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I’ve spent a lot of my adult life defending the state of Texas, where I’m from (as opposed to where I’m “from-from”), especially during the last eight years with W. in office. I usually begin with the refrain, “There are good people there,” before espousing the virtues of the things from home that I still hold dear: big sky, late afternoon thunderstorms that rattle the house and offer a thrilling, momentary reprieve from the summer heat, Tex-Mex, barbeque, and chicken fried steak, not necessarily in that order, the saying of please, thank you, and yes ma’am, football season, the wildflowers that spring up alongside the road, those days spent doing nothing besides drinking iced tea and sitting in the shade, which, in the middle of July, feels something like receiving the universe’s only tender mercy.
I’m not completely sentimental about where I grew up, however, and I also know that that big sky is now choked with the country’s worst pollution, the humid Texas heat is only being made more intolerable and dangerous in every respect by global warming, some of the same people who say please and thank you religiously also believe gays are going to hell (or that there is a hell, for that matter), places where large groups of people gather like football games are often the same places where drunk, hateful idiots feel emboldened enough to openly call someone a gook, spic, nigger, or fag, and there are parts of the state where you still get the feeling that people would like to kill you simply because you look different.
But I don’t want to think that is a significant portion of the population. I know–I’m in a certain amount of denial. But I’m already drowning in my own cynicism on a daily basis, this election has put me and everybody else in an Us vs. Them frame of mind, my parents live in Texas and they are adorable, and it’s too easy to blame certain parts of the country, like Texas, or the South, or the Middle, for all of America’s shameful, small-minded, stupid behavior.
So it was with great dismay that I learned this week that, according to a UT poll, 23% of Texas voters believe Obama is a Muslim. (It goes without saying that I, like so many other people, am first and foremost dumbfounded that “Muslim” has become a slur in this election, but so it has.) A Forbes writer spun this incredible number as less of a mark of ignorance than of the limited way in which polls can be interpreted.
There’s another possibility: McCain supporters using badly conceived polls as political weapons. If you ask people in a hardcore McCain state, a good number of them will says “Yes, Obama is a Muslim” whether they believe it or not, just to get the idea that Obama is a Muslim out there. All’s fair in war and politics, after all.
And I’m willing to believe that. No, amend that. I do believe it. I need to believe it. Because the alternative, that a quarter of Texas voters are actually that small-minded and stupid, hits far too close to home, to my home and how I want to think of it, and, more generally, how I want to think of our greater home, the country we live in.
The Today show crew dressed up as fairy tale characters for Halloween, and our favorite robot Ann Curry went as Cinderella, or, in her own words, “an ethnic J.Lo Cinderella.” While I’m glad she’s making a case for ethnic Cinderellas, she looks more like an ethnic J.Lo Cinderella’s evil stepmonster trying to upstage her stepdaughter at some royal event to which the evil stepmonster was charitably invited, despite being a raging shebitch who used to make Cindy scrub floors and clean toilets. Her Cinde-weave looks really grey. The cream color of her dress washes her out, too. And I don’t think anyone over the age of 6 should ever wear a ballgown, because they’re aging (whenever I watch the Oscars, I scream this all night long at the television), a problem that Ann doesn’t have in real life, making this costume all the more confounding.
Ah well. I suppose things could be worse. Like, say, having a big blue M&M for a ballsack.
Jen and I typically love Halloween. On many a warm, Hollywood, October 31st evening, we have been found rocking wigs and/or fake babies and/or sausage necklaces and/or celebrity personas and/or conceptual interpretations of political catch phrases, while pulling cobwebs off of our pumps, throwing fake crows at party crashers, drowning in whiskey and pizza, and sweating buckets while dancing to vintage Michael Jackson. Halloween is a good time. Check that–Halloween is a great time. But all of the elements need to be in order.
For starters: You’ve gotta like your friends. I know this sounds silly, but if you’re going to go to the trouble of designing a cumbersome costume that somehow conveys “WOMD”–more importantly, the willful inconvenience of explaining exactly how it conveys “WOMD”–you’ve really got to be in the mood to see your friends. Which means that the year everyone has consistently gotten together for weekly pool parties and 24 screening nights and pot cookie evenings is a GREAT year for Halloween partying. The year that half of your friends said, “But do you think there’s actually a viable concept there?” the entire time you were suicidally writing your book proposal is a BAD time for Halloween partying. The year everyone you knew discovered Guitar Hero is a FANTASTIC year for a Halloween bash. The year that you realized you’ve actually wasted friendship time and energy on stupid, selfish assholes that don’t care about an upcoming state election in which DISCRIMINATION LAWS are actually in play… a BAD year for a bash.
And then: Halloween has to fall on a good day. Tuesday sucks, Friday rules. Shit, I guess that means, as Ice Cube would say, “today was a good day.” Next…
Importantly: Funny and or really bad shit has to be going on in the world. How else will your friends come up with clever outfits? You can’t be Brangelina every year, but this go-around you can (and I’ve thought of doing this myself) be an Alaskan rape kit for sale. (**Note: if you’re interested in executing this, drop me an email! It’s easy! And, oddly enough, cheaper than an actual rape kit in Wasilla, Alaska**). Nothing could be worse than looking around the room and seeing a bunch of lame chicks dressed up as “Sexy _____” or, worse, “A Playboy bunny!…Again.”
