

Originally written 4.09

Step Away From the Buffy

There are a few things I deem holy. Untouchable. So incredibly perfect in their creation that should anyone except the original creator decide to toy with it, I will personally spearhead the revolution. Buffy the Vampire Slayer is one of these holy things. I have neither the time nor the patience to explain exactly why the TV series with the funny name is so deeply ingrained in my consciousness; suffice to say that the characters are in my blood; the writer and creator, Joss Whedon, pulls words out of my head and strings them together in such a way that I look like a philistine; and the mythology is so layered, so analogous to the tormented adolescent existence that I am grateful, every day, for having had the TV show for 7 years. Now there are comic book tie-ins by Master Whedon, adding to the canon and allowing folks like me to continue to revel in the misadventures of the Scooby gang.

So what has my proverbial panties in a twist? This news story. The director of the original Buffy the Vampire Slayer movie (remember that suck-fest? Kristy Swanson? Donald Sutherland?) is going to take the conceit-- a Chosen one, fighting demons and vampires and all matter of undeadness-- and make a new movie out of it. Without Joss Whedon. Whedon wrote the movie, true--but watched as directors and producers turned it into something too Velveeta to even be called cheeseball. He then took it back and crafted what we know as Buffy from that point on. So the original director maintained some rights to the idea, obviously, and now wants to jump on the "vampires everywhere" bandwagon evidenced by the Twilight series, HBO's True Blood, the CW's new Vampire Diaries coming in the fall, and on and on.

To which I say, just try it. Scores of Whedon fans will revolt, there will be metaphorical blood in the streets, and her project will die a terrible death if she tries to tie this to the Buffy franchise in any way. Let it stand on its own, or try to get Joss in on the project, but never, never, NEVER bastardize my Buffy. And leave Angel alone while you're at it.

UPDATE: Variety is reporting that the head of Vertigo Entertainment, the studio trying to get this off the ground, is saying "Studios are looking for a franchise and vampires are relevant again." WTF? Money-grubbing-intellectual-property-raping jackass.

Originally written 3.09

Carrie Prejean - Ridiculous.

It's not like gay marriage comes up in my entertainment reports often. And it's not like this issue is really about gay marriage. But, for the record, I'm a big supporter. Like, I think it's ridiculous we even have to debate a person's civil rights. Duh. She's definitely not representing me as a Californian. But I digress.

Her stance on gay marriage is NOT why Carrie Prejean should have her Miss California sash ripped off her body faster than you can say "Your nipple's showing!" She needs to have her crown, her sash, her cash award, her cache, her all-of-it taken from her because she lied about two separate sets of "semi-nude" pictures AND she's using her status as Miss California USA to endorse a political movement that wasn't approved by the Miss USA pageant.

I'm telling you right now--I don't care about her answer to Perez Hilton's question. Hilton is a bad example of your everyday gay person that lives all across the US. He's shrill and over-the-top; he's also a hack gossip columnist who gets off making other people feel badly about themselves. So he was baiting Prejean, make no mistake. And yes, she could have been more articulate, but she's allowed to think whatever she wants--this is American. And she is totally, completely hot in her pictures. Not the point. What I DO care about is that slimy Trump character commenting that the pictures she took when she was 17(!) and in her underwear were "in many cases, absolutely magnificent photos." He made no comment at all about the second set of pictures that were released that showed her entire breast, nip and all, and were taken a year before the Miss USA pageant. Then what the hell is the contract for in the first place? If he is going to allow the girls in his pageant to violate their contracts multiple times and still keep their title, what message is that sending? If Carrie Prejean had less attractive breasts, or was a brunette, or had NOT stirred up such a firestorm with her politically incorrect answer on stage, would she still have her crown? How exactly is it OK that a runner-up has now stolen all of the spotlight from the actual winner (Miss North Carolina, if you forgot)?

Miss Nevada 2006, Katie Rees, had her title stripped after pictures showed up of her kissing girls at a party--let's ask her what she thinks about Prejean and her charmed life right now? "An accurate word to describe me is irate."

At least everyone's little girls can grow up with the knowledge that they can, indeed, get a boob job paid for by someone else, pose "semi-nude," and breach a contract as long as they're hot and Donald Trump is still a perv.

Originally written 4.09

Tell Me You Remember DARYL?!

Everyone's got a few of these--the movies you saw over and over again as a kid, the ones you forget about except for little flashes every 5 years or so. I'm not talking The Princess Bride, or Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, or The Neverending Story. Everyone's seen those, and if you haven't, well, get thee to your Netflix queue and feel shame.

No, I mean the weird ones, the scary ones, the random ones. I saw Videodrome when I was still in the single digits and almost had a coronary in front of my VCR. Ditto Poltergeist. Troop Beverly Hills was one I watched about 63 times, but I can never find anyone who doesn't say, "Is Diane from Cheers in that? Never seen it." And HOW dated is this paragraph so far? Sheesh.

