Shameless Whores (Cussing Included)

So...

I know it's not 1855, or even 1955.  I'm not saying it should be. 

People have sex.

Good. Great. Grand. Wonderful. Terrific.

I don't think women (or men) who have premarital sex are whores.

However, standing in line today at the grocery store, I saw a tabloid with the headline:

"My Affair with Ashton"

and then with a tagline about the woman spilling the beans on her "X-Rated" night fucking a tv-star.

When the hell did adultery become something to proclaim and profit from?   I've never considered buying an US Weekly, but I sure as hell won't now.  And don't get me wrong, it's not because of this particular strumpet.  Sara Leal is her name,  I believe.

It's the same thing with Tiger Wood's whores.  Some of them were professional sex workers, sure, but the others were whores too. 

I'm bothered by the fact I know who Rachel Uchitel is.  I'm bothered I know things about her.  I know that her fiance died in one of the towers on September 11th.  Why is she being given money and put on magazine covers and granted TV interviews where they don't  simply say "she wrapped her vagina around someone famous and siphoned his celebrity"?

Again, this is not to say that Ashton or Tiger are not shitheads.  Of course they are.  But they're not trumpeting.  It's the shamelessness of it all that appalls me.

We don't even consider the fact that the reason the Kardashians are all over the internet and TV and magazines is because Kim banged a rapper, had it filmed, and (according to people who know about such things) had her people sell it to a porn company, all the while claiming it had been stolen so that she could have deniability about being a shameless whore (That particular move is called the "Pam Anderson"). 

Recently, you may have seen (how would you not have seen), she got married.  And wore a white dress.  Hysterical.

She banged a dude on film. She exposed herself in Playboy.  She went raw dog in "W", but was covered in silver paint, as though she weren't naked.  Then she had the gall, later, to cry, literally cry, about the pictures being more racy than she thought they'd be. 

Really?

The camera that took the photograph of you posing full on frontally wasn't invisible.  And yet you're crying because people can see your nipples? 

Shameless.

And the thing is, I'd bet good money that Sara and Rachel and Kim would take extreme exception to being called whores.  I don't know what their arguments would be, but I guarantee they'd have them.

"We're not whores!"

"You are literally profiting from fucking."

"But we didn't cause it.  It was going to come out anyway so we were trying to make the best out of a bad situation!"

"That makes as much sense as a woman getting payment from her rapist."

"Well, maybe she should..."

"No, you goddam shameless whore! No!  She calls the cops and they put him in jail where he gets sodomized repeatedly."

"But..."

"If someone 'steals' your sex tape, you sue the living hell out of him and never sign the release for it  (which any of those sex tapes need to be broadcast).  If you fuck a married golfer and people ask you about it, you don't sell them the voice mails he sent you.  If you fuck a hipster, camera-hocking douchenozzle, keep your fucking mouth shut and hope you aren't infected."

"But.."

"If I fuck a hooker, and I mean a real prostitute, I know that if people find out about it, people are going to label me as a loser and think I'm disgusting and pathetic.  I sure as shit wouldn't broadcast the fact that I did because I wouldn't want it impacting the rest of my life.  If I put it in the papers, I know I'm relegating myself to paying for sex for the rest of my life probably. Or sleeping with crazy women who somehow get off on my name being known (which apparently works for some).  No way."

"That's not how it is! Kim got married!"

"Yeah, and that guy should be ashamed.  Any men who are seen with any of you should be ashamed."

"You're an asshole."

"Yup, but I'm not a shameless whore."

When I Die and End Up in Hell, I'll Know Why

My mother's mother, Gammie, was my favorite person.   

And that was even after she subjected me to the indignity of not only setting me up on a blind date (unusual but not unheard of) but then proceeding to go on it to ensure I didn't screw up. Read Here

(Shoot me in the face! I'm still embarrassed about that.)

To be clear, she wasn't clueless.  No.  She was a general's wife.  She was switched on.  She was aware.

She was aware that her youngest grandson didn't date much.  She dropped hints that maybe I should get on it.

Some subtle. 

Some blatant.

Even so, she kept it to prodding.  She knew it was up to me.  She would just be "supportive" because, while I may have been a slow goer, at least I was normal.  

Until the following episode.  Then she took the reins and hijacked my dating life in an attempt to save me from the eternal fires of perdition.

_____________________________________________________

It was my freshman year of college.  I was living in the dorms. I hung out with friends.  I drank beer.  Clearly, I didn't chase girls, but I'd furtively stare at them across the quad/cafeteria/classroom/whatever.  I'm just saying I was pretty damn run of the mill.  Painfully shy with women, but normal.

