Usually I slam out a blog post in a Word file and then transfer it over here to the wordpress template and tinker. Then, after I publish it I find more typos and things to tweak.
This morning, though, I am going to slam down something spontaneous as John Gorka sings “St. Caffeine” and drink coffee in a world where Roy Moore will not be the US Senator from Alabama.
I think in music and songs a lot. I haven’t written very many of my own – as a teenager I played a song I wrote for someone who’d made a few records, and she tore my song a new one and I never tried to write one again. But I know and appreciate a lot of other peoples’ songs, so the rest of this post is going to be the songs I thought of this morning – and one I found for the first time.
His victory does feel kind of like a Hanukkah miracle.
Anyway, along with this one, for all the sex offenders (see definition in prior post) who are going down, here are a couple of songs inspired by Roy Moore and the Alabama Senate election, with some bonus songs thrown in:
“I’m a loser” – You can have this live recording of the Beatles, especially with the screaming girls in the background. Or, if you’re more of the geek type, (like me), there’s this in-studio take which is a little more down-tempo, and which John quits on shortly before the song ends. I also like the instrumental break and the the way it’s mixed. there’s this one.
“Thank you, World” – Karl Wallinger’s band World Party is one of many influenced by the above-mentioned band. Also, it makes terrific music. So it seemed appropriate to express my gratitude to Alabama’s voters (particularly the black women who turned out to help hoist Jones over the finish line). It’s one of my “happy songs,” and I am happy that one less guy who thinks having a Jewish lawyer makes him multicultural is going to be making laws in Washington.
In the Department of “Not so Fast” there’s Roy Moore himself, who is not conceding. I imagine him and Kayla slow-dancing to Jason Aldean’s “I Ain’t Ready to Quit.”
One of my Facebook friends made a comment about God being female, and that made me think of the amazing and way too underknown John Gorka, who wrote “Mean Streak,” one of the songs that kept me sane during my split from Ex 1. But the one FB pal conjured was “Zuly,” about the Second Coming. This time, Jesus shows up as a baby girl. I’ll let you discover what comes after that.
Finally, two songs for Hanukkah.
This one, by Gorka, is one to think about. It’s called “Ignorance and Privilege,” and I’m just gonna leave it here with space…………………
The last, by my cousin Debbie (z”l) whose mother misses her every day and who I miss almost as much and think about a lot, is a Hanukkah classic. I’ve never played one on TV, but I’ve played “I’m a Latke” on my guitar! Happy Hanukkah to everyone who celebrates, and Merry Upcoming Christmas, Joyous Kwanzaa or just plain Happy Winter!
Al Franken announced his resignation from the Senate Thursday in the wake of a bunch of disclosures from women that he was handy and not in a good way.
That was shortly after the Republican party publicly endorsed Roy Moore, the Senate candidate who was reportedly banned from the Gadsen Mall for creeping on (to use a term I first heard out of the mouth of Ex One’s best friend Tommy) “Tenderonis.”
Since then, there has been a lot of handwringing on social media about why it is that Republican sex offenders* are, for the most part, circling the wagons while Democratic sex offenders* are, for the most part, resigning from office.
I, too, was struggling with this. Well, I was. Then I filtered it through the Shit-Pile Theory of Life, at which point it made perfect sense.
The “Shit-pile Theory of Life”
I don’t remember when I came up with the Shit-pile Theory of Life (Shpitol). It was at some point during a decade running a Displaced Homemaker program at a Large Midwest Technical College. I wanted to encourage my participants to keep moving forward, even when what was in front of them looked scary and insurmountable.
Here’s how I explained it in those one-on-ones with my participants. For starters, I substituted “Manure” or “poop-pile,” given that shitpile is NSFW.
Every single person – regardless of how rich, successful or powerful – is born with a pile of shit. Here’s the person {insert hand gesture indicating person on left} and here {insert similar hand gesture indicating shitpile on right} is that person’s pile of shit.
