The Decline of the Insult

I've been haphazardly following the Twitter Feud between Jezebel and Scott Baio, and with the addition of his very eloquent and charming wife, I feel I can no longer sit on this plaguing question: when did the Insult become so pathetic? While "Shitasses" and "cuntness" receive points for humor (the comical element stemming from the button-cute blonde Mommy holding her lil bundled Future Bigot of America) they are largely unoriginal and juvenile. If she had stopped there, we could just assume she was a pirate in a past life and call it a day. But the woman goes on to use "class" as an adjective and "Lesbian" as an insult, and this is where we over at Elephantine, get a little bored:

WHEW. Glad you cleared that one up Renee! For a second there I thought you were hating on lesbians! But you have a friend who's gay? Cool, girl. By all means, you slur out the word, no worries. Now that we know you're cool with a Gay Person, you can really just go nuts.

PC backpeddling is more nauseating to me than the outright bigotry itself. She, and rightly so, anticipates an onslaught of negative criticism for using a sexuality as an insult, and thus asserts this doesn't make her a homophobe because she has a Lesbian Friend (because, in case you hadn't heard, Gay is the new Black).

And while she's covering her barmy arse, she really pulls out all the stops: Renee Baio, everyone, also has friends who are left- and right-wing, Christian and not, handicapped and otherwise, and come in various sizes and colors. (etc etc.) According to Renee, her circle of friends is made up of Michael Jackson's We Are the World Benefit audience. Girlfriend's backpedaling so hard, she flies right into some gibberish meant to appease animal rights activists.. at least, that's to whom I determine "with or without animals," could possibly be intended. (While the Asshole Flag is undoubtedly flying high over her online avatars, I somehow doubt that "Lesbian cunts" shows up on PETA's radar.) I guess, if you're going to cry hood pass, you may as well be thorough.

Then it just gets downright silly:

Now, here's where I feel enlightened: I had no idea the Attorney General was in charge of mediating commenting rules on social networking and media websites. Huh. Learn something new everyday.

Anyway, the Tweet that started it all:

I'm sure you can deduce all you need to about the Baios' political affiliation from there. Nonetheless, this is also coming from a man who capitalized on his being 45 and commitment-phobic. I don't know about you, but I'm inclined to say that Reality TV Featuring a Big Washed Up Bum doesn't really qualify as "hard-working," but that's neither here nor there. We're talking about the lost art of the insult today.

After recognizing that he'd blipped up as Republican/Whiny/Angry on the Jez site, he goes into full on defensive mode, no holds bar:

To which, I'm sorry to say, writer Irin bites and makes a rather flimsy attack:

And then..

Oh GROAN. We're pulling the "take the high road" line and praying for one another now? AND arbitrarily throwing around the R-word? I think it speaks to his bigotry, that when he goes on the defense and attacks with abandon, the first thing he can think of is "a ignorant racist.**" Kind of like when Perez called Will.i.am a "Faggot." I love that he, like his wife, is completely thorough when they take the gormless road-- "blocking tweets" is the Twitter equivalent of "AND you can't come to my birthday party anymore! So there!"

Again, I'm a little sad that Irin took the "Go to hell" play, even if she did try to elevate it with a cutesy "sir." While I'll spare you the play by play for today's onslaught of the Baios' tweets and status updates (they're still taking the holier than thou road, undoubtedly reveling in the confidence that comes from being so tight with the Attorney General) but I will say this: if we are going to take the time to engage in a passive aggressive repartee via Twitter, Facebook, or any other social networking site, I implore the usage of your thesaurus. There's a widget for it, people. Then, at least when we're being forced to witness your temper tantrums, we won't have to look at words like "shitasses," or hear about the levels of "class" in your piss.

And maybe, one day, one of your awesome lesbo friends will let you know that while it's true some men "couldn't put up with their cuntness," the nature of being a lesbian means that the woman is not attracted to the man. Not the other way around.

Muttonhead.

** I didn't want to go SNOOT on you here, but "a ignorant" pretty much slammed what would otherwise have been a mildly uninteresting insult into full blown dumb ass territory.

This is why I do not own a TV

We are tortoise sitting for Josh and Liz, and part of the deal for taking on such an inconvenient, demanding schedule of ripping up limp lettuce once a day is that we get full access to a television set. Tonight we watched the pilot for a new Alyssa Milano show featuring an effeminate male trying to learn how to embrace softcore S&M via his disdain for Darth Vader.

