Finley Y Fuckery

Last year, we enrolled our son in camp at the Finley Y for the few weeks his school’s camp was not in session. Having been members of the Y for a few years and having heard good things from other parents, we didn’t think twice. One assumes that a Y camp will be a safe environment for a child. Our only concern was what one of Milkface’s friends called “G-d Time” which was a time for Christian prayer. Given that Milkface is Jewish, his mom is Jewish and his father is agnostic, we had to have a discussion with Milkface about that. Our discussion consisted of “They’re going to pray. You’re going to be quiet and daydream.”

Milkface’s time with Finley lasted all of three days. He started on a Monday. By Thursday morning, he was in tears in the parking lot, begging me to take him home. Camp was scary and he had been bullied every single day.

After the first day of camp, I reached out to management to alert them to the issues. Management was marginally responsive but not responsive enough. The supervision was limited. The older kids antagonized the younger kids. Despite my repeated requests for additional monitoring or supervision, nothing improved. We sent an email to the director informing him of Milkface’s withdrawal from the program and requested a full refund. The only positive observation I have of the program is that the refund was issued lickety-split and with zero argument.

Dock and I wondered if we were being hasty in our decision to yank Milkface from the program after three days. We knew we had an unhappy and scared child. We knew something was very much off with the program. We also knew that abruptly pulling your child from a program would also limit his opportunity to learn how to manage bullies. Like most things parenting, there’s always going to be some way you shortchange your kid.

Today, reading the local news, I found this article. It is awful. It is not, unfortunately, remotely surprising.

I’m not one to post many mommy rants or condemnation of businesses or services unless it’s a necessity. I feel it is. The culture of bullying is still pervasive. Only now, because of one very on-the-ball and brave mom, we understand exactly how terrible and horrendous it really is. And, of course, the message needs to be shared because neither child nor parent deserves an experience like this.

Raleigh mom says son was pinned to ground, assaulted at YMCA camp

There is growing concern among parents, and an ongoing police investigation, after a Raleigh mom said she saw her 6-year-old son being assaulted by two older boys at a Triangle YMCA.

Justine McGuire said she walked into the gym at the A.E. Finley YMCA last week and found her 6-year-old pinned to the ground and assaulted in the groin by two older boys.

“I got there and I found him lying on the ground and his back was next to one of the benches,” she said. “One of the boys was holding him down to the ground with his feet on his chest while the other little boy pulled his genitals out of the bottom of his gym shorts and then sat on his face.”

McGuire said her son wears a hearing aid and has epilepsy.

But she said her concern skyrocketed when she was told that one of the boys wouldn’t be punished at all, and the camp director told her not to contact police.

“The camp director basically told me, ‘I know it’s gross, but boys will be boys and horseplay is typical at this age’ and I may have been overreacting,” she said.

McGuire said she disagreed and called authorities.

A Raleigh police spokesperson said they are actively investigating the allegations of assault.

In the meantime, McGuire’s story has gained traction on social media where other parents have shared similar stories.

Tasha Bullock says her 8-year-old daughter was assaulted by another child at the same YMCA last fall. She too said the camp director discouraged her from calling police.

“A little boy lifted up her dress and tried to touch her in her private areas under her underwear,” Bullock said. “I’m telling (the camp director) I am about to call the police, and he is like, ‘Oh, police aren’t needed.'”

A YMCA spokesperson released a statement Wednesday that said, “We have been in close contact with parents, our staff and local authorities, and are fully cooperating with the investigation. The children alleged to be involved in the situation are not part of camp at this time.”

A letter was also sent home to parents, but officials declined to release any additional specific information about the incident.

YMCA code of conduct prohibits harassment of any kind.

No joy in Kangworld…

…today.

And, lo, there it is: the same sinking of the stomach, the same welling of the tears in the eyes, the same weakness in the limbs, the same momentary stall of the heart. It comes as it does, without warning and without regard for whatever I may be doing at the time. Without respect for the remainder of my day. Without regard for whatever mental state I may already be in. And it levels me. It makes me want to hide under the sofa or retreat to my bed, places where I can be alone with the clichéd misery and seething pain that comes with chronic grief. It’s the unyielding, never ending reminder that my best friend is dead.

Five years, two months and one day later, one would think I would have some sort of coping mechanism in place by now. Yet, I don’t. A few years ago I accepted that I never will. There are certain losses from which a person cannot recover. This is mine. This will always be mine.

