Livingston, I Presume

How now, low bow?

Apparently while I was celebrating the twentieth anniversary of the Velvet Revolution, our president was busily signing over our country to the Japanese emperor. Because that's what it means when one world leader shows another world figure the appropriate cultural respect, right?

I cannot honestly believe that people are trying to make this into some gesture of submission or using it as a dogwhistle for a bunch of unrepentant racists. Exhibit A, taken from a column in the conservative Washington Times:

...He established a new precedent for how American presidents should pay obeisance to kings, emperors, monarchs, sovereigns and assorted other authentic man-made masters of the universe. He stopped just this side of the full grovel to the emperor of Japan, risking a painful genuflection if his forehead had hit the floor with a nasty bump, which it almost did. No president before him so abused custom, traditions, protocol (and the country he represents).

[...]

It's no fault of the president that he has no natural instinct or blood impulse for what the America of "the 57 states" is about. He was sired by a Kenyan father, born to a mother attracted to men of the Third World and reared by grandparents in Hawaii, a paradise far from the American mainstream.

(Excuse me, but did he just say "sired"? Like a racehorse or something? And "Born to a mother attracted to men of the Third World?" I'm pretty sure that's code for her being fond of something that I can't say on this family blog, and it's not nice to talk about people's mothers, in any case.)

He was bowing. In Japan. Which is a country where people bow to greet one another and show respect. I guess President Obama was supposed to clap him on the shoulder and say, "Howdy!" instead?

Of all the disgraceful presidential acts that have taken place of late, I'm thinking this one doesn't even hit the radar. Let us remember George W. Bush surprising German Chancelor Angela Merkel with a clearly unwanted and thoroughly creepy backrub:

 

Oh, and here's a quotation I hadn't heard before, also from young Bush: "At the White House on April 15, 2008, President Bush remarked to Pope Benedict after his sermon: "Thank you, your Holiness. Awesome speech."

Awesome.

Of course, none of this comes close to George Bush, senior, who famously vomited into the lap of the Japanese prime minister:

Between bowing and vomiting, I think I know what most people would prefer.

Dammit, Chloe!

Via Shakesville comes this horrifying little tete-a-tete originally reported by Canada's Globe and Mail:

Justice Antonin Scalia is one of the most powerful judges on the planet.

The job of the veteran U.S. Supreme Court judge is to ensure that the superpower lives up to its Constitution. But in his free time, he is a fan of 24, the popular TV drama where the maverick federal agent Jack Bauer routinely tortures terrorists to save American lives. This much was made clear at a legal conference in Ottawa this week.

Senior judges from North America and Europe were in the midst of a panel discussion about torture and terrorism law, when a Canadian judge's passing remark - "Thankfully, security agencies in all our countries do not subscribe to the mantra 'What would Jack Bauer do?' " - got the legal bulldog in Judge Scalia barking.

The conservative jurist stuck up for Agent Bauer, arguing that fictional or not, federal agents require latitude in times of great crisis. "Jack Bauer saved Los Angeles. ... He saved hundreds of thousands of lives," Judge Scalia said. Then, recalling Season 2, where the agent's rough interrogation tactics saved California from a terrorist nuke, the Supreme Court judge etched a line in the sand.

"Are you going to convict Jack Bauer?" Judge Scalia challenged his fellow judges. "Say that criminal law is against him? 'You have the right to a jury trial?' Is any jury going to convict Jack Bauer? I don't think so.

Words fail me. Really. Somebody needs to have a little downtime in a holding cell at CTU, perhaps learning exactly what is fact and what is fiction. Jack Bauer saved Los Angeles on television, Mr. Justice. Television. You know, that glowing blue box in your living room? Or maybe the problem is that it's in your chambers.

I think we're looking at some radical detox here. So hand over the box set of the first five seasons, Justice Scalia. And let go of that Tivo with the last season taped on it. It was a terrible season, anyway. You won't miss it.

Don't make us ask you twice. If you don't hand them over, we just might have to put you on a plane to a Chinese prison where they won't let you cut your hair or shave your beard and will commit unspeakable tortures against you but will paradoxically keep you in good enough shape to enable to you to save the world mere hours after your poorly bargained release.

