Occam’s Holster

I am pretty sure oral sex has been a topic of word-slinging for thousands of years.

In order to write this I inventoried some of the times when it seems to have risen to the point of national political upheaval, and some examples emerged fast-

  • The Washington Post editor who chose to nickname the Watergate informant Deep Throat after a disturbingly famous film of the same name.
  • The lopsided “affair” between a young intern and William Jefferson Clinton.
  • Recent, renewed accusations against the mayor of Seattle concerning the sexual abuse of at-risk teenagers who are now fully articulate adult men….

Just to name a few.

Which raises some thorny questions.

Would Colbert have said the victim of the Oval Office hook-up was a holster for a member?  Would he have said the same about Bill’s spouse?  Or other world leaders?

I doubt it.

I admit that I simply won’t google whether the term Mr. Colbert used for oral sex was cobbled together by him or whether it was a lexical entity prior to all of this.

I kinda don’t want to know.

But what I do want to know is whether anyone has discussed all the linguistic implications of what Colbert said.

What we know from context is-

  • He was angry
  • He was not afraid to drag sign language users, primates, and concussion victims into the list of insults
  • Context clues as well as the purely derogatory “only thing good for” component of the reference to oral sex suggests non-consensual sexual contact more than a relationship of mutual affection between consenting adults

“Non-consensual” at least for those of us who had to read it in the morning paper.

Which is why I write.  I don’t have a problem with Colbert expressing his anger toward the President or disagreeing with him.  I have a problem with Colbert’s utter and complete insensitivity to countless sexual assault survivors of all ages and genders who have ever been forced into what Colbert describes…as a joke?

He doesn’t seem to have considered how his obscene and dehumanizing language about a power-uneven and sometimes non-consensual sex act might sound to any rape or sexual abuse survivor.

That, coupled with earlier sexually and racially charged terms for Asian Americans suggests Colbert may share the very same white-man-locker-room entitlement he claims to abhor in the President.

There are clearly many ways to perpetuate a rape-tolerant ethos. I just wish Colbert hadn’t shown us how.

Stories small pebbly things

The previous night mother had attempted to make tea.  Tea then coffee, that was the plan.  In the little pre-packaged pouches provided by hotel concessions.

Upon inspection mother noted two nay, three things:

Advancing, almost marine rust on the warming plate

Water in the well from some previous occupant of the room

No heat, no perk 

So she reported it to the desk clerk, all the while noting the following-

A previous hotel encounter wherein a woman of rapidly advancing years has chided the desk clerk for a similarly broken coffee maker.

And the likelihood that somewhere, somehow, the night shift clerk possessed a hog, of the Harley-Davidson, not Charlotte’s Web variety.

He said they were all out of fresh coffee makers.

He said he would transmit her request for a new one to the day guy.

Who ended up being a woman of short stature.

Who said she would fetch a tall person to fetch a new one from a high shelf.

This leaving mother to picture the places in the hotel with high shelves and coffee makers

…as she returned to her room.

And talked to her lovely and prepossessing daughter approximately thus:

I was surprised you did not come to breakfast.

Well, in truth, it was because I knew you would bring back the good stuff.

I wanted you to come down because there was a family next to us. Grandparents, a dad discussing his absent son who was allowed to drive down on the highway.

He described the process the way you might describe throwing a child into deep water in order to swim–“eventually he stopped weaving and wobbling”-which of course makes one wonder about when he was “weaving and wobbling.”

Then the father called his son to breakfast-whisp of a boy with hair like a tornado-whoosh!

Knock on the door.

Daughter opens it to a young man, tall, dark, and handsome, like a prince in a fairy tale, only coffee maker instead of glass slipper.

He proffers the box, offers to install it. Mother says she can manage, not realizing that he is a prince, the door is a portal and that all along the coffee makers had carefully conspired to bring these two together.

A Fortress is a fortress is a fortress

I walk into the house just as the smallish bandits, pirates, and cowboys dash through the living room brandishing colorful weaponry.

Some tend to be softish, others–bullets made of foam, none lethal, although all inspire the requisite awe in the dogs, certainly held at bay.

There is a formal request for pillows to be requisitioned for a fortress.  The Quartermaster readily assents, asserting that a fortress is a fortress is a fortress.

Suddenly every camp, garrison, base, castle, encampment, barricade, stronghold in the annals of history forever bound to this laughter, this moment of joy, this pillow…


Good Will Tenting

when I was wee-small I corrected the store name Goodwill to Oldwill.  Also I once inadvertently hurt the feelings of a much-beloved pre-school teacher when I applied an age-equals-wisdom rubric to her chronological age.

