Fuck Your Guns

I hope you’re happy, Mr. Gun.

Ten more people are dead. Their lives are over. End of the road. Dead.

Why is that?

Well, the simple answer is because some madman decided to make a community college his shooting range. The complex answer—the uncomfortable answer, the answer that lots of people don’t want to acknowledge—is that those people are dead because of the United States Constitution.

‘Merica!

Why on Earth are we letting the second amendment run our lives? Crap! Wait. I forgot a letter. I. Why on Earth are we letting the second amendment ruIn our lives?

You shouldn’t have a gun. Period. Yes, I’m talking to you.

Calm down. I’m sure you’re smart. (You read this blog after all.) I’m sure you’re a good person. I’m sure you don’t wish anyone harm. But still, you shouldn’t have a gun. Why the hell do you need a gun? Is anything in this world a better example of the dichotomy between need and want than a gun?

There’s a comedian from Australia (down under!) named Jim Jefferies. He does a bit about guns in America.

See, the thing is, to the 6.68 billion people in the world who aren’t American, we look like a bunch of damn wackos. And actually, to half of the 318 million Americans we look like wackos, too. So really you’re only looking at 159 million people, or 2.2% of the world’s population who sees nothing wrong with this.

Anyway, Mr. Jefferies points out that there’s really only one good reason to own a gun: because you like guns. Guns are cool.

Sorry, Billy the Kid, that ain’t good enough.

Your guns aren’t going to protect you from a tyrannical government. This ain’t 1776 and you’re not George Washington.

Your guns aren’t going to protect you from an intruder. This ain’t the movies and you’re not Paul Kersey. (Maybe Paul Kersey isn’t a household name, so let me explain. It’s the name of Charles Bronson in the Death Wish movies. Capisce?)

Your guns aren’t going to provide sustenance for your family. This ain’t the frontier and you’re not Davy Crockett.

So that leaves the hobby argument. You should have guns because guns are cool and fun to shoot. Well…I’m about as anti-gun as any person could possibly be. A couple of months ago, just for fun, and out of curiosity, my wife and I went to a shooting range. We paid good money to rent a gun (actually that’s a lie because the dude working at the gun range had a crush on my wife so he didn’t charge the $30 gun rental fee), buy some ammo (we did pay for that, and I feel tough just saying ammo instead of ammunition), and a few targets.

We went into the fortified basement and shot 50 rounds of a 9 mm. The dude working there discouraged us from using anything smaller than a 9mm because he said it would be like shooting a BB gun. And for the love of God, if there’s anything worse than shooting a BB gun when you could be shooting a real live gun, then I don’t know what it is.

My wife and I took turns shooting, and we both came to the same conclusion: we were glad we did it, but we’ll never go back.

Here’s what shooting is and what guns are: it’s squeezing a trigger, hearing a loud noise, and then seeing a hole. Boy that sounds fucking great, doesn’t it? How about we take all those old Nintendo guns from the Duck Hunt games, retrofit them with a loud pop, bang, boom type of noisemaker, and then invent some targets that just create holes in random places. BOOM! The shooting experience duplicated!

And the good news? Perhaps the best news ever. No one has ever died from getting shot with a Duck Hunt gun.

Most of you gun owners wouldn’t know the difference. Give you a bang and a hole, and what difference does it make? It’s not like you can see the bullet flying through the air.

My brother-in-law is a gun enthusiast. He has a lot of them. He likes to shoot them. He also just happens to be one of the coolest, best people I know. I’d trust the lives of my four children in his hands any day of the week. He’s one of the raddest, nicest, most responsible dudes I know.

But I don’t think he should have guns. I’m not worried about him shooting anyone. I’m not worried about him selling his guns to some hoodlums. But still, why does he need guns? He’s a badass. I’m quite certain he could just beat the shit out of some shady intruder in his house, as long as the intruder didn’t have a gun either. (And maybe we can get him one of those new fangled Duck Hunt guns.)

So that’s the answer. No one should have guns.

But wait Mr. Dry it in the Water, Americans have .888 guns per person in the country. How the hell are you going to get rid of all of those guns?

Good question.

