Fat Girls, Obesity, and the American Obsession with "Thin"

So, I did get the inevitable "ping" for my "No Shit, Sherlock" post about the latest study CNN has decided to publish that purports that cardio problems are not necessarily linked to "obesity" or "overweight" as much they are to a sedentary lifestyle. No matter their weight, women (the study only involved women) who exercised for half an hour at least three times a week were healthier than those who did not, though those who did not may have been "thinner."

My poster sites the UK's NHS (National Health Service) website, though not a specific article - it appears he took the quoted text from the NHS Encyclopaedia. I don't particularly need a specific article, of course, because the US is already way ahead of the obesity-speak than the UK (I read The Guardian regularly, so I've kept up with their pacing of the US regarding obesity as a disease, school lunch reforms, rising fear and panic about slothful, gluttonous children, and outsized women et al). The US has, of course, already gone far past this and moved into gastric bypass surgery on demand (As I recall, there are currently appeals to the UK's NHS to perform this surgery free of charge to "patients." Gastric bypass surgery reduces the size of the stomach, inhibiting how much one can eat, and in effect, you suffer from malnutrition for the rest of your life, and have to subsist on supplements until the last breath leaves your body). What most studies have not done is separated out the sedentary and non-sedentary and controlled for that factor when making judgments about the correlation between weight and one's propensity for disease. They've even "discovered" a great thing to do with "obesity hormones": inject them in women suffering from anorexia or female athletes who've trained so hard that their bodies have dipped below the 10% body fat requirement that allows them to menstruate. Yes. That's right. Instead of telling a woman who wants to get pregnant that she should "gain weight" (that 10% body fat requirement is there for a reason), they'll inject thin women with leptin to trick their bodies into thinking that they've got enough resources to nourish children! Great!

I've watched the increasing medicalization of fat with some amusement, trepidation, and disgust. When I was five or six, and first got the Fat Talk from Concerned Adults, it had to do with their fear that I would be outcast at school, and in later life, lack for a sexual partner. The health aspect was peripheral at best. Now "obesity" is categorized as a "disease" whose symptom is "excess body fat." unfortunately, "excess body fat" is an extraordinarily relative term. "Excess body fat" isn't a disease. It's a symptom. For most of history, body fat has been a "symptom" of health and prosperity. The truly excessive body fat that impeded movement, the sort linked to sloth and gluttony, was most derided in the Christian era. Christianity had an abhorrence for the physical "earthly" body that still lingers into today, though today it's called "not letting oneself go," or "attaining self-perfection" - and both terms are now considered positive.

Want to know what the indicator of excess body fat is today? The BMI system. Where did the BMI system initially come from? Insurance companies. Who did all the medical studies to figure out the simple height/weight formula? No one. MET Life looked around at the people in the office, did some quick averaging, and printed up the now ubiquitous BMI charts. Yep. That's it. Not one single study was conducted in order to create the BMI charts. No doctors sat down with control groups, nobody measured body mass composition (muscle to fat ratio). For a far more realistic (but, I think, not quite lenient enough) BMI chart based (again, not on scientific evidence ::sigh::) on the goal weights of others in your age/height/gender range, and how drastically this differs from the very odd BMI charts promulgating the internet (the MET Life BMI chart, the insurance one, is the one you'll see most often. The other was, indeed, concocted by doctors - back in 1974, when they were trying to work out medication dosages, not critique fat or lack of it), check out this site.

My biggest issue with BMI is that few of them take age into account, and NONE take body shape and body mass into account (each individual has a differing bone and muscle density). According to the MET Life BMI, Brad Pitt is obese. Seriously. Muscle is heavier than fat. If your goal for "healthy" is taking up *less* space in the world, you may as well do this.

My quarrel isn't with health. I think we should all be able to take a couple flights of stairs without being out of breath. You should be able to walk a mile or two for fun, without feeling like you're going to die afterward. You should be able to lift things, to bend and twist and interact within the world without feeling like you need to sit down every five minutes. And for those with the time, money, and will, I'm a big proponent of competitive sport and conditioning, all of which require a balanced diet to keep the body running properly. This means you're likely going to have a very low amount of body fat - but it doesn't mean you're going to be "thin" in the supermodel sense of the word. Being that "thin" for most women means loss of muscle mass and loss of the ability to produce children.

The average white American female teenager's ideal body type is 5'7, 117lbs. One female survivor of Auschwitz measured 5'2, 55lbs. Add 10lbs per inch to get her to 5'7, and she's very nearly the American teen ideal.

How fucked up is that? I make "jokes" about concentration-camp chic, but they aren't really "jokes." They're not funny.

Too many people have conflated "health" with "thin." When I read all of these reports about the Evils of Obesity, I want to hit people. The language is flawed. When we talk about the Evils of Fat, we aren't talking about health, anymore than when we're talking about abortion we're talking about preserving some sort of mythical life (as opposed to the life working to bring the other to fruition, a nurturing that only succeeds 2/3 of the time anyway, without medical intervention of any sort, but I've already done that rant).

We're talking about fat people. We're talking about beauty, misogyny, aesthetics, and (the dirty word in America, though Britain is rife with talk of it) class.

We live in a largely sedentary society whose bottom rungs work a couple of jobs just to make ends meet. They often have children, and if they're women and/or single mothers, they're working upwards of three jobs including the care of their children and the maintenance of a home life. When you come home after standing at a mindless job for 12 hours, you want to come home and collapse. Exercise? Very funny. McDonald's and some mindless TV will do. Besides, how much does proper exercise cost? Sure, you could walk around the block, but what if you're in a shitty neighborhood (as many poorer people are)? What if, in addition to a merely bad neighborhood, you get home well past dark, living in a city with the highest murder rate in the country (Ah, Chicago)? You'd have to be able to afford a gym fee, or an exercise bike. And let me tell you, when it comes down to paying the heating bill or getting an exercise bike, guess what wins out?

Rich people - or single "young professionals" like me, who have no kids to take care of and were lucky enough to scrape out an education and slither into cozy desk jobs - have excess money, excess time, and the will to spend it. The times in my life when I've been the most out of shape were when I was the poorest (working two jobs and going to school, trying to pay rent and live on my own for the first time; and again in South Africa, once again desperately trying to pay bills, and this time around, also complete a master's degree in a foreign country). When life is a breeze, you've got more time to pay attention to status indicators like weight, and if you're looking to move up in the workplace or go on media tours, you're definitely making "image" a priority.

"Image" being the key term here.

If "health" were the biggest issue here in the US, we'd have a national health care system. We'd have a welfare system that supported people beyond the subsistence level, and a minimum wage that afforded people the ability to keep a roof over their heads that didn't belong to their hand-me-down car. If we were really so freakin' concerned about other people's health and welfare, you'd see less disgust at the Evils of the Fat and more interest in improving working wages, working hours, childcare, and access to education.

The "obesity epidemic" is another handwave. It's not a disease. It's a symptom. For those few who are actually sedentary, obese adults in the "dangerous health" range (the "healthy" range actually spans an 80lb range, not the narrow 15-lb range the MET Life bullshit BMI spouts on about) where "excess weight" impedes mobility, it's a symptom of a system catering to old white men with old white money. We're being peddled drugs and operations toted by old white male doctors who're getting rich on spreading Fear of Fat the same way Bush is trying to get himself re-elected through Fear of Terrorism (because he did such a great job "protecting" us three years ago).

I'm a firm believer in taking care of yourself: of eating good food, hanging out with good friends, drinking good wine, going on long walks on the beach and long bike rides in the park, and pursuing projects that make you the best person you can be. I resent being told by a screaming news media funded by dieting companies and profiteer doctors (it's all profiteering in the US) that I should hate myself for everything I do and don't do, that I should spend the best moments of my life counting every calorie, declining every beer, and passing up on social occasions because I haven't jogged 18 miles today so I can fit into the latest Abercrombie & Fitch 00.

Sure, fat people die of heartattacks.

But you know what? Thin people do too.

No more spin. I'd like some straight talk.

Snapshots From My Domestic Life

Sunday.

Took the overgrown herb garden of doom to task. The biggest of my basil plants is now over 2ft tall. I didn't know basil *grew* to be 2ft tall... Repotted the cilantro, which has proven to be far more delicate than I realized (there's a reason it comes *with* the roots at the grocery store - you can't mess with it *without* tearing it up by the roots).

Wiped down the kitchen, conducted the weekly bathroom cleaning ritual, vaccuumed all of the throw rugs (we have hardwood floors), dusted said hardwood floor in my room (I do all my morning weights and sit-ups standing on a rug on that floor, and it was collecting dust and other bits that I would find stuck to my skin as I took to the shower), reposted some notes of interest regarding futures novels, and reshuffled some of the photos clinging to the hutch over my desk (found the one of me and three high school buddies dressed in sheet-togas in Rome, standing in the balcony and looking in through the door - great pic), stacked all of the agent letters and agent packages I compiled last night and got them ready for sending out tomorrow, prepped my bag of goodies for martial arts class, and etc.

It's a gorgeous day in Chicago - 82 degrees, sunny, slight breeze, no humidity. Absolutley gorgeous. Opted out of my jogging and went on a bike ride instead. I took the Lakeshore trail all the way into downtown (the farthest I've made it thus far - ideally, I'd like to bike as far as Navy Pier and back), and looped back, which I think is just about 10 miles or so. I was really booking it today, enjoying the speed, weaving around pedestrians and getting passed by the most hardcore of roller bladers, watching pro bikers zip by on those delicate little bikes that look like they're made of wire hangers... I stopped at the beach, stuck my toes in the sand, and looked out at the jet skiers, sailboats and motorboats playing out in the lake. Frickin' gorgeous.