Today, as I go about the Saturday morning routine of catching up on email, dithering around on the internet, trying to avoid thinking about work, wondering how I’m going to do all the tasks I can’t during the week (and ultimately end up postponing) and cramming in my workouts, I did something incredibly reckless: I looked at the stupid “On This Day…” thing on Facebook because there was an adorable picture of my kid from two years ago. Lured by a picture of my then four year-old son with his face painted like a dog, I started scrolling further down memory lane. And there it was. One of my darker days. The day after I “eulogized” my dead best friend, I was leaving Atlanta. I was leaving behind all future opportunities for shenanigans and high jinks. I was leaving behind my safe place, the place I went when feeling unusually vulnerable, confused about life or exceptionally depressed. The place where I went to celebrate ridiculous things. The place that held over fifteen years of memories in a friendship nearly twice as long. I had, unbelievably, survived the memorial service but it was really time to go, time to move forward and accept life as a darker, lonelier, scarier existence. Oddly, as we were driving on I-75, the old iPod spit out Elliott Smith. I could think of nothing more appropriate (even if Kate didn’t listen to him).

Pain. All pain. All pain, all the time.

Kate’s dad once said something along the lines of “the pain is still present but it’s less acute.” In certain aspects, he’s correct. But there are days when the acuity of the pain is so severe, I feel as if I cannot draw a single breath. There are days I look at my child and think “Only because you’re here, am I.” because that sentiment is true. Be it out of obligation to my child or the fact that he really brings me that much joy, I’m here when I’d much rather not. An anxious depressive who loses her anchor is an anxious depressive who isn’t fighting a battle – she’s fighting a goddamn war. With a fake smile on her face. With a heart that doesn’t want to beat. With a brain that wishes it wouldn’t work. With a spirit that is simply crushed. With a mass of negative emotions she can only lessen with a happy pill or temporary withdrawal from the world around her.

All of this after a dreadfully painful year prior and no immediate end in sight. This landmine that must be crossed is a big one. And, unlike in the past, I have no safe haven in Atlanta. No place to heal. No place to put myself back together. No friend to curl up next to, under a blanket with a giant bottle of wine and massive amount of carbs, and shoulder to cry on. No one to lean on who immediately understands the pain without requiring some sort of explanation as to why certain things bother me as much as they do (and, let’s face it, when one is already upset, having to go into a detailed explanation is exceptionally frustrating).

So, yes. I’m being very selfish today. Whiny. I’m feeling sorry for myself. I’m misbehaving. I’m throwing a tantrum. I’m doing all the rotten, shitty things I do when things don’t go my way. And I’m doing them largely alone, as I have done since 19 December 2010. It’s going to be one of those days where doing one nice thing for someone (as Kate would do) isn’t going to lessen the sting, either. Nope. Today is going to be one of those days when the dam breaks, the emotions flood my world and everyone around me has the good fortune of drowning in my misery because sharing is caring.

At some point, I’ll get my shit together and head out for a long walk – my ersatz Kate (coping mechanism, evener of the keel) – stomp out any aggression and hope the mood elevates a notch thanks to a flood of endorphins and some music. Then, I’ll likely find a pile of blankets and stuff my head under a pillow. Days like this, the chronic grief usually wins and everyone else usually loses. No amount of therapy will ever lick that, either.

Today, there simply isn’t any joy to be found.

Gävlebocken!!!

Assembling Gävlebocken.

It’s the most glorious time of the year! Gävlebocken has returned! I feel reborn.

It’s a beautiful day…to burn.

Important reference material:

Twitter Feed
Blog
Instagram
Website
History

Shimmering in the darkness, begging to be ignited.

Now, for the important stuff: Gävlebocken Incineration Sweepstakes is underway on Facebook. If you wish to participate, leave your desired date of destruction in the comments. I will let you know if your selection is available. The prizes: one beautiful, sparkly virtual trophy and the right to gloat for one entire calendar year.

Please, please burn me.

Call to action: Gävlebocken must burn this year, motherfuckers. Do not allow the kommun to break it down and ship it to China (or anywhere else, for that matter). Do not allow it survive. Burn this bastard. Make it so. Deliver your offering to the High Priestess. She rarely asks for anything, after all.

