Forever and Never, Amen (Parts 1 & 2)

"Fancy a big house, some kids and a horse. I can not quite, but nearly guarantee a divorce. I think that I love you. I think that I do. So go on, mister -- make 'Miss Me' 'Mrs. You.'"

-- Zero 7, Distractions

"There's no guarantees. There's no guarantees. There's no guarantees."

-- Ryan Adams, Political Scientist (from the album Love is Hell)


Part 1: In Which Things Fall Apart


As these kinds of things go, it started off pretty standard: There was the disgraced, white male political figure, his head hung in just the right amount of requisite shame; the frenzied gaggle of vulturine media types, electricity shooting through their veins from being in the immediate presence of a human being who was about to be reduced to little more than a lifeless carcass ripe for the picking; the flashes of the strobes and the podium adorned with a bouquet of microphones. We knew the drill. We'd seen it all before and understood what was next. Another politician caught, literally, with his pants down was going to confess his sins to the American people. He'd apologize for betraying his constituents, his family, God, whomever, and stoically ask for forgiveness in exchange for a trip to sex-addict rehab with his spiritual adviser or some other such horseshit.

This was the way it worked. How it went for Gary Hart, Bill Clinton, Eliot Spitzer, John Edwards, and so on. It was contrition-as-theater, and we all knew the script.

But a funny thing happened when it was South Carolina governor Mark Sanford's turn to take the stage in the role of the respected leader embroiled in a career-threatening sex scandal: He went "off-book," quickly dropping the cool, practiced and thoroughly unconvincing I-let-myself-down routine in favor of being, well, human. The result was nothing short of captivating -- the public implosion, body and soul, of a man for whom public implosions wouldn't seem possible. Sanford didn't downplay his relationship with his mistress, whom he'd just spent six days with in her home country of Argentina; he eulogized it. Rather than taking the politically expedient route and reducing the other woman to an anonymous figure intruding on the sacred ground of his marriage, he did exactly the opposite -- coming apart at the seams as he admitted that he was, in fact, deeply and passionately in love with the person for whom he was willing to risk his life as he knew it. If it didn't garner a surprising pang of sympathy from the millions of Americans who'd been there, who understood what it was like to suddenly find the heart in a violent battle with all better judgment, then at the very least it deserved credit as a hell of a clever bit of misdirection.

To hear Mark Sanford tell it, Maria Belen Chapur wasn't the other woman. She was the woman. The only woman.

Since last week's startling and revealing announcement, Mark Sanford the overwhelmed inamorato has slowly begun to morph back into Mark Sanford the reptilian politician: He's admitted to having "crossed lines" with a handful of other women during his 20 year marriage and he's contradicted his own story several times. But he still can't shut up about "Maria," whom he calls his "soulmate."

"This was a whole lot more than a simple affair, this was a love story," Sanford says, sounding like he's about to compose a sonnet. "A forbidden one, a tragic one, but a love story at the end of the day."

If you find this more than a little amusing -- the thought of a typically uptight and sanctimonious Republican politician suddenly drama-queening out, turning into poor, stupid lovestruck Paris, willing to bring war to Troy's doorstep in the name of the beauty who's so entranced him -- you're certainly not alone.

But you've got to wonder how Mark Sanford's wife Jenny, the mother of his children, feels about all this florid praise aimed in the direction of a woman other than herself. I'm sure it was especially stinging when the good governor said in an interview that he was trying to learn to fall back in love with his wife. That's the kind of revelation that gets a man killed in his sleep.

Still, and I realize this question will be seen as impertinent by some: Didn't she sign up for this? Didn't she know the risks inherent not simply in marrying someone with political aspirations but, to some extent, in marrying anyone? And for that matter -- didn't he? Didn't they realize that, at any point and for no discernible reason, one or the other of them could fall out of love -- or fall in love with someone else -- and walk out the front door without ever looking back?

Don't we all understand the reality by this point?

So why do we do it -- why do we get married anymore -- at all?

The Kids in the Hall once did a sketch where they compared getting married to skydiving. It ended with one of the cast-members putting America's oft-quoted marriage statistics into jarring perspective by essentially saying: Would you jump out of a plane if you knew that there was only a 50% chance of your chute opening?

