To the Supreme Court: What is wrong with you people?
While I disagree with your decision on the California bill proposing restricting minors' access to violent video games, I'm willing to concede that free speech is a slippery slope kind of thing, and I'd rather have too much of it than too little. I'm very much okay with that.
What I'm not okay with is your lack of any form of logical construction in your decision.
From the decision:
The Act covers games “in which the range of options available to a player includes killing, maiming, dismembering, or sexually assaulting an image of a human being, if those acts are
depicted” in a manner that “[a] reasonable person, considering the game as a whole, would find appeals to a deviant or morbid interest of minors,” that is “patently offensive to
prevailing standards in the community as to what is suitable for minors,” and that “causes the game, as a whole, to lack serious literary, artistic, political, or scientific value
for minors.”
Seriously? Murder, dismemberment, and sexual assault might not be considered a deviant or morbid interest? Okay, sure, these can have literary or artistic merit. I'll give you that one, even if the phrasing here drips with irony and the bill does stipulate that literary and artistic merit are okay-- at least we can still have Titus Andronicus for PS 2 and XBox.
But here's the part where I start to have some trouble:
Our cases have been clear that the obscenity exception to the First Amendment does not cover whatever a legislature finds shocking, but only depictions of “sexual conduct,”” Miller,
supra, at 24. See also Cohen v. California, 403 U. S. 15, 20 (1971); Roth, supra, at 487, and n. 20.
I'm going to leave alone the double standard that violence is somehow not obscene but sexual conduct is. Jon Stewart did that argument better than I ever could, anyway.
But how is an image of a woman being pulled in half, from the crotch up, by a man tugging on each foot not a depiction of sexual violence? How is that less obscene than ANYTHING Larry Flynt ever came up with? I think we are all on board that Hustler is free speech, but there's a reason they keep it behind the counter and ask for ID at the local Quik-E-Mart. Or is sexual violence somehow less offensive than "sexual conduct"?
Even less logically, you say that the California bill does not include restrictions on other kinds of entertainment, such as Saturday morning cartoons. Um, did the MPAA and Federal Communications Commission decide to close and not tell anybody?
And that's the central flaw of your argument is that this this country "has no tradition of specially restricting children's access to depictions of violence." Tell that to the twelve-year-old trying to buy a ticket to a Quentin Tarantino movie.
Saturday, July 02, 2011
Friday, July 01, 2011
The Manda's Navel Becomes a Cosmic Vortex
According to the packet of pre-op information that I received two days after surgery (I'm not going to blame the hospital for this; I'm not great at checking my mail consistently) I was supposed to take off the bandages about six days ago.
Oops.
In my defense, they're really scary looking. They're basically just pieces of gauze, but the scary part is the clear plastic covering they put over the gauze. This is hardcore adhesive. It's survived a week of showering with nary a curl at the edges. Ripping off something like that is going to hurt, and I don't like pain as a general rule.
I've got one of the bandages on my navel. Or I had one, because I peeled it off this afternoon just to see how much it would hurt.
How much did it hurt? Less than getting pretty much any part waxed, so I've got that going for me.
Except now it appears my navel reaches all the way to my spine. That can't be right.
Maybe I can get a job in a freak show when I go to Vegas next week.
According to the packet of pre-op information that I received two days after surgery (I'm not going to blame the hospital for this; I'm not great at checking my mail consistently) I was supposed to take off the bandages about six days ago.
Oops.
In my defense, they're really scary looking. They're basically just pieces of gauze, but the scary part is the clear plastic covering they put over the gauze. This is hardcore adhesive. It's survived a week of showering with nary a curl at the edges. Ripping off something like that is going to hurt, and I don't like pain as a general rule.
I've got one of the bandages on my navel. Or I had one, because I peeled it off this afternoon just to see how much it would hurt.
How much did it hurt? Less than getting pretty much any part waxed, so I've got that going for me.
Except now it appears my navel reaches all the way to my spine. That can't be right.
