A Nazi/fascist American 9/11 Conspiracy theroy

Last night, I told my husband that I thought all the TV programming devoted to remembering 9/11 each year (and particularly this year, for the tenth anniversary) is a systematic method of riling the American people into a falsely nationalistic frenzy so that we may be more easily controlled by government and corporate interests. He then implied that I was a little bit crazy.

However, today I started reading Jim Marrs's Rise of the Fourth Reich, and the more I read, the more correct I feel. Marrs argues that many of the characteristics of fascist Italy and National Socialistic (Nazi) Germany leading up to World War II can be observed in modern America. He also claims not to be pushing any political or conspiracy theorist agenda, but he writes about conspiracies for a living, so maybe take that with a grain of salt.

Still, some of his points are difficult to argue against. Fascism and National Socialism both gained momentum in those nations when the governments took over corporations. Marrs claims that in America, corporations have effectively taken over the government, and that the end result is exactly the same.

In both fascist Italy and particularly Nazi Germany, the government invested much time and money into creating a sense of rabid nationalism among its citizens, using intricate propaganda campaigns. Then, on a tide of false nationalism, they took preemptive, unnecessary military action against countries that had not actually done them any harm. This was, in essence, a strategy to gain power and wealth, and to inflate the corporations that now belonged to the government.

We have all heard theories about America's involvement in the Middle East being largely about oil and other economic interests. I'm sure that that is true, but I doubt it's the whole truth. I'm more concerned about increasing government involvement in our day-to-day lives, and the implications that has for the future.

The American government and large corporations know more now about what we do, think, and own than they ever have before. (The cataloging of people and their belongings was also rampant in Hitler's Germany.) This knowledge has, above all, provided corporations with easier, faster, more effective ways to advertise to us and push their agendas. It has given the government the ability to control more closely where our food comes from, what we build on our own land, and what firearms we own. This, in turn, provides corporations with better information and better ways to sell us stuff.

I shouldn't need to point out that these same corporations control television broadcasting. The same broadcasting that spends a week each year emphasizing how angry and vengeful and goddam AMERICAN we should feel, regardless of what our government is doing, because some guys, most of whom weren't from either of the countries we attacked, made some buildings fall down in New York.

9/11 was tragic. It was heartbreaking and it made us mad. But we need to move on. Because dwelling on it every year just makes us more susceptible to being bullshitted and pushed around by the American government and their corporate bosses.

And about 70% of me believes this is true.

A "Guy's Girl's" Take on the Scary, Scary Men

This is something I have been thinking about somewhat obsessively for a few weeks, so I decided to share my neuroses with you all, as I am wont to do. Here goes.

I have always been what could maybe be described as a "guy's girl". The majority of my friends were male when I was growing up, and despite feeling incredible love for a small group of close girl friends, I do not build strong relationships with women easily. I have never had trouble relating to men on a non-sexual level. I have many guy friends who I believe honestly feel 100% platonic towards me.

That being said, my take on men as a whole changed some as I grew up and gained some perspective. A man is inherently more threatening than a woman, because men have a more diverse set of natural weapons. As a woman, I have come to understand that pretty much any man I encounter has the ability to hurt me physically, emotionally, psychologically, and special bonus sexually. The penis is literally a weapon, and, unless we are having a conversation about HIV and other diseases, female genitals don't really work that way.

The immediate response by most people, and my reasoning for a long time, was that men who intentionally cause sexual harm (i.e. rapists) are a psychologically flawed minority. Normal, nice guys like my friends don't do things like that. And usually that is true. I know plenty of decent guys who, accidentally or otherwise, have used sex to contribute to some not-very-nice psychological mistreatment, but I don't view that as a uniquely male tactic.

However, I recently came to a realization that really shook my perception of the male population at large. That realization is that throughout human history, during war times and similar conflicts, the rape of women in conquered areas has been extremely common and rampant. The rapists were not all sexual or psychological anomalies. They were people's young sons, their neighbors, even nice girls' boyfriends.