Every family has that idiot cousin who has to be invited to all the celebrations. This is Gävlebocken’s. He should burn, too.

Go Fuck Yourself Weekly: The Anti-Muslim, Anti-Syrian Refugee Brigade

OMG you stupid fucking fucks. You googling simpletons. You idiotic keyboard warriors. You ignorant, bigoted fucksticks. You insufferable, simple-minded, tea-bagging hard-ons. For the love of whatever it is you worship, cut it the fuck out with the ISIS/WASWAS bullshit!

We can all agree that ISIS/Daesh/whatever is a cadre of lunatics. Yes. That’s about as much courtesy as I’m going to extend. That’s it. That’s all you’re getting from me.

When I posted the ISIS/WASWAS meme, I did so as an indictment of Ronald Reagan’s fuckery. He was given the Go Fuck Yourself Weekly award. I told his ilk to go fuck itself, too. Note…I didn’t even suggest it. I wasn’t polite about it, either. I meant it. Go. Fuck. YOURSELF. Method of fucking irrelevant. Fuck yourself with a dildo. Fuck yourself with a butt-plug. Fuck yourself with your neighbor’s shoe. Fuck yourself with a fluorescent light bulb. Fuck yourself with a tent stake. Fuck yourself with your gun. I don’t care. Just go fuck yourself. Quietly.

I repeat…

Now, après-Paris, the ISIS/WASWAS hits are higher than ever. I chuckle when I see the stats and think “I wonder what these sacks of nobs think if they bother to read the piece?” Then I remind myself that they likely rank considerably low on the reading comprehension scale and sigh. These people who land on Random Misanthrope because my stupid fucking meme happens to be el numero uno on an image search don’t quite understand history. They certainly aren’t going to agree with my perspective. They just want blood and validation of their hate.

ZOMG! Let’s find another reason to hate brown people!!!111!

Very well. But I don’t have to give it to them.

What I can give them is this: Random Misanthrope’s Go Fuck Yourself Weekly award. And why? Because I despise their way of thinking. Because I despise their politics. Because I find bigotry so fucking offensive, I cannot even describe the intensity of my rage without sounding like I have Tourette’s.

It is well within their right to morph into some Francophile now that a tragedy fits their narrative. It’s well within their right to revert to calling frites French Fries instead of Freedumb Fries. It’s well within their right to fly the French flag beneath their American flag and their confederate flags. Just as it’s well within my right to openly mock them on the most juvenile level possible because, as we have learned, it is imperative to write to the level of one’s audience.

I mean it, fuckers.

(unedited, not proofed because I just don’t give a fuck)

Paris…

…how you see the world and how you will teach your children to see it, too.

About a month or so ago, Milky said to me “(classmate) says Paris is a dangerous place. There are bad people there.” I did some digging and discovered that she must have heard this after Charlie Hebdo. Her father is an art director for a magazine. It makes sense that her six year-old perspective would be such.

Paris is a special place for me. If you spend 10 years of your life studying a language and a culture of a particular place, the epicenter of said language and culture means something. When Dock and I took our first taxi ride into The City of Lights, I openly wept. Sweden owns my heart. France owns my brain. Knowing that I would soon have a chance to walk around this magical city, the core of it all, was simply too much to process. It was 10 years of studying, six years of using my knowledge at work (albeit intermittently), two weeks of slogging my way through trenches, forts and bunkers in the making. I was excited but overwhelmed. The teachers who never knew they inspired me would likely never know the dream would be realized. And all of those hours spent making a stained glass window in high school would pay off the minute I stood in La Sainte-Chapelle (which also made me cry).

I turned to Milky and said “Paris, like any big city, can be dangerous. It can also be safe. Big cities require big city posture. You and I call that Philly Style, right?” Then, I explained Charlie Hebdo and Hyper Cacher. To a six year-old. To a six year-old Jewish kid. It was arduous work, thinking of how to minimize the fear, especially since Milky will be taken to Paris, at some point. The city is too important to Dock and me for us to keep Milky away.

Towards the end of the conversation, I shared my story of one time when I was in Paris, when in the hunt for cheap lodging, away from tourists, I decided we would stay near La Marais. Being the history fiends that we are, I wanted to inject a little Jewish history into our adventure. I admit, I’m not quite ready to experience anything Holocaust oriented, at this point. My stepfather’s family died in the Holocaust. It’s too painful.