What the cuss happened to TV?

Oh for the love of Blog...

I have some difficulties with this noxious tendency to want to sort and order and organize everything from sock drawers to blogs.. and I think I'm just slowly coming to terms with the fact that this blog, quite simply, is purpose-less. Agenda-free. Completely without motive. And that's mostly okay with me.

Well, not really. Because I cannot leave well enough alone, I am going to give this blog an objective, however small: Daily Blogging. That's right, I will be posting once a day, every day, until.. well, until I don't.

And now for news: I was accepted into the Hollins University MFA program, and will be attending in the fall. (!!!) I get a rush when I think about being back in the Blue Ridge.. I just can't get enough of the mountains. I was also recently awarded a Baltimore City Artist Fund Grant for poetry which makes me a ....

Yes, that's right. I'm a WINNER! Who says there's no money in poetry?

And now, for a little gimmick that may become standby for bad days when trying to blog through fatigue: the Poem of the Day. Today it is a poem by Mr. Cummings, one whose volta has always left me a little conflicted: misogynistic or gracious, I can never decide. Certainly not what one would call Local Color, that's for cussing sure.

it may not always be so; and i say

that if your lips, which i have loved, should touch

another's, and your dear strong fingers clutch

his heart, as mine in time not far away;

if on another's face your sweet hair lay

in such silence as i know, or such

great writhing words as, uttering overmuch,

stand helplessly before the spirit at bay;

if this should be, i say if this should be--

you of my heart, send me a little word;

that i may go unto him, and take his hands,

saying, Accept all happiness from me.

Then shall i turn my face, and hear one bird

sing terribly afar in the lost lands.

What the cuss?

A friendly PSA from the folks over at Elephantine: in an effort to clean out our mouths (and, as a tribute to a favorite film) all further expletives on this blog will hereby be replaced by the word "cuss." Or they will simply be much, much more interesting.

That is all.

Dear Diary: A Cautionary Tale

Tucked into the broken drawer slats of my nightstand was a composition book that belonged to the previous owner. As far as found objects go, you can't get any more innocuous than a black Mead marbled schoolbook, but the instinct to open it and flip the pages (something we must learn by rote in our formative book years) reveals that this is no homework log, but a diary. And this diary is no diary like that of a writer-- there are no painstaking efforts to describe events, flush out characters, or even to ascribe to basic grammatical convention. This is the real thing, the classified raw emotions of someone genuinely turning to the pen for release: it is, without question, the most terrifying object I have ever encountered.

I have been keeping a journal of some kind since I was thirteen, which means that my entire life has been fastidiously documented for over ten years. There is ritual to my journaling: the vessel is important and selected with care; pens and handwriting are wielded with the tedious patience of a taxidermist. I have experimented with logging the times, noting my location, music, clothing, food. For a time I was even writing prayers. I have mastered the art of paraphrasing dialogue, so as to never lose a poignant conversation to the hazy well of memory (which I'm certain makes some people very, very nervous). Every important player in my life has been chronicled down to the most minute detail: I've noted tapered fingers, large pores, cadences and speech patterns, a peculiar method of eating popcorn, or the odd moment shared after a line is crossed. I have written love letters to teachers, detailed fantasies of wild success, delivered deliciously vicious diatribes against politicians, family members, and dear friends. I have hulled emotions from myself and given them to the page, writing until my fingers cramp, my forearm burns, and I am gutted.

But I have never, not once, given in to the reckless abandon of writing for only myself.

This composition book diary is only a rough dozen entries, delivered once a month or so, with absolutely zero consideration for a reader. Names are thrown around without explanation, emotions are contradictory and unjustified. Heinous acts are mentioned but left undefended, are then violently but briefly regretted. Her prose is underdeveloped, the handwriting harried, secrets spilled without apology. A repetitious line of self-loathing strings together chronicles of someone resigned to be sex-addicted and lost.

I met this girl a few times before she sold me the nightstand. After reading the diary I've Facebook stalked her a few times, searched through her friends to match names of regrettable hookups to their digital visages. My instinct was to judge, to note the youthful smiley face and the addled disconnect from her dimples to the sparse admissions of "Got drunk. Had sex with J----- even though I didn't want to. I am disgusting. He is gross." I mean, I also bought her bed, and spent almost a year of ignorant nights nestled amongst the ghosts of hundreds of drug-fueled romps, often with men who are "Okay, 48, but he's so sexy and made me feel soooo good about myself."

