Patriot Facts / 6-23-11

My cat is fluffy.

(They teach you how to write compelling lead sentences, called "ledes," at journalism school. I think I slept in that day.)

So fluffy, sometimes we call him "Floofy." And by we, I mean someone in our household made it up as a clever nickname, and it caught on, because cute, and now the cat gets called that nickname more often than his totally awesome given name, a name which someone brilliant in our household pulled out of thin air, but we'll get to that part in due time, within some other hideously constructed run-on sentence.

Fear not. This is not a post about my cat.

So my five-year-old and I walk out the front door the other day, and there's the cat, rolling around in the front yard. The boy walks over to pet the cat on the belly. Those two get along great. It's sweet.

Fear not. This is not a post about my five-year-old.

But the five-year-old DOES say, mid-stroke, "He's so floofy."

Me: "He is. Imagine this, though, Alex -- the other day, I petted a cat that was EVEN softer than Sherlock."

(Which is, again, such a boss name for a cat. Seriously. Props to whoever came up with that. Kudos.)

Alex: *jaw drops open*

Me: "S'true."

Alex: *exaggeratedly pained expression*

Alex: "Dad, why are you being mean to Floofy?"

Suspend all remaining fear. This is a post about patriotism. Because having a discussion about what's wrong with America is too often like trying to explain to a small child that his pet can be outdone in some facet by another pet.

Me: "Well, in Sweden, their infant mortality rate --"

Patriot blinded by jingosim: "Socialists."

Me: "The thing is, our education administrators could take a cue from --"

PBJ: "We're the best."

Me: "Mounting deficits in Greece could wreck that nation's economy --"

PBJ: "Can't happen here."

Me: "Health insurance is guaranteed by the Canadian governm --"

PBJ: "Pussies."

Me: "Heart disease is lower in countries that outlaw chemicals in food and --"

PBJ: "McNuggets kick ass. 20 for $4.99, dude."

Facts. I got 'em. (Pardon the lack of links. Mostly trusting wikipedia here anyway.)

The U.N. lists 33 countries ahead of the U.S. in infant mortality rate. Singapore, Slovenia, Israel, New Caledonia all come out with better results.

Results of worldwide testing in math, reading and science in 2010 reveal U.S. students to be "average" among the 70 nations who participated.

The CIA's factbook for 2011 estimates that 49 countries have a higher life expectancy at birth than the United States. Jordan is one of those 49. Bosnia too.

We spend between 5 and 10 percent each year, as a government, on interest stemming from our national debt. (Just the interest, mind you.) This is in part because our national debt represents about 60 percent of our GDP. You know how much Russia's national debt is, relative to their GDP? Less than 10 percent. Huh. Wonder if that'll ever matter.

I love my country. But can we just admit already that as Americans, we could learn A LOT from how the rest of the world conducts its business? Can we just get over ourselves, face our deficiencies, and actually begin to address them?

Or will countless reports that highlight our warts continue to get swept under the suicidal banner of "No need to worry about that, we're the best"? I faintly hope not.

This Is Me Threading the Needle / 6-22-11

I appreciate you deeply, faithful reader, but please do not assume at any point during this post that you know what I'm about to say. Ahem.

First of all, I find it reprehensible when a victim is blamed for the crime committed against him or her. Remember that.

Now that we understand each other, here are four scenarios in which people make choices that lead directly or indirectly to discomfort. Maybe it'll be more clear where I'm headed in a few paragraphs.

1. If my home is burglarized while I am away, and I locked the doors and windows, it is not my fault that I bought a large TV or an XBox or some nice jewelry. I do not deserve to have nice things stolen from me just because I own nice things.

2. If I forget to renew my car insurance policy, and I hit a telephone pole, and I break a few bones, and the bank takes my house because I can't pay the hospital bill, I don't deserve to be penniless and homeless. I deserved to learn a painful lesson, but I didn't deserve to have my life ruined for combining an minor lapse in judgment with plain old bad luck.

3. At the same time, if I ride a bike naked through Fremont on a sunny summer solstice day, I can't very well complain of an uncomfortable itch the next morning.

4. AND... if I bathe in beef broth then go spend the night sleeping in a hammock between two trees in a forest full of grizzly bears, I can't expect anything less than to be eaten alive.

Now that that's out of the way, what to make of Slutwalk?

Background: In April, a Toronto police officer, addressing a small gathering of law students, seemed to suggest that certain victims of rape may themselves be partially to blame. His words, verbatim: women should "avoid dressing like sluts in order to not be victimized."