Seemingly normal, decent men, under war-type circumstances, are capable of maintaining erections and often achieving orgasm while a strange woman begs them to stop.

That's god damn scary. The thought that my nice friends, or my brother, or my husband could be in that situation and potentially do something like that is horrifying. It doesn't mean I love them any less, of course, and it doesn't mean that I think they would do that. But they could. They could because they are men, and men are a scary bunch.

That's all.

Update: I received a lot of responses to this post on here, on facebook, and in private messages. Unsurprisingly, the response from women and men was completely different. The men pretty much universally either made cases for the extenuating circumstances in war that lead to atypical rape or told me to take self defense classes. The women did not miss the point and saw this post for what I meant it to be: the acknowledgement that it is a bummer that every single man on Earth has the ability to cause irreparable psychological and physical harm with his sex organ, whether he plans to do so or not.

I did not mean to imply that I or other American women live in constant fear of being raped all day. Anyone who knows me can tell you that I am unafraid of strange men, possibly to a fault. I also didn't mean that I don't love men. I love guys. Guys are awesome.

I would liken my feelings on this subject to the way guys feel about PMS. Guys pretty much universally think it sucks that girls get real bitchy for a few days before bleeding from their vaginas. There is nothing anyone can do about it, but it's pretty gross and kind of upsetting to talk about.

That's pretty on par with how I feel about this rape potential issue. I don't think any of the men I am close with are going to rape anyone. It's just really crappy and gross that they could.

And before any feminists yell at me for comparing having a period to committing rape, let it be noted that I was merely likening having a period to having a penis.

SECOND AND FINAL UPDATE: I also feel a bit bad for implying that men alone sexually damage and scar people. In heartbreaking and irreparably damaging cases involving the sexual abuse of children, women are sometimes the culprits. I still insist that is a more natural instinct for men to use sex as a physical weapon. For instance, I 100% guarantee you that a man coined the phrase, "hate fuck."

Since I Killed That Guy: A Short Story/ Free Write

I wipe black eye liner from below my lower lashes once again and begin to reapply with lightly vibrating hands. I am stalling.

Any minute now, my boyfriend, Tom, will be here to pick me up and drive us both to the wedding of two of our dear friends. I generally enjoy weddings, and especially wedding receptions, but I have come to dread the question Tom and I inevitably encounter at them. For the better part of our five year relationship, we have been asked frequently and by a wide range of acquaintances when we are going to tie the knot.

It always seemed obvious that we would eventually get engaged and then married. We are that couple that people actually enjoy being around. We rarely fight and have a notoriously good conversational rapport. We are best friends. Everything feels a little bit different since I killed a man before Tom's eyes, though.

Several weeks ago, Tom and I returned to his apartment, slightly drunk and exhausted after yet another wedding reception, to find a man rummaging through Tom's roommate's bedroom. I had entered first and was quite a bit deeper in the house when a man seized me from behind and placed something cold against my throat. A split second later, Tom walked into a terrifying scene. Our eyes met, mine huge and imploring and his going wild with the realization of what was happening, here.

Tom implored the man, as calmly as could be expected, to take what he wanted and leave. The man's reply, "What if I want your bitch?" was not well received. Tom suddenly lurched towards my captor, who shifted to block him while attempting to hold onto me, around the neck. He loosened his grip enough for me to shift though, and my hand darted into my purse and emerged with a three inch switch blade I always carry out of habit. I stabbed the intruder once in the side and again in the neck after he released me.

He fell to the floor and quickly bled to death. Tom, with surprisingly steady hands, called 911.

These events-- not just the intruder/killing incident, but the ensuing, seemingly endless police questioning-- would have been unthinkable just a month ago. The police originally seemed to suspect that Tom had actually stabbed the man and that I was covering for him, probably because he had a previous assault conviction. That charge stemmed from a bar fight years ago, and does not reflect Tom's general demeanor in the least. Still, our repetitive, identical, united police statements brought us closer somehow. We were a team.