A local writing colleague is organizing a couple writing sessions this week at cafes downtown (a bunch of writers take over a coffee shop, drink coffee, giggle to themselves, and type away for four hours). The Saturday group meets a block away from my martial arts school. Meaning: I need to sign up for Saturday classes, take pilates and boxing at the MA school in the morning, then hit the cafe and write from noon to three or four, then head home.

It'd be a productive way to spend a Saturday.

Also looking at the logistics of biking to work again. It's supposedly only 10 miles or so. I just need to wait until I've got the funds available for a helmet, tire patching kit, and portable pump. I think I'm at the point where I'm in good enough shape that I can do it no problem.

Ciao.

If Bush Ran Against Jesus...

Via: Eschaton

If Bush ran against Jesus, his "Bush Approved" ads might look something like this...

Jesus of Nazareth says: "Do not resist one who is evil. But if anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other."

CAN WE TRUST JESUS TO FIGHT THE WAR ON TERROR?

And... We're Out

Working on getting past page 100 of Book Two. Sending out another half dozen agent letters for Book 1 this weekend.

See you all again on Monday!

Boxing Life, 2

Had a mixed boxing class yesterday - had a great partner, was in the mood to hit the shit out of stuff, and felt like I was going to burn and fall over at the end. The "mixed" part was the "burn and fall over at the end" part.

Our MA school was closed on Monday for the holiday, so I went jogging Monday instead, and got my ass kicked more than usual when I came back in for my Weds class. Why aren't I getting better at this?

No, that's not fair. I am, in fact, getting "better," yea, yea, at certain things. But I've got pretty high standards for myself. I know how to throw a hook now (though, not a good one), I know what a boxing stance is (though my movement continues to be way too stiff - I have yet to move into that bouncy, duck-and-weave boxer style of movement), and I can complete my jumproping rounds without feeling like I'm going to die. But I still feel like a damn idiot. This may have to do with the fact that I was once again paired with a great partner. Eddy really pushed me to complete all the punching rounds without pause. He confirmed what several have already said, that I've got a good right cross (I'm not totally hopeless!), and during that last round, I was throwing straight "pushing" punches, driving my mitted partner all the way to the wall. It was invigorating, and it was also painful. I started my new morning routine with those 30lb free weights this week, and driving nonstop punches after already being sore because I'd added more weight to my daily routine... well, damn, I burned up.

I have this deep American dissatisfaction with things that are difficult for me. Being good at anything takes years of practice, a dose of talent, and backbreaking, muscle-burning hard fucking work. You can know this on an intellectual level, but until you're pounding the crap out of somebody's mitts after dancing around the floor for forty minutes of jump rope, abs, and punching combos, well, you don't really know anything about it (how do people do 3-8 hour workouts every day? Ah. That's right. They do it because it's their life). And juggling trying to be not-bad at this with everything else in my life I'm pursuing and want to pursue (I'd planned to take a French class this quarter, but due to lack of funds, I'm putting it off another quarter), I should actually be pleased that I've got a decent right cross.

But I'm fucking ambitious, remember? And I am highly dissatisfied.

Will look into bumping myself up to three days a week beginning in October (Saturday classes have begun). Three days. No more.

Yes, I know I've been hard on myself about limiting this stuff, and I'll tell you the reason: despite all that burning pain, the constant feeling that I'm totally incompetent, the hours of transit time, and the loss of writing time, I have this image of myself being a strong, no-bullshit person. That is, if I get into a bar fight, I want to be able to *fight*, no bullshit. No posturing. No bullying. Just a great right cross.

I Registered to Vote Today!

Have you?

Register to VOTE HERE!

No Shit, Sherlock

CHICAGO, Illinois (Reuters) -- When it comes to heart disease, being fit may be more important than being thin, according to a study of more than 900 women published Tuesday.

"Our study shows that the lack of physical fitness is a stronger risk factor for developing heart disease than being overweight or obese," said Timothy Wessel, a physician at the University of Florida who headed up the research.

Fascinating that their study group was a group of women, isn't it? Particularly because more men suffer from heart disease than women... Once again: can we all just start talking about what all this obesity panic is about? It has about 2% to do with health. Just like invading Iraq had about 2% to do with terrorism.

Can somebody just do an Al Gore and say, "The reason we didn't intervene in the genocide of 2 million people in Rwanda is because we have no economic interests there"?

That would be great.

Sugar and Spice

"I'm just a person trapped inside a woman's body."
- Elaine Boosler

So, somebody finally managed to capture what bugs me about the whole "save the rights of the fertilized egg" movements.

I can't really say when I understood that telling women what to do with their bodies was wrong. Probably when I was very young, when my parents instilled in me the belief that my body was mine, and it was my right to decide who touched it, when, and where, and that I had an inherent right to be free from physical abuse of any kind. Pain, if I should decide to endure it, would come from decisions I made, and should not come from something or someone imposed upon me against my will.

These are basic human rights that many of us are taught when young.

But the older I got, the more I realized that when most people discussed "people" they didn't mean "women."

Babies do not appear from thin air. My conception of birth and babies and what it takes to create a human being came from several sources. One the experiences which contributed to my views was watching an aunt who struggled for many years to get pregnant, and repeatedly miscarried before the third month of each pregnancy. This was when I learned that babies couldn't live outside of their mothers until at least the sixth month, after being nourished by their mothers into selfhood as a fully capable being that could breathe on its own. A child still needed the nurturance of a mother after birth, nursing and diapering and socializing. And the addition of a child into a household (as I learned with the addition of two younger siblings) meant 9 months of work undertaken by my mother, followed by a total and complete change not only in the dynamics of my household, but changes that would continue for the rest of my life and the lives of my family members. The decision to carry a pregnancy to term was not one to be undertaken lightly. My mother worked through all of the benefits and drawbacks when she became pregnant for the third time, and after carefully weighing her options, decided to invest her time, her body, her energy, her conception of self, the dynamics of her family, to go through with the creation of another child. Across the street, my sister and I were friends with a clan of six children whose mother perscribed to a religion that prohibited her use of birth control and instilled in her and her children the absolute rights of the father (including, I later realized, sex on demand and some tricky domestic violence. This is usually what the euphemism "obey thy husband" or "grant a husband his marriage rights" really means). I watched this stern-faced woman nurture and then birth child number seven. She, too, had weighed her options: 1) expulsion from her church and family for using birth control 2) abuse from her husband (whom she was financially dependent upon) for denying him "conjugal rights."

She "chose." Her child didn't grow on a tree, either. Neither did her husband's super sperm coagulate into a living, breathing, child all on its own. No matter what Aristotle or other slavery advocates say.

As Amanda said, "They don't call it labor for nothing, folks. In that view, when you force someone to labor against her will, it's slavery."

Now, I'm not going to take on religion here. I'm not going to point out that the vast majority of women and men who oppose rights to abortion and contraception do so because of religious beliefs (usually of one Christian denomination or another, in this country). I'm not going to do that because I'm a tolerant person: if you grow up in strict patriarchal religion and have no interest in leaving - or better yet, go out into the world, meet people with lots of different beliefs, discover other modes of thinking and doing and being - and you still decide pledging your body to Jesus Christ is the thing to do.. Hey, GO FOR IT!! That's what freedom is, right?

Choosing?

Yea. That's what I thought. We live in America because we have more choices. Because as a woman, you're free to choose to devote your life to bearing and raising children, volunteering, helping others, having a career, creating movies, writing books, being a CEO, getting married (your only marriage option right now, if you're a woman, is to marry a man. Sorry. We're working on that one), joining up with a female domestic partner (with or without sex - as you choose), being a lawyer, and if you're really, really ambitious, you're free to do any and all of those things and more all at once or all in a row. And it's No One Else's Right to limit those choices or to tell you you *can't* do any or all of them.

Why do I believe I'm allowed to control my own fertility?

Um.

Because, I'm a person? Because we've got these rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness?

I went to school with teenage girls who chose to have children while still in high school because they believed abortion was "wrong," and they were clueless about both birth control and the sort of responsibilities inherent in birthing and raising a child. So they went through with it. Women who were going to do and be all sorts of things (all at once or in a row) ended up with their highschool boyfriends, usually the ones who drank too much, remained unemployed for long stretches, fucked around, and resented them for "getting knocked up" (like they just layed there), and they felt trapped into only one narrow role, not neccessarily the one they would have chosen if they viewed abortion as a "choice" and had a proper understanding of contraception. Women's work is hard work. Having children is hard work. Having children at the wrong time, however, can compromise your choices, your education, and will utterly change the course of your life. Forever.

There's no "do over." The decision to have children or not have children is a huge one. And because women's eggs divide to create cells, and those cells are nourished by a woman's body to create more complex cell structures, and those become the lungs, the heart, the tadpole-like-appendages that become legs and etc. because a child is created of a woman's body, the decision whether or not to expend her bodies resources in the creation of that child's body is her decision.
Yes. Hers.

