Festive Left Friday Blogging: Lucky 13

It’s 13 years now since Chavecito was sworn in as president of Venezuela. And, contrary to all the right-wing lamestream media naysayers up here, he’s not dead yet, and neither is Venezuelan democracy, which is going stronger than ever.

And of course, that was the plan 13 years ago yesterday, when Chavecito swore on the “moribund” constitution of 1961, as he called it, to give the country the constitution and participatory democracy it deserved. Since then, not only has that plan prospered in Venezuela, it’s caught on like a wildfire throughout Latin America and the Caribbean, with the ALBA alliance, CELAC and Mercosur all shaking their feet to the Bolivarian beat. Cuba is now out of the cold (or Cold War isolation, if you will), and the only tyranny in sight is that of a good example. Education and access to healthcare are up; poverty is way, way down. Illiteracy is wiped out, and childhood malnutrition is becoming an endangered species. International co-operation is in vogue between Latin American countries, and the only ones not happy are the gringos and their local lackeys. Workers are drafting their own labor laws, instead of letting Washington and multinationals dictate them. That’s something that’s never happened there before, and it puts the lie to the common media quackings about how 21st Century Socialism is just old 20th century Soviet communism repackaged.

Yes, it’s been a lucky 13 years for Venezuela, and it looks like they’re in for a good many more. In that time, the Revolution can only solidify. As it stands, both inside and outside disruptors have had zero luck in dislodging it. And while that’s not Chavecito’s doing alone, it all couldn’t have happened without him as its unifying leader.

¡Viva Venezuela, y VIVA CHÁVEZ CARAJO!

Happy Groundhog Day!

Sure would be funny if all the local weather-’hogs went on strike like this, eh? After all, this is their hibernation time.

As for me, I’m celebrating Brigid today. Blessed be!

No more fucking Pink Things

I am the daughter of a breast cancer survivor. And I have just sworn never again to buy another “Pink for the Cure” (or whatever they call it) thing.

Not that I don’t love my pink long-sleeved Columbia t-shirt, or my pink lipsticks (all 11 of ‘em), but this whole damn pink thing has got to end. Starting with that most odiously merchandise-heavy of Pink Things, the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation.

Yes, that’s right, you heard me. No more Komen Krap. No more of those lovely but insanely overpriced Lilly Pulitzer silk scarves. (Shameful confession: yes, I have one. And it cost me a bundle to get it shipped to Canada.) No more nothin’ from Susan G. Komen. Why?

Because the Komen Foundation doesn’t support women.

Yes, you read that right.

The Komen Foundation decided to withdraw funding from Planned Parenthood, just because the latter happens to provide abortions. Shocker — Planned Parenthood actually fully encompasses just what their name says! Oh noes! It lets women decide when and whether they want to be pregnant! Horrors!

And, for many women in the US who can’t afford anything else, Planned Parenthood actually happens to be their go-to place for not only birth control and abortions, but also cancer testing. Breast and cervical cancer, among others. You can get mammograms and Pap smears there. Shocker!

So when I heard that the incredibly rich, elitist, Republican-connected Komen Foundation had suddenly decided not to go on supporting PP, that was when I saw red. And said to hell with all that pink. After all, what good was the pink shit really doing? Was it raising awareness of breast cancer?

Kinda sorta…the Komen Foundation has been very diligent about getting the message out to buy, buy, buy “for the Cure”. They sure do talk a lot about breast cancer, yup. But not so much on ways to prevent it. The Komen Foundation has been suspiciously mum about Bisphenol A, for instance — a compound found in many plastics, and which has been proven to cause cancers, including those of the breast. Maybe that’s because a lot of their corporate “partners” happen to manufacture products laced with that same carcinogenic compound. Same goes for parabens, which are found in a lot of “For the Cure” pink cosmetics.

And then there’s the way the Komen Foundation has hijacked the whole notion of a search for cancer cures. They even sue smaller cancer charities who hold fundraisers “for the Cure”, leading to the impression that they have somehow wrested ownership of those common English words all to themselves. They actually waste their donors’ lovingly given monies on this.

In fact, I have to ask myself if they really care about finding a cure at all. Or if they’re not just about using us women, our boundless good intentions, our ardent desire to see an end to cancer, our love of our female friends and family members, even our fondness for all things pink, to move product. What a repulsive notion that is, eh? But it’s true: Pink-for-the-Cure has become a highly profitable industry unto itself, and there’s no rule that all proceeds have to go to cancer research, prevention or awareness. Just slap that ol’ pink ribbon on your stuff, and watch it fly off the store shelves, snapped up by bravely smiling women with heart-wrenching stories of loved ones who have survived breast cancer.

