Old World, New World

Last week was my birthday. Not a particularly important one so we didn’t go in for anything fancy, just a delicious dinner and an early turn in. The perfect evening for a couple of Olds.

Also, the Gentleman Caller can melt ice and butter and large blocks of chocolate and my tear ducts with the power of his amazing gift giving. He gives good gift.

For the five years I’ve carted my record player around from apartment to apartment, it hasn’t worked. It just sits cold and dead in the corner, uselessly taking up space. This particular record player is a hi-fi from the 1950′s, about eight feet long, three and a half feet tall and weighing in at 350 pounds or more. So that’s, you know, humongous. And it’s just the turntable and speakers. That’s it–no drawers, no storage, nothing. It is a poetic monument to human inefficiency, and also my very most favorite piece of furniture. I’m not giving up on this thing.

Obviously, our inability to play records cramps my flawless hipster style. How am I supposed to experience all the intricate drama of the Original Cast Recording of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat using an iPod? Duh, I cannot.

So I asked the Gentleman Caller to resurrect the hi-fi, somehow, as my birthday gift. He used Boy Magic and screwdrivers to take the turntable out of its nest and brought it to a vintage music store, where they used Boy Magic and screwdrivers to give it a facelift and a hug (I’m fuzzy on the details).

It was ready just in time, and I came home from work on my birthday to this, all through the house, sounding exactly how accordions, trumpets and sepia-toned voices deserve to sound:

Best birthday ever.

Posted in The Usual | 2 Comments

The Housening

Please excuse the long silence, friends. I was on blogstrike until the day I could post and finally be done with some conclusive house news. That day is this day!

Many long months ago, in autumn of the Year of Their Lord: 2012, I wrote a little ditty about a little house on a little street that was just waiting around for someone to take it somewhere warm and nice and cuddle it forever. You remember, no?

Well, forget that house. That house was garbage.

What happened? After we waited around for one million days, the stupid bank tried to stupidly demand all manner of stupid nonsense from us, so we told them to blow it out their stupid bank hole. And thus we began the search all over again, and the Gentleman Caller drowned the world in his beardy tears, and it was just the goddamned dumps.

After many fascinating exploits (no), our broken hearts dared to love again. We found a house that was more best, in the category of All. We viewed it eight hours after it came on the market Wednesday morning. By the time we threw our hat in the ring at noon on Friday, we were up against four other buyers. Come at me, bro.

Suddenly, BOOM, we win at houses! Nes Gadol Haya Sham.

We are officially Future Homeowners of the Republic. The seller’s only request is that her monster of a moldy swing set goes with her. Knock yourself out, lady. This is called “negotiating”!

Now it’s down to sorting out the details. Closing is March 22nd and we will have a week to move at a relaxing, leisurely pace before our apartment lease is up. LOLOL we’ll wait until the last second to pretend to pack and then spend twelve hours zigzagging the city wanting to punch each other in the face, because that’s what grown-ups do.

The house is more beautiful than anything a couple of nebbishes like us deserve. It’s stately and classy and elegant; an extensive collection of sweatpants is exactly what it needs to round it out. Also, access to the upstairs balcony is through an oddly tiny door in the bathroom, of all places. This is called “charm”!

There is nothing we would change. We love everything about it, it is perfect. We may ditch the midget door.

Also, it’s in a great neighborhood– full of funky restaurants, bookstores and vintage shops ripe for the plundering. Down the street is the place where this happened, and there’s a pub around the corner that lets you play old school NES while waiting for your sammich.

Sadly, exploring and plundering are for people who haven’t just bought a building. The Gentleman Caller and I shall be limited to adventures of the domestic variety for a long, long while. Tales of Captain Netflix! Voyage of the H.M.S. Ramen! Masterpieces of the Great Paint Rollers of the 21st Century! We will be broke, that is what I am saying.

To donate furniture or Thin Mints to the Future Homeowners of the Republic, respond in the comments!

    

Posted in The Usual | 5 Comments

Pirates of the Lister-ean

Two years ago, the Gentleman Caller and I went on a seven-day Carnival cruise with two friends. We spent months beforehand planning it–what to pack, what to see and do, what to eat, and most importantly, how to sneak some alcohol onboard. Bags are x-rayed for booze upon entry, and drinks on the boat cost around $7 or $8 each. Those blended, fruity, cocktails go down a little too easy for us Poors; it’s a delicious, delicious scam. What to do?

Someone (Cruise Companion Aaron maybe?) had a stroke of genius when we got to Miami– buy a few bottles of mouthwash, fill them with vodka or rum, and dye them with food coloring. And, mazel tov, handshakes all around! Secret, festively colored mixers! The boozewash appeared in our rooms the next morning with the rest of our luggage without incident, but it was when we made our first round of drinks that the whole thing fell apart.