That must've been some good shit

From the "what was this guy smoking?" department comes a brilliant letter in the Chronicle this morning about what people are...um...smoking. Entitled "Governor far too cozy with San Francisco drug culture", the letter from a Manhattanite charges that our own Brian Schweitzer is clearly on drugs--or at least promoting them madly--by traveling to Sodom. I mean, California.

Schweitzer isn’t even a little bit bashful about traveling to San Francisco (industry headquarters for pot, porn and perversion) for a fundraiser with cannabis culture icon Bill Maher.

How come nobody told me that San Francisco was the headquarters for pot, porn, and perversion? I was just there in November and my trip was lacking even the most rudimentary elements of these industries. Furthermore, I was not aware that merely visiting San Francisco could make one supportive of the drug culture. Add that devil-may-care trip to the City by the Bay to appearing on Bill Maher's show, well, it must mean that Schweitzer is ransacking the kitchen at the Governor's Mansion for cheetos and cold pizza while watching the Dark Side of the Moon and the Wizard of Oz on double HDTVs.

What would this letter-writer prefer, exactly? The governor leaving Helena under the cloak of darkness to "visit relatives" in "Nebraska" so as to avoid offending the delicate sensibilities of those Montanans who have ridiculous, uninformed opinions about the most populous American state?

And I guess maybe I'm the dumb one, as I didn't  realize that Bill Maher was a central figure in drug culture. (No HBO!) Moreover, not being a regular reader of High Times or other marijuana-positive publications, I was not privy to the many awards heaped on Mr. Maher regarding his pro-drug stance. It strikes me that perhaps the letter writer has been spending a bit too much time on the Marijuana Policy Project website to learn all these facts about Schweitzer's new "best friend".

Regrettably, Mr. Manhattan has not spent enough time on said website to learn the cool slang for marijuana:

Interestingly, British psychiatrists estimate an additional 25,000 cases of schizophrenia caused by the smoking of skunk (marijuana).

Reefer madness, I tell you! Actually, madness is believing that visiting a single city can indicate support for smoking anything (I presume Mr. Manhattan is most concerned about pot and pole, but what do I know?), or that a single city could claim to be the world capital of three such diverse industries. I'm no native Californian, but my sources tell me that porn is in Southern California and pot is in the far north. And if perversion is an actual industry, I'd appreciate directions to that San Francisco world headquarters. I've got a small child to protect, you know.

Ah, yes...Utopia!

Via Broadsheet comes this money quote in an AP article regarding the Prevention First initiative, a bill aiming to mandate better access to and information about contraceptives, increase funds for family planning and comprehensive sex education funds, and assure that emergency contraception is made available to rape victims at all hospitals:

"There's a utopian view that women ought to be able to have sex any time they want to without consequences -- that's the bottom line of all these bills," Janice Crouse, Concerned Women for America.

OK, Janice. You've got me there. I really do believe that women--of legal age and sound mind and willing spirit--ought to be able to have sex when they want, how they want, and with whom they want. Isn't that what men have been doing for centuries? As long as said women are not coming over to my house and commandeering the bed, who am I to decide when sex is appropriate?

I'm not advocating some giant, national orgy--although, as a liberal, I guess I'm supposed to welcome that--but I am saying that mandating "consequences" for having sex is ridiculous. First of all, why is it only women who should have to face these consequences? Is a baby a precious new life or a punishment for an orgasm? And cervical cancer. There's a great consequence we should want to preserve for all women who have sex. Because God knows without the threat of cervical cancer and unintended pregnancy, women everywhere will be doffing their clothes and shagging the first available man they see.

Certainly not every consensual sexual encounter in this world happens for all the right reasons. People get drunk and make bad choices. Hell, a lot of us are fully capable of making bad choices even without alcohol. But it's pretty hard to make laws against bad choices, and it's even harder to make laws that go against fundamental tenets of human nature.

Maybe abstinence before marriage was truly viable in the days when it was expected that people get married when they were 17 or 18 years old. (I don't have trouble with the notion that women AND men can and in most cases should avoid sex until they are old enough to vote and have true control over their bodies. But you can't mandate it by law. You can make it clear in no uncertain terms that to have sex before then would require a trip to the dreaded gynecologist, as my mother did to me. You can put condoms in your teenage child's luggage before camp, ensuring that any sexual experience will have to take place with the thought of Mom and those goddamn condoms uppermost. Have I said too much? Ahem.) Encouraging abstinence before marriage in a time when the average age of marriage is 26 for women and 27 for men seems just a waste of time. Why shouldn't unmarried people in their twenties be having sex if they want to? If they have kids in their thirties, those memories just might get them through.