The reason I bring this up specifically is a movie that was released recently on DVD, a movie that my stepdad made me watch one ridiculously hot Saturday or something when we were stuck inside because it was 105 degrees. I then watched this movie over and over and over, and then through the miracle of cable, over and over again. Anyone ever seen D.A.R.Y.L.? It's on DVD! Like right now! It's got a boy! Who's a robot! And he's brought into a family to live! And then he flies a jet!

There was also some stealing of money from an ATM with Daryl's magical pre-internet-networking-from-machine-to-machine capabilities. That appealed to either my more felonious side, or my greedier side, maybe both. And D.A.R.Y.L. is multifunctional: it's both the robot boy's name AND the acronym for Data Analyzing Robot Youth Lifeform. Bad ass.

And WHY haven't you added D.A.R.Y.L. to your queue yet? Didn't I mention Michael McKean, and child actor extraordinaire Barrett Oliver, on whom I crushed so hard (who was also Bastian in Neverending Story)? Go!

Originally written 3.09

Blogging the GOP Convention, 2008 Part 3

I’m a feminist. I’ve waited my whole life to see a female be considered seriously for the highest offices in the country. I’ve spent long stretches of time pondering what a woman would be able to do for this country that centuries of white men haven’t. And even though I’m a Democrat, I should be thrilled that the stodgy ol’ GOP has finally gotten the cajones to put a woman on their ticket. I’m not.

Sarah Palin’s speech last night was full of ass-whuppin’ rhetoric and pointed attacks. Thrilling for the GOP base, nervous-making for the Democrats. But she ran the risk of completely pissing off Clinton voters and moderates who wanted to hear strategy and policy on Iraq, the economy, and healthcare. My feminism kicks in when I hear her called the best “man” for the job. And if I hear one more talking head refer to how “macho” she was I’m going to set something on fire. She is a woman, and she’s tough. Period. As a fellow tough woman I am disturbed by my initial reaction to her speech, which was to think that she’s a total bitch.

Day 3:

1. Mitt Romney ran through Radio Row like he was being chased by a flock of homosexuals. He looks like a game show host, and not in the endearing-Chuck-Woolery way.

2. Jon Voight whored himself out to the media for hours yesterday, at one point standing right in front of our booth with a crowd 5-deep around him. I went and got security to move them out of the way.

3. Gil interviewed Lou Sheldon from the Traditional Values Coalition yesterday, and I couldn’t look that little old man in the face. His blue eyes burn like he’s the Devil himself.

4. If you’re ever in Tulsa, Oklahoma, look up the guys from KRMG. Joe, Rick, and Drew are seriously the nicest guys on the planet.

5. Carla Marinucci from the SF Chronicle is brilliant, read her often.

6. KGO is famous and well-respected all across the country, it turns out. Don’t take us for granted.

7. The Log Cabin Republicans may be incredibly misguided, in my opinion, but it takes incredible bravery to mingle with people who hate your guts.

Originally written 9.08

Blogging the GOP Convention, 2008 Part 2

I don’t care if my President or Vice President has smoked pot. Or done coke when he or she was in college, for that matter. I get it. I do care, however, if his or her children get knocked up at 17. I want them to be aware enough to see what’s happening under their noses, whether it’s their kid having unprotected sex or a sibling spiraling into drug addiction. And a conservative anti-abortion, pro-creationism family keeping an unwanted pregnancy is no big shocker. And just because a woman is “relatable” doesn’t mean she’s qualified.

Observations from Day 2!

1. Governor Huckabee had a crush of TV cameras and microphones in his face, trying to press his way through Radio Row. He’s kind of short.

2. There’s no amount of soap that can cleanse me after accidentally shaking the hand of the Reverend Lou Sheldon, head of the Traditional Values Coalition. Ick.

3. There is one thing more frightening to me than the hard-core Christian conservatives—Young Republicans. All I see is that scene in Pink Floyd’s The Wall with the faceless students on a factory assembly line.

4. St. Paul has some really cool antique stores on West 7th Street. Check them out sometime.

5. Anarchist protestors are idiots and deserved to get concussion grenades tossed at them. I was around the corner waiting for my hotel shuttle at the time.

6. Joe Lieberman is patronizing and in for a serious wake-up call if the Democrats increase their margin in Congress.

7. Radio people are smarter and more fun than TV people.

Originally written 9.08

Blogging the GOP Convention, 2008

Day 1!

A few observations from day one of the Republican convention, and my issues with Sarah Palin, enumerated.

1) GOP women vs. Democrat women: skirt suits and high heels vs. pantsuits and sensible heels. Big hair and heavy makeup vs. edgy haircuts and lip gloss. Cloying perfume vs. patchouli.