Here are four different ways people deal with their piles of shit:
Some say ‘Omigod, Omigod!!! It’s a pile of shit!!!” And they freak out and run around like headless chickens because they’ve got a pile of shit. This, it goes without saying, is not a healthy or effective way of dealing with their shitpiles.
Some say “Oh yeah? A pile of shit? Not here!” These people address their pile of shit by throwing it at other people. Not a good idea, because shit gets thrown back at them and they end up engaged in a constant metaphorical shitwar in which everyone gets dirty.
Some say “Pile of shit? What pile of shit? I don’t smell anything. You must be hallucinating.” These people end up in deep doo-doo, because ignoring your shit does not make it go away.
Some say, “I’m going to turn this shit into fertilizer if it’s the last thing I ever do.” Those are the ones who, if they don’t give up, eventually end up with a garden.
How does this apply to the current situation with, globally speaking, the Republicans, aka “elephants” and the Democrats, aka “donkeys”?
At first, everyone was running around like headless chickens. Since moving on from there, the elephants are now throwing and ignoring their shit. The donkeys are trying to turn theirs into fertilizer.
Turning shit into fertilizer is hard work. It takes time, thought and deliberation; the end result is growth.
Far easier, in the moment, to throw or ignore it. But as a long-term strategey, it rarely works. Shit has a funny way of sticking around. When you throw it at other people, they tend to throw more back. Ignoring it is even more dangerous, because not only it does it not go away, your pile actually gets bigger and will eventually bury you.
It’s anybody’s guess what will happen tomorrow when Alabama voters head to the polls to pull the lever for Roy Moore, Doug Jones or write-in candidate Lee Busby.
One thing I do know? Ignore that steaming pile at your own peril.
*Sex offender: a person who has offended another person or persons by invoking sexual acts/behavior using words or actions
It’s been busy around here. Thanksgiving is in the rear-view mirror. Before that though, my faithful seven-year-old computer went kerflooey. Never mind that I had writing deadlines. Thankfully, I have an understanding editor. And over at the library, we are moving to reduced-service status for the next year or so while we get a new building. So I’ve been weeding like crazy.
And every day, the news features a “Creep du Jour” and it’s either some dude old enough to be your father (I’m looking at you, Charlie Rose) or your little brother (that would be you, Lewis C-K) or the guy who was a complete asshole to your now deceased former husband when said former husband committed the terrible offense (upon finding himself the other occupant of the elevator on which said Creep was riding) of telling the Creep much he enjoyed his work on Saturday Night Live (Al Franken, C’mon down!).
Regarding C-K, his apology engendered this response from one of my more opinionated offspring when I observed that at least he’d apologized. It took place on a mutual friend’s Facebook page.
Opinionated Offspring: “NO COOKIES FOR DOING THE LEAST!! I don’t give him any respect. He’s a predator and he got called on it, it’s not like he voluntarily mea culpa’d out of the goodness of his heart. We should all be absolutely finished with giving men cookies for just doing the right thing— ESPECIALLY when the ‘right’ thing is admitting he’s a sexual predator.”
A photo taken early in my career as a sex siren, between Incidents #3 & #4 on the list below. I mean, look at me. Am I irresistible or what?
My response was to post the following list:
Bruce P. I was 13. Our teacher sent us to the auditorium to check on something for that night’s performance of “The Wizard of Oz,” our eighth grade play. He decided, with all the other boys standing there, to find out for sure whether or not I stuffed my bra. He never apologized.
Symeon of Symeon’s Greek Restaurant. I was 15. He was married with three children. Mom said “The food is good.” She kept taking us there. He never apologized.
I don’t remember his name. I was 16. He was a 48-year-old divorced classmate of my father’s. He never apologized.
Lewis K. (not c-k) I was 19. He wouldn’t let me leave his dorm room. I talked myself out of there, but made sure to never again be alone with him. He never apologized.
