At this point, Hillary could “stand in the middle of 5th Avenue and shoot somebody” and I would still vote for her.
At this point, Hillary could “stand in the middle of 5th Avenue and shoot somebody” and I would still vote for her.
I want to write my thoughts about the $17.5 billion in bonds that the Saudi Arabian government has just sold to the international community. I’m going to seemingly conflate the subject with the verifiable evidence that terrorism has come from that country, as well as the way that the Kingdom treats women, LGTB folks, and others.
I’ll attempt to argue that this is one of those “Hard Choices” that Hillary Clinton would have to wrestle with. It’s not going to be a simple post, so it may take a while.
In 2005, I drove from Pipestone, Minnesota to Sioux Falls, South Dakota, every single day, to work as a phone banker at the Wells Fargo Phone Bank. I loved my job, especially the drive. It was 45 minutes of heaven, driving through the hilly lands of Southwestern Minnesota and Eastern South Dakota, the land dotted with cattle and dead motorcyclists.
About 10 minutes into the drive, the town of Jasper, MN would come into view. My heart would skip a beat and I would turn the car into the large parking lot of the Jasper Mini Mall. Jasper Mini Mall was just a gas station, but had all the trappings of a small town. A coffee dispenser sat in the back, right beside a pile of homemade cinnamon rolls.
I did the same thing every morning. I would grab a cup, fill it with coffee and grab a cinnamon roll. A breakfast of champions. The coffee had a very distinct taste. Not bitter or weak. A bit sweet, maybe hinting of maple syrup. It never changed and I loved it.
Then, last September, my marriage was struggling, and I took my wife out to the country for our anniversary. We drove through around the dirt roads, she taking pictures, me rolling my eyes at her need to take pictures (yes…that was part of the reason we were struggling…me, with my disrespect) and looking at windmills.
We ambled our way to Jasper and I pulled into the Mini Mall parking lot. This was 10 years after I drank my last cup of coffee and I wanted to see if it still tasted the same.
I walked through the door and was flooded with memories. Everything was exactly the same. The same coffee dispenser that had been there in 2005 was still sitting there. The cinnamon rolls were gone and in their place sat banana bread. I grabbed a cup – the same cups as had always been there – filled it to the brim with coffee and lifted the cup to my lips.
The coffee hit my tongue and tasted the same as it always had. I slurped it down, finishing the cup before I hit the door.
Today is the big day. We do this every six months. Well, it’s not the big day, being only four of six kids are going to the dentist. Usually, we schedule all six squirts and they bring in all the hygienists, turning the place into a zoo.
I expect a few cavities. Here we are in the car, on the way:
*Telephone rings* *My bride, Kristine, answers*
“Hi, this is [redacted] from the Elementary School. I just wanted to let you know that your daughter, Analisse (The Freak), was playing with a friend on the playground at lunch. She took her shoes off, filled them full of pea gravel, then proceeded to pretend that the rocks were lunch. I think she ate some.”
So yeah, that happened.
In her defense, she swears she didn’t eat any. But I’ll be watching her poop.
I WILL NOT SUCCUMB!
I never get sick. But when I do, I do it with abandon. Problem is, I already took two days off last week, just to write on Incongruous Circumspection, and clean the house. I told all my myriad bosses that I was sick. Now, when I’m really sick, I’m going to have to go in and sneeze on everyone.
But that would actually work in my favor. Everyone else would get sick, causing them to wave me off and fall back to sleep, when I announce I’m really not coming in.
Maybe I’ll just take the day off and not tell anyone. Not like they’d notice I’m not there.
I realize I’m only 36 years old, which means, since I was born in 1980, I have only seen 9 presidential elections. I especially remember the one where Reagan won the first time. I was suckling at my Mama’s breast when it was announced on Fox News and I bit down hard, then shoved her aside to watch the festivities.
But I don’t think I remember this stupid crap of “OMG!!!! Who is the candidate going to invite to the debate!!!!???”
And Trump ups the ante (was there even an ante?) by inviting Malik Obama, Obama’s brother, born in Kenya. Yeah. There’s a reason I bolded that last part. Seriously. What the fuck is that about?