Approximately 98% of that distinctive Listerine musk had soaked into the plastic bottle and then back out into its new contents overnight. We had effectively made our own very expensive mouthwash. Trying to mask the flavor was useless– lemonade, Coke, even tomato juice (which can eliminate the smell of skunk) all came up short against The Mint. It was foul, and we were stone cold sober.

You win the battle, Carnival. But you will lose the war.

This past May, we booked another cruise and bought three more bottles of Listerine. There were six of us this time, and we were ready. We had seven months to slowly break the spirits of those bottles, soaking them for weeks at a time with soap, baking soda, you name it. And when the big day came, rather than the vile stench of The Mint, we smelled naught but sweet, sweet victory. And, you know, vodka.

Naturally, we were usually too busy stuffing our faces at the buffet and lounging in the sun to bother with the fruits of our labor. But we were comforted in the knowledge that it was there. Just in case of Cocktail Emergency.

Posted in The Usual | Leave a comment

2012: A Haphazard Retrospective

Did These!

  • Took a sexy Caribbean vacation – My skin still resembles the surface of the moon in both color and temperature, but that’s normal.
  • Frolicked provocatively in the ocean - And didn’t even get a yeast infection!
  • Experimented with shiny new foods - Shark, frog’s legs, sweetbreads, chocolate wine, rabbit saddle, Laughing Cow cheese (that cow is laughing all the way to the bank, my friends), and lots of food trucks.
  • Camped in and around the Great Outdoors – This isn’t really as exciting as the goyim make it sound?
  • Mingled with the one percent at the Minnesota Twins Champions Club – The baseball part was pretty boring.
  • Rode a bike in a skirt - Whee whee whee, all the way home from Harriet Brewing (it was fucking far and totally a big deal).
  • Shopped, whimsically -

                          

Wish I’d Done These!

  • Bought a puppy – Almost, but then our landlord told us he hates fun and laughter and joy. Also, pee on the hardwoods.
  • Fixed the record player – The important thing is to keep buying records as if it’s been fixed.
  • Come to visit you where you live – You’re getting a weekend soon, cross my heart.

May or May Not Have Done These?

  • Bought a house – Do we own a piece of Middle Earth? Only snotty brat Fannie Mae knows for sure.
  • Watered the plants – They’ll evolve into cacti if they know what’s good for ‘em.
  • Promised to come visit you where you live – Sometimes grown-ups lie.

Misc. Wins

  • Started doing yoga - It makes my parts bendier and feels nice! The Gentleman Caller needs to be out of the house when that shit goes down though, it’s embarrassing.
  • Weight Watchers – Fabulous diet! Things are happening inside me! My hands fit inside the pockets of my jeans! It’s magical.
  • New job – People are way nicer when they have no idea what you do.
  • CPAP machines – One for every man, woman and child. They are the future.

Misc. Losses

  • Stopped doing yoga - The instructions are confusing! “Feel your heart center melt upward.” What? No.
  • Atkins – Terrible diet. So much lettuce, still so fat. Very troubling.
  • Car – Not technically a loss yet, but just so gosh darned ugly.
  • Bathroom ceiling – Still haunted by the fateful spring day dirty toilet water ate through the upstairs neighbors’ floor, leaving a hole in our ceiling, a puddle on our toilet seat, and terror in our hearts.

Misc. Draws

  • Agreed to watch Lost if the Gentleman Caller would watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer – Have completed neither, because barf. Love is never having to say you enjoy Lost.
  • The Families still haven’t met each other – The Gentleman Caller and I have decided this is probably a good thing, as we all know how that will go down:

Let’s do this, 2013.

Posted in The Usual | Leave a comment

We’re Going to Talk About It

Reposted from Wonkette.com / written by Rich Abdill

We’re going to talk about it.

We’re going to talk about it because our thoughts and prayers are not enough. They were not enough after Columbine (15 dead), or the Amish schoolhouse (6 dead), or Virginia Tech (33 dead), or Tucson (6 dead), or Aurora (12 dead), or the Wisconsin Sikh temple (6 dead), [Editor's note-- or Accent Signage in Minneapolis (6 dead)] and they are not enough now that another 28 once living, breathing people have been added to the tally. To offer only thoughts and prayers is to say “Well, that’s a damn shame. Sure hope it doesn’t happen again.” We have done this every time. And every time, it’s happened again. So we’re going to talk about it.

We’re going to talk about guns.