Or not.

No, there’s no cure for breast cancer yet, as I found out the hard way from talking with my mom. They talk about five- and ten-year survival rates, and remissions, but not cures. Unless you die from something else after a suitably long time, you can never really be pronounced Cured of Cancer.

And that’s what kills me. All this pink junk For the Cure, and where is the fucking Cure? I don’t see one, do you?

In fact, I don’t even see more than a half-hearted commitment on the part of Komen’s corporate partners to get rid of SOME of the carcinogens in their pink cancer merchandise. Not all. Just SOME.

SOME isn’t good enough.

But that’s just the way it is with rich organizations run by right-wingers, isn’t it? At the end of the day, it’s less about doing good than it is about selling “feel-good”. A woman may be dying painfully of breast cancer that’s metastasized to her lungs, her bones, her brain, but hey! Let’s all buy a pink teddybear, or silk scarf, or rhinestoned ribbon pin, or some other pink gimcrack-for-the-Cure, and that will make it all better!

Or we can be honest with ourselves and vow to stop buying those oh-so-guilt-trippy Pink Things, and focus instead on the search for real answers. And donate to organizations that don’t withdraw funding just to slut-shame women for making “wrong” choices. And do what we can by way of prevention. Avoid Bisphenol A. Avoid weedkillers that are known to cause cancer. (Yes, ladies, that Round-Up you sprayed on your dandelions last summer could be quietly killing you. Did it come with a pink ribbon on the label, I wonder?)

In short, we could just exercise our consumer clout in new and imaginative ways. We can boycott the Komen Foundation and its partners. We can and must clean up our environment, and demand better of the personal-care and household products we use. And we can and must hold cancer charities’ feet to the fire when it comes to how our money is spent.

After all, that Pink Shit won’t cure us of anything, except maybe a feeling of fullness about the wallet.

No more fucking Pink Things from now on.

Pole dancing: for aficionados, it’s serious stuff

Jenyne Butterfly shows what a world-champion pole dancer looks like. No platforms, no sequins, no lingerie, no raunch; just really good (and seriously sexy!) stuff.

Yesterday, as part of my ongoing informal research into the world of a Mexican book I’m translating, I posted some videos of pole dancers in action. Apparently I’m not the only one impressed with the amount of effort and artistry the women put into it. The guys who frequent the bars where these dancers perform are like soccer hooligans in their dedication to the art, and they get pissed off when it doesn’t seem to get the respect it deserves from bar owners. Last year, things got to the point where a Mexican blog devoted to table dancing put out this call to arms:

How’s it going, dearest Tablefans, I’m writing with some inconformities with my adorable dancers, I’m upset now that on these latest visits to the “table”, we’ve run into lots of girls who are no longer using the pole for their performance, this is simply unacceptable, now they only grab onto it as if it were some vile post to lean on, some don’t even grab onto it at all, and the worst of all is that in some places there isn’t even a pole, what will happen to those marvellous movements in which they climb and hang suspended only by the strength of their legs, their abdomen, those impressive spins they do, the way things are going now we’ll only see those movements in fashionable fitness classes.

For this reason I want to invite all the table-dance bars to put more effort into their contracts or their support for the dancers, so there are lots of places where they can learn those movements, we the table-dance guide offer ourselves to help in the recruitment and selection of the dancers (we’re not fools you know).

But we’re doing it out of the love we have for the “tables”, in truth everything is an art, no matter if it’s painting, photography, cinema, etc., when a girl does a true and incredible performance she drives us crazy and makes us want to spend all our money on private dances, not to mention that we remember her moves for a long time, it affects us just like a masterpiece.

We of the Table-Dance Guide commit ourselves to keep looking for and spreading this marvellous art, we won’t rest until they get the recognition they deserve, we ask for your help dear table-fans, with your help it will be much easier, keep reading us.

Translation mine. Run-on sentences and comma splicing as in original.

Yes, that’s right…they actually go to see the dancing, and they’re not satisfied to simply see a girl lackadaisically dragging her ass around the pole without really using the thing (or just wagging it on a pole-less stage, worse luck).

That’s not to say they don’t drop a lot of cash in the back room of these brothel-like joints (which is what the owners are no doubt counting on them to do); they want to be given a reason, an incentive if you will, to go there, besides the obvious. Hence the emphasis on the “art of the pole”.

