Bad Mood

Sometimes you just wake up in a bad mood.

That happened to me this morning. There's a variety of reasons for it. I laid in bed and tried to shake it--tried to capture the meaning of the "Zen Short" storybook that I read to Stevie a couple of weeks ago, in which a little kid was mad at his brother and it ruined the little kid's day. The giant Zen panda told the kid that that anger was a heavy load, and he had been carrying it all day. Didn't he want to drop it?

I understand the logic behind that, but I'm not as disciplined as the giant Zen panda.

But, knowing something about meditation, I laid there and took notice of the thoughts in my head. I grew frustratingly bemused that all of them involved some kind of argument. I fully realized the amount of work that is still left to be done on myself. Mentally and physically. Well, you really need both, right?

Even after that sage realization, I'm in a dark mood. I hate hate hate local "news", and that was the last thing I heard last night because Kevin had it on, waiting for the weather. Besides the usual rape and murder and rape/murder stories, they actually reported a story about a car accident involving a Ferrari . . . in Malibu. This was Big because, apparently, it's the SECOND crash involving a Ferrari in a short time, and the Ferrari was worth OVER $500,000!!! Isn't that important to you? That totally spoiled any residual happiness I felt regarding Taylor's big win on Idol. The only thing that would cheer me up now is if someone found the person responsible for the aptly named "Parkway" that I am forced to travel each weekday morning and brought me that person's head on a plate.

Or maybe I should get some oatmeal and sit here--I know! I'll listen to music!--until all of these bad vibes steam away. I'm afraid that that's about the best I'm gonna do today. Call me defeatist. I dare ya.

Born Rich: The Genteel Review

"When people talk about money, they are nervous that that calls into question their right to have the money and the wealth that they possess."

That quote is from Jamie Johnson, the heir to the Johnson & Johnson fortune. Jamie made a documentary called "Born Rich" in which he interviews other 20-something heirs and heiresses about their money-soaked lives. Grade: B-

I liked this documentary. Like Jamie, I like talking about money and how it shapes and sometimes dictates our lives. Mr. Johnson's motive was all about uncovering WHY talking about money is such a taboo among the super-wealthy. (I wonder about the same thing in my own socio-econ group.) The kid wants to avoid the mistakes of those that were given all of this money and privilege and yet still manage(d) to be very unhappy. I can dig that. And he manages to get some revealing interviews despite his subjects' nervousness about breaking the taboo on camera (it probably helped that they were all young and still invincible) and the disapproval of his father who, like his father, inherited his wealth, never had to work, and denied their wealth when asked.

A few of the subjects lived up to the Rich Punk stereotypes--they really were like the asshole rich kids in "Pretty in Pink". They judge presidents on the placement of their suit lapels and call future marriage prospects "ungrateful bitches" and "golddiggers" if they don't want to sign prenups. The "ungrateful bitch" guy also made a comment that, when addressing townies, he'd say things like "my family could buy your family". He also bragged about graduating from Brown despite his almost complete failure to show up for class. One heiress was just a step up from Paris Hilton, using her screentime to clue us all in on how this handbag is the classic bag--so practical! And only $800 or so. It's shit like that that makes we of little means hate rich people. I used to, when I was their age. Now I just think it's kind of pathetic, and I'm grateful for my ability to get together with friends and have a good time without reveling in a mandatory $500 drink minimum per table.

I am not jealous of the superrich, and I was happy to have that reinforced throughout this documentary. People are people. Some are charming and smart and want to make a difference in the world. Some are not. And I found myself feeling a little sorry for the less well-adjusted ones, or the ones who think it's worthwhile to spend their lives "cultivating" the perfect suit (with the perfectly placed lapels, mind you) or reveling in their old European money splendor (thank you, Mr. Great-Grandson of Kaiser Wilhelm!).