We ended up in a predominately Arabic district in Paris six months after 09.11. The general mood was quite peculiar. The French, as a whole, were thrilled to see Americans returning. One bar owner said “You have been gone too long. We miss you.” which is something I expect from smaller towns and rural areas. It is not something I expect in Paris proper. It’s not something anyone with a lick of sense should expect to hear in any large city (so, kindly refrain from saying Parisians are snotty. They’re not. They’re urbane, just like every denizen of every large metropolis.). We courteously thanked him. He was also gracious enough to speak English to us which is also sort of an anomaly because very few people in France speak English to me. Dock, yes. Me, no. I learned too well and no matter how exhausted I am from a day of translating, no one gives me mercy.

As we wandered around our little temporary neighborhood, it was evident there was an American in one’s midst. Dock felt slightly uncomfortable. I shrugged it off. I shrugged it off to the point where I left Dock and our traveling companion behind one afternoon and took off for a walk by myself. “That’s how dangerous Paris is,” I tell Milky. Mommy, all 63 inches of her, all 130 pounds of her, can go for a walk by herself in a big city and feel just as comfortable as she would in Philly. Or anywhere else. And, being me, I bought souvenirs for friends and candy (it was near Easter and chocolate eggs are ubiquitous) for my colleagues. I also scouted for kebab stands because Dock and I love authentic kebab.

This tangent is important: Dock looks very WASPy and American. He doesn’t dress typically American when he travels but his general appearance is very much American or Scots-Irish. I, on the other hand, am ethnically ambiguous. Thanks to my paternal DNA and the ability to speak more than one language (well enough to survive), it’s hard for the locals to determine where I’m from. Most natives know I’m not from their country but thanks to my table manners, my appearance and a few other factors, they just cannot figure out where I’m from. My father reports the same thing only everyone assumes he’s Middle Eastern (he looks eerily similar to Yasser Arafat).

We arrive at the kebab shop I found earlier and the shop keeper stops us at the door. He looks at me, looks at Dock and then says, in French “No. You can’t come in here. You’re American.” I respond, in French, “Why not? We’re hungry. I speak French quite well. We don’t have proper kebab at home.” He twists his face, pauses and relents “Fine. Come in.” As I’m eyeballing the menu he says “No. Go sit down and I’ll make you something. You’ll like it.” Now, it’s challenge time. Do I accept food that could have expired or do I trust the man? I trust him, grab Dock’s sleeve and sit down. We look around and we’re the only non-Arabic folks in the restaurant. I whisper “Imagine what would happen if he finds out he’s feeding Jews.” in a joking way. For all I know, the shop keeper could love Jews but really hate Americans after 09.11. He had no way of knowing that Dock and I fundamentally disagreed with the Bush Administration. The meal was the best kebab I have ever eaten and neither one of us became sick. We thanked the shop keeper, left a standard, small gratuity as appreciation and went on with our evening.

Another night in Paris. Another night in a beautiful place, brimming with culture and brimming with diversity. Another opportunity to show that not all American tourists are hideous, chest thumping beasts.

I shared that bit with Milky, as well. We all have our implicit biases. Sometimes, it’s up to us to knock down someone else’s wall. Most important, in a post-09.11 world, it was imperative for Americans to not treat all people of Arabic descent like garbage for then we’re the problem.

Paris is not dangerous. Paris is not a scary place. Paris is not rife with evil. Paris is hurting. This year started horrifically for Paris. It appears that it will end horrifically, as well. When Charlie Hebdo and Hyper Cacher happened, I said that Paris shouldn’t be defined by this, that Paris has survived much worse (you think it hasn’t?) and that Paris will recover. 2015 is a very small period of time in a city with a history dating back to the 3rd century…BC.

Today, I ache for Paris. I ache for the world. I ache for my child and children everywhere. Yet, I remain determined and committed to keep moving forward, keep pressing on – for this world can be better. Even if it’s only one kebab at a time.

Je suis sans voix.

Je ne sais que dire d’autre. Peut-être cela? Je ne sais pas.

La Marseillaise

Allons enfants de la Patrie,
Le jour de gloire est arrivé!
Contre nous de la tyrannie,
L’étendard sanglant est levé, (bis)
Entendez-vous dans les campagnes
Mugir ces féroces soldats?
Ils viennent jusque dans vos bras
Égorger vos fils, vos compagnes!

