Saturday, July 4, 2015
A Toast to Gay Marriage
Dear My Darling Public
It is the truth, in recent weeks, that the LGBTQIA community has won a major victory not only for their civil rights, but for the idea of civil rights in general. The fact that two (or perhaps more) people who love one another now have the ability to express that love in the form of a lifetime commitment is one sight that I always thought I would get to see in my lifetime, and I did. That being said, the response from my more conservative counterparts has been less than graceful. With their string of cherry-picked bible references and anecdotes about television shows they used to watch when times were good, I couldn't help but notice that the main idea that they were trying to sell me was that performing a marriage is the exclusive right of the church, and that it is up to said church to define marriage, and this made me think of a conversation that I had back in March.
I happened upon a good friend of mine a while back just before St. Patrick's Day, a friend who is fairly involved with a bearded white man that she reflexively insists on calling god, and we had a nice chat about the same topic that we cannot seem to avoid in spite of my 'good-faith' efforts: Politics. I asked her if she had given any thought to the concept of going to law school, as she had expressed interest in graduating from college with a degree in criminal justice and enjoying a particularly expensive lifestyle (because it was hard for me to believe that police officers have the necessary capital to live that way.) She, being the easy-going, 'down home' type that she is, explained that this would be a very uninvited transition because A.) It would involve living is someplace that isn't in the middle of BFE, and B.) It would involve working side by side with crazier liberals than had plagued her at the school we already attended. This is where I should have changed the topic, but I had become far too hungry for the rhetorical blood of a conservative.
I politely asked her, with a twinkle in my eye, with what sort of pitch forks and torches have my camp been chasing her to the gallows, and she responded like clockwork. They (the liberals) are making a joke out of the bible, the almighty word of God, and mopping the floor with the constitution. Ok, now she brought the bible into the conversation, and, as all of you know, she might as well have thrown me a T-bone steak. I proceeded to ask her what her personal interpretation of the bible had to do with anybody else, and what law-abiding citizens were doing with the constitution other than honoring it as rationally legitimate, and that is when what was bothering her finally showed itself: She was unhappy with this great state of ours legitimizing same-sex marriage as it had done months before.
Her rational was no different than that of the talking heads in the conservative media, but I cared for this person a lot, as she is one of my very best friends, so I dropped the subject. I am here today, however, to put all of you h8ers out there in your place in regard to this argument. A.) The idea of marriage has been around for centuries before Jesus walked the earth and has been a staple of culture all over the world that would have had no contact Judao-Christian spirituality, B.) There are currently four sects of Christianity that I know of that do perform same-sex marriages. and they are: The United Church of Christ, Metropolitan Community Church, The Unitarian Universalist Church, and The Unity Church, and they are just like actual church with the bibles and the sitting and the standing and the old people and all the other whosamawhatsits that go along with being a church, C.) If we are going to have biblical marriage, we shouldn't just cherry-pick the parts we enjoy the most, we should go full circle with the good book. That's right! Let's see how long your marriage will last if you are a woman being married off to someone who sexually assaulted you (Deuteronomy 22:28-29), or a woman living out in a shed for seven days out of each month (Leviticus 15:19.) At that point, why even bother? Because the next step is eliminating pork, shellfish, rabbits, camels, or anything that does not have fins, scales, hoofs, or a cud-eating disorder from your diet (Leviticus 11: All of it.)
At the end of the day, marriage is about being happy, and living life in a way that satisfies you while you still have life, because this life is the only one that is guaranteed to us. I mean, I don't see anybody coming back from the dead to confirm anything.
With Infinite Love
Thomas F.
Sunday, March 2, 2014
It's funny, how they used to view freedom.
Dear My Darling Public
The wind in Edinboro today gave a resistance to my step that drastically increased the amount of time that it took me to get from one side of campus to the other. It was certainly on the minds of all of my peers and at the root of their ever frequent and openly casual side conversation. It was so bitingly freezing that the back of my hair, having been exposed to the the warmest shower I had taken all week, had been cooled to the consistency of icicles in the time it took me to get from my place of residence, Earp Hall, to the only building on campus in which I can afford to eat, The Van Houten Dining Hall. The better part of this walk, of course, was spent cutting through whatever building offered even a moment of warm climate to a journey of, what seemed at the time to be, one thousand miles, but my hair still froze to stiffness from the arctic blast.
I thought it was fitting, then, that I also came upon a document, given to me by my roommate for my entertainment, that made my brain freeze. These two papers, stapled together in a very professional way, depict in startling detail what I, having just skimmed through the two pages, thought was, at lightest, some kind of long winded woman joke, or at worst, another misogynistic set of rules for women from the "morals and values" crowed. When I started reading it, the only thing I could say to myself with any kind of certainty is that "nobody with any understanding of the rules of common sense could not have possibly written this." These pages, however, no matter how hard I may or may not have laughed while reading them, were not only an excerpt from an actual 1950's high school home economics text book, but a rare glance into the social order of a society that looked at itself as the shining example of American freedom at that time.
The document, entitled "The Good Housewife," outlines eight steps an ideal housewife of the time should take before her husband arrives home from work. These steps are, in the order that they appear on the document: Have Dinner Ready, Prepare Yourself, Clear Away The Clutter, Prepare The Children, Minimize All Noise, Make Him Feel Comfortable, Listen To Him, and Make The Evening His. When I saw these super headings just by themselves, I was just a tad disturbed, but, of course, not surprised in the slightest. It was when I began reading the content of these super headings that I became floored.
The first step, "Have Dinner Ready," reads as follows; "Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal on time. This is a way to let him know that you have been thinking about him and are concerned with his needs. Most men are hungry when they come home, and having a good meal ready is part of the warm welcome that is needed." Now, I don't know about you, but when I read this, the hairs on the back of my neck began to shiver. I mean, the polite and somewhat passive tone that this is written in, as if this was such a widely accepted conventional wisdom, left me with my jaw involuntarily half open. But, for the sake of open- mindedness ,and to see if this could get any worse, I continued to read.