Maybe I can get a job in a freak show when I go to Vegas next week.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Into the Open. With Pants.
Last night I reached my limit for repeated viewings of episodes of How I Met Your Mother, so I put on pants (trousers for my U.K. readers) for the first time in five days.
Well, real, outside pants, anyway. Don't panic. I've been wearing pajama pants since Thursday's surgical fun. It's not turning into the Condor Club around here, I assure you.
Pants are kind of tricky right now, though, because I've still got some swelling and stitches that make the ordinary process of wearing pants/ trousers kind of complicated. Pajamas are ideal, because they're loose and lightweight, but they're not really socially acceptable in public once you're out of college.
As a rule, I like wearing pants. It's an activity that fits well with who I am and who I hope to become. Not a lot of respect out there for the pantsless.
Even when I wear a skirt, I put on shorts underneath. First, the shorts greatly reduce the phenomenon Laurie Notaro calls "chub rub." And second, I like having a little more fabric separating the world from my bidness.
This week, though, as I say, it's complicated. I need something lightweight that won't bind and squeeze around the swelling and the stitches. Right now, I've got one pair that will fit the bill, and that won't be enough for the next few weeks. As much as I've mocked the concept of Pajama Jeans, I'm seeing a market for them among the post-surgical set.
Instead, I'm going to rummage around in the donation boxes still lingering in the basement (none of this is a euphemism). I've got to have a few pairs of what I can most charitably call fat pants that will fit the bill.
Last night I reached my limit for repeated viewings of episodes of How I Met Your Mother, so I put on pants (trousers for my U.K. readers) for the first time in five days.
Well, real, outside pants, anyway. Don't panic. I've been wearing pajama pants since Thursday's surgical fun. It's not turning into the Condor Club around here, I assure you.
Pants are kind of tricky right now, though, because I've still got some swelling and stitches that make the ordinary process of wearing pants/ trousers kind of complicated. Pajamas are ideal, because they're loose and lightweight, but they're not really socially acceptable in public once you're out of college.
As a rule, I like wearing pants. It's an activity that fits well with who I am and who I hope to become. Not a lot of respect out there for the pantsless.
Even when I wear a skirt, I put on shorts underneath. First, the shorts greatly reduce the phenomenon Laurie Notaro calls "chub rub." And second, I like having a little more fabric separating the world from my bidness.
This week, though, as I say, it's complicated. I need something lightweight that won't bind and squeeze around the swelling and the stitches. Right now, I've got one pair that will fit the bill, and that won't be enough for the next few weeks. As much as I've mocked the concept of Pajama Jeans, I'm seeing a market for them among the post-surgical set.
Instead, I'm going to rummage around in the donation boxes still lingering in the basement (none of this is a euphemism). I've got to have a few pairs of what I can most charitably call fat pants that will fit the bill.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Comfortably Numb
Because the GOP is so concerned with what women around America are doing with their womanly bits, I figured I'd save them the trouble. On Thursday, I got all my girl parts removed and shipped to the Republican National Committee for safekeeping.
Well, that's not exactly true. I did have surgery on Thursday, but it was to remove a cyst that my doctors had been monitoring for about six months. I wasn't so much motivated by political ideology than a strong desire to avoid another ultrasound procedure. On TV, doctors do an ultrasound by waving a little wand over someone's distended belly and pointing out whatever is interesting on the little monitor, usually saying, "Oh, look. It's a boy!"
In real life, the ultrasound seems to employ techniques usually reserved for oil companies looking to discover a new well somewhere in the North Atlantic. The technician doesn't say much, but you get a letter in a few days that says, "Oh look. It's still a cyst."
Of course, when my doctor says "cyst," I hear "tumor," so I've spent a good six months in existential hell. Now that the little bugger is out of there, the early prognosis is good, which means it's okay to make jokes about the whole process.
