Marriage Is A Human Construct.


I considered posting this on Facebook, but quickly thought better of it. So why not post it on my blog, and THEN post it to Facebook. Amiright? Of course. So here it is:

I probably support gay marriage more than most people – certainly more than most people in North Carolina – but I have to say, I’m kind of over the “marriage as a human right” argument. Marriage is something we made up in our heads. I mean, think about it, initially marriage was just a transfer of property (daughter, dowry) between two families, usually to gain stature in the community. These days, it seems, it’s little more than a calculated risk made at a certain time in one’s life to fill expected roles and have a really awesome party. It’s not even a real thing, much less a human right. Like, I wouldn’t say that voting is a human right either. Voting is something we cooked up so we could elect a democratic government. It’s totally fake, like Columbus day. This is not to say that it doesn’t have importance or value, but, in my mind, it is not a human right.

Now, I spent a good deal of my parents’ money on my own wedding, and I produce wedding videos as a part-time job, and I was once married myself. I totally love weddings, and a happy union is life’s greatest blessing. That’s something that should be within everyone’s reach. The happy part is real. But the marriage part is completely made up.

Sorry to break it to everyone.

Can still remember.


Ten years ago, I woke up to my roommates screaming. At first I was annoyed, I mean, it’s like 8:30am, TONE IT DOWN ALREADY. Then I saw. And we were all quiet.

My father was flying out of Boston that day, but I didn’t know where. The phone lines were down, so I couldn’t call my mom. It was like the apocalypse, I thought. No service. No contact. Only this breathless uncertainty – the kind of terror that has its own atmosphere.

We watched the news all day long, and, by this time one decade ago, I was at work. I waited tables at an Italian restaurant on the East side of Syracuse, NY, and the few customers I served that night were celebrating birthdays. I gave them all free cheesecake. What a crappy birthday, I’d say to each, I’m sorry. When I wasn’t tableside, I sat at the bar and watched CNN.

By nightfall, exhausted, my friends and I decided to distract ourselves by going to our favorite bar. The news was on there, too, so it wasn’t much of a distraction. The air hung thick with smoke and resignation. None of us knew quite what to do, so when we got home we started to pull Tarot cards. I pulled The Tower.

The next day I rented a car with no tape deck and drove to Massachusetts to be with my family. I didn’t tell them I was coming, just sort of showed up. I drove through the Berkshires in silence, thinking about that night in late 1999 when I sat on the steps of Kaia’s brownstone in Jersey City, out of my mind after a night at the clubs. She had a view of lower Manhattan from her stoop, and the twins seemed to sparkle and wave. Columns of light and life.

The meaning of The Tower is catastrophic change – the undoing of all things. It is a card of violence, but also a card of immense hope. For from destruction comes creation, and only from the ashes can the phoenix rise. I know this now, deeply, and I hope that we as individuals (and our country as a whole) can use this time to live in a way that builds better Life. Because Life, I mean, it can be pretty awesome.

Someday, there will be advertising in the sky, and that’s when I’ll officially move to the jungle.


Generally speaking, I don’t enjoy billboards as a means of advertisement. They’re ugly, ostentatious, unavoidable, and visually assaulting. You’re stuck in traffic, sucking fumes, people are laying on their horns as though it makes a difference and there’s nothing to look at but these fucking billboards, and it sucks. I thought it couldn’t get worse than the recent Pepsi array, what with the migraine-inducing color combos, lame co-opting of election fever, and wholesale use of nonsense-speak, but now, I have to say, I would take a thousand Pepsi boards over the Snickers campaign.

There’s one planted en route to my apartment that reads “GET SOME BLING WITH MASTER P-NUT”, and every time I pass it I honestly cringe. Like, I guess P-Nut is a real dude or whatever, but the image I get in my head is a bizarre cross-breeding of a grossly overweight 90s-style rapper and a testicle. Like, maybe instead of a gold chain, he’s got one huge, diamond-studded ballsack hanging around his neck, or maybe instead of grillz he’s got some glittery man-parts or something, I don’t know, but I don’t like to mix metaphors that way. Seriously.

At least, though, I generally witness that particular nugget of advertising perfection on my way HOME. The billboard that REALLY gets under my skin is on the pike westbound, near Fenway Park. I pass it every morning on my way to work, which, these days, is at or before dawn. Mornings aren’t my best, and so perhaps I’m unduly offput, but seriously, WHAT THE FUCK IS A NOUGAPLEX AND WHY DO I WANT TO PUT MY HUNGER IN ONE??? Is Nougaplex a secret government prison made of sugar and fat? Or is it some kind of amazing handbag, with sharp edges and lasers? Maybe it’s a mental state similar to disaffectation, or maybe it’s kind of like a headlock. However I try to spin it, the whole notion just BOTHERS me because THE WORD SOUNDS DUMB and it’s MORNING.

I have to admit, I probably haven’t eaten a whole candy bar since the tender days of 1993 (post-braces, pre-eating disorder), and even then I was more of a Milky Way girl. So clearly, I’m not the target audience here. But after months spent staring at these shit-brown stories-high pieces of corporate trash cluttering up my city, I would literally have to be starving to death before I’d even consider letting a Snickers bar pass my lips. And even then I might choose death, as a matter of principle.

Anyway. That’s that.

Yes I Am.


I’ve been too busy following post-election Sarah Palin news to bother with such small things as posting on teh blog. Or calling MA DOR to inform them of my employment status. Or mailing my grandma those pictures or returning the shoes or brushing my hair.

There are some totally hot pictures of Palin on, in a slideshow from late last week. Sadly, after a weekend where my ass was firmly planted on either an Arlington-area barstool or my sister’s couch, I am not looking so hot. But that’s cool. My current situation allows me to keep any interaction with the outside world to a tightly controlled minimum. I haven’t put on mascara in weeks.

In unrelated news, I took my broke-ass, pasty-faced, ratty-haired self on a Starbucks field trip to try out the Clover. I can safely say that my drinking experience bordered on transcendental. Kudos to the test market gurus.




Nobody on googletalk or twitter has given me a satisfactory answer. Please weigh in.

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