In which I swear a lot and talk about tits

So marketers have decided to target men's interest in breasts as a way to get them to care about breast cancer. Gah.

The best way we can get men to care about breast cancer is to remind them that it is all about much-beloved boobies, those soft and lovely objects of desire? Lord help me.



These ads make me sick. Yeah, titties are great fun for everyone but holy cats, give me a break already. To get a few more dollars for the cause, we further objectify women and, in the process, play into the idea that men are hopeless, sex-crazed goons who can't get their heads out of their asses unless a woman is shaking her boobs in their face. (Mixed metaphors our specialty).

Here's a hint for the marketers: breast cancer is a deadly, serious disease that affects a WHOLE WOMAN, not just her fun-sacks.

And another hint: most people - women included - don't give breast cancer much of a thought unless it has affected someone they know or unless they are in the radiology office for their yearly boob-smashing. And making it all about their lovely lady lumps isn't going to help.

"I pledge allegiance to my girls, to my chi-chis, to my hooters, to my ta-tas, to my gazongas. . . ."

Gah. I pledge allegiance to a worldview that represents women as whole humans, not just collections of sexually appealing parts.

Screw you, Susan G. Komen Foundation. Go take a 3-day walk and maybe when you get back I will be over hating your stupid ideas.

"The only people who could object to such ads are advocates for other kinds of cancer awareness." Really, Dan Neil? I don't think so. This is one woman who thinks that people can act like mature adults when they are discussing serious, life-threatening diseases instead of Hugh Hefner after he has had his Viagra prescription refilled.

What is next? Oh, I know! "Donate to help prevent Female Genital Mutilation and you might get laid by some hot African babe!"

Am I serious? Serious as cancer. Which, as you know, may affect my beautiful, bouncy boobs which I have right here on the front of my chest, because I happen to be a woman.

I am going to go beat my couch into stuffing with a tennis racquet. Good night.

The White House Fence

I went to Washington DC recently for some Suebobian shenanigans. You know, reforming health care and speaking truth to power. That sort of thing.

My friends had never been to our nation's capital before, so we took the grand double-decker hop-on, hop-off bus tour, which I highly recommend. $35 and you get the big DC overview, so you don't feel like you have missed anything.

I loved my traveling companions. We passed monument after monument with scarcely a murmur, but then broke into shrieks of joy at the NPR building.

Being good raving liberals, we had to stop over at Barack and Michelle's place in hopes that they would invite us in to plot a socialist/communist/fascist/Whatever!?! takeover and let us help them wreck the way of American life as we know it. Or at least for tea and cookies.

When we got done taking photos of each other, complete with seriously unfortunate bangs:


...I passed the time by taking photos of people in comfy shoes taking photos. I am a big sap, so it choked me up a bit to see how excited people were to stand at a fence half a mile away from the most famous house in the world and shoot picture after picture.

There were young people...


Older couples...


Slightly younger couples...


Families with squirmy kids...


Really excited people...


European guys...


There were people from all over the world, speaking all kinds of languages. Ladies in glowing saris. Giggling Japanese schoolgirls. People in wheelchairs, with crutches and walkers and kids on leashes.

They could have bought a postcard, but everyone wanted their own photo to be able to say "I was there. Right there." I know exactly how they felt. I did, too.

Amtrak update

I used the Amtrak online tool to contact them. I got an auto-reply that said someone would contact me. In about four weeks.

FOUR WEEKS?? I certainly wish Congress would give those people the funding they need.

In the mean time, I am using my east coast contacts to poke around and see what they can find.

I will keep you posted.

Signs of Intelligence

On Sunday, four friends and I were in a shuttle van to Dulles Airport outside Washington, DC.

I read a road sign aloud.

"George Bush Center for Intelligence."

"WHAAAAT?" everyone screamed at once. The van descended into cacophony.

"That has gotta be a joke," someone said.

The cabbie piped up. "Every time I go by this sign, everyone is making joke," he said. "Last trip, lady say 'Should be George Bush Center for Idiots."

http://www.flickr.com/photos/deepsignal/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

(The Center is named after the first President Bush, who had been CIA director prior to running for office.)

Back of the Bus, 2009-Style

I took the Amtrak from Richmond, Virginia to Washington, D.C. on Friday. It was a long, hot day and my three traveling companions and I were tired and stood in line to board the train with about 30 other people.

When I got to near the front of the line, an Amtrak employee was directing people to either turn left as they went up the steps into the first car of the train, or right into the back three cars.

The woman in front of me started to head left and the woman yelled sharply "Right! I said 'Right.'"

She looked at me. "You're traveling with who?"

"These three people," I said.

"Group goes to the left."

We climbed up to an almost empty car and got seats.

About half an hour into the trip, I went back to the dining car at the end of the train to get some snacks.

The first car I entered was packed. And the second. And the third. I didn't think about it much because I was trying so hard not to stumble into anyone with the motion of the train, but on the way back, it hit me.

My whole car was nothing but white people. And the three cars in the back were at least 90% black people.

Seriously? Seriously. In 2009. White people comfortably in the front. Black people crowded in the back.

I didn't say anything to anyone at the time. Like I said, I was tired and wanted to move on to the next thing - a shower, since in the course of the day I had had a bucket of grits dumped on me (long story) but now I'm thinking that Phone Calls Must Be Made. Because this cannot be.