Tuesday:
The first thing they have you complete before a surgical procedure is the humiliation called "bowel prep." So on Tuesday afternoon I have to swing by my local pharmacy to pick up the prescription for industrial strength Colon Blow. I can't use the drive-thru window at the pharmacy because the package WON'T FIT through the dispenser drawer.
Inside, at the counter, they don't even check my identification. "I guess there's not a big market for this stuff for recreational use," I say to the pharmacist before heading out to consume the last solid food I will be allowed for the next two days.
Wednesday:
I spend the morning engaged in consuming the contents of the four liter container I picked up at the pharmacy. Then I spend the rest of the day consuming clear liquids and trying not to gnaw off my own arm. It's boring, and I'm cranky.
Thursday:
I wake up thinking about Egg McMuffins, which I can't have. I have to shower with this antibacterial stuff they gave me at the pre-op exam. I don't have a microscope, so I can't tell if it kills the bacteria, but it does make me itch.
Special K comes to take me to the hospital. I'm wearing my pajamas in public, but even so, I put on a bra, because I'm already stretching the limits of being a Good Southern Woman by going out in flannel pants and no makeup. I'm still itchy and hungry, and I spend most of the drive to the hospital talking about what I want to eat when all this is over.
The check-in desk gives us one of those little vibrating coaster thingies that they give you at restaurants when you're waiting for a table, and the woman behind the desk directs us to the "waiting area," which is just a section of the main lobby.
I don't know if you've spent much time in the lobby of a major metropolitan hospital, but it's an eclectic mix of activity rivaled only by a Waffle House in the wee hours of the morning. And now I'm thinking about Waffle House. Great.
Except there's a harp player here. You don't get harp players at Waffle House.
Special K comments, "There is a time-space continuum issue here. The RMV is like the HOV lane compared to this."
We're supposed to arrive two hours before the scheduled surgical time, presumably to get through the security checkpoint and passport control. So we wait.
After about two hours, a woman wearing a hospital ID badge-- name turned inward, though-- sits in an empty chair nearby with a paper tray of chicken wings. She's over there in the chair slurping and crunching away while an assortment of surgical patients who haven't eaten in 36 hours look on.
I'd like some credit for not kicking her in the face.
I'd also like some credit for not kicking the woman eating McDonald's fries at the table behind us.
At the three-hour mark, the harp player returns. The tune is familiar, then Special-K says it: "Is that? Is that 'Stairway to Heaven?'"
Too many layers of wrong in a harp playing "Stairway to Heaven" in a hospital lobby.
She follows this up with "Amazing Grace," and "Danny Boy." These musical selections are not designed to make anyone here feel at ease.
"Who approved this set list?" Special-K demands.
A new woman sits down in the chair recently vacated by Chicken Wing Lady. She's eating an apple, sort of. She takes a bite, chews it up, then spits it into her hand. I decide she's a genius for figuring out a way around this whole fasting thing. K thinks she may be feeding a small nest of baby birds in her handbag.
At the four hour mark, they finally take me up to the surgical suite. We find out later that the first patient in my OR had some complications that created a major delay. Once they get me upstairs, they get me into a paper shower cap and grippy socks. They hook me up to an IV, and that's pretty much all I remember.
Special-K is sent to the surgical waiting room, which is quiet and clean and posted with sign prohibiting food out of respect for fasting patients-- why didn't they send us up there to wait in the first place? There was even a TV. She takes notes:
I have now watched 3 1/2 hours of Whitey Bulger coverage. So far, grainy photo and random street interviews. Compelling.
Shockingly, it took 2 hours before The Departed clips filtered into the Whitey coverage. I appreciate the Leo shot, though.
6:00 p.m.-- You're out and did great. However, there's a crazy guy out here. in the "waiting lounge" who's talking to the TV. Seriously. P.S. Things shouldn't be called a lounge unless there are cocktails being served.
6:20 p.m.-- Now the crazy guy is running back and forth between the TVs. I think he has misplaced his tinfoil hat.