2) Orrin Hatch had an entourage and people flocking to him like he was Elvis.

3) Sport coats, everywhere, mostly navy blue.

4) More African-Americans than I expected.

5) Gil is a frickin’ rock star on Radio Row.

6) TONS of National Guard, Sheriffs, cops, and K-9 units.

7) TV stations think they’re better than us.

8) John McCain was held captive with some outstanding men, 3 of whom I had the pleasure of meeting yesterday. Thank you, Dave Wheat, Larry Friese, and Rod Knutson.

9) Republicans can be very very nice people.

10) Not a lot of tattoos running around.

We’ve got a full day of convention today, so perhaps I’ll be more insightful tomorrow.

Let’s get one thing straight about Sarah Palin’s anti-abortion stance. The way it is being leveraged is insulting to Democrats and to women. This may come as a shock, but Democrats don’t get pregnant just so they can get abortions. We don’t like it. No one does. Democrats don’t abort babies with Down’s Syndrome any more than Republicans do. We also manage to make birth control a priority, so as to prevent unplanned pregnancy and avoid abortion all together. If Sarah Palin gave a flying crap about her daughter’s future, she would have had a birth control conversation with Bristol. Instead she is happy that her daughter is permanently compromising the life she could have had in favor of raising a child. As someone who has observed a great number of teenage pregnancies in her hometown, I feel safe telling you that Bristol’s dreams and ambitions are now in a state of suspended animation, never to be fulfilled the way they should be. And she is shackled to her boyfriend of one year, whether they end up being truly compatible or not. It’s sad and unfair, that Bristol wasn’t prepared for sex properly and that her “family values” have led her to this place. Excellent parenting, right?

Originally written 9.08

Prepping for the GOP Convention, 2008

I mull a lot. When I’m alone, sitting, reading, staring, I mull. Lately

I’ve been mulling my upcoming business trip. I’ve never been on a trip anywhere that was work-sponsored, unless you count smelly bus rides to San Francisco from Fresno for free radio station-affiliated concerts. So I’m proud of the business trip thing.

The fact that I’m going to be in the belly of the beast for a week is the mull-worthy part. The beast being the Republican party, the belly digesting me with its caustic acid being the Republican National Convention in St. Paul, Minneapolis, beginning next week. The nightmare version of this is a lot of rednecks, white hair, and blue-state hatin’. Not my ideal patriotic combination. Homophobia thick in the air, people wanting to raid my womb before I’ve decided what to do with it, people shielding themselves from reality with their shallow concept of Jesus…what’s a girl to do? On the surface, I will stick out like a sore thumb—I’m surly, semi-visibly tattooed, short-haired, a media-type with a chip already installed, right there, on my shoulder. So is it weird that I’m excited to go?

I know the nightmare version is not the truth. I know that the RNC will be exactly what the DNC is, both on its surface and at its core. On the surface, it as an opportunity to lay it all out there, to inspire the country and the voters; at the core it is a VERY well-worded simultaneous ego-stroke and sales pitch. But we, Americans, right left and everyone else, have a right to this process. We have a right to stand up for the person we want to steer our ship. The conventions might be a bit dog-and-pony, but everyone there, even the Republicans that freak me out when gathered en masse, want the same things. A job, safety, food, a future for their families. I am looking forward, I think, to interacting with people who believe in the Democratic process as much as I do.

And for all intents and purposes, I like John McCain. I find nothing about him to be slimier than any typical politician; he’s courageous and savvy and experienced. I’m not voting for him, by any stretch of the imagination, but my issues with his party are not the same as my issues with him. And my issues with his party are too broad in scope to enumerate here. But the fact that I get to witness John McCain’s nomination to the office of President is an honor, in my mind, and one I plan to enjoy. Then I’m going to go out into Minneapolis and get a tattoo to mark the occasion. Seriously.

Originally written 9.08

Everything Kills You

This is me, out here on my limb. I don’t care if cake is bad for me. Or sunlight. I don’t care if TV rots my brain, or if I drink too little or too much water. I don’t much care if I’m running late to most things, or if I use too much butter in my mashed potatoes. My cell phone might irradiate my brain. Soda rots your teeth. Too much cheese hardens your arteries, not enough cheese makes you breakable. Chocolate releases endorphins on par with sex, but it gives you pimples and makes you fat. Alcohol will make you insane and steal away your judgment, but red wine is OK for pregnant women.

