Happy Thanksgiving from your Lazy Ass Librarian

Okay, so I woke up at 4:00 a.m. this morning with an inspiration for today's post: I'd make up silly Thanksgiving trivia-type facts. Like, maybe ten of them.

Three hours later, when I was still trying to think of one, I realized I really had no interest in thinking.

Fuck it, people. It's Thanksgiving, I've got the day off, and I'm going back to bed where I belong.

But just so you don't feel slighted, I'm re-posting one of my very very oldest posts about How My Blog Got Its Name. Well, that's sort of what it's about.

Whatever. Got your popcorn? Your tissues? Your unabridged dictionary? Here goes:

“The subversive librarian.” Now, that's an oxymoron . . . . or is it?

The archetype librarian is about as subversive as, well, spinster Donna Reed in “It’s a Wonderful Life.” We all know the stereotype, and there’s no point in flogging it to death here.

Librarians take great pains to prove that we’re really nothing like our stereotype. In fact, listen in on a library listserv and sooner or later, someone will start a thread about how utterly cool we really are. First, there will be a picture of a librarian on water skis. A flurry of comments and photos will quickly follow. Before it’s all over, somebody will post a picture of a half-naked librarian sporting his huge Marilyn Manson tattoo and multiple tongue piercings. Ok, I concede. There are some cool librarians.

Unfortunately, none of that silliness undermines (or subverts, if you will) the one stereotype about librarians that has spawned all the rest: Librarians love their rules – at least when it comes to books.

This rule thing has nothing to do with coolness. I don’t care if your librarian did get arrested in Juarez last May for peeing in the fountain at Plaza de Armas. He’s still not going to let you check out more than two books with the same call number. Why? Because it’s The Rule. And that’s why the words “subversive” and “librarian” just don’t seem to go together.

I’m not here to defend your librarian’s peculiarities. I’ve been to library conventions and frankly, some librarians are just plain weird. Especially law librarians.

But (and isn’t this predictable?) I do want to tell you why I think librarians are cool. Our coolness lies not in our hobbies, or what we look like, but in the profession’s fundamental subversiveness. And yes, I do mean that as a compliment.

What does it mean to be subversive? Well, according to my Brand X dictionary, to “subvert” is to destroy completely; to undermine character, morals, or allegiance; or to overthrow completely. I checked a couple other dictionaries and they said basically the same thing.

But that’s not what subversion means to me. The word “subvert” comes from the Latin sub, meaning below, and vertere, to turn. To me, that doesn’t say destroy. To me, it says dig, explore, and turn the soil if you need to. Even – especially – if someone says you’re not supposed to. And isn’t that just what librarians do?

I’m not the only one that thinks librarians are subversive. Author Michael Moore thinks so, too. We revealed our true nature after a publisher threatened to drop his book because it contained comments criticizing the President:

I didn't know who any of these people were. They -- this one librarian found out about it, and she got in a, I don't know, library chat room. Or she sent a letter out to a list of librarians, and they sent it out to a bunch of people, and the thing kind of mushroomed from there. . . . I really didn't realize the librarians were, you know, such a dangerous group. . . . They are subversive. You think they're just sitting there at the desk, all quiet and everything. They're like plotting the revolution, man. I wouldn't mess with them.

Now is that cool, or what?

Of course, some people are afraid of subversives, but that just means they think we’re powerful. A few years back, the American Library Association came out opposing mandatory Internet filters on library computers. Dr. Laura Schlessinger accused the ALA of “boldly, brashly contributing to sexualizing our children. . . . [a]nd . . . mak[ing] sure your children have easy access to pornography, under the guise of free speech." We did all that? Of course not. But I figure if we got that kind of reaction from Dr. Laura, we must be doing something right. By the way, whatever happened to her?

At any rate, that makes at least three people – Michael Moore, Dr. Laura, and me – who know just how subversive and powerful we librarians are. And while I’m a little embarrassed to admit it, I sort of like being feared for my unbridled power.

My job as a librarian is to help you dig and explore so you can turn the soil if you think it needs turning. It’s really none of my business whether you want to start a new chapter of the Communist party or just find a recipe for cabbage au gratin. Do I make judgments about you? Well, yeah! But do I tell you what I think, or discourage you from digging, or censor what I give you? Nope. I just give you a wise and mysterious look – kind of like the Mona Lisa – and wonder why on earth you would eat cabbage if your mother isn’t making you.

