Dave Cullen: Saturday Night

Damn Puritan country

Sat, 26 Jun 2004 14:50:48 GMT

Initially, I was elated.

Heard the news about Jack Ryan Monday, something about wife abuse surfacing in his divorce papers. Great! The Ds were already poised to take back a precious senate seat from the Rs in Illinois, this would just about clinch it. Didn't have time to read the whole story, didn't know exactly what the charges were.

Tuesday night I caught the local news. I was staying in Chicago, so it was the huge lead story. Some asshole newsmodel introduced it by saying that the divorce showed one thing quite clearly, that Jack Ryan was obsessed with having sex in public. Then I got the rest of the story. Three times in eight years, he dragged his wife to a swinger's club, tried to coax her to do the deed in a group setting.

Three times in eight years, that's an obsession? Three times in eight years? Especially when he never got to do it, so for him he was still working on the first time? What would constitute a mild curiosity?

And that's only if you believe every word of her version, her version in a legal battle where she was trying to make it sound as bad as humanly possible. The story always looks a little different when you get the other side.

It's a safe bet he had a group-sex fantasy, she didn't. Big freaking deal. We can't even tell whether he was really into that kind of stuff, sounds like he never got the chance to find out.

And this disqualifies a person for the U.S. Senate?

Half the men in the country have that fantasy, maybe three quarters. Having the guts to actually act one of your fantasies, that's disqualification for office? To refuse to be shackled by society's puritanical sensibility about how you should lead your sex life, and actually go out and explore a bit, discover what it is you really enjoy, find out a bit about who you are and how you want to live your life, that's a bad thing?

Are we ever going to escape our puritanical past? So we were founded by Puritans, can we get over it, please? The outcry from the media, and the mealey-mouthed Republicans, and yes a shitload of dems chiming in, too . . . Disgusting.

On Wednesday, even Slate ran a piece denouncing not just Ryan, but Republicans for refusing to denounce him. Good God. It was written by their chief political correspondent, William Saletan, and it's astounding.

Hadn't seen a soul coming to his defense all week until Salon posted its cover story by Lily Burana, asking, "Do the sex lives of our politicians have to be strictly vanilla?" Thank you. (No, is her emphatic reply, by the way.) Here's a little taste:

For such a sex-obsessed populace, Americans are oddly prudish when it comes to politics. We're always shocked, shocked to hear some libidinal blip from Washington. (Maybe because wonks and politicos look so unsexy, all neckties, immobile anchor-dude hair and pit-stained campaign trail button-downs. And those ladies in their serious suits. Bleah. It's the one uniform we haven't fetishized -- perhaps for good reason.)

And the bit that kills me about this story is the argument that it's really about degradation to his wife. Please. That is NOT what is causing the uproar. He may well have been a jerk to his wife--if we're to believe one side of the story as the whole story. Being a jerk sucks, but come on. Like the senate is not full of assholes who have been jerks to their wives. Nobody ever had a scandal about being a jerk to his wife. What a smokescreen.

And how much of a jerk was he? Three times in eight years? That may sound cold, but get real. Have you not been a jerk to your boyfriend/girlfriend/husband/wife three times in the last eight years? One year? I'm a jerk occasionally. I'm quite sure all my ex's could compile a list of jerkoff moments. I'm not proud of them, but I wouldn't expect them to get me drummed out of a senate race.

Burana's piece tackles that idea succinctly:

If this were the story of an abused or betrayed ex-wife, that would be one thing, a mark on Mr. Ryan's character that would be of some political merit. ("If that's how a politician treats his wife, how might he treat his constituents?") But Ms. Ryan has stated that neither she nor her son was physically harmed, she believes Mr. Ryan was faithful during their marriage, that he is "a good man, a loving father" and that she has "no doubt that he will make an excellent senator." Sounds like the sex-club fiasco was basically a case of incompatible taste, with some ham-handed clueless guy "encouragement" tossed in. Mr. Ryan was right to point out that he didn't break any laws, any vows or any Commandments. Sure, his oafish, coercive behavior (if allegations are true) could destroy a marriage. But should mere allegations of same destroy a career?

Exactly. If you happen to be dating this guy, the divorce papers might make you think twice about whether this is the guy for you. Number one, are you into that kinda stuff, and number two, is he the kind of dick who's going to try to trick you and coerce you into going along with shit you've told him your not in to? Serious questions for potential partners, no basis for electing a senator.

None of this was about his wife. It was all about the sex. Freaking Puritans.

And on the sixth day, He made the dancefloor . . .

Sun, 07 Mar 2004 11:17:37 GMT

Hey. I'm breaking my no drinking rule. (No drinking, then posting.) I don't care. I'm really happy. My favorite Denver dj was playing at Amsterdam (the local afterhours club). Kostas. He had been dark, dark, dark for awhile, but he was ever so sweet tonight.

