Blogular Updates

WHAT DO YOU ALL THINK of my cool new blog banner? Fabulous Robert of BLUE HERON BLAST did this for me, and I have sent copious cyberkisses and hugs his way. IT'S JUST BEE-YOO-TI-FULL! Thank you, thank you, thank you!

I did my last banner over 5 years ago, and couldn't even locate the website where I made it. Without the banner-making-for-dummies software, I had no clue how to proceed in conjuring up an updated banner. The few free banner-maker-sites I managed to find, did not have the crucial KASHMIR font, which I just HAD TO HAVE. (Led Zeppelin fans will undoubtedly recognize the lovely Kashmir font, named for the band who first used it on their album covers.) Also, I wanted outer space, utterly suitably for a flakey hippie like your humble narrator... the two together were nearly impossible for me to combine on the cheesy banner-maker websites. ((sobs)) I sulked for six whole months before wonderful Robert rescued me.

BLUE HERON RULES! Thank you so much, my friend.

Go visit Blue Heron Blast--which always has cool banners, and he changes them all the time, too... not once every five years, like some of us.

~*~

We did the promo for the radio show, today on Another Voice with Jason and Eric... they were kind enough to let us crazy lefties in to promote our new broadcast endeavor. Old-school Gentlemen! Very polite fellas who are all about free speech and everything... obviously, an endangered species in these parts.

Occupy the Microphone will formally debut on WOLT-FM, January 1st (and a happy New Year to you, too!)... WOLT-FM is a pretty snazzy-looking radio station, headquartered in the old McAlister Square mall, which I have written about here before.

~*~

At left: Daisy meets Country Earl, back on the auspicious date of 11-11-11.


WOLT-FM also once regularly featured local legend Country Earl's radio show. I was lucky enough to meet him last year, which was a real thrill for me. It therefore saddens me to announce that Country Earl passed away about a week ago, to the sorrow of upstate South Carolina:

A longtime Upstate radio personality also known for his Simpsonville restaurant has passed away.

“Country Earl” Baughman, 79, died Monday at Greenville Memorial Hospital.

Baughman was a local radio personality/disc jockey for many years, with numerous upstate radio stations including WESC, WCKI, WFIS, WBBR, WAGI and WOLT where he hosted his “Country Earl’s Country Classics Radio Show.” He started his career in the 1950s and continued until 2000s.

He was also known for his restaurant, Country Earl’s Stompin’ and Chompin’. In recent years, the restaurant became less of a restaurant and more of a performance or event venue, becoming known as “Country Earl’s Celebration Place.”

Baughman was native of Greenville County. According to his obituary, he was the son of the late Herbie Theodore and Susie Mae Lackey Baughman.

He was a member of Brookwood Community Church and was an accomplished musician and songwriter and was inducted into the Rockabilly Hall Of Fame.

A “Celebration of Life Service” will be held 2 p.m. Saturday, Dec. 15, 2012 at Brookwood Community Church.

Forest Hills Funeral Home website says visitation will be held at the church following the service. In lieu of flowers, the family requests that donations be made in Earl’s memory to The Muscular Dystrophy Association, 25 Woods Lake Rd., Suite 412, Greenville, SC 29607.

Another real gentleman of the old school, who will be sorely missed. :(

~*~

For those who asked (I am SO flattered yall care about me!)--my lifelong, growing, ugly brown skin-blotch was technically diagnosed as a dermatofibroma.

Nobody knows what causes them, but one theory is that they are caused by infected insect bites. Oh, GROSS!

You see??? I just knew all those horrific flea bites I endured would somehow have some negative repercussions; it just stands to reason.

I am TOTALLY blaming them.

~*~

We talked about the recent school-shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut, on our last podcast, if you'd like to give us a listen. I don't have much to add to what we said, except the song I played here on Saturday.

There is one quite fascinating link currently making the rounds--Mormon Church 'owns unregulated gun sale website':

One of the most active and unregulated gun sale websites in America is owned by the Mormon Church, an investigation by New York's Mayor Michael Bloomberg has revealed.

You just have to wonder... who else is making a killing, if you will pardon the expression.

My apologies for once again boring my dear readers with Tales of The Call Center, but the fact is, I learned a great deal whilst being cussed out every day, and I was toughened up for the long haul besides (which made me well-prepared for the rigors of talk radio)... My call center took calls for a world-wide shipping conglomerate, whose name (and big brown trucks) you would instantly recognize.

At one point on my call center job, I took calls ONLY from South Carolina for about 6-7 months. I became alarmed when I realized how many involved shipping huge amounts of firearms to other parts of the country, where I knew they were illegal. Most involved gun shows (and similar exhibitions), but some had other creative, shifty ways to get around the local laws. And I don't mind telling you, some of the guys on the phone sounded like they were straight out of Lizard Lick Towing. They initially didn't seem too bright, but honey, you shoulda heard them spout those LAWS--they knew them inside and out, backwards and forwards, state by state and county by county. When packages got held up and/or inspected, which happened fairly often, they would cuss a proverbial blue streak. And I used to get seriously creeped out when packages got LOST (and yes, they did), which made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

I still remember one guy chuckling at the news that his enormous shipment of guns (to New York City) had apparently disappeared into the ether, and he would have to file a claim. "Bummer," he announced, "Hope whoever found it enjoys alla that fine weaponry," he chortled, "--and I hope nobody pisses him off tonight!"

I remember hoping nobody pissed him off too, whoever he was.

Imagine, a cache of weapons and ammo simply evaporating off of a loading dock? I hate to tell you, but it happens all the time.

Greetings from Redneck Nation

Finding politically-correct targets for the trendinistas to hate, is getting more and more difficult.

How can they prove they are the cool trendies unless somebody is the inferior rube? And the usual suspects (the darker peoples, the disabled, the foreigners who dress funny)... well, all of that prejudice is starting to look really BACKWARD and ignorant, even to the trendies. Who'd a thunk it? This seems to have touched off a crisis in confidence. They can't even use a well-seasonsed, drive-by insult like "mouth-breathers" anymore, without somebody getting irate. It's getting harder and harder for them to find people beneath them to safely ridicule. WHERE ARE MY INFERIORS?--howl the trendies, starved to recognize their innate superiority.

Ah, yes. Of course. Their inferiors, as always, are south of the Mason-Dixon line. What Robin Williams once amusingly called the Manson-Nixon line, even though one of those men was born in OHIO (which is ABOVE the Mason-Dixon line, last time I checked) and one was born in California. But that's quibbling... let's not let the facts interfere with good anti-southern insults!

