Goodbye, Mel Gibson

What do Mike Tyson, A-Rod, Charlie Sheen, Kayne West, Sean Penn and John Wayne (amongst many others) have in common?

They’re all douchebags!

But what other unfortunate traits do these pathetic souls share?

Their douchebaggery has not stopped them from remaining pop culture icons, who, save for some negative publicity every now and then, are let back into the public fold, time and time again. Who get awards and accolades and affection and celebrity and everything that goes with it, despite being, say it with me, huge douchebags.

Mike Tyson is a convicted rapist.

Charlie Sheen was convicted of assaulting his wife.

Kanye West is arrogant and interrupts little girls and is such a douchebag that even President Obama called him a Jackass.

Alex Rodriguez seems to be ok to hump anything that moves, whether he has a wife waiting for him or not.

Sean Penn plead guilty to a misdemeanor after being charged with felony domestic assault and has a long history of not being able to control his temper.

John Wayne proves that there have always been douchebags.

And I’m only talking about one special brand of douchebag here – the kind that we won’t let fade into obscurity. There are lots and lots of douchebags out there, (Seriously. Lots.) but they have either a) blatently made their living off of being a douchebag and we know it, or b) their douchebaggery is more like a sad affliction that attacks their own life and career, making the hunger of the public’s judgement less voracious.

No; the douchebags that I really can’t stand are the douchebags that we allow into the camp of, ‘forgive and forget,’ over and over again despite repeated and abhorrent transgressions. They are the douchebags that we will bring out of obscurity and virtually fetishize in pop culture. They are the douchebags that prove, over and over again, that they are not worthy of our money and attention, yet we give it to them. They are the (sometimes) really talented douchebags, and for some reason we put more importance on being a good performer than we do on being a good human.

And that is why I am saying thank you to Todd Philips and Zach Galifianakis and the producers of The Hangover 2, for booting Mel Gibson’s ass out of their movie.

Because I don’t think this is a ‘rough time’ for Mel Gibson. I think Mel Gibson is a serial racist, misogynistic, homophobic fuck, and he has been forgiven one too many times.

People are defending Mel Gibson, just as people have defended every other douchebag I’ve named and all the ones I haven’t, and maybe, if he keeps his head down and mouth shut for the next 10 years, I’ll be ready to hear a line or two of sympathy for the supreme asshole. But the original move by the director and producers of The Hangover 2 to capitalize on Mel Gibson’s douchebaggery while it is still making major headlines? To ostensibly paint Mel Gibson as a cool fucking dude by putting him a cool fucking movie NOW? Well, if I objected to a convicted rapist being given another 15 minutes in the first Hangover movie, my head was about to explode over this proposed cameo.

So, to the good people of The Hangover 2, again, I say thank you. I agree in giving Mel Gibson a chance – a chance to fade into nothingness and never be heard from again.

Does Mel Gibson deserve to be blacklisted in Hollywood? It does happen you know.

And I think the time is ripe for it to happen again.


The 10-Month Pregnancy - It's Not Just For Whales Anymore

The Globe and Mail published an article recently about a group of people advocating that the normal, healthy gestation period for a pregnant woman be officially acknowledged as 10 months, and not 40 weeks (or 9 months, which every woman that has gone full term knows is bullshit).

Two things surprised me about this article: 1) that this is seen as a new and controversial idea, and 2) that people still believe that, left to its own devices, the human (female) body is not to be trusted.

I feel confident speaking on this topic as I am an expert. Yes, I am. I am a woman that has had 4 pregnancies and two babies, one of whom was born at home, the old-fashioned way, and one that was forced from my uterus in an operating room, after deciding that 9 days overdue was the perfect time to turn sideways. I went past 41 weeks with both my babies, and know that home or hospital, unaided or about as intervened as it gets, pregnancy and birth can only be regulated to a point.

See? Expert.

Here’s something else I know: Just because you say I’m 40 weeks does not mean that I am 40 weeks. Hospitals, doctors, science and policies can get it wrong. My pregnancy with my daughter came approximately 3 ½ weeks after my miscarriage. Menstruation had not started again, so I could not pinpoint a date of conception. I was sent for an early ultrasound, the results of which stated that I had conceived February 14, and that I was therefore x weeks and x days pregnant.

Except, that’s not when I had conceived.

The report insisted that yes, that was when I conceived, but I can assure you, it was not. I can assure you because it was Valentine’s Day on the 14th, and to be very frank, we did not have sex on Valentine’s Day, 2007, and that is kind of easy to keep track of. I believe that my daughter had been conceived about a week earlier.

Pushing the ‘normal’ gestation period to a more fluid 10 months, allows the body (and the baby) to do a bit of self-correcting and deliver when ready. Does this mean that, left to its own devices, every birth will be safe and perfect and healthy? Unfortunately, no. But if you are getting the amazing care you should be getting *cough*midwife*cough*, than you are seeing your caregiver regularly throughout your pregnancy, and your appointments get even closer together once you hit 38 weeks. If you are receiving adequate care, then most of the time, you will know how the pregnancy is progressing. Most of the time, you will know if there is any reason that your pregnancy should not be allowed to continue on past 40 or 41 or 42 weeks safely.