There shouldn’t be a requirement to wait a certain amount of time before we can talk about guns. The time to talk about food safety is after an e. coli outbreak; the time to talk about preparedness and global warming is after a hurricane socks New York, which is usually not socked by such things. Those are appropriate problems to talk about because they are problems right freaking then, and if the time to talk about guns isn’t after some guy uses one to kill 20 little kids, when is the time?

It isn’t disrespectful to try to learn from the deaths of those 27 innocent people, or from the 28th guilty one, who is only one of thousands of people who used a gun to kill himself this year. It would be far more insulting to look at their deaths and shrug, and hope maybe people get less unbalanced.

If Adam Lanza’s mom hadn’t owned those guns legally, Lanza would not have been able to take them into that school and massacre those children — after he killed her. The same goes for so many crimes of passion that could have been avoided if an angry person hadn’t had easy access to a killing machine. Maybe they’d find a gun anyway. But so far, they haven’t had to.

Anyway, we’ve been saying this stuff for a long time, so let’s try to figure out how anyone could possibly justify America’s gun problem. Let’s just go through one by one, starting with what’s probably the most common justification:

Guns don’t kill people, people kill people.

Sure, and Apache helicopters don’t kill people, but we cannot have those either.

It’s a true thing, sure, that “people kill people.” It is not a coincidence, however, that when people kill people, they kill them with guns. Guns are so, so good at killing people. Pretty much the only thing they’re good at, really, other than being mafia paperweights. People are always going to kill people, sure. But the system we have now is set up to let them, in the name of Freedom. We can seriously justify what happened in Newtown by saying it just comes with the territory of having a well-regulated militia?

Defenders use this line to explain that America does not have a gun problem, it has a murder problem, and they quickly break out the old canard about how guns kill people like spoons make people fat. Many of the people who say this are not, as they say, “murderers,” but just regular folks who own guns and do not use them to kill kindergartners. But these people are wrong.

Spoons are not the only way people get fat. In fact, some of the best ways to get fat (cheeseburgers and never standing up) have nothing to do with spoons.

Guns, however, are startlingly unlike spoons. Guns are not just one of many tools in a killers arsenal. Guns are more than just coincidentally AROUND when buildings full of people are killed — they are the single most determining factor in how efficiently they are killed. How many people were merely wounded in Newtown yesterday?

If you want to kill people really quickly, and with the least amount of effort, you buy a gun. Yes, you could buy a knife, or a heavy rock, but the most effective method of mass murder is available in many places from the same stores where you go for soccer balls and sweatsocks.

If someone goes on some kind of spree with a knife, like they keep doing in China, that is still bad. But when a Chinese guy uses a knife on 22 people,they all live.

Mass-shootings happen because it is easy for mentally unstable people to get guns. Shouldn’t we at least pretend to stop them? The biggest move in federal gun legislation since Columbine was that we let an assault weapons ban expire. Though Obama promised better gun laws, the Brady Center to Prevent Gun Violence says he’s been worse than Bush. Sure, they’ve got an agenda, but the point remains: We need gun control. Lots of it. It stinks that the crazies have ruined guns for the rest of us, but they definitely have.

Yes, making it harder for the crazy folk will also make it harder for the sane folk to kill them, but that argument is wearing very, very thin, since the sane folk are not really doing a very good job at protecting people. That argument also leads nicely into the next defense of guns:

If you outlaw guns, only outlaws will have guns.

“What will we DO?” say the gun-folk. “Good people with guns defend society from bad people with guns!”

It sounds like a great argument, until you realize that the good people with guns are awful at defending society from bad people with guns. Mother Jones put together a big, terrible list of all the mass-murders of the last 30 years, and not a single one ends with, “And then a person with a concealed weapon killed the shooter before the shooter could inflict any more damage.” None. Zero. One “witness” in Miami killed a shooter back in 1982, but only as the shooter was running away.

This, of course, is not viewed by gun enthusiasts as an argument for gun control, but against it. Like this statement from Larry Pratt, executive director of the Gun Owners of America:

Gun control supporters have the blood of little children on their hands. Federal and state laws combined to insure that no teacher, no administrator, no adult had a gun at the Newtown school where the children were murdered. This tragedy underscores the urgency of getting rid of gun bans in school zones. The only thing accomplished by gun free zones is to insure that mass murderers can slay more before they are finally confronted by someone with a gun.

The best way to prevent gun violence in Newtown would have been to give teachers guns. This is not a fringe idea — the GOA boasts 300,000 members. And it might not necessarily be an incorrect idea, either: It isn’t hard to imagine a teacher stepping into the hallway during the massacre and planting a bullet between Lanza’s eyes. It feels good and just to think about. We’re conditioned to feel good thinking about it — it’s how all the good action movies end.