We live in a society that tells you everything will kill you; and we like it that way. We are desperate to live forever, to endure, but this is not an example of our fortitude of spirit. There is a permeating fear of death, of the cycle, of the natural order of things. We fight to add years to our lives, all the time ignoring the fact that your life has left the station without you. All the wheatgrass, fish oil, and pilates in the world can’t replace the soul-soothing affirmation of one moment of appreciation for your planet and your people. Trees, oceans, children, deserts, Grandparents, animals, sunshine, your best friend from 3rd grade…these are what define our presence on the planet. Not our cholesterol levels or the antioxidant content of blueberries. We spend less time with what we love and more time in self-flagellation at the altar of Never Good Enough.

Everything and anything can kill you or cure you. The obsession with perfect health in this society is contrary to Darwinian principle and the natural order of things. Try to remember that anything at all can end your time on this earth, and whether or not you went to the gym that day won't matter a bit. But you might wish you had had more cake. Or mayonnaise.

Originally written 7.08

How To Make Me Feel 15, In a Bad Way

I went to the wedding of one of my dearest friends this weekend. She married a great guy who loves her, and they are very well-suited for each other. I’ve known this girl for almost half my life, including all of my most debaucherous years. We were in college together, and Christine in college was an unbroken chain of drinking until I blacked out, trying to get laid so I would feel pretty or valuable, and making sure everyone knew I was as dedicated to the tortured creative life as anyone had ever seen.

I am not that girl anymore. I quit drinking almost seven years ago, and have worked really hard to keep the Christine that people like (the smartass, the loyal friend, the supportive person) and shed the things that kept me from being me (the drinking, the low self-esteem, the daddy issues.) And I’ve been successful at that. This wedding, though, served as a type of 10 year reunion, an event I avoided in real life like the plague. Some of the people at the reception were friends in college, a decade ago, and they only knew the girl I affectionately call Dark Me. That is the picture they have of me in their heads—falling down stairs, getting into arguments, the occasional barfing. And I have to own that, I guess—but there is this deep sense of melancholy about the fact that people I like and respect don’t know me anymore, and they may very well never have the chance to.

There is also the added pressure of not being in the perfect place in my career, and having what I haven’t done yet held up for inspection. I love my job, but I belong on the air, and that is not in the cards right now. I know it’s my problem—that I might not feel adequate by comparison to some of my old friends. But the feeling is still there—that I should have been conquering the world since college, and that my failure to is a direct result of me being a moron.

So how do I wan to measure myself? By what I think other people see? By what people I haven’t’ seen in ten years are doing? By the expectations I had of myself when I was a teenager? Or by the life I have now? The husband who loves me, the friends who managed to stick around through Dark Me? The talk show host who thinks I’m great at my job (thanks Gil!)? How do you measure your success? Or is the simple act of measuring at all counterproductive and crazy-making?

Originally written 6.08

What Kind of Son Are You Raising?

On a show a year ago, Gil featured two young women, April Grolle and Lauren Chief Elk, who (along with a third girl) intervened in the rape of a minor at a DeAnza College baseball team party. The women, along with their attorney, Jim Hammer, came in to the station to talk to Gil about the decision made by prosecutors NOT to bring charges against any of the guys from the party.

Go to the archives and listen to the hour. It'll turn your stomach. The 17 year old girl, unconscious or nearly so, with someone else's vomit on her face. The horseshoe of guys, standing around a mattress on the floor. Don't turn away from the images in your head right now. You need to see them. If you're a woman, you need to resolve that you will never allow this to happen to another woman if you can help it. If you're a man, you need to see the girl on the mattress as your wife or your daughter or your sister and resolve to never ever think for a moment that there is an excuse for this sort of behavior.

And can I say, just this once, that I am consistently floored by the sheer number of idiot men that exist? I should assert: I am floored by the sheer number of idiot men who call in to the show. Listeners aren't the same as callers, and the callers can be a rather unique cross-section of society. Men who laugh at rape, for instance. A male caller suggested that the 17 year old victim may have actually been paid for her services. Seriously. I just threw up in my mouth a little. Who is raising these people? Who is raising the baseball players from DeAnza College? How do their mothers look at them without being ill? How do you live with having raised a boy, a disgusting vile boy who can watch an unconscious girl be violated over and over? Wake up and look at your sons.

Do I sound angry? Good.

Originally written 5.08

It's Not All About Tits, You Know

We, as a nation, are fiercely protective of our image. Most of us hate the fact that other countries think we're currently being run by an idiot. The ones who don't care what others think of us are isolationist freaks with no perspective beyond their itty-bitty bubble, and we don't care about them. The point is that Americans are image-conscious, for better or worse, and this obsession extends into every aspect of our culture.

Cars, clothes, handbags, cell phones, mp3 players, organic food; these are all symbols of image consciousness. Pets are now genetically engineered hybrid dogs-- Labradoodles and Cockapoos are apparently better companions then the mutt at the pound that only costs 20 bucks and little snip-snip. Swarovski is a brand name familiar to millions of people; idiot-drunken-slut celebrities are accorded more respect because of their image than the Peace Corp volunteer that can't properly apply liquid eyeliner. The Peace Corp's just not sexy, man!