6:35 p.m.-- He is now incessantly changing the channels. Commericals apparently irritate the metal plate in his head.
6:42 p.m.-- Crazy guy took off. Mothership must have arrived.
7:02 p.m.-- He's baaack....
7:07 p.m.-- Clooney is single again. Stop changing the channel, you motherfucker.
Suggestions for BIDMC waiting areas:
1) Video poker
2) Recliners
3) Nacho Bar
4) Sam Axe
5) Hot Towel Service
She wrote this stuff down in the margins of a free copy of The Improper Bostonian. She also made a note on an ad for something called The Diamond Halo Ring: "When you really need to compensate for your tiny penis."
In the meantime, I'm in the recovery suite learning how to sit up straight and not barf after taking narcotic painkillers. They give me ginger ale, and it turns my stomach. So much for my cheese-steak calzone fantasies.
Eventually they release me, and I spend most of the ride home trying to sit up straight and not barf after taking narcotic painkillers. So much for my waffle fantasies.
I walk in the door and fall into bed at 9:30 p.m. When I wake up, I assume it's 5 or 6 in the morning. I stagger to the bathroom and see the clock in the kitchen. "11:30-- are you kidding me?"
Special-K calls out from the couch, "Hey, you're awake! How ya feeling?"
"I'm starving!" I grab a sleeve of Ritz crackers from the cabinet and a bottle of water from the fridge.
This is the best thing I have ever eaten. Ever.
Because the GOP is so concerned with what women around America are doing with their womanly bits, I figured I'd save them the trouble. On Thursday, I got all my girl parts removed and shipped to the Republican National Committee for safekeeping.
Well, that's not exactly true. I did have surgery on Thursday, but it was to remove a cyst that my doctors had been monitoring for about six months. I wasn't so much motivated by political ideology than a strong desire to avoid another ultrasound procedure. On TV, doctors do an ultrasound by waving a little wand over someone's distended belly and pointing out whatever is interesting on the little monitor, usually saying, "Oh, look. It's a boy!"
In real life, the ultrasound seems to employ techniques usually reserved for oil companies looking to discover a new well somewhere in the North Atlantic. The technician doesn't say much, but you get a letter in a few days that says, "Oh look. It's still a cyst."
Of course, when my doctor says "cyst," I hear "tumor," so I've spent a good six months in existential hell. Now that the little bugger is out of there, the early prognosis is good, which means it's okay to make jokes about the whole process.
Tuesday:
The first thing they have you complete before a surgical procedure is the humiliation called "bowel prep." So on Tuesday afternoon I have to swing by my local pharmacy to pick up the prescription for industrial strength Colon Blow. I can't use the drive-thru window at the pharmacy because the package WON'T FIT through the dispenser drawer.
Inside, at the counter, they don't even check my identification. "I guess there's not a big market for this stuff for recreational use," I say to the pharmacist before heading out to consume the last solid food I will be allowed for the next two days.
Wednesday:
I spend the morning engaged in consuming the contents of the four liter container I picked up at the pharmacy. Then I spend the rest of the day consuming clear liquids and trying not to gnaw off my own arm. It's boring, and I'm cranky.
Thursday:
I wake up thinking about Egg McMuffins, which I can't have. I have to shower with this antibacterial stuff they gave me at the pre-op exam. I don't have a microscope, so I can't tell if it kills the bacteria, but it does make me itch.
Special K comes to take me to the hospital. I'm wearing my pajamas in public, but even so, I put on a bra, because I'm already stretching the limits of being a Good Southern Woman by going out in flannel pants and no makeup. I'm still itchy and hungry, and I spend most of the drive to the hospital talking about what I want to eat when all this is over.
The check-in desk gives us one of those little vibrating coaster thingies that they give you at restaurants when you're waiting for a table, and the woman behind the desk directs us to the "waiting area," which is just a section of the main lobby.
