…but Jane thinks…

Jane wishes like hell that she sometimes looked before she leapt. And especially before she sends Dan running down some cyberalley with his hair on fire all jazzed up about the newest form of social networking. Jane recently….Halt.

No more third person.

I recently wrote something at this other place about the difficulty I’m having with oversharing as a cultural phenomenon, and not just virtual culture but real and by real I mean ON TV culture.

This issue about personal disclosure is problematic for me.  I write a blog. Hell, I write on four different blogs.  And I’m a chronic oversharer in my personal life.   My edit function is faulty; not much gets stuck in the trap and I say things other people do not.  Sometimes, this is good.  It’s hard for people to argue that I’m not genuine.  Sometimes, less good.   It’s easy for people to argue that I’m exhausting and have boundary issues such that “boundary issues” equals lack of couth.

I am disturbed by the fact that popular culture seems to be brainwashing us into believing that it’s normal and relevant and useful to televise the rehab experiences of celebrities or the, however manufactured and artificial, desperate pursuit of true love and a happily-ever-after.   Back in the day, the Real World on MTV was, in fact, of sociological and entertainment interest: a glimpse into the lives of people unlike you. But that snowball just kept rolling down hill and suddenly I’m contending with Tila Tequila and people tweeting about their genitalia.

I readily acknowledge that I am also a bit of a tough audience, in terms of reasonable critical thinking about personal disclosure in the media (social or otherwise).  I am both outrageously liberal and a terrific snob. So my judgment about what I think is acceptable is colored by whether or not I think the person disclosing is a) intelligent and “gets it” and b) not gross and tacky.  If I were to say, unequivocally, I don’t want to hear about your bodily functions because that’s too much disclosure, I’d be lying.  Because then I’d miss stuff like this gem from Mr. Lady, which I love.   Further muddying the waters is that I have the sense of humor of a twelve year old boy.  I love me a good fart joke as much as the next middle schooler.

I can’t draw a clear line in the sand, then, about what I think is TMI and what I think is Just Right Information.  I think it comes down to motivation.   If someone’s motivation is to inspire, support, entertain, educate, or even to force us all to bear witness, then self-disclosure of the kind that someone else might construe as oversharing is OK with me.  If an oversharer’s motivation is to present a false facade, manipulate, shock, or elicit praise or sympathy? Not so much.  I feel like so much that people are putting out there – in a kind of miniaturized version of the Bachelor wherein dumber-than-average girls contort themselves into what they think some douchey guy wants – is show-offy and sort of pathetic.  Also, if you make me throw up in my mouth, I am not pleased.

The only other point I think it’s critical I make here is this: If Dan thinks something is OK and I think it’s skeevy?  Maybe I’m just PMSing (overshare, ah, sweet irony), but chances are it’s skeevy.

…but Dan thinks…

You know, I kinda get the need for the husband jokes. It’s like why everyone hates the United States. We own everything. We run everything. We know how everything works. We know how to fix everything.

And we can pee standing up. It’s natural to be jealous.

But I’m pretty sure that holding the title “cruise director” does not make women queens of all they survey.

The household you run? You’re welcome for providing that for you. The long hours we spent separating clients from their money, constructing their constructions, meeting with fart-breathing bosses and filling out TPS reports? Because you didn’t see it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen, and that it wasn’t every bit as grueling as plopping the children in front of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse while you run down the Energizers on your favorite toy. Oh, right. That actually ISN’T that grueling, is it.

You know what Rachel Rae does to prevent every calorie from going to her ass because you have the time. Time to watch television. Time to read gossip blogs. Hell, time to write your own damn blogs.

We’re just too busy to spend all our free time bitching to any other man that’ll listen about how unfair life is.

And the reason we can’t find the Advil? You keep fucking moving it. I get wanting to feel like you control your surroundings, but do you have to do it by constantly shuffling everything around in the house? The answer to “Where’s the Advil” should NOT be “Billy had soccer that one time and he hurt his knee and so we were sitting on the floor and I gave him the Advil while I held ice on his knee and then Miranda came in and distracted me and I needed to put away the Advil so it was out of reach of the kids and so I think I put it with the spices so check there.”