As much as I wish it weren't true, and as much as I hate to drop another couple of pop culture references, the events that have taken place in my own life in the past several months have conspired to make me think quite a bit about the entire institution of marriage. To challenge my long-held perceptions about it -- and my overall belief in it and in the ability of two people to make it last these days. At the core of my cynicism: personal experience -- both direct and indirect -- with two assumptions that are rooted in undeniable fact.

First, as Chris Rock famously said, a man is only as faithful as his options -- although I'd expand that proposition to include the opposite sex as well. To some extent, we're all looking to trade up -- physically, emotionally, financially -- and the temptation of the perfect opportunity to do just that is often impossible to completely resist. (Just ask Jerry Seinfeld's wife, Jessica Sklar, who left her first, non-household-name husband immediately after their three-week Italian honeymoon to begin dating TV royalty.) And even if the opportunity never does in fact come to fruition, isn't the knowledge of this kind of innate desire a deal-breaker in and of itself? You can't spend your whole life hoping nobody better than you comes along.

Second, in the immortal words of TV's Dr. House -- everybody lies.

Everybody. No matter who you are. One way or the other, you're likely covering something up, hiding the truth from the person you claim to love, burying a deep, dark secret that, if revealed, would constitute an Extinction Level Event in your relationship. If you're not now, you probably have at some point. We tell the biggest lies to the ones we're closest to, whose lives we affect the most and who in turn have the ability to drastically affect ours. We do it to keep the peace, or, we tell ourselves, as an act of pure altruism -- to keep our partners safe from unnecessary harm, the harm that we ourselves would cause.

Some would look at Mark Sanford and say, rightly, "the balls on this guy." He actually had the colossal arrogance to ask his wife for permission to visit his paramour -- who's an ex-television news producer, incidentally, proving my well-tested theory that the TV news business grows amoral sexual predators like fruit on the vine -- after he was busted writing romantic e-mails to her. Needless to say, Jenny Sanford, having a thimble-full of self-respect, told him where to shove his burning schoolboy desire: She "politely denied" his request, then threw him out of the house when he ignored her, ditched his official tail, and went to Argentina anyway.

"It’s one thing to forgive adultery, it’s another to condone it," she says, in what's sure to become an Oprah-approved battle-cry for scorned women everywhere.

Once again though, she had to know that this day would, in one form or another, come. She had to grasp, even from the beginning, that no matter the ostensible strength of the foundation she'd built with her husband -- years together, kids, a home, mutual friends, a joint membership at the local country club -- that it could all come crashing down and be rendered utterly meaningless at some point. That he'd be willing to betray it all for a cheap, ego-stroking thrill. Or that she might. Humans are painfully flawed creatures -- maybe too inherently flawed to make a marriage, the brass ring marriage we're taught to strive for by movies and TV commercials, work and last.

I want to believe in a love that lasts forever and can withstand anything -- the good times and bad. And for a long time I believed just that. I clung desperately, passionately to the fantasy that there was a "right person" and that being in a committed relationship with her or him -- while not without conflict, trauma, and a lot of hard work -- would be rewarding in immeasurable ways, because that person would bring out the best parts of you and you would do likewise.

I believed so strongly in that. I don't anymore.

And I'm betting that almost everyone involved in the Sanford affair -- Mark, Jenny, Maria, even Maria's stunned and betrayed boyfriend -- feels the same way.

Like everything else these days, love is a many fickled thing.

If you don't think this is true, don't worry. You'll eventually find out the hard way.


"The cruelest lies are often told in silence."

-- Robert Louis Stevenson


Part 2: In Which the Center Cannot Hold


My flight was supposed to have arrived seven hours ago. Because of the delay, which left me sitting on the floor of the Ft. Lauderdale airport cursing under my breath for most of the afternoon into evening, I'm just now pulling up to the front of the modest two-story apartment in Astoria. At one in the morning. The street, which is silent at this hour, looks and feels unnervingly different from the one I left almost three months ago. It was still winter then. The trees protruding from evenly spaced squares carved out of the sidewalk on either side of the street were eerie and skeletal the day that I took my infant daughter away from this place and off to Miami. That was the day our family officially fractured, likely never to be repaired. A month ago, I returned here with my little girl, Inara, and left her behind while I traveled back to my sad exile in South Florida. But I'm not thinking about that now. I can only remember that cold morning in April, when I kissed my wife goodbye and realized that it would probably be the last time I kissed her at all.