And yet, when I look in Tom's eyes now, I see something different than what was there before I killed that guy. I'm not sure I see my husband anymore. I see my warrior partner, or something like that, and I think he might see the same.

I don't know how I would feel watching Tom end another man's life. I'm sure it would be frightening and upsetting and all kinds of disturbing, but that doesn't mean it wouldn't kind of turn me on. So, I don't know if Tom wants to marry me anymore, but I'm damn sure he wants to fuck me.

As I finally get the thin, black line under my left eye just right, I find myself hoping we can find a quiet nook in the reception hall where we can make out and rub desperately against each other periodically, until we have put in enough time at the reception to reasonably leave. Go back to his place, beating his roommates home so that we can make love with the door open, in plain view of the place where the bloody body fell.

Dave Eggers, Self-aware literature, and Where to draw the line

In the year 2000, one of my favorite authors, Dave Eggers, stormed onto the popular literary scene with his memoir, "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius". The book is a memoir in the most unique and exciting sense of the word: an account of Eggers' young adulthood spent raising his much younger brother after the untimely death of both his parents. This tale is snarled together with a manic, who-knows-how-much-is-true, typically GenX tale of anger, loss, art, and the much-resisted fading of one's youth, written with atypical grace, passion, and understanding of his audience's tolerance levels.

It is a book that is keenly aware of its reader and even more fully aware of its author. It is not disguised in a novel's clothes, nor presented in a sequential and dry manner as so many memoirs tend to be. "A Heartbreaking Work..." became a Pulitzer finalist for its utter disregard for literary constraints, its poetic and often furious structure, and the violent language and sometimes sickening imagery that make it so vibrant. The memoir also opened doors in terms of structure, shattering the confines of "what makes a memoir."

Some authors and literary critics-- Chuck Klosterman, for example-- have credited Eggers with creating and/or gaining acceptance for the "self-aware memoir". He proved that a book need not pretend it has no creator nor reader in order to be valuable. The acknowledgment of audience and/or author tended to be gimmicks reserved for "lesser" forms of literature- children's books, mysteries, etc. "A Heartbreaking Work..." blew that out of the water. And it did so with such energy, heart, and creativity that not many people seemed to mind.

Skip ahead four years to Eggers' publication of a collection of short stories, titled "How We Are Hungry". One of the stories in this collection is called "Notes for a Story of a Man Who Will Not Die Alone", and it is just that; an "inside look", so to speak, at Eggers' presumed creative process when writing short stories. It is not the story itself, but notes about the character's life, characteristics, motivations, and actions as well as a general idea of the plot. In this way, the reader experiences the story, but also gets a behind-the-scenes look at where the story comes from. The question of how Eggers develops his-- often brilliant-- short fiction is answered. Or is it?

It is unclear whether this "story" is an actual excerpt from the author's notes or a cleverly constructed fake-out intended to give the audience a glimpse at near-reality. It is like trying to determine if a great artist's "unfinished" canvas is truly a work that was abandoned half way through or a doctored, scrutinized underpainting fully ready for public consumption.

Before the release of this story, slews of authors tried to give readers a peek into the creative process behind writing fiction. Usually, this was done through characters who were themselves writers. My favorite example is Michael Chabon's "Wonderboys", a novel about an aging, washed up novelist/professor struggling to complete a new book. It is a touching story that provides insight into the madness that many authors struggle with. It also lovingly describes the way that a writer's process is never fully turned off, depicting the novel's characters sitting in a diner, joyfully and in great detail making up back stories and character flaws for all of their fellow patrons.

This scene is essentially the same thing that Eggers produced when he wrote "Notes for a Story of a Man Who Will Not Die Alone": an affectionate and possibly honest expose of the inner workings of the author's craft.

