Obama: President, Celebrity, Bad Ass.

We love Obama like a fat kid loves Big Macs and grape jelly. Though the U.S. president is undoubtedly going to be a known name and face, few have been bonafide celebrities the way Barack Obama has come to be. He doubles as a pop culture icon, his face gracing so many different products and clothing, and not just the shit you find in a D.C. souvenir shop. Obama is haute couture, and we all want to be his friend.

Obama is trailblazing his way into late night television, planning to appear on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno. Would we ever have seen Bush on late night NBC (besides various impersonations highlighting his monkey-like stupidity on SNL)? Obama's appearance on Leno is going to mean so much more than one might gather at face value. Finally, we have a president with personality, a president that is actually a person and not afraid to advertise that fact. Did anyone hear Obama admitted to trying drugs when he was younger? Rather than chastising him for this, the general consensus seems to be adoration for his honesty. We have a president that does not sit on a pedestal, but rather, on a comfy chair next to a big-chinned talk show host.

What are the stigmas of being so personable and humble, while simultaneously holding the most powerful government position in the country? It seems to garner massive amounts of respect from the people that feel like Obama could have easily been their good-looking next-door-neighbor that tosses their kid's frisbees back over the fence, or better yet, stops by to toss that frisbee for a while before retreating back into his cozy, inviting, all-American house. Obama's youth, vitality, honesty and warmth (not his skin color, as so many people have focused on) have made him a vastly different president than the ones this country has experienced prior to 2008.

Nun vs. Slut.

Within females there seems to be a disparity between how we naturally are inclined to behave and how we fear we may be negatively perceived because of it. This essentially is the foundation between the dichotomies that exist in defining females: virgin vs. slut, being assertive vs. being a bitch, being free-spirited vs. being easy, and so on. If a female is able to grab the dick by the shaft and ride off into the night, is it an act of confidence or implied promiscuity ("apparently not the first time it's happened")? Why is Lil Kim a hoe, but Samantha on Sex and the City is just a woman in control? Their overlapping qualities seem to all be admirable: a flippant approach to what other people think about their decisions/actions, a no-holds-barred demeanor when it comes to discussing their sexuality, etc. No one wants a little nun ass bitch -- but it seems like if you're not a nun, you're a slut.

Most women just want to be in control. That's why Rapex exists. They want control, and want to control when and if they are controlled, which falls in line with everything we are taught to despise about our still-misogynistic society -- but does each consensual slap on the behind count as "minus one" from the countless years women have fought for progress, equality, control? We as females are torn between what we should do for the potential and probably microscopic advancement of womankind, and what we sometimes want that goes against that grain.

Every time we dress like "sluts" to go out, we are degrading ourselves, but if we're decked out in nun gear or a burqa, we don't feel cute. We go out and want male attention, but "boy please" every guy that approaches us. We want to be on top and be in charge, but end up on our backs (or even worse, with our faces pressed into a pillow). We want to be Michelle Obama, and flex our guns and intimidate men across America, but even she is secretly subservient to Barack. It's all about the power dynamic. We want to be cutesy little girls but deny that we are, and hide behind the guise of "This Is What a Feminist Looks Like" t-shirts and Bitch magazines. We want to be spanked but are well aware of the implications of accepting such. It boils down to fucking or being fucked, spanking or being spanked -- and most girls are not the dominatrix, spanking type. The spanker holds the power in his elevated, fingers-together, ready-to-strike palm. We optimally would like to manipulate this power dynamic in a way that would allow us to maintain our control and respect, so, we get spanked in the dark, and sport Michelle Obama, Amazon woman, bicep-baring, knee-length dresses during the day, and we dare you to think you are in control.

Is Facebook A Family Affair?

Scott (left), 18, must settle for posting stupid pictures such as this one taken in his Physics class, since his mother added him on Facebook.

TEMPLE HILLS, Md. -- For many high school and college students, Facebook friend requests have taken on a whole new face – the disapproving face of a parent.

Ever since the popular networking site has expanded its availability to anyone capable of typing their first and last name, an influx of people beyond the realm of partying college-goers have signed up, including professors, professionals, pre-teens, and yes, parents.

For high school senior Ricky Scott, discovering his mother was a part of the Facebook community while using her computer in January was “the fuck?”-ish.

“I don’t post anything on Facebook now,” he said. “I used to wild out on my statuses, saying ‘fuck this’ and ‘fuck that.’ Now, I just say stuff like, ‘I got into [UMD] College Park.’ I don’t use profanity, because my mother’s downstairs, and she’ll see it and be like ‘What? What is this?’”

Gone are the days of parents being technologically un-savvy, asking their children’s assistance for such menial computer-related tasks such as opening Microsoft Word or sending an E-mail on Yahoo.