Women are not vessels. We are not, as several boys in my high school theatre department enjoyed putting it, "Sperm dumpsters." Co-opting my body and telling me what to do with it is nothing short of slavery. Telling me my only option upon receiving the sacred male sperm is to spend nine months of my life expending my body's resources: enduring swollen ankles that slow my walk, back pain that more often than not leaves me in bed during any hour I can afford it, insomnia, nausea and vomiting, the expending of my body's blood, cellular energy, my body's breath, my body's nutrients, and at the end of it, asking me to spread my legs to strangers and violently birth a child in a gush of blood and pain, putting me at risk of death, leaving me with sore, aching, leaking breasts and a child whose ultimate care: feeding, changing, socializing, comfort, all rest solely on me - FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE (good luck finding that sperm donor... hate to break it to you, ladies, but the same people who think you're just a vessel put that child and its success or failure in this world solely on your shoulders), *making* me endure that as my "punishment" for engaging in vaginal intercourse with a male partner (who is more often than not coercive in his attempts at ejaculatory vaginal intercourse, because we've determined that procreative sex is the only form of "real sex." ha) is the ultimate in repressive bullshit. It takes away my agency. It reduces me to a body, to body parts, to a sperm dumpster.

The biggest fears around the female control of her own sexuality aren't really to do with birthing children anyway. Let's fess up to that right now. A woman controlling her own sexuality, her reproductive potential, is the most powerful person in the world. Choosing when, with whom, and how many (if any) children she has, a woman also has the power to control a *man's* fertility (yes, that's right! See, now you can see why this pisses people off so much!). She can choose to nurture the child of her body in her womb - it just so happens that egg's division is initially sparked by receiving half a man's DNA. The big complaint in Rome (and in many societies whose upper-class women had knowledge of and access to contraception) was that educated, upper-class women often chose to have no more than two children. The Roman government introduced tax incentives in order to convince women to undergo the birth of a child that killed 1/4 of all of the women who engaged in it.

Women chose not to.

We. Women.

Women. Yes. Women. I will say again: Women.

Men have figured this out. They figured this out a long time ago, and there's an argument that the oppression of women in most (NOT all, but most) societies we know today began when men figured this out. The backlash against the femenist movement in the 60s and 70s happened because people in power realized just what would happen if women 1) had control of their sexuality (which, theoretically, happened with the advent of the Pill and the legalization of doctor-assisted abortion) 2) had their own source of income (the vast majority of women who stay with abusers do so for financial reasons 3) had confidence in their intellect, their bodies, and were physically and psychologically able to defend themselves from attack (ever wonder why women are pushed so violently into hating their bodies and thinking they're weak and stupid?).

Why do I get harrassed on the street? Why do/did I get called fat? Why do/did men threaten me with physical violence?

Because I'm a smart women. I'm a physically strong woman (I am the hieght of the average American man, and I weigh more than the average man). I have a wide knowledge of contraception and venereal diseases, including the prevention of such diseases (which limits the number of people I permit in my bed).

Why do women "get" this power over men's procreation (because really, let's be clear, men aren't thinking about life, they're thinking about how women's agency affects a man's access to women's bodies)?

Because women make the babies.

If a guy wants my ovum and wants to mix it with some sperm in his palm and see what happens, I'll likely say, "Please, by all means, do so" (though I'll likely charge him for it).

He can keep it in a jar and name it.

Until then, oh lovely boys I adore and women who seek to please them, keep your opinions about "life" to yourself (I'm not arguing with religious people - that's another issue. I'm primarily addressing those who argue that we should limit women's choices and do not stand on man-made pseudo-religious doctrine, the argument against which is already pretty obvious in the ajective "man-made").

Cells do not divide and grow into a human being without the life of a woman. There's no life without women.

Consigning women to slavery and calling if "preserving life" is bogus. "Preservation of life" and "saving children" isn't the real issue. Not when we live in a country where women (in many states) are denied prenatal care, adequate monetary assistance, and refused health care for the children they actually choose to bring to term, birth, and raise. The state of child education and child social services, child care, and etc. in this country is deplorable. Worrying about some eggs because they're carrying around half a guy's DNA isn't about Life. It's about half a guy's DNA.

Let's be honest. I'm not a Republican, so I can't speak spin.

If we're going to have this discussion about control over a woman's fertility, let's discuss what it's *really* about. It's about men's laws controlling a woman's body and her ability to create and nurture children. It's the same old bullshit. If this was about life, we'd be talking a hell of a lot more about a woman's life and what it means to her to choose to have children when and with whom she chooses. We'd be talking about protecting women from sexual predators, teaching men how to *not* be sexual predators (reminding them that women are people too), protecting women from abusive "partners," teaching men that violence against women and each other *isn't* commendable, educating everybody about what psychological abuse is, teaching women to value their minds and bodies without seeking approval from overwhelmingly male gazes, teaching men that their gazes don't mean shit, and paying for everybody's college education.

Instead, we're talking about dividing cells.

We're taking the hugest thing a woman can do that a man can't and trivializing it. Making it "natural" and "inevitable" and taking away a woman's agency so it looks like it's a woman's destiny to spend her entire breeding window barefoot and pregnant. And by saying it's a woman's destiny to be pregnant, you're trivializing what that means, what that is, what kind of power that is, to knowingly choose to bear children. You do a disservice to women who choose to stay home and take care of children, and women who choose to not to. You invalidate my personhood by dismantling me into random body parts in service to half a man's DNA.

Taking away a woman's *choice* takes away the most beautiful thing about children: that they are wanted, loved, and nurtured with the full understanding of what it means to do so. Pain withstood, decisions made, because you *want* to do something as opposed to *having* to do something is a different sort of pain, and a different sort of decision.

It has to do with free will.

Life, liberty, happiness.

All that bullshit. Remember?

Vote for us or DIE!!!

I can't believe he said this. No, really, I can't believe it. To some extent, all my ranting about the current presidential administration has been somewhat restrained. I really, truly believed that they believed that they were doing the right thing. Mostly. Mostly, they believed it. Now I'm just... I'm just... I'm living in a fucking totalitarian regime.

Where are my UN voting inspectors? I want one in every city. At every polling station.


Here it is:

DES MOINES, Iowa (AP) - Vice President Dick Cheney on Tuesday warned Americans about voting for Democratic Sen. John Kerry, saying that if the nation makes the wrong choice on Election Day it faces the threat of another terrorist attack.

The Kerry-Edwards campaign immediately rejected those comments as "scare tactics" that crossed the line.

"It's absolutely essential that eight weeks from today, on Nov. 2, we make the right choice, because if we make the wrong choice then the danger is that we'll get hit again and we'll be hit in a way that will be devastating from the standpoint of the United States," Cheney told about 350 supporters at a town-hall meeting in this Iowa city.

I don't care if he qualified this statement afterwards. Really, I don't. Cause this is the core of the Culture of Fear. Eliminate democracy with Fear. Eliminate all Choices With Fear.

Think you're free? No, you're just afraid.

Road Work

By adding on another couple dozen yards every time I go jogging, I'm now up to 2.72 miles per jogging session (trying to get these to twice a week).

The goal is to top out at 3 miles, three times a week. I've set myself some top-out limits for the fitness stuff. No more than 3 miles, 3 times a week for jogging (or 4 miles, two times a week), and no more than 3 days a week of martial arts, no matter how many years I do it or how well I progress. Also, now that I'm at 30lb free weights for my morning routine, I've set myself a 50lb free weight limit. I want to have a comfortable "set" point for my fitness level - sufficiently high so I have a long way to go to get there, but "low" enough that I'm not going to be an obsessive who's always miserable because I can't get to the "next level." Fitness is great, but I've got these other things that need to take priority. Having a ceiling on the fitness stuff helps me focus.

Am currently reviewing another paper for my Ph.D-candidate buddy. I am living my academic life vicariously through him.

Damn, I need to put some damn stories in the damn mail. I'm going home and having a beer. It's funny how my life works: everything can come together for me, but I'm in a constant critique of the things that can be better. I've heard that ambitious people are more prone to fits of dissatisfaction: we have higher standards; every time we hit a goal, we make a higher one. Or, in my case, the goals are just always outrageously high. The stuff in-between (like, say, now) are just the steps I need to take to get there.

I'll look at it this way: my healthiness means I'll live longer, so I'll have time to write more books.

Yea, I've been in a writing rut for the last week.

More later. The blogosphere ceases to amuse me at the moment.

Boys are Great

via thisgirl:



Boys are great.

Speaking of boys, there's an interesting discussion over at BuzzMachine about what a "terrorist" really is... Are Chechens rebels, freedom fighters, or terrorists? What should our media be calling them?

Who decides?

I've dipped a toe in, but I'm not sure I want to dive.

The Body Project

My buddy and roomie, Jenn, and I were walking out to dinner the other night, and I was ranting about a paper one of my buddies and colleagues had just sent me (among many others) to review before his presentation at the Cultures of Violence seminar in England at the end of the month. I was being lively and animated, as the subject - the culture of violence in South Africa, its roots and reprecussions - is one I'm really interested in, and touched a little on my own work regarding female ANC members and their relationships to violence during the 80s and 90s.

As we paused at a stop light, Jenn turned to me and said, "You know, why aren't you going to those African Studies seminars at U of Chicago that Bernard invited you to when you first got here? You've been leaving work early all week. Why not head south and join in the discussions?"

Here followed my usual excuses, "It's on Tuesdays. I have Tuesday prep to do on Tuesday, you know, it's the day between martial arts classes. And with work, I never know when we'll be busy again.... and..."