I heft my bag out of the cab, slam the door shut and watch as hot-red taillights disappear down the darkened street, leaving me standing there -- alone. I turn and face the home that isn't my home anymore. The place where my wife Jayne and I once hoped to make a life with our child. The place that's now hers and only hers. Closing my eyes and taking a deep, long breath, I force myself forward, onto the sidewalk and up the steps to the front door. She's left it unlocked for me. As I step inside and pull the door closed behind me, I can already make out the familiar points in the landscape of what was once my living room. At the same time, though, my mind and body involuntarily read the changes that have been made since I first left, and the result throws my equilibrium off. The surreality of the intimately recognizable and the thoroughly alien side-by-side. The life that somewhat resembles mine but most definitely isn't mine anymore.

I climb the stairs gently, trying not to make noise that might wake Jayne or the baby. The upstairs landing is lit only by a timid yellow glow coming from the bathroom. I place my bag in the room I'll be sleeping in for the next few days -- what used to be Inara's nursery, before Jayne moved the crib and changing table into her own room to accommodate a potential full-time nanny -- and take another few deep breaths, trying to work up the courage to finally see my daughter and wife after what feels like an eternity.

A few hesitant steps across the hall and I slowly push open the bedroom door, revealing the shadowy space beyond. A tousle of Jayne's chestnut hair peeks out from under the Calvin Klein comforter -- our comforter, the one we've had for years. In the rosewood crib, Inara sleeps soundly -- her tiny body rising and falling with each steady breath. I reach out to touch her, then think the better of it, instead bringing my hand up to my mouth to stifle a forlorn sigh. I close my eyes for the slightest moment and projected on the inside of my eyelids, in my mind, is the alternate universe I had hoped to one day inhabit with these two women -- my true loves. A world where I never missed a moment of Inara's life. Where Jayne and I were devoted husband and wife. Where there was light, instead of all this endless, impenetrable darkness. I open my eyes again, and that darkness is still there. I'm a ghost, standing in this middle of this perfectly still room. No one can see me or feel me. No one even knows I'm here. Forgotten, but not gone.


I burned my first marriage to the ground. Doused the whole thing in gasoline and torched it. There were times while I was doing it that I agonized over the choices I was making and the almost certain consequences they would have, but it was never enough to make me rethink the direction I'd chosen to move in. My goal wasn't specifically to destroy my wife, the woman who loved me -- her name was Abby -- but it's not as if that exculpates me in the wake of my admittedly heinous crimes.

I cheated on Abby. Cheated publicly in a way that left her utterly humiliated in front of those closest to her. Stuck the knife into her as hard and deeply as I could and callously shrugged as she gasped in shocked horror at what the man she loved was capable of. It wasn't that I didn't care about her. It wasn't that at all. It was that I cared about myself so much more.

The worst thing about it?

To this day, I can't really explain why I did what I did.

The easy answer is that I was young and, yes, staggeringly narcissistic. A rotten, cocky son-of-a-bitch more than a little obsessed with his own supposed charm. But there's more to it than that. There has to be. And I've spent years trying to nail it down because I worry that if I can't, I'll always be a hair's breadth away from doing it all over again. At the time, there were those who tried to console me with the usual platitudes about how there had to be something wrong with the relationship to cause me to betray, in such devastating fashion, the woman I purported to care for. The reality, though, is that there was nothing wrong with the relationship between me and Abby. Nothing at all. In fact, I loved her, or so I told myself, as much as it was possible for one person to love another. Abby and I had an attachment to each other that even now seems slightly otherwordly. We were more than lovers, partners, boyfriend-girlfriend and eventually husband and wife -- we were good friends, and we were even more than that. There was never a moment that I felt anything but completely comfortable around her; she was like home from the moment I met her, and our passionate and primal connection never dissipated -- not even after I tried to beat it to death with a sledgehammer.

What I did damaged Abby incalculably, it would leave her emotionally scarred for years. But despite that, she tried to forgive me and, in the short term, attempted to repair our marriage; long term, she kept in contact with me, offered a shoulder to cry on when I needed it, a sharp mind to bounce ideas off, a kind voice on the other end of a telephone line and, occasionally, a bed in which to spend a night forgetting about everything but her. Put simply, she was that rare breed which provides the one thing every married man or woman wishes and hopes for: unconditional love. A loyalty that isn't naive or simple-minded but is indomitable precisely because it's based on a firm knowledge of the truth, in all its ugliness. Abby knew full-well what she was getting herself into with me -- and she loved me anyway.