I guess I will spoil the "mystery" by saying yes, it got worse. Prepare Yourself, while appearing to be slight less demanding than step one, reads like clockwork. "Take fifteen minutes to rest so that you will be refreshed when he arrives. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people. Be a little gay and a little more interesting. His boring day may need a lift. Greet him with a smile." Yes. You just take fifteen before the poor thing gets home from shooting the wind at a desk all day, so that you don't look so plain or gloomy for the guy. Because God forbid he finds out about how you really feel about the day. Could the rest of the page read "Just Kidding" or "Yeah Right?"
Wrong and wrong again. It, as you might have guessed already, gets even worse. Clear Away The Clutter leaves those of us who think rationally with either a chuckle or a dig right at the end. "Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives, gathering up children's books and toys, papers, etc. Then run a dust cloth over the tables. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift too." I can't imagine the nerve, the raw nerve of the backwards, reactionary scumbag that wrote this garbage. Did you catch the little dig at the end, though? "and it will give you a lift too." Yes, because at the end of a long day of maintaining the house, cooking dinner, and raising the little poop stains that Dick helped create, do you know what Jane wants to do? More pointless work just to make the rest of the day after work as pleasant as possible for Dick. And I often shoot lazer beams from my eyeballs.
Speaking of the little poop stains, step four, Prepare The Children, is a real knee-slapper. "If they are small, wash their hands and faces and comb their hair. They are his little treasures and he would like to see them playing the part." As opposed to Jane, who is, apparently, his little do-it-all 5,000. Oh spare me. There's only one "little treasure" that Dick gives a flying set of brain cells about, and that is the stake that's cooking in the oven.
What would a day at the office be, thought, with out coming home to a silently obedient family? Step five calls all housewives to Minimize All Noise. "At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise from the washer, dryer, or vacuum. Encourage the children to be quiet." Because nothing quite says home like the dead silence of a church. While you're at it, why don't you just put a muzzle on the neighbor's dog and disconnect the telephone.
Step Six, however horrible the previous five steps have been, kind of takes the cake for the 'most likely to have been written by Pat Robertson' award. "Have a cool or warm drink ready for him. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or suggest that he lie down in the bedroom. Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing voice. Allow him to relax and unwind." For my sanity to stay fit, I thank the Lord that there were only two more to read.
"You may have a dozen things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first." Yeah, Shut up, Jane, before Dick gets annoyed and, and.....and. Do you see where this becomes disturbing to read? That was Step Seven. I hope the last one doesn't blow.
No. In fact the last one is probably the worst of the eight. "Never complain if he doesn't take you to dinner or other entertainment. Instead, try to understand his world of strain and pressure and his need to unwind and relax."
If you read these steps and it made you laugh, but, at the same time, made you look with an air of shock and hostility toward this very reactionary time in American history, then congratulations, you have a soul. I think this has even deeper meanings, however, because it shows just how far we have come due to the actions of social activists. Now, I'm not suggesting that one action will change the tide of social justice in this country, but I do know that if you make it known well enough that you will not be trotted upon, then you will eventually succeed. Immigrants, Former Slaves, Women, Homosexuals, and, yes, pot heads have all dealt and still deal with the same kind of self-righteously justified discrimination. Will you stand up and make a change?
With Infinite Love
Thomas F.
The wind in Edinboro today gave a resistance to my step that drastically increased the amount of time that it took me to get from one side of campus to the other. It was certainly on the minds of all of my peers and at the root of their ever frequent and openly casual side conversation. It was so bitingly freezing that the back of my hair, having been exposed to the the warmest shower I had taken all week, had been cooled to the consistency of icicles in the time it took me to get from my place of residence, Earp Hall, to the only building on campus in which I can afford to eat, The Van Houten Dining Hall. The better part of this walk, of course, was spent cutting through whatever building offered even a moment of warm climate to a journey of, what seemed at the time to be, one thousand miles, but my hair still froze to stiffness from the arctic blast.
I thought it was fitting, then, that I also came upon a document, given to me by my roommate for my entertainment, that made my brain freeze. These two papers, stapled together in a very professional way, depict in startling detail what I, having just skimmed through the two pages, thought was, at lightest, some kind of long winded woman joke, or at worst, another misogynistic set of rules for women from the "morals and values" crowed. When I started reading it, the only thing I could say to myself with any kind of certainty is that "nobody with any understanding of the rules of common sense could not have possibly written this." These pages, however, no matter how hard I may or may not have laughed while reading them, were not only an excerpt from an actual 1950's high school home economics text book, but a rare glance into the social order of a society that looked at itself as the shining example of American freedom at that time.
The document, entitled "The Good Housewife," outlines eight steps an ideal housewife of the time should take before her husband arrives home from work. These steps are, in the order that they appear on the document: Have Dinner Ready, Prepare Yourself, Clear Away The Clutter, Prepare The Children, Minimize All Noise, Make Him Feel Comfortable, Listen To Him, and Make The Evening His. When I saw these super headings just by themselves, I was just a tad disturbed, but, of course, not surprised in the slightest. It was when I began reading the content of these super headings that I became floored.
The first step, "Have Dinner Ready," reads as follows; "Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal on time. This is a way to let him know that you have been thinking about him and are concerned with his needs. Most men are hungry when they come home, and having a good meal ready is part of the warm welcome that is needed." Now, I don't know about you, but when I read this, the hairs on the back of my neck began to shiver. I mean, the polite and somewhat passive tone that this is written in, as if this was such a widely accepted conventional wisdom, left me with my jaw involuntarily half open. But, for the sake of open- mindedness ,and to see if this could get any worse, I continued to read.
I guess I will spoil the "mystery" by saying yes, it got worse. Prepare Yourself, while appearing to be slight less demanding than step one, reads like clockwork. "Take fifteen minutes to rest so that you will be refreshed when he arrives. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people. Be a little gay and a little more interesting. His boring day may need a lift. Greet him with a smile." Yes. You just take fifteen before the poor thing gets home from shooting the wind at a desk all day, so that you don't look so plain or gloomy for the guy. Because God forbid he finds out about how you really feel about the day. Could the rest of the page read "Just Kidding" or "Yeah Right?"
Wrong and wrong again. It, as you might have guessed already, gets even worse. Clear Away The Clutter leaves those of us who think rationally with either a chuckle or a dig right at the end. "Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives, gathering up children's books and toys, papers, etc. Then run a dust cloth over the tables. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift too." I can't imagine the nerve, the raw nerve of the backwards, reactionary scumbag that wrote this garbage. Did you catch the little dig at the end, though? "and it will give you a lift too." Yes, because at the end of a long day of maintaining the house, cooking dinner, and raising the little poop stains that Dick helped create, do you know what Jane wants to do? More pointless work just to make the rest of the day after work as pleasant as possible for Dick. And I often shoot lazer beams from my eyeballs.