Oh, and let's not forget the great, heteronormative Catch-22 that the whole "abstinence before marriage" crowd sets up for gays and lesbians: Don't have sex before marriage and--haha!--you can't get married! It's a life of celibacy for you, my friend.

Making the choice to have sex should not mean a life of fear--fear of pregnancy, fear of disease, fear of cancer. And a woman who can't control her body can't control any other aspect of her life. I wish to hell that, just once, Antonin Scalia would have to experience the terror of a late period. Or that Samuel Alito would have an abnormal pap smear. But most of all, I wish that the morality police out there peddling inaccurate information about sex would all be as honest as Janice. Because it's not really about "protecting unborn life" or "helping kids say no to sex", it's about controlling women. To hell with the consequences.

Room for my 12-point buck antlers?

An architect that I work with has confirmed his intentions for the buildings he designs in Bozeman. He wants, quite simply, to drag Bozeman out of the log-cabin-n-animal-heads school of architecture. It's a goal I can get behind, but one that is, alas, at odds with the rest of the fashion world, according to today's New York Times. Put simply, antlers are the new black:

"Nature — or the appearance of embracing nature — is chic these days. Judging by the direction of fashion and home décor and of-the-moment restaurants and shops, you might mistake Manhattan for Montana. The raw concrete floors and white walls of 1990s minimalism have been swept away. In their place, new boutiques and cafes in the city’s glossier neighborhoods resemble overdesigned hunting lodges — dark and moody, with uneven floorboards to trip over and, almost inevitably, a set of antlers hanging from the rafters."

Damn you, New York Times! We here in Montana are doing our level best to move away from "overdesigned hunting lodges" and you go and invoke our name in your article about ridiculous poseurs who wouldn't know which end of a gun is used to bag an elk. (To be clear here, not that I would. But still.) What's next? Orange safety vests over skinny jeans?

Please don't think I'm trying to deny my Montana heritage here. Hey, I like expletive-laden rants from my public servants (NSFW!!) in the name of straight-talk just as much as the next gal, but does the image of Montana always have to involve dead animals? And worse yet, do we have to put up with being compared to "urban" cowboys?

And now for something completely different

NB: A version of this column appeared today in Business to Business.

Don’t tell Child Protective Services, but I occasionally let Connery watch Monty Python. We watch it on YouTube, the named-in-a-lawsuit site containing more digital video than you could watch in a lifetime, including important and historic events such as the Fish-Slapping Dance.

I shouldn’t be surprised that he likes it. The first song he ever learned to sing in harmony with us was the legendary British comedy troupe’s “Lumberjack Song” because, frankly, how many times can you sing “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” without getting bored? Besides, the word “larch” is funny without my having to do anything at all.

All of which is a long-winded way of getting to my main point: the delicate place where business meets age-appropriateness. We’ll call it Spamalot for short.

My parents—leading the charge of the multi-generational travel trend among Baby Boomers—have decided to take their kids and grandkids to Las Vegas to celebrate their 40th wedding anniversary. Part of the reason we’re going this spring is that the musical Spamalot—which publicity describes as “a musical lovingly ripped off from the motion picture Monty Python and the Holy Grail”—is playing there starting next month. (Clearly, the desire to share British humor—or should I say humour--with my child didn’t occur in a vacuum.) We didn’t expect the Spanish Inquisition when it came time to buy tickets, but as it turns out, the Spamalot box office won’t sell us any for the youngest generation, which includes my Monty Python-loving son.

In fact, they won’t sell tickets to be used by anyone under the age of 8. Not if you beg and plead. Not if you promise to run quickly and quietly for the exits in the case of child meltdown. Not if you explain patiently that you know the show and agree that there are parts that might be offensive but pledge that you will not sue them for recklessly exposing your child to fart jokes.

It was an interesting contrast for me, since I had only a few months ago called the box office of the Intermountain Opera Association to ask about taking my son to see their production of The Mikado. The man I talked with there was not only willing to give us a ticket for my son but was also actively encouraging about exposing children to live theater—as long as the other patrons and the performers were not disturbed. Fair enough, and certainly a rule we follow whether at The Mikado or Mackenzie River Pizza. We ended up going to a wonderful matinee performance, and we all thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. Connery still talks about going and loves to listen to the CD.