A good performance on the pole is more thrilling to watch than the rote bump-and-grid that any crack-addicted unfortunate can do (and a great many do). That stands to reason. And if, as this blogger asserts, guys are willing to fork out more cash for a good pole dance than they would have been otherwise, one would hope that the bar owners don’t just go on cheaping out, but give the girls a break, and hire some real talent.

After all, a lot of those ladies have families to support, and not just drug habits.

FUX Snooze gets pwned by Muppets

And as usual, Miss Piggy gets the best lines.

The art of the WHAT?

As I prepare to get cracking on my first-ever book-length Spanish-to-English translation (yes, congratulate me, kiddies, your auntie is going pro!), I found some videos while looking up an idiomatic phrase that just didn’t appear in either my Streetwise Spanish guide OR my gran diccionario. These illustrate exactly what I’ll be dealing with in the days and weeks to come. And they’re a timely reminder, for me, that there are a lot of arts out there. Translation is one; this is another. And the gutsy women who do it this well are incredible to watch. Enjoy!

Quotable: Edward R. Murrow on dissent

Justice: SERVED.

’nuff said.

Mohammad Shafia: Guilty on four counts of first-degree murder.

Tooba Mohammad Yahya: Guilty on four counts of first-degree murder.

Hamed Shafia: Guilty on four counts of first degree murder.

Let the shrieeeeeeking now cease. “Honor” killings get treated the same in Canada as any other kind. Just ask all the good Christian men doing the same kind of time for murdering their estranged wives and disobedient daughters.

Music for a Sunday: On everything but rollerskates

Line up, put your kisses down.

Wankers of the Week: The Irony and the Ugh-stasy

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Crappy weekend, everyone! I suppose you wonder what His Barackness is snickering about up there. Trust me, he’s got plenty to laugh at, and most of it is listed here. So let’s get to it with no further ado, shall we?

1. Newt Fucking Gingrich. Yes, he’s the man of the week, no doubt about it. Or should we say, the overgrown adolescent king of the fucking shit hill that is the Repugnican Party? When you have the flaming homophobes of NOM hailing you as The Man Who Will Save Marriage, even though you’ve failed at it twice and could still get third-time unlucky at any moment, where is there to go for you but down? And he will, kiddies, he will…bank on it. That shark has been jumped, and he cannot un-jump it. PS: Here’s one of the many things that will bring him down. PPS: And here’s another. PPPS: This ain’t helping either. PPPPS: And if you need proof that he’s not to be trusted with the top office in the nation, here you go. Oh here, have seconds.

2. Pamela Fucking Geller. Surely it has escaped no one’s notice that fascist islamophobia’s noisiest guano-bird has titled her latest pet project Stop the Islamization of Nations, whose initials spell out SION — which happens to be French for ZION? No word on her motives for joining the cheese-eating surrender monkeys there, but I’m guessing that Harpy McCrazybitch hasn’t thought this one all the way through. (I mean, not like she ever does.)

3. J.T. Fucking Ready. Ironies abound in this one, too. Starting with his praise of Adolf Fucking Hitler as “great white civil rights leader”, and extending all the way to his running for sheriff as a Democrat. The only thing that could be more ironic is if he actually WON.

4. Chuck Fucking Norris. As I was saying for #1: Shark, jumped. Cannot be un-jumped. Especially not with an endorsement like THIS one.

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5. Jim Bob Fucking Duggar. Michelle must have said no to his latest attempt to fill her quiver. Why else jump all over a trans-girl scout who only wants to sell cookies, earn merit badges and do good deeds?

6. Michael Fucking Malihi. Even this long after the release of a certain long-form Hawaiian birth certificate, the frivolous Birther lawsuits just keep on comin’. And worse, they don’t always get laughed out of court. How does someone with such piss-poor judgment make it to the judiciary? I don’t know, but I suspect His Barackness won’t be appearing before this fool’s bench.

7. Rick Fucking Santorum. Let us count the ways he’s wanked this week: With a suggestively-named moneybomb that makes his Google-bomb objections look like downright silly posturing! With rampant islamophobia! With oh-bitch-please homophobia and God-playing! With pro-rape condescension! With bizarre theories about sexual abstinence and poverty! PS: Ha, ha. PPS: Ha, ha, ha.

8. Rand Fucking Paul. What do you bet that (a) he secretly gives thanks that there is a Big Government for him to wank on about, and (b) he would not object even a little bit if the TSA had detained a perfectly innocent Arab in a kaffiyeh? BTW, don’t feel sorry for him. He got pulled aside on his way to an anti-choice rally. How libertarian of him to go!