Um, no. The answer should be “It’s in the medicine drawer, where it always is.”

Ok, now I feel the need to wipe away the piggish veneer and be serious for a minute. In general I don’t think men mind that much that women get together and privately dish dirt on their spouses. Some men dish, too. But the thing that I feel is wholly unacceptable? Airing dirty laundry to the world. Like on a blog. I’m not going to name names here, only because Jane has been screaming and pleading that I don’t, for fear that it’ll mean disaster for this blog. But there are women with high profile blogs who write really insulting things about their husbands and family on a regular basis. Husband jokes, but in real life.

Maybe it’s a lack of maturity that makes these women do this. Or maybe it’s a lack of intelligence or foresight. Or lack of respect.

But one of the first rules you ever learn about interpersonal relations, even as a child, is that if you have an issue with someone, you take it up with that person, not everyone EXCEPT that person. Maybe those women who blog nasty on their husbands are really, deep down, unhappy and hoping for a divorce and this is how they subconsciously make that happen. Or maybe they have mice for men (at which point those men should get together for some chest-bumping bro-lidarity, or go buy a t-shirt that says “she may be the woman, but I’m the pussy”). Whatever the reason, it’s pretty much indefensible, and all the harm that gets rained down on that relationship because of that behavior is justified.

Husband jokes? Fine in moderation. Wife jokes? Assume the position more often and they’ll go away.

And? We help out quite a bit around the house. We just don’t fly a biplane dragging a message each time we empty the trash.

…but Jane thinks…

You have taken complete leave of your senses.  Aren’t you supposed to be the conservative in this relationship?  Or have you merely been been so scarred by what you’ve seen on ChatRoulette that you are no longer lucid.

1)Your first amendment argument is absurd.  Yeah.  Blocking ChatRoulette is akin to burning books.  On what planet, other than Planet I’ll Scroll Through Forty Naked Dudes Abusing Themselves Just For The Chance I’ll See Some Naked Hooters??  Kids are on the internet the same way kids watch TV.  Would you be making the same argument if, interspersed between SpongeBob and Hannah Montana was footage of naked old men getting their groove on?   You can’t even compare Chat Roulette to CABLE television, because Cable television represents a choice, a selection, an opt-in.  Your kids can’t get to cable if you haven’t provided it to them.  But if your kids go on a computer, they can end up at Chat Roulette.

2)  It’s not even little kids that concern me the most, because, ohdeargodsweetjjesusIhope, most parents aren’t letting their young kids hang out in front of the computer unsupervised.  It’s adolescents.  Adolescents aren’t developmentally or emotionally sophisticated enough to process an unfiltered stream of society’s worst doing its worst.  Ask any person over the age of 30 what ChatRoulette is and, unless they saw Jon Stewart last night, most of them will say, “Chatwha?”  Ask any kid under the age of 19 and chances are they’ll giggle and say, “Oh my god!  So gross but so funny!”

3)  It’s only a matter of time before some creepo on Chat Roulette identifies the location or affiliation with some young, giggling girl via sweatshirt, background, recognition of surroundings, SOMETHING.  And then what?  In addition to raising up a generation of young adults with confused and complicated and distorted impressions of sexuality we are now willfully saying, “Yep…it’s all out there…go find it!  Anything goes!  Hope the weirdos don’t find you first!”

4)  Dan, you’re a husband and a father and a brother and a son.  From what I know, although I may at another time and in a different situation claim otherwise for the purpose of winning an argument, a pretty terrific one of all those.  As a man, aren’t you remotely concerned that ChatRoulette is yet another way that men are revealed to be base, corrupt, and scary?  Obviously, not all men.  But out of the woodwork the creepers creep when the opportunity presents, and so far, by  my research all three minutes of it before I started to feel unclean and threw up in my  mouth  a little bit, a hefty percentage of those creepers are men.   As a mother of a person who will one day be a man, and as a wife of a man, and as a sister of a man, and as a teacher of young men, I am worried that men aren’t working overtime to protect their image on the internet.  Popular culture is working overtime to hammer home this disturbing and fundamentally untrue message: men are porn-addicted, violent-game playing, virtual affair having skankbuckets.   It’s in none of our best interests to let that happen.