"But Kameron, you're prepared to add another jogging day and *another* Saturday workout day to your schedule. Why not go to the seminars? You just seem so happy right now, talking about history and South Africa and cultures of violence."

Ah.

I flashed back to an anecdote from Paul Compos' The Obesity Myth: a highly successful female lawyer, who'd been on various boards, edited various publications, and was pulling a substantial salary, confided that the time in her life when she felt the most accomplished were those moments when she briefly (often for no more than a few months) "acheived" her "goal weight."

Arg.

A woman's biggest accomplishment. Bigger than law school. Money. Mate. Children. Friends. Publications. Professional esteem.

Her waistline was her biggest accomplishment.

Can you imagine asking a male CEO what he felt his biggest accomplishment was, and getting that answer?

Here I am, investing in 30lb free weights this week (up from 20lbs), getting ready to spend another $24 a month to add another day a week of martial arts classes, finding another day a week to squeeze in a jogging session... and in the mean time, I've been banging my head against a novel no one else seems to be interested in, I only have four stories in the mail (instead, of say, my top-out of 14), and I keep staring at Ph.D. programs in Women's Studies and thinking, "Shit, I'm just not up for *that*! Think of the pay cut!"

The pay cut. Of all things.

Gawd.

See what getting all comfy with the system gets you? A body that will always be imperfect, as standards of beauty always change, an obsession with whole-wheat pitas, and the ability to lift 100lbs above your head.

Useful? Only if I'm carrying buddies out of a raging fire. And there are no pitas about.

I'm currently reading Joan Jacobs Brumberg's The Body Project, a history of women's relationships with their bodies, sexuality, and the meaning of being female from, roughly, the 1890s to the 1990s. Brumberg uses adolescent girls' diaries to gauge differing attitudes about mensturation, acne, and the virtues of "being a woman" over the last 100 years. What she's beginning to show is the progression from conceptions of female beauty in forms of virtue and good works, to having fine skin, a robust disposition, and now, an increasing obsession with the size and shape of the actual physical body without the aid of undergarments. As corsets and girdles went by the wayside, the sculpting of the body has become the signifier of a woman's beauty and success. Moving through merely obsession over calories in the 1920s, when the "flapper" style became popular (it was a style that meant not wearing a girdle, yet having a skinny, boyish physique - oddly around the same time women got the vote in America. hm.), to the obsession with fitness and later toned, muscular female bodies (like Madonna) today. Our obessessions are now becoming increasingly medicalized (plastic surgery) as undergarments (the private) are thrown out in favor of the skin of the body itself as the undergarment (though I think most people would wonder what on earth the skin is keeping private. If anything at all).

It's been fascinating watching this romp through obsessions with various bits of the female form. It's never the actual woman that's all wrong, it's just her "parts," as if we women are a Frankensteinian assemblage of inadequate appendages (It's interesting that Shelley's Frankenstein created a male monster and not a female: because the writer was female, perhaps?). But the overall impression I'm left with, after trolling through bits of diaries, is this:

This is an amazing expenditure of female energy. Obsessing over calories, over "incorrect" body parts, huge thighs, small breasts, etc. etc.

What could we be doing with this energy, instead?

All of us. Every single one. If I halted my own body project at its subsistence "health" level right now, if I didn't try and overdo it, make it into my own personal obsession to the extent of everything else, if I kept myself in check and didn't apologize to people who look me up and down and say, "You do all that? You really eat that way? Then why aren't you thin?" If I instead loop myself back into the land of the living, focus again on acadamia, push the writing forward, leave the martial arts to casual recreation, and remind myself that trekking up to Macchu Picchu really isn't until 2007.... If I do all that, what sort of amazing person could I be?

Eliminate the body project, the depression and angst about eating whip cream with those strawberries, the needless sleepless nights worrying "If I ache so much and work so hard, why aren't I thin?", if I eliminate those nights and push them back to studying for the GREs, going over graduate school applications, researching programs, and getting these goddamn stories in the mail, well, hell... I might be able to beat the self-hate cycle and be really damn cool. Because I think it's not neccessarily increasing my martial arts classes that's the problem. It's the motivations behind it. I need to clean up my motivations.

As my buddy Jenn said, after I took up wall climbing on Sundays in addition to those boxing classes, "When you're 30, Kameron, you're going to be really scary."

I hope so.

And I hope my smart, brutal woman self remains not only physically strong, but isn't taken down by the trivial shite this culture keeps heaping on me. Somewhere in the middle, my strong brutal woman self will meet my academic sensibilities, and they'll dance.

Though, knowing me, they'll box.

Maybe they'll kiss afterwards?

It'll be a good show, in any case.

Notes of All Sorts

So, my latest Realms story's finally gotten through the slush pile, though it'll be at least another month before I know whether or not it's gotten through that round, or'll be returned with a Blue Form of Death. Granted, it's been a while since I got one of those: I graduated to Yellow Form of Encouragement some time back. Let's be hopeful and hope that I place this one, OK? I could sure as hell use the money...

I've stalled out on my rewrite again. I'm spinning my wheels with chapter 27 - I have five storylines going on all at once, two of which diverge at this point, and I have a shit load of clean up due to the subplot I added in *after* I finished what I thought was the final draft of book one (biggest note from Clarion: "Civil wars do not make good subplots." I'm bad at taking this sort of reasonable advice). I'm doing some ritualistic cleaning. Still. Again, I don't think this book'll be "done" until somebody buys it and sends it to the printer. Till then, I'll be fucking around with it.

The 62nd annual World SF convention is currently going on right now, and I must admit, I'm a little jealous of everyone who's there, though I had no interest in going to Boston this year. It's quite lonely to read most of my daily blogs and hearing con reports and not being there. Cory Doctorow's got some great pics up (does anyone else think Cory was cuter before he lost weight? Maybe just me... I haven't seen him in person in years). Ah, yes, it's a geekfest. These are my kinds of people... Next year in Glasgow, baby. I'll be there. I miss my people!

Back to writing... er, that is, after me and my buddy Jenn get back from seeing Hero. I hear it's awesome.

More later.

Beer & Writing

Gblah gblah words & beer.

I was such a writing slacker last month. I've got to catch up. Good music, good beer, piles and piles and piles of words.

Gblah gblah.

OK, I'll take out my internet card now....

Do-Whop-Doo-Eeee

Matt Cheney over at the Mumpsimus has a conversation going on about the equation of fantasy fiction with escapism. Join us here.

Other interesting things include, Why Young Women Reject the Lable "Feminist", some coolish story links at Lithaven, they're making a live-action movie of Aeon Flux with Charlize Theron and directed by Karyn Kusama (director of Girlfight) (who'da thought?), these fuckers would like you to believe unemployment is down (and yet, nobody says that all those "new" jobs are minimum wage, and several people are working two or three of them just to eat food and live out of their cars), and in other news, I've got a three day paid weekend, and will be writing my ass off.

I *will* get this next goddamn set of stories done and in the mail. Goddammit.

Unloading Gmail Accounts

Anybody else want a gmail account? My brother's already got one, and I just got more invites.

Send me an e-mail, or post a comment (peeps get priority).

Homage

As a Homage to mymagro's blog (where our protagonist was able to lost 9 lbs of water weight in a week by subsisting on fruit, not drinking enough water, and becoming dehydrated), here's what my 5'9 200lb Brutal Woman self does so I can walk confidently down the street with the knowledge that my right cross ain't too shabby:

A typical weekday:

6am: protein shake (1/2 banana, 1/2 cup milk, four strawberries, 1 scoop protein)
10am: half whole wheat pita with chicken & veg.
1 string cheese
1-30pm: other half of whole wheat pita with chicken & veg.
1 string cheese
1 protein bar
4pm: 1 protein bar
6-7pm: pork and veg. omelette or flatbread wrap from Quizno's

(optional pm snack: 1 cup red berries with Splenda)

Walking travel time (to/from train):

Martial arts days: 70 minutes roundtrip
Non-martial arts days: 30 minutes roundtrip

Workout days per week:

Monday: Strength training 60 min
Krav Maga 45 min (variable)

Wednesday: Boxing 60 min

Friday: 1.6 mile jog (yea, yea, I'll be at 2 by the end of the month, blah)

Sunday: 40-60 min. bike ride

If I don't weigh 99lbs while working this way (I do, in fact, have other things to do besides count calories, and I don't aspire to concentration-camp-chic. Isn't it weird that I feel guilty for admitting that being a thin woman scares me?), well, fuck it. I throw in my towel. Congratualtions, I'm not a supermodel. I find being hungry terribly boring. It's just nice to know that now that I'm in Super Kameron mode, nobody can harp on me with the "but I just want you to be healthy" euphemism when what they're really saying is, "Damn, woman, you're intimidating."

Fuck `em.

In other news, I'm hoping to ramp up these workouts pretty soon, likely adding another boxing day on Saturday and a jogging day on either Tuesday or Thursday. There's a hiking trip up to Machu Picchu that I really want to take, likely in 2007 (I've got a big trip to Britain next year, and I have no idea where I'll be the year after, but MP is on my list, and I'd like to do it this way. Far more rewarding).

Anyway, I'm off. Things to do. Novels to write.

Play Feed the Model

This is a bad, bad game.

For the record, my model starved.

"How do you expect to save a model, with those throws?"

I am bad, bad, bad.