On my show tomorrow (which I taped yesterday in scenic Simpsonville, SC), we have a first-rate, top-notch, Daisy-rant in store! This was occasioned by the newest affront perpetrated against Redneck Nation, an unbelievable Reality TV show on The Learning Channel (!) titled, HERE COMES HONEY BOO-BOO. I didn't watch too much of it. Needed drugs after only five minutes.

This mocking, derisive show manages to combine hatred of southern rednecks (the only form of overt classism now openly celebrated in the USA) with hatred of fat people, exploitation of children and early-sexualization of girls, all in one happy little package. You can almost see the TV-executives, triumphantly tallying up all of these factors on their nasty fingers: heyyyyy, we got KIDS, we got a BABY BEAUTY-QUEEN, we got a FAT FAMILY of DUMB REDNECKS! (high fives all-round) Whoever thought up this show, got himself a raise and probably a promotion.

Already, the trendies are stampeding forth to "defend" the show against... well, against who? Do they understand that they like it because it was MADE FOR THEM? Apparently not. (The irony, it burns.)

I started thinking about the cultural geneaology of Ms Boo Boo and where she came from. Brainstorming with my ever-astute radio co-hosts (Consiglieri Gregg Jocoy and Occupy Greenville Mentor Double A Battery), we came up with a noxious stew of the murdered JonBenét Ramsey, the rise of awful Toddlers and Tiaras (where Ms Boo Boo was "discovered"), Dance Moms and other such shows, as well as Little Miss Sunshine. We then segued into Larry the Cable Guy and Jeff Foxworthy. Nobody is safe, once we start naming names!

To make matters worse, there is also a constantly-replayed show titled World's Dumbest Hillbillies. After thinking really hard, we could not come up with single other group of people that would rate such a TV show named after them, try as we might. (Any takers?)

I invite you to listen. Saturday at 9am, WFIS-AM, 1600 AM/94.9 FM on your local upstate radio dial... or on our radio blog.

~*~

Taking a short break for the neighboring Peach State.

Trivia time: there was once a minor-league baseball team actually known as The Atlanta Crackers. This came from the pejorative term, Georgia Cracker. (staying on topic!) My father-in-law saw the Atlanta Crackers play several times, and the first time I ever heard him comment about that, I was momentarily confused. (You say what?)

There was also a Negro-league team called the Atlanta Black Crackers, which is an even weirder team name.

See you when I get back. Keep the faith, redneck brothers and sisters.

Merry Christmas from the Family

FOR THE FIFTH YEAR IN A ROW, I hereby present our official Dead Air Christmas tradition of the ages, Robert Earl Keen!

Enjoy, and Feliz Navidad!

The Real Daisy

... was my grandmother. I have no idea when or where this photo was taken, but it was probably in Pittsburgh.

Her eyes were so black, you couldn't even see the pupils. Her hair was likewise very black, naturally curly and silky.

My grandmother was Melungeon, which I have always intended to blog about, but there is so little known about them, I don't know exactly what to write. Suffice to say, they were very WEIRD backwoods people with all kinds of BIZARRE traditions you never heard of. (I later understood this is why my family was so odd and never fit in with the other nice, Midwestern families on the block.) Her youngest brother (who never left the backwoods) had an indescribable, hard-to-place accent that was nearly indecipherable, as did both of her parents. It went beyond mere Appalachian accents, and it was nice to finally learn the reason why.

When the Melungeons were asked questions by census takers, they told them all kinds of creative stories, claiming to be Portuguese, Arabs, Jews, and whatever else they thought the census-taker wanted to hear. That's why nobody knew for sure what race/ethnicity they were, and historians are still arguing over it. Much has finally been sorted out through DNA: Melungeons were "tri-racial isolates" -- Native American indigenous people (and refugees from colonial encroachment) and free African-Americans, intermarried with white colonists who decided to go off and live in the wilderness for whatever reasons. This accounts for their deep secrecy and suspicion of strangers (and especially the government).

When white colonists eventually migrated to the Cumberland Gap and the New River (where my grandmother was born), they found these strange folks already living there.

I am interested in learning more, as it becomes known. In studying the Melungeons, it is fascinating to note how some people don't mind being one of the first Americans, but twist themselves in knots to deny the African ancestors. My grandmother told me that as a child, she always knew there were Africans in her family tree... but that is not the rude terminology she used, which I will not repeat here. (What is interesting is that she found this amusing and never denied it. In all honesty, she seemed to find the idea of being related to Cherokee more disturbing.) When people snootily remarked that she looked like Lena Horne, she was obviously too thrilled to get mad about the racial thing.

Second photo is of my grandmother and my mother, Betty, on the right. I estimate their ages to be 37 and 21, respectively. (1955 - Parkersburg, WV)

















Third photo is my mother and me, ages 38 and 15. (1973 - Columbus, OH)
Yes, before you ask, I think that IS real fur. She thought fake fur was low class.

I miss them a lot during this time of year.

And now, your turn. Who do you miss?

Joe Bageant 1946-2011

I'm so behind in my reading, I didn't know Joe Bageant, patron saint of rednecks, had passed. (on March 26)

I can't improve on what others have already written about the amazing author of Deer Hunting with Jesus and Rainbow Pie: A Redneck Memoir, so I will quote from them.

From Michael Loughnane:

"Poet", "prophet", "hillbilly revolutionary", "progressive redneck with a conscience" — these are some of the descriptive terms that have been conferred on Joe Bageant who died on March 26. Steve Austin of the Australian Broadcasting Company called him "The Woody Guthrie of the typewriter" for he championed the cause of the "redneck", a social group he saw as being one of the most marginalized and disenfranchised in America.

From Gary Coseri:

Deer Hunting is an excellent book. Rainbow Pie is even better. Rainbow Pie is about now; Deer Hunting laid the groundwork, sowed seeds of memory for this West Virginia-born sui generis intellectual. Rainbow Pie brings those seeds to fruition amidst our present devastation — the “financialization” of the “transactional economy.” Translation: outsourced jobs; debt and desperation in the homeland.

Before he died last month at age 64, Bageant’s witnessing was astute and acute; he had been there.

And now, I quote directly and at length from Joe's own introduction to Rainbow Pie, A Redneck Memoir:

The United States has always maintained a white underclass — citizens whose role in the greater scheme of things has been to cushion national economic shocks through the disposability of their labor, with occasional time off to serve as bullet magnets in defense of the Empire. Until the post-World War II era, the existence of such an underclass was widely acknowledged. During the Civil War, for instance, many northern abolitionists also called for the liberation of “four million miserable white southerners held in bondage by the wealthy planter class”. Planter elites, who often held several large plantations which, together, constituted much or most of a county’s economy, saw to it that poor whites got no schooling, money, or political power. Poll taxes and literacy requirements kept white subsistence farmers and poor laborers from entering voting booths. Often accounting for up to 70 percent of many deep-Southern counties, they could not vote, and thus could never challenge the status quo.