What wasn't so normal, perhaps, was that I would drive down to Charleston to spend a weekend with my Gammie at the retirement home every month or so.  The way I figure it, my friends went to see their parents more often.  Gammie was like my mother, so I'm saying it was normal.  

Normal. Normal! NORMAL!

Anyway, when I was down there being perfectly normal, we would go to restaurants and we would watch movies or TV together. Watching movies or TV together involved Gammie sitting in her high-backed salon chair next to her bed and me lying on her bed.

I'd be watching the movie/TV show.  Gammie, though she participated in choosing what we were going to watch, usually only glanced at it occasionally while looking at her newspapers or catalogs and, mostly, catnapping while pretending to look at her newspaper or catalogs.  That meant I got to "choose" watching Masterpiece Theater on PBS a lot.  By myself for the most part, since she was reading or sleeping.  And heaven help me if I changed the channel because "we were watching that!"

After a few visits like that, I'd had enough.  I was going to watch something I wanted.  I delicately explained that watching the same late 70's Agatha Christie adaptation every time I came down wasn't doing it for me.  She let me go to the video store.  I had Carte Blanche.

I knew what movie I was getting.  The funny guy in the dorm, Jonah, had been going on and on about a sketch comedy called Kentucky Fried Movie. It was just the thing an 18yo guy would love.  The sketches he'd described sounded hysterical to me. 

And they were.  Gammie, as per usual, fell asleep within minutes.  I woke her up with my raucous laughter at the sketch "Danger Seekers", the funniest one Jonah told me about.

 

NSFW for one particular word.

Unfortunately, that meant she was also awake for the sketch "Catholic School Girls in Trouble", which he did not tell me about.

Around the time that a fantastic pair of Catholic School Girl naked boobies were pressed against a glass shower wall, a propos of nothing whatsoever, was when I made this face

And immediately jumped off the bed to turn off the tape.  It wouldn't turn off.

It was too late.

"Ajax!!!! Why would you show me a pornographic movie?!!!" she said, perplexed.

"NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!"

My grandmother thought I rented us a porno to watch together. That seemed like the worst thing I could ever imagine.  She upped the ante, unfortunately.

"Your grandfather used to try to take me to blue movies...That Jezebel, Angie Dickinson..."

"NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!! PLEASESTOPSAYINGANYTHING!!!"

Yeah, so not only did my sweet, adorable, wonderful grandmother think I was a pervert of the highest magnitude, now she was telling me about something that might possibly be related to her and my grandfather having sex. 

The discomfort and awkwardness you feel when your parents bring up their sex lives is amplified by 100 when your sweet, adorable, wonderful grandmother launches in to it.

"And we had a wonderful sex life..."

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!I'MSORRYI'MSORRYI'MSORRYIHADNOIDEATHATWASONTHEREJONAH'SGOINGTODIEAGRUESOMEDEATHANDI'MSORRYI'MSORRYI'MSORRYBUTPLEASESTOPTALKINGPLEASESTOPTALKING!!!!"

She did not stop talking, however, so I did the only thing I could.  I ran out of the room screaming so I wouldn't hear about Gammie and Grandaddy gettin' it on.  I didn't know what to do.  I called mom and told her what happened.  This was a significant trauma and I needed support.

She laughed and laughed.

I couldn't handle it.  I was embarrassed and ashamed and I packed up and hightailed it back to the dorm.  Mom called me the next day. 

"Yup, she's informed the family that you're a pervert who tried to show her a porno."

After a month or so,  I finally had the gumption to go back down to visit.  I still didn't want to watch Masterpiece Theater so I went to the video store.  I grabbed a normal movie.  It wasn't even one I wanted to watch.  I figured that old people like Woody Allen.  I certainly didn't watch his movies.  I just knew he was old and other old people thought he was funny.  His most recent movie had just been released on tape.

Gammie was not sure if me playing another video was a good idea.

I put in the movie.  It started.  There was some sort of family picnic going on.  Julia Louis-Dreyfus went in the house to get something.  Her brother in law was in the house.  Out of nowhere, this happened:

AGAIN??!!! WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME SATAN?

"Ajax, I cannot believe that you'd show me another blue movie!!!"

And that's why Gammie felt like she needed to set me up with a girl, any girl.

My grandmother was convinced I tried to show her porn, not once, but twice.

If that doesn't get you an express ticket to Hell, I don't know what does.

How on Earth Did I Manage This?