Still, what’s so subversive about that, and what’s so cool about being a librarian? I mean, aside from the fact that last year I got to go to a seminar on mold prevention (as if that weren’t enough!).

There will always be someone who doesn’t want you to know something. In some cultures, women are prevented from reading – supposedly for their own good. The entity that’s trying to keep information out of your hands claims to have good reasons too. But being sincere doesn’t make it right.

Librarians get to right the wrong. We get to put the decision-making process back in your hands, where it belongs. We get to provide the digging equipment, let you find what you find, and let you decide what to do with it. And sometimes we get to watch your garden grow, knowing that we helped plant the seeds.

And if it’s bad? Well, then, soon enough, another of you will come looking for a way to fix it, and we get to help plant those seeds as well. In fact, every once in a while, librarians are the only ones willing to help you start digging. And if the government will let us (and for some librarians, even if it won’t), we even get to keep your secrets.

Quietly subversive. Just powerful enough. And very cool.

KEYWORDS for FBI file on Lynne Rhys: Subversive. Librarian. Communist. Cabbage.

Goodbye, Old Friend

Southern Voice is no more. That’s old news now, but I can’t let this solemn occasion pass without a short eulogy.

When I started the coming-out process, I was around 42. At the time, I was living in an outer suburb of Atlanta with my husband of 22 years and my seven-year-old kid. If there were gay people out in Powder Springs, I sure didn’t know where to find them. I wasn’t willing to cheat on my husband, so learning-by-doing wasn’t an option. With so few outlets, Southern Voice, Atlanta’s gay newspaper, was just about my only link to, well, gay stuff. I was starving for information, and SoVo provided my weekly ration. SoVo was my primer in How to be Gay. Coincidentally, for a while, I worked in the same building as SoVo's office - and felt even closer to the newspaper, as silly as that might seem.

Last week, Southern Voice shut down suddenly and without warning.

It’s been ten years since I read my first issue of SoVo. I’m out now to pretty much everybody. I can actually say the word “lesbian” without blanching. I am actively involved in the gay community of my city. In short, I’m pretty comfortable with the whole gay thing now. You wouldn’t think I would still need the comfort of a weekly gay newspaper.

And yet, when I saw that barren newsstand last Friday, I felt disconnected, lost in Powder Springs once again. I felt that old hunger. And then, I felt emptiness.

Adieu, Southern Voice.

The Gift of Making Amends

I got to make an important amend yesterday to my daughter. At least, I thought it was just for her but it turned out to be an amend to myself as well. I took a friend (or more accurately, he took me) to pick up some important stuff I had left behind at my ex’s; mostly I wanted to get my kid’s stuff. Since it was a bit of a drive, my friend and I made a day of it, complete with long, leisurely conversations. After I came back, my kid and I had a wonderful, important conversation of our own.

No need to go into it any further, except to say that I have gained a new respect for the power of the ninth step.

Yeah. It was really good.

Pornigami - How To Make a Penis

Don't ask.

AAAAAHHHHHHH!!! (Mommy Needs Some Terra Firma Now, Dear)

If I ran the world, children would not be allowed to drive or date until after their parents are dead.

What was I thinking, letting my kid get a learner’s permit? Somehow it didn’t really occur to me that she was going to want to, you know, drive.

But then three things happened. First, she started asking if she could drive. The nerve! Second, someone (you know who you are!) pointed out that when she’s 18 she won’t need my permission to drive and it might be good for her to get lots and lots of practice before then.

And third, her father lets her drive. Dad is great, but he drives aggressively. Frankly, I’d rather she doesn’t pick up his bad habits.

So, I let her get behind the wheel yesterday. And not just in our quiet little neighborhood, either. From home to Little Five Points to Phipps Plaza on a busy Saturday afternoon. And all the way home again after dark.

My kid will actually be a good driver. Considering it was only her third time on the road (as opposed to bank parking lots on a Sunday afternoon), she did really, really well.

As for me, though… Well, I had a death grip on the seat pretty much the whole time. But I met the nicest paramedics later, when they they pried me out of the car with the Jaws of Life.

It really was quality mother-daughter time, though (and I’m serious about that; it really was). We even developed some new special, secret mother-daughter lingo. Let me share it with you now.