Today, almost nobody in the social sciences seems willing to touch the subject of America’s large white underclass; or, being firmly placed in the true middle class themselves, can even agree that such a thing exists. Apparently, you can’t smell the rabble from the putting green.

Public discussion of this class remains off limits, deemed hyperbole and the stuff of dangerous radical leftists. And besides, as everyone agrees, white people cannot be an underclass. We’re the majority, dammit. You must be at least one shade darker than a paper bag to officially qualify as a member of any underclass. The middle and upper classes generally agree, openly or tacitly, that white Americans have always had an advantage (which has certainly been the middle- and upper-class experience). Thus, in politically correct circles, either liberal or conservative, the term “white underclass” is an oxymoron. Sure, there are working-poor whites, but not that many, and definitely not enough to be called a white underclass, much less an American peasantry.

Economic, political, and social culture in America is staggering under the sheer weight of its white underclass, which now numbers some sixty million. Generally unable to read at a functional level, they are easily manipulated by corporate-political interests to vote against advances in health and education, and even more easily mustered in support of any proposed military conflict, aggressive or otherwise. One-third of their children are born out of wedlock, and are unemployable by any contemporary industrialized-world standard. Even if we were to bring back their jobs from China and elsewhere — a damned unlikely scenario — they would be competing at a wage scale that would not meet even their basic needs. Low skilled, and with little understanding of the world beyond either what is presented to them by kitschy and simplistic television, movie, and other media entertainments, or their experience as armed grunts in foreign combat, the future of the white underclass not only looks grim, but permanent.

Meanwhile, the underclass, “America’s flexible labor force” (one must be pretty flexible to get screwed in some of the positions we are asked to), or whatever you choose to call the unwashed throngs mucking around down here at the bottom of the national labor tier, are nevertheless politically potent, if sufficiently taunted and fed enough bullshit. Just look at the way we showed up in force during the 2000 elections, hyped up on inchoate anger and ready to be deployed as liberal-ripping pit bulls by America’s ultra-conservative political machinery. Snug middle-class liberals were stunned. Could that many people actually be supporting Anne Coulter’s call for the jailing of liberals, or Rush Limbaugh’s demand for the massive, forced psychiatric detention of Democrats? Or, more recently, could they honestly believe President Obama’s proposed public healthcare plan would employ “death panels” to decide who lives and who dies? Conservatives cackled with glee, and dubbed them the only real Americans.

But back in 2000, before the American economic implosion, middle-class people of both stripes could still have confidence in their 401(k)s and retirement stock portfolios, with no small thanks to the cheap labor costs provided by the rabble out there. And they could take comfort in the knowledge that millions of other middle-class folks just like themselves were keeping the gears of American finance well oiled and humming. Our economy had become fat through financialization. Who needed manufacturing? We were now a post-industrial nation of investors, a “transactional economy”. Dirty work was for ... well ... Asians. In this much-ballyhooed “sweat-free economy”, the white underclass swelled with every injection mould and drill press shipped across the Pacific.

Ten years later, with the US economy as skinny as the running gears of a praying mantis, the middle class — what’s left of it now — is having doubts about its traditional class security. Every day it gets a bit harder not to notice some fifty or sixty million people scratching around for any kind of a job, or working more hours than ever in a sweating, white-knuckled effort to hang onto the jobs they do have. With credit cards melting down and middle-class jobs evaporating, there is the distinct possibility of them slipping into the classes below them. And who are they anyway — those people wiping out the ramen noodle shelf at the supermarket, and looking rather surly as they are moved out of their repossessed houses?

True, with the right selection of lefty internet bookmarks, you can find discussions of the white underclass, and occasionally even a brief article in the New York Times about some scholarly book that asks, “Does a white underclass exist in America?” But most of the shrinking middle class pulls its blinds shut, hoping that if they don’t see bad fortune, perhaps bad fortune can’t see them and will not find their doors. Behind those doors, however, some privately wonder how the ranks of desperate and near-desperate American whites ever became so numerous. Where did all those crass people with their bad grammar and worse luck suddenly come from?

Seldom are such developments sudden, of course. It’s only the realization of them that happens overnight. The foundation of today’s white underclass was laid down in the years following World War II. I was there, I grew up during its construction, and spent half my life trapped in it.

When World War II began, 44 percent of Americans were rural, and over half of them farmed for a living. By 1970, only 5 percent were on farms. Altogether, more than twenty-two million migrated to urban areas during the postwar period. If that migration were to happen in reverse today, it would be the equivalent of the present populations of New York City, Chicago, Miami, Philadelphia, Boston, and Saint Louis moving out into the countryside at a time when the US population was half of its present size.

In the great swim upstream toward what was being heralded as a new American prosperity, most of these twenty-two million never made it to the first fish ladder. Stuck socially, economically, and educationally at or near the bottom of the dam, they raised children and grandchildren who added another forty million to the swarm.

These uneducated rural whites became the foundation of our permanent white underclass. Their children and grandchildren have added to the numbers of this underclass, probably in the neighborhood of 50 or 60 million people now. They outnumber all other poor and working-poor groups — black, Hispanics, immigrants.

Even as the white underclass was accumulating, it was being hidden, buried under a narrative proclaiming otherwise. The popular imagination was swamped with images that remain today as the national memory of that era. Nearly all of these images were products of advertising. In the standard depiction, our warriors returned to the land kept free by their valor, exhilarated by victory, and ready to raise families. They purchased little white cottages and Buick Roadmaster sedans, and then drove off into the unlimited horizons of the “land of happy motoring”. A government brochure of the time assured everyone that “An onrushing new age of opportunity, prosperity, convenience and comfort has arrived for all Americans.” I quoted this to an old World War II veteran named Ernie over an egg sandwich at the Twilight Zone Grill near my home in town. Ernie answered, “I wish somebody had told me; I would have waved at the prosperity as it went by.”

According to this officially sanctioned story of the great postwar migration, these people abandoned farm life in such droves because the money, excitement, and allure of America’s cities and large towns was just too great to resist. Why would anyone stay down on the farm when he or she could be “wearing ten-dollar shoes and eating rainbow pie”? One catches a whiff of urban-biased perception here; but then, the official version of all life and culture in America is written by city people. Our dominant history, analysis, and images of America are generated in the urban centers. Social-research institutions, major universities, and the media — such as ABC, HBO, PBS, and the Harvard University sociology department — are not located in Keokuk, Iowa; Fisher, Illinois; Winchester, Virginia; or Lubbock, Texas.