Speaking of the little poop stains, step four, Prepare The Children, is a real knee-slapper. "If they are small, wash their hands and faces and comb their hair. They are his little treasures and he would like to see them playing the part." As opposed to Jane, who is, apparently, his little do-it-all 5,000. Oh spare me. There's only one "little treasure" that Dick gives a flying set of brain cells about, and that is the stake that's cooking in the oven.
What would a day at the office be, thought, with out coming home to a silently obedient family? Step five calls all housewives to Minimize All Noise. "At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise from the washer, dryer, or vacuum. Encourage the children to be quiet." Because nothing quite says home like the dead silence of a church. While you're at it, why don't you just put a muzzle on the neighbor's dog and disconnect the telephone.
Step Six, however horrible the previous five steps have been, kind of takes the cake for the 'most likely to have been written by Pat Robertson' award. "Have a cool or warm drink ready for him. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or suggest that he lie down in the bedroom. Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing voice. Allow him to relax and unwind." For my sanity to stay fit, I thank the Lord that there were only two more to read.
"You may have a dozen things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first." Yeah, Shut up, Jane, before Dick gets annoyed and, and.....and. Do you see where this becomes disturbing to read? That was Step Seven. I hope the last one doesn't blow.
No. In fact the last one is probably the worst of the eight. "Never complain if he doesn't take you to dinner or other entertainment. Instead, try to understand his world of strain and pressure and his need to unwind and relax."
If you read these steps and it made you laugh, but, at the same time, made you look with an air of shock and hostility toward this very reactionary time in American history, then congratulations, you have a soul. I think this has even deeper meanings, however, because it shows just how far we have come due to the actions of social activists. Now, I'm not suggesting that one action will change the tide of social justice in this country, but I do know that if you make it known well enough that you will not be trotted upon, then you will eventually succeed. Immigrants, Former Slaves, Women, Homosexuals, and, yes, pot heads have all dealt and still deal with the same kind of self-righteously justified discrimination. Will you stand up and make a change?
With Infinite Love
Thomas F.
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
Memories of Home! (Smiles and stares off into the clouds)
Dear My Darling Public
Have you ever wondered how it is that you run into all your friends in one day? I absolutely love seeing them whenever I do to whatever capacity, but I really live for those days that are filled with every familiar face on campus. With every destination and every transitional treading, a new and friendly soul presents itself in warm welcome. Well, that day was today and, for a moment, I was reminded of my home town of Evergreen Park, Illinois. This neighborhood, not a mile long by a mile deep, contained within its bordering streets some of the most recognizable figures by silhouette alone. Indeed this was a place where nearly every person you saw existed somewhere in your memory, in some long lost thought in the back of your head and, just like that, their name was just at the tip of your tongue. Your first guess was usually right, but if it wasn't, you need not worry. Not enough time would be cast to the wind before the both of you would become lost in conversation.
The Village of Churches certainly has a culture of its own, embodied by the mystique of its poets, the rustic habits and old world welcome of its elderly, the morality and kind hearts of its church goers, the personal relationships and generosity of its local businesses, and the reliability and prudence of its politicians. From every bite of a Rosangela's pizza to every moment spent in prayer at Most Holy Redeemer Church, nothing quite compares to the beauty of a place to call home. I live in Erie, Pennsylvania at present, but no amount of words of combination of actions could put into amplification the feelings that enter my soul each and every time I return to my home.
When you grow up in the Chicago land area, it occurs to you very quickly that you, aspiring young (insert aspiration here), are a small human in an even smaller world. Hell, the city itself, in all of its visually overwhelming majesty, can seem, at that young, sponge like age, like it is the whole world. I have even been quoted as saying that "I'm back in America!" every time my family and I came back to Chicago from Indiana or Wisconsin. I know, I know, I literally thought I was going in between two different countries, but that's what it felt like. You learn, at a very young age, that it takes a community to raise a child, and, for the most part, you are raised by your friends, your comrades. The streets become the endless playground of discovery that provides you with adventure complete with danger at every turn and all kinds of friends from all walks of life to be made along the way. It was an urbanized, legend-of-zelda like game where you aren't just an individual, but an important part of the community.
It's not quite Chicago over here at Edinboro University, but the principles that I have embraced as dogma back home work in quite the same way out here in the country. For what it's worth, they make life here even more fulfilling and they allow for the kind of friendly, public trust that allows me to be extroverted and have the long list of familiar names and faces that I run into every single day.
I know I didn't go off on any political rant today, but in light of the State of the Union address and how much politics is already being shoved down the nation's throat, I just thought I would be a wee bit anecdotal, and play to the emotions of all of you because I know that feeling emotions of any kind is what makes us human. That and research just sounded a bit boring for today. Have a wonderful day, and God bless.
With Love
Thomas F.
Have you ever wondered how it is that you run into all your friends in one day? I absolutely love seeing them whenever I do to whatever capacity, but I really live for those days that are filled with every familiar face on campus. With every destination and every transitional treading, a new and friendly soul presents itself in warm welcome. Well, that day was today and, for a moment, I was reminded of my home town of Evergreen Park, Illinois. This neighborhood, not a mile long by a mile deep, contained within its bordering streets some of the most recognizable figures by silhouette alone. Indeed this was a place where nearly every person you saw existed somewhere in your memory, in some long lost thought in the back of your head and, just like that, their name was just at the tip of your tongue. Your first guess was usually right, but if it wasn't, you need not worry. Not enough time would be cast to the wind before the both of you would become lost in conversation.
The Village of Churches certainly has a culture of its own, embodied by the mystique of its poets, the rustic habits and old world welcome of its elderly, the morality and kind hearts of its church goers, the personal relationships and generosity of its local businesses, and the reliability and prudence of its politicians. From every bite of a Rosangela's pizza to every moment spent in prayer at Most Holy Redeemer Church, nothing quite compares to the beauty of a place to call home. I live in Erie, Pennsylvania at present, but no amount of words of combination of actions could put into amplification the feelings that enter my soul each and every time I return to my home.