ME: “stopstopstopstopSTOPSTOP!!!!!!!!!!!”
Translation: “Sweetie, could you please brake a little earlier?”

ME: “DRIFT!!!!!”
Translation: “Darling, you’re drifting to the right again and I’m afraid you’re going to rip the passenger door off of the car and then I’ll be impaled on that tree.”

MY KID: “Isn’t it nice that you don’t have to drive anymore?”
Translation: “If you don’t let me drive, I’m going to have Dad teach me.”

MY KID: “I am sooo driving us to Phipps.”
Translation: “If you don’t let me drive, I’m going to have Dad teach me.”

MY KID: “Dad was calmer than you.”
Translation: “I mean it, Mom! Dad’s gonna teach me!”

ME: “You did really, really well today. I’m proud of you.”
Translation: “You did really, really well today. I feel pride, sadness, happiness, fear, guilt, gratitude and wonder watching my incredible kid become an incredible, independent adult. And now, Sweet Pea, I'm going to go get my affairs in order. You know, just in case.”

Sigh.

Good Ole Miss

Let me be very clear about one thing: I loathe team sports. I don’t care if I am a lesbian, I just hate them. I don’t care if it’s college or pro or football or hockey or baseball or volleyball or whatever. It’s all just so much bullshit to me.

Don’t get me wrong. I know from sports. Football is the one with innings and basketball is the one with the tight ends, right? Oh, of course I know that’s wrong. I’m just playing with you. Even I know that baseball is the one with the tight ends. (What the hell is a tight end, anyway?)

Okay, so I wasn’t a jock. Is that so bad? I admit, maybe I have some painful memories of gym class. And maybe I do resent – just slightly – every past president of the United States of America for that goddamned President’s Physical Fitness Test they made us do every year.

And I suppose I’m still not too fond of the teacher’s aide who felt it was her sworn duty, at said fitness test, to call out my weight loud enough for it to echo off Camelback Mountain and back again, just to make sure that everyone in Phoenix and Scottsdale knew that I was Officially Obese. Every single fucking year.

And perhaps I have just a teeny little resentment against every gym teacher I have ever had (except Mrs. Gans, who was perpetually pregnant and gave me a “B” for trying hard, to which my dad said, “Wow. How did you manage to get a B in gym?").

And okay, so maybe I’ve thought some unkind things about that big brute of a fourth-grade gym teacher who made me run around the field even when I told him I couldn’t, and I got my one-and-only-ever asthma attack and they had to call my mother. I told you so, asshole.

And maybe I do think that dodgeball is the funnest game since “Let’s Pull Everyone’s Teeth Out Without an Anesthetic and See Who Bleeds the Most.” I read somewhere that Bluto invented dodgeball just for Popeye and Olive Oyl, and then Benito Mussolini took it from there. Yeah. I’m pretty sure that’s true.

And all right, so the first time I ever had to undress in front of anybody was in the showers for gym class in a brand new town at my brand new middle school, and all the girls kept calling me a lesbian and since I didn’t know they were right it didn’t occur to me to just say “thank you.”

And by the way, I think history will show that the squat thrust was invented by some sick, perverted pedophile.

Umm, where was I?

Oh, yeah. Ole Miss. They’re not going to let the band play “From Dixie With Love” anymore at football games, because the crowd keeps yelling “the South shall rise again!” before and after. Good for Ole Miss.

What, you were expecting some insightful sports analysis? Please.

P.S. A great big thank you to the group of girls in the fourth grade who lifted me up while the teacher wasn’t looking so I could say that I had done one chin-up. I adore you all.

Oh. My. God.

I'm home sick today. And I fear it's very, very serious, because I posted a recipe on here this morning. A recipe, for God's sake! Is there a doctor in the house?

Book Review! A Place Like This: A Memoir, by Mark S. King

I tend to avoid memoirs, especially Hollywood memoirs, because they can be so pretentious and tedious. Some people, though, have stories worth telling. HIV/AIDS activist and writer Mark S. King is one of them.

King has managed to survive numerous lifetimes of adventure and misfortune in his relatively few years on the planet. He weathered several of those lifetimes in the 1980s, the decade that is the subject of his book, A Place Like This: A Memoir.