My great-uncle Sam. I was 19. He had a daughter my age. But that didn’t stop him from trying to slip me the tongue. He never apologized.
I don’t remember his name either. I was 20. He was at least 50, lived in Abu Ghosh and worked at Ma’ale HaChamisha. Cornered me in an isolated part of the kitchen to cop a feel. He never apologized.
Mike M. I was 33, divorced, newly-disengaged, never had had a full-time job but was doing all kinds of freelance writing and looking for a full-time writing/reporting job in Milwaukee. He offered me a job but sexual favors were a condition of employment. His response to my reluctance was “If you won’t help me, I won’t help you.” I took a job 200 miles away. He never apologized.
Jeff J. He was a practitioner of what (thank you, Charlie Rose) is now called “The Crusty Paw,” aka “unsolicited shoulder rubs.” We were both at work in an otherwise unoccupied part of the building when he came up behind me and began the pawing, which didn’t faze me until he upped the ante by dropping a kiss on my neck. I said “That was your one freebie and if you ever do it again, I promise you’ll regret it.” He apologized.
Walter B. I was at a neighborhood party in my new neighborhood and he groped me. One night, on a walk with a male neighbor, I told him what happened. “He groped me too,” said the man. Upon further investigation, it turned out that getting groped by Walter at a party was some sort of perverse neighborhood rite of passage. Needless to say, he never apologized to anyone.
All this to say: Apologies, if they are heartfelt, sincere and a first step toward permanent change, matter. Or, to put it in the parlance of another current social movement: “Real Apologies Matter.”
C-K’s apology had me from his opening line.
“These stories are true.” No equivocating. No accusing anyone of lying, or misconstruing, or misunderstanding.
To be clear, I also pointed out to Opinionated Offspring and anyone else reading the thread that C-K’s apology does not in any way minimize his (hard-earned? {ducks}) predator status. It cracks open a door he may or may not be able to actually step through at some point. (Which is a lot more than can be said for Roy Moore or the Groper-in-Chief.)
I am not smart enough or sophisticated enough to know what a person who preys on others this way needs to do to fix himself (or herself if the gender shoe fits).
I can’t speak for anyone other than myself in speculating about how someone in this position begins to rebuild that blown trust and credibility with the people they’ve wronged.
But for me, admission of responsibility and an apology would constitute an excellent start.
I’ve seen Bruce P. at several high school reunions, and every time it makes my flesh crawl. I want to stand on a table and scream “How dare you show up here!” at the same time I’m cowering underneath it. But it’s as if I’m somehow paralyzed, so I just try to pretend that whatever corner of the room he’s in doesn’t exist. Meanwhile, he’s Mr. Oblivious, laughing, happy and and holding court with groups of laughing female classmates I can’t approach because I’m busy avoiding that corner of the room.
At our most recent reunion, I buttonholed the female classmate in that cluster who I trusted most (which I am realizing as I write this was kind of an awkward, eighth-grade-level attempt to get her to be my wingwoman in some sort of possible meeting in which I could possibly get some resolution, given that he is obviously not going to stop coming to reunions and I am not going to let him stop me from showing up). I was not heartened by her response.
“I’m sure he doesn’t even remember! He was probably drunk!”
Me ( in my mind): “We were 13! Are you on crack?”
Me (aloud): “Whatever.” {Changes subject}
So, where does any of this leave all of us #metoo types?
Over on Facebook, a few people reacted to my posted list with horror, kindness and empathy.
My response was to reassure those good people that I am, and remain, fine.
“I don’t live in all this, or even relive it. But it’s important to not bury it. People need to understand how common the behavior is and how uncommon the apologies are. There really needs to be ‘Truth & Reconciliation’ type activities around all this, and for the people who have committed this type of action to know what they’ve done and say it aloud is an important step.”
George Lakoff has retired as Distinguished Professor of Cognitive Science and Linguistics at the University of California at Berkeley. He is now Director of the Center for the Neural Mind & Society (cnms.berkeley.edu).