Whether or not we could have lasted had I not screwed things up so badly, who knows. I'm inclined to think that what made our relationship so special was its position -- the time and place -- in each of our lives. We were kids. Kids lead lives filled with gloriously impetuous passion and thoroughly unrealistic expectations.

In the end, regardless of everything -- or maybe because of it -- Abby and I split up.

That was marriage number one for me. There have been two more since. I'm 39 years old. Billy Joel is a fucking amateur.

The dramatic arc of my second marriage, to Kara, is well-documented. Suffice it to say, she didn't want to be married from the very beginning -- and what happened between us was more wishful thinking on both our parts than anything else. It ended in absolute catastrophe. Enough said.

The good that came from my short-lived marriage to Kara was always crystal clear in my mind: It led me, in more than simply a roundabout way, to Jayne. On the map of quantum moments in my life -- choices and even missteps small and large that altered my trajectory -- you can draw a direct path to Jayne. And for a very long time, that filled me with more joy than I ever could've imagined. That's because Jayne was a revelation. The first truly adult relationship I ever had. The first one I gave myself over to completely, committing to absolutely.

What I felt for Jayne, I've never felt for another human being. Ever.

Throughout our seven year relationship and five year marriage, she and I have seen ups and downs, trials and triumphs. I've made mistakes and have on more than one occasion kept things hidden from her that I should've been honest and forthcoming about. Once again, everybody lies, but that doesn't stop me from believing that I shouldn't have -- about anything. There's no excuse, and the ones I used to cling to -- the typical bullshit I peddled to myself in an attempt to rationalize my own feckless guile -- don't hold an ounce of water. In spite of those mistakes, however, I remained faithfully committed to the relationship. Always. I took our vows seriously, maybe even more than others might have because I had actually been through two bad marriages before. I believed in "for better or for worse."

And so did Jayne -- to an extent, I suppose.

That's where the specifics will end.

There's no point in getting into gruesome detail about who did what to whom. Many of our transgressions against each other -- Jayne's and mine -- have been alluded to in the past. The end result is all that really matters, and that result is, ironically, the same as my last two marriages. I say "ironically" because my relationship with Jayne was so much more committed and so much stronger than anything I'd experienced before, and yet it all turned out strangely the same. Worse, in fact -- because this time there's a child involved. A little girl who was born just eleven months ago. Sometimes it's impossible to wrap my head around it all; the gravity of what's happened is too daunting to fully grasp.

If years ago you had told me that Jayne and I would eventually end up in the position we're in right now, I would've laughed out loud. That's how strong my faith was in us. Then again, if you had told me years ago that sweet, outwardly devoted Jayne was capable of doing some of the things she did during the second half of our marriage, I would've laughed even harder. I say this not to in any way shame her -- only to make a couple of necessary points: First, that anyone can screw up a marriage; even the most seemingly committed and genuinely kind-hearted can destroy trust from the inside out. Second, and maybe more alarmingly but certainly more pertinent when put in the context of a dedicated relationship, that I'm not sure we ever really know anyone. If you believe that everybody lies to some extent and harbors their own secrets (and I do) then it stands to reason that you'll never know someone thoroughly. That isn't a problem as long as, say, you never promise to love anyone for the rest of your life.

And what about that promise -- the one that's the very foundation of the marriage vows?

In our hyper-fragmented, single-serving, ADD culture, is it really possible to predict with any certainty that what you want now is what you'll want in ten years? Or even five years? Or five months, for that matter? Is it possible for two people to honestly grow together, in the same direction, when every bit of the daily kinetic whirlwind we inhabit at the beginning of the 21st century seems designed to pull us in a thousand different directions at once? How do two people remain in a consistent state of grace? These days, with all the choices we've been inundated with, most of us can't commit to watching one TV show for longer than a few minutes without getting bored -- and yet we're expected to decide on one person to be with for the rest of our lives?