In 2011, Trump demanded Obama’s birth certificate (and yeah…that is most definitely relevant to this subject). He offered $5 million to a charity of Obama’s choice if he would show it. Then, he rode that wave into the primaries for 2016. When it finally caught up to him, he pussy-footed around his stupid bullshit and walked away from the demand, seemingly accepting the obvious – that Obama was actually a citizen of the United States.
And then he does this. Let me be clear:
Other than impressing his birther followers, there is NO OTHER REASON to invite this guy. None.
I am so ready for this election to be over. I wouldn’t even care if Julian Assange publishes a picture of Hillary Clinton giving the username and password of John Podesta’s email account to Vladimir Putin. I need to wash my brain out with bleach. Hillary, no matter how flawed, is becoming the candidate that I will be most proud to vote for in my entire life – and almost all of it isn’t her fault.
I’ll put a GOOD! behind good conversation and a BAD! behind bad.
Man sees a woman who is having a bad day/week/year/life.
Man: “Hello! How are you? I see you are down in the dumps. Let’s talk about it?” GOOD!
Conversation ensues. As the woman shares about her life, the gentleman shares things from his. Over the next few days, they get to know each other. Feelings begin to flower. The gentleman is falling for the woman and the woman, though skeptical of his intentions, is feeling flutters within her…wait…I know nothing about women’s feelings. But let’s just say she’s into the bloke.
Man: “So, wanna get together and cuddle?” GOOD!
Woman: “No. I’m not really into you like that. That’s not what I’m here for.”
More conversation, lasting over the next few days. Nothing changes from the woman’s side. She has still not suggested that she is willing to be anything other than platonic or non-sexual friends. In her mind, when a gentleman suggest cuddling, it is just a precursor to what he really wants.
Man: “So, wanna get together and cuddle?” BAD!
Dude…you’ve crossed boundaries here. Stop.
“So, wanna get together and cuddle?” “So, I’ve really gotten to know you on a deeper level and I know you said no to cuddling a few days back. Has anything changed? And if not, would you appreciate me never bringing it up again?” GOOD!
Now, the gentleman could just go ahead and never say the above at all and take the initial NO! as a final answer. Many women actually appreciate that approach. But being honest and open about his intentions and where he wants to go with the conversation/relationship is just fine, as well.
Finally, a woman (or a man) is not obligated to explain why they are not into you. Keep that in mind. It’s very important. (Speaking to you, MRAs). Additionally, it is perfectly reasonable for the woman to be angry at the second attempt, no matter how civil or well-reasoned it may be. This is the thing about personality. Everyone is different.
In short, we learn about each other so we can know how to respect them. No human being has an obligation to reject us in a certain way. Their life experience will dictate how they go about doing it. Do not take offense. Consent is easy. Practice it.
And for god’s sake, don’t belittle and shame the one doing the rejecting. Oh…one more thing: Rejection of a physical or sexual relationship is not necessarily a rejection of you.
As all my readers know, I have a daughter who we call, The Freak. She’s six years old. She embodies everything good about that label, as well as everything bad, being re-translated into good by me, because I love her so damn much.
Yesterday, I took the family to a semi-local apple orchard. It was a balmy 70 degrees, which meant my shirt was too hot. I took it off and enjoyed the corn maze, pumpkin hunting, apple picking (and sorting the rotten ones on the ground), and petting goats and alpacas.
And so did Analisse (The Freak). The moment my shirt came off and was tucked into my back pocket, I felt little fingers shoving something into my other back pocket. I looked behind me to find her, half-naked, pretending to not notice that I caught her. I didn’t care. As a dad, I’m a pack mule, wherever I go. I’m okay with it. Also, I encourage my young daughters to take their shirts off, if they want to. It’s not illegal. If the activity was illegal, as it is when they are older, I leave that up to their mother to determine how much is too little cloth.
About an hour into our visit, I was kneeling down by a goat, feeding it grass, when the old man who owns the orchard rode up on his four-wheeler. He hops off and catches my eye, obviously nervous. In short order, he strode over to me, bent down, and nearly whispered into my ear:
Now, I don’t know if anyone really has a problem with this, but, your daughter, with her shirt off, may cause some people to have a problem, so…
That’s it. I thanked him and he straightened, looking very relieved, got back onto his four-wheeler, and rode away.