You know those quest-type video games, where you have to go on a journey and acquire things like swords and magic rings and health potions? You need to make sure that you have the right stuff--you can only carry so much--to meet your needs as you progress to the castle to save the royal and complete your task. The fun of those games is in the strategy--you go there to get this, you fight using that, you go back to drop off something and pick up something else, etc. You earn things, you make decisions, you reach a goal. For most of us, that is the story of our money. I count myself as one of the very lucky ones for having enough money to be able to make some choices. The kids in Born Rich started that game with every single weapon, magic ring, and potion in their arsenal. Where's the fun in that? Where's the challenge, the goal, the sense of accomplishment for having earned something? Some of them even acknowledged the cheating their forebears engaged in to get rich in the first place--can you imagine not only NOT earning your millions, but knowing that those millions were gained through criminal (Vanderbilt) or murderous (Euro royalty) means?

I don't deny that I wouldn't mind having some of the experiences that wealth can bring--the travel, the spas, and wonderful restaurants--and I wouldn't mind having more leisure time to spend with my kids or my quilts or whatever the hell I wanted to do. But they have nothing but time, and didn't seem to take any extra joy in an African safari with 10 African "servants" (for 5 people) than I or my family took in our upscale camping trip to Washington. I certainly wouldn't mind getting ahold of a cool 10 million or so, but I would count my lucky stars that I grew up the way I did. If you are lucky enough to have enough money to cover the basics of life and a little extra, you will be as happy--or as miserable--as you choose to be. Rich people might have a different level of experience (private planes) or expectation (the actual possibility of building a skyscraper in Manhattan), but the basics in life--education, work (of SOME sort), love, goals, figuring out why we're here--are pretty much the same for all of us. And achieving the best of all of those is quite possible without $20 billion.

By the way, I gave the film a B- because it spent a little too much time on the surface. Jamie asked some good questions, but not enough, and he didn't get quite enough out of his subjects. His subjects were the other problem. Rich or poor, most 21-year olds are pretty boring and even annoying. They rarely have substantial "real" life experience and, when it comes to these rich kids, they've never had to DO anything so they're even more boring outside of their freakish economic circumstances. A follow-up documentary--maybe in a decade or so--would be much more interesting. Did they manage to find something to do with their lives besides collect historic documents (as Johnson's father suggested . . . as a career)? Did they learn to clam-up about money, or did they bust that generations-old taboo?

Now get back to work!

I don't get it.

I watched two weird movies this weekend: Napoleon Dynamite and The Aristocrats.

First, Napoleon Dynamite. Grade: C
All of the 20-somethings here at work seem to love that movie and make references to it. Feeling old and left out, I watched it. There are some very funny lines delivered by the oddly appealing hero with lazy open-mouthed, half-lidded, speaking-as-if-you're-emptying-the-air-out-of-an-air-mattress flair. My favorite? Before Napoleon works for the day moving chickens in a factory egg farm: "Do those chickens have large talons?" My second favorite? Used to woo his failed valley girl love interest: "I caught you a delicious bass." And the solo dance scene is a comic choreography masterpiece.

Through it all, Napoleon maintains true to himself in this heartwarming and quirky coming-of-age tale. (I'm sure someone, somewhere described it like that. It's neither.) For my money, if you want a good stoner-type comedy that makes little sense but provides many, many great lines and hilarious characters . . . give "Dazed and Confused" a try. Or "Waiting for Guffman". Or "Rushmore". Napoleon Dynamite seems to be trying a little too hard to be cool. But I can see how it works for a lot of people. Remember that "C" is average, not the stone-cold failure that overachievers consider it to be.

And then there's The Aristocrats. Grade: C-. No, I'll give it a C.
It's on the low side because of the joke itself, which is, in most tellings, absolutely disgusting and disturbing. It's on the high side because some of the comedians really do make it their own and are hilarious as a result. Also, I like the historical, backroom nature of it, and some of the commentary about the joke and how it's told are interesting. I went to sleep thinking about it, that's for sure. So it ends up with a C.

SPOILER ALERT!
This is the joke:
A man walks into a talent agency and tell the agent "I've got a great act for you." Agent says, "OK, let's hear it." Man says "It's a family act. . . " and then the joketeller proceeds to describe a vaudeville-type "act" that is the grossest, most disturbing thing on earth, almost always involving vivid descriptions of some or all of the following: incest (even to the youngest family members), bestiality, necrophilia, shat, pee, vomit, every disgusting "sex" act imaginable, in ways that are almost always sexist, sometimes racist, and sometimes involving references to 9/11. Agent says, "That's a hell of an act. What do you call it?"