So yeah, maybe gun control stopped teachers from shooting Lanza. But is that really the system we want to have? An arms race with criminals and the insane on one side, and the innocent on the other? Those with a vision of guns in schools have a vision of America as a never-ending Mexican standoff. It’s a barbaric proposal unmatched anywhere else in the civilized world.

Plus, again, if guns are supposed to be protecting people, they’re doing a lousy job. Not doing any job, really. It might feel good to have a Glock on your hip and imagine all the wham-bang good stuff you could do, being a hero and whatnot if a lunatic shows up on the bus or in the deli, but the reality is that you would be the first person to do that since they replaced hitching posts with parking lots. It just doesn’t happen. The good guns aren’t doing us any good.

This, though, refers mostly to mass shootings, where the perpetrator in the vast majority of cases obtained the weapon(s) used legally, likely at least partially due to mass-shootings being a person’s first and last crime.

What about people who have guns to protect their homes, or to defend themselves from other kinds of crime? This leads us to yet another defense:

Guns prevent crime.

Maybe it’s not fair to say guns are bad because they don’t prevent all mass shootings. Maybe they’re bad at that, but really good at preventing other crimes, like robbery. If this is the case, that means more guns would mean more safety, no? The United States has 310 million guns. How many more guns do we need before all the robberies stop?

Handgun production has more than doubled since 2005 and there have been 16 mass shootings this year. This is the cost of gun freedom. How many mall shootings, and hospital shootings, and school shootings, are there going to have to be, before we decide that maybe we aren’t safer with more guns?

Speaking of crime, research from Harvard suggests the “good guys” are sometimes guilty of it too:

Criminal court judges who read the self-reported accounts of the purported self-defense gun use rated a majority as being illegal, even assuming that the respondent had a permit to own and to carry a gun, and that the respondent had described the event honestly from his own perspective…

We found that firearms are used far more often to frighten and intimidate than they are used in self-defense. All reported cases of criminal gun use, as well as many of the so-called self-defense gun uses, appear to be socially undesirable.

“Socially undesirable,” in case it wasn’t clear, means a gun use that isn’t defending yourself from a criminal. And the rest of the words there mean people who actually use guns, by and large, use them to act like dangerous, militant bullies.

It’s a good thing that many gun owners don’t have to use their guns. But if the ones that do are using them to menace neighbors and settle disputes (lookin’ at you, Jovan Belcher, you dead bastard), who is that helping?

The Belcher case, in which the Kansas City Chiefs linebacker escalated routine American domestic abuse into routine American gun violence and killed his girlfriend with his pile of guns, is another example of the dangerous situation we’ve put society in: Maybe something terrible happened to Belcher’s brain. Maybe all the football damaged the part of his head that told him not to kill people. Maybe it wasn’t all his fault. But it doesn’t matter, because he had a bunch of guns anyway. The guy could have bought any gun he wanted, and when he got mad, he used one. Just like anybody else with a few hundred bucks could.

But no matter how many horrifying scenes we’re forced to confront, and no matter how many parents are splashed on front pages crying in parking lots for their dead children, there will be another defense that absolves gun-rights advocates of guilt:

It’s my constitutional right.

“There’s nothing we can do! It’s in the Constitution.” It’s a shrewd move, because it places blame for the American gun problem on the founders, instead of on the people furthering the problem now. But that’s a broken argument too.

That something is (possibly) enshrined in the Constitution does not mean it is invincible to change. Let’s not forget that abortion is a constitutionally protected right, eh? We’re still allowed to argue about that.

The Constitution is good at stuff like this. We’ve amended the thing 27 times, to fix the issues our founding fathers, in all their 18th-century wisdom, fucked up beyond comprehension. Women couldn’t vote, black people were 3/5ths of a person (and couldn’t vote), presidents could be reelected in perpetuity. Hell, the path of presidential succession wasn’t codified until 1965, after we needed it a bunch of times. (Mostly after angry people killed our presidents… with guns.)

And when an amendment like the 18th comes along and takes away our beer, we have the power to bring along an amendment like the 21st, which gives it back. Because one thing the Constitution does get right is the opening line: “We, the People.” Like Charles Pierce wrote Friday, our commitment to each other is the driving force behind our self-government, and when self-government stands by and watches Americans shoot each other in the face, we have failed each other.

So no, the constitutional argument against gun control is not good enough. We have a commitment to society that is above blind faith in 220-year-old dogma. We took away slavery. We can regulate guns. Providing for the common defense doesn’t only apply to drone-striking terrorists, and if we can repeal the 18th Amendment, we, the people, can certainly temper the bloody effects of the Second.