I grew up hard by the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia and West Virginia, and am a product of that out-migration; and, as I said, grew up watching it happen around me. I’m here to tell you, dear hearts, that while all those university professors may have their sociological data and industrial statistics verified and well indexed, they’re way off-base; they’ve entirely overshot the on-the-ground experience. In fact, they don’t even deal with it. You won’t be surprised to hear that the media representation of the postwar era — and, let’s face it, more people watch The History Channel than read social history texts — it is as full of crap as an overfed Christmas goose.

My contemporaries of that rural out-migration, now in their late fifties and mid sixties, are still marked by the journey. Their children and grandchildren have inherited the same pathway. The class competition along that road is more brutal than ever. But the sell job goes on that we are a classless society with roughly equal opportunity for all. Given the terrible polarization of wealth and power in this country (the top 1 percent hold more wealth than the bottom 45 percent combined, and their take is still rising), we can no longer even claim equal opportunity for a majority. Opportunity for the majority to do what? Pluck chickens, and telemarket to the ever-dwindling middle class?

Ohhh my. When he pauses to say "dear hearts"--it takes my breath away. My mother's family, also from West Virginia, used that term in conversation in just that fashion. Thus, it's like a member of my family passing.

Who will say these things now? Who will write about us? (sobs) We have lost one of our precious scribes.

Goodbye Joe, and rest in peace.

Choctaw Bingo and other Saturday earworms

Lots of people prefer the original by John Prine, who wrote it... but I am partial to the version by the Man in Black.

Paradise - Johnny Cash



~*~

A great song about a drug dealer, although some have posited that it's actually about capitalism and bosses (Joe Strummer was red to the end). How fascinating that they are interchangeable!

Quite simply, some of the tightest rock music ever recorded.

Hateful - The Clash



~*~

Mimi Farina wrote this song about Janis Joplin, upon hearing of her passing in 1970... it was recorded by her sister, Joan Baez, in 1972.

Great photos of Janis in the video.

In the Quiet Morning - Joan Baez



~*~

You knew it was time for Steely Dan again, right? I tried to stay on topic about the economy and the budget and everything. ;)

Great graphics!

Black Friday - Steely Dan



~*~

As Charlie Daniels used to say, Time to Get Loud, Children. Starting at about 2:25, this boogies so hard, it will knock the mud right off your boots.

And check out Mary Huff's outfit, I MUST get one. (My late mama had that exact hairdo, exact color.)

Southern Culture on the Skids - White Trash/Greenback Fly



~*~

James McMurtry played Asheville recently, and I am told the entire audience knew all the words. (Well, of course they did.) I was fortunate enough to hear this performed live a few years ago, in a venue fulla rednecks jumping up and down. At the time, I realized, this was a quintessential southern moment, so it isn't surprising that "Choctaw Bingo" has turned into a southern anthem, of sorts.

Ann and Lynn come down from Baxter Springs
That's one hell raisin town way up in Southeastern Kansas
Got a biker bar next to the lingerie store
That's got them Rolling Stones lips up there in bright pink neon
And they're right downtown where everyone can see em
And they burn all night
you know they burn all night
you know they burn all night

And yes, you really should listen to all 8+ minutes, if you want the whole Choctaw Bingo experience. It's actually far better live, with raucous yelling and jumping-redneck accompaniment, but I could not locate a good live version, so going with the studio rendition for now.

Choctaw Bingo - James McMurtry



Have a great weekend everyone.

Chronicles of the redneck underground

After I saw this poster at Horizon, I seriously considered changing the name of my blog. And then I realized, I am just not up for that. I don't know what the entirety of the redneck underground is up to, just my little corner of it.

~*~

My senator, Lindsay Graham, claims to be against earmarks, and yet is currently agitating for the particular earmark that guarantees deepening of The Port of Charleston. Earmarks for me, but not for thee! Funny how that works.

Two South Carolina politicians are screwing the pooch on this one, notably Senator Jim DeMint (well duh) and Congressman Joe Wilson, rude screamer of epithets. If there are significant layoffs at the coast, let's hope the journalists get it right this time, and properly blame these two:

The S.C. congressional delegation, made up of U.S. House and Senate members from South Carolina, decided to make a push for the money in Obama’s budget by writing a unified letter, he said.

“We all got together, the delegation, we said we were all going to do a letter, the whole delegation was going to do a letter to the president, asking the president to put it in his budget,” [Congressman Jim] Clyburn said. “Now, there are eight members in the delegation. Two members in the delegation, I understand, refused to sign the letter.”

Clyburn said those two members were Rep. Joe Wilson, R-S.C., and Sen. Jim DeMint, R-S.C.

Wilson, a Charleston Republican, did not specifically address the delegation’s letter when asked for a comment. He said that being from the Lowcountry, he fully understands the economic role of the Port of Charleston.

He understands, he just doesn't give a shit about any of the people actually WORKING there.

~*~

Things that make you go WTF: Republicans will provide state-sponsored birth control for horses, but not for women!

Gals, the trick is to figure out how to turn yourselves into horses.

~*~

If the situation in the Middle East is too volatile for you to easily keep up with, here is a great clickable map from the BBC. I've bookmarked it for easy access.

"Sit down and read. Educate yourself for the coming conflicts."--Mother Jones.

~*~

Greatest blog-name ever! And I totally flipped when I saw the banner, and knew I had to reproduce it here: FANBOY WIFE! :D

I love her comic-book tears and yes, I totally relate.

Question: Is there something odd about endless print-outs of back-issues of extinct comics? I seem to remember that once, I thought there was. But now? I have comics reproducing themselves in my guest room. The unexpected upside is that various young men I have worked with think I am cool for knowing the names of obscure superheroes.

Their future girlfriends/wives will cry comic book tears too!

~*~

Somebody made my day by posting the studio version of BOX OF RAIN. (happy, happy)

Box of Rain - Grateful Dead

Merry Christmas from the Family

I've been so profoundly exhausted from another holiday retail season, I almost neglected the fourth year in a row of our Dead Air holiday tradition. I hereby present Robert Earl Keen's MERRY CHRISTMAS FROM THE FAMILY!

As always, non-rednecks and/or yankees are certainly free to sit this one out.

Have a great Christmas everyone! Feliz Navidad!

~*~

Merry Christmas from the Family - Robert Earl Keen

Why the Right wing is winning, continued

...because the left no longer tolerates dissent.

I just realized I have been banned from a good half-dozen lefty-blogs in the past few weeks. And not a single right-wing blog has banned me.

I have been as much of a pest at the conservative right-wing blogs as I have been at the liberal-lefty-radical blogs; I have in fact been far more rude and nasty to the Tea Partiers. I have (more or less) minded my manners at all of the lefty blogs, but that hasn't helped me. After all, I AGREE in principle with the lefty bloggers.