Man says, "'The Aristocrats.'"

The joke originated backstage in Vaudevillian times and was shocking for its day but considerably more tame than how most comedians tell it today. Supposedly it's how comedians entertain themselves--who can be grosser, go on longer, etc. It's hardly ever told on stage because comedians don't tell jokes--they have acts--and it's too filthy for almost all venues.

Most of the tellers stayed in gross-out mode, and it was amazing how sexist most of them were (most of the really horrid acts were performed on or to women/girls). They even had women comics talking about the differences between how men and women tell the joke. I was in the shower for most of that commentary--after 10 minutes of the movie, I didn't think I would be able to watch the rest, and didn't feel the need to, so I started washing the slime off of me. But when I got out, I went back into the living room, curious to see whether or not this shtick was going to change. It did, somewhat. The dullest comedians stayed in Andrew Dice Clayland, telling versions that were as rude--and as easy to think up--as possible. This "improv comedy" doesn't impress me when I can do it. Easily do it. The inventive comedians made something worthwhile out of the joke. My favorite was Mario Cantone, who impersonated a high-on-pills Liza describing her act. It was gross, but totally, totally, hilarious. A train-wreck of comedy genius.

The most disturbing version had to be South Park's. Of course! Cartman was telling the joke to his friends who, after he really gets into it, start begging him to stop. The joke was heavy on the incest with a topping of 9/11 for kicks. After Cartman delivers the punchline, the guys stand around mystified, finally saying "I don't get it." A beat goes by and Cartman says, "I don't either." Now THAT'S funny.

I do get it, but I don't think it's all that. There's too many real-life Aristocrats in the world, and too many victims of their act. I just can't shake the reality of that kind of violence. So those tellings struck me as extremely juvenile--and this is a movie that, like Faces of Death, shows up after hours on hushed televisions surrounded by posses of 14 year-olds. If this is what comedians do for fun . . . meh. It has a very Boogie Nights vibe of misery about it--it looks like it's all fun and games, but pull back the curtain (or open your trench coat) and the dark, seedy carnival is exposed.

You know, I think I will give it a C-. It's a somewhat emotional grade. My blog, my notions of objectivity.

By God, There Oughta Be a LAW.

Allow me to recap my shoulda-been-brief foray into Errandland today during lunch:

Mission #1: Return clothes to Old Navy sans receipt.
I go into Old Navy and walk directly to the check-out. There are two people in front of me. The cashier is on the phone--never good. But the ONE other open check-out looks unpromising. As I stand there, the other long line begins to clear as disciplined shoppers buy just a couple of things and pay with (gulp!) cash! First woman clears. The woman in front of me . . . has stuff to return!! And a deceptively large amount of stuff to buy!! And stories to tell about how her husband needs workout wear!! (NOOOOOOO!!!!) and then, by god, she opens a store credit card.
My transaction, when it finally occurs, takes about 57 seconds.

Mission #2: Get a desklamp at Target.
Visibly shaken from Mission #1, I stumble into Target and go to the wrong department looking for lamps. I remember the right department, pick out the lamp, and ALMOST get sucked into Target Frame Vortex but narrowly escape. Only 3 checkout lines are open (come ON Target!). I go to the express (10 items or less), and there are 3 people in front of me. The woman directly in front of me looks around as if to catch my eye and share our disgust of customer #2, who not only has more than 10 items, she organizes two GROUPS of more than 10 items, as if she is going to pay for one group with cash and another group with a gift card or some such crap. She is breaking the courtesy law TWICE. We stand there and stand there. I check out the pre-packaged Rice Krispy Treat boxes in the Impulse Shopping zone at the head of the checkout. Those things don't compare to my marshmallow-heavy version, but I notice that there are exactly 16 and there are exactly 16 snot-nosed kindergartners in Stevie's class and his last snack day is next Tuesday. About this time, a helpful Target Team Member Associate tells me that, if I go to Aisle 14, I can be the next in line! Quickly, I snag the treats and hoof it down to 14 with my (now) 2 items. There's one of those old hippie women in front of me. She has two ponytails in her 55-year old dyed-many colors hair and a shiny gold jacket and she's just not well-put-together and coming from me, that's a real put-down. Still, I stand there loving her because we're all just beings looking for happiness and at least she doesn't look like a suburban tool. Loving her, that is, until it becomes apparent that her line manners are as scattered as her appearance and she takes literally forever to take two items out of her cart . . . and then come BACK and pull her cart forward . . . and then pull out her wallet, figure out the bewildering credit card machine with the baffling instructions that say "PUT CARD HERE", and then proceeds to tell the cashier all about her artsy-fartsy day. I wonder if she has ever held a real job and find myself missing the express line. Gee, thanks, Target Team Member Associate, for saving me SOOOOO much time!