The reality, of course, is that we don't have to decide on one person -- even if we do choose to get married. Sure, millions of us take the vows. We say the words "til death do us part." But obviously, that's more of a suggestion than an actual contract. For far too many people it's a ritual with almost no meaning or muscle behind it anymore. The "Starter Marriage," occasionally lasting all of a few months, is practically a punchline at this point, while ditching the obligation and responsibility of a long-term commitment is as simple as packing a bag, walking out the door, and making a phone call to a lawyer the next morning.

Just how far have we lowered the bar when it comes to marriage in our culture? Let's put it this way: A lot of people these days seem intent on reassuring me that my five year legally sanctioned stint with Jayne was a success because it lasted as long as it did. At the risk of getting all pedantic, neither Jayne nor I are dead -- and I certainly don't remember taking her hand five years ago and saying "til one, or both of us, gets sick of putting up with the other" do we part.

Maybe our overall relationship, in time, will be judged a success. Make no mistake, though: Our marriage will never be.

If a five year marriage can be heralded as a victory, we as a society have very serious problems.


It's a cool, sunny morning and Inara's wearing the little overalls I bought for her last month while we were in Miami. She's crawling up the hall, toward me, a huge smile spread across her face. A few moments ago, she was standing and walking -- only resorting to a high-speed crawl after tripping over her own feet. I'm laying on the floor across the length of what used to be her nursery, urging her on as she races forward. When she crosses the doorway, I reach out and grab her, sitting up and pulling her in close for a hug. She laughs as I do this. I close my eyes and stroke the back of her head -- the wispy curls now growing there. I say nothing. I barely even breathe. I don't want anything to interrupt the sound of her laughter. I keep my eyes closed, because I know that if I open them the world around me will just be blurred by the tears forming in my eyes. So I listen -- and I once again imagine that alternate universe. The one where this moment goes on and on. Where I'm never apart from the little girl in my arms. Or her mother, who I wish I wasn't still in love with.

Next Week: Part 3: In Which Mere Apathy is Loosed Upon the World

Listening Post

This song is positively soul-wrenching to begin with, but this intimate, stripped-down version -- from the studios of KCRW in Los Angeles, the best radio station in the country as far as I'm concerned -- is just beyond words.

If you can make it through this without tearing up, even a little bit, you've got a stronger constitution than I do.

Here's Sia's Breathe Me.

Quote of the Week (Honorable Mention)

"More than once in my travels in Alaska, people brought up, without prompting, the question of Palin’s extravagant self-regard. Several told me, independently of one another, that they had consulted the definition of 'narcissistic personality disorder' in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders—'a pervasive pattern of grandiosity (in fantasy or behavior), need for admiration, and lack of empathy'—and thought it fit her perfectly. When Trig was born, Palin wrote an e-mail letter to friends and relatives, describing the belated news of her pregnancy and detailing Trig’s condition; she wrote the e-mail not in her own name but in God’s, and signed it 'Trig’s Creator, Your Heavenly Father.'"

-- Vanity Fair National Editor Todd Purdum, from his article on Sarah Palin in the magazine's August issue

Listening Post

By now regular readers know of my unyielding love for Jonatha Brooke. If you don't know who she is, stop reading immediately and download everything she's ever done. Really. She's easily the most talented singer-songwriter who's inexplicably remained under-the-radar in the entire world of pop music. She's written more gorgeous, moving songs than just about anyone I can think of.

Here's proof -- Lullaby.

Dick to the Future

I love it when Hitchens has a few scotches and gets really feisty. And his brilliant and brutal take on Richard Nixon's ongoing legacy-of-ugly has him in top form.

Slate: "Caught on Tape" by Christopher Hitchens/6.29.09

Robots & Disgust

Just wanted to put this out there: Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen is the worst movie ever made.

Seriously -- the worst EVER.

It's mindless, pointless, endless, racist, sexist and infuriatingly infantile crap -- and this is coming from someone who really enjoyed the original.

Somebody please kick Michael Bay in the balls for this thing.

Picture of the Week

Shameless Joe Jackson and partner-in-pimpin' Al Sharpton at yesterday's combination press conference/sales pitch for Jackson's record company and other assorted crap, in Los Angeles.

Note the large, stuffed purple gorilla in the background.

Because when I think classy, tasteful and dignified reaction to tragedy, I think Jackson and Sharpton.

Jesus, anybody really wonder why Michael was so fucked up?

Tuesday is Recycling Day

"Monkey Business" (Originally Published, 12.17.07)

It looks like South Carolina will be the next battleground in the seemingly never-ending, Whack-a-Mole style guerilla war on Darwin.