All arguments at left-leaning blogs centered on various minor points of dogma, or about the fact of confrontation itself (something the right-wing welcomes and enjoys). The Left will have none of it. It seems the good people of the Left cannot even answer ME, one of their own. How on earth could the Left realistically respond to the Right? Looking at the liberal blogs in question, I see that no outright conservatives are allowed to participate. Looking at the conservative blogs, I see a willingness to take on the liberals, even a zeal to do so.

This is how we know they are on the ascent; they are unafraid.

Meanwhile, the Left cowers and censors some old hippie grandmother who already agrees with them.

Good lord, what's wrong with this picture.

~*~

Standing around in a cozy Christmas huddle with several female customers, chatting/worrying aloud about mercury content in fish, when one of them emphatically remarked: We need to be MAMA GRIZZLIES for the environment.

What?

Oh dear.

Does she know that Sarah Palin, Mama Grizzly of the Mama Grizzly movement, just shot a reindeer, which she will likely roast out on the snow-covered Alaskan tundra, and serve for Christmas dinner? I do not trust rich caribou-killing politicians/reality-TV whores to take care of the environment. I do trust Sarah Palin to be a bloodthirsty warmonger, mindless Republican talking-head and overall narcissistic swine.

Why, I wondered, do I come to such different conclusions than my customer... a very nice lady who speaks to me every day and cares about the poor fish filled with mercury? (She really does, too.)

Is it because of our different backgrounds that we have come to different conclusions? We don't seem that different to me.

That's the scary thing.

~*~

Another reason is that certain dark corners of the Left seem to have no sense of decency these days.

For example, Todd Pettigrew just wrote a spirited defense of incest on Macleans. Not just any incest (of course!) but the gold-standard of incest: father/daughter incest, the sexy kind that gets middle-aged guys excited. All those hot-young-daughter stories on BARELY LEGAL have finally made a cultural impact, and you can almost hear the drooling. These are porn-fantasies come to life, and various men on the left can barely restrain their enthusiasm. If I were Pettigrew's daughter and I lived in his house? I'd be making plans to move. Unless I was too young to move. And then I would have nothing to worry about, needless to say, since this is all about CONSENSUAL incest; this is a defense of incest only AT THE AGE OF CONSENT. Dad only makes the moves on his daughter the DAY SHE TURNS 18. Yes, we all know that's the way it usually happens, huh? It's all very RESPECTFUL and MINDFUL OF THE AUTONOMY OF WOMEN. Sure it is.

Feminists write epistles the length of the Summa Theologica about incest and how it is an abuse of familial and patriarchal power; how it amounts to men creating and brainwashing sexual beings for their own use, and it all comes to this? Some hotshot professor (David Epstein) is busted for "having an affair" with his 20-something daughter, and well... we obviously need to rethink things. I mean, this is a COLUMBIA PROFESSOR! It MUST be okay.

After eons of redneck jokes about southerners banging their sisters and their kids, the people on Central Park West DIDN'T REALIZE that important people of the upper classes want to bang their kids too! They have just received the memo, and they are on the case. We'll have your reputation restored in no time, professor Epstein!

They are now comparing incest to homosexuality, which incidentally, is an argument I first heard from William Donahue of the Catholic League: First they'll say homos are okay and next thing you know, they will be championing incest.

Oh, don't be ridiculous, we replied.

And now, the fashionable liberals are saying just that. They are comparing same-sex peers who have attractions to each other, to someone who RAISED A CHILD to be his sex partner.

Needless to say, this is all guys excusing/defending this behavior... and this is all about David Epstein and Woody Allen and other MEN. I don't see anybody advocating moms diddling their sons (of whatever age) which I think would TERRIFY these men in a way they could not even discuss rationally. All of the examples they offer are about MEN MEN MEN... and their daughters.

Jesus H, has the Left lost all sense of morality? We have 9.8% unemployment (not nearly as sexy a story) and lefty writers are wasting valuable political net-space defending a perverted professor who can't keep it zipped around his own kid.

I figure these sicko defenses of sicko Epstein brought at least another thousand people or so over to the Tea Party side.

I never saw Lynyrd Skynyrd, but I sure saw AC/DC

It's Saturday and time for my weekly earworm roundup. Yes, earworms all through the election and beyond.

~*~



Here is a 70s song I've always identified with, particularly on a religious/spiritual level. Yep, I know just what he means.

I've always loved the line "and I nearly died from hospitality"... ohhhh, me too.

Couldn't Get it Right - Climax Blues Band



~*~

In the US, the hit version stopped right after "funny how tiiime fliiiies"--but the British version goes on about 45 seconds longer. I like the original better.

Head over Heels - Tears for Fears



~*~

For my beloved Mr Daisy! "I never saw Lynyrd Skynyrd, but I sure saw Molly Hatchett..."

It's a righteous song indeed, that genuflects at the name of the late Bon Scott. (My spouse goes through periods of playing this over and over, hence the unavoidable earworm.) If you ever see the Truckers play this live (we did), you will witness a giant crowd of hopped-up rednecks screaming in unison "With Bon Scott singin LET THERE BE ROOOOOOOCK!!!!!" which I bet is scarier than shit. (But what a lotta fun.)

Let there be rock - Drive By Truckers



~*~

Wait, why don't I just show it to you?

Let there be rock - Drive By Truckers (live)



Repeating my goal: to come back as Shonna Tucker in my next life!

Have a great weekend!

A long way to go and a short time to get there

Stained glass is from St Mary's Catholic Church in Fredericksburg, Texas.



As always, I meant to blog about the Feast of the Assumption yesterday, but it seems to be a DEAD AIR tradition that I miss the day, so here I am once again, a day late.

Driving down Woodruff Road this morning, I got a new round of nasty honked-horns, merely because I took a few extra seconds to turn left. I am WELL AWARE of the reason for this, since it never used to happen. And you know what? Even if I *am* personally pissed off at our president, I'll be goddamned if I let some redneck [1] bullies force me into taking my ANOTHER MAMA FOR OBAMA bumper sticker off my car. I recently added a Lone Star flag sticker, which I hope makes them think I'm packing (since everybody in Texas is)... MAYBE I'll get some fucking peace.

This has been making me more and more angry.

It has happened maybe a dozen times now. I don't know when, but at some point, I am gonna lose my shit and we will have a full-fledged road-rage incident on our hands. Your mild-mannered, humble narrator will morph into an insane Irish yankee bitch, right before their surprised eyes; I'll leap madly out of my tiny, plucky Saturn and get all up in their face. Then, the Obama-haters (who probably *are* packing) will shoot me and it will all be on Court TV.[2] The lawyers will produce my bumper stickers and blog as evidence of dangerous radical activity, and (this being the Palmetto State!) the accused will have all charges dismissed immediately (and will possibly even be canonized by Nikki Haley!)... In fact, the defendants will probably be offered a reality-TV show: Death to the libs! ...in which they drive randomly about the land, shooting people with the wrong (liberal) bumper stickers. It will be a BIG HIT.