5)  If you want to have a conversation with a person in Chile about the earthquake, go on Facebook.  Find a pen pal.  Call the Chilean embassy.  The anonymity coupled with the ability to dismiss someone based on a fleeting glimpse is a recipe for disaster.  If you should actually proceed far enough in one of these “chats” to have a “conversation” with someone, what was it that made that person the one you stuck with to try to converse?  What made them decide to try to converse with you?   Whatever it is, it’s not enough.

6)  What else?  Other than, GROSS GROSS GROSS, which is a pretty compelling argument, frankly.  Here’s what else:  it’s a time suck.  For people with addictive tendencies and bad computer habits, I ask you this:  Isn’t there something more productive you could do with your time?  Something that advances us as a culture instead of catering to and manipulating our baser instincts?
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…but Dan thinks…

It’s funny. When we discussed our angles on this post, I was certain that for the first time, Jane and I were going to be on the same page. We were actually. going. to agree. I was considering calling The Guinness Book. But maybe that’s premature.

It’s not called a Snuggling Whale. A Happygoodtime Whale. It’s a killer. For prey like seals, they swim up from underneath them, wheel and swat them out of the water, into the air with their massive tails, knocking the seals unconscious; sometimes killing them with that single stroke. Then it’s lunchtime.

And they know how to hunt in groups. They are organized killers.

I love zoos. We have an annual membership to our local zoo and still find time to attend one or two others. For those that think that you can learn about the visceral experiences of life by reading about them or watching television, I’d suggest that they live pretty sheltered lives, and that thrown out into nature, those books will do little to help a person cope with dangerous encounters without real-life experience to back it up. Unless it’s a really heavy book and you have perfect aim.

In my basement I have a beautiful bearskin rug I got from my father, a bear he killed while out in the woods, hunting. He hadn’t been planning on it. Wasn’t even hunting for bear. But he was in the woods, saw a 250 pound black bear and tried his best to stay out of it’s way. And he did, right up until it smelled him, or smelled his prospective next meal, turned and charged at my father.

Tiny black eyes, enormous head, mouth agape, slobber dripping in anticipation as he lumbered toward my father.

Kill or be killed. Right there. My father raised his rifle, drew a bead and placed a slug between the bear’s eyes, dropping his would-be killer. There’s absolutely no way a book or a made-for-television movie can convey that pants-filling experience. But being able to see a live animal in a less-than-natural habitat can at least expose us, our kids, to the size and majesty and strength and potential danger of these animals.

I want to make sure this stays focused – this post isn’t about how terrible it is that animals are in captivity. At least that’s not what Jane and I discussed before we started writing. This post is about the arrogance, naivete and even stupidity of intentionally courting danger with animals that can kill.

Like the actor who thought he he could show the world how humane and lovable wild bears are, by embedding himself in their habitat, talking in falsetto to them, and then oops. Getting too close when food was scarce. Turns out that B-list actors are delicious.

Or Seigfried and Roy. “She was just trying to protect him.” Right. From not getting his head bitten off?

Or the three drunk guys in the Siberian zoo who decided to taunt the bears. And then one fell into the bear pit. Did you know whiskey makes an excellent marinade?

You can’t get the feel for rapelling down the side of a cliff, your stomach leaping into your throat, your bladder almost emptying as you look down, without actually strapping on the harness, leaning over that cliff, then jumping. But you do so knowing that if the rope is frayed, the harness unsecure or your technique is poor, you might plunge straight down to the rocks below.

So yes, it’s sad that that trainer lost her life to that killer whale. But as Jane and I said to each other in our post-planning meeting, “What’d you expect?”

