BuggBlog

Toasty!

I heard today via my boss that the upcoming Playstation3 will feature parental controls that, apparently, will give parents the ability to block their kiddies from playing Grand Theft Auto. Unsuprisingly, this sent me on a tirade.

Really, what's the frickin' point? Parents in this country have repeatedly proven inept, incomptent and insane when it comes to dealing with the television (and peripherals) and their children. Every damn television made for almost a decade now comes with a V-chip, every tv show comes with a prominent rating, cable boxes allow channels to be accessible via password only, DVD players can restrict viewing to PG-13 or lower, and what do we get for this congressionally mandated (or strongly encouraged) technological toolbox? You get Federal Communications Commission Chairman Kevin Martin saying to Congress:

"You can always turn the television off and, of course, block the channels you don't want, but why should you have to?"

Sure, why should you when your government can do it for you?*

Can we please get rid of these jokers now? Preferably with pitchforks and torches? I mean, I know the Republicans had already morphed into mid-1980s style big government Democrats, but this is just ridiculous. Now they've turned into Tipper Gore.

I'm so upset I need to go work off some steam with a little Mortal Kombat. Toasty!

*Edited for a bit of clarity.

Full speed ahead

A friend tipped me off to this review of the Bugatti Veyron, the long-awaited supercar that uses a 1,000 horsepower engine to reach a top speed of 253 miles per hour. Reviewer and all around lucky son of a bitch Jeremy Clarkson offers a number of examples to illustrate exactly how fast the Veyron is, e.g. 200 mph generates enough wind to launch a jumbo jet into the air. But this is, perhaps, my new favorite linguistic descriptor of what it means to drive a very, very fast car:

"From behind the wheel of a Veyron, France is the size of a small coconut."

Check out Clarkson's review, even if you're not particuarly interested in supercars -- the physics of driving at these speeds are fascinating. I doubt I'll ever indulge in the joy of 200+ mph driving -- 120 is good enough for me, and I doubt I'll be pushing anything even that far anytime soon, thank you very much -- but one can always fantasize.

Assimilate this

Jeff Gannon's found a cause that suits him: a new National Don't Come Out Day. Apparently, "coming out" is simply a ploy of elite coast-dwelling homos intent on driving an identity politics wedge between the blue states and Middle America. Or, at least, that seems to be his gist. As always in a Gannon column, it's difficult to discern an actual point beyond a couple of second-hand political platitudes meant to annoy the Great Homosexual Liberal Orthodoxy.

Of course, showing absolutely no understanding of contemporary gay and lesbian politics in either rural or urban settings is no surprise from Gannon. How could he form an accurate picture of gay and lesbian reality when he resorts to such egregious generalizations as this:

[I]dentity politics isn’t a game played outside the blue enclaves of the coasts. Across the remainder of the country, ordinary Americans, including gay ones, live their lives as firefighters, schoolteachers, doctors, and office workers.

They quietly go about living in their communities and forming relationships. Their friends and neighbors don’t care if they’re gay; in many cases it’s known or assumed. But it doesn’t color the daily conduct of their lives.

Some friends and neighbors don't care if they're gay. Others care a great deal. I'm from rural America, and I maintain fairly close ties to my family there -- my own experience has been a fairly positive one. I've known others who have been disowned by their families, shunned by their friends, fired by their employers. While it's silly to say that every last middle American gay person suffers under the heavy hand of oppression, it's also silly to say that the gay life out there is all sunshine and sweetness, when it's not even sunshine and sweetness for everyone in urban enclaves. Gannon dismisses concerns about gay rights in the broader U.S. as a profit-driven myth propagated by "professional gay victims," and claims that "[i]n reality, there is far less intolerance than they claim." The idea that it's suddenly easy to be gay in the hinterlands, if you just keep quiet about it, could only be put forth by someone whose understanding of middle America is shaped primarily by reading The Corner. 