Maybe we should let these people keep their guns. You want guns? Buy, steal, inherit guns until your heart’s content. Have all the guns you want.

Just give me the bullets. Maybe not even the bullets. How about the gunpowder?

I don’t know how guns work. I’m not a gun nut/ gun fetishist. But there’s gunpowder in there somewhere, right? Let’s outlaw bullets and make gunpowder cost like $100,000 per ounce.

Problem solved, no?

Was the shooter in Oregon rich? If he couldn’t get bullets, and he couldn’t get gun powder for less than $100,000 per ounce, then he would have had to be rich to kill 10 people, right?

Look, I understand that you think the second amendment is cool, and it makes you free, and all that shit. But there are 26 other amendments that make you free and don’t result in the death of innocent people. Ain’t nobody ever died from a prohibition on quartering troops (third amendment) or a trial by jury (seventh amendment).

You think the second amendment is the big one protecting your rights? Try getting rid of some of the other amendments and see how that works. Let’s get rid of the one that lets women vote. Or that lets eighteen-year-olds vote. Or that removes prohibition. Or that prohibits cruel and unusual punishment.

Here’s the thing…the number of people who have died because of those amendments is a minute fraction of the people who have died because of the second amendment.

So fuck your guns.

And fuck the second amendment.

Sometimes Lost Friends are the Best Friends

I’ll give you one guess who was the most popular kid in Carl Sandburg Elementary school in Springfield, Illinois from August 1983 through October 1987. Here’s a hint, I’m probably the only person you know who attended that school during those years.Ding, ding, ding. You’re right! I was the most popular kid in school during those years. From the time I started kindergarten until I moved away in fourth grade, I was Mr. Popularity.One day in first grade, when we were running outside to start recess, I fell on the blacktop. The coolest fourth grader in the school stopped running and came over to see if I was okay. Another time during recess, I was on the ground as six or seven third grade girls kicked me. Out of respect and kindness. Seriously. It wasn’t bullying. They just really liked me. (Elementary school’s weird, yo!)During my time at Sandburg, I made quite a few friends. After all, that’s what popular kids do. After I moved away, I lost touch with all of them. In recent years, thanks to the miracle of Facebook, and me returning to the school for the ceremony opening a time capsule twenty-five years after it was planted, I’ve reconnected with a couple of friends. I haven’t talked to Sam much, but Stephen and I correspond every now and then, and I’m very thankful to know what he’s up to.There’s one other kid who I’ve wondered about for the twenty-eight years since I moved away from Springfield. His name was Devon. I don’t remember his last name. All I remember is he pronounced his name Duh-von, as opposed to Dev-in, which is how I’ve always heard Devon pronounced since then.Devon lived in my neighborhood, and we rode the bus together for a few years. I vividly remember sitting in the front seat of the bus with him when we were in kindergarten and trying to hide from the bus driver.As we grew older, Devon and I stayed close. We sat next to each other on the bus, played together at school, and ran around the neighborhood together. He was great at tetherball, and we always had fun goofing off in gym class.At the time, Sandburg Elementary was tremendously diverse, although it never occurred to us. I was a white kid, and Devon was black, and I had a bunch of other black friends, but I can’t ever remember thinking this was unusual. When we moved to northwest Indiana and I went to a new school and saw only white kids I actually asked a kid on my first day of school, “Where are all the black kids?”That’s the first time it occurred to me that maybe not every school was like Sandburg.I’ve thought of Devon often since then. I have no idea if he was a good student. I don’t ever remember going to his house, so I don’t know what his family was like. All I remember is that he was funny, he was nice, and he kicked ass at every game we played.I often wonder what he’s doing today. We’ve lived a long time since we last saw each other. So many life experiences, so much growth, so many opportunities. But also so many chances for hardships, so many obstacles to overcome, so many chances to take a wrong turn. I’d love to know which path Devon ended up on. I hope it’s a good one.As much as I wish I could talk to Devon, I take some comfort in the fact that I can’t talk to him. Knowing the reality of how he turned out might disappoint me. What if he’s a jerk? What if he’s in prison? I think I’d rather not know, and just assume he’s living a great, noble, fulfilling life.I’ve seen how some childhood friendships devolve over decades, and I’d prefer that Devon and I remain nine-years-old in my mind forever. That way I don’t have to wonder how he’ll betray me, or witness the pitiful disassembling of his priorities. I won’t grow to be sickened just by hearing his name, or seeing his face. I won’t wonder how we ever became friends in the first place, or how I could be so dumb to think him worthy of my friendship, my time or even my scorn.He won’t end up the focus of the only thing worse than hatred: indifference.I wonder about Devon all the time. And I’m perfectly happy to just keep wondering.This was was written as part of ChicagoNow's monthly writing exercise, in which we're given a topic and have one hour in which to write a post. Tonight's topic: "Write about a friend or acquaintance from your childhood with whom you’ve lost touch"PREVIOUS POST: Take Your Kids to the ParkIF YOU LIKED THIS POST I BET YOU'LL ALSO LIKE: I Wish I Could Live my Kids' Dreams+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