A Place Like This covers a lot of territory: Mark King himself; his family and friends; a deadly disease; a movement; and an era. The narrative begins in 1981 with 20-year-old King moving to Hollywood to pursue a career in acting; it ends a little over a decade later when he moves to Atlanta to head the AIDS Survival Project. In between, the universe is utterly transmogrified, and King follows suit with relative grace, all things considered.

I note here that King has been public about his battle with substance abuse. While drugs are a part of this story, King wisely focuses instead on the transformative nature of the AIDS epidemic.

King’s portrayal is honest and unvarnished. That, of course, can be said of any good memoir. A Place Like This, though, goes much further: King not only lets us observe his seamy youth, but also lets us see who he is today because of it. And then, as a bonus, he shines the light outward, inviting the reader to recognize himself as well. Thus, unlike most memoirs, which only feign intimacy, this book truly is intimate. It’s the distinction between a good memoir and a great one.

Consider this passage, where King, in describing his successful foray into the gay phone-sex industry, talks about one of his female customers:

It would be easy to reduce her actions to something comical but I can’t, I won’t. It was a meaningful and well deserved Calgon moment for her, and when her calls suddenly stopped soon after she mentioned a possible suitor in her life, I was truly glad that her life might become less lonely and I missed hearing from her. I hope she’s happy.

Through most of the book, King skillfully balances pathos, sly wit, and bawdy humor. This balance changes once he begins to address the AIDS epidemic. Then, there is just enough humor and hope to keep the reader afloat, but no more; otherwise, the pain is unrelenting, just as it is in real life and just as it should be in the narrative. It is almost too much; but King resists indulging in maudlin self pity, thus shielding the reader from the final precipice. (For an excellent supplement to this book, I recommend HIV in the U.S. Epidemic's Darkest Hour: An Interview With Mark S. King; this interview provides a strong historical and cultural backdrop to the story.)

King is the best kind of writer of all: the kind you don’t notice. His style is conversational and seamless, allowing the story, instead of the writing, to take center stage. This is quite a feat considering his liberal use of flashbacks and flash-forwards. In less capable hands, the story would have been nearly incomprehensible. But King, remarkably, switches between time periods so gently that with very few exceptions, I didn’t even notice. I just knew.

I can only find two faults with A Place Like This, and I had to look hard for both of them. First, photographs would have been awfully nice. King has presented a family portrait full of interesting people about whom I came to care. As wonderful as it was to hear “Uncle Mark” tell all the family stories, I wanted to see the picture album, too. What’s more, King’s persona as an actor is a separate character in this book, and it needs a face. The cover graphics hint at it, but only just. And unless you’ve actually seen how impossibly good-looking King was (and, in fact, is), it’s hard to understand how the hell he got away with as much as he did.

The other minor fault is an occasional and slightly distracting change of voice. Once in a great while, a sentence popped out at me that sounded a lot like writing. Don’t get me wrong: they were perfectly good sentences. But they removed me, just for a second, from the action. Fortunately, within a sentence or two King always recovered and put me back in the passenger seat so I could continue to ride with him, instead of just watching him fly by. In any event, I don’t believe I’ve ever read a book that didn’t skip a beat here and there.

Mark King is the rare person who has a lot to say, says it exceedingly well, and then both gives and gains strength through his words. Perfection is merely theoretical; it does not exist in reality. But A Place Like This comes about as close as it gets.

(Updated to link King's book and to change the first sentence, which was driving me nuts)

No Turning Back Now.

Well, I postponed it as long as I could. As I write, my child is taking the test to get a learner's permit. Along with a small army of other tiny children.

When did 16 get to be so freaking young? Shouldn't they have to be on solid food first?

Seriously. These little rugrats will be operating thousand-pound projectile weapons systems in less than an hour. It boggles the mind.

Oh, she's done! Gotta go see if she passed. Can you say "ambivalence"?

THE ORIGINAL Scary 'Mary Poppins' Recut Trailer

Just a couple hours too late for Halloween, but still fun...

My name should be ... WTF??

Here's a fun, fast thing to do when you've had enough of, well, whatever you've had enough of. It's the Betty Brown Name Generator. See, if you've got a name that's ... you know, foreign ... and no one can pronounce it, this will give you a real American name.