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PS: Special dishonorable mention to Rand’s old man, Ron Fucking Paul, for tweeting the original bullshit story. And for lying about his racist newsletters.

PPS: Ha, ha.

9. Tony Fucking Clement. That slimy little shit-eating smirk just keeps getting tighter around the lips all the time. One of these days it’s going to crack and fall off altogether. And oh, how I will laugh when it does.

10. Charles Fucking Murray. Blame feminists, liberals and the poor, not rich white man’s greed, for social inequality. Where have we heard all this fucking bitchery before? Oh yeah, now I remember.

11. Tim Fucking Teabag, er, THOMAS. Y’know, I disagree with His Barackness a lot myself, albeit from the other side of the political spectrum. However, if invited to the White House to receive an honor in a nonpolitical context, I would still go. But then again, I haven’t forgotten my manners. Maybe getting paid unconscionable millions just to stick-handle a puck around the ice causes certain guys (who were never too bright to begin with, or they wouldn’t be teabags) to forget theirs.

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12. Rob Fucking Ford. Oh look, Robbo’s diet has already eaten his brain before it even made a dent in his waistline. Why else call those DEMOCRATICALLY ELECTED city council members who voted DEMOCRATICALLY against his AUTOCRATIC budget cuts “two steps left of Joe Stalin”? (Stalin being, of course, Robbo himself. The man has an unwitting flair for the metaphors sometimes.) Maybe he needs to go to anger management classes as well as Weight Watchers. In any case, “Ford Nation” was never a nation. It was only a suburb, and now it’s deader than the old Soviet Union. So suck it up, Robbo…and eat your rice cakes, they’re good for you.

13. Leopoldo Fucking López. Pretty Boy is out of the Venezuelan presidential race! Too bad, so sad. Maybe his low poll numbers had something to do with it? Or maybe it’s just his nasty past come back to haunt him. Not that it particularly matters who the “unity candidate” of the right will be…whoever it is will lose, and lose badly. Maybe Leo was actually smart to bow out when he did.

14. Tom Fucking Flanagan. Hey First Nations people, did you know you’re a threat to Big Oil? It’s true, and it comes from no less a racist than Harpo’s own erstwhile political advisor-slash-campaign manager, who now works for a Big Oil stink tank. He thinks you are global terrorists for wanting to preserve the health and integrity of the land! You may wish to band together, and soon. I’ll happily join you, and so will lots of other white folks. After all, how fast can a bunch of old fat cats run?

15. Nancy Fucking Pelosi. If you got something on Newt, lady, then spill it. Playing coy is not the way to go. Besides, we all want to see him crash and burn, this time for GOOD.

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16. Joseph Fucking Maturo. Next time you want to help Latinos, spring for some fajitas. Or better still, just don’t be such a flippant fucking asshole. And hire some cops who aren’t racist, already.

17. Fred Fucking Phelps. Yes, JoePa WAS to some extent complicit in allowing Jerry Fucking Sandusky to go on molesting boys for as long as he did. And he definitely wasn’t smart to cover the matter up instead of calling the cops. But hauling out the Westboro Fucking Baptist Church to protest at his funeral is still a really fucking disgusting wank. And it has nothing to do with “fags”, either. A pedophile is a different species of bird altogether. As are those who cover his ass.

18. Ralph Fucking Shortey. Don’t you dare laugh at his name, no matter how much you suspect it may inadvertently reveal about his motives for being the (anti-choice and batshit) way he is. Laugh, instead, at his ludicrous notion that human fetal remains could ever find their way into our food supply, particularly by way of sodapop. And then, laugh again at his ludicrous notion that there needs to be a law against that.

19. Eric Fucking Wilson. A timely reminder of the importance of consent…not only for all sexual acts engaged in, but the recording and Internet broadcasting thereof. Guys, unless you get a Yes to all of the above, assume the answer is really NO. And don’t just do it anyway, ‘kay?

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20. Marc Fucking Cenedella. He wants steak, BJs and a senate seat. And by the looks of things (his own face among them), he’s gonna have to pay for all three. BTW, there is NO WAY any self-respecting woman is going to give up Pi Day (and its attendant PIE!) just so some dude can get what he already got the month before, not to mention on his birthday, their anniversary, and any old other time he wants it. PS: If you’re gonna take “full responsibility” for what’s posted on your personal blog, shouldn’t that mean NOT claiming someone else wrote it for you? Don’t tell me you paid for THAT too, ya fuckin’ hoser.