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Take Your Kids to the Park

Today was one of those days that we’ll dream about in the middle of January. Sunny, mid-seventies, only some gorgeous, puffy cumulus clouds in the sky. The word perfect was invented for days like this.And, of course, I had to spend the day at work. Damnit!However, when the kids got home from school my wife had the presence of mind to take them to the park. These days are always nice, but in late September, when the chill of autumn air permeates the night, and the first frost is just around the corner, days like this should be enjoyed even more.They were back from the park when I got home from work. My daughter was drawing a picture for me. One son was working on homework, the other finishing his dinner. “We had so much fun!” my four-year-old daughter told me when I asked her about the park.My older son spent the rest of the evening working on homework that he put off until the last minute. When he complained that it was time for bed shortly after he finished, my wife reminded him that they’d spent a long time at the park and he’d already had plenty of fun.At this time of year some fun at the park comes before getting homework done. Maybe that’s not the best parenting, but who cares? The homework’s going to be there later. A day like today might not be.Fellow ChicagoNow blogger Mary Tyler Mom devotes all of September to childhood cancer awareness. She lost her daughter, Donna, to cancer. Throughout the month she reposts a series of posts she wrote chronicling Donna’s cancer journey.On her Facebook page, today’s post included the following: ‘I said to her, "You know, Donna, I've noticed a lot lately that you don't always listen to me. I have to repeat myself and it's frustrating." Her response, quick as a whip, was, "You know, Mama, I want to go to the park every day and sometimes it rains."If you can take your kids to the park, take them.’Other than Donna’s uncommonly genius retort, the beauty of that post is the advice at the end: If you can take your kids to the park, take them.Good God, is there any advice more simple, yet more profound than that?At the surface it’s such a simple idea. But if you think about it for a moment, the weight of such an idea is impressive.“If you can…” That phrase means one thing to most people, but it means something entirely different to someone whose child has died from cancer. Embedded in those three words is the idea that we shouldn’t take anything for granted. “If you can…” It might as well say, “If you can—and if you can you should be thankful—…”“If you can…” then count your blessings, because there’s a whole bunch of people who can’t.And the rest of that piece of advice, “take them to the park, take them,” reminds us to engage with our kids.My wife took our kids to the park because they like to go to the park and they like to spend time with her. At some point in the not-too-distant future, my kids aren’t going to be so gung-ho about going to the park. They’re not going to enjoy the walk, the wide-open green space, the playground, the small pond and the fish and turtles that inhabit it. At some point going to the park with their mom is going to be a chore.But until then, we need to take our kids to the park. Spend time with them. There’s no substitute for spending time with our kids. No presents can make up for hours and minutes. And lest you think that time spent with your children isn’t important, just try not spending time with them and see how they turn out. I bet you won’t like it.I don’t mean to boil all of this down to parenting advice. It’s not parenting advice. It’s life advice.“If you can…”All of us can think of someone that we took for granted before, and for whom “If you can” has turned into “Now I can’t.” And is there anything sadder than that?So “If you can…” then you absolutely should.Because someday it will be too late to take them to the park.PREVIOUS POST: She's Not My Stepdaughter, She's My DaughterIF YOU LIKED THIS POST I BET YOU'LL ALSO LIKE: Why I Secretly Hope my Kids Won't Listen to Me+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