And you know, now that I've done it, I do feel just like a real American. Quick! Get me my Kate Smith CD! Oh, gosh, I think I just might cry.

My Betty Brown Approved Name is LaVerne "Cracker Barrel" Brown.
Take Betty Brown Name Generator today!
Created with Rum and Monkey's Name Generator Generator.

Hat tip to Ramona Creel, who has a truly amazing website.

And by the way, I really do have a Kate Smith CD. You wanna make something of it?

How do you do this parenting thing again?

So, I'm just wondering... purely hypothetically, of course... Where, exactly, is the line between "strict-but-fair mom" and "overbearing-and-codependent bitch"?

And no, she hasn't called me either one.

I have a feeling that parenting a teenager is a lot like parenting a toddler: by the time you figure out what works, it doesn't work anymore.

Sigh.

What We Were Like: The Food Edition

I am one very lucky alcoholic. No relapses (yet). No DUIs, no loss of family (at least, not due to drinking), no jail, no institutions… I mean, I have really been blessed so far. And it's not because I've worked an amazing program, because I haven't.

Food, on the other hand… Well, I haven’t been so fortunate there. In recovery lingo, I’m a chronic relapser. At 5’0”, my adult weight has ranged from under 100 pounds (for about 30 seconds) to a very spherical 245. I may be a high-bottom drunk, but I’m a skid row food addict.

Lately, I’ve been able to manage the addiction with some success. I lost 55 pounds from my high of 245. But in just the past month, I’ve regained almost 8 pounds. Left to my own devices, I will gain it all back and then some.

There’s a lot I don’t know about dealing with food addiction – I mean, it’s not like alcohol, where you can just quit. But I do know one thing: I need to remember just what full-blown binging will do to me, just like I need to remember my last drunk.

So that’s what this post is about: what my life was like at my highest weight, which is where I lived until about two years ago.

I’ve discovered that being overweight has a lot in common with quantum physics. Let me explain. You know how physical matter starts to behave weirdly as the temperature approaches absolute zero? Fine, so maybe you didn’t. Take my word for it: strange quantum-mechanic stuff happens at super-low temperatures.

Well, weight gain is like that. Up to a certain point, being fat is mostly about tight clothes, some shortness of breath, and not being able to cross your legs. But at a certain threshold weight, the rules change, and it becomes something completely different in scope and effect.

I’m not sure what my threshold weight is, but I was above it at 245 and I'm below it now.

At 245, my weight affected every aspect of my life. A trip to the grocery store required a careful calculation: How far away could I park and still make it all the way to the back of the store without having to sit down?

My feet and ankles were permanently swollen, and the skin felt so tight I sometimes worried that it would split right open. I had constant pain in my feet and my back. I wore a size 3X when I could find it. I stopped buying shoes with laces, because I couldn’t reach to tie them. I fell more easily and more often, and getting up was difficult and humiliating. I snored. All the time. Really, really loudly.

I discovered that stepstools and ladders and chairs had weight limits, so I had to start reading labels to make sure stuff wouldn’t collapse under me. At recovery meetings, I had to be careful when I stood up, to make sure the plastic armchair didn’t come up with me. I could just barely fit into a standard restaurant booth; anything even slightly smaller and I found myself smashed in – that is, if I could get in at all. Getting in the car was a challenge, too. Oh, and riding on airplanes was fun; did you know they have seatbelt extensions for fat people? That was embarrassing enough, but it was even worse knowing I was crowding the other people on my row.

I couldn’t get life insurance. I couldn’t get a job. Dating – once I became single again – was out of the question.

One of the worst quantum weight effects had to do with personal hygiene. To put it bluntly, I couldn’t reach my own ass. So I had to use a long back-brush when I showered. There was no way to wipe after going to the bathroom, so I just hoped for the best. That worked, sort of (well, not really), while I was reasonably healthy. But when I wasn't so healthy, I had to ask my soon-to-be ex-wife for help whenever I went to the bathroom. Talk about your good times!

(I'm sorry. I know that's really disgusting. But it's part of what waits for me if I go too far off the beam.)