I probably exaggerate. Probably. Maybe.

~*~

While driving, I was listening to classic country on WOLT-FM. And it struck me that the hopped-up young turks honking derisively at me are probably listening to evil, unAmerican, urban hip-hop, and wouldn't know good redneck music if it bit them in the ass. But isn't it interesting that these upwardly-mobile young people borrow the styles, cars, attitude, entertainments and music of the urban liberal classes, yet retain such backward politics? What's up with that? (More about this in an upcoming post I am working on, about the tea party and gay marriage.)

And right before the redneck honking commenced, I was listening to Jim Reeves, dubbed Gentleman Jim for whatever reason, whom my mother never liked. She didn't think "crooning" belonged in country music. Me neither, but when I hear his records now, I feel as old as God (in a good way) and can't turn them off. It's a particular type of music that has totally passed on, like Tin Pan Alley, British Invasion, Big Band... (sigh)

And this brings me to the end of my eventful journey today! I was going to... ugh... the doctor.

~*~

Mandatory yearly TMI segment, with gory medical details.

It's been awhile since we discussed gruesome medical procedures here at DEAD AIR. (Probably because I haven't been to the dentist since my horrific gum surgery.) Alas, just like our cars, bodily MAINTENANCE is often required, and today (TMI, turn back now) I had a sebaceous cyst removed by an earnest, young, bright-eyed dermatologist who duly outlined my "options" in cyst removal.

I wanted to tell him, dude, back in the day, doctors didn't bother to tell us squat, and just started to work. (And if you asked questions, they might even tell you to shut up until they were done.) Not these days... they have gotten the memo, and the bright-eyed young physicians want you to know things. They tell you all about your cysts. When I asked to look at it, he showed it to me. It looked like a large kernel of corn (exact shape of one!), but all bloody red. (It looked to have it's own blood supply, which is pretty Cronenbergian.) The procedure was called a PUNCH BIOPSY... you know, like a HOLE PUNCH on your job? Saints preserve us.

Do I really need to tell you WHERE this awful thing was located on my body? Yes, the worst place. Buried in cellulite, I am surprised he could find it at all. Lucky for me, it was all swelled up and BIG, so it probably called right out to him: HERE I AM, DOC! And he punched a hole, right in my ass.

Thinking idly about this, whilst the good doctor worked on my derriere, I thought of the movie line, "The Bailey family's been a boil on my neck long enough!"--growled out by the immortal Lionel Barrymore in IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE. Barrymore delivers the line perfectly, in his fabulous rumbling baritone, but I've often thought it could have been much improved if the word was ASS... The Bailey family's been a boil on my ass long enough!--but that was 1946, and you weren't allowed to jazz up a script in such a fashion. [3] But I would loved to have heard old Lionel snarl out that line instead.

And so, here I am, waiting for the butt-novacaine to wear off, at which time I likely WON'T be sitting on a hard chair. ;) I bought a Mocha Frappuccino to cheer me up while I wait!

Trying to finish a number of posts in the meantime. The great thing about finally having low blog stats again? I can write anything I want and nobody is reading... and I can add some classic country too!

Enjoy, you crazy kidz!

~*~

NOTES:

[1] As a redneck, I can use this word, but you can't.

[2] I know, I know, we are supposed to call it truTV now, but that sounds dorky and stupid, and I hereby refuse.

I always wonder who got paid (and how much?) to come up with something as thoroughly dopey as "truTV"? (Which tells you exactly nothing about the court system or what type of legal programming the network specializes in!)

I hope the people at (the former) Court TV, understand that they was had.

[3] I often think about old movies that bore such language restrictions, when the situation and characters cry out for some limited but pointed cussing. For instance, Jeffrey Hunter and John Wayne should have cussed each other out a bunch of times in THE SEARCHERS, but of course, that was 54 years ago and simply not done.

I find it fascinating that a profusion of nasty words like "half-breed" and other racial insults *were* allowable, while simply calling someone a self-absorbed asshole was not.

~*~

You younguns will recognize this song as the inspiration for the amusing HBO show, Eastbound and Down, but older folks still associate it with the 70s movie, Smokey and the Bandit. (And it's where we get today's blog post title.)

Eastbound and Down - Jerry Reed



~*~

I grew up with this song, since every country and western band, including my mother's, was required to learn it. Truck-drivers considered it THEIRS and requested it every night. I love how it illustrates a whole mythology/culture around truck-driving.

Recorded back in 1963, you'd never hear "I'm taking little white pills and my eyes are open wide" in a country song ever again...

Six Days on the Road - Dave Dudley



~*~

She's Got You - Patsy Cline



~*~

Before I'm Over You - Loretta Lynn



~*~

You MUST HEAR Loretta belt out "Mississippi MAAAAAAN" in this song. Legendarily-amazing pipes!

Louisiana Woman, Mississippi Man - Loretta Lynn And Conway Twitty



~*~

Warren Beatty is from Virginia, and can be credited with helping to take bluegrass mainstream, using this traditional bluegrass song as the recurring theme in his movie, BONNIE AND CLYDE.

Foggy Mountain Breakdown - Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs w/the Foggy Mountain Boys

Merry Christmas from the Family!

I've been on something of an informal Christmas-blog break, but won't neglect my third year in a row of our Dead Air holiday tradition. I hereby present Robert Earl Keen's MERRY CHRISTMAS FROM THE FAMILY! As always, non-rednecks and/or yankees are certainly free to sit this one out.

Have a great Christmas everyone! Feliz Navidad!

~*~

Merry Christmas from the Family - Robert Earl Keen

Call BR-549

At left, Junior Samples, Hee Haw star and possibly the greatest redneck of all time! (Meant as high compliment, of course.)



Unfortunately, I've had a sick shoulder and a sick car, which together have given me precious little time and inclination to blog.

Well Being Journal, which some regard as the Bible of my profession, features (another) ableist article in this month's issue. I usually don't call these things out, since I'd be doing it 24/7, but this just rubbed me the wrong way today.

Food is the Key to Multiple Sclerosis Recovery is the title of the piece by Ann D. Sawyer and Judith E. Bachrach.