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She's Not My Stepdaughter, She's My Daughter

My stepdaughter turned eighteen a couple of months ago. Legally speaking I suppose she’s an adult. Practically speaking, she’s just like every other eighteen-year-old, straddling the line between childhood and adulthood. She’s out of high school, just started cosmetology school, and is working on figuring out the rest of her life.Today is National Stepfamily Day. I didn’t know such a day existed until someone on Facebook mentioned it. Technically speaking, my daughter is my stepfamily. I’ve never thought of her that way though.I’ll refer to her as my stepdaughter here, but just for clarity. I’ve never told anyone I have a stepdaughter. I have a daughter.I met my stepdaughter when she was two-and-a-half years old. Her mother and I started dating, and her biological father chose to exclude himself from her life. We got off to a rocky start; she ripped the earing out of her mother’s ear on our first date because she didn’t want to get into the car with me. She soon warmed up though, and we grew to love each other.Over the past fifteen years I’ve watched her mature from that little toddler, into a little girl, a pre-teen, a teenager, and now creep up on the verge of adulthood. And while her biological father has made a few brief cameo appearances over the years, I’ve been here the whole time.When she had lice in first grade, I sat on the front step and picked it out of her hair. When she got in trouble at a friend’s house in third grade, I went to that friend’s house in the middle of the night and picked her up. When she had field trips at school, and her mother couldn’t go, I went with her.When she struggled with math I spent hundreds of hours helping her study. When she argued with her mother, I told her to calm down. When she got a little too crazy about boys, I told her to back off. When she needs to be picked up or dropped off, I’m there.We’ve had difficult times, too. We’ve just ended a period of five or six years during which I’m quite sure she didn’t even like me. She barely tolerated me, and I didn’t do much better in how I acted toward her. We continue to have misunderstandings during which she takes things too personally, and I’m not sensitive enough.But more than anything what I want her to realize is that the difficulties between us aren’t stepfather/stepdaughter difficulties. They’re father/daughter difficulties. She and I have battles similar to those she has with her mother. They’re the problems that arise when a teenager tries to assert her independence, and when a parent continues to try to provide guidance, sometimes in a way that comes off as condescending, impatient, or just plain dickish.She doesn’t remember a time in her life before I was around. I’m the biological father of her two little brothers and her little sister, and although she calls me Brett (a remnant from when she was little and we first met), and the little kids call me dad, that’s about the only difference in our relationships.I’m proud of the young woman she has become, and of the steps she’s taking to figure out who she is and what she wants to do. I frequently shake my head in disbelief that her biological father could ever have deserted her.Unfortunately, men desert their children and their families all too often, which helps create step-families in the first place. We'd all be better off if more people tried to fix their families instead of deserting them.Two of the proudest things in my life have been that I’ve been able to step in and be my “step” daughter’s father, and that my children will never have to live without me in their lives for even one day, no matter what happens.Although the legal connection between my stepdaughter and me is by marriage, there are more important things in this world than legal connections.She’s my daughter, and she always will be.PREVIOUS POST: 1% is Very SmallIF YOU LIKED THIS POST I BET YOU'LL ALSO LIKE: My Daughter Graduated High School?+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