…but Dan thinks…

Jane, I think you’re a victim of the 24-hour news cycle. I’m not here to defend the behavior of a few bad apples, but back in the good ‘ole days? Babe Ruth was Pacman Jones, Tony LaRussa and Deion Sanders all rolled up into one. Ty Cobb was the meanest motherfucker in sports and intentionally injured dozens of infielders in his career. The Stanley Cup hockey playoffs were called off one year because too many players were losing eyeballs. Which of course begs the question – how many is the RIGHT number of eyeballs to lose?

But news travelled slow back then. And the news was way more newsy back then, too. Reporting on things that mattered.

But lemme tell you about Jack Roosevelt Robinson. You may have known him as “Jackie.” In the 1947 season of Major League Baseball, Jackie debuted for the Brooklyn Dodgers. He was black *whispers*.

As the first player to break the color barrier, Robinson had to endure derision not only from opposing teams but from within his own locker room. Death threats descended like locusts to Robinsons locker, road hotel rooms and home. Yet he stood his ground and played, embodying the grace and dignity any of us would hope we could muster on just one of our best days.

And the country watched.

It watched baseball. It watched as a microcosm of the battle against segregation played out before it’s eyes. And it saw a talented, dignified black man start the decades-long process of breaking stereotypes. With every hit, every single he stretched to a double, every out he tallied in the field that Robinson made in the face of overwhelming, racist hatred, he started changing hearts and minds.

Without sports, without Robinson, white children and adults of that era may never have been exposed to a Black American or Black America, without the nearly requisite racism or prejudice.

And without Robinson and his impact on racism in America, ever so slowly lending confidence to Black America, eight years later maybe Rosa Parks doesn’t have the courage to refuse to ride at the back of the bus. And without Parks, maybe Tommie Smith and John Carlos don’t raise their gloved fists in protest at the 1968 Olympics.

To watch sports is to watch the history of our country unfolding before our eyes.

Like in 1973, a year after Title IX was passed, when Billie Jean King bitch-slapped Bobbie Riggs in three straight sets after he was cocking off about his superior manliness.

Or years later when King donned the flannel and stepped out of the closet.

Or in 1980 when a group of college kids played against a professional Russian hockey team at the Lake Placid Olympics and won, throwing an exclamation point onto the end of the cold war.

How about 1999? Women’s World Cup, when Brandi Chastain let the girls out for a look around.

Or when Michael Jordan won an NBA Championship shortly after his father was murdered? Or Brett Favre on Monday Night Football after losing his father to a heart attack?

And what about Magic Johnson? Contracted AIDS, retired, unretired, then retired again.

And Michael Phelps? Who wowed us with his fins, then disappointed us with his bong.

We watch the news to gather data points. Observe trends. Maintain our relative safety. But watching sports is how we learn how to live. It’s where we form our day-to-day opinions. Maybe you didn’t know how you felt about being within spitting distance of someone with AIDS until you saw Magic Johnson crashing boards with uninfected men. And remember the talking heads tittering for weeks and even months about women in sports when Brandi Chastain sent the girls out to party?

And going all the way back to Jackie Robinson, without sports, without spectating, maybe that portion of White America doesn’t see the courage of a single man fighting inside curveballs on “Free Bedsheet Day” at the stadium. And without that, maybe there isn’t a black NFL quarterback for another half century. Which means Rush Limbaugh doesn’t have the opportunity to talk about social engineering conspiracies and how Donovan McNabb is unfairly benefiting from his blackness, making most reasonable white people throw sheets over their heads (in shame).

And without all that, maybe we still think a black man isn’t smart enough to coach a football team. And then Superbowl XLI (41 for those of us who don’t count like the fucking Romans), the first to play host to TWO teams coached by black men never happens.

And without ALL OF THAT? Without watching sports, without seeing smart, stoic, courageous black men (Terrell Owens? You know there’s no way I’m fucking looking at you, right?)? Pretty damn hard to convince White America to vote for a black man as President. That’s right, I said it. Without Jackie Robinson? Without Lovie Smith and Tony Dungy showing the worst of White America that Black America is also smart and capable? There is no President Obama. Deal with it.