First of all, there is no known "recovery" from MS, and second, this article implies if you just go far enough and eat exactly right, you CAN recover. I find these types of articles cruel for instilling false hopes, as well as for the implied judgment: These people (supposedly) were cured, and if you are suitably pure in intentions and acts, you can be too:

Once MS sufferers begin to attend to these changes, they may see subtle patterns emerge. It is possible then to discover the cause and effect relationship, relating back to what was eaten and the resulting symptom states. There is no one-size-fits-all diet; each person must discover and fine-tune the specifics of their own recovery diet. It can take varying amounts of time, patience, discipline and dedication to reap the rewards of a complete restoration of health. Given the alternative of yielding to MS's fury, and the dearth of any other effective, safe treatment, the diet is well worth doing. By necessity and even more by choice, most people who have recovered from MS remain careful and conscious eaters. The contrast of once having had MS provides many gifts, including a sense of gratitude and appreciation for the value of good health.

The big question: Why haven't Sawyer and Bachrach been nominated for the Nobel Prize by now, if they know how to cure MS?

And speaking of alternative medicine, I have recently jumped full-force into orthorexia, to no avail...I need to see a real live M.D. (Medical Deity) this week for the pain in my right shoulder.

It's very much like the old HEE HAW joke: Doc, it hurts when I do this (moves arm).

Hee Haw doctor: "Well, then, don't do that!"

I had the same thing in 2004, far worse, in my left shoulder. (It is usually
called "frozen shoulder.")

Hee Haw doctor: "You know what you had before? Well, you got it again!"

Damn, sometimes, I miss HEE HAW! I even read a book about it, she admitted, embarrassed.

~*~

Closing with a song that always makes me feel better when I hurt. I dunno why. It's also properly accompanied by pretty pictures!

Are those real violins or synthesizers? (Is there some foolproof way of knowing the answer to this always-vexing question, without cheating on Wikipedia?)

Moody Blues - You and Me



All we are trying to say...
is we are all we've got...

Boys swim

I am the subject of two threads at Feminist Critics.

Am I important or what?

I'll bet that never happens to you!

Well, okay, it's actually the same thread... but there is a restricted-posting version, and a regular free-for-all version, wherein the insults come fast and furious and the regular commentariat makes jokes about suddenly needing to buy guns. (I guess I make them mad.)

From the Original Poster, comes this:

Please acknowledge female privilege. Alternatively address the question set forth above. You will not get a good response on FCB [Feminist Critics Blog] if you demand that men acknowledge male privilege until you do one of these two things satisfactorily.

And I think my regular readers know that will happen (as we say here in the south) on the second Tuesday after the third week hell freezes over.

The genesis of this argument was a post I was writing for this blog, actually, which I described on FCB some time ago. I was going to write about not being permitted to play the drums as a girl, and how I think that influenced my personality. Just as many women wish they had learned to participate in sports and compete, I think it would have very good for me. Drums would have been a way to control my aggression, or perhaps (as people like Mickey Hart have said) it would have increased my concentration and meditation capabilities. I consider the fact that I never grew up unselfconsciously drumming (as a method of relaxation or as a way of having fun--a HOBBY, okay?), one of the great losses of my life.

No, I do not think I would be some star drummer like John Bonham. (As a girl, I would not have even thought of such a thing, since I had never even seen a woman drummer before.) I was merely expressing sadness, and incidentally, giving this as an example of my earliest feminist consciousness. When I grew up, in the radical feminist 70s, I met women who had been denied other supposedly "male" activities: scientific careers, knowledge of car mechanics, the chance to play on sports teams with men, etc.--and I instantly identified. I offered this as an example of male privilege, the fact that my untalented brother was encouraged to do something that I even seemed to have an aptitude for and he did not.

Needless to say, I was savaged.

No, I don't think I would have been a star. Yes, I know I could have learned as an adult, but that is not the unselfconsciousness I am discussing here--I wanted this to be second nature, as is singing or dancing (for me). Yes, I know other girls in other places learned to play, and I have even mentioned them here on this blog. Yes, I know that other families did not think playing drums was too butch, and allowed their daughters to play, but that is not the family I came from. (I probably would have been allowed to play sports, if I'd been interested. However, other girls in other families I grew up with were never allowed to wear pants; hence, no sports.)

And no, I don't think my family was necessarily "worse" than others regarding sexism ... I think sexual stereotyping is very idiosyncratic, depending upon race, religion, nationality, ethnicity, class and overall general background. I knew girls forced to wear mantillas to church, who were allowed to play very rough-and-tumble sports... I knew girls allowed to do science experiments but never allowed to wear pants... I knew girls (like me) allowed to beat up harassing, nasty boys (and it was a lot of fun!) but not play drums. Go figure. I don't know why, or pretend to know why.

Actually, I do know: life is complex. Get a fucking clue.

It seems these guys on FCB do not understand this, although they love to continuously bellyache about whatever THEY were never allowed to do... surely they understand the dynamics I describe are very similar for boys? Some boys were allowed to play with dolls, but never permitted to cry. Other boys were allowed to cry, but never wear dresses; yet certain boys could wear dresses if they called them kilts. Etc. I knew boys not allowed to play violin (the instrument forced on me) since it was considered frou-frou and girlie, but were forced to play properly manly brass instruments. Again, go figure. (Cultural note: For this reason, I've always found it fascinating that BRASS is often used as a euphemism for boldness and/or high-ranking military status.)

One of the basic truths about sexual stereotyping and gendering is how arbitrary and ridiculous it is. OF COURSE it makes no sense and is not consistent! That's how feminists first discovered it was a crock!

I am glad a lot of these things seem bizarre now, but that IS the way I grew up. It is a shining testament to the fact that feminists have made so many improvements in life for boys and girls, that all of this seems so distant and strange now. But I grew up never wearing pants to school, ever, amen. It was against the rules, and it is still against the rules at places like Bob Jones University. These anti-feminists don't want to face these facts, since they would have to admit that FEMINISM HAS DONE GOOD THINGS, and they are, as their blog name proudly proclaims, FEMINIST CRITICS. In any event, the thread in which I stated these things was my last participation on FCB.

Unfortunately, I realize I made the mistake of trying to compare my experience to other women, and since NOT EVERY SINGLE WOMAN IN THE WORLD experienced what I did, well, obviously, sexism had NOTHING TO DO WITH IT. Even though I was explicitly told that GIRLS DIDN'T PLAY DRUMS (and since I could not find one in 1964 to point to and say "What about her?"--it seemed true enough to me), obviously, I must have been imagining things, since you know, sexism doesn't really exist, or something. I was informed "my assertions were unconvincing"--and since I don't take accusations of lying well, I went off on several arrogant FCB participants. (And no, not a bit sorry.)

I tried to explain that in working class, industrial Ohio in the 60s, this is the way it was. And again, I was savaged. Know why I must be wrong? Because ELLY MAY CLAMPETT (yes, Donna Douglas, ex-girlfriend of ELVIS) was a tomboy and much-beloved by America. This proves that gender stereotyping for women/girls/tomboys was not a big deal in the 60s.