My first daughter was born at 41 weeks, 1 day, and weighed 7 lbs, 7 oz. My second daughter was delivered via c-section at 41 weeks, 2 days, but who knows how much longer she would have stayed in on her own accord? And according to my calculations, she was actually one week older than that. My second daughter also weighed 7 lbs, 7oz.

Some babies want to show up at 38 weeks, and we consider that normal, full-term, healthy. So why can’t we go the other way? I’ve heard of hospital policy dictating inductions at five days overdue and c-sections at seven. If there are no complications, than I counter those policies with a hearty WTF, and suggest that, if pregnancy and birth are merely a numbers game, than perhaps we should be looking at this new one with some seriousness.



Oh Cheesus Christ, Glee

When Glee started last year, I was excited. Corny jokes, ridiculously awkward social situations, lambasting teachers – it was absurdist situational satire at its best. It poked fun at everything we hated about high school and stood up for everything we were afraid to admit that we loved about it. Plus there was music, and totally annoying auto-tone notwithstanding, it was fun to listen to. And then we could buy the soundtracks and sing along to it, and I know I certainly did, and thanks to some pretty open-minded behind-the-scenes music direction, I even knew most of the songs. Glee was doing for show tunes what Guitar Hero did for classic rock, and the whole first season was anticipated, campy, easy fun.

And now it’s season two, and I don’t know if it’s a sophomore slump or what, but I am just not really enjoying this season. The first bit of the first episode of season two was funny, as vlogger Jacob Ben Israel caught us up on what was going on with New Directions, but from there? Well, it’s been going downhill faster than a celebrity marriage ever since.

And if I thought that the Britney/Brittany episode was slutty and just plain weird, last night’s Grilled Cheesus episode grossed me out even more than Jacob’s pep-rally dry humping did.

I thought that Glee was immune to the patronizing, moralizing, simplistic religious overtures that so many shows indulge in. And I don’t mean that religion never comes into play in Glee – some of my favourite moments were those that – as with so many other topics on the show – poked fun at the topic of religion, whether it was the president of the chastity club getting pregnant or Puck entreating Rachel to make out because they were a couple of good-looking Jews, or Jacob being patted on the ‘Jew cloud,’ or yes, Finn frying up a grilled cheesus. But as far as I could tell, Glee last night was not about theology. It was not about inclusion or faith or tolerance.

From the moment that Tina exclaimed to Kurt, You don’t believe in God?!, my eyes started to roll. Funny enough, my reaction was, OH GOD, NO. Tina doesn’t strike me as the kind of kid that is so incredulous that somebody does not follow the same path that she does, given that so much has been made of her own struggle to remain an individual. It seemed naively out of character, and the fact that pretty much everybody, except maybe Santana (thank you, Santana, for keeping it real), couldn’t understand how a gay kid might not care about the almighty. Call me naive, or maybe progressive, but I really don't expect everybody I know to defend belief in God so vehemently. I guess I expect people - especially teenagers - to maybe, I don't know, question a blind belief in the almighty.

An almighty, I might add, that was of course, the Christian almighty.

Why did Puck have to give a shout-out to Jesus? He’s Jewish, something that he (and Rachel) have been clear and unapologetic about for 25 episodes now, and sorry, but no, Jews don’t worship Jesus. He’s actually not the number one Yid. (Neil Diamond is. Just ask my mother.)

Rachel kept stupidly quiet during the whole fiasco, until finally admitting to Finn that she was uncomfortable with his newfound religion, and that she was, make no mistake, Jewish. Then she rewarded his understanding by letting him touch her boob. That’s more like it, Glee! But still, I hesitate to believe that outspoken, obnoxious know-it-all Rachel Berry would have not objected to the Glee club’s God-fest. Hell, she practically cries discrimination when a solo is given to somebody else.

And then there’s the whole issue of Kurt realizing that, thanks to the God-fearing Mercedes and her most happy Church ever, he doesn’t have to shun the institution that has shunned him! I was ridiculously disappointed in the predictable, self-righteous ideology that it was the prayer, the belief, and not the acupuncture, that finally penetrated his father’s coma. I was ridiculously disappointed that Sue’s handi-capable, charming big sister was able to soften her hard heart and change her mind about the existence of God. We don’t need a kinder, softer Sue. We need the smack-talking bitch that keeps everybody honest and cynical and is out to get Mr. Shue, who, if you’ll allow me to say so, really is a pansy.

Let’s hope Glee remembers what it’s good at and leaves the religious angst where it belongs – because if I want Christian moralizing, proselytizing and self-denying Jews, I’ll watch Little House on the Prairie.