Octsoberfest

Yes, you read that right: Oct-sober-fest. I am giving up drinking alcohol for the month of October.

Today is the first day of my self-employment (eek!), and I've decided to quit smoking Oct. 1. As much as I like to smoke, I don't like being addicted, and my experience is that it's easier to quit smoking when undergoing a big life transition, such as a job change. Another reason for quitting smoking is because it's damned expensive, and I can use all the financial slack I can get now that I'll no longer have a steady paycheck coming in.

Which brings me to the drinking: I have a tendency to chain-smoke when drinking, so I figured it'd be helpful to lay off the booze for a while. It'll also help me cut back on expenses, and it'll be an interesting health experiment. I'm curious about how I'll feel--whether I'll have more energy and be more clear-headed--when I'm not drinking 2-3 times per week.

I mentioned these goals to my co-workers at last night's farewell happy hour, and one of them expressed concern that they were too lofty. "That's a lot to take on all at once," she said. Perhaps. I imagine she was worried that I might get down on myself if I don't follow through. But the chance that I may fail is, to my mind, not a reason not to try. And besides, I have support: my friend-neighbor is also giving up smoking with me, and I have the support of other friends and family, including my regular drinking buddies, for which I am grateful.

So we shall see how it goes. Am a little bummed that I have to wait until November to try the bottle of fancy tequila my thoughtful, wonderful (ex-)co-workers bought me, but perhaps the delayed gratification will just make it that much sweeter.

RE: "The Wingman's guide to sucking cock"

A couple days ago I Twitter-stumbled across this head-spinning blog post by "Wingman" on the proper way to give a blow job. I should have known what I was in for from the first paragraph, wherein he suggests that a man telling a woman "you're such a whore" is "the ultimate compliment." But what really got my attention was the line: "Sucking dick without swallowing is like taking your dog for a walk and not picking up its shit."

Before I launch into my critique, let me just say this: given my unfavorable reaction to this blog post, I considered not responding. I considered the fact that doing so would undoubtedly result in driving traffic to his site, which is a kind of support. I could have simply shrugged my shoulders--saying to myself, "Well, he has a right to self-expression"-- and vowed never to read another word from this man again.

But the fact is that his post reinforces some cultural messaging that I find to be particularly damaging, and if people don't speak up against messages like this, then the damaging ones are the only messages out there, and that's not okay with me. So I offer a different perspective for your consideration.

Let's leave aside Wingman's fallacious assumption that only women give blow jobs ("Anyway, ladies, follow these rules and no matter how much disdain a guy may have for you, he’ll think of you every time he blows his load"--or does he just assume that men already know how to give great ones?), and let's assume, for the sake of argument, that he doesn't mean for us to take his charming metaphor literally: that he doesn't mean to equate himself with a dog; his semen with dog shit; and another human being's mouth, throat and stomach with a plastic baggie made for the express purpose of receiving his sexual by-product. Instead let's discuss the gist of this metaphor, which is a sense of personal responsibility.

The day does not care what day it is

The day does not care what day it is;
the sky was as blue
on Tuesday as on Friday afternoon.
A warm breeze caresses the tree branches
causing them to sway and dance
to music I don't hear.

The day does not care
that it was the first week of school
and we want to say it’s fall:
it’s 91 degrees
the day says, "it’s summer still."

My body says, “I’m still tired,”
but I have to get up now.
The day says, “Come out and play,”
but I have to work.
My body says, “I’m hungry,”
but it isn’t time to eat.
“Pipe down, body, and do my bidding.
We are on a schedule.”

The day does not care what day it is
yet I live by these constructed notions of time
of month and day and hour—
these boxes that determine
when I get up and when I go to bed
regardless of the sun’s whereabouts
regardless of my body’s rhythms—
and feel surprised
somehow betrayed
when the sun shines Monday through Friday
and the weekend is gray and rainy.

I just found out I'm a Republican.

Was talking to my mother yesterday morning about her upcoming visit to Portland. She's been wanting to see the Chinese garden for ages, so we were talking about doing that. And then she got really excited and said, "Ooh! And we could eat at Macaroni--. Oh." Her voice dropped a couple octaves in energy and pitch. "Well I was going to say we could eat at Macaroni Grill, but Republicans eat there." What?

She'd read an article about the study by National Media correlating consumer spending habits to political party affiliation. She said Republicans eat at Taco Bell and McDonald's too. Concerned about my potential subconscious right-leaning tendencies I did a search on the Internets and found this article by Thomas B. Edsall, a fairly regular Op-Ed contributor to the New York Times. And folks, the evidence against me is overwhelming: I am a Republican.