National Terrorism Awareness Month! (No Shit)

Just in time for the ramp up to election day, our Republican government is launching a National Preparedness Month, starting this month, right after that holy-of-holies: the Republican National Convention.

I could rant, but why, when someone else has already done it for me.

A whole month of fear propoganda. Wheeeeeeeeee!

White Guys and etc.

Some interesting linkage:

Tools for White Guys who are Working for Social Change … and other people socialized in a society based on domination

Can Men Be Feminists?

And some more Women's Blogs:

Pinko Feminist Hellcat (c'mon, how can you *not* check it out?)

Culture Cat

Willow Tree

Wicked Muse

The Secret Life of a Girl

Beautiful Snarkiness

Amanda rants about those happy bullshit MSN advice columns:

You know you want one of those annoying, cute, happy marriages...
And MSN is here to help! With all their lame advice - not doing this stuff? Then you're fucked!

We all know a couple like this: after years together they still hold hands, make each other laugh and blush, get along famously, and seem to enjoy a dynamite groove the rest of us only dream of.

Yes, I do believe Bridget Jones called them the Smug Marrieds.

But what really goes on behind the scenes? Have these two soulmates actually found their perfect match in this big wide world, or are there secrets and strategies to making sure that romantic spirit continues to flourish over time?

Or are they putting on a big show to hide that they are living lives of quiet desperation?

If you too are looking for a way to better condescend to your single friends, MSN has a multi-point plan for you.

Start solid. Remember that best friend you had when you were a kid? Whether blissfully playing side-by-side in the sandbox, or building an awesome fort together, you two just grooved on being in each other’s presence. Happy couples share that same serendipitous groove, if in the all-grown-up world. Romantic chemistry aside, they genuinely like each other as people, and truly enjoy walking down the path of life hand-in-hand.

It helps to be boring, as that minimizes points of conflict.

Highlights Of Why Women Don't Blog! (Or Do They, Pigfuckers!)

So, there's this ongoing discussion about why the blogosphere is mostly male dominated (you know, like the rest of the country), and why aren't more women blogging, and blah blah? I stumbled across the most recent pissing contest, begun apparently at Matt Stoller's blog and continuing at Trish Wilson's, Amanda's, Feministe, Desfemmes, and Utopianhell.

The comment slurry is mainly contained to Stoller's blog, where you'll get all sorts of discussion: mainly from pissed off female bloggers who he's talked down to, as in this section:

That said, there's a top-down style to the feminist movement that leaves little room for flat hierarchies that blogging needs to flourish. This is a cultural issue, and can be reflected in a lot of the strategic missteps of these groups. It's very similar to the lack of blogs in the environmental movement, which is also somewhat identity-oriented, top-down, and reactionary. This is not a slight to these organizations - there are very good reasons why message control was critical and direct mail was a lifeblood, but the era of the atomized organization is coming to and end. And these groups know it, and are changing already. Still, the residual culture is still antithetical to blogging.

There's also the fact that the male political blogosphere doesn't help at all. It's obviously a boys club (with select girls who act like in specifically stylized ways allowed). For instance, my style of blogging is very male - I feel like I have to conclude everything, which leaves less room for the more deliberative communication patterns I find among women. That's common, but usually in a more extreme version. Guys don't really feel comfortable saying 'I don't know' or just going through inconclusive cognitive exercises. Jay Rosen does it very well, but he gets flamed quite frequently just for asking questions. The flame war pissing contest that motivates so many communities is another example of boys raising their hands in class and just generally being more aggressive. So Respectful of Otters gets ignored by the 'big boys', even though it's great. There's also the fact that it deals with uteruses and other stuff that boys don't have and don't think of, like career/family conflicts.

I trolled through the comments hoping somebody was going to pick up the really obvious points, here. People did, individually, but the men who hopped in got pissed off, Stoller got really defensive, and the only people who actively engaged with what women were saying were other women.

There are a couple of big reasons that you don't see women blogging. The first being yes, the blogosphere's a reflection of our society. You hear more men's voices. Why? Because women work a double shift. They're still primarily responsible for child care and housework, in addition to being if not the sole breadwinner for a family, then part of a team effort. Women are already working more hours than men because of the gendered division of labor. Blogging takes time. And money. Unless she's single, got great child care, or making bank, a women in less likely to have access to the time and financial resources required to get her voice out there: whether in the blogosphere or the public in general. Women are kept busy being so obsessive-compulsive about calorie counting and staying in their highschool dress size in order to be socially "acceptable" that there's no time to actually get out there and get involved (if I added up all the time I spent angsting about food, clothing, and what my hair was doing, I could run for office - and I'm relatively relaxed compared to some of the women I know who are caught in the gender loop. If you think the artifice of femininity and female oppression is a coincidence, I'm going to laugh).

Women are likely less interested in ranting about politics because, c'mon, people, look at the candidates: they're old white men. We can relate to them as people, but we're very clear that there are issues about where we stand and the processes of our bodies that they're not going to understand and likely, not even going to respect.

Trish had a good point in the Stoller comments:

It's interesting that this "where are the women bloggers" discussion comes up every three months as if it was something new that the guys were just discovering. There isn't a dearth of women political bloggers. They are out there, it's just that I don't think the more prominent male bloggers really bother to notice all that much. They're too busy referring to each other. As for women who talk about "uteruses" (huh?) and career/family conflicts, lots of guys talk about their children, families, wanting to spend more time with their families (career/family conflicts), sports, movies, and other stuff (like their dicks?) on their blogs, but when they do, what they say isn't considered fluff the way it is when women talk about it.

It's just a bit disheartening to see this same old meme come up every three months as if it's a brand new thing some male blogger suddenly notices. The "where are the women bloggers" debate comes up quite regularly without any changes or progress being made at all.

She's right about the perpetual cycle of "where are all the women" discussions... If you want women to be more visible, start linking to more women, comment on their blogs, reprint their posts. Get their names out there. Stop going over the old bullshit, shrugging your shoulders sympathetically, and sighing. If you're a woman, create a blog, and link to everyone (a good ratio over at Mouse Words is trying to keep to the 50/50 rule: keep 50% of your "linked to" blogs female, and %50 male).

What I found fascinating in the comments discussion was the huge amount of defensiveness on Matt's part when Trish called him on some of the bullshit. Instead of engaging with her, he accused her of intolerance. He took her posts personally, instead of thanking her for her viewpoint and urging others to engage with her ideas. By dismissing her as "intolerant", then ignoring her, he effectively silenced her opinions and discussions on her opinions by invalidating them.

And I think he didn't even realize he was doing it. Shelly called him on it:

What surprised me is that when Trish gives a very mild response, reflective really, you bury her with a staggering display of defensiveness that if you were a woman writer, you would get labeled 'hysterical'.

What gets me about the whole "men are feminists too" thing is that there certainly are a lot of well meaning guys out there - but most of them get really rankled when somebody (women) disagree about their broad generalizations about "the way women are" or people (women) speak up and say, "Uh, dude, you may not have meant to be offensive, but saying that all I talk about or am interested in is my uterus, and saying a women's reproductive power is *trivial* (when the prescence or abscence of a woman's uterus has been the symbol and sometimes method of her oppression for so long) was really fucking offensive."

If I were to go up to a black woman and say, "I'm a black woman at heart. I totally understand race issues. I'm going to let you into our secret white person's club," she would hopefully punch me in the face and tell me and my club to fuck off.

If I'm *really* lucky, I can open a discussion about race and colonialism and culture and subculture with, "Hey, would you mind talking to me?" and if I'm really, really, lucky, somebody who's a lot different than me might actually answer me, and question *my* assumptions, and maybe we can work together to make a new club.

But let's not be too hopeful.

In Case You Didn't Catch It...

In case you didn't catch it, Michael Moore is covering the Republican National Convention for USA Today. Entertaining stuff.

Hanging out around the convention, I've encountered a number of the Republican faithful who aren't delegates. They warm up to me when they don't find horns or a tail. Talking to them, I discover they're like many people who call themselves Republicans but aren't really Republicans. At least not in the radical-right way that George W. Bush, Dick Cheney, John Ashcroft and Co. have defined Republicans.

I asked one man who told me he was a "proud Republican," "Do you think we need strong laws to protect our air and water?"

"Well, sure," he said. "Who doesn't?"

I asked whether women should have equal rights, including the same pay as men.

"Absolutely," he replied.

"Would you discriminate against someone because he or she is gay?"

"Um, no." The pause — I get that a lot when I ask this question — is usually because the average good-hearted person instantly thinks about a gay family member or friend.

The World of the Book Review

Well, uh, at least he reviewed it:

"This book shows every sign of being a hasty first draft; it does its author no credit at all and is a significant disappointment."

Eeeek.

For the record, I actually do enjoy Adam Roberts' work in a purely entertaining way. I do, however, like Priest's work far more. Different expectations for different works, I suppose.

Vegas, Baby

Back from Vegas. Had a great time catching up with my writing buddies, most of whom I hadn't seen in several years. The funny thing about meeting back up with people in person who you talk to all the time online via e-mail and messageboards is that you've already caught up on the smalltalk by the time you meet up. "I was going to ask you what's going on," my buddy Patrick said at dinner the first night, "but, well..."

Yea.

I think the most amusing part of the trip was watching our buddy Greg (who had never been to Vegas) staring, stunned, at the cocktail waitresses and birdwomen (alas, he missed the Sirens of TI! show).