When you grow up in the Chicago land area, it occurs to you very quickly that you, aspiring young (insert aspiration here), are a small human in an even smaller world. Hell, the city itself, in all of its visually overwhelming majesty, can seem, at that young, sponge like age, like it is the whole world. I have even been quoted as saying that "I'm back in America!" every time my family and I came back to Chicago from Indiana or Wisconsin. I know, I know, I literally thought I was going in between two different countries, but that's what it felt like. You learn, at a very young age, that it takes a community to raise a child, and, for the most part, you are raised by your friends, your comrades. The streets become the endless playground of discovery that provides you with adventure complete with danger at every turn and all kinds of friends from all walks of life to be made along the way. It was an urbanized, legend-of-zelda like game where you aren't just an individual, but an important part of the community.
It's not quite Chicago over here at Edinboro University, but the principles that I have embraced as dogma back home work in quite the same way out here in the country. For what it's worth, they make life here even more fulfilling and they allow for the kind of friendly, public trust that allows me to be extroverted and have the long list of familiar names and faces that I run into every single day.
I know I didn't go off on any political rant today, but in light of the State of the Union address and how much politics is already being shoved down the nation's throat, I just thought I would be a wee bit anecdotal, and play to the emotions of all of you because I know that feeling emotions of any kind is what makes us human. That and research just sounded a bit boring for today. Have a wonderful day, and God bless.
With Love
Thomas F.
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
Minimum Wage Hike? .... Sounds Like A Plan.
Dear My Darling Public
I took some time out of my night, which could have been spent on just about anything else, to watch the State of the Union address, and I have to say, I can't argue with at least one issue. The federal minimum wage is not where it needs to be to constitute a living wage. The president suggested raising it to about $10.10, not even what it would be if it truly remained linear with inflation, but don't hold your breath on this one.
According to the PEW Research Center, roughly 3.55 million hourly workers are federal minimum wage earners or lower. To put that number into perspective, the United States population is 313.9 million people according to the last census. If this makes it look like people making the federal minimum wage make up a tiny part of the population, just remember that the number of employed US citizens is 136,600,000. It is still a smaller portion of the working population, but does that mean that they no longer matter?
I mean, we're still talking about 3.55 million human beings with mothers, fathers, and in some cases, families of their own. An argument commonly made on the right is that raising the minimum wage would be an infringement upon the rights of business owners because they would have to use more of their profits to pay workers, and this will, in turn, raise the costs of products and services provided by their companies, but this kind of thinking cannot come from a place of experience, given that the federal minimum wage has lagged far behind inflation for quite some time.
The problem that this issue creates is a one two punch. First, it creates a working poor that absolutely must use federal entitlement programs like snap and medicaid, which are funded through tax payers' dollars. Considering the state of taxes today, just a half step above stealing from the ordinary income earner, raising taxes beyond necessity wouldn't just be devastating for the poor and middle classes. It would absolutely decimate Americans who are unemployed, overwhelmingly through no fault of their own, who need this coverage, like the modern minimum wage earner, to survive another day. Second, and I would argue most important to those who champion business, it squeezes the buying power out of a large portion of the american consumer base.How could we ever expect to have a perfect "free market economy" if a giant chunk of your working population cannot purchase any goods?
However, if you, like me, approach this in a more humanitarian manner, then you might take the "don't be such a heartless monster" argument in stride. You see, in the eyes of the free market, you have to "incentivize" the ever living crap out of big businesses in the same way a teacher would gives incentives to a bunch of kindergartners that need a peace of candy every time they do something positive or answer a question right. It sounds stupid, yes, but it's every bit as much true and raising the minimum wage to $10.10 will not kill the profits of these already over profitable companies.
With Love
Thomas F.
I took some time out of my night, which could have been spent on just about anything else, to watch the State of the Union address, and I have to say, I can't argue with at least one issue. The federal minimum wage is not where it needs to be to constitute a living wage. The president suggested raising it to about $10.10, not even what it would be if it truly remained linear with inflation, but don't hold your breath on this one.
According to the PEW Research Center, roughly 3.55 million hourly workers are federal minimum wage earners or lower. To put that number into perspective, the United States population is 313.9 million people according to the last census. If this makes it look like people making the federal minimum wage make up a tiny part of the population, just remember that the number of employed US citizens is 136,600,000. It is still a smaller portion of the working population, but does that mean that they no longer matter?
I mean, we're still talking about 3.55 million human beings with mothers, fathers, and in some cases, families of their own. An argument commonly made on the right is that raising the minimum wage would be an infringement upon the rights of business owners because they would have to use more of their profits to pay workers, and this will, in turn, raise the costs of products and services provided by their companies, but this kind of thinking cannot come from a place of experience, given that the federal minimum wage has lagged far behind inflation for quite some time.
The problem that this issue creates is a one two punch. First, it creates a working poor that absolutely must use federal entitlement programs like snap and medicaid, which are funded through tax payers' dollars. Considering the state of taxes today, just a half step above stealing from the ordinary income earner, raising taxes beyond necessity wouldn't just be devastating for the poor and middle classes. It would absolutely decimate Americans who are unemployed, overwhelmingly through no fault of their own, who need this coverage, like the modern minimum wage earner, to survive another day. Second, and I would argue most important to those who champion business, it squeezes the buying power out of a large portion of the american consumer base.How could we ever expect to have a perfect "free market economy" if a giant chunk of your working population cannot purchase any goods?
However, if you, like me, approach this in a more humanitarian manner, then you might take the "don't be such a heartless monster" argument in stride. You see, in the eyes of the free market, you have to "incentivize" the ever living crap out of big businesses in the same way a teacher would gives incentives to a bunch of kindergartners that need a peace of candy every time they do something positive or answer a question right. It sounds stupid, yes, but it's every bit as much true and raising the minimum wage to $10.10 will not kill the profits of these already over profitable companies.
With Love
Thomas F.
A Little Privacy Please!
Dear My Darling Public
I have been on something of a media binge lately. This is, for better or for worse, because my Intro to Reporting professor had warned my class on the first day that she would be "pop-quizzing" us on what is happening in the media. I can't exactly complain, though. I mean, it's just an excuse to watch all of the Al Jazeera America, BBC World News, c-span, and CBS that I want. It also gives me the reasoning that I need to catch up on the various newspapers that I frequent, which include, but are not limited to: USA Today, The Erie-Times News, The Washington Post, Politico, The Erie Reader, and The Wall Street Journal.