Mission #3: Get lunch from Skyline because there are too many people at Taco Bell.
I saw this one coming. An SUV decides at the last minute to turn left--right in front of me--into Skyline and slowly makes its way to the board. The two women inside have never been to Skyline and are stymied by their 7 offerings. Finally they order and move forward. It takes me 12 seconds to order. At the window, they take literally forever to get their order. I was expecting bags and bags and was boiling mad when one bag goes from window to behemoth.

Total time for missions: nearly 1 hour.

People at Work

There's a woman here at work who works in the dull, gray finance department with sour-looking finance people (except for that one really beautiful guy). I have NEVER in three years seen that woman smile! She has long hair which is usually partially wet in the morning and she smokes so I often see her zipping here and there in the hallway and she does ZIP. She tears up the hallways as if she's always a few minutes late for a meeting and if you get in her way you can almost see the irritation rays jump from her agitated, miserable body.

Speaking of the one really beautiful guy . . . I don't normally like the "really beautiful" types. I'm more likely to get all gushy over the circa '71 Allman Brother-looking guy or even the chubby-but-totally-hilarious guy. But this guy is so pretty! If you work here, you'll know him as the new guy, "who just happens to be" black, and is unfortunate enough to work in the finance dept., and sits in the aisle cube. I caught a peek at his wedding photo and his wife is a knock-out as well, and I wonder what it's like for them to know that they are, without a doubt, the best looking people at any event they attend, even if that event is, say, a free Usher concert in Central Park.

Then there's another woman who sits somewhere to the right of my office, and I give her the evil eye as she plods by several times a day. If you are unable to pass her in a tight hallway you might as well relax, take some X, set up a bitchin' soundsystem and buy a bag of lollies because you're going to be there for awhile. If ravin' is not your thing, perhaps you should keep your receipts handy. It's a great time to do your taxes. When I say "she's so slow", I mean SLOOOOOW. I mean watch a sequoia seed from its light landing on the forest floor until its giant mass is inadvertantly shot down in a battle between post-apocalyptic humans and space aliens slow. And she never talks to anybody! Except for the one time I heard her say to someone that she has recovered from her back surgery, I have never heard her make a peep. I am a monster!

And then there are the Fashionistas. These young, single hotties use the scintillating prospect of spending the entire day sitting in a grey cube in a building located in a far-flung suburb of a whitebread Midwestern city surrounded by mostly middle-aged women or anti-fashion magazine younger types (that would be me) to show off their Carrie Bradshaw-esque wardrobe sense. And, unlike New York, there's no place to walk around here, so there's no showing off outside, either. I guess they could go to the mall. But who's at the mall at 10:45 on a Tuesday besides young, fashion-backward moms with strollers and grandmas in jogging suits? I don't get it. But then my wardrobe consists of a few pairs of dark-colored, lycra-infused "trousers" and solid v-neck t-shirts with varying sleeve lengths. It's not exciting--it's not gauchos with two layered tops and contrasting aqua stilettos--but I somehow manage to complete high-interest, creative tasks like editing brochures.

This is kind of fun! There are so many kinds of Work People! Of course, this is far from original. But no cartoonist has ever focused on MY office. This important work is up to me. More later!

Winners of the Birth Lottery

See these kids? These totally adorable children? Winners. Winners of the birth lottery.