Even all of that – as truly awful as it was – wasn’t as bad as what it did to my soul. Quantum weight obliterated it. I don't suppose someone so heavy can be described as a "shell," but whatever was on the outside was impenetrable armor for, well, less and less. What was left of me emotionally was distorted beyond all recognition. It was like a flashlight with an old battery; I could get a little light out of it every now and then, but each time I tried, the light grew dimmer. I really don't know how much longer that light would have come on at all. And I was fully aware that this was happening -- that it was only a matter of time before I drank or killed myself or had a heart attack; and so every morning brought more hopelessness and more destructive eating. I became increasingly isolated as the shame became more unrelenting. That was one reason (read: excuse) I didn’t want to go to meetings anymore.

Quantum weight took a toll on my daughter, too. We both realized that I might well have a stroke or heart attack before she finished growing up. But even for her, I couldn’t seem to stop.

So that’s what life was like at 245. Incomprehensible demoralization. In a word, hellish.

And that life is still out there waiting for me. Statistically speaking, that’s what my future holds – and then some. The question is, how do I beat the odds?

A Brief Sojourn into Sarah Palin’s Swampland

I’m brave. I’m very, very brave, and adventurous, too, and I’m not afraid to get dirty in the Quest For Truth. You see, I just ventured onto Sarah Palin’s Facebook page to confirm a quote. And now my hiking boots are covered with slimy, icky goo.

I know, I know. I’m being mean and snarky. But at least I’m not playing that idiotic word game that’s so popular these days, where I call her Sarah Pablum or say she’s a member of the Repubozo party. That stupid trick is an instant credibility-killer.

Anyway… Here’s the quote I was after – you can read it while I hose off my boots:

[Some guy she’s endorsing for Congress] stands for the principles that all Republicans should share: smaller government, lower taxes, strong national defense, and a commitment to individual liberty.

The guy she’s endorsing – one Doug Hoffman – happens to be a member of the Conservative Party. As in, he’s not a Republican. But all that is irrelevant to this post. As a matter of fact, I really don’t give a crap who he is.

No, the part that interests me is Palin’s representation of Republican core values. Especially that thing about individual liberty. I mean, just whose liberty is she talking about? Certainly not mine. If Palin had her way, I couldn’t get married anywhere on the planet. I probably couldn’t adopt, teach, or work near children, either -- nor could most of my friends. Of course, abortion would be out of the question. And no learning about safe sex; just abstinence. I could go on, but you get the idea.

Individual liberty? Sure! For everyone who thinks, looks, and believes exactly like Palin. And that's an exclusive group that probably doesn't even include her own children.

Oh, my. I’m getting all icky again just thinking about it. Bring me back the hose!

Good News At Last!

I am delighted to report that the Senate and House have passed the Matthew Shepard Hate Crimes Act, which expands the federal hate crime laws to cover violence based on disability, sexual orientation, and (hallelujah!) gender identity. Now it just awaits the President's signature, and all indications are that he will sign. Now THAT'S change we can believe in!

Here's the link: m.cnn.com/cnn/lt_ne/lt_ne/detail/387053;jsessionid=7957B8747B6A517D0EA38031B64D0D97.live7ib

Regrets 'R' Us

My, I’m full of angsty goodness today. My wonderful kid just turned seventeen. Seventeen! Let me say it a few more times so I can get used to it: Seventeen. Seventeen. Seh… ven… teen. One-Seven. Seven-freaking-teen. Seventeen-seventeen-seventeen-seventeen.

Nope. Soooo not feeling it.

I want it on record that I expressly forbade her from doing it. Even threatened to ground her for the rest of her life. But that headstrong kid of mine completely ignored me and turned seventeen anyway.

So…about my kid. She’s a shining, ancient soul; visionary and full of talent, which she doesn’t like for me to notice. And while her vision is a great gift, I think it is sometimes a heavy burden as well. Being seventeen doesn’t make that any easier. As a result, sometimes she suffers. And I suffer for her, alternately blaming God and myself (well, mostly myself) for her dysphoria.

As we approach the day when she leaves home (she wants to move to the West coast the second she’s done with high school), I find myself increasingly frustrated by the many mistakes – some very serious – that I made as a parent.

Yet I know that regretting the past – and dreading the future, with its bleak empty-nestedness – accomplishes only one thing: it pulls me away from my amazing kid, who is still at home and who resides only in the here and now.

Seventeen. Maybe there’s some parallel universe where I got it right. Where she got to be her age every single day and lived in a reasonably clean house. Where she didn’t have to compete for attention with a chaotic mélange of animals and filth and cold water. Where I only made promises I could keep. Where I baked pies and cakes, and cooked real meals in a real oven.