I happened to be flipping through Monday's addition of USA Today, and I found myself interested, beyond my ability to keep track of time, in the latest news on French president Francois Hollande's "affair with actress Julie Gayet, and the de facto first lady's hospital visit for what the french consider "a crisis of nerves." This story has put me in a place of empathy for the first socialist president of a nation with such a long history of social revolution.
For those who have not been keeping up with the distinctly French soap opera, it goes a bit like this. On January 10th, a French tabloid magazine called Closer featured a story that made front page news. President Francois Hollande had been discovered to have been having an affair with an actress named Julie Gayet. As it is not customary in most of Europe for the media to dwell upon the private lives of, well, anybody, president Hollande blew it off, understandably so, urging his people to focus on the parts of politics that matter. However, before the president could act, his girlfriend, journalist and de facto first lady Valerie Trierweiler had already checked into the hospital of what can only be described as a broken heart.
I simply could not ignore this story because I was under the impression that, for the most part anyway, this repulsive coverage of the private lives of individuals, but especially politicians, was one of those destructively bad habits that was and still is unique to the puritanical, "christian-like" nature of American culture. Weather we're talking about Bill Clinton or Anthony Wiener, the american people just love to senselessly hate on the sexually active. I, however, expected a little more from the French media, a tradition that was once known for its attention to issues of consequence, and it's tendency to respect a private life as private.
The french, however, have not disappointed me quite yet. In fact, the presidents approval rating has, perhaps due to, or in spite of the highly publicized affair, increased from 15% in November to 26%. What I can say is that the French have certainly responded in a different, and arguably more mature way than the American public would have. To prove this, I need not look further than the Bill Clinton "sex scandal" in which the republican led congress of the late 90's spent nearly all of their time and resources investigating an affair between the president and a white house intern named Monica Lewinsky.
What I hope to see before I die, is an America that would mirror the actions of its more mature counterparts just an ocean away in Europe. Privacy and tolerance toward alternative lifestyles or different sexual practices are just another part of what makes the thought of living in a place like France infinitely more appealing than living in a place where such things are at the most illegal, and, at the least, discouraged and shunned upon like The United States. Furthermore, I wish to see an America that embraces civil liberties that go beyond the morals, "family values", and personal tastes of a few reactionary puritans, and if you share my deep seeded disdain for the morality police who swear to serve and protect "family values", then stand up, repeat the facts, and be heard.
With Love
Thomas F.
I have been on something of a media binge lately. This is, for better or for worse, because my Intro to Reporting professor had warned my class on the first day that she would be "pop-quizzing" us on what is happening in the media. I can't exactly complain, though. I mean, it's just an excuse to watch all of the Al Jazeera America, BBC World News, c-span, and CBS that I want. It also gives me the reasoning that I need to catch up on the various newspapers that I frequent, which include, but are not limited to: USA Today, The Erie-Times News, The Washington Post, Politico, The Erie Reader, and The Wall Street Journal.
I happened to be flipping through Monday's addition of USA Today, and I found myself interested, beyond my ability to keep track of time, in the latest news on French president Francois Hollande's "affair with actress Julie Gayet, and the de facto first lady's hospital visit for what the french consider "a crisis of nerves." This story has put me in a place of empathy for the first socialist president of a nation with such a long history of social revolution.
For those who have not been keeping up with the distinctly French soap opera, it goes a bit like this. On January 10th, a French tabloid magazine called Closer featured a story that made front page news. President Francois Hollande had been discovered to have been having an affair with an actress named Julie Gayet. As it is not customary in most of Europe for the media to dwell upon the private lives of, well, anybody, president Hollande blew it off, understandably so, urging his people to focus on the parts of politics that matter. However, before the president could act, his girlfriend, journalist and de facto first lady Valerie Trierweiler had already checked into the hospital of what can only be described as a broken heart.
I simply could not ignore this story because I was under the impression that, for the most part anyway, this repulsive coverage of the private lives of individuals, but especially politicians, was one of those destructively bad habits that was and still is unique to the puritanical, "christian-like" nature of American culture. Weather we're talking about Bill Clinton or Anthony Wiener, the american people just love to senselessly hate on the sexually active. I, however, expected a little more from the French media, a tradition that was once known for its attention to issues of consequence, and it's tendency to respect a private life as private.
The french, however, have not disappointed me quite yet. In fact, the presidents approval rating has, perhaps due to, or in spite of the highly publicized affair, increased from 15% in November to 26%. What I can say is that the French have certainly responded in a different, and arguably more mature way than the American public would have. To prove this, I need not look further than the Bill Clinton "sex scandal" in which the republican led congress of the late 90's spent nearly all of their time and resources investigating an affair between the president and a white house intern named Monica Lewinsky.
What I hope to see before I die, is an America that would mirror the actions of its more mature counterparts just an ocean away in Europe. Privacy and tolerance toward alternative lifestyles or different sexual practices are just another part of what makes the thought of living in a place like France infinitely more appealing than living in a place where such things are at the most illegal, and, at the least, discouraged and shunned upon like The United States. Furthermore, I wish to see an America that embraces civil liberties that go beyond the morals, "family values", and personal tastes of a few reactionary puritans, and if you share my deep seeded disdain for the morality police who swear to serve and protect "family values", then stand up, repeat the facts, and be heard.
With Love
Thomas F.
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
Thursday, August 15th
Dear My Darling Public
Today was an elaborate success. I woke up with more intention than usual, but a bit early to ready myself for being a little under an hour early to pick up my friend Yukiko from her dorm at EUP. It was an interesting drive, but none the less fruitful due to the fall like breeze in the bright August sun. It was the kind of weather that allowed for a lover of tweed jackets like myself to wear it all day without breaking a sweat. I got to EUP just twenty minutes shy of my meeting time, but that gave me time to use a bathroom, something I had been waiting to do for some time before leaving. When the five minute mark approached, as I always do, I waited in our meeting spot in anticipation, and checking the time on my phone faster than the minutes could go by, and, looking around, I could see that the trees and other plant life were in full bloom for the fall semester. I sent a text message to Yukiko's cellular phone to alert her to my presence and she responded "ok", and before I knew it, she was directly behind me. She told me about her savage addiction to watching anime as we approached my car in the parking lot just across the street explaining to me that it was the only thing she had been doing for the better part of the previous forty-eight hours. I guess I just don't understand the appeal or the fanaticism surrounding Japanese anime, or cartoons for that matter, but, at the same time, I suppose she might have felt the same way about my obnoxiously otaku-like taste in world cultures, hookah, and the liberal media.