So...I've been hollering at Hawt Chick™.  Don't ask me how I've managed to pull it off; I certainly don't know.  I think it's like how I don't really understand the exact process whereby the nuclear reactions happening 93 million miles away result in my skin turning red, then brown.  I mean I get the gist of it, but not the details.  I figure sometimes it's best to just accept and get on with your day.  No good will come from trying to figure out exactly why talking to this woman hasn't resulted in a tasering.

Yes, Hawt Chick is very good looking.  The women I go after tend to be on the Sweet-Jesus-Out-of-My-League end of the looks spectrum.  Still, there's gotta be more.  I've met lots of women on that end of the spectrum and a great many of them were as interesting as paint.  Looks are a stellar foot in the door, but if you are boring, I will go elsewhere.  As hung up as everyone is on looks, it's amazing how common good looking people are.  I run across them all the time.  Women I want to date though?  Hardly ever.

Anyway, Hawt Chick is very good looking.  But that's not it.  She jumps out of airplanes and surfs and practices yoga and competes in triathlons and runs long distances on the beach just for fun and speaks German fluently and rowed in college and has lived abroad and, in general, is sorta fearless.  Well, if not fearless, since the truly fearless are abjectly stupid, she's one who overcomes her fears or doesn't let fear get in the way of new experiences.   

She's also a law school graduate who's just taken the bar exam. 

So, she's adventurous, athletic, intelligent and Hawt. And she somehow lets me pester her.  They make those? I had no idea. Yes, please.

When I stumbled upon exactly how monumentally fantastic she is (she's not one to air it), I took note and made the command decision to pounce.  There's no dilly-dallying or cowardice when a woman like that comes along.  You either go for it or you kick yourself forever. A woman like that is not to be dismissed or ignored or put on hold while you figure out how to man up.  Not if a man has any sense.  That she was somehow single shows that men must not have any sense.

Thank God.

I somehow convinced her to pick me up from the airport the day I arrived back from Afghanistan.

I can only assume her judgment was compromised from studying for the bar exam.   

If guys didn't go after women while their defenses were down, they'd never get women out of their league. 

It was July 4th.  Independence Day for the country.  Independence Day for me.

This is me exiting the airport.  I met Hawt Chick one night last year when I was back for vacation. Other than that, I've not spent time around her.  Other than a few photos on Facebook, I don't really remember what she looks like.  I know she's good looking.

This is Hawt Chick as she gets out of the car to help me with my bags.

This is me taking one look at her and realizing how far out of my league she is.  Note that subtlety is not my forte. 

I regain my composure.

Then I make sure this is happening for real.

Then I either become a genius or really stupid. I'm not sure and I don't think it matters.

It works.

Looks aren't my strong suit. I know that.  I have to work the other angles.  Fortunately, I know women's Achilles Heel is laughter.  I turn it on.

I get a little over confident and try to ad lib

This is me horrified at my own stupidity.

This is me going back to what works and her letting my idiocy slide.  Again, I have no idea why.

For some reason I don't comprehend, she agreed to hang out with me again.  I'm running with it until a judge orders otherwise.


Or she reads this.

Great Grandfather (William Mellard Connor II)

Two weeks back and I'm only now getting around to visiting mama.  Amazing how priorities shift when you're chasing after a Hawt Chick™. 

At any rate, I stumbled upon a "Who's Who in South Carolina: 1934-1935" on her family bookshelf.  Inside was a write-up of my great-grandfather (maternal so I don't have to change his name to Carpenter to post this).

I've always shied away from those Who's Who deals because they mostly seemed to be sketchy rip-off deals at best and shameless self-aggrandizement at worst, but having gotten an opportunity to learn about my great-grandfather, I think maybe they're a pretty cool, or at least useful, way to pass on family history to future generations.