Then there's this gem:

Some leaders of the “gay movement” complain that people who don’t take part in Gay Pride parades or engage in political activism don’t deserve the benefits of the advances brought about by those who do. This is tantamount to suggesting that only those who support the military are entitled to the protection it provides.

It would be helpful if Gannon could actually name one of the "leaders" who has made this claim. While I'm sure some activists have made this argument, I know plenty of non-urban gay activists have repeatedly wailed about the presence of drag queens and leather men at gay pride parades. But are either one of those "leaders of the 'gay movement'"? In the age of Google, it takes a particular kind of laziness to avoid backing up a claim like that.

Now we get to the nut of his "argument":

They tend to discount the impact of millions of gay men and women who are gradually changing the hearts and minds of fellow Americans by simply being more like everyone else than constantly reminding them of how different they are.

These are the silent heroes who choose assimilation over confrontation. They are creating a “new normal” where sexual orientation isn’t a primary defining characteristic. Their contributions to their communities are judged on their own merits instead of being viewed through the prism of identity politics.

While Gannon may have found "tantamount" in his online thesaurus, he has a problem with the concept of assimilation. When we talk about assimilation as a goal of the gay and lesbian civil rights movement, we're talking about the idea of gay and lesbian people becoming a part of the larger culture as gay and lesbian people. Assimilation doesn't mean being or becoming invisible, which Gannon seems to think. But by redefining a secretive, closet life as activism Gannon achieves his real goal -- declaring himself a silent hero.

A girl can dream, I suppose.

As a side note, Editor & Publisher last month ran a story about Gannon's debut in the Washington Blade and editor Chris Crain's defense of it. In the article, E&P wrote that I "responded to Crain's column with a vow that [I] would never publish Gannon." I would say "vow" is an overly-dramatic characterization, as my in-box was certainly never in danger of receiving one of Gannon's missives and, I assume, never will be. My greater concern is about Crain's characterization of the role of gay media. But my point about Gannon in that piece stands -- namely, that publishing him is a cheap publicity stunt, not a serious effort to expand the range of opinion within the GLBT community. I think his continuing output proves the point.

What a turkey!

Fingertip-severing mandoline accidents aside, this turned out to be one of the better Thanksgivings in my recent memory. It was my first-ever cooking for an entire extended family -- I guesstimate about 20 people overall, including myself and Cavin. And I give my effusive thanks and praise to Food Network's Alton Brown, whose guide to brining gave me the best turkey I've ever made in my life. It even survived the small grease fire during the first 15 minutes of 500-degree baking that in the end simply added the touch of culinary drama without which no family gathering would be complete.

While the whole thing was a success (as best as I could judge, given that English was definitely not the primary language of the evening), by the time we finished eating I was more physically exhausted than I've been in years. After cooking from 4 to 11 p.m. on Wednesday night, I resumed at 6:30 a.m. on T-day and kept right on going until we finally ate after 5.

Talking to my sister the next day, it was pretty clear what both of us are doing with our frenzied pursuit of complex holiday menus that combine our old Kentucky favorites -- cornbread-sage dressing in my case -- with frou-frou and time-intensive recipes designed to impress (cranberry orange sauce with fennel, anyone?). We're recreating a childhood experience that's only half real in the first place, attempting a Herculean schedule of cooking and organizing that no one in their right mind in our family would have attempted. Our childhood memories of tables of food and desserts were the result of everyone pitching in -- Granny, Mom, our aunt -- with different parts of the meal.

Heather and I, conversely, try to exercise strict control over the whole thing. And I know things may be a little out of hand when I put more organizational planning into a Thanksgiving dinner than into the average week of editing a magazine -- I had lists, timelines, a sheaf of recipes at hand, an honest-to-god plan of attack to make sure not one little thing went wrong. Thanksgiving turns me into a dictator with a martyr complex. For example, I still feel guilty for two dessert cheats I was forced into by time. First was a Pillsbury ready-to-roll pie crust instead of my own old-fashioned flaky lard-based crust for the pumpkin pie. Second, was the use of Cool Whip instead of freshly whipped cream for both the pumpkin-gingerbread trifle and to top the pie (when I told Heather what I had done, she said with only partially-mock horror, "You used Cool Whip?").