The drive to downtown Erie facilitated some interesting conversation between Yuki and myself, particularly regarding the state of affairs between her and the housing and residence life office at EUP that had forced her to live in the highlands dorms for the coming academic year. This is, by sheer dumb luck, the same challenge that I have been faced with for the greater part of the summer, however, I had gotten out of it by calling the housing office on a daily bases to inquire about rooms that may have opened in the traditional dorms, and, sure enough, one had just in time. I told her she may be late and she may not and making it known to them that you need to be switched back to traditional dorms. By the time this conversion had transitioned into a talk about what traveling we had done. I had explained that I had traveled locally while I was living in Chicago, and around Erie as a way to do research for my writing, and she explained to me that she had done the majority of her traveling through the English as a second language class she was in. I told her of a common destination of mine, New Buffalo, MI, that I had visited at least once a year for the Ship and Shore festival when I lived in Chicago. Because it was just around the tip of lake Michigan, it was an easy-access place to enjoy a weekend.
When we got to about fifteenth and state, I proceeded under the artistically painted viaduct that was right next to BT and turned right into the small, but accessible parking lot that I use every time I go downtown. When we got out of the car, I immediately felt a breeze blow my hair all the way back and turned my head to the side and shielded myself with my hands to avoid it from blowing it into my face because I absolutely hate that feeling. So it was that we made our way down State street taking photographs of various locations. Usually places that looked very urban-like (red brick buildings, ally ways, busy streets, etc) and the subject of what to do next was brought up and I froze and turned directly to my right, and there was the Erie Art Museum. I went up the stairs in the assumption that the gargantuan doors at the top of the white, marble stair case was the main entrance; I was wrong. The main entrance was actually just around the block in the other direction, so there we went. Upon entering, we were greeted be a very articulate male host that had a keen artistic authority to his explanations of the various exhibits. The first one had a display of fine three dimensional art, which Yuki and I took multiple photographs of on our cell phones. The next was a series of photographs themselves by this famous artist whose name I cannot remember. The day went by in the art museum quite well, and You will be able to read more about it in the review I will post about it in the near future.
The next place we decided we would go to visit was a restaurant by the name Scully's Pizzeria. It was a hole-in-the-wall pizza joint attached to a bar, and, or at least from what I could tell, the one employee working as the bar tender was also the one serving Yuki and I, the only patrons of this restaurant at the moment, pizza and sprite. I would say that the pizza was alright, but I would be lying. This pizza was greasy beyond belief, the pepperoni was too small, and the pizza was small itself. The cheese was nice and thick though, so I guess that was good. Yuki began, after having finished her first slice, to explain to me that I would have payed thirty dollars for the same pizza in her native Japan. Now, I'm a lover of long distance, but this still made me instantly stop drinking and almost spit out what was in my mouth. To think somebody had spent thirty dollars for a less than satisfying pizza. By the time we were done we headed back toward my car and, when we finally got there, she took my CD case and started browsing through the large selection of CDs contained within and pulled out, without having known the group, my Pearl Jam Ten CD and asked if she could put it in and I said "Of course".
When we got back to Edinboro she met up with her friends and I made my way back home when I thought to myself. "I could really go for some hookah right now." I made my way to the Casablanca Hookah Lounge on fifth and Peach in the same place I had been just hours before and and sat down at one of the couches. The lounge actually had menus for the shisha that was available for consumption. I picked out, in my eternal love of all things citrus tasting, the Orange flavored hookah, but I had not anticipated how strong it would be. Later on that night I had a conversation with a friend from school that had walked into the lounge after my third coal and left the bar for home.
Yours Truly
Thomas F.
Today was an elaborate success. I woke up with more intention than usual, but a bit early to ready myself for being a little under an hour early to pick up my friend Yukiko from her dorm at EUP. It was an interesting drive, but none the less fruitful due to the fall like breeze in the bright August sun. It was the kind of weather that allowed for a lover of tweed jackets like myself to wear it all day without breaking a sweat. I got to EUP just twenty minutes shy of my meeting time, but that gave me time to use a bathroom, something I had been waiting to do for some time before leaving. When the five minute mark approached, as I always do, I waited in our meeting spot in anticipation, and checking the time on my phone faster than the minutes could go by, and, looking around, I could see that the trees and other plant life were in full bloom for the fall semester. I sent a text message to Yukiko's cellular phone to alert her to my presence and she responded "ok", and before I knew it, she was directly behind me. She told me about her savage addiction to watching anime as we approached my car in the parking lot just across the street explaining to me that it was the only thing she had been doing for the better part of the previous forty-eight hours. I guess I just don't understand the appeal or the fanaticism surrounding Japanese anime, or cartoons for that matter, but, at the same time, I suppose she might have felt the same way about my obnoxiously otaku-like taste in world cultures, hookah, and the liberal media.
The drive to downtown Erie facilitated some interesting conversation between Yuki and myself, particularly regarding the state of affairs between her and the housing and residence life office at EUP that had forced her to live in the highlands dorms for the coming academic year. This is, by sheer dumb luck, the same challenge that I have been faced with for the greater part of the summer, however, I had gotten out of it by calling the housing office on a daily bases to inquire about rooms that may have opened in the traditional dorms, and, sure enough, one had just in time. I told her she may be late and she may not and making it known to them that you need to be switched back to traditional dorms. By the time this conversion had transitioned into a talk about what traveling we had done. I had explained that I had traveled locally while I was living in Chicago, and around Erie as a way to do research for my writing, and she explained to me that she had done the majority of her traveling through the English as a second language class she was in. I told her of a common destination of mine, New Buffalo, MI, that I had visited at least once a year for the Ship and Shore festival when I lived in Chicago. Because it was just around the tip of lake Michigan, it was an easy-access place to enjoy a weekend.