This was the first time I'd been to Vegas when I was old enough to drink and gamble, and I gotta say: it's much more enjoyable that way. I lost $10 at the slots and bought several $8 drinks. The highlight "event" of the trip was trekking over to the Bellagio and seeing Cirque Du Soleil's latest show, "O". It was worth the exorbitant price, and I'm glad I went. This was one of those, "Let's do everything we usually do, only more of it, in water, with bigger costumes, and a ship hanging off the ceiling. Can you bend that way and then *dive* off the trapeze?" Amazing shit. It was one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen.

I arrive home poorer in pocket, but richer in experience. Most of our time was actually taken up lingering over our meals. We often spent two hours eating, talking, and playing keno.

It was just what I needed.

And now: back to work.

Yes!?

Just about to head to Vegas, and stumbled on a "breaking news" headline at CNN.

Federal judge finds Partial Birth Abortion Act unconstitutional. Details soon.

YEEEESSSSS!

Corporate Socializing

So, it turned out a couple people didn't show for our corporate golf outing, so I got shut out of chauffering the boys around in the Beer Cart - fine with me. I hung out at Borders for a couple hours, then met up with the Boys at the steakhouse.

The Boys arrived an hour late (I was liason with the steakhouse), drunk and in highly good spirits. It doesn't get much more surreally interesting than hanging out with a bunch of drunken executives (the least senior of which makes just over 90K a year) at a posh steakhouse while running up an exorbitant bill on a corporate card.

I was worried that this would be one of those staid, fake roundabouts with smily, boring people. I need not have worried. Only about fourteen people showed for dinner, which ended up being a perfect batch. Blaine was in high form, drunk and expositing football stories. Ned, the Big Cheese from our group, was just as sloshed and fun (and everyone was very careful with their hands - nobody put a hand on me anywhere but my arm or shoulder, though Yellow ended up sitting next to me, and had his arm on the back of my chair for some minutes, which nearly set off my "pissed off" radar. But all in all, I appreciated being treated like a real person).

As they all arrived drunk (lots of cigar smoking and beer drinking on those golf courses), I had to do a lot of catching up. Pete, who works with the firm we're partnering with, ordered the wine. I sniffed and sipped the first glass and was surprised at how good it was. These are a bunch of blue-collar background types who've worked their asses off and done well. Very few of them actually came from old money, so I wasn't expecting fireworks when Pete ordered.

Turns out the wine was $85 a bottle.

It *better* have been damn good.

The damn good wine flowed all night. We took out at least a case and a half, and wiped out the restaurant's whole supply of the stuff.

I got a great table, Ned on one side, Yellow on the other, sitting across from Sarah, who's one of our on-the-ground construction managers, and Bettie and Pete, who both work with our partner company. Everybody was damn fun. Yellow took the opportunity to announce to the table that I was selling a book -- I knew I should have shut my mouth in the car during our three and a half hour drive down to the golf course. He kept prodding me for more information about my books. After admitting that I had wall maps, languages, and had, in fact, written eight previous books before trying to sell this one, he announced:

"You're a Trekkie!"

"No, Yellow. No. Some kids had ballet lessons or football practice. I wrote books. We all have our things. What the hell do you do every night?"

"Probably fuck around with my motorcycle."

"See," I said. "We're all weirdos."

After Yellow's speech about my writing at the table (we'd pushed the round table between two longer ones, so we were all at one big table), he sat back to watch the conversation fly.

Ferdinand, a big mucky-muck from our corporate offices, was very interested in what I was doing.

"He wants to know how the company's computers are actually being used all day," Yellow said.

I think my biggest gaffe of the night was saying to Ferdinand, "So, you grew up in Switzerland --"

"Sweden," he said.

Blah. I knew that. But hell, if that's the biggest gaffe of the night... I didn't even hit on anybody. A night when I don't hit on anyone present is generally considered a successful one (though Yellow was looking damn fine the next morning in tight, long sleeved white shirt and baggy gray cargo pants. But my twinges of attraction for Yellow are few and far between. Most days, I just think he's damn funny).

After dinner, we migrated to the bar and drank still more wine, and smoked cigars.

"I've got to see Kameron smoking a cigar," Ned said, doling them out.

So I smoked cigars (god only knows how expensive they were) and ended up talking with Bettie and Rhea. Rhea's also working with our partner company. She and Ned have known each other for something like 20 years. You can't throw a rock around this business without hitting someone you've worked with before.

I think Rhea's damn cool. She's gotta be over fifty, has bleached short hair, a deep tan, and wears skimpy shirts that show off her bellybutton ring. And she's wildly successful. She apparently got her engineering degree in 1978, and was the only woman in her class.

"I wasn't trying to make a statement or anything," she said, "I just really wanted to be an engineer. My dad was an engineer. I never really wanted to do anything else."

She also imparted a valuable bit of information to me - when I told her and Bettie that I didn't make enough money to afford a cell phone, Rhea leaned into me and said, "You'll be all right. Blaine *adores* you."

I had suspected I had a pretty secure job place, so long as Blaine could afford me. Now we just have to sign another contract, and I'll be taking advantage of this liking to get myself a frickin' reasonable wage (like, say, *double* what I'm making now).

After we wiped out the last of the restaurant's case of our chosen wine, we migrated back to the hotel. I tried to flick the ashes of my cigar out the window of the car and ended up losing the whole damn cigar. That was one of those stealthy, "Gosh, I hope no one noticed that" moments.

By this time, it's after midnight, and we're all plastered. Those of us staying at the same hotel congregated in the lobby's bar, and I had another cigar, and part of a glass of cheap wine which then made me sick. Blaine was in fine form, likely talking more football stories, though honestly, I don't remember actual conversation topics from that point in the night. He and Ned finally bowed out, as they had an earlier flight back to Chicago, and the rest of us said goodnight.

The next day, at breakfast, Yellow said, "Kameron, you must have talked the most of *anyone* all night. I knew you were going to have a good time."

I've found that the older I am, the more I know, and the more I've done, the easier these social bullshit things are. And, let's be honest: I really liked the people. I thought Bettie and Rhea were awesome, Ned treated me with total respect, Yellow kicked up conversation about my writing and his motorcycles, Blaine was just a big sweetheart puppydog drunk (which I suspect is his default form), Pete and Bettie had great stories, Sarah and Garret (our construction managers) spent an hour before the dinner talking shop with me while we waited for the drunken golfers (I really need to know more about the actual groundwork than I do), Rhea was just a frickin' powerhouse, and everybody was really easy going and cool. I had a great time.

At the end of the night, Ned handed me the bill so I could add on a little extra tip to the automatic one and write the new total before he signed it (he was toast, and had forgotten his glasses). I was a little dumbstruck at the sight of the bill total. I've never seen a dinner bill with that many digits. I was also pretty drunk by this point, and my math was off. I undertipped by at least $40, but seeing the "automatic" tip added in ($400), the thought of writing more hundreds underneath it made me vaguely nauseous.

When we moved to the bar and I caught site of the bar tab as I handed it off to Yellow (almost $300), I realized how addictive this sort of life could become for people. I mean, I was sure as hell fired up about it. Wouldn't it be great to be like Blaine or Ned, and do these things all the time? Order $85 bottles of wine and sign off on dinner bills that cost more than most undergraduates' first cars? Hob-nob all night with movers and shakers in companies worth billions of dollars?

It's gotta be addictive.

Me, Yellow, and Dee (our lead architect for the project) drove back the long drive to the office, and then I went straight home, packed for my Vegas trip where I'll be meeting up with my writing buddies (let's talk about my real addiction), and slept for 12 hours. Seriously. I was so exhausted and hung over I thought I was going to fall over.

That was damn good wine.

And, surprisingly, damn good company.

Work-a-do

Yellow just took off for the day (it's, um, 10:30am). I love working for these guys.

Anyway, I've got about 3 short stories I need to finish up and get out Cheira-Cheira, Heros, and Locust Dreams - today's gotta be a pure working day. So, for your amusement:

I've finally picked up Nick Mamatas' book, Move Undergound, largely because I'm enjoying his blog, and have given into the "buy my book," "have you bought a copy of my book" comments. We'll see if he's worth all his posturing. Of course, he's got a great review from Matt Cheney, which also helped push me over. The book is Cthulu meets Jack Kerouac, apparently. Not exactly up my alley, but I like the internet personae behind it, so we'll see.

I've also got a couple more book orders coming in: Christopher Priest's Fugue for a Darkening Island, Iain Banks' A Song of Stone. Very much looking forward to this set of books. These last two are absolutely brilliant writers (I may have mentioned that I've read Priest's The Affirmation about five times. It's a brilliant, brilliant book about a man creating and living in his own fantasy world. A great making and breaking of the world book).

OK. No ranting today. I really need to be working. Really.

On the Morbidity of Flora

I live with a lot of plants.

I managed to kill about four batches of basil and cilantro through lack of light before I got a potting table and tossed it out on the enclosed balcony at the back of the house. This'll be fine until, say, late September, when I'll need to buy a heat lamp and move everything inside. I'm adept at slaughtering plants. I went out the back today and realized I missed a watering day on my basil - it was deathly ill. I repotted and rewatered. Another batch bites the dust...