And speaking of sexy-- Victoria's Secret's CEO has decided that the company may have become too "sexy," and rejected the "ultra-feminine." First of all, what the hell does "ultra-feminine" entail to the CEO of a lingerie company? Secondly, and I mean this with as much derision as the web can muster...DUH!

Of course your brand is way off its path! Of course women over the age of 15 don't shop there! Why? Because for a decade now, every commerical, model, print ad, TV special, and promotion has been targeting masturbators of the male variety. Why do I give a flying you-know-what about what Giselle looks like in those panties? I won't look like that, and I don't know any women who will, so why in the sam hell am I going to buy that bra that pushes my girls up to my earlobes? I'm not a Renaissance Fair serving wench, for pete's sake.

What other companies have been able to remember is that the majority of their profit is coming from women who buy their own stuff. They advertise accordingly-- with pretty, girl-next-door types, who actually refer to the function of the underwear once in the commercial. They don't promise to turn you into an angel, or that you'll be the smoking-est babe on the cul-de-sac, or that you'll be ripping your bodice by Tuesday. Victoria's Secret has managed to turn what should be a self-esteem booster, lingerie shopping with a partner, into an impenetrable wall of male-targeted sex fantasy with barely any recognition of reality.

So, V.S. CEO Sharen Turney, you DO need to change your image. And make more bras in a D.

Originally written 3.08

I've Been a Bad, Bad Girl

What makes a person good? Not good as in the opposite of “evil.” I mean good, as in shining-from-the-inside, nice-to-old-ladies, concerned-for-the-homeless kind of good. And not one of those annoying over-the-top smiley people. Those are the ones that end up having people locked in their basement. They are all surface.

I have met a few people in my life so far that seem to radiate a certain calm that I myself could never approach. As a teenager, a time of life when typical girls resemble little more than beak-faced harpies without the cuddly demeanor, I knew a girl that made me feel as if I were the smartest person she knew. And she did this with everyone! You couldn’t fake that kind of authenticity. Like a guest Gil had a couple of years ago. Ashlei Williams, aka the rapper REIGN, is a young, gorgeous Oakland Police officer who just happens to also be a Christian hip-hop artist. She’s also got a great vibe, a strong spiritual presence, and that calm I talked about. I take a look at REIGN, and my friend from high school, and I am awed by how good they seem, or are. But here’s the rub—that can’t be the only way to be good.

I believe in karma; if not the strict Buddhist type of karma, then the notion that what you put out, you get back. If I put out good energy and acceptance, I will be on the receiving end of the same. This is fine in theory, right? But how does one keep from being petty, or angry, or catty, 24-7? How can a person avoid envy and jealousy? How is it possible to struggle with addictions and loss and pain, as many people do, and still worry about the energy you’re putting out? It isn’t. And that’s OK, I swear. All we can do is try as hard as we can to bring one little patch of respect and tolerance to our current circumstances, to our present-day world, in the short term; and work, every day, for a better long term.

I believe that the Gods, or God, or karma, or Insert-Deity-Here, that they can see our hearts. What’s inside—the mess of intentions and knowledge and repercussions that starts churning whenever we make a questionable decision or spread rumors or lie to people we love. I believe that while I am prickly and have been known, at different stages in my life, as a drunk, a bitch, a nerd, and a smartass—I believe that the fact that I am also known for my loyalty, organizational capability, and whip-smart sense of humor should balance the cosmic scale a bit. Our Gods have to know when we are incapable of digging ourselves out of a hole, and they give us the tools to fix it. And that makes us good people. Maybe not shining-holy-light-from-within good, but good all the same.

Originally written 3.08

Contemplate the Cosmos With Me

I had the chance to revisit the movie "Contact" last night. Based on the Carl Sagan book, it's Jodie Foster as a scientist who is on the receiving end of a message from outer space and ends up on the single coolest wormhole-roller-coaster-ride ever. In between those two events is a seriously intriguing tug-of-war between religious faith and scientific empiricism. This movie blew my mind when I first saw it 11 years ago; 20 years old, and unclear as to how to give voice to my increasing skepticism about the universe as most people knew it. Humans can't be the end all and be all of intelligent life. How sad that would be, right?

As "Contact" makes clear, us, alone in the universe, is an "awful waste of space." Simplistic yet plainly true, considering the probabilities involved. Infinite large rocks in infinite universes, something's got to live on one of them. The question of God is not nearly so susceptible to statistical analysis. What everyone (fundamentalists, zealots, and atheists alike) needs to realize is that we all have a similar purpose--to make sense of that which is beyond us.