Privacy settings have propelled from "option" status to "imperative, or my mom will beat my ass" status.

Scandalous profile pictures are likely to be replaced by wholesome head shots. Wall-to-wall flirting will likely be curtailed. The overall openness, promiscuity, and foul mouths of Facebook youth is now in jeopardy.

According to Scott, there are two reasons for the increase in parental presence on Facebook: nosiness and networking.

“Since they know we’re not on MySpace anymore, they hear ‘Facebook’ on the news and want to check up on us,” Scott said. “They also want to keep in touch with friends, family, and co-workers. And hook-ups for the single ones.”

Don't Be THAT Girl.

I'm thinking about writing a book, something along the lines of Sherry Argov's Why Men Love Bitches, or He's Just Not That Into You, but not as vanilla (no Drew Barrymores or Justin Longs in the movie version). The provisional title for now is Don't Be THAT Girl.

Don't be THAT girl that sends pantie pics from her camera phone to get a guy to like her. If he never texts you back, but suddenly is very interested when you picture message your vagina away, it will likely never be of greater substance. Send pictures if that's what floats your boat, if you're only looking for fun and excitement, if you want to be "naughty" and "daring." But send them under the worst case assumption that he'll think you're a hoe, and show all his friends. If you don't care what he thinks and you only want to entice his weewee, proceed. If you are looking for something of substance and are trying to gain his attention for that purpose, halt.

Don't be THAT girl that goes to dinner with no money to pay for her meal. In Dutch we trust -- although it's nice to eat for free, there's "no such thing as a free meal." A lot of guys think an expensive dinner (anything beyond the realm of Ruby Tuesday) is a down payment on your panties (same ones from the aforementioned picture message). A security deposit, if you will. I'm not saying you should pay, but you should be prepared to pay (your half, not his). Offer to pay, and if he says okay, mentally label him cheap. If he says no, at least you showed that you weren't dependent on his funds.

Don't be THAT girl that lets her "guy" borrow her debit card. Girls are sometimes so eager to please that they'll go against common sense in favor of semi-maternal inclinations. Cue "Sugar Mama" by Beyonce? Letting a guy borrow your debit card lets him know he has the upper hand. He could (not that he WOULD) spend all your fucking money, and what could you do about it? Be mad? Plus, he'll tell all his friends, and they'll all laugh at you behind your debit-card-less back. Last week someone told me, "My babymama gave me $4000 for a shopping spree." Bitch are you stupid (that question is in reference to both the guy and his girl -- am I supposed to be impressed)?

Don't be THAT girl who believes him when he says "It isn't what it looks like." It's always what it looks like. And probably more.

Feedback?

Lolita.

I'm reading Vladimir Nabakov's Lolita, and naturally (albeit creepily), I started thinking about the dynamics of statutory rape. Once a person is beyond the age of eighteen, they are free to embark on just about any romantic venture, regardless of its merit or value -- in terms of respect, love, mutualism, friendship, etc. Any younger than eighteen, though, and Chris Hansen of Dateline NBC is liable to roll out with the cameramen and cybersexy AIM transcripts.

Laws that apply age restrictions to "love" are intended to prevent the subversive desires of "adults" for "children." It's inarguable. Children in these cases are victims, whether consenting or not.

In Lolita, who was the victim, Humbert or Dolores? Hum, a child in his own right, debilitated by a tragically crippling childhood romance, was under the whim and will of the malicious, bratty, pre-pubescent apple of his eye. Is it wrong to feel sympathy for him as he recounts his tale? Though it's a far stretch in comparison to to actual statutory relations, one of the most disgusting things in the world to me is sexed up pre-teens. Not the "lolitas" that Nabakov describes as naturally emanating some allure to older men, but the 12 year old MySpacing Miley Cyrus wannabes, baring midriffs and using self-defining adjectives like "hot" and "sexy." Sexy does not exist at age 12. But if an older, knowing, manipulative man reinforces that idea to this little pseudo-nymphet, she gullibly is putty in his perverted hands. Do these girls know better, or are they simply thrilled at the adult attention? Are they aware of their apparent immaturity, or are they too busy basking in some false notion of maturity ("you're so smart for your age," "you don't look your age," etc.).

Power control is the biggest issue in these sickening scenarios. Who of the two truly has a grasp on what is going on? Who has evil intentions?


Think back to the movie Hard Candy, from Ellen Page's pre-Juno days. She played a whip-smart and malevolent adolescent, torturing a would-be online "predator," eventually forcing him to commit suicide. Feigning the role of a ditzy weak young teen girl, the man took the bait and invited her over, offering her drinks after meeting up