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1% Is Very Small

Yesterday CNN released a poll that showed 32% of registered Republican voters support Donald Trump for president. If the Republican primaries were held tomorrow I’d be worried about that number. However, Trump has plenty of time to implode, and for voters to grow tired of his craziness. At some point—hopefully before they go into the voting booth—those 32% are going to realize that President Trump is a horrendous idea.However, it’s not the voters, or Trump or the 32% that caught my eye. I’m more interested in the other end of the spectrum.There are three candidates—Lindsey Graham, Bobby Jindal and Rick Santorum—who polled at 1%. One percent! That’s a “Why bother?” number. I haven’t even declared myself to be a candidate for president and I’m statistically tied in the polls with those three yahoos.But all three will continue to chug on, I suppose. They’ll try to get their message out there and convince voters that they’re the right person for the job. But they don’t have much of a chance of success. One percent is nothing.How nothing is it? Well consider these other examples of 1% and see for yourself.Let’s begin with the most well-known 1%: those people not included in the Occupy movement’s 99%. All of us like to think that we’re in the 99%. We’re not those super-rich folks hording all the wealth. And if you make less than $343,927 per year, you are indeed in the 99%. So pick 100 taxpayers at random across the U.S. and you’ll find one who makes more than that. When you find him or her, be nice, just in case they don’t have any heirs.There’s also a 1% chance that the random person on the motorcycle in front of you is part of a criminal motorcycle gang. Although they don’t call themselves criminal gangs, they prefer the term outlaw. It probably makes them feel more like Jesse James, or Bonnie and Clyde or Billy Clanton from the O.K. Corral. And lest you think that I’m down on motorcyclists, that 1% number comes from the American Motorcycle Association itself.Have you been part of the 1% rule on the internet? You probably have, but you just don’t know it. The 1% rule states that 99% of people who visit a website just read content and leave, while 1% participate in the site, either by leaving a comment or creating new content. I’ve found that to be roughly true for this blog. Look at the number of comments below, multiply by 100, and that’s approximately how many people have read the post. It’s not exact, but it’s a good estimate.Reviews on Amazon work roughly the same way. Want to know how many copies a particular book has sold. Look at the total number of reviews, multiply by 100, and you’ll be pretty close.So people love obtaining information from the internet, but very few take the time to provide anything back to the internet.How many people in the world stutter? I’ll give you one guess. Yes, you’re right! 1%. Most people probably know one person that stutters, but I’d bet few people know two people who stutter. One percent just is not a very big number.I found a very surprising one percent example. The percentage of extra-marital affairs that result in a marriage lasting at least five years is just 1%. When analyzed, the reasons behind such a low number make perfect sense.When the excitement of a new affair ends, the couple is left to face the same problems that every other married couple faces, plus additional problems because of how their relationship began. And when the first instinct of a person who faces difficulties is to cut-and-run, it’s no surprise that only 1% of those relationships end up happily ever after.But still, 1% is 1%. It’s something at least. That couple could last. That biker could shoot at you because you’re in his territory. The next person you encounter on the street could be rich.And Rick Santorum could win the Republican presidential nomination.Turns out, 1% is really small. It’s like…zero. Only a little, itty-bitty, tiny, bit better.PREVIOUS POST: Does Handwriting Matter?IF YOU LIKED THIS POST I BET YOU'LL ALSO LIKE: Motorcycle Gang Wars Seem Silly to Me+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

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Does Handwriting Matter?

When I was in third grade, our teacher, Mrs. Hall, handed out pens to students whose cursive writing was exceptionally neat. I remember being very disappointed one day because I thought I’d been doing well, but didn’t get a pen. I can’t recall if I ever got a pen or not.I’m sorry to say that my cursive writing hasn’t improved much since third grade.Although I like to write, I tend to rush instead of taking my time, which results in a somewhat messy penmanship. If I really take my time, my writing will be a little neater, but it also doesn’t really look like mine.I’ve been thinking about writing lately because I’ve handwritten some letters and I keep a small journal that I write by hand. For years I kept a daily journal by hand, but I switched to typing it a few years back when I realized that capturing the thought had become more important to me than the style in which the thought was captured.However, I think handwriting is tremendously important and I suspect it’s become sort of a lost art.With our emphasis on computers and electronics for communication, I’m sure that many of us go entire days without actually writing complete sentences by hand.Does this matter?I think it does.Handwriting is personal. Everyone’s handwriting is unique and I can look at writing and not even look at what the words say and I’ll know it’s mine. (If you'd like to read this blog post in my handwriting, click here.)An aside: What’s the point of an unreadable signature? Aren’t signatures supposed to indicate that a particular person has seen or agreed to something? If I sign my name as (unintelligible scratch) how the hell does anyone know that I’m the one who signed it? Sure, I could verify that it’s my signature, but if I’m there to verify then they don’t need my signature in the first place. When did unreadable signatures become the cool standard?In my various jobs over the years I’ve noticed that the great majority of people use a gibberish signature. I don’t think it makes them look cool or important. Instead it makes me think that they think that they’re so busy that they can’t take the time to sign their name legibly. I’m sure some think their nonsense signatures are their own unique style that separates them from everyone else. The irony, of course, is that anyone can duplicate some non-descript squiggles, but it’s more difficult to copy a legible signature.Handwriting also forces us to think. It takes longer than typing, so we have to think about what we want to say as we’re constructing the sentence. Plus, there’s the actual physical act of writing. We use more of our brain to tell our fingers to make the slight movements to form letters than we do to tell them to simply press down on keys.Our handwriting also can remind us of when something was written. I recently wrote a letter over the course of ten hours during which I was sober, partially drunk, drunk, tired, and then well-rested. My handwriting changed throughout.Decades from now I might look at this post and think that it looks like a young person’s writing. No doubt I can tell when an old person has written something.I also think handwriting is much more personal than allowing some predesigned font to convey a message. Not only does the unique writing style of a person come through, but since writing takes longer, we’re actually giving more of ourselves when we write something than when we type it.I’m not foolish enough to think that we’ll ever go back to a time when people write more than they type. But I think we’d all benefit from writing at least a few hundred words by hand everyday.Warning: You probably have not written by hand regularly in quite some time. Your writing muscles have grown lazy. Don’t let this stop you. Write a little everyday and the soreness will disappear.And for the love of all that is holy, please sign your name so a stranger can read it!PREVIOUS POST: Usefulness Can Be Short-LivedIF YOU LIKED THIS POST I BET YOU'LL ALSO LIKE: How I (Don't) Write+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