Now, I could have argued and told him to fuck off. But I cared more about making the day enjoyable for my kids, getting plenty of apples, and doing the pumpkin thing. It wasn’t a life or death situation. In fact, I figured that really, only the old man had a problem with it, and he would be dead in a few years anyway. Jumbled thoughts ran through my head as I went and told my bride what the old man had said.
We agreed that she should probably put the shirt back on. I spoke to Analisse about it, telling her that some people here wanted it on and so I was putting mine back on too. She agreed after a tiny bit of protest, but quickly brightened up when I pulled my shirt over my head.
Without skipping a beat, she was back playing in the sand.
I don’t know what my point is in writing this, but I was sad. Sad that my daughter couldn’t just enjoy who she was, legally. Sad that some people are so bothered by the skin of a little child, they have to dictate my parenting choices. Sad that it is 2016 and we still shame little children for their natural bodies. Sad that it’s 2016 and we still shame older girls for their bodies. Confused that I was bent over a fence, mostly naked from the waste up, possibly even showing a plumbers crack, and the old man rendered me perfectly normal, and yet didn’t see my daughter that way.
I’ll be back there next year. And next year, I won’t stop her from taking her shirt off again. And when he tells me to have her put it back on, we’ll do the dance again. Or maybe I’ll confront him nicely. Or maybe one day he’ll change.
Here is a list of problems with our current political climate:
Hillary Clinton was a lawyer. She defended a rapist. I’m sorry to say to those in the cheap seats, that a rapist, no matter how vile their act was, has the same due process rights that you and I have. You and I. Those who wouldn’t ever rape a woman. I know it’s an awful idea to swallow, but it’s true.
Think about Black Lives Matter and their best argument against the senseless slaying of African Americans on America’s streets, by our police. Whenever a young black man or woman is shot dead, their body punctured full of bullets from trigger-happy men in blue, the police department quickly trots out their criminal history. Even worse, if there is no readily available criminal history, they will tell details of the individuals attitude, what they were wearing, how they were carrying themselves, how they didn’t listen to commands and instantly obey. In short, the police are arguing for the position of being judge, jury, and executioner – disregarding the due process that every white man who encounters the same officers seem to get by default.
Back to the rapist.
So this guy rapes a girl and requests a female lawyer. Hillary is assigned to be the public defender at the time and is handed the case. She attempts to recuse herself but is left with little choice. Hillary takes the case. The guy does a lie detector test. Passes, saying he didn’t do it. Clinton sends samples to a guy in New York. Samples are misplaced. Guy could get off if he wanted to. No samples. Lie detector pass. Easy, right?
Yet Clinton convinces him to plead guilty.
Five years later, Clinton is interviewed on tape and describes, in detail, the chain of events. She laughs during the interview at things like her naive notion that justice was always served correctly and that lie detector tests were reliable.
But in the minds of those who cannot sit through a grainy and lengthy interview, understanding the nuances of our system of laws that not only are to keep us safe from rapists, but were written on the principle that we were innocent until proven guilty. In our current climate, Trump slams his fist against the podium and thunders into the air, “Clinton laughed at a 12-year-old girl who was raped.”
And his followers lap it up. They parrot it online. It becomes gospel. So gospel that when their guy says, “I can grab women by the pussy and kiss them without even asking, because I’m a celebrity,” his followers excuse him by saying, “Hillary laughed at a raped girl!”
Lawyers like Hillary are exactly the type of lawyer Trump would need if someone came forward, unafraid of his power, and accused him of sexual assault.
The last time we went on a grocery shopping trip alone, Analisse (6) and I were in Colorado in the middle of nowhere. She wore her sister’s tiara and begged me to wear another one. It was made of plastic and was too small for my head, so I was afraid I was going to break it. Laura (13), the owner, would have wept. I wore a hat instead.
Tonight, we went shopping again and she wore this:
You can’t see it, but one of her socks is an ankle sock and the other, a mid-calf sock.
We went to Costco and ate dinner. There was a small mishap:
A full cup of Pepsi, all over the floor. She dropped it and then loudly and publicly blamed me.