Aux armes, citoyens,
Formez vos bataillons,
Marchons, marchons!
Qu’un sang impur
Abreuve nos sillons!

Que veut cette horde d’esclaves,
De traîtres, de rois conjurés?
Pour qui ces ignobles entraves,
Ces fers dès longtemps préparés? (bis)
Français, pour nous, ah ! quel outrage!
Quels transports il doit exciter!
C’est nous qu’on ose méditer
De rendre à l’antique esclavage!

Quoi! des cohortes étrangères
Feraient la loi dans nos foyers!
Quoi! ces phalanges mercenaires
Terrasseraient nos fiers guerriers! (bis)
Grand Dieu! par des mains enchaînées
Nos fronts sous le joug se ploieraient
De vils despotes deviendraient
Les maîtres de nos destinées!

Tremblez, tyrans et vous perfides
L’opprobre de tous les partis,
Tremblez! vos projets parricides
Vont enfin recevoir leurs prix! (bis)
Tout est soldat pour vous combattre,
S’ils tombent, nos jeunes héros,
La terre en produit de nouveaux,
Contre vous tout prêts à se battre!

Français, en guerriers magnanimes,
Portez ou retenez vos coups!
Épargnez ces tristes victimes,
À regret s’armant contre nous. (bis)
Mais ces despotes sanguinaires,
Mais ces complices de Bouillé,
Tous ces tigres qui, sans pitié,
Déchirent le sein de leur mère!

Amour sacré de la Patrie,
Conduis, soutiens nos bras vengeurs
Liberté, Liberté chérie,
Combats avec tes défenseurs! (bis)
Sous nos drapeaux que la victoire
Accoure à tes mâles accents,
Que tes ennemis expirants
Voient ton triomphe et notre gloire!

Aux armes, citoyens,
Formez vos bataillons,
Marchons, marchons!
Qu’un sang impur
Abreuve nos sillons!

Nous entrerons dans la carrière
Quand nos aînés n’y seront plus,
Nous y trouverons leur poussière
Et la trace de leurs vertus (bis)
Bien moins jaloux de leur survivre
Que de partager leur cercueil,
Nous aurons le sublime orgueil
De les venger ou de les suivre!

Aux armes, citoyens,
Formez vos bataillons,
Marchons, marchons!
Qu’un sang impur
Abreuve nos sillons!

I think you should…

…fuck off with the “You should…” suggestions.

Over the summer, a galpal of mine and I were sitting at a tapas bar in Durham, unencumbered by daily responsibilities of parenting and work, feasting and chattering about life in general. This particular friendship is new and genuinely treasured because Galpal reminds me very much of Kate (Yes, I realize the gravity of that statement and I’m trying not to make that Galpal’s burden because that’s a fucking nightmare of a standard to live up to). Also, she is wise, brave and just emerging from a serious life overhaul. I, on the other hand, find myself feeling positively clueless, largely afraid of my own shadow and in the midst of watching everything I spent my entire adult life working for crumble around me. 2015 has been anything but kind or fair for me and a lot of my friends. I may even go so far as to say that 2015 has been even more challenging and painful than the year following Kate’s death, which says quite a lot since I essentially shut down in 2011. The only difference between now and then is that in 2011, I was fortunate enough to have the opportunity to shut down. This year, no such luck. This year, I had to figure out how to move forward and solve my problems while still managing all that requires management. Had it not been for Galpal and numerous others (some new faces, some familiar faces), I highly doubt I would have been able to pull it off. Strong and stubborn as I may be, I’m still very much the person who eyeballs that sofa longingly and fights the urge to crawl beneath it and stay hidden for weeks at a time. If Milkface didn’t need to get to or from school and if I didn’t have to justify my existence during a re-org, my ass would have been under that sofa with a box of Kleenex and a bottle of benzos. We all know that to be true.