The Big Issue that Diverts Americans' Attention from the Big War these days is immigration. Oh, we're all very tired of hearing about illegal immigration, so NPR did a week-long series on legal immigration. Yes, it's possible to legally immigrate to this country!

But it's a huge pain in the ass. Seriously, I don't understand how the waiting list backs up for years. One Filipino family petitioned for citizenship and waited and waited--for years!--and, when they finally got the OK stamp, one of their three children had turned 21 and was no longer eligible to go as part of their family visa. So they had a choice--all of them stay, or four of them go and leave the one child to start the visa process all over as an adult. They went. They felt they had to! And they figured it would be no longer than a couple of years. It was NINE. Nine years later, the now 30-year old got his ticket. And, keep in mind, he wasn't allowed to visit his family Stateside--even when his mother got cancer and eventually died--because issuing temp visas to lonely family members is "too risky". But by then he had a wife and a kid. And their visa application was WAY down the list. But he went anyway. As he had "no future" in the Philippines, he felt he had to. So now he has two children (one conceived during a rare visit) and they communicate by computer. And wait.

During this story and another, two different people said virtually the exact same thing--"People born in the U.S. are lucky". And you know what, fellow citizens? They are right. We're in the cat-bird seat, whatever the hell that means.

So, (big inhale) with this in my head, I walked into my comfortable home that I am able to afford because I had access to an education despite the fact that I am female and have a good job in a comfortable building and I looked at my youngest child who received the best prenatal care that was mostly paid for by my corporate master and he was lounging in his $80 exersaucer surrounded by two middle-class and adoring parents who will see to it that he has a good education and lots of fun experiences and a rather large nest egg for college and I gazed at his healthy pink skin and male features and it's pretty easy to see that he will probably be pretty attractive and I thought "Holy Cow. That kid just won the birth lottery."

Now, y'all know that I am not a big cheerleader for the U.S. We have some big problems. Like the Bush administration. Poverty. Overconsumption. Stains in our history that just won't come out. Denial of any wrongdoing. But I really do think that it's a remarkable place. First of all, it's a beautiful country--our 50 states hit the geography jackpot, with the canyons and the good soil and the towering forests and the shining seas. Well, it used to be better. I'll give you that.

And the people are interesting--a mix of folks from around the globe, usually resourceful and hardworking, and the vast majority of them would never curtsy for some figurehead monarch. I like that. And our basic governing plan? It's only flaw is that I'm not in charge of it all. And as singer-songwriter James McMurtry writes, those kids out in a boat with their parents, getting tips on how to ride over the wakes on their waterskis . . . they don't know it, but they live a pretty good life. The kind of life that you usually don't get in Yemen, or Bolivia, or Sudan, but one that you have a much better shot at if you're born here.

I'm not trying to sound all culturally superior, although it's probably coming across that way. I'm really just appreciating what we have that people in a lot of other countries don't, and don't because they are either mired in poverty or oppressed by their government or both. And I'm happy for my children, who have a gargantuan (and unfair) head-start on a global scale and all they've done is get born.

P.J. and the Bear (AKA . . . "KONG!!!")

First, a story: Craving Skittles, which is a bit out-of-character, I made my way to the local vending machine and, for once, no Skittles. Just very sour things and chocolate and the odd Pop Tart. I decided to take the hard road and head one floor down, by stair, to another vending machine and, then, was it luck? A bit of magic? Or was it Jesus? No matter, because there, three rows up and all the way to the right, was a bag of Skittles. NORMAL Skittles. NOT "Wild Berry Skittles", or "Smoothie Skittles", but "regular". And it was the last bag--the last bag before the bags of "Limited Edition" Skittles with strawberry smoothie Skittles in place of my favorite red.

Why are there "Limited Edition" Skittles? Do people collect Skittles now? My hatred of all things labeled "Limited" or "Special Edition" probably started with "Limited Edition Eddie Bauer" Ford Expeditions. The Truman Show-esque nature of all brands merging and reproducing like a seething pit of horny snakes really turned me off. And they even have car seats to match! Eddie Bauer car seats to put in your forest green ("mommy, what's a forest?") and camel suburban camels. What's that? They're selling a "lifestyle"? Fuck them!