The state which lists on its registry of cultural landmarks that Mecca of grotesque roadside kitsch "South of the Border" (a designation which one would assume takes into account the 200 miles of billboards on either side of it along I-95 shamelessly playing Mexican stereotypes for a cheap laugh) will likely be taking up the "debate" over evolution next month. That's when the State Board of Education will meet to consider whether or not to endorse a high school biology textbook after a series of complaints were lodged against it by a weed researcher from Clemson University who goes by the amusing name of Horace D. Skipper.

Professor Skipper is challenging the book's assertion -- and stop me if you've heard this one before -- that Darwin's Theory of Evolution is the basic foundation of any lesson about the development of life on Earth.

With an eloquence one might expect from, say, a Wal-Mart greeter, Skipper rails against the conclusions posited by the authors of the book, saying that when they write about "the origins of life and stuff -- I didn't see where they had the scientific support that I think public schools need in a textbook."

He goes on to say that while he's not for teaching creationism exclusively, he considers it a viable, one would have to assume "scientifically supported," supplement. "If you're going to teach 'historical science,' that would be an alternative," he says.

As if science can ever legitimately be subject to the caprices of perspective.

It's a little like arguing that cavemen once believed 2-plus-2 equals rock, therefore such a possibility should be lent serious consideration 350-thousand years later.

"If we're going to have good, honest truth taught to our students, they need to be taught about weaknesses or gaps in these theories," Skipper says.

The fact that Horace D. Skipper, a weed expert, has any free time on his hands at all being from a state so perpetually overrun by botanical vermin is noteworthy; that he feels it's his place from both a scientific and legal standpoint to insert himself into a controversy regarding a high school textbook -- particularly when there is no controversy whatsoever -- is simply staggering in its level of arrogant stupidity.

In the 2005 case Kitzmiller v. Dover, an entire Pennsylvania school district was given the unconditional legal smackdown for trying to pull an end-run on centuries of scientific authenticity through the quiet insertion of ridiculous religious apocrypha. Instead of "creationism" they gave their nonsensical, unprovable hypothesis the impressive sounding label "intelligent design," as if simply removing "God" from the name in fact removed him from the equation. The court easily saw through the charade and ruled that attempting to teach intelligent design to public school students as anything other than irrational voodoo violated the Establishment Clause of the Constitution.

Anyone who believed however that, following such an explicit rejection, the God Crowd would slink back to their churches and temples and leave science to the scientists has apparently never lived near a Southern Baptist church and therefore not found him or herself subjected to weekly visits from Stepford-esque Christian-folk all filled with the Holy Spirit and determined to stay put until they can rightfully say that they've claimed another home for Jesus. These people don't give up; they answer to a higher authority than your insignificant little Constitution (and they damn sure don't care what some silver-tongued elitist from New York City has to say about how they live their lives).


The fact that South Carolina is the next stop on what, to the untrained eye, seems to be the intelligent design traveling circus should surprise no one. The state is the official target of the secessionist movement known as "Christian Exodus." For the past few years, it's promoted the mass migration of fundamentalist Christian whack-jobs to South Carolina with the hope of influencing governmental policy there and essentially creating the first "Christian Republic" on U.S. soil.

Think Saudi Arabia, only without the Muslims, the oil, the money, or the culture -- and with an even more direct influence over the American government.

These are people who believe that the U.S has strayed from its Puritanical roots (the ones sane individuals would refer to as nightmarishly oppressive) and are now determined to seize power so that they can cleanse the land, thus preparing it for Jesus's triumphant return which will no doubt play out just like the crap they've read in those Left Behind books. For the rest of us, this means a repeal of our basic rights -- those not supported by Biblical scripture -- and essentially the outright suppression of most of the freedoms we've cultivated throughout the years, particularly the ones that infringe on the God-given entitlement of white men to do whatever the hell they want. If the Christian Exodus folks can't make this work, though, they're content to simply secede from the union -- and as far as they're concerned, South Carolina represents the perfect place to make this little paranoid fantasy come true, as it was the first state to withdraw at the onset of the Civil War.

So how's the effort going so far?

On its website, the group advanced a goal of relocating 12,000 like-minded Christians to South Carolina by 2006.