She seemed exceedingly wise and kind and calm.  So I told her she was 85.  At the time this was the Nobel Peace prize of ages to me.  I did not see wrinkles or old as a factor with humans.

Resale stores, absolutely, but people–not so much. My teacher was probably in her late twenties to mid-thirties?

I am going somewhere with this: assessment.

When I scan my junk mail for the misplaced real mail, I find message after message from hardworking Davises and Millers trying to give me some relief from student loans and a variety of entities using female given names and announcing their desire to date me or worse.

Oh, the anomalous anonymity of the Internet! These hardworking phishers and scammers just don’t get me.

We all want to be truly known and loved for who we really are, yet this is mostly a mirage.  At least in my culture.

We are often not capable of deep commitment or unswerving faithfulness, and we are quite damaged by the sturm and drang of this flawed and broken world. We like empty images and cliches, not the challenges of maturity, restoration, and love.

Which leads me to Big Agnes tents…

After one disastrous night in a tent at the beach during a storm, I do not consider myself a camping girl, but when I saw the (again, junk email!) ad for Big Agnes tents it was love at first sight.  Big? When seeking shelter, big is good. And Agnes?  Agnes rocks.  The name means pure but sounds a lot like the Latin word for lamb–agnus.  Big Pure?  Big Lamb? Lamb of God?

Lamb of God 

Who takes away the sins of the world 

Have mercy on us...

…damaged goods

Damaged goods in a storm 

In need of shelter

I will run to the Lamb, find shelter in Him.


Saul Alinsky, kerfluffles for old radicals

I just read a poorly-written article from the Washington Post desperately attempting to disentangle Hillary Clinton from Saul Alinsky and Lucifer.

While I personally doubt she will ever be able to divorce herself from Satan, there seems to be little reason for Mrs. Clinton to distance herself from Alinsky.  He was a bit of a badass, sloppy theology notwithstanding.

Jesus (the original anti-Lucifer) told a parable about two brothers who had opposite responses to their father’s request that they both go work in the fields.

One said sure then did nothing; the other said naw then went to work.

Mr. Alinsky seemed to have been the second guy.  He went to the poorest, least powerful communities in this country during a time when the people in those communities were genuinely oppressed and disenfranchised and gave them power and a voice.

When asked why he focused on African American “ghettos” he spoke of pervasive  oppression of African Americans through lynchings, the Klan, and systematic disenfranchisement. 

He chose to go to the people who had the least reason to refuse any offer of hope.

Saul Alinsky was a do-gooder.  He refused labels, especially political labels.

He was wrong about metaphysical hell–there are few have-nots there.  But right about the hells on earth that men engender through systemic avarice and racism.

I don’t know Alinsky well.  In fact after Carson and the bedraggled WP article I plan on getting to know him better.

But I leave you with a fact and a suggestion–

Alinsky once suggested a fart-in at a concert to combat social injustice.

And I bet you a pork-pie hat that Alinsky’s version of the Fox TV show Lucifer would actually be worth watching.

Cleaning house

the lovely stranger

Tells us all

If this thing in front of you 

Doesn’t give you joy throw it


I kinda wonder about the ordinary scrub brushes thrust into the most terrible places

Do you discard them too?

Replace them with newer ones without the dark history?

Maybe keep them away from the crap

Which tangentially reminds me of

Poor Thomas Crapper–

Bringing us into modern hygiene at the expense of the family name

Don’t worry, Thomas

Your job may be thankless

Your name synonymous with 

Well, crap

But I won’t forget you

Joy may be a too-strong word

For preventing public health catastrophe

But somebody gotta do it, TC

Somebody for all the rest 

The Breakfast Gambler

Grandma picks out several pieces of fruit from the wire basket.  We sit and eat our respective breakfasts in silence as the pert weather girl plots the course of the storm into which we intend to drive.

I do not intend to drive, I intend to passenge, pulled along by my grandmother’s gravity.

Slow rain begins to fall as she indicates with her hands my need to wrap it up, Girl.

I ask with my empty cup if I may get some more orange juice?

She says, you drink as much as you want now, but understand this:  down the road I  am not stopping so you can pee!

I attempt my most impassive gaze, like the people on the poker channel on the tv…no tells.

Will she or won’t she?  I am betting she will.  I stake my money (and my bladder) on the belief that down the road she will stop somewhere…

So I can pee.