He has amazing control. He extends the pretty parts. You know: those pauses, between the thumper music, when everybody stops dancing and rests for a minute. I don't get that. That's the best part. Don't get me wrong, I love the frenetic music, when it builds and builds, harder and rougher and frantic and you're just pounding, pouding, pounding it out . . .

But then it climaxes, and the sweet, soft, pretty part eases in, and that's all the better. Like sex. I like the holding afterward even better than the sex. Really. It's a close call, I love them both intensely, but the holding . . . That's the sweetest part of life there is. Just to hold another person, a sweet boy, a man you care about, feel some affection for, hold him in your arms, just nestled together, two distant islands nuzzling together and sharing the universe together for a few sweet moments. I like that.

I like dancing, too. Especially the sweet parts. Same thing.

There were nice guys there tonight. They appreciated it. A whole bunch of them.

It started out slowly, it was an off-night at the main danceclub, the one that peaks around midnight, the one that sells alcohol, stays open till 2. They had an out of town dj last week, so apparently it was packed then--I was in Seattle--and this was the inevitable down weekend after.

Amsterdam gets going around 2, though, and it fills up with a lot of the hardcore dancers from the other club who haven't wrenched it all out of their veins yet, but it has its own private crowd, too. It was so, so slow at the start, lots of people on the sidelines, nobody filling the dancefloor, hardly anybody taking their shirt off.

But then it changed. I'm not sure why, maybe it was Kostas lifting the mood skyward with his pitch-perfect inflections. But it happened, it was magical tonight, that's the feeling I live for.

I didn't have to go home with anybody tonight, just a few friends I drove home, it wasn't about that. It was sharing the joy and the ecstasy of life on the dancefloor.

I believe in God. I believe in God because I feel him on the dancefloor. On the sixth day, just before He rested, He looked around, saw something was missed, paused a moment and created the dancefloor.

He'll never top that one. Ever. And I'll be eternally grateful.

While I played . . .

Mon, 16 Feb 2004 02:31:19 GMT

I was so busy staying up all night all weekend, I failed to notice a dam rupturing in the gay marriage battle.

I can't believe men are marrying each other in San Francisco this weekend. Women, too. Their flooding into city hall, deputizing marriage commissioners.

Apparently the revolution can proceed without me.

If only I had something to add. I'm not sure what business I've got posting without an original thought in my head, but I can't resist the chance to gush. This is freaking exciting.

It was sweet to picture the two octagenarian lesbians finally getting legal after 51 years (fourth paragraph from the bottom). That can be a new goal for me: beat their record, married before I turn 80.

Heeheehee. Convenient how they might actually have this thing wrapped up before I'm ready to partake four decades from now. Should I be getting scared, though? The whole purpose of going gay was supposed to be escaping the whole committment thing.

Kind of personally ironic that I was out there acting terribly single through the midst of it. I gotta tell you, though, I sure did enjoy acting single this weekend. Friday night was kinda underwhelming, but Saturday was a blast. I still owe you a report on that, but I gotta warn you, this time I'll be leaving out the good stuff. It's private this time. (See, I do have boundaries.)

Back to marraige--had to smile at this line for the Washington Post piece:

There were no protesters. Someone carried a sign: "50 Percent of State Marriages End in Divorce. Are You Worried We Can Do Better."

Arbitrary Calendrical Designation Change Night

Wed, 07 Jan 2004 02:45:24 GMT

Yeah, this is late, so don't read it. It always takes me awhile to figure out what I think about things, and then my blog was down. So now, belatedly, the post you could have read in the comments half a week ago:

Arbitrary Calendrical Designation Change Night is easily the dumbest holiday of the year. Even when I was young I knew this, but I didn't care, because any excuse for a party. And the more people at the party, the better.

Then I got older and decided not necessarily. Better off without a lot of the party-deadweight out for amateur night.

But this year, I was back to the old idea. Cause I was in Chicago, no so much looking to meet Mr. Right as hook up. And more noncharging hookers available.

But I was right the second time.

But I enjoyed it anyway. And how kind of Margaret Cho to sum up so many of my thoughts on the matter. Like this:

Being left alone as the clock strikes 12 is considered the height of loneliness and desolation and predicts a future filled with studio apartments filled with stray cats and a 13" black and white television propped up on outdated phone books. To escape that desperate feeling, I would do just about anything, only to realize, the reality of selling myself short to accommodate a kind of societal 'deadline,' was worse than staying home in the first place.

All I was shooting for this year was the afterglow crowd. Just waited around to the shit started going after midnight. I was in my car looking for a parking space at midnight, and was relieved to get the stupid countdown over with without participating. My two laments were, 1) I wanted to be in my sister's apt getting liquored up to make the most of the midnight to 4 a.m. playtime, before the Chicago clubs had to close, and 2) I wanted to put my feet up.