As of this year, only about 15 families have actually made the move. (By comparison, there are now somewhere in the neighborhood of 8,000 same-sex couples in South Carolina; one town alone, Sumter, has the highest concentration of black, gay, committed couples in the country -- a rare trifecta of offensiveness to fundamentalist Christian sensibilities.)

The issue however is not whether a serious threat is posed by the possibility of South Carolina seceding from the U.S. -- there isn't. What's notable is that the Christian Exodus loonies figure they'll find a friendly audience waiting for them when they get there -- that they'll be greeted as liberators, as it were.

Unfortunately, guys like Horace D. Skipper aren't doing much to prove them wrong on this -- quite the contrary in fact. Once again, a very public battle is about to rage over scientific certainty against which there is no legitimate argument. Once again, there will be sleight-of-hand, there will be misdirection and there will be euphemism, but in the end it will all add up to nothing. Once again, it will be reality versus nonsense -- proven fact versus cleverly decorated superstition for which there isn't a shred of evidence.

Just a "historical" tradition of True Belief and blind acceptance.

Headline of the Week

"Obama Responds to Gay Anger: You'll Be Happy in the End"

-- From the Huffington Post

Listening Post

An ambient return to form for Moby and a video directed by David Lynch.

Here's Shot in the Back of the Head.

Sometime to Return

A heads-up from Malcontent Central: I just got back from my weekend trip to New York to see my daughter -- but I'm wisely going to take the rest of the day to decompress.

Things should be back to full capacity, or close to it anyway, tomorrow.

Thank you for your patronage.

Listening Post

The world could use a few unabashedly optimistic, arena-style anthems these days -- and this is one of my favorites.

Here's Lostprophets' Rooftops.

Saturday Morning Cartoons

From 1966, it's the Road Runner and Wile E. Coyote in Sugar and Spies.

All Fall Down

I've gotten quite a few e-mails asking whether I'm going to comment on the not-the-least-bit-surprising revelation that Republican South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford has been cheating on his wife.

Obviously, the initial gut reaction of those opposed to the judgmental politicization of sex in this country -- that coming almost exclusively from the self-appointed "family values" crowd -- is to engage in a little schadenfreude and chuckle at the governor's public implosion.

But for some reason, watching that press conference yesterday had a surprising effect on me. It didn't automatically bring any sort of smug, self-satisfied grin to my face. In fact, Sanford's shocking level of openness about his affair made me feel very, well -- sad. I truly felt sorry for him -- and for his family, whom he obviously really does love, despite his actions.

Unfortunately, I don't have time right now to say what I think I'm going to want to say about this whole thing -- and I likely won't have time tomorrow either, given that I'm leaving for New York to see Inara.

But at some point very soon, once I've digested it a little, I'll put together a piece on the Sanford affair.

And it will probably revolve around a single question: Is marriage really even worth attempting anymore -- any marriage?

Thinking Outside the Inbox

It's been a while since I posted one of these, but this little gem just has to be shared. The magazine this PR firm is promoting is very real. This announcement popped up in my e-mail inbox yesterday.

"FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Contact: XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Phone: 646-XXX-XXXX

INDULGE YOURSELF WITH THE LAUNCH OF VAIN

A NEW CHIC MAGAZINE ALL ABOUT YOU

New York, NY (June 24, 2009) - VAIN Magazine debuts as the premiere source for the everyday woman. Catering to issues all about you, this magazine for ages 18-38 is the place for empowerment, inspiration, venting and tips that will guide you on your path toward perfection. The magazine highlights celebrities, career professionals, the latest trends in beauty, fashion, lifestyle, and delivers expert advice on everything the VAIN woman desires to know.

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VAIN is the creative brainchild of veteran journalist Rachelle Gauthier. The former managing editor of RIDES Magazine and published writer saw a need for women's lifestyle magazines that embody the daily accomplishments and challenges of ALL types of WOMEN. 'I wanted to create a publication that celebrated uncelebrated women and provide a platform for young females to find inspiration,' said Gauthier. 'We're all VAIN in some capacity. We take pride in our appearance, profession, education, health, community and environment, and we invest time and money in things we deem most valuable. VAIN validates our efforts, and our advertisers recognize the value of our reader.' She recruited a team of seasoned professionals to help bring her vision to light with collective experience from Coach, American Airlines Publishing, StarZ Entertainment, The New York Times, Essence, the medical field and more.