I guess you could argue that The Mikado—lacking as it is in fart jokes—is more suitable fare for a small child. That may be true, but shouldn’t I, as the parent of the small child in question, get to decide what is appropriate?

The show’s seemingly arbitrary restriction made us seriously consider calling off the entire trip, a decision that would represent a loss to Vegas businesses of the airfare, hotel rooms, show tickets, and meals planned for six adults and two children. I guess it’s nothing to the booming economy of Las Vegas, but it is a big deal for two retired teachers and their kids who wanted to celebrate a big milestone.

Given attempts to recast glitzy Las Vegas as a family vacation destination, the response we’ve gotten is odd. How much better would it be for them to take the Intermountain Opera approach? Recognize the inherent risks in having kids at a live show, discuss it with the parents up front and then work like crazy to get kids hooked on all theater when they’re young. The Baby Boomers might be the ones buying the tickets now, but that won’t last forever. And in a world in which almost any video can be found with a Google search and a high-speed connection, live performance is going to need all the audience loyalty it can muster.

What's in a name?

Dear Abby has had an interesting couple of days. A while back she urged a stepmother to talk with her stepdaughter about her choice to spell the name "Gisella" with four Ms and a silent Q. Yesterday's follow-up column included those readers who thought Abby was clearly trying to squelch the beautiful creativity of the naming process, while those today had some common sense.

I guess it's not hard to figure out on which side of the naming controversy I fall.

It's not that I don't remember the nearly irrepressible urge to name my potential baby daughter Allyssyn or Tiphani. Oh, I clearly do. It's just that I wanted to do that when I was 12, and then I got over it. Also, having named my own child Connery, I can't really fault anyone for going with an unusual name, but spelling the #1 on the Social Security name list with extra letters or weird combinations isn't fooling anyone. Dzakob is still going to be Jacob, just with anger management issues.

And can we talk about -ayden/-aiden/-aden, please? I've got no beef with Aiden as a name. In fact, my beautiful goddaughter's middle name is Aiden. I think it's a great name for a boy or a girl. But, as a nation, we're going a little crazy with the -aden names. It started out innocently enough, with names like Jaden, Braeden, Caden. Nothing wrong there. Now, however, we're entering a long national nightmare where virtually any consonant or consonant cluster can be tacked onto -aden and called a name. How long until Slayden? Daiden? Gayden? I can virtually guarantee that there is some mother out there right now contemplating just that. (In fact, you might be able to find her here. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT read the site while drinking any kind of beverage, unless you enjoy cleaning it off your screen and keyboard following your spit take.) And there is nothing we can do to stop her.

If she were Czech or French or any number of other European nationalities, we would still have a prayer. Many European countries have what can only be called the Name Police, designed to protect innocent babies from becoming Pilot Inspektors or Reignbeaus. (Indeed, had Chip or I been Czech, we might have had a bit of a problem with the Czech Name Police for Connery--though we did have proof in a book that it existed as a first name--but as Americans, they didn't bug us. They know that America is the land of the Moon Unit, after all.)

Still, I'm quite sure that a naming bureaucracy would not garner support from most Americans. (Sadly, it might have more support from the masses than another European import, national health care, but that's another topic entirely.) We want to have the Constitutionally protected right to exert our own individuality through our kids. We can never go back to our own pre-babyhood and stop our parents from naming us Jason when there were already 27 Jasons in the schools we were to attend, but we can damn sure prevent little Wolfgang from suffering the same fate.

Or should that be Wulphgangg?

Every child is unique, whether she is called Emily or Tu Morrow. Why make life harder by saddling a child with the kind of name that demands constant repetition, correction, or stifled laughter? Adolescence will be hard enough without trying to live down Jermajesty or Romeo. Abby, you've still got my vote.

Pampers PLUS!

Editor's note: This is not a post about poop. Squeamish people can keep right on reading. Really!

All you parents out there, I bet you think you know the tolerances of diapers. I bet you think you know them so well that you could express them in a quasi-mathematical format:

If x=blueberries and y=bran muffins and the function is (b) breakfast, then function (l) lunch cannot include z=prunes (which of course are not prunes at all but dried plums! they're not your father's prunes!).