But I'm comfortable with all that, as long as I get to eat me some cornbread dressing. Because, when it comes down to it, the memories I'm recreating may be hagiographic but my house was filled with actual people eating and drinking and laughing and playing cards and all together acting like a family. It's an experience I'd never had in my own house, and it was a big step in feeling like it was partly my family as well. And I'll gladly cook for 20 hours straight to have that feeling again.

So much for the touch typing

So everything was going near perfectly today as I pulled together Thanksgiving dinner for Sprout and the  in laws: jump out of bed at 6 a.m. to brine the turkey, make an emergency red velvet cake just in case the pumpkin gingerbread trifle didn't work out, prep all the dressing and casseroles, get the cha gia  (Vietnamese egg rolls) ready to fry. In fact, things were going so well that once the turkey got cooking I got cocky. And if there's one thing you don't want to do, it's get cocky with a mandoline.

Now that I'm missing the tip of my middle finger and sporting a near-stitches-requiring gash in my pinky, I'm no longer cocky. Although the cucumber salad was spiffy, I won't be learning braille anytime soon.

A pretty good year

With a little more than a year under my belt as a suburbanite -- given the state of political play in Virginia, I still resist actually thinking of myself as Virginian -- and I've decided the fit is good. Of course, it's not like I'm in Loudon, Manassas, or any of the so-called exurbs. And since I work downtown, it's not as if I'm experiencing a complete withdrawal of D.C. finest moments.

On the downside of moving:

• The commute, while not bad, still puts me in transit for around an hour and a half a day. Now, since I review cars as part of my job, that means my time driving is often productive, in the doing-something-for-work sense. But I do miss driving to work in five minutes or less.
• Raking leaves. I'll have to remind myself of this the next time I find myself daydreaming about a bigger yard.
• I could really use some gay neighbors. Not that my straight neighbors are anything less than lovely, for the most part (although I get the feeling that a few whom I've spoken to backed off when they figured out what I meant by "partner" -- perhaps it has something to do with the "W" stickers still on their cars). But it would be nice not to feel quite so on the frontier. And I miss watching the gay boys in my building stumble back home while I walked the dogs on Sunday morning. Comedy gold, that was.
• Right-wing nutjobs galore running the state legislature. It's not nearly as amusing to spectate when you actually live here.

On the upside:

• The number of sirens I've heard in the past year is the same as I heard in a week (or less) in Columbia Heights.
• I've never had to search for a parking space when returning home.
• Not once has someone taken a piss in my Jeep.

What more could a guy ask for?

Well, aside from fair and equal treatment for Cavin and me. But I'll take a piss-free automobile any day in the meantime.

Conspiracy? Let's ask Bill Gates

My Xbox crapped out tonight, just when I was starting to get into a little online competition with Burnout Revenge (or, more likely, getting my ass kicked online by numerous pre-teens with better hand/eye coordination). Just a coincidence that a console I've used trouble-free for two years breaks without warning just four days before the release of the newer, shiner, way-more-expensive Xbox 360?

I would actually assume that Microsoft had sent a disabling signal via Xbox Live, but I have to use Word and Entourage every day. There's no way they're that competent.

Headline funnies

From today's Washington Post: "Zimbabwe Scolds, but Does Not Expel, U.S. Ambassador"

Well, I can't think of anyone better to scolded by. In fact, I'd be happy to hear that Zimbabwe was blustering, furiously, ragingly screaming because the U.S. ambassador had the temerity to point out that the country is in the midst of an ungodly economic and political crisis because the government is, you know, corrupt. Oh, wait, there's Robert Mugabe now:

On Tuesday, [Zimbabwe President] Mugabe was even more blunt. "You can tell him that I can't spell Dell, but I can spell hell," he told reporters in Harare, the capital, according to news reports. "That is what I know, and he might be there one of these days."