When we got to about fifteenth and state, I proceeded under the artistically painted viaduct that was right next to BT and turned right into the small, but accessible parking lot that I use every time I go downtown. When we got out of the car, I immediately felt a breeze blow my hair all the way back and turned my head to the side and shielded myself with my hands to avoid it from blowing it into my face because I absolutely hate that feeling. So it was that we made our way down State street taking photographs of various locations. Usually places that looked very urban-like (red brick buildings, ally ways, busy streets, etc) and the subject of what to do next was brought up and I froze and turned directly to my right, and there was the Erie Art Museum. I went up the stairs in the assumption that the gargantuan doors at the top of the white, marble stair case was the main entrance; I was wrong. The main entrance was actually just around the block in the other direction, so there we went. Upon entering, we were greeted be a very articulate male host that had a keen artistic authority to his explanations of the various exhibits. The first one had a display of fine three dimensional art, which Yuki and I took multiple photographs of on our cell phones. The next was a series of photographs themselves by this famous artist whose name I cannot remember. The day went by in the art museum quite well, and You will be able to read more about it in the review I will post about it in the near future.
The next place we decided we would go to visit was a restaurant by the name Scully's Pizzeria. It was a hole-in-the-wall pizza joint attached to a bar, and, or at least from what I could tell, the one employee working as the bar tender was also the one serving Yuki and I, the only patrons of this restaurant at the moment, pizza and sprite. I would say that the pizza was alright, but I would be lying. This pizza was greasy beyond belief, the pepperoni was too small, and the pizza was small itself. The cheese was nice and thick though, so I guess that was good. Yuki began, after having finished her first slice, to explain to me that I would have payed thirty dollars for the same pizza in her native Japan. Now, I'm a lover of long distance, but this still made me instantly stop drinking and almost spit out what was in my mouth. To think somebody had spent thirty dollars for a less than satisfying pizza. By the time we were done we headed back toward my car and, when we finally got there, she took my CD case and started browsing through the large selection of CDs contained within and pulled out, without having known the group, my Pearl Jam Ten CD and asked if she could put it in and I said "Of course".
When we got back to Edinboro she met up with her friends and I made my way back home when I thought to myself. "I could really go for some hookah right now." I made my way to the Casablanca Hookah Lounge on fifth and Peach in the same place I had been just hours before and and sat down at one of the couches. The lounge actually had menus for the shisha that was available for consumption. I picked out, in my eternal love of all things citrus tasting, the Orange flavored hookah, but I had not anticipated how strong it would be. Later on that night I had a conversation with a friend from school that had walked into the lounge after my third coal and left the bar for home.
Yours Truly
Thomas F.
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
Wednesday, August 14th
Dear My Darling Public
Today started like any other day off in the summer. I got up to the sound of the ear-piercing cry of the obnoxiously energetic baby my sister babysits. What happened to me next comes as a frustration to me because I don't babysit. If fact I took a seven to six construction and landscaping job because babysitting is such a muscle-twisting pain in my ass. My lovely sister decided that she needed to accompany my mother and other sister to take my other sister to the doctor for her physical, leaving me alone with this nine month old potato sac of love and energy. At first he was, admittedly, a bit adorable because of his incessant need to climb on top of everything in his path be it the couch, the other couch, the end table, or even me, and leave a trail of slimy saliva in his wake. And, for the most part, you would imagine that this sort of behavior would be limited to those obstacles that seemed climbable, but, alas, you would be wrong. This little guy, apparently feeling like he was going to be spider-man for the next hour and a half, began an ill conceived attempt at scaling the wall next to the couch. Now, I know that it's just bad guardianship to encourage a sprouting, sponge-minded infant to accomplish something that is physically impossible, but something about getting on the floor and holding him to keep him from falling as he attempted the impossible made me feel like I was helping mold his mind in a way that might some day facilitate a sense of self-perceived greatness in him rather than a sense of low self-esteem.
Anyway, after his trial and error attempts at gaining superhuman climbing powers, I decided that I, the grumpiest babysitter in all of nannydom, would also act upon my occasional desire to perform the seemingly impossible and put this energizer bunny of a kid to sleep. I picked him up and drew his head just on my shoulder as I seated him securely in my arms, and began walking around, slightly bouncing my step, and singing Mary Lambert's part in Same Love by Maclemore and Ryan Lewis very softly into his ear. This, as I should have known, didn't work at all, and by the time I got up the stairs and in to my parents' sitting room, he had already soiled himself. Now it was time to change his diaper, a task I had performed with both of my sisters when they were babies, but they were, for the most part, calm babies. This little bundle of energy decided that, while I was unchanging him on my parents' bed, he was going to have the worst case of restless leg syndrome in the history of mankind. It took about thirty minutes just to take the one peace baby suit, undershirt, and dirty diaper off. At this point you would think that most living things would just be happy to no longer be clothed, but no, not wonder-baby. No, this little guy took this opportunity to get up and jump off of the edge of my parents' bed, which is quite a drop. I caught the little bugger before he even got into the air, and when I put him back on the bed so I could put the next diaper on him don't you know he takes a leak right there all over my parents' sheets. It took a bit longer to get the new diaper on him, but when I finally got it on I set him on the ground for a few seconds as I removed the sheets from the bed and threw them into the laundry room.
By this time the rest of my family had come through the door and were all running over to make stupid faces and annoying sounds at this poor thing. I immediately went down to the basement to practice my bagpipes and, after having played all my basic pieces, I made my way to my room to listen to Maclemore and Ryan Lewis (I might love them a lot.) and read a few more pages from The Country of the Pointed Firs. Now, I find this book to be metaphorically symbolic through the lens of my upbringing. Earlier in my crazy life, I was almost always surrounded by people four or five decades older than me. It was listening to their stories and political views that almost completely molded me into what I am today. The best thing was that almost every story they told you had something more to it. It had a sort of nostalgically expressed truth that couldn't be expressed by any other kind of person. Likewise, in Sarah Orne Jewett's American epic of one woman's return to her beloved Dunnet Landing, Maine, The elderly of the landing, be it Captain Littlepage or Mrs. Todd, hold a conventional wisdom that is completely untapped by the younger generation. They see themselves as the last of the mariners or sea faring folks, a tradition that they claim to have been lost with the new generation.