That which is beyond the human experience and realm of knowledge. Scientists are constantly looking for answers to tough questions; faith attempts to do the same thing. Whether you believe that God is the creator of the universe, or that praying to Demeter will help your crops, or that Kali wears a necklace of bones; if you believe that carbon is the reason we're here, or that we're here to prepare for the afterlife (which, by the way, seems like a way of wussing-out on actual living); and even if you believe that nature bats last, like I do, and that there is divinity in each person and flower and day of sunshine.

We, as humans, are designed to look beyond ourselves and we constantly strive to understand that which is unknowable. Or, as yet, unknown. That's what makes us a fascinating tribe.

Originally written 2.08

I Went a Wii Bit Crazy

I got it into my head last weekend that I MUST have a Nintendo Wii. I am a product of the Nintendo generation- I had the original console when it came out, and upgraded to the Super Nintendo in the mid-nineties. I'm old enough to have had friends who had the original Atari console, even. But once the Playstations and Segas and Xboxes started proliferating, I realized that my hand eye coordination just wasn't going to cut it anymore with all the knobs and 72 new buttons and vibrating controllers, and I'd probably rather drink or have sex than play video games anyway. Now that I'm married and I don't drink anymore, those aren't really options.

Hence, the Great Wii Quest of early '08. My husband and I called every big box store within 30 miles, literally; I called every small retailer listed on the Nintendo website; I even raced down to Colma to try to get the last one Circuit City had on Friday. I was crestfallen, dejected, irritated, and more determined than ever to get my hands on one of those sweet pale portals to fun. See, you don't want to tell Christine she can't have something. That she won't be able to find one. That she wasn't meant to have it. Then she gets cranky.

I am an impatient woman. An only child. I have laser-focus when it's something I want. And I'm definitely afflicted with mild OCD, because I cannot rest until the object of my desire is obtained and put to good use in my living room with a fake race-car steering wheel and a little Wii bowling. I will continue calling, every day; I will continue my hunt for the best possible online-bundle of accessories; and I will emerge victorious.

Originally written 2.08

I Like Them Book Things I Keep Hearing About

Reading fiction has been a constant in my life since I was four years old. I started reading and never looked back, immersing myself in worlds I didn't inhabit myself-- ones with dragons and fairies and rich people and nuclear families. I've been an amass-er of books since then, also. My ideal room is a library full of ceiling high bookcases, with a fireplace and a spot for my pipe and smoking jacket. And a pullout sofa. And a ladder so I can reach the books at the top, because of course I would have read them all.

And I consider myself a smarter person because I read a lot. There's no way today's kids will come close to having a full understanding of the universe with just the internet and Wikipedia to guide them. They have no perspective. But "literature" and books are two different things, and I am afraid I'm just not cool enough to pull of the snooty air of a "literature" fan.

My favorite books of all time: Brave New World by Aldous Huxley; The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger; Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell; American Gods by Neil Gaiman; and the Harry Potter series. More mainstream, mostly with a fantastical twist, and definitely NOT Vonnegut or Faulkner. Or Upton Sinclair. Or Dave Eggers. I've never read A Confederacy of Dunces. Or The Corrections. I don't read poetry all that often, I find it pretentious and overwrought. I don't like Hemingway, but at least I've read enough to know that for myself. And I'm not a complete philistine, either-- I like Dickens, Dostoyevsky, Steinbeck, Socrates...but if you breath even one word of Camus' The Stranger I will stick you with something sharp.

I guess my point is that I feel safe with my books, I like to show off my books, and I like people to think I'm smart, so I keep a lot of books around. But can an old dog learn new tricks? Can I learn to like Vonnegut if I give him a chance? What about Marquez? Murakami? I don't know. Send me some books and I'll let you know. In the meantime, don't judge me.

Originally written 1.08

What Happens When A Christine Loses Her Voice? Blood.

I’m voiceless. Speechless. My larynx has gone on strike, possibly in support of the WGA. This is the third year in a row this has happened, right at the New Year, and I’ve gone from resigned-to-my-fate to pissed off. A total of 9 days over the past three weeks I’ve been without use of my voice. Laryngitis in a building full of radio people is like the biggest cosmic farce you can imagine. No opinion is kept to oneself in this business, and people say a lot of ridiculous things that I, of course, have to then shame them for; voiceless I’m like a eunuch, or something less graphic but just as symbolic. A rudderless boat?

“But Christine,” you say, “you’re a vivacious and smart woman with a bevy of talents that have nothing to do with speech.” And this is where you’d be mistaken. You know those people that you love to death for one specific trait that they have? It’s the thing you always mention when you’re describing her to others. “The one with the funny laugh,” or “the one with the rich family who still lives in that VW bus,” or, “the one that always has weed.” Well, I’m the one with “the voice.” Or, “the talker.” That’s what I do. It’s all I’m really good at. If I can put together a halfway amusing or coherent blog post it’s because I can hear the words, in my voice, in my head first. My life and my identity are so closely tied to what I can talk my way into or out of that I can’t begin to think about separating them.