Standard crap from the unhinged kleptocrat who's busily destroying the country. Given that Mugabe has also gone out of his way to refer to gays as "less than dogs and pigs" it's  not surprising that his apparatchiks in the government run press have added a presumably anti-gay twist to the story. The Post reports:

Daily newspapers controlled by the government have relentlessly attacked [Ambassador  Christopher W. Dell ever since, even suggesting that he was wandering in the botanical garden in search of sex.

The sooner Mugabe falls, the better off Africa and the world will be. Unfortunately, I have the feeling that the U.S. is a bit too distracted to aid much beyond getting scolded, since not even African genocides seem capable of moving us to action.

Cankles away!

You'd think I'd have learned my lesson by now, but no. When getting ready to play some singles on Sunday, I looked at the ankle brace I keep in my giganto, holds-everything-you-could-possibly-need-or-want tennis bag and thought, "Eh, my ankle's been fine lately. I don't need that today." Naturally, about four balls into the warm-up, I'm running to a backhand, getting into a hitting stance, when I feel my right foot start to roll and then --

POP!

-- I'm rolling on the court yelling, "Fucking goddamn sonofabitch!" or something to that effect. Luckily, I remember the embarassment from a couple years back when I twisted my ankle during my first match in a doubles tournament and threw a world class whiny fit on court -- "remember" meaning that I'm often reminded of it by people who rightly snicker about it to this day -- so this time I clamped down on the profanity and sucked it up. Like most ankle sprains I've had, it's the initial pain that's the worst, and walking it off actually did some good. So I belatedly strapped on the brace for some stability so I could play some doubles.

Naturally, I played better injured than I've played healthy for the past few weeks. I'm assuming it's the "Mrs. Howell Technique" -- distracting yourself from the pain of your shoes by wearing earrings that even more painfully pinch -- by which the pain in my right ankle completely masked the pain in my left knee that's been undermining my serve and movement.

Bad move. By Sunday night I had a major cankle that was unresponsive to the RICE combination of rest, ice, compression and elevation, and I spent Monday on the couch, trying to RICE it some more. The cankle remains, but the pain has lessened. And I'm off the court for two weeks, most likely. I really need the bionic era to being soon. Then I could just roll up my leg skin and get things fixed.

Or, you know, I could just take the 60 seconds to put on the frickin' ankle brace next time.

Dogged effort

After work last night, I made a quick stop by the 7-11. As I was driving home with my convenient purchases -- no Slurpee, as I did start a diet this week -- I came upon a chihuahua walking nervously down the middle of access road that runs parallel to the main highway. In the manner of most scared dogs, it didn't make for the safety of nearby yard, and instead seemed to be trying to outrun the car behind it. So I stopped, put on the hazards, and got out to try and snag the littler sucker before it got hurt. Naturally, as soon as I set foot on the pavement, the dog ran underneath my Jeep and promptly emitted a series of screeching barks. I couldn't coax it out, and when I moved to the other side, it ran out toward the main highway, where the only thing kept it from being an immediate chihuahua pancake was the nearby traffic light that had slowed traffic to a crawl. I decided to move my Jeep out of traffic before trying to head down and grab the pup -- to be honest, I couldn't decide if running into traffic to save a small dog (which had tags, so it belonged to someone in the neighborhood, I'm sure) was a sign of admirable bravery or dangerous stupidity. It ended up a moot question, as by the time I parked, traffic was moving once again and I couldn't see the dog anywhere, dead or alive.

On the one hand, I kind of wish I was the sort of person who would immediately run into the middle of a highway to save an obviously lost and scared dog. On the other, I'm kind of glad I'm not the person who ends up on the evening news for running into the middle of a busy highway to save a dog and getting killed. Either way, here's hoping the scared and screechy little toy dog found its own way home.