Still, I think it is easy to argue that Chabon's characters' antics are more valuable and valid than Eggers' revealing short story. There is a fine line between self-awareness and self-indulgence. Publishing something that, whether true or not, comes off as a few scribbled pages in your "concept notebook" may just qualify as the latter.

My Trial-and-Error Stuffed King Cake Recipe

You will need
FOR DOUGH (this makes enough for two)
1 envelope dry yeast
1/4 cup warm water
1/2 cup milk
1 cup butter
1/2 cup sugar
5 egg yolks
4 cups flour

FOR FILLING (x2 if desired)
8 oz cream cheese
1/4 cup sugar
1 tsp vanilla extract
1 egg yolk
1ish tbsp milk

FOR GLAZE
1/4 cup butter
1 cup confectioner's sugar
1 to 2 tbsp milk

OTHER
cinnamon/sugar blend
sprinkles/colored sugar crystals/whatever other decoratives
uncooked bean, pecan, or plastic baby

OK, HERE WE GO
1. Make your dough:
Combine yeast, warm water, 1 tsp flour and 1 tsp sugar. Set aside in a warm place until other ingredients are mixed. Yeast should show signs of life by this time.

Boil milk, stir in butter and sugar. Remove from heat and pour in bowl. Wait for steam to stop rising. Beat in yeast and egg yolks. Beat in 2 cups of flour and continue to add until the dough forms a ball. Knead for 10 mins or so, or until elastic. (Add more flour while kneading if stickiness persists.)

Grease a bowl well, and turn the ball of dough in the bowl a couple times. Set the dough, in the bowl and covered with a cloth, in a warm place until it has doubled in size (1.5 to 2 hours)

Pat down the risen dough, cover with a wet cloth, plastic wrap on top of the cloth, and leave in refrigerator overnight.

2. Prepare your dough (next day)
Remove 1/2 dough from fridge with floured hands, and roll it into a 24-30 inch "snake" on a well-floured surface. With a floured rolling pin, roll your snake into a 6" by 30" rectangle.

3. Stuff that bitch!
Combine cream cheese, sugar, vanilla, egg yolk, and milk for filling, until smooth. (Save the white from the egg)

Brush a line of egg white down the middle of your dough rectangle, and sprinkle generously with cinnamon sugar.

Spoon your filling along the length of the dough, on top of the cinnamon sugar. Fold one edge of the rectangle over to cover the filling, brush the top with egg wash. Brush the inside of the other edge with egg wash, and fold this on top of the first edge. You should now have a long tube of dough with filling inside and a seam on top.

4. Bake
Butter a cookie sheet. Transfer your dough tube, seam down, onto this sheet and form a circle, pinching the ends together.

Place this cookie sheet, covered by a cloth, in a warm place until the dough has doubled in bulk. Poke several small holes in the top of the dough.

Bake at 350 degrees for 25-30 mins or until golden brown. Remove and cool.

5. Double Stuff! (optional but totes recommended)
Mix up another batch of the cream cheese filling (may need more milk for slightly thinner results) and inject filling into the center of the cooked dough at strategic intervals. Our Cajun injector worked nicely.

6. Finish
Melt 1/4 cup butter on the stove, stir in 1 cup conf. sugar and enough milk to make a gel-like texture. Spoon this glaze on top of the cake. Finish with sprinkles, etc.

Push your bean, pecan, or plastic baby through the bottom of the cake and remember where you put it so you don't have to make the next one of these pains in the ass.

How I am Blessed

There is a tiny head resting in the center of my chest, breathing sweet milky mists in gurgles and sighs. And every day is brimming with joy. So much that the laughter, if strung together, would stretch for days and weeks. Maybe months, until it became foggy and faint, and we wouldn't know what it was for anymore, nor care. Deep, tickly breaths on the back of my neck at night; the kind that feel like they could have and should have been there every night since forever. And a sense that every day, simply waking up amounts to one step a little bit further into Happily Ever After.