William Mellard Connor II, Lawyer; Judge Advocate General's Department, U.S. Army, Major.  Born Charleston, S.C., August 31, 1878.  Son of William Mellard and Theresa Olivia (Moorer) Connor, of the Connor and Moorer families of old Orangeburg and Colleton Counties.  Educated: Public and High School of Charleston; Wofford College, A.B.; Law School, University of Virginia, LL.B.  Fraternities: Kappa Alpha.  Assistant Attorney and ex-officio prosecuting attorney for Moro Province, 1903-08; attorney for Moro Province and ex-officio member of Legislative Council thereof, 1908-13; city attorney of Manila, 1914; Judge, 18th Judicial District, Philippine Islands, 1914-17; Major and Lieutenant Colonel, Judge Advocate, U.S. Army (World War emergency); Major, Judge Advocate, Regular Army, July 20, 1920, to date.  By War Department Orders dated May 14, 1934, detailed as Professor of Law at United States Military Academy, West Point, New York, effective July 1, 1934; Judge Advocate Philippine Islands, member of War Department Special Clemency Board; General Board of Review, Office of the Judge Advocate General; detailed as assistant to Major General E. H. Crowder during his special service in Cuba, 1921; served on War Department General Staff as Personal Representative of President Wilson, 1921-24; member S.C. Bar Association; admitted to practice before Supreme Court of the Philippine Islands an Supreme Court of the United States; by request of Chairman, detailed in 1932 and again in 1934 as Special Assistant to Military Affairs Committee of the House of Representatives.  Author: "Reviewing Authority Action in Court-Martial Proceedings"; "Philippine Criminal Procedure" in Virginia Law Review.  Mason.  Unitarian. Clubs: Army & Navy Club, Washington, D.C.; National Sojourners.  Married Artemisia Katherine Peyton (daughter of Chancellor E. G. Peyton, Miss., granddaughter of Chief Justice E.G. Peyton, Mississippi Supreme Court), October 26, 1911.  Children: William Mellard Connor, Jr. Home Address: Spartanburg, S.C.

That's pretty damn cool, but I have a long way to go before I can feel like I'm keeping up with the family history.

Jetlag and Customer Service Calls

Even though I did my best to prep for my return, staying up to strange hours in hopes it wouldn't be so bad once I got back, jetlag has bitten me badly.  I'm hiding out at a friend's house and catnapping.

Yesterday, I bought a new phone.  It's my first smartphone.  I didn't have a cell phone until 2007.  I held off on texting until 2009.  I pretty much did everything in my power to avoid having the company give me one in Afghanistan.  I don't like the things.  I think of a cell phone as an electronic leash. 

I'm also fully aware of how idiotic that is considering my minor (substantial) internet addiction and the fact that I just spent the past 16 months basically glued to the computer.  Um, I'm anti-cell-phone-radiation/brain cancer.  Yeah. That's it.

Anyway, when it comes to phones, I'm a Luddite.  Except that now I'm a super-duper techie simply by virtue of buying this phone.  It can pretty much do everything, including changing babies' diapers. 

To make sure I am satisfied with my handheld Skynet, Verizon had a lovely young woman give me a phone call just now.  "Kelly" just woke me up from my catnap.

After the various pleasantries and asking me about my purchasing experience, we finally got to the meat and potatoes of the call.  Don't call me in the morning if you're just wanting to hear your own voice. If you're going to ask me a question, I am going to want a real answer.  I realize Kelly was doing her job, but I figured it was time to play with her.  I was feeling a little punchy.


Kelly: What do you do for a living?

Me: I was a contractor in Afghanistan, but now I'm back to work on my own projects.

Kelly: This phone will certainly be able to help you with that.

Me:  Yeah, I've only owned it for 22 hours and I think it's already achieved sentience.

Kelly: So, did the salesman explain everything satisfactorily to you about your bill?

Me: Yes, he did.

Kelly: Is there anything else I can do? 

Me: Can you lower my bill by 90%? 

Kelly: No, I can't, unfortunately.

Me: So you're saying Verizon doesn't support the troops?

Kelly: No! That's not what I'm saying!

Me: Oh, you're just saying Verizon hates America?

Kelly: No. No, I'm not saying that.

(pause)

Kelly: Is there anything else I can answer for you today?

Me: What rhymes with orange? or silver?

Kelly: I'm sorry. I can't help you with that, sir.
___________________________________________________________________________
Unless you're going to give me money back, don't call me after I've already bought something from you.  And don't wake me up.  If you do, I'm going to mess with you.

Back Up In This Piece

I got back to the states yesterday and I'll be in Charleston for the next few days as I try to deal with jetlag and meet up with all you fantastic folks where were kind enough to keep in touch with me while I was away.

4th of July, Independence Day, of course, was quite fitting to me personally as the marker of my escape..  Hawt Chick picked me up from the airport and then off we went out in the harbor.  Bikini'd babes, beer, and water.  Three things I absolutely was not around in Afghanistan (Filthy Taliban...).  A fella could get used to this.

America!

The Thrashing

The harvest that you feared
is finally at hand;
twenty pathetic years
to draw to conclusion.

No desired bright report
you thought you could control,
but a dull, growing roar,
an avalanche building
momentum until it
is inexorable.

There's no pleasure felt in
vengeance finally wrought,
just melancholy thoughts:
what might, what should have been

The sins of the father
are borne not only by
the children, but by all.
You reap what you have sown,
but then I do as well.
For that, I resent you.