But do you really know what diapers can do? What their outer limits are? Allow me to tell you the story of how we came to understand the value of the diaper--sans poo--lo, this very weekend.

First a little background...My husband is many things: sensitive, handsome, funny. He is also a good driver. I would wager to say that he could be called a great driver, actually. He is one of the only Americans I have ever known who enjoyed driving in Prague--not in any way a car city, unless you're suicidal--and his quick reflexes have gotten us out of many a carjam, including one notable incident on I-90 in Connecticut during which we could have both been killed due to a distracted driver pulling into us at 75 miles an hour. (He is also the only American I know to have been pulled over by a traffic cop in Crete. Up until we were pulled over, I was not aware that there were any traffic cops in Crete, because there didn't appear to be any laws to enforce, save "Go faster!" and "Get out of my way!")

Anyway, we were driving yesterday on our old friend Highway 89, going to meet Nana and Grandpa in White Sulphur Springs for lunch and swimming. The weather was fine and the road was dry, and we were--as always--early. Like 45 minutes early. Most of you probably haven't spent time in White Sulphur Springs, so you'll have to take my word for the fact that staring down 45 extra minutes there would have been a hardship. So I convinced Chip to slow down to 55--a respectable, if slow, speed for a two-lane highway--and take the last few miles at a scenic drive pace. Even at that rate, we were almost immediately up the ass of a 4x4 pulling a trailer, so Chip pulled into the other lane to pass. I chastised him for passing early--since we were still a few car lengths behind the passing zone--but before I could even finish my sentence, the 4x4 was making a totally unsignaled turn, right into our lane. Stunt Car Driver Husband swung into action, swerving into the ditch, avoiding the 4x4, and--crucially--executing a quick maneuver to avoid the reflector pole straight ahead of us. The pole glanced off the side mirror on the passenger side, and we came to a stop.

No airbags deployed since Chip managed to avoid the impact, and everybody was fine. (Not entirely true. The karma of the dickhead in the 4x4 should be ruined for a good long time, since he didn't even stop to find out if we were OK.) The only casualty from the whole, VW-commercial-like experience was the cracked case on the side mirror. Even the automatic movement of the mirror hadn't been damaged! Here's how the mirror looked following the accident:

Once we met up with my folks, my dad assured us that we had probably done no lasting damage and predicted that the case could be salvaged with some super glue. Being a retired shop teacher and entirely too clever for his own good generally, he could have been expected to say that even if we had run smack into the pole, but in this case we recognized that even mechanically deficient people like us could probably handle super glue. (Just don't touch the eyes!)

We had the traditional adequate lunch at EAT and a very nice swim at the hot springs. It passed all too quickly and then it was time to head home again. All seemed fine until we started to reach normal highway speeds again. Then the case started flapping madly in the breeze, and we could tell that we were soon going to move from super-glue repair to dealership violation. We stopped the car to rummage around for string, a bungee cord, duct tape...but to no avail. Then I spied a diaper. "Isn't Connery's butt just about the same size as our side mirror?" I said with a glint in my eye.

In a word, yes. Diapers. They're not just for shit anymore! Oh, and you can forget all those expensive brands. This generic, Albertsons-brand diaper held it all together, with no embarrassing leaks. Well, right up until the point when we had to pass someone on the left and reveal our little secret.

Connie is so tie-tie...

Poor Con-man Burns. Now he's falling asleep at a hearing in technicolor glory atop the Daily Kos. However, as a Semi-Narcoleptic American, I have to take exception to this footage. If there were a camera trained on me at such an event, I can't promise it wouldn't record similar results. Hell, if someone had been following me around in college and grad school just taking pictures of the drool marks and note trail-offs in my binders, I never would have graduated. Falling asleep in a field hearing? That's no challenge at all. Try it in a Russian class with only seven other students and the world's most sadistic professor. Apparently, I'm ready for the Senate!

My little adult

We were having a little DQ last night when I was reminded just how closely Connery listens to us, and just how easily he absorbs linguistic nuance. He was getting a little frustrated trying to spoon up some last bits of sundae, and I asked him what was wrong.

"I'm just trying to get these f*ckin' peanuts," he grumbled.

Oh my. Now where would he have learned how to use *that* adjective?