In other news, I got a very nice personal reject from Sheila Williams at Asimov's for my story, The Women of Our Occupation, (my first personal rejection from Asimov's in, what, 8 years of sending stories to them? This new editor switch over there is a damn good thing for shaking things up) and I'm going to go ahead and slip it off to Datlow and see what happens. It's the last of my latest batch of Brutal Women stories I finished up a few months ago that Datlow has yet to see. Invariably, she appears to end up liking them, and I get personal rejects every time - they just aren't "Sci-Fiction" types of stories. I won't go on a rant about what that means. This is a public forum, afterall.

Anyway, I've got hours of weekly prep stuff to do today. I've got a crappy corportate golf outing on Tuesday, and I'm off to Vegas Thursday to hang out with my Clarion peeps. I also really should go jogging today. Blah. Blah.

Ciao.

Blah

I'm drowning in RFPs.

Random Blog Slices

I think that what I like best about trolling through strangers' blogs is that you get these really random snapshots of people's lives:

Are You A Zombie?

The Tyler Durden Beauty Standard

My buddy Jeff was nice enough to give me permission to include his comments on my recent "Worklife" rant. He says:

...I don't think that the remaking selves for the opposite gender thing is as one-sided as you describe. Plenty of women talk quite brazenly about ideal men, and I think perhaps the most universal male experience (judging from milennia of literature anyway) is inadequacy. Plenty of men are intimidated by Brad Pitt. I know I am. Check out Chuck Pahlaniuk's books sometime. (He's the writer of Fight Club) He went through a phase of working out obsessively, taking steroids, and even having plastic surgery to get Brad Pitt-like beesting lips. This is why when the book made it big and Fox wanted to make it into a movie he insisted that Brad Pitt play Tyler Durden.

I'm a big fan of Palahniuk - I've budgeted in his latest nonfiction collection into this week's paycheck. He's doing some really edgy, visceral work: not a literary genius, but somebody's who's really tapped into the dark places in the social landscape (particularly relationships among men and men who find themselves unable to connect with others, including women) that nobody really wants to talk about. The ravaged, mad, bizarre stuff. "Inspiration," writes Palahniuk, "needs disease, injury, madness."

I would, in fact, argue that a lot of the failure of sexual equality has been the conception of "equality." Women have fought (and continue to fight) long and hard for the rights to be accepted as whole, strong, independent individuals. You can wave the flag of feminism all you want and say, "Now women are just like men," but you know what, maybe they shouldn't be. Maybe the social roles are the problem. I don't know that I'd like to suck up the "Bash people around as affection and show emotion only through anger" role. There are certainly a lot of the role qualities that I like, and I'd like to be just as free to choose which ones I like and which I don't, and until men are given the same option without threat of death or dismemberment, I still think we're a long way off from that breezy hippie liberal "equality for everyone" ideal that sounds really good to me on paper but looks trickier and trickier the more I see people trying to put it into practice.

Anyway. If nothing else, I'm inspired to catch up on my Palahniuk reading. I recommend him to you all, too (though I must warn you - he's not Mormon-safe).

Boxing Life

Had a great boxing class tonight. I had to wade through two months worth of classes and snag a yellow belt before Coach Fernando appeared to take me seriously, but hey... Coach made a point of partnering me with a great mitt partner tonight, Ray*, who's one of the two great female boxers I'd been watching jealously for the past two months. She's good, got great form, and snappy power.

Spent time getting my uppercuts and hooks down properly, and learning how to seguay between them. I've been having a shitload of trouble with these two moves, and snapping them together (right uppercut, right hook) was proving to be a problem of footwork (as most boxing trouble for me appears to be). I also worked on my doublejab.

Ray was a great partner. I got to the point where I felt comfortable enough with the forms at the end that I went ahead and started throwing with power - and hot damn, that's the best part of boxing. I get a kick out of it every damn time. Brutal women, indeed.

Ray confirmed what I'd suspected, "You've got the power," she said, "you just need to perfect the technique. You're really built for this."

Ah, yes.

I'm the boxer. Not the dancer.

And you know, I really like it this way. It's like I spent my whole life trying to be something I wasn't, and I'm starting to find the places I fit.

Really cool experience.

WTF?

I was randomly trolling through blogs on blogger (there's not much to do at work today) and found this.

In another of the posts, these two buddies share food thoughts.

Why is it I'm still so amazed when I discover other people who are as paranoid about food as I am? This is America, people.

My New Sign Off Quote

Oh. I love this.

"Anyway, back to work. I have characters to kill and deadlines to beat."
-- John Rickards (crime novelist)

Yea. It's official. This guy is now on my list of "read every day" blogs... Thank you, Matt Cheney.

Alaska Burning

I've been so caught up in Chicago life, gory Iraq headlines, and the media circus of elections and doublespeak, that it came as a surprise to hear from my buddy Jeff in Fairbanks that Alaska has apparently been burning all summer: As of August 6, a total of 5,566,358 acres have burned in the United States in 2004. Of these, 1,345,764 acres are in Alaska. The only good news appears to be that summer is more pleasant than usual when the smoke clears, because most of the mosquitoes are dead, or can't smell anything because of the smoke, meaning sitting on the cabin porch in July and August would actually be bearable.

Tuesday Prep

Finished my Tuesday prep time for the week in a reasonable amount of time tonight (laundry, switching over daily items from regular bag to workout bag, packing bag for martial arts class, cooking dinner, prepping lunch for tomorrow, etc). Sitting back now, relaxing, wishing I had a beer, and infinitely enjoying watching another writer scream at his own creations.

In other news, I bought a new hat,which I quite like, and I've got a Thursday group climbing extracurricular sort of event with a bunch of people from my martial arts school.

Gonna be a busy(ier) week, but now that I'm certified on the climbing wall, my weekends are utterly free...

Anyway. I should be writing.

Ciao.

Snapshots from my Worklife 2

I'm sitting in a meeting with Blaine and Yellow*, who are basically the upper management guys I've supported the last few months. We're trying to put together a golf outing for some clients, and Yellow says, "Have you seen those Norweigans in the Olympics? The rowers? The women are all six feet tall and blond!"

I nodded, as I have a six foot tall blond second cousin who moved to Amsterdam and married a six foot tall blond guy. These things happen. A lot of people raised in Africa have dark skin. A lot of people raised in Russia don't.

"Did you know that only, like, 8% of females, you know, women, have real blond hair? I read that somewhere. Heard it somewhere."

"I expect so," I said.

"That's where all the blond people in the world come from," Yellow said, "Those Scandinavian countries."

It occurs to me, listening to him, that there are days when I find Yellow attractive.

And there are days when I really don't.

There's a funny thing that happens when men start to talk about women in front of me. At all other times, I love the company of most sorts of traditional guys, because you know, I'm kinda butch myself. I love all the swearing, the giving each other (and me) shit, the smart-ass comments, the weird random rambling and butch posturing... but when guys start in about the sorts of women they find attractive, I read it as Male Gospel: not just "I find X woman attractive" but "All Women Should Look This Way."

And if you don't, there's something wrong with you, because you haven't even entered into the realm of possibility.

Who gave guys this power?

When I was younger, I would subvert this by simply changing my mindset: I decided I wasn't a "real girl." I wasn't a woman, so they weren't talking about me. I was one of them, buddy-buddy. I wasn't fem. I didn't carry a purse. I was sexless. It was the only way I could hang out with guys whose company I enjoyed without feeling like I was always being measured on how big my breasts were (or weren't).

This is all bullshit, of course.

Not being 6ft tall and blond, I found myself irked at Yellow's comment, particulary because it came just before he oogled the mother/child pictures sent to Blaine by one of his friends. Yellow wasn't interested in the child's name, but the mother's.

She was an elegant, stately blond woman.

And I get that little twinge, that irked feeling: goddammit, *I* want to be attractive. Goddammit, what's *wrong* with me... a feeling I quickly squash by pressing my fist to my gut and sucking it up.

It's a totally irrational response. I have no interest in Yellow, nor Blaine (Blaine is an ex football player with that good-old-boy charisma, Yellow is the guy in the leather jacket who'd sulk in the back of class - and he doesn't read books), and yet here I was, stomach churning because of offhand comments about the elegance of blonds. Not neccessarily because the comments came from these guys, but because I've heard this litany so often that I feel sick.

Stately natural blonds that I'll never be.

I wonder how early that yearning for male approval is ground into us. Very, very, early, would be my guess. Dress a male child in female attire, and he gets far different sorts of attention, and vice versa.

My sister, who's raising a boy, often makes the offhand comment, "Yea, he was eating sand the other day, but I mean, who cares? He's a boy... He's always banging into things, but it's fine, he's a boy."

I wonder if men feel this way when women oogle over certain sorts of men. Do men find Brad Pitt intimidating? Or, because women don't often oogle men in front of other men, or even talk or compare men to one another in front of men, if men just don't feel this comparison as much or as often as women do. Is there a lessor standard of male beauty? (I'm not even going to touch on same-sex attraction/standards of beauty right now - let's start with heteropatriarchy, and move from there. I'm addressing my own American upbringing where I was pretty well institutionalized with a dominant standard of beauty from the start, promulgated through media and then defined by the household culture I was living in. I grew up learning that same-sex attraction was certainly possible, and suited a very few people, but "they" were always "they" and "us" was always "us." Remaining "us" and not "them" meant I was pretty well wired into the male-approval system early on, no matter what sort of body would turn out to catch my fancy)

I suspect that men's expectations of female beauty are higher than women's expectations of male beauty -

Because women will submit themselves to the male standard of beauty, and men will readily perform it... and women will look down on imperfect women even more vehemently than men do. Because that imperfect woman gets to eat her whole wheat pitas, and all you get this week is apples and milk.