With offices in both New York and Los Angeles, VAIN is currently available online and will launch in print this FALL 2009. The magazine that's all about you will be distributed across the nation at select specialty boutiques, on college campuses, on newsstands and at various VAIN-chic events.

Launched in 2009, VAIN is the leading women's magazine that captures the essence and core of all women, with a direct focus on self. VAIN applauds the appearance and achievements of these individuals who strive for success daily. The ultimate women's lifestyle magazine features everyday life issues, trends, fashion, beauty, cars, culture, politics, financial advice, food, exercise, music and celebrities, while encompassing real-life people, raw and untouched. VAIN women are beautiful, jugglers of sin and virtue. We are who we are... no apologies."

Now you know what to get the shamelessly self-obsessed woman in your life this Christmas. Oh, and guys -- if you stumble across a copy of this magazine on your new girlfriend's nightstand, get out while you can.

Listening Post

It seems to kinda sorta be new music week around here, and these guys -- an alternative act from France -- are getting a lot of play on my iPod right now.

Here's Phoenix's 1901.

Project Office Mayhem

Your assignment, as usual: Quietly put the following link up on every computer in your office, then crank all the speakers to full volume.

Mischief points: 35,000

If you happen to work in a church or at the offices of the RNC: 1,452,093

Jesus Raves

A Cut Below

From the Adventures in Inadvertent Tastelessness file:

Last night, for reasons that I'll go to my grave not fully understanding, I watched the 2009 remake of Friday the 13th on pay-per-view. Produced in association with Michael Bay (I'll give you a minute to groan) and directed by Marcus Nispel (or is it Sardo Numspa? Or maybe Nipsey Russell?), the new version of the slasher "classic" pretty much follows the same formula as the original, only with a lot more nudity.

Strangely though, despite all the color-corrected gore and gratuitous exploitation on display -- I mean, come on, a topless girl gets a machete through the head, but she's then lifted up so you can get one last look at her breasts -- there was one scene early on that I found more shocking than the rest. And the best part is that I guarantee you it's something that wasn't done intentionally. The producers probably didn't realize the juxtaposition of images they were putting onscreen. (And I guarantee you the film's core demographic of brain-dead teens had no idea.)

In the opening moments of the movie, the audience is treated to flashbacks of the deranged Mrs. Voorhees as she tries to kill the last survivor of the unfortunate counseling staff at Camp Crystal Lake, circa 1980 -- whom she blames for the death of her son, Jason. These scenes are intercut with the opening credits, which are shown on a plain black background. For the most part, there's nothing interesting about this -- until they get to the scene where the counselor turns the tables on Jason's mom and lobs her head off with a machete.

The camera then slowly creeps up on the headless body of Mrs. Voorhees, lovingly scanning it and the detached head.

Then the whole thing cuts to the name of the movie's director of photography, in large white letters across the screen.

And his name just happens to be?

Daniel Pearl.

Home of the Whopper (and by Whopper We Mean Penis)

I wish I were making this up, but, no, this really is the international ad for Burger King's new "Super Seven Incher."

In case you can't read the copy at the bottom -- just count the double-entendres:

"Fill your desire for something long, juicy and flame-grilled with the NEW BK SUPER SEVEN INCHER. Yearn for more after you taste the mind-blowing burger that comes with a single beef patty, topped with American cheese, crispy onions and the A1 Thick and Hearty Steak Sauce."

Can't wait for this campaign to dovetail into those TV commercials where the creepy "King" suddenly appears over the woman's bed at four in the morning.

Stay classy, Burger King.

Quote of the Week 1973

"There are times when an abortion is necessary. I know that. When you have a black and a white. Or a rape."

-- Richard Nixon, in a newly released White House recording made not long after the Roe v. Wade decision

How much do you love that interracial sex comes before rape?

(h/t Cesca)

Listening Post

I've raved quite a bit lately about Spinnerette -- Brody Dalle's current project and the new band I'm most excited about at the moment -- and this acoustic version of the first single off their full-length album will give you an idea why.

Brody's voice on the record is fantastic, but here -- all passionate, smoky growl -- it's just mind-blowing.

This is Baptized by Fire.



Just for the hell of it, here's the original studio version (and I have a feeling this is going to be my official "summer song," for more reasons than one).