Some people will die, if their guns are taken away and they can’t defend themselves. But how many people would be saved? If taking away guns from the public makes gun deaths go down overall — and it would — how would someone argue against it? That it violates an American ideal, a notion that people should have that line of personal defense? It’s not good enough, if people are dying, senselessly, every day, to preserve that right. If “making sure less people die” is not preserving the general welfare, that section of the Preamble means nothing.

We have been trying it this way — the gun way — for a long, long time. We have armed everyone equally, in the hopes that the good deeds will outweigh the evil. On days when everyone with guns behaves themselves relatively well — and there are a woefully small number of them — it’s a position that can slide. But on days when New York City has to send a portable morgue to an elementary school, why, why, why can’t we try it the other way?

–Via Wonkette

Posted in The Usual | 3 Comments

The Giant Christian Penis and Other Fairy Tales

The Gentleman Caller and I went on a lovely Fridate last night. We sat at the bar, drank some wine and had some fancy noodles. Also, pomegranate cheesecake is the best thing in this world or the hereafter. On the way home we turned a corner and I almost pooped my pants (not because of the cheesecake).

“Stop the car! It’s the Giant Christian Penis!“ Good to know I can still really terrify him.

Something Wicked This Way Comes

You are wondering, yes? “What the hot damn is the Giant Christian Penis?” A long, long time ago, when gas was less than $3/gallon (sigh) and I still had the blush of youth (i.e. high school), my friends used to zoom around the city at night looking for adventure and excitement, Goonies style. Predictably, we mostly found churches and gas stations, but one time we stumbled on something special. Sitting on a hill in the middle of a residential neighborhood in Minneapolis, daring you to question its right to be there, was Washburn tower.

Nothing about this tower makes any sense. The plaque claims it to be a water tower built in the 1930′s. Poppycock. Cranky looking knights circle the circumference, pointing their swords at any lowly peasants who dare to approach. Stone eagles perch above them, and the whole thing is topped with a huge crown. That whole medieval chic look is a little out of place for Minneapolis; Walter Mondale pretty much trumps King Arthur as a cultural icon around here. So why does this Washburn thing look like the Tower of London’s socially anxious younger cousin? Obviously, my friends and I were totally fascinated by this mystery and named it the Giant Christian Penis because it is none of those things. We spread the lore of the Giant Christian Penis far and wide (to at least four people), and visited it on weeknights, because we were bad asses.

In hindsight, chess club may have been a better use of our time.

Let Them Eat Cake

Back in the present, I calmly explained all this to the Gentleman Caller. “It’s a scary tall place with guys and swords and a blinky light! We need to find it!” He agreed, but only to prove to my older, wiser, adult self that the Giant Christian Penis is actually completely normal and I am probably schizophrenic. We drove up the hill and he said…

“Woa. That’s actually pretty weird.”

Ha! The Giant Christian Penis takes no prisoners. Except for all the government ones that are definitely inside it.

Posted in Confessions | Tagged , , , , , , | 2 Comments

The Sleep War Chronicles, Chapter 2

It’s official, folks. The Gentleman Caller had his sleep test on Monday and got an A for effort, and also apnea! The dude doesn’t know how to breathe and that’s a science fact. So after unsticking all the nodes from his face and washing the little red X’s off his head, they outfitted him with a snazzy CPAP gadget to help and monitor his breathing at night. From now on it’s him and me and Vader makes three.

Considering some of the (blood curdling) pictures of CPAP machines on Google, the Gentleman Caller’s is pretty low-key. The mask consists of little inserts for his nose (“nasal pillows”!) and a strap to hold it in place. His apnea is moderate so the big league, hazmat looking stuff (like the horror movie set-up pictured here, good lord) is unnecessary.

And it works! No more snore terrorism! Victory! Except he keeps taking the mask off around 4am. He doesn’t remember anything from last night– but even when half asleep he had the foresight to power down the machine after clawing it off his face. (Chances are that I would react poorly to waking up to three sets of breathing in the bedroom in the middle of the night.) Good thinking, Gentleman Caller.

The doctor told him the machine takes a while to get used to, which, duh. Trying to sleep with something strapped to your head, forcibly shoving lungfuls of air into you, sounds difficult and uncomfortable. He’s working on it– half a night of good sleep is certainly better than the alternative. In the meantime, I’m Nose Patrol. If he tries any midnight shenanigans I’ll be there to remind him– keep your nose on.

Posted in The Usual | Tagged , , , | 4 Comments