Yes, you heard it right. The BEVERLY HILLBILLIES was used as proof that I am wrong about my life. A fucking TV show!

This individual repeated this inane and bizarre statement a number of times.

And see, at this point, I whistle to the intersectionalists in my readership--YO! Hey yall, over here!

At left: Elly May Clampett (Donna Douglas) of the 60s TV show The Beverly Hillbillies churns butter with her pet possum. (With that hair, it's pretty obvious that she is hard-core tomboy, yes?)


I did not consider Elly May a tomboy, but a redneck. To an upper-middle-class Canadian like my critic, Elly May was a tomboy. (Isn't it interesting that poverty/hardscrabble existence is regarded as masculinizing to the upper-classes?) They really didn't get it that Elly May was a stereotype of a backwoods girl, albeit one who was played by a former beauty queen. But what did she do (besides wear dungarees tied with a rope) that was tomboy or butch, besides have a multitude of "critters"? Actually, nurturing animals in the style of Elly May, is traditional feminine behavior. (?) (But maybe if you think tending animals is low-class farm-work, you don't know that?)

Dumbfounded.

As I said, that was it. I left FCB, since I was too livid to continue.

And I put the drumming post on the shelf, since I was too confused, at that point, to even attempt writing it. And a good thing too.

At the city swimming pool I attended as a girl, there were segregated swimming periods designated "boys swim" and "girls swim." The boys swim was known for people getting held underwater and nearly killed, while of course, ours was civil, except for girls making fun of each other's swimsuits and boob-size.

Feminist Critics blog is "boys swim."

And thus, I hereby name the threads currently frying my ass, BOYS SWIM.

Here are some of the highlights of Boys Swim (spelling and grammar remains intact):

I get sick of hearing about it, frankly. If she wants to play the drums, get a job and buy some drums. And then play them. If her parents sucked, she should yell at them (or whatever). America is going to fall apart with these spoiled princesses and the enabling male chivalrist idiots.

This marks a first: I've been called a lot of things by men in my life, but "princess" is most assuredly not one of them.

Women are the big victims in war, because the men die and then no longer support them (paraphrased from a statement by Hilary Clinton).

It’s kind of like … I don’t care if he got drafted and then shot at and then killed, I BROKE A NAIL. Everyone pay attention to me.

And all the chivalrous males DO pay attention to her. No one cares about men. That’s why these princesses can still be complaining when they’re the most entitled, privileged, spoiled group to ever walk the earth. Maybe Daisy ought to work for a few months in a rescue mission for homeless men (and they are mostly men, don’t kid yourself). Maybe she will get a different attitude.

I think my regular readers can probably guess that I have done such work...but doncha love how they make assumptions that I have NOT, without coming over here to read and find out what kind of person I am?

[...] I do think there’s a problem in the reactionary, aggressive and confrontational way Daisy deals with these misunderstandings. It doesn’t invalidate her opinions or arguments but it does tend to inhibit the coherent and productive discussion I see as the goal of (at least) this blog.

Misunderstandings? I think I understand them just fine.

I don’t know if I should really address this because there’s a need for my rage to be put under intensive care for the moment.

Thing is, DaisyDeadHead isn’t the only one who experiences hard times due to gender. I’ve been bullied by both men and women, had been betrayed by someone I thought cared about me.

Her comments about male priveledge set me off due to the fact that I’ve never had the “Luxary” of priveledge while both genders were slinging arrows at me left and right.

It’s unfortunate we got off on more than the wrong foot.

My opinion is strictly based on the fallacy of male priveledge. Because I’m not priveledged. Period. I’m a human being who’s had his fair share of hardships. Calling me priveledged due to my sex is a surefire way to negate those experiences. That’s why those types of discussions make me explode and I haven’t participated in a gender debate for a while.

And if she has a problem with that, then whatever her opinions are strictly her opinions. But don’t go calling me priveledged.

Privileged! Nyah- nyah! Yes you are!

This one is from typhonblue, internet circumcision crank, mentioned in my last post:

By not being circumcised a girl can experience something a circumcised man never can: sexual pleasure from an intact set of genitals.

Doncha love when people say exactly what you predict they will?

At this point, the thread threatens to totally melt down into still another male circumcision discussion. (See what I mean? PENISES UBER ALLES!)

Oh wait, they get back to the subject eventually:

And assuming that you [women] didn’t fill-out the [Selective Service] form when you turned 17, I assume you’ll now be *voluntarily* placing all of the appropriate restrictions upon yourself out of principle.

Failing to do so would show that you tacitly agree with the notion that you, weak woman, are poor solider material.

Maybe it’s not as fun as smashing the patriarchy by getting stinking drunk and having kinky sex all over the place, but I know you’re serious about walking the walk in addition to merely talking the talk.

I had no idea I had such a reputation over there! No wonder they address posts to me.

When women get drunk and have kinky sex, they are smashing the patriarchy. When men do the same, they are *reinforcing* the patriarchy. It is therefore vital that women go full-scale hedonistic without restraint while men refrain from doing the same. Go ask the denizens of Feministing, and they’ll assure you that this is absolutely correct.

True, it seems to involve a double-standard, but that only ignores the *real* double-standards inherent in phallocentric hermenuetic power systems of dominance and control blah-de-blah blah patriarchy racism.

As one who has discussed alcohol and alcoholism very personally and critically on this blog many times, I'm not sure where this fella is getting this, but obviously, he has issues with some female who is not me.

But then, I guess we all look alike in the dark, right?

More from the brawl:

It’s fine with me really. I can’t say if DDH will understand my reasons for thinking the way I do, though I hope she does. I do believe that now, in the present, in 2009, male privilege and female privilege are about equal (different things in different areas), all it comes down to is what you seek and if you’re encouraged or prevented from doing it (not why I transitioned, and I certainly don’t recommend transitioning to solve this). This will affect one’s perspective.

A woman who wishes to be a construction worker versus one who wishes to be a mother and housewife. One will feel more wronged than the other or more blocked in her choices. The same for a man who wants to be a stay-at-home dad.

It is less anti-woman bias than plain categorization bias. That is, people generalize traits of a category to all instances of that category. If they don’t fit, we’ll make it fit… This applies to both men and women. Don’t want to be a provider? You better be really lucky, handsome and find the very very few women who would like to provide for you, if you’re a man…or there’s always suicide. I hear there’s a high rate in men.

And I am sure there will be plenty more... the restricted thread is about to be "opened up" so that people can pile on me even MORE!

Let this be a cautionary tale to any feminist who seeks to discuss anything with the Men's Rights crowd: Don't. They just want to put you down. They just want to generalize about you without knowing anything about your personal history. They don't CARE about anything but reducing all arguments to FORESKINS.

And if this is how they are when they are heavily moderated, imagine how they REALLY are.