As we were talking about life, in general, the significant obstacles Galpal has overcome and the hideous list of shit that I have to address, the subject of friendly advice (solicited or not) entered the conversation. One’s friends and loved ones genuinely mean well. If you care about someone, it’s painful to watch them struggle. When you’re emotionally invested in someone, you want to help solve their problems. Unless, of course, you’re an entirely selfish asshat and then you just let them flounder. There are those in life who, as I say, like to watch the world burn. But, the well-intended will always be there for you and that is a genuinely amazing thing. Whether it’s holding your hand while you’re crying, bringing you bottles of booze, taking you out and giving you a much needed change in scenery, sharing their hard-earned wisdom or just making you laugh, the well-intended are treasures. I consider myself to be beyond fortunate to have many in my life. And, of course, because I’m an obsessive perfectionist, I usually feel guilty for not appreciating them enough or acknowledging how much they do for me, how much they mean to me and how much they enrich my life.

The conversation went on and I remember going back to something Galpal said a friend of hers mentioned. It was a “You should…” statement. “You should go out and do…” And there, at the bar, I found myself annoyed. Annoyed bordering on slightly angry. “You should…” What “should” any of us do? Really. We’re not talking about a life or death issue. We’re not talking about managing an illness. We’re not talking about anything critical in nature. We’re talking about benign lifestyle choices. We’re talking about things that could potentially make us happy, right? But when someone says “You should…” and then follows it up with a suggestion that is more suitable to their personality and their needs, it’s not really a suggestion that is suitable for the person being spoken to. No, it’s a statement about what makes someone else happy and the assumption is “It makes me happy. It will make you happy, too.” Again, a great intent and likely very sincere. Yet, not remotely applicable. You can’t tell someone to do something and expect a good outcome if the action doesn’t work for the individual. I can no more tell someone to write down their feelings if they’re not interested in writing than a rando suggesting that I declutter my house, clean or cook a meal to make myself feel better as I have no interest in doing any of those things. I also lack the time and the energy.

Giving the “You should…” statements the fair benefit of the doubt, one knows the person saying them means well. The person genuinely cares. The person wants to see the other person happy and fulfilled. “You should…” when it comes to certain lifestyle choices is nothing more than an opinion. While we value our friends’ input, opinions don’t often solutions make. Sometimes, the opinion can actually make things worse via making the audience feel badly because if the listener doesn’t follow the “You should…” then there’s a feeling of guilt. “You should…” brings along a lot of negative implications.

Let’s be honest here, are any of us happy when an order is barked at us? And isn’t “You should…” an order? Or…am I that loath to direction that I am interpreting something otherwise innocuous as a command? Therein lies part of the problem. Shouldn’t we always speak or write to the level of our audience and consider the interpretation of our message? If I said “You should consider your message because I think you sound like a fucking asshole when you dole out unsolicited advice.” would you interpret my message as helpful and warm or would you say “Fuck. I managed to piss off Kang. Again. Why is she always so fucking brittle?”

That night, at the tapas bar, I decided I detested the “You should…” sentiment. A few days later, I texted Galpal and said “I’m striking that from my language. I feel that strongly about this. I’m no longer going to say ‘You should…’ to anyone.” For the most part, I have been successful. Sometimes, I’ll trot it out in a snarktatstic sense. Sometimes, I catch myself about to say it and then have to stop, correct myself and think of a more meaningful way to frame advice. Other times, I have finally embraced the most difficult thing of all – keeping one’s mouth shut and just listening to your friends and offering comfort. Because, if I have learned anything from this fucktastic shitstain of a year, it’s that I know very little about life and that in spite of your hardest work/efforts, your master plans and your intentions; you’re going to be diverted from your path. And, oddly enough, those diversions aren’t necessarily the worst thing that could happen, either. Sure, they’re fraught with pain and fear, but they’re also opportunities to learn, grow and challenge yourself. You never end up on the losing end if you’re gaining something. Knowledge is something so…there you be.

So, in summary, “You should…” statements fucking suck. They’re arrogant. They imply that the person making the statement knows what is best for you and that isn’t always the case, especially in life’s grey areas. And, to reference a conversation from this morning with Blitz, it’s high time we all “stop defining stuff for other people and not worry about fitting in anyone else’s fucking box.” Sometimes, things aren’t going to make fucking sense. Sometimes, the people you love are going to struggle and there isn’t going to be the magical potion that will make them immediately peaceful and happy. Sometimes, you’re going to have to watch them sort it out on their own and stand by them as they do. There will be times when we can’t solve problems for other people (unless the problem is solely financial and one of us has a fuckton of money they can part with). Most of the time, what makes you happy isn’t going to necessarily satisfy someone else entirely or, dare I say, at all.