I've been catching some really disturbing shows recently on TV. MTV's got "I Want a Famous Face" where a girl conspired to have plastic surgery to make her look more like the airbrushed form of Kate Winslet on the cover of GQ (Kate is usually a size 8, the GQ cover stretched and erased her into a size 2). I also just buzzed by what appears to be a reality show on E! about the life of a plastic surgeon and his pregnant wife, who adamently declared, "If I end up with stretch marks because of this pregnancy, I told him he has to fix me."

Whoa.

Talk about men molding what women should be (women should look like young girls, not mothers with stretchmarks). And I'm not even going to talk about the grotesquerie that was The Swan.

Keep telling women there's something wrong with them. Something only men can fix, with words or scalpels.

Keep that economy moving.

I've just recently gotten back to the point where I recognize myself in the mirror again:

"Oh, yes, you, that strong woman with the wild hair and broad shoulders. Of course. Where have you been?"

"Hiding from thin women," would be the answer.

This plastic surgery craze is really fucking tempting. You can get some gastic bypass surgery and suffer from malnutrition the rest of your life (but you'll be thin!), erase hair from "unnatural" areas where it, uh, naturally grew, get cosmetics tattooed to your face, cut out a slab of your stomach, remove excess skin and stretchmarks, change the very shape of your face by breaking your nose or getting some chin and cheek implants.

You can remake yourself into whatever standard of beauty suits you.

The freaks are going to be the people who choose not to, or can't afford to: the eccentric and the poor.

But Kameron! Wouldn't it be great if you could erase those worry lines on your forehead you first noticed when you were 19, that first year you were living in Alaska? Wouldn't it be great to erase the stretchmarks and take up that loose skin from when you were 270lbs living in a shitty hovel in Bellingham when you were 18? Don't you want to change the lips that gave all those kisses and smoked all those cigarettes; don't you want to carve out that glut of hip and thigh fat that kept your grandmothers birthing healthy babies? Don't you want to erase all those nasty scars: the one just above your left eyebrow from when you were 14 and got the chicken pox and thought you were going to die, the pain was so bad? What about those scars on your hands from sword fighting in the high school theatre department? The scar on your leg from when you were 9 and your cousin was throwing glass? Don't you want to irradiate those pesky sideburns that Ryan Nelson made fun of when you were thirteen, clean out all the fat that spurred his inquiries into what, exactly, was it you ate all day?

And the fat, the fat, the fat. Think of all the fat that can be sucked from your body! The fat from your cheeks that made everyone call you "chipmunk cheeks," the fat from everywhere that encouraged kids in the sixth grade to shout "earthquake" as you passed by? The fat that will keep you with a perpetual woman's curved belly for the rest of your life (all willing - unless you get cancer)?

Don't I just want to erase all that history stored on and in my body, purge it all and start over, have one of those sleek, healthy, shiny bodies enjoyed by those girls on the El train going through the Loop every night, those slack-faced, empty-eyed girls with the smooth skin and seemingly flawless breasts? Those girls with the uniform expressions who all look the same? The endless procession of footballers' girlfriends who wear their hair straight and highlighted, whose smiles are brilliant and cellphone chatter boring and incessant...

Gee whiz, I'd like to look like that.

And - looking like that - I would give up everything else.

I'm not yet 25 years old. I've done a lot of things. I've made a lot of mistakes. At every turn in my life, my body has boldy, sometimes awfully, sometimes wonderfully, given a perfect picture of this tumbling, uncertain, nuts, silly, crazy, stupid life.

I wear my life on my body. My body wears my life.

I will not look like those girls on the train, the poor girls whose own body-logic is probably even more skewed than mine, who probably look at my curly hair and think, "Fucking bitch. I bet her hair's naturally curly."

Here we go again, hating each other.

Who wins when we do this?

Not me.




*do I even need to tell you these aren't their real names?

Boning up on WiMax 802.16

As I'm sure I've mentioned somewhere, I'm a project support manager (read: Glorified Secretary) for a telecommunications firm (we build, design, and upgrade cell phone towers).

My boss recently told me to start in on some research for the WiMax 802.16 frequency band. WiMax is basically super Wifi. It allows for faster data transmission (up to 10 times faster than what phone towers in the US are pulling right now), and a greater signal strength, so towers have a range of 30 miles instead of 3 miles. This means good things for people in rural areas, like my parents, whose only option so far has been the exorbitantly expensive and finicky satellite internet. DSL *still* hasn't made its way out into the boonies where much of America lives (think: sprawling Midwest).

The proposal we're working on has to do with a small install of 802.16 (though, again, I can't say where or with who cause of all this confidentiality stuff). Hopefully, it'll get going September/October, with a finished project by December, so they'll be some operating WiMax by the New Year, albeit in a very narrow market (there are likely a number of other WiMax projects out there that my little firm/my little place in it doesn't have wind of: in fact, I'd bet there are already some towers upgraded for it, though again, I haven't read of them during my research).

So that's what I'm spending my work time doing right now: gearing up for the busy telecomm season. We've got talk of thousands of UMTS upgrades (upgrading from GSM), which means faster data for all, and, of course, the potential to get your own porn streamed right to your cell phone. Hey: I shoulda thought of that.

I'm interested in both projects, as they have the potential to get wireless internet hookups to just about everyone. I'm a big proponent of opening up the vast internet library to everyone. I recently switched from internet-cafe-ing in South Africa to wireless internet in my place in Chicago, and in the year since, I've discovered the blogosphere, got up my own webpage, and am probably better informed about weather, politics, and technology than I've ever been in my life. It's an incredible thing to be speaking to someone in your house and have them ask you something you don't know, and suddenly you're able to say, "I'll just look it up," without worrying about carting around 30 volumes of rapidly outdated encyclopedias.

It's a resource I think everyone should have. Unfortunately, the easier it is for everyone to use, the more the governement is making noise about internet regulation (all that Evil Porn... Frickin' Terrorists).

Happy 13th

Happy Friday the 13th.

Sorry. I just had to say that.

So, the higher courts have annulled all those Evil Gay Marriages performed in San Francisco earlier this year (cause we all know how Dangerous those Little Old Ladies are. Frickin' Terrorists). The closer it gets to election time, the more exhausted I'm getting with politics, so I'm not going to rant much except to say that Every God-Fearing Republican should *love* the idea of *more* people getting married. More people getting married means more people with combined household incomes, it means more children with more than one parent, it means a better economy (more wedding dresses, tuxedos, receptions, ceremonies, more work for flower shops, bridal shops, catering companies). It means more people are going to get sucked into the outwardly appearing monogamous pair-bonding ritual. The royal "we" can get that much bigger. On the other side, all of us hippies can rah-rah the great blanket of hetero instituitions now available to everyone, in a free and democratic sort of way. You know, the sort of way that includes, um, everybody.

To be honest, I didn't form a real stance about the issue of same-sex marriage (aside from: yea, whatever) until I thought of it this way: If I was born a man, and I wanted to marry a woman, I could. But because I'm born a woman, if I want to marry a woman, I can't.

And then, suddenly, my feminist lens clicked down over my vision, and lo and behold, I realized I - as a woman - was being denied one of the rights of citizenship. Regardless of whether or not I ever wanted to marry a woman (I do not personally believe in getting married, myself), society was telling me I couldn't because of the sex I was born with. Regardless of whether or not I want to be a lawyer, or graduate from Harvard, I want to have those rights. I want to be able to own my own property, earn my own income, and be financially independent of father/husband/son. In other words, I want to be considered a full human being and an American citizen.

One of my buddies got into a heated debate with a Mormon friend of hers about whether or not the Mormon church would ever perform same-sex marriages, if such unions became legal at the government level.

The Mormon vehemently replied, "The church would never do that!"

I'm sure they said the same thing about interracial marriages fifty years ago.

Institutions are not monolithic. There are no absolute truths.

And, on a final political note of news, this amuses me:

.

Touching Base

It's been a busy week.

My buddy and roomie, Jenn, has been in New Orleans all week doing a big social psych conference. I've spent much of my time being delayed due to all the filming going on downtown for the new Batman movie. I got to sit on a train for fifteen minutes while Batman got to direct traffic - they didn't want our El train riding through their shot. Mostly, Batman being directly in downtown has meant some blocked-off streets, and a bunch of camera boom trucks, huge lighting trucks (which I mistook for firetrucks when I saw only their front end), trailors for crew (complete with aircon, of course), and a couple of "SWAT: City of Gotham Police" trucks.

It's been a surreal week heading through downtown for my kickboxing classes, to say the least.

I tallied up a couple more agent rejection letters ("We'll reject your manuscript without reading a page! Don't you love publishing!!?")and worked on some of the never-ending rewrites for book one, as I just can't seem to leave it alone.

In other news, gabe the agent poseur is imploding, which amuses me, the Columbine diaries are being released, idleness is one of the greatest virtues EVER, and (drumroll) my webpage is up.

Have fun.

The Wall. Next Question?

"No, I don't have prom pictures, but I have pictures of me on the Great Wall of China."

- Mary Lou Retton (Olympic gold-winning gymnast)

I'll be posting less this week - doing some heavy rewriting on several projects.

Ciao.