So what do I do? I lie in bed at night wondering if my throat is covered in polyps (I’m trying to get in to see a doctor, but I’m kind of a hypochondriac sometimes); I get up, I write this blog post, in silence. I wonder what I would do if my future on-air ambitions went up in smoke. I’ve been in radio for 11 years. All of my adult life, really, and I’m not a strictly off-mic type of girl. So what if I end up way past Kathleen Turner and more into Bad-Tranny range?

And what about my husband? I’ve spent 8 years modifying his behavior to respond to my verbal cues. How in the sam hell am I going to be able to get him to pick up his stuff if I can’t use my terse voice?

Originally written 1.08

You Can Pick Your Nose, You Can Pick Your Family's Noses, But...

I know it's a stereotype that all family gatherings are fraught with tensions, secrets, annoyances, old grudges, and canned cranberry sauce. Most families get along just fine, whether they're faking it or not, and I know more people who have died of boredom at family events than have been speared with a fork by a pissed off cousin.

Not to say that my family doesn't have its moments. No bloodletting, per se, but perception is reality and it's hard to get a bunch of perceptions into one house for green bean casserole and pleasantries. It doesn't help that most of us are extremely verbose, and only have outdoor voices. Family gatherings amongst my people are a crapshoot-- they could go really really well, or someone could say one thing and start an argument that consists of two people shouting over each other. Did I mention no one is drinking at these events? We're naturally rambunctious. Then you consider my in-laws house, my second Christmas of the day, which by sheer virtue of being a big Italian family dinner has the potential to knock birds out the sky with the volume of it all. But everyone showed up, happy to see each other, relatively on-time, and enjoyed each other's presence. Not presents, although those were fine too (snowman votive holder, anyone?), but presence.

And that's the point. The women who had to organize my family Christmases (Aunt Debby and my Mom-in-law Dee) were hoping against hope that all of the family could make it, what with their spouses' families and their own children and their various and sundry obligations outside of the immediate relatives. But it worked. We came, we socialized, we hugged and laughed and told some of the same stories about each other that we always tell, and I was thrilled. I got to see my cousin-in-law's baby, my cousin and his new wife, my uncle the lawyer, and my grandparents, who I'm lucky to still have around. The feeling in my stomach after the day was done was one of contentment, not jittery angst or intense exasperation. That in and of itself is a Christmas miracle.

I love my families, and I hope you love yours. If you don't, make a new one.

Originally written 12.07

Congress + Christmas = Bad Ending

The first ridiculous part of the story is that Congress put together a Christmas resolution at all.

The second ridiculous part is that they actually brought it to a vote. Last Christmas-time, the House of Representatives voted 372-9 to pass a resolution that declared the United States is predominantly Christian, and that Christianity contributed greatly to the development of the country and Western civilization. The dissenting votes were all Democrats. My issues with this sort of time-waster are so numerous I have neither the patience nor the focus needed to enumerate them. So I'll give you the highlights.

1. California will soon be predominantly Latino. Should we all start celebrating El Dia de Los Muertos then? Would this white-boy representative from Iowa be OK with whatever is "predominant" in society being forced on everyone else if we were talking about Illinois swallowing Iowa? Illinoisans are predominant in that part of the country, right?

2. Rep. Steve King is allegedly making a statement about Christmas. As usual, those who shout loudest about their "faith" have failed to do their research. Christmas is a pagan holiday, it always has been, and its rituals were co-opted by the Church two millennia ago in order to convert those nature-worshipping country folk.

3. I thought Greece and Rome had already shaped Western Civilization by the time the Christians managed to band together. Democracy, philosophy, critical thinking, art...everyone with a brain knows these are the building blocks of our society. Well, that and slaves. Slaves built this country, not Christians.

I could go on, but now I'm annoyed. We pay these yutzes to run our country, and this is what they're doing on the day Bush vetoes the child health care bill.

Originally written 12.07

People Think I'm Too Liberal

We did a delightful hour on rapists at KGO once. Sexual abuse and rape are such light, positive topics, what could really make it any better? How about adding castration to the mix? Chemical and physical castration were in the news again, and Gil was trying to get to the bottom of recidivism rates and rehabilitation.

And this is where I go all crazy-gun-wielding-warrior-feminist-avenger. Convicted rapists and child molesters waste my money. Your money, too. Our money keeps these people safe and warm and well-fed, when I myself have barely more than peanut butter in my apartment. Maybe they can't mix with the general population because of the whole "honor amongst thieves" credo, but this makes no difference to me. If it were up to me, and it should be, rapists and molesters would be subjected to a firing squad immediately following their (one) appeal. I'm not joking, either.