Motherhood and the Decimation of an Angst-hole

My son, Charles Anthony Pumilia, was born on Tuesday, January fourth at 5:52 PM. Just as I suspected he would, he arrived in an undramatic fashion after just seven hours of active labor. He was perfect.

I thought that, upon getting the little guy settled in at home, I would immediately rush to my sketch book, notebooks, and even to this blog to commemorate and fawn over him in a "creative" fashion. As it turns out, I have yet to touch a sketching pencil, and aside from facebook updates, this is the first I have written about him.

This is partially due to the fact that the old "Caring for an infant is a full time job," axiom is completely true. I spend at least eight hours a day just nursing. Add to that diaper changes, baths, cuddles, and wardrobe changes, and my time is pretty well spoken for.

Still, I have quiet moments like this one where I could sit down and paint a picture or write a poem. I often choose instead to just watch the baby. I find him to be completely enthralling.

Having created something so completely unlike anything I ever created before has kept me in the moment. Art and writing require a sort of mental check out; a break from reality during which one must retreat into her own head and fish out the bits that need removal, massaging, or grooming before smearing them across a page with an eye towards either entertainment or self-therapy. Now, watching my child's facial expressions while he sleeps is endlessly entertaining and snuggles from him provide unmatched therapy.

I have always known that my creative impulses, and thus the work I have done in various artistic fields, stem largely from holes or gaps I felt in myself. I will almost certainly never again produce as much poetry as I did during a stretch of time in 2003 and 2004. In six or seven months I filled five, five subject spiral notebooks to the brim with verse, much of which has been deemed "good" by various readers, and a small percentage of which has been published.

The cause for such a rush of creation during that time period was a desperate search for a teenage identity coupled with a fair amount of angst and some mind-enhancing activities. My periodic unhappiness and instability needed an outlet, and thus I bled onto a page, rather than down a sink drain as some other "arty types" choose to do.

In the spring of 2005, while I was in my second term at Tulane and certainly at my most nihilistic, I wrote over 200 pages of a single spaced, 10 pt. novel in less than two months. It was almost definitely my most emotionally tumultuous phase, and it resulted in a manic flurry of word vomit in the form of a dark and melancholy monologue that will never be finished for various reasons.

The point I am trying to make is that I have always used creation as an emotional outlet, which is not unusual. Perhaps unfortunately, that means that as I have gotten older, happier, and more stable, my desire and need to create has diminished. By the time I got pregnant, I had only a very tiny angst-hole in my soul left to fill.

Now, I am filling that hole in the simplest of ways. Rather than absorbing my energy into myself, I am bouncing it off my little one to be consumed by the ethos. I am filling my hole by staring into the tiniest, steel-blue eyes and singing "You Are My Sunshine" on repeat. By kissing little foot arches and tickling minute ribs. By waking up in the middle of the night to petite whimpers that sound remarkably like Nicki Minaj's entire catalog of work. And I can't feel any holes anymore.

I have been told by numerous individuals who make their living in various artistic fields that the arts need not be an escape from pain and unrest. That Elliot Smith and Vincent Van Gogh are the exception and not the norm. These people claim to project positive feelings into their art. They hope that their work can inspire and entertain on its own. It need not be laden with hard-wrestled traces of their demons in order to have worth.

I never really believed any of that. I thought it was a grown-up line used to mask the unchecked adolescent torment that all artists must still possess. However, I might be changing my mind. I have a tiny, tiny, perfect face peering at me out of a fish-themed bouncy chair right now, and its vaguely simian expression is making my heart swell a bit. Maybe, if I can find a way to massage this love onto canvas and paper in the place of the formerly smeared pain, I can create something beautiful.

If not, it isn't really a big deal. My most beautiful creation is right in front of me, and I am pretty sure he is hungry again.