No more “You should…” anything. Unless, of course, it’s “You should stop making these statements.”

Naming names…

…or not.

“I will not name the shooter. I will not give him credit for this horrific act of cowardice.” John Hanlin, Douglas County Sheriff

And many other peanuts.

There’s a new way to deflect any discussion about gun control after yet another mass shooting. Rather than actually engage in thoughtful discussion about gun control and, I don’t know, do something about it for once, we’re going to offer up our prayers and tears and recognize those who have fallen, support the families of the victims and deny martyrdom to the criminal who committed the crime. The mentally ill, white man who shot up this week’s target of choice, a community college in Oregon, shall remain nameless. So sayeth the sheriff (who did not get shot and certainly not by me who is fundamentally against firearm ownership) and basically everyone else who wants to feel better about themselves but doesn’t want to do much more about the social cancer killing 380 people so far this year and injuring over 1,000.

Nope. We’re not naming names.

Nope. We’re not going to change.

Nope. There is no problem here.

None. At all.

Except there is.

And we should likely do something about it.

As of today, we have ticked 275 boxes off our calendars. As of today, there have been 294 mass shootings in the United States. Is this acceptable? Can we really sit around and feel comfortable with our ability, as a society, to responsibly manage firearms?

Now, I know those pro-gun types are going to thump their chests and drag out the whole Second Amendment argument. Very well. You just won’t ever feel safe in your own homes without your well-regulated militia, will you? Do you mind if I ask you a very serious question, then? When is the last time your well-regulated militia assembled to discuss battle strategy? Are your learning materials coming from Annapolis or West Point? Who is the General? Do you have a secret handshake or get to wear a hat like Fred Flintstone’s Loyal Order of the Water Buffalo? Going bowling with your buddies while secretly wishing you were hanging with The Dude and Donny doesn’t count, either. I really want to know about your well-regulated militia. Please leave feedback in the comments below for my edification. Thank you.

As for the individualists out there looking for an argument – you are not an island. You are not entirely self-sufficient. When you drive on the road you built entirely by yourself, live entirely off the grid, rely on no one, then you can moan about your individualistic rights to owning a gun. Until then, shut your foodholes and accept the fact that you are, indeed, not the sun and Earth does not orbit around you. You, individualist, may actually have to do something selfless for once in your life. I know, here’s a hanky. It’s tough out there for a pimp. But really, I can empathize. Shit, I can sympathize. I used to smoke like a motherfucking chimney and when I had to start huddling under an umbrella in the rain because you didn’t like that my second hand smoke could kill you, I wasn’t upset with you, personally. I recognized that I had a very dangerous hobby/habit that I needed to surrender. And I did. And I’m better for it. You will be, too. Trust.

To speak to the naming of the names, the next time there is a mass shooting (because there will be a next time), I think, instead of acting pious and saying “I’m not going to allow the shooter a moment’s glory or let him be a martyr. Noooooo sirreee, Bob!” I think we should start naming donors to the NRA. I think we should start naming the lobbyists. I think we should start naming the Congressfolk on the take. If we’re not going to name the perpetrator, let’s name the accomplices, instead. Maybe, once everyone realizes the blood is on their hands too, they will take a long, hard look in the mirror, man up, put down their inane instruments of death and finally accept the fact that their little toys are dangerously stupid and offer little value to the greater good.

Oh, Florida…

…where killing a black man is just fine but fucking on the beach – not so much.

Last July, Jose Caballero and Elissa Alvarez were arrested on Bradenton Beach for having the sinful sex on the sand. They, being Floridians, presumably, were genetically predisposed to approach this from a very unintelligent and inelegant fashion. They took that delightful, little diddy, “Afternoon Delight” a little too seriously and knocked da boots on the beach in the middle of the afternoon, in front of other people. Urgh. Classy.

Doubly unfortunate for the frolicking duo, a four-year old child was present. Also present, someone with a camera. When the mom of the four-year old asked Caballero to stop, Caballero wasn’t very receptive to the request. He was confrontational. Who knows? Maybe he was super-dee-dooper close to the best beach sex climax of his life? I dunno. I have never partaken of the old beach sex. It strikes me as particularly uncomfortable and itchy. Sex in an old coal furnace, on the other hand…never mind…

Caballero has priors; among those, cocaine trafficking. So, you know this isn’t going to end well for him. He’s not getting off (not on the beach and not in court) with a slap on the wrist. He ended up with a jail sentence of 2.5 years. A bit draconian, if you ask me.