In some ways I do feel like good traditions have been completely lost with the new generation, but I also know of a greater number of absolutely disgusting traditions that are, by the grace of God, disappearing with the next generation. The biggest of these disappearing traditions, if I do say so myself, is intolerance. I feel that I've dedicated most of my life to this horrible sin because it is something that I've faced in my life. To make a long story short, for anybody out there that has ever been disenfranchised and alienated by the majority of their age demographic for having a foot fetish (or any fetish for that matter), I feel your pain deep in my heart. I actually watched one documentary that described the act of having a foot fetish as an outward expression of selfishness and low self-esteem. Hearing things like that from television-psychologists on top of my peers regarding my foot fetish as creepy and unnatural drove me up a wall. I never let it give me a complex though. I instead used it as a point of reference to remind myself that intolerance is absolutely intolerable.
As I did my daily lap around the block on my thirteen year old skateboard with the Northwestern Pennsylvania sun setting behind my back and the wind blowing through my hair , I pondered this in my head. Now, the rout I usually take puts me into the line of sight of a few people that I see but never speak to, almost as if they only exist as part of the landscape of the subdivision. Although, I can't help but think that they think of me in the same way, but that's just another classic example of my tendency to over analyze everything. Just remember. People can't for the life of them guess what you think, so you have to destroy your standards of engagement.
Yours Truly
Thomas F.
Today started like any other day off in the summer. I got up to the sound of the ear-piercing cry of the obnoxiously energetic baby my sister babysits. What happened to me next comes as a frustration to me because I don't babysit. If fact I took a seven to six construction and landscaping job because babysitting is such a muscle-twisting pain in my ass. My lovely sister decided that she needed to accompany my mother and other sister to take my other sister to the doctor for her physical, leaving me alone with this nine month old potato sac of love and energy. At first he was, admittedly, a bit adorable because of his incessant need to climb on top of everything in his path be it the couch, the other couch, the end table, or even me, and leave a trail of slimy saliva in his wake. And, for the most part, you would imagine that this sort of behavior would be limited to those obstacles that seemed climbable, but, alas, you would be wrong. This little guy, apparently feeling like he was going to be spider-man for the next hour and a half, began an ill conceived attempt at scaling the wall next to the couch. Now, I know that it's just bad guardianship to encourage a sprouting, sponge-minded infant to accomplish something that is physically impossible, but something about getting on the floor and holding him to keep him from falling as he attempted the impossible made me feel like I was helping mold his mind in a way that might some day facilitate a sense of self-perceived greatness in him rather than a sense of low self-esteem.
Anyway, after his trial and error attempts at gaining superhuman climbing powers, I decided that I, the grumpiest babysitter in all of nannydom, would also act upon my occasional desire to perform the seemingly impossible and put this energizer bunny of a kid to sleep. I picked him up and drew his head just on my shoulder as I seated him securely in my arms, and began walking around, slightly bouncing my step, and singing Mary Lambert's part in Same Love by Maclemore and Ryan Lewis very softly into his ear. This, as I should have known, didn't work at all, and by the time I got up the stairs and in to my parents' sitting room, he had already soiled himself. Now it was time to change his diaper, a task I had performed with both of my sisters when they were babies, but they were, for the most part, calm babies. This little bundle of energy decided that, while I was unchanging him on my parents' bed, he was going to have the worst case of restless leg syndrome in the history of mankind. It took about thirty minutes just to take the one peace baby suit, undershirt, and dirty diaper off. At this point you would think that most living things would just be happy to no longer be clothed, but no, not wonder-baby. No, this little guy took this opportunity to get up and jump off of the edge of my parents' bed, which is quite a drop. I caught the little bugger before he even got into the air, and when I put him back on the bed so I could put the next diaper on him don't you know he takes a leak right there all over my parents' sheets. It took a bit longer to get the new diaper on him, but when I finally got it on I set him on the ground for a few seconds as I removed the sheets from the bed and threw them into the laundry room.
By this time the rest of my family had come through the door and were all running over to make stupid faces and annoying sounds at this poor thing. I immediately went down to the basement to practice my bagpipes and, after having played all my basic pieces, I made my way to my room to listen to Maclemore and Ryan Lewis (I might love them a lot.) and read a few more pages from The Country of the Pointed Firs. Now, I find this book to be metaphorically symbolic through the lens of my upbringing. Earlier in my crazy life, I was almost always surrounded by people four or five decades older than me. It was listening to their stories and political views that almost completely molded me into what I am today. The best thing was that almost every story they told you had something more to it. It had a sort of nostalgically expressed truth that couldn't be expressed by any other kind of person. Likewise, in Sarah Orne Jewett's American epic of one woman's return to her beloved Dunnet Landing, Maine, The elderly of the landing, be it Captain Littlepage or Mrs. Todd, hold a conventional wisdom that is completely untapped by the younger generation. They see themselves as the last of the mariners or sea faring folks, a tradition that they claim to have been lost with the new generation.
In some ways I do feel like good traditions have been completely lost with the new generation, but I also know of a greater number of absolutely disgusting traditions that are, by the grace of God, disappearing with the next generation. The biggest of these disappearing traditions, if I do say so myself, is intolerance. I feel that I've dedicated most of my life to this horrible sin because it is something that I've faced in my life. To make a long story short, for anybody out there that has ever been disenfranchised and alienated by the majority of their age demographic for having a foot fetish (or any fetish for that matter), I feel your pain deep in my heart. I actually watched one documentary that described the act of having a foot fetish as an outward expression of selfishness and low self-esteem. Hearing things like that from television-psychologists on top of my peers regarding my foot fetish as creepy and unnatural drove me up a wall. I never let it give me a complex though. I instead used it as a point of reference to remind myself that intolerance is absolutely intolerable.
As I did my daily lap around the block on my thirteen year old skateboard with the Northwestern Pennsylvania sun setting behind my back and the wind blowing through my hair , I pondered this in my head. Now, the rout I usually take puts me into the line of sight of a few people that I see but never speak to, almost as if they only exist as part of the landscape of the subdivision. Although, I can't help but think that they think of me in the same way, but that's just another classic example of my tendency to over analyze everything. Just remember. People can't for the life of them guess what you think, so you have to destroy your standards of engagement.
Yours Truly
Thomas F.
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