That was dumb. Classic blame-the-victim bullsh*t, because nothing a woman does entitles a man to sexually take advantage of her. Nothing. That includes the way she dresses, speaks or flirts. Rape is obviously inexcusable in all cases, and wholly the fault of the perpetrator.

Well, in what can only be described as "predictable," women and women's organizations erupted in fury. The officer was properly reamed, the first Slutwalk came to life, and women in four continents pulled together to march in all kinds of attire, denouncing the idea that rapists were lured into a violent crime by a little cleavage and a tight skirt.

Good for them. (The women, not the rapists.) All's well that ends well... except.

Except.

The officer's comments keep getting interpreted as belonging to the fourth category of statement I began this post with. Yeah, the bears and beef broth one. I don't know the officer, and I don't even care to look up the guy's name. Still, I would like to give him a minuscule portion of Doubt Benefit, and allow him to rephrase, so we can place his improved analysis where it might actually resonate, rather than chafe: squarely in between the second and third categories.

Here's some context to what he said (what?? context?? that has no place in public discourse!!):

"You know, I think we're beating around the bush here. I've been told I'm not supposed to say this -- however, women should avoid dressing like sluts in order not to be victimized."

How to make this constructive instead of destructive... searching... searching... all right. This isn't perfect, but see what you think:

"Certain men will always find a way to abuse certain women, and it quite often will have nothing to do with the woman's appearance or her choice of wardrobe. Rape is so very often rooted anyway in psychological unrest, not sexual frustration.

"But if you, as a woman, wanted to take one additional step that could cut down, albeit marginally, the likelihood of you suffering a sexual assault, you could always choose to dress more modestly. If you want to avoid the unthinkable, then fastening an extra button on your blouse from time to time seems like another way to stack the odds more in your favor.

"It's not fair to you, because you ought to be allowed to wear what you want, within the confines of the law. And it's anything but foolproof, because these are deranged men we're dealing with here. But I'll tell you what: a modicum of modesty is probably marginally effective. And sometimes, marginally is all you need."

I mean, really. Try and deny that revealing attire makes guys think of sex. (To be fair: staplers, baseball, the letter Q, and white noise all are also perfectly capable of making us think of sex.)

Try and deny that certain unstable men will be pushed over the edge -- and yes, driven to contemplate, then carry out, a sexual assualt -- by so many plunging necklines and miniscule shorts.

You can't do it, can you? Your denial doesn't stretch that far, right?

Solutions to this dilemma are evasive. Burqas? No thank you very much. Fewer clothes? Yeah, right. Status quo? Blech.

No, the only solution is to determinedly steer clear from blaming the victim, to prosecute offenders, and to have enough self-awareness to stop deluding yourself into thinking that wearing a swimsuit in public HELPS men see you as a whole person.

(Far be it from me to give fashion advice to anyone, by the way.)

Unfortunately, such subtleties will be lost on those who advocate for dress, or for those who would ardently defend the dresser's right to be as suggestive as she wishes. Eh. At least this gives our citizens yet another chance to yell past each other.

Control-Alt-Delete / 6-20-11

I'm back. Sans vengeance.

It wasn't vacation. Maybe it was writer's block. Mostly, it was me jumping through some self-publishing hoops as I prepare to launch my puny novel into a largely unwelcoming world, a scoffing, haughty, naughty world that undoubtedly has no time for my "literary" shenanigans.

But now I pledge to reboot the blog, starting tonight, because I have been sent new and shiny bloggacious ideas. One came courtesy of my five-year-old: an insight into blind patriotism. One's from the news: a commentary on something called Slutwalk. And presidential politics are heating back up again. And for all we know, God is still out there, as long as you define "God," "is," "still," "out," and "there" in just the right way.

Anyway, the novel, yeah, it's done. It was submitted to my "publisher," which is just a company I hired to help me turn my story into an actual good-looking, professionally presentable piece of prose on which I can earn royalties. (I promise, the book is NOT full of alliterations. I make it a habit to save the worst humor for this space.)

So the process was vain, the result likely vainer, but now the novella (25,000 words) is in production, and before the summer is through, it'll be for sale. Sometime in August, I'll write a post about it, a preview of sorts; sometime in the fall, I'll update you on my efforts to sell it to people who want to pay me for it. Then, it'll fade into the obscurity for which it was destined. Which is totally fine. Mostly, this was a fun hobby that kept me busy for the past two years. And completion feels good, dadgummit.

But for now, let there be write!

Sorry.