His partner in crime, Elissa Alvarez, was also found guilty of lewd and lascivious (one of my favorite words) exhibition in front of a child. Not in front of a child! For fuck’s sake, think of the children! The children who, likely, have no fucking idea what they’re witnessing until their parents freak the fuck out and make a giant scene that will remain permanently etched in their memories. “Hey mommy! Remember that time we were at Bradenton Beach when I was four and we saw those two people fucking in the sand? I do! Thanks to you and your histrionic reaction.”

This particular charge is a second degree felony and as such, both parties must register as sex offenders. For fucking on the beach. Something that how many people have done at some point in their lives? Man, you know the bar is low when you’re popped and nailed with a felony for a cliché.

Here’s the really sad thing – Elissa Alvarez is all of 21 years old. She was sentenced for time served and is now out of custody. She is not, however, out of the woods. She is a registered sex offender and, as such, has a life of no career to look forward to. Think of all the stupid, youthful indiscretions we engaged in around that age. As I alluded to earlier, I got busy in an abandoned coal furnace at the tender age of 20 with a belly full of beer. Thank fuck there were no such things as cellphones with cameras or the internet. Or kids around. I could have been Elissa Alvarez, easily. Sex in public places is a rite of passage. Don’t look at me and act horrified. Y’all probably have done it once or twice, too.

The sex offender registry is important. We deserve to know when paedophiles are among us. That said, when you add people like this to the registry, people who diddle on the beach – how much service is that providing to the community? I don’t feel that this behavior is overtly dangerous. I don’t feel that two people are going to drop trou in Agrestic and get busy in the park. And, if they do, I think a simple “cut it the fuck out” would stop that shit in its tracks. Even if it didn’t, I wouldn’t want to destroy someone’s life over something as minor as this. It’s sex. It’s not rape. It’s not sex with a child. It’s consenting adults having sex. Even if the choice of geography isn’t the best option.

Should we fuck on buses, in shopping centers, public parks full of kids, playgrounds, etc…? No. There is a need for decorum. That’s why I have highly recommended abandoned coal furnaces and have long been a champion of them. Even if your clothes end up stained and mucky and your hair stinks after. But still, is any of this worth torpedoing the life of a 21-year-old woman?

No. No, it’s not.

Alas, this happened in Florida. Florida, the state where killing an unarmed black teen hungry for Skittles is perfectly acceptable but sex on the beach is an affront to mankind. Bugs Bunny had the right idea all along but we have known that since the 2000 election, haven’t we?

Apple Music…

…please eat a bag of dicks.

We interrupt the current rational posts with one from the perspective of a person who has been dealing with a wee bit of PTSD over the past three or four weeks. A person who does not care to have her cheese moved before 08.00 in the morning. A person who wants to listen to her music when she wants to listen to it and will not be denied.

This morning, I needed (yes, needed) to listen to the Purple Rain soundtrack – the songs Computer Blue and Baby I’m a Star, to be precise. Yet, being the addle-minded, drooling idiot I have become lately, I stupidly updated my music player the other day without much thought. I put on my DJ P0n-3 headphones, pulled up the horrifying menu and started hyperventilating. Where is my fucking Prince??? No, not that one. We all know that notion is a giant, fucking joke. I mean PRINCE. The Purple One.

Fuck me.

So, after one panic attack averted, I finally locate the album and the required songs only to be rewarded with Computer Blue on infinite loop.

Look, Apple, I get it. You’re trying to play catch up. You’re slightly out-moded in this particular arena. That’s fine. Progress is pain. No, seriously, I get it. I’m in the middle of a corporate re-org. I KNOW PAIN. Change is a significant emotional event for all of us. That said, why must you monkey with my little island of sanity? Why tamper with what is of paramount importance to me? When this bitch needs to listen to Nine Inch Nails to scare teachers, she needs to listen to Nine Inch Nails. When she needs to listen to Prince to get revved up for her five mile walk, she needs her Prince. When you deny her this – tantrums will be thrown. And, as I mentioned earlier, in the throes of PTSD flashbacks, denial and upset is not something graciously accepted.

Sort the shit out, asshats.

Love…
/Kang