Luckily, many poor suckers were just waiting around for the stoopid toast, and at 12:04 a guy ran out of his party and I grabbed his spot.

I never really made resolutions, but this year I am making up a bit of a plan. Like a To Do list for getting myself to NY, and a couple other things I want to get going this year. More on that once the blog is back up. For now, more good stuff from Margaret:

I said to myself, year after year, "This year is going to be different. It is going to be my year. It is my turn now." And right after that, I usually passed out. But really, when I was just getting that fucked up, nothing really changed, and yet I kept expecting things to, like to say it at midnight was to cast a spell, to have fate lend me a hand, when truly there would be no change unless it was by my own hand. I wasted a lot of time practicing misplaced magic, thinking that these rituals and holidays had a kind of power on their own, as opposed to realizing that we are responsible for our own superstitions, traditions, beliefs - even if it just a social desire.

Worn out but going out

Sun, 14 Dec 2003 05:02:59 GMT

I am so freaking beat.

Not sure what the problem is. Altitude? Haven't been back in Denver for two weeks, guess I lost my (tude?) Or just worn out from (nearly) two weeks straight without a break. Or cause I haven't done any aerobic exercize in a coon's age? Or cause I worked out hard Thursday, for the first time in 3 weeks, and half my muscles are screaming at me? Or cause I'm just getting over a cold?

But I was better yesterday, much better. Just slogging through it cause I had to for work?

All week I've been looking forward to tonight, though. My one night out, my one big dance night, won't be back in Denver for a weekend for three weeks. It better be fun.

So I'm pulling it together, finally, counting on a couple shots, maybe a couple red bulls, the throbbing sounds and some hot little bodies and . . .

I'm counting on finding a way to rally. I really need it, you know.

Full report tomorrow. Hopefully, I promise.

The darkness passes . . .

Sun, 07 Dec 2003 20:32:02 GMT

. . . in my little corner of the world.

And I just relearned an old, old lesson I learned about myself long ago:

I don't mind working long hours. I don't mind staying at work till 10 or 1 or 4:30 a.m., plowing through whatever needs to be tackled and accomplishing it. I've done all three of those in the last few weeks, and the really late ones make me groggy the next day, but no big deal. In fact, I get a great feeling of accomplishment from it, assuming I have accomplished something, which is nearly always the case. But . . .

But the weekends, I really need some sort of break. Especially when I've just pulled a longass night or two. But even if I haven't. I just need a break from it.

I can also do other work all weekend. I can pay my bills, work out home financial stuff, write if I've been consulting, consult if I've been writing . . . Just not the same dredging through the muck I've been dredging through all week.

But I think also being alone in the suburbs with no one to see or talk to in person and nothing to do but maybe work out and watch horrible late-night/weekend TV makes it all the worse. Especially when I never had time to work out. Bleak, bleak, bleak.

Then everything that happened stuck in my craw and pissed me off. My boss wasn't hassling much at all really, just a bit, but it was enough to infuriate me when I was already slogging through their crap while they were out having fun. I never did like getting left out.

And it doesn't help that the rest of my life is still all so up in the air.

At least I've figured out one thing. Moving here to the Chicago suburbs full time would just be suicide. What on earth was I thinking. I still didn't even get to telling you about that possibility, but just as well, cause now it's off the table.

Hate, hate, hating my life. Intermittently.

Sun, 07 Dec 2003 02:42:10 GMT

Ugh. Stuck in Chicago for the weekend with no one to see; working most of the day, breaking for dinner and ready to head back; boss hassling me the past couple days, getting jacked around and frustrated . . . and of course I'm not writing. Even TV . . . God, how do you people manage without Tivo? How the hell am I going to keep myself company alone in this place without anything to watch? Only a few hours of good stuff on a day--what's the chance it will be on when I'm watching? Most of this crap is horrible! And so many commercials these days. Why would I want to waste my time on that shit?

Just got to suck it up for six months. Can I stand it? After that, just a week or two a month. I can take a week or two at a time, but on and on and on? Hasn't even been that long.

Maybe it's better to fly back each weekend. At least this way I come out feeling rested.

Actually, I guess it's been nearly two months. Guess I'm making progress. And I enjoy it a lot of the time, just not these deadly weekends plus the stress.

Last weekend was so nice. I just hate the idea of living weekend to weekend again. Five days to get two is not a good deal.

I sure don't feel like celebrating no holidays. Don't want to paste on a smile, don't want to see nobody, just want to gut it out and get it over with. All those holidays are just unpaid days I fail to get out of this hole.

Just wish I could go to sleep and wake up next May. In New York. With my debts paid off. And a new boyfriend.

It will get better, it will get better . . .

I guess in a flash it will be May. I'll just be a little bit older, a little bit closer to death.

(Sorry, gotta whine at least once a week lately. If I dont' vent it here, I'll explode all over the sofa.)