And here I am, about a thousand words in and I haven’t even talked about how sports teach our children how to compete. How to get a thirst for winning that can be translated to all the different languages of our lives.

And hello? Michele Obama just unveiled her pet project, the Let’s Move campaign, to get our fat, stupid children outside to play (was that out loud? You know I meant “our” in the most general sense, right? Not YOURS and MINE?). Play what? Well, just look at the website! There’s a nice little boy playing FOOTBALL. And why would he be interested in playing football? Why not cricket? Why not Jai alai? Because they suck, for one. But also, because this little kid’s heroes PLAY FOOTBALL. THAT HE WATCHES.

Kids watch sports. They go outside and emulate their sports heroes (hopefully the on-field stuff, not bitch-slapping Sally next door when he drops a handful of singles on the ground and Sally dives for them, I’m looking at you, Pacman) when they play. They get exercise, they get healthy.

And let’s not forget about the sick children. The ones stuck in hospital beds who can’t get out to play. They can get their IV’s inserted and bedpans changed during commercial breaks, and then during the action, for an afternoon, they can escape their pale semi-private rooms and root for their favorite players.

Like Charles Woodson. Who just gave two motherfucking million dollars to his alma mater to help in the construction of a new children’s hospital, and who regularly, quietly, under the radar, visits kids in cancer wards all the time in the hopes that it might give them a lift. Give them a reason to fight another day.

And then there’s the impact on the economy. Meh. You know what? Nevermind. If everything you just read isn’t enough to convince you that you should step away from the computer and watch some sports RIGHT NOW, you probably got winded even reading this. And you hate children. Which, can I say? SUPER FUCKING MEAN. What did the children ever do to you?

…but Jane thinks…

Ah The Bucks. I can’t quit you. In fact, neither can anybody else. I fully expected Starbucks stores to begin to go belly up within weeks of the economic collapse of last year, but instead, their earnings went up. Instead of big ticket durable goods, vacation homes, and new cars, Americans sought solace in small luxuries to make themselves feel like it was all going to be OK. When belts needed a little tightening around my house, I vowed to cut my once a week Starbucks trip down to an every other week affair. But like I said, I can’t quit you, Starbucks. And instead of fewer visits, I was probably even there more often.

The hipster free trade organic cooperative sustainable local business posse likes to curl their collective lip at Starbucks much the same way I snarl at Wal-Mart because it represents big megalocorp style business that puts the little local coffee shop in the red and on the trashheap. In fact, in communities where coffee is a Thing, a Cultural Entity, a Statement of Identity, there are plenty of loyal caffeinistas keeping their favorite java huts afloat. I don’t doubt that Starbucks has driven some dedicated and worthy small businesspeople, purveyors of great products, out of business. And that sucks. From both personal and utilitarian points of view, however, Starbucks is not the blight on the caffeine and baked good landscape; it’s a boon.

1) The plain old regular coffee at Starbucks is strong and slightly bitter. I think it tastes awful. But that’s not why one goes to Starbucks. If you want plain coffee and don’t worship at the altar of Keurig which makes you a fool, do you hear me? A fool!!, then go to Dunkin’ Donuts, because everybody knows their regular coffee is better than anybody else’s. You go to Starbucks for a latte or a cappucino or some other weird caffeine, dairy, sugar concoction that you cannot possibly replicate at home despite how much money you spend on equipment imported from Italy. It’s delicious, provides the better-than-average caffeine hit, and is expensive and different enough from the every day cup a joe to make you feel special.

2) Consistency is everything. Ask the ghost of Ray Kroc and his filthy rich heirs.

3) Location. Location. Location. If you’re everywhere, I can always find you.

4) I have never been in my local Starbucks when there haven’t been letters from charitable organizations, schools, boy scout troops, hospitals, and individuals thanking the company, manager, and employees for their generous donations to some event or cause or another.

5) The Starbucks corporation makes serious efforts toward environmental responsibility…in terms of sustainable coffee agriculture, green building materials/methods in stores, promoting awareness and responsible behavior, and recycling.