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Usefulness Can Be Short-Lived

I’m not working Monday. It’s Labor Day. The irony of not working on Labor Day is not lost on me. Perhaps the holiday should more correctly be called Rest Day. Or No Labor Day. Or even, Why Are We Off Again Day.I guess we deserve the day off. We work hard, but generations of people before us worked even harder. And even though they worked hard they still found time to form a movement that brought us all sorts of cool things like the weekend, overtime, elimination of child labor, and benefits.Yeah, Labor Day’s cool.Most of us will go back to work on Tuesday and not think about Labor Day again until next September. Whatever work we do is going to be there Tuesday, and it’ll probably be there the day after that, and the day after that. If we’re lucky the work we do will be around for a long time.We like to be useful. Of course we like to make money, too, but we do all want to be useful.In thinking about Labor Day, and how hard and long people work, I started thinking about those things whose period of usefulness is short. If humans had a period of usefulness as short as many of the things that came to mind, we’d feel rather insignificant.Like the drink carrier, for instance. With six people in my family, when my wife and I go to the drive-thru at McDonald’s for the $1 large Diet Coke, we end up with half a dozen drinks. Inevitably when I pull up to the window the well-meaning soul has our drinks in a drink carrier.I’m always quick to decline the carrier, simply take the drinks, pass them out, and hand the carrier back to the worker. What the hell am I supposed to do with a drink carrier? Its useful life is literally less than thirty seconds. Hold the drinks. Give up the drinks. Then what? Get thrown in the garbage? What a waste.Paper towel. This is a big one. I understand the sanitary necessity of paper towel, and I use them in public places. I try to avoid them at home though, if at all possible. It just seems like such a waste, especially for drying purposes. Take the towel, dry your hands, throw it in the garbage. What a short life!Instead of drying my hands with paper towel I frequently dry them on my pants, which drives me crazy, but I still do it. If I’m washing dishes I’ll dry my hands on my pants so many times that they’ll be soaked and then I’ll wonder how I got so wet. But at least I didn’t have to use paper towel.Most packaging has a ridiculously short useful span as well. Is there any item more discarded these days than the small brown Amazon.com box? Frequently that box doesn’t even make a pit stop in our house. We’ll get it from the front step, grab our stuff out of it, and open the backdoor to throw it in recycling right away.The recycling part is good, I suppose, but still, I wonder if the box feels let down after finally reaching its destination and coming to the realization that its usefulness is complete. Probably not. I don’t think boxes have feelings.I mentioned above that if humans had periods of usefulness as short as some items that we’d feel rather insignificant. But I think some of us do experience such a period of short usefulness.Often we’re around to serve one purpose. When that purpose (making someone laugh, helping someone through a difficult time, doing someone’s dirty work, tasting their food to be sure they’re not being poisoned, etc.) is complete, our usefulness to the other person is often complete.We have one advantage over the Amazon.com box though. We have feelings and brains, so we know that we were useful. Even though we’re not needed anymore, we served a purpose.It can be a rude awakening to discover that we were only useful for a short period of time. But hey, just be glad you're not a drink carrier.PREVIOUS POST: Can We Please Stop Describing Food as Sexy?IF YOU LIKED THIS POST I BET YOU'LL ALSO LIKE: It's Too Late When It's Gone+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

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Can We Please Stop Describing Food as Sexy?