I don't know if you've spent much time in the lobby of a major metropolitan hospital, but it's an eclectic mix of activity rivaled only by a Waffle House in the wee hours of the morning. And now I'm thinking about Waffle House. Great.
Except there's a harp player here. You don't get harp players at Waffle House.
Special K comments, "There is a time-space continuum issue here. The RMV is like the HOV lane compared to this."
We're supposed to arrive two hours before the scheduled surgical time, presumably to get through the security checkpoint and passport control. So we wait.
After about two hours, a woman wearing a hospital ID badge-- name turned inward, though-- sits in an empty chair nearby with a paper tray of chicken wings. She's over there in the chair slurping and crunching away while an assortment of surgical patients who haven't eaten in 36 hours look on.
I'd like some credit for not kicking her in the face.
I'd also like some credit for not kicking the woman eating McDonald's fries at the table behind us.
At the three-hour mark, the harp player returns. The tune is familiar, then Special-K says it: "Is that? Is that 'Stairway to Heaven?'"
Too many layers of wrong in a harp playing "Stairway to Heaven" in a hospital lobby.
She follows this up with "Amazing Grace," and "Danny Boy." These musical selections are not designed to make anyone here feel at ease.
"Who approved this set list?" Special-K demands.
A new woman sits down in the chair recently vacated by Chicken Wing Lady. She's eating an apple, sort of. She takes a bite, chews it up, then spits it into her hand. I decide she's a genius for figuring out a way around this whole fasting thing. K thinks she may be feeding a small nest of baby birds in her handbag.
At the four hour mark, they finally take me up to the surgical suite. We find out later that the first patient in my OR had some complications that created a major delay. Once they get me upstairs, they get me into a paper shower cap and grippy socks. They hook me up to an IV, and that's pretty much all I remember.
Special-K is sent to the surgical waiting room, which is quiet and clean and posted with sign prohibiting food out of respect for fasting patients-- why didn't they send us up there to wait in the first place? There was even a TV. She takes notes:
I have now watched 3 1/2 hours of Whitey Bulger coverage. So far, grainy photo and random street interviews. Compelling.
Shockingly, it took 2 hours before The Departed clips filtered into the Whitey coverage. I appreciate the Leo shot, though.
6:00 p.m.-- You're out and did great. However, there's a crazy guy out here. in the "waiting lounge" who's talking to the TV. Seriously. P.S. Things shouldn't be called a lounge unless there are cocktails being served.
6:20 p.m.-- Now the crazy guy is running back and forth between the TVs. I think he has misplaced his tinfoil hat.
6:35 p.m.-- He is now incessantly changing the channels. Commericals apparently irritate the metal plate in his head.
6:42 p.m.-- Crazy guy took off. Mothership must have arrived.
7:02 p.m.-- He's baaack....
7:07 p.m.-- Clooney is single again. Stop changing the channel, you motherfucker.
Suggestions for BIDMC waiting areas:
1) Video poker
2) Recliners
3) Nacho Bar
4) Sam Axe
5) Hot Towel Service
She wrote this stuff down in the margins of a free copy of The Improper Bostonian. She also made a note on an ad for something called The Diamond Halo Ring: "When you really need to compensate for your tiny penis."
In the meantime, I'm in the recovery suite learning how to sit up straight and not barf after taking narcotic painkillers. They give me ginger ale, and it turns my stomach. So much for my cheese-steak calzone fantasies.
Eventually they release me, and I spend most of the ride home trying to sit up straight and not barf after taking narcotic painkillers. So much for my waffle fantasies.
I walk in the door and fall into bed at 9:30 p.m. When I wake up, I assume it's 5 or 6 in the morning. I stagger to the bathroom and see the clock in the kitchen. "11:30-- are you kidding me?"
Special-K calls out from the couch, "Hey, you're awake! How ya feeling?"
"I'm starving!" I grab a sleeve of Ritz crackers from the cabinet and a bottle of water from the fridge.
This is the best thing I have ever eaten. Ever.
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