21. Barry Fucking Smitherman. He gets everything about the Keystone XL pipeline (wisely nixed by His Barackness) utterly wrong. Along with Venezuela (a democracy), Hugo Chávez (elected and popular), China (not communist anymore), His Barackness (unlikely to be mistaken for Kim Jong Il, or even Kim Jong Un), jobs (not that many to be had from one measly pipeline, and most of them very temporary), and oh yeah, last but not least: the Canadian environment, which is already suffering from tar-sands development and is not likely to be improved by more of the same. Can we just come right out and call him a big-ass bullshitter, already?

22. Sheldon Fucking Adelson. If you’re wondering who’s pumping big bucks into Newty’s doomed presidential drive, look no further. This notorious casino owner, who is currently under federal investigation, is your man. And when you hear Newty rolling out his platform, you will also know who bought him and ordered it. After all, someone’s got a big bill at Tiffany’s that isn’t gonna pay itself.

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23. Susanna Fucking Barrett. Don’t blame the media or the blogs for “sexualizing” your daughter. They’re not the ones who signed her up for a kiddie pageant, plunked her into a suggestive costume, and made her dance to “I’m Sexy and I Know It”. Or got her to make kissy-faces at the cameras reporting it.

24. James O’Fucking Keefe. Say, doesn’t this little fucker have house arrest or probation or something, still? Because it seems to me he insists on violating it in a major way. (But even if that’s not the case, this suing the Liberal Media is just fucking pathetic. Srsly.)

25. Stacey Fucking Campfield. With a name like that, jokes and innuendoes are almost inevitable, no? And so it quite stands to reason that he’d be the author of something as abominable as Tennessee’s pro-bullying “Don’t Say Gay” law. As well as a subscriber to all sorts of ridiculous notions around AIDS. Someone please inform him that HIV was first transmitted via a monkey bite, not gay-butt-sex-with-a-monkey. In fact, it’s a product of the appalling bushmeat trade, not the gay underworld. And the idea that it’s only a gay disease was out of date in the mid-1980s already. Just ask Ali Gertz. Oh wait, you can’t…she died of it, as did the man who gave it to her. Bummer. Maybe Ryan White, who caught it through a blood transfusion? Sorry, he’s dead too. And neither of them was ever the least bit gay. How ’bout that?

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26. Larry Fucking Pittman. Sez he wants to bring back public hangings in North Fucking Carolina, and put abortion doctors at the head of the queue as a “deterrent”? Fuck no, Larry. Anyone who proposes a moronic (and murderous) legal remedy like that should man the fuck up and go first.

27. Frank Fucking Gaffney. His preferred way of achieving US hegemony worldwide is through violence. But he prefers to project that onto Muslims and Sharia, to make himself sound reasonable.

28. Mitt Fucking Romney. Mormonizing your late atheist father-in-law, no matter what your reasons, is a damn disrespectful wank in the face of a corpse. Whatever happened to respecting the wishes of the dearly departed?

29. Mark Fucking Oxner. Alan Grayson (my hero!) is gonna whup his ass. That is all.

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And finally, to all you morons out there (and it is scientifically confirmed now that conservatives are not the sharpest knives in the ol’ drawer) who voted for Stephen Fucking Harper. All bullies are cowards; we all knew that. Which is why this cowardly bully waited till he was in Davos to announce that he was raiding the Canada Pension Plan to pay for all those warplanes we don’t fucking need. And please note that this is the same Harper Government™ that got its sorry collective ass into office by pandering to all you dumb fucking rednecks who didn’t want a gun registry because it made you feel like criminals to see your guns treated the same way as your cars, your marriages and your dogs. Well, boo fucking hoo, you old farts. It looks good on you now that you’re getting what you voted for: a big, fat bait-and-switcheroo. And it’s coming out of your retirement fund, too. You’re now gonna have to work till you drop in this country. And drop you will, since you’re all so busy stuffing your faces with Timbits and putting a nice down payment on a coronary in the process. I would laugh if I weren’t in the same fucking boat as all of you, but at least I can console myself that I didn’t vote for the motherfucker. (Which reminds me, I need an apology shirt for when I finally get the hell out of this country and move to Latin America. I need one that says “prime minister” instead of “president”.) You did vote for him, and now you’re about to pay for what you got. Through the nose.

Good night, and (ha, ha) get fucked!