Which brings me to the much more importantly: It’s all about the costume. You know the saying that goes something like, “If you don’t love yourself, you can’t love anyone else?” This is similar, except it’s more like, “If you aren’t in the awesome costume, the “Bingo!”, slam-dunk, thing-you’ve-always-wanted-to-be-or-at-least-for-the-last-two-weeks costume, you suck and so does Halloween.”
Which brings me to my costume. This year, I really have entertained the notion of dressing up as a $1300 rape kit (yes, it’s dark) that Sarah Palin would chirpily let me pay for, if I was one of her sad sack constituents. But that’s a little ominous for the kiddies, and I’m thrilled at the prospect of giving Snickers bars to little ones later this evening. So, on to the next.
Fortunately, there’s one costume I’ve always wanted to put together. I have wanted to dress up as an egg–just a simple, ordinary egg–for years. Don’t ask me why, that’s like asking why the sky is blue or why Asians are smart. I just want to be an egg. And don’t think I haven’t gotten asked the questions, or received plenty of unwarranted flack, for my obsession with this idea. “An egg? Why would ANYONE dress up as an egg? That’s not funny!”
Oh? Isn’t it?
So imagine me this week, happily constructing my egg costume, while singing Halloween jingles and eating Lawry’s-seasoned pumpkin seeds. And what photo do I come across but…
First Michelle Malkin usurps my birthday, and now this. I’m like Harry Potter with his undiscernable mental connection with Valdemort–intrinsically linked to my DISGRASIAN foes. What have I ever done to deserve this?
Sari, everybody, I can already tell this is going to be one of those “bad joke” days.
Dudes– nothing gives me more retarded tingles than watching somebody get busted for being unprepared and/or sensationalist and/or poorly informed while on split-screen live TV. It’s fucking painful. PAINFUL. Remember Kevin James’s massive “appeasement” stumble on Hardball? Shouldn’t the imminent shame resulting from such incidents be enough to scare some studying into anybody with a booking agent? Why-why-WHY does this continue to happen?
Oh, and I’m talking to YOU, Michael Goldfarb (this is not our fellow HuffPo compatriot, by the way, but the on-leave editor of The Weekly Standard and McCain’s paid megaphone):
My gosh. Can somebody please tell these dorks to do their fuckin’ homework before they go on television? If one is the McCain Campaign National Spokesman, one should at least do that. Or is everybody taking lessons from the Palin School of Interview Bumbling?
Hey Ash. Tennessee called. They’ve had quite enough of your “volunteering,” if ya know what I mean.
A recent online poll conducted by the US Embassy on the China Daily website shows that 75 percent of the People’s people favor Obama over McCain. An analyst of a Horizon Research survey on Chinese interest in the election posited that the reason for this is “(Obama’s) age, energy, and even complexion, which signify the US dream, are more appealing to the Chinese,” but I think we all know why they love the guy.
So you know what that means, right? Obama not only shared his toys, but he, like the Chinese, first tainted them with lead paint. Then he put teeny, easy-to-choke-on magnets in them, before pumping them full of the date rape drug GHB. Next he coated these toys in Cadbury chocolate containing melamine, to ensure children would eat them, which was all part of his secret plan to not only ruin the Easter holiday but to cripple the American economy, before seizing control of the government and appointing underage-albeit-adorable gymnasts-who-turn-out-to-be-robot-assassins to his Cabinet and making those Opening Ceremony drummers the new U.S. Armed Forces, while forcing honest hard-working Americans to speak ching-chong, eat dog, play the violin until their fingers bleed, use chopsticks instead of forks, be really good at math but really bad at driving, and, and…all that other evil stuff those Commie, wealth-spreading bastards do for shits and giggles on their way to taking over the world.
Alas, alack, we’ll have to wait ’til next year for an Asian-American Top Model. Sheena Sakai was eliminated from ANTM last night after turning in another boring photo, which seemed to be her only way of responding to the judges’ constant criticism that girlfriend was too hoochie. Despite my enthusiasm for Sheena in the beginning, she was starting to work my last nerve, always picking fights in the house and getting on her soapbox, spoken word-style, about things that were really none of her beeswax, like Marjorie’s shyness or Elina’s control issues (both tired subjects, admittedly). She did handle her exit with restraint, however, without tears or drrrrrrama or uttering that horribly cliché but now de rigueur reality TV closing line, “This isn’t the last you’ve seen of (me in the third person).” Okay, she offered up a version of that–”I’m not going to be forgotten”–but then contradicted herself immediately with “and hopefully, I won’t be,” as though she had finally seen the bullshit in her own bluster. Was this a farewell to fakery for Sheena Sakai, i.e. what is she going to do about those boobs? Tits not for me to say, really.
Michelle Wie turns 20 this weekend, which means she’ll be one year too old to be considered a provocative “teen athlete” with “lots of potential,” and one step further away from being a young prodigy. Not to be a buzzkill or anything–that’s just what our moms said to us when WE turned twenty. It sucked!
Dear Barack Obama,
We’re here for you.
We’re going to vote for you.
Maybe next time, right?
P.S. By the way, we get that this infomercial was for fat, old, bald guys in Ohio, not us. But the wound still smarts.
P.P.S. We almost cried when we saw your baby pictures. So cute!
Hey guys! What’s up? I’ve been watching your Prop 8 YouTube video over and over since Diana posted it yesterday, and I feel compelled to tell you: YOUR SON RANDY IS GAY. I don’t mean in that Hilary Duff way. I mean gay-gay. Don’t ask me how I know; I have wicked awesome gaydar is all.
P.S. When Randy comes out in 10 years and you disown him, send him along to us, will ya? We really ♥ gaysians. Peace.