6) Starbucks gives away free songs on itunes. Their Wifi policy irritates the crap out of me, but I like the songs and I’m sure if I had so much as one technologically competent bone in my body, I’d be able to figure out the wifi.

7) Starbucks just pledged 1 million dollars to organizations helping Haiti rebuild. And that’s not a one shot deal; they always pitch in. And in a big way, when catastrophe strikes locally and globally.

8 ) Starbucks provides full benefits for all employees, including part-time employees, flexible hours, and stock options.

9) Starbucks has a series of community involvement goals (as well as sustainability, environmental, and youth programs goals. This is the statement regarding the community involvement goal: “We will contribute over 1 million hours of community service per year by 2015. Last year we contributed 246,000 community service hours and this year we hope to double that and then add 100,000 annually. Our goal is to reach 1 million hours by 2015 and increase the difference we and our customers make in communities around the world.” (http://www.starbucks.com/SharedPlanet/communityInvolvement.aspx). They are walking the walk.

10) Hot Latte Man. The guy who serves me my morning latte at Starbucks has a smile that makes any morning a good morning. Yummy. And I’m not just talking about the coffee.

…but Dan thinks…

I’ll take issue with a few things Jane said in a bit. Right now I need to talk about the mental midget that is Tiger Woods.If you have kids on a sports team (and your kid isn’t the best player), you probably know how the star of the team gets treated. Kid gloves. Waving palm fronds, sometimes.

Because Tiger plays a non-team sport, since he was 3, appearing on the Mike Douglas show, he didn’t need to share the limelight with anyone. And for all intents and purposes, Tiger was an only child.   It was all Tiger, all the time. So while he was honing his superlative golfing talent, he was failing (and his father, Earl, patriarch of the family, was also failing) at developing just about every other facet of his life.

During tournaments, Tiger has thrown clubs into the gallery.  Of people.  His antics on the course are sometimes compared to Happy Gilmore.   (Mainly by me, but whatever.  I count, right?)  Socially, Tiger is retarded.  Remember those notes you sent in elementary school?

Do you like me?

[   ]Check this box for yes

[   ]Check this box for no

This is more or less how Tiger asked out Elin, his soon-to-be former wife.  He was so socially awkward that in college his nickname was Urkel.  So how did he score all these women?  14+ since he was married?

I knew a guy in college who played a mean guitar.  Ugly as fuck.  Personality to match.  But when onstage, women were lined up 4 deep to watch him play.  Add that intangible quality to a guy who is probably the richest athlete in the world and easy on the eyes?  Uh, the trim line starts back there, honey.

Because Tiger was so unskilled, so inexperienced in handling anything outside of where to drain his balls, he started draining his balls everywhere.

And Earl had re-written all of Tiger’s school books to show that the universe DID actually rotate around Tiger, so what was the moral conflict?  I golf, therefore I do whatever the hell I please.

Tiger didn’t know how to or understand the reason why he should keep his freakdom on the down-low.

I’ve cheated on a lot of things in my life.  Never a woman.  If there isn’t enough to keep you there?  You leave.  But Tiger never learned that or a billion other lessons about how to be a decent, normal human being.  Like Jane, I feel very badly for the kids and for Elin.  And hello?  How does a guy get tired of that?

As for Tiger, I’m going to enjoy seeing this guy who has so few mental tools to work with try to find his way around this course.  I bet he doesn’t make the cut.

And Jane?  Apparently Tiger has an affinity for the blond girl-next-door type.  Why he chose to screw carny versions of his wife instead of his wife is beyond me.

The fame whore thing I don’t buy.  He didn’t chase down Nike.  He didn’t call up GM and say “I love Buick!  Can I pimp your stuff?”  They ran him down because he was a superlative talent that appeared to have his head and his outside-the-lines life together.  Paris Hilton?  Lindsay Lohan?  Fame whores.  Whore whores.  Other than endorsements Tiger hides from the media as much as he can (social retard, remember?).