As I sit in this place full of regrets, though, it’s only fair that I credit myself for three things I’ve done right, at least most of the time: I’ve loved her, I’ve let her be who she is, and I’ve enjoyed her. Those were the three things I set out to do when I became a mother. I still think those things are important.

And one more thing that probably matters: My kid has never seen me drunk. Whatever else I screwed up, I got that much right. I’m hoping that counts for something in the grand scheme of things.

Still… Sometimes wish I could go back and do it right.

Oh, all right. Seventeen… Seventeen. I’ll get used to it, eventually. Yeah… Probably about the time she turns eighteen.

I've been had! Hats off to the Yes Men.

As part of my regular job, I report on current newsy developments. For example, I've been following the corporate fallout resulting from the U.S. Chamber of Commerce's opposition to a climate bill. Specifically, Nike and other companies are bailing out of the US COC in protest of its position. As well they should.

So you can imagine how pleased I was to see a story today about the US COC's reversal of its position.. Titled "A Survival Strategy for Free Enterprise Over the Long Term," the article contained this language:

Climatologists tell us that if we don't enact dramatic reductions in carbon emissions today, within 5 years we could begin facing the propagating feedback loops of runaway climate change. That would mean a disruption of food and water supplies worldwide, with the result of mass migrations, famines, and death on a scale never witnessed before.

Needless to say, that would be bad for business.

Yeah. I guess it would.

Sadly, the Chamber has not come to its senses after all.

Nope. It was a hoax, brought to you by the Yes Men. And who are they, you may ask. These are folks who impersonate representatives of bad-guy corporations. The idea is to bring public attention to bad policy through a twisted approach that combines Candid Camera, Truth or Consequences (I'm really dating myself here) and good old-fashioned civil disobedience.

I like it and I'm gonna keep my eyes on these guys. But I wish I'd thought of it first.

Your bathroom too? My goodness, you ARE progressive!

Anybody who thinks racism is a thing of the past isn’t paying attention. Or maybe I’m just in a time warp and it’s not really 2009. (It is 2009, isn’t it?)

Meet Justice of the Peace Keith Bardwell from Tangipahoa Parish, Louisiana. He kinda has an itty bitty little problem with marrying interracial couples. Just doesn’t do it. He has turned down four couples in the last three years. This time, it looks like Mr. Bardwell said no to the wrong couple. They’re going to the Justice Department, and I’m looking forward to a happy ending.

But back to Judge Bardwell. He swears he’s not a racist. No, really. He’s not! Here, let him explain: “’I'm not a racist. I just don't believe in mixing the races that way,’ Bardwell told the Associated Press on Thursday. ‘I have piles and piles of black friends. They come to my home, I marry them, they use my bathroom. I treat them just like everyone else.’”

Oh, okay, I get it now. If you let them use the same bathroom, it’s not racism. Well, thank you for clearing that up. I guess it’s just never been explained to me that way before.

Geez!

Then, a few days ago, I came across this other charming little item about a restaurant in Paulding County, Georgia. On its website, this place bills itself as the “original Klan, klam, and oyster bar.” No, I’m not kidding. And by the way, I’m not posting this guy’s website link because I don’t want to give him any more traffic that he’s already getting. If you want it, you’ll have to find it yourself. But I already looked, and trust me: it’s as bad as it sounds. Maybe even worse.

You know, I’ve seen more of this stuff in the past few weeks than I think I’ve seen in the past five years. Earlier this week, Hatewatch posted another one – this one about “filthy Jews,” brought to you by everybody’s favorite civil rights promoter, the Westboro Baptist Church.

We are not in a time warp. It really is 2009. But don't kid yourself: Jimmy Carter is absolutely right.

Reconsider Columbus Day

Dancing with the President

Our new President has been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize – much to the surprise of, well, pretty much everybody. And Fidel Castro, bless his heart, told us how happy he is about it.

(Note to Castro: Thanks, big fella, really! But, um, please stop helping us. Seriously. We’re having enough trouble convincing people that Obama isn’t a communist.)