Some people on this planet are born evil. Not biblical evil, with Satan and horns and hellfire. Human evil-- with darkness in their hearts and no conscience. People who don't see the value in other human beings beyond what that person can provide, like sex or drugs or money or control. These people are habitual criminals, beyond rehabilitation, and cutting their balls off isn't going to keep them from wanting to hurt women or children. So eliminate the problem. I'd apply for the job of executioner myself. And this isn't some secret conservative side of my personality. It's forced evolution. Population control.

Originally written 12.07

Holidays Make People Insane

I'm unsure as to why I'm always stunned by vitriol.  By the human capacity for meanness.  We are a selfish species, driven by material wants and personal vendetta, jealous and schadenfreude-ian.  Right?  This becomes obvious during the holiday season, when people are trampled for a $40 dollar digital frame and yet homeless shelters and soup kitchens are hard up for donations.  People drive like maniacs, fight over parking, yell at the Best Buy clerk, under-tip their waiters, and encourage their children to act like greedy little pigs.  God bless us, every one!

Let's try something new.  It's controversial, but go with me on this.  Say "thank you" to the Best Buy clerk.  Tip your waiter 40 percent.  Pay for the coffee of the person behind you in line, like these people did.  Let someone merge onto the freeway in front of you instead of gunning the gas to get to the mall first.  Spend time at home with your kids, playing with all of last year's toys before they get tossed aside.  Put on some cheesy Christmas music and dance around your living room (maybe with some spiked egg nog.)  Be thankful that you have friends and family to buy presents for at all, even if you don't like all of them.  Go check out the giant Christmas tree in Union Square (but take public transportation.)  Volunteer.  Smile.  Breathe.

Not everything is an exercise in Darwinian selection.  You getting that last iPod Touch is not because you deserve it--it's probably because you elbowed that little old lady on the way in.  So pick her up off the ground and and apologize.

Originally written 12.07

If You're Mormon, You Might Want to Look Away

We had an "Ask a Mormon!" segment on the Gil Gross program a while back, cooked up by Gil to disseminate information about the Mormon Church. Mitt Romney's not screwing around when it comes to being President, so we figured we might as well try to get to the bottom of a confusing and relatively new Christian sect. I'm all for information-spreading, because I think everyone should have their biases and preconceived notions challenged, regularly. However.

I had a Mormon step-dad for 10 years, and had a bit of an insider look at how part-time Mormons conduct themselves. At least how the part-time Mormon in my life conducted himself. He was sexist and a bit racist; congenial up to a point, then bitter and petty when "slighted." He was repressed, both sexually and emotionally. Women were for child-spawning to him, which makes me wonder why in the hell he married my mother in the first place (I am her one and only kid, and she wanted it to stay that way.) And in the end, when he couldn't get my mother to bow to his whims, he went back to his church. To the church that taught him what women were for. The church that taught him to spread the word of his God as far and wide as he could on the "mission" they sent him on at 18.

A lot of these things can be said of non-Mormons, obviously. But what crosses the line, for me, is the approach Mormons (and Jehovah's Witnesses, for that matter) take in order to spread their word. I don't walk up to someone's house and start mouthing off about how gay people deserve equal rights in everything that they do; or that I have the right to abort my fetus if I want; and I don't bend people's ears about my faith in a nature-based Goddess and a Wheel of the Year and that all gods and goddesses are aspects of the same power.

The first rule of any sort of spirituality or religion should be to keep it to yourself. I don't care that you have the "true path" to salvation. I don't care if you're concerned about my soul. I don't care if you think that my beliefs are a surefire way to end up in a flaming handbasket, hurtling towards Hell. And I will not tolerate uninvited drop-by's. Luckily I learned the "turn-the-lights-off-and-duck-behind-the-couch" routine at a young age; the rub comes along when your own stepfather send missionaries to your house when he knows you and your mom are home. And then they drop his name to get into the house. And I'm not even going to go into the ridiculousness of the attempt to convert people in their own homes. It took centuries of bloody wars to eradicate paganism, and Christians still wonder why they were lion meat in Rome. Because people don't like being converted by rampant proselytizers!

Faith and spirituality are deeply personal things. It's what keeps you afloat when you feel like you're drowning, it's what connects you to the world at large and the people on this planet. It lends perspective and relief in times of crisis. And it should! We need to know that we are part of something bigger than us, bigger than politics and thievery and hunger and disease. Bigger than capitalism and racism and bigotry. That we can be more than simply human. This is a struggle that each of us undertakes, and not one that should be tidied up within the framework of religious dogma. This life, on this planet, right now, has too much joy and mystery to offer to spend all of your time waiting until you die for it to get good.

Originally written 12.07