On with the review. Remember when I said I was going to start writing reviews? Well, I don't get to see a lot of movies. I Netflixed all of the "Curb Your Enthusiasms" and fail to see how many movies could be funnier or contain such an appealing anti-hero. I give "CYE" an A+, baby, A+. King Kong? D!!! That movie sucked! I don't even know why I'm giving it a D instead of an F.

Maybe it's because I fell a little bit in love with Kong.

Yah right! You know, you can't fall in love with a giant ape in the 80 harrowing minutes that Naomi Watts got to spend with him. Amusing your captor with Bangles-ish Egyptian walk antics to stay alive is hardly falling-in-love backdrop fodder. Sure, he was the last of his kind and that's kinda sad, but I've watched sunsets with lots of guys and only fell in love with one or two of them. And only the cute ones. The cute ones with genitals that were capable of coupling with mine. So that whole "awwww, they're in wuv!" vibe was totally stupid. At most, they were co-dependent, just trying to make their way in the world today. Which takes everything you got.

There were SO MANY plot holes in this movie! I don't even have time to talk about them. See Burb's review at www.whywontyougrow.blogspot.com for a lengthy and funny recap. As for me, the only thing I'll add is the ridiculousness of Naomi Watts running around a sub-freezing Manhattan ALL NIGHT, in a SLIPDRESS, and then standing on TOP of the Empire State Building, and then CLIMBING A METAL LADDER to the very tippy top, all while wearing a slipdress remember, and suffering no ill effects, including the red, snot-dripping nose that would have ruined her perfectly dewy, most-beautiful-rose-you've-ever-seen face. Stupid. Totally. Totally stupid!

My lunch buddies were somewhat puzzled as to why Kevin and I would let Stevie watch Lord of the Rings, with all of the genuinely scary Uruk-Hai and the more bug-like-so-not-as-scary Orcs, and yet both of us deemed Kong 'too much'. I puzzled over it, too. The scene with the natives? That was pretty freaky--those natives were actually scary looking, and absolutely without mercy, and I think I'd rather take on a Berserker. (Side Note: For all of you unfortunates who have not seen LOTR, "Berserkers", besides having an awesome name, were the scariest of the Uruk-Hai who were, as I have previously mentioned, scarier than the Orcs. They heave 5-foot long cleavers with a big jutty thing on the end--just perfect for emptying your skull of all its contents--and wear helmets a la Jason in Friday the 13th only as creepy as Hannibal in Silence of the Lambs. AND their helmets are filled with blood. HUMAN blood.)I don't know why, but I am prejudiced against creepy, blood-starved-yet-smiling little girls with jagged teeth. I pummeled one in the scariest dream I ever had. Of course, I recently had a bad dream about a Berserker, too. It centered around a Berserker attack that resembled In Cold Blood--like wouldn't it suck if a pack of Berserkers bore down on my little house in Homeburg? And me without a Keep!

But, all scientific logic aside, the reason behind the shunning of Kong as "too much" for Stevie is based on the fact that it sucks. If you're going to scare the shit out of your kids, make sure the movie is a good one--one that you wouldn't mind them remaking one day. It's just too bad that Peter Jackson's parents weren't the conscientious parents that Kevin and I are. Too, too bad.

FYI

If you ever wanted to see what a Perfect Day looked like, and you live in the Midwest, find a window or, better yet, a door, and go see. It is absolutely frickin' perfect outside. Seventy-three, seventy-four degrees, clear humidity-free blue sky, the slightest refreshing breeze, and flowering trees.

Soak it in, people. You won't see a day like this again until fall. Or maybe, just maybe, some other Monday in the near future. Don't look for one on a Saturday or a Sunday. Silly!

The Rancher's Husband

Does that title sound odd to you? Hmmmm?! That's because you're a sexist pig.

PBS showed all of "Texas Ranch House" yesterday, and I am unfortunate enough to still be nursing which meant that I caught more of it than I really should have. It was a bad show. I've seen at least some of the other PBS historical "reality" shows, and this was, by far, the worst. Although I must admit my built-in bias against them. Before I had ever seen one, I heard a complaint from someone somewhere that they were pretty sexist. It seems the narrator repeatedly said things like "While the men worked, the women prepared dinner." Men work. Women prepare. There is something about statements like that that burn my ass.