Maybe it's because I read Anne Frank's diary before I began keeping one myself, but I was always far too guarded to ever write like the Girl from the Composition Book. The thought of posthumous publication is enough to keep my feet to the fire, but I think the most imminent danger was that of a snooper-- you know, the "concerned parent," or jealous boyfriend. While reading my journals has proven to be a deal-breaker at least once in my life, I totally get it. We want to know what everyone is "really" thinking, who they "really" are. But while I now know that the owner of the composition book wanted so desperately to find meaning in her life (goal lists included such arbitrary stock-do-gooder items like "Help AIDS victims in Africa" and "Become a yoga instructor"), unfortunately for my snoopers, my diaries are more calculated and guarded than a well-timed conversation over a couple of glasses of wine (I'm a bit of cheap drunk, as it turns out, and not much of a secret-keeper).

This composition book is hands-down the saddest thing I've ever read, but absolutely solidifies my commitment to journaling for the Phantom. Doing something therapeutic for yourself is a fabulous notion, but do yourself a favor and never, ever put it in writing.

Playing Dress-Up

Day 6 of Snowpocalypse 2010:

Boredom was not allowed in my childhood. The oft-whined, "I'm booooored," was usually met with a list of productive, not-so-interesting suggestions to clean my room or get a head start on a research assignment. Worse still, my stepfather would sometimes bait me into a political discussion or try to wrangle me into home projects like organizing audio-cassette tapes or relabeling the pantry shelves. But the biggest deterrent for me was the pride-crushing mantra used when none of the other aforementioned options were viable:

"Only the boring get bored."

It was a good quip for a teenager whose self-image was all-important. Thus, the whining dwindled, and the quest for cabin-fever anecdotes began. I'd like to think that as I've matured, the activities in which I engage to occupy lag-time have also become more sophisticated. Unfortunately, this week completely debunked that hope. I apparently still inhabit the private world of a little girl who, when left to her own devices, will spend all her time:

• Writing in her diary
• Painting her nails
• Experimenting with makeup
• Dressing up in all her clothes
• Practicing french-braiding her hair
• Baking cookies and eating most of the dough
• Singing out loud, and thinking it sounds great
• Writing poetry
• Reading to her cats, using made-up voices
• Admiring the voices she makes up to read to her cats

Of course, there were a few more grown-up activities (wine-drinking, apartment-cleaning, David-loving) but mostly, I've spent the days doing exactly what I would have done with this time as a child. I've even begged David that later, when we go for our late night walk through this white, muffled world, that we can make a snowman.

All this aside, I do have one new grown up obsession I've been meaning to discuss-- lipstick. More specifically, this lipstick:

A very kind, generous woman gave me the Chanel Lover 09 lipstick last year, and save Halloween and Valentine's Day, I was very reluctant to wear it. But thanks to the recklessness that comes with pure, unadulterated boredom, I found myself swiping it on for the trek out to David's show this past Saturday.

Now, I'm thinking this could become my staple. I used to shy away from lipstick in general because I had this whole weird idea about "trying too hard." I was obsessed with looking like I "effortlessly" pulled a look together, but often this just resulted in spending hours trying to layer just right, with the tiniest bit of sexy peeking from a whole lot of casual. For awhile, this idea manifested itself in tight, lace-lined shelf-bra tank tops (no actual bra, a truly misguided psychology that governed my sartorial decisions in high school) under mens' open Oxford button downs. Accompanied with a series of attempts at the "tossled" hair updo, barely-there makeup (that somehow looked VERY there and took at least half an hour to achieve) and some ripped up jeans (of which I had ripped off the waistband) I still wonder how my mother let me out of the house. Somehow, in my twisted mind, my look was "effortless and sexy," not Walk of Shame.

If only I'd known then what I know now: Lipstick. I instantly took my last-of-the-clean-clothes outfit into something that made me feel hot. I mean-- I was wearing a cardigan. And a yellow scarf, that was just a tad bit off-shade from the yellow dress I had on. Over jeans. If Lover 09 can make that outfit work, it can do anything.

The [snow] comes on little cat feet..