I like food. It tastes good, it smells good, it makes me happy. Although I lean vegetarian, I do enjoy all types of food from time-to-time, including dead animal flesh (or meat as we call it in our sanitized food vernacular).I watch cooking shows, and one of the things that’s always mentioned on cooking competition shows is that we begin eating with our eyes. If we’re lucky we can smell good food before we even see it, but we always see it before we taste it. And everyone wants to eat food that looks good, and avoid food that looks gross.(Two exceptions to this rule: guacamole and refried beans. Both look horrid, but taste great when done correctly. I lost more than two decades of consumption of those two foods because I judged those two culinary “books” by their covers. I draw the line at shrimp and lobster though. No way in hell am I eating those disgusting cockroaches of the sea.)So I understand why it’s so important for food to look good. When faced with the choice of eating a plate of lasagna that looks freshly made versus one that looks like it’s been sitting in the refrigerator for four days, we’ll obviously choose the one that looks freshly made.And because I watch Food Network Star, I know how important it is to have good words to describe food. Saying something is delicious is worthless. Ice cream’s delicious. Roasted Brussels sprouts are delicious. Ice cream and Brussels sprouts don’t taste the same though.That’s why we need to be able to explain that strawberry ice cream is sweet, creamy, and velvety, with chunks of frozen, fragrant, tart strawberries. And roasted Brussels sprouts are earthy, almost nutty, and pleasantly fragrant.See, isn’t that better than just saying delicious?I’m all for employing a plethora of adjectives when describing food, but for the love of God, can we stop calling food sexy?It seems that in almost every episode of a cooking competition show, one of the contestants or judges breaks out the word sexy to describe a dish. Last night I was watching Masterchef, and Graham Elliot, who knows a little something about food, described a tomato napoleon dish as sexy.The food looked good. I’m sure it smelled good. I wish that I could have eaten it, and if I find the recipe for it I might try to make a tomato napoleon of my own. But I’ve yet to see food that looks sexy.It could be that people who use the word sexy to describe food don’t intend the Oxford English Dictionary primary meaning of “containing or characterized by explicit sexual content,” or even any of the secondary meanings: “Of a person (esp. a woman): sexually attractive or alluring; (also) sexually charged, highly sexed” and “Of a personal attribute, thing, etc.: characterized by sexuality or sexual appeal; sexually attractive, stimulating, or suggestive.”Perhaps they’re implying the last definition, “In extended use: appealing, stimulating; liable to excite interest.”I don’t think so though. There are often other dishes that look just as appealing, stimulating and liable to excite interest, but aren’t described as sexy. So that makes me think that when chefs and foodies use the word sexy, they mean ooh-la-la sexy.Using the word sexy to describe food sort of fits in with the decadent, fetishizing of food that’s occurred in the last decade or so. Food isn’t just food anymore. It’s art, it’s science, it’s cachet. We’ve moved from thinking of food as sustenance or as part of a communal experience, to food as the focus.And while I’m happy that more people are learning about and experiencing good food, to call any of that food sexy just seems silly. Eating food can be sexy. Cooking food can be sexy. Growing food can even be sexy, but food by itself, on a plate…not sexy.So a plate of veggie tikka masala. Not sexy. The act of surprising your wife by making veggie tikka masala because you know she likes it. Sexy.Everything that happens after that will be nothing like a tomato napoleon.PREVIOUS POST: Serious Questions For Those Who Oppose Gun LawsIF YOU LIKED THIS POST I BET YOU'LL ALSO LIKE: Penis Size is Settled, Science Asks "Now What?"+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

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