Part of my frustration with these shows is seeing how unappreciated "women's work" was, and being reminded of how much it still is. That's been a gripe of mine for a long time. If men and women have always had to work together to survive, and if they "decided" that one sex should do some things and the other sex should do other things, why did one sex decide that everything the other sex does is bullshit that doesn't demand respect, or equal pay, and quickly forget that, if that bullshit didn't get done, that they wouldn't be able to do any of their exalted bullshit. Like digging postholes. It's interesting but not surprising that the women are usually so ready to leave the shackles of the past behind and all the men weepily glance at their majestic male-doins and reluctantly plod back to the future.

Biologically, I must admit that it makes sense for women to have fallen into the around-the-house-type stuff. Even in today's world, I didn't want to brave the errant grass on a 30-year old, gas-huffing mower when I was heavy with child (and Kevin didn't want me too, either). And, since Kevin's breasts are useless, it makes sense for me to feed child while he cut big rock. But not all women are pregnant or nursing. And don't pull the "women are weaker" crap because, well, because it's crap. If the strongest man and the strongest woman were standing side-by-side, he'd have bigger muscles. But physical strength is bigger than bicep size, and many subsistance tasks do not require pure brute strength. Mostly, I think, they require stamina. Endurance. Teamwork. Innovation. Mental toughness. And these are not the exclusive province of those with scrotums.

The "cowboys" on Texas Ranch House reminded me of the prison guards in that famous psych experiment. In the words of Maura, the mouthy broad who just couldn't wipe her mind clean of the advances that 21st-century bitches have made, it took the cowboys "all of 5 minutes" to forget that women had brains (did they ever know?) and retreat to the comfort of their "No Gurls Alowed" ("No Loud Girls"?) bunkhouse. Just like the co-eds who quickly forgot that they were in the basement of a campus building and that they had English 202 after they were done abusing their classmates. Just like the Germans who forgot that it was wrong to shove Jewish 8-year olds into chambers full of poison gas.

I went online to see what others had to say about this. After all, I have been known to make too much of things sometime. Mostly what I found was a lot of girl bashing, a distressing amount of it coming from other girls (but you know how girls are--insert cat noises here). Seems the women on the show, who wanted a little respect, an equal say into how the ranch was run, and the experience of being (gulp!) a cowgirl--note to your mutha, there WAS a historical precedent for all of these pushy desires--were getting slammed for bringing their 21st-century notions of equality to the 19th. Those twats! 'Let cowboys be cowboys!' they railed. 'Sexism in the 19th century--big surprise!' they wrote, smarmily.

Yet they didn't seem to mind that the cowboys said things like "Mr. Cooke (the ineffectual ranch owner) should grow a set of balls" and "you have to have balls (yes, actual testicles) to be a cowboy" and "we know who wears the pants in the Cooke house" and "she's (Maura--the cowgirl) just trying to prove herself and she's making it unsafe for everyone". That last one got me. Maura was as good a rider as any of those other computer jockeys, and the whole damn experience was unsafe for a bunch of greenhorns with all of a few weeks of "cowboy training" under their historically-accurate belts, and yet it's Maura that's putting them all in jeopardy. Do they realize how tired that "selfishly prove yourself" argument is? Didn't white GIs use the same language to keep black soldiers in the kitchen lest they blow up the battleship thinking that they could pull a trigger?

These armchair historians also overlooked the cowboy's contradictory use of their 21st-century values when dealing with a posse of black soldiers and an unfortunately-passive group of Comanche. Where was their 19th-century racism? Would the commentors have been so forgiving had the cowboys referred to the buffalo soldier leader as "boy" or the Comanche as the "redskins"? Hell, a REAL cowboy would have! My guess is no. But let a woman ride a horse? Are you fuckin' nuts?!

Oh, if only the modern-day Comanche had truly channeled their ancestors and actually slaughtered ALL of those idiots right in front of horrified, be-soul patched PBS camera guys. I'm assuming guys. Let a woman hold a camera? Are you fuckin' nuts!?