Anyway, I’m glad the President won. It’s a good indication of how quickly the world’s perception of the United States has changed since he took office. Pretty amazing, considering that our last administration pretty much trashed the global economy and turned us into barbaric conquistadores (among many, many other dastardly deeds).

But, I digress.

What I really want to talk about is President Obama’s speech Friday night at the Human Rights Campaign dinner. I watched it after the fact, with mixed feelings.

Obama gave a great speech, as usual. In fact, it was his usual speech.

Many in the LGBT community are frustrated that he’s not doing more, faster. I have to admit, I’m frustrated myself. How hard can it be for the Commander in Chief to order the military to stop prosecuting DADT cases?

Still, I am not ready to oppose an administration that is doing more for the LGBT community – and doing it publicly – than any previous administration.

So how, then, should we react to Obama’s support? Should we be pissed off and protest that he’s not doing more? Or should we lay off for a while so the man can do his job?

The answer is an unequivocal “yes.” We should let the man do his job. And we should continue to protest, because we’re unsatisfied with the progress we’re making.

And wouldn’t you know, that’s exactly what Obama is telling us to do:

[I]t's so important that you continue to speak out, that you continue to set an example, that you continue to pressure leaders -- including me -- and to make the case all across America.

See, here’s the thing. Some people think Obama wants us to tap dance for him, showering him with continued support and praise even as he does nothing.

But I think Obama is asking us to dance with him, not for him: He is not asking us to be satisfied. He’s pretending to ask that we be satisfied, with the understanding (wink, wink, nod, nod) that we will refuse to wait. That allows our struggle to stay in the spotlight while Obama tries to save the world. (thanks a lot, Dubbya)

Let me say that again: Obama is pretending to ask that we be satisfied. He is asking us to dance with him, not for him. And he is asking us to lead.

Obama’s speech demonstrated that he gets our issues. He is with us. I absolutely believe that. But he’s one guy trying to reconstruct a badly damaged nation in the face of unprecedented political, economic, and physical challenges. Make no mistake about it: there really is a “vast rightwing conspiracy,” and the other side is perfectly content using every tool at his disposal -- including racism and homophobia. The vitriol against this administration is unlike any I have ever seen before.

So under the circumstances, what would we have Obama do? Well, what would you do, if you believed in LGBT equality but also believed – with good reason – that taking action now would trigger a powerful backlash and actually delay equality while undermining work on other important issues?

I’d do exactly what Obama is doing. I would pledge my support publicly; I would do my best to lay the groundwork, building public support while working behind the scenes. And I would trust the community to keep the issue alive and up front.

That’s not nothing. Consider his language:

…it's not for me to tell you to be patient, any more than it was for others to counsel patience to African Americans petitioning for equal rights half a century ago…You will see a time in which we as a nation finally recognize relationships between two men or two women as just as real and admirable as relationships between a man and a woman.

Now, even if you believe that this is just so much empty rhetoric, one thing is undeniably true: no U.S. president has ever before expressed such clear support for LGBT rights.

Don’t ever doubt the power of the spoken word, especially when it’s repeated over and over again. Few things are more powerful. Just look at Anita Bryant’s success in the 1970s. There, words worked against us. But words can work for us, too.

I mean, come on: every time Obama talks about gay rights, I can hear angry, fragile little wingnut brains exploding all around me. Pop! Pop-pop! Pop! Squeeeeeeeeee! What fun!

Remember, too, the important lessons of Brown v. Board of Education. In that case, the Supreme Court struck down Plessy v. Ferguson, finding that the concept of “separate but equal” is unconstitutional, thus outlawing segregation. Brown came about because the NAACP Legal Defense Fund developed and implemented a methodical, long-term strategy. They brought carefully selected cases before the courts, adding one small handful of precedential sand at a time. By the time Thurgood Marshall argued Brown before the Supreme Court, the NAACP had made it next to impossible for the Court to rule any other way – hence, its unanimous decision.

So, we will continue fighting for equal rights. We will protest. We will be loud and we won’t take no for an answer. Public opinion will continue to turn in our favor, unless we do something stupid.

In other words, we will continue to dance with the President. We will lead, and he will follow and support us. It is, after all, our fight.

That said...

Mr. President, I’ve looked at the statute and I believe you can reverse DADT without authorization from Congress. Right now, today. I can show you how, but then I’m sure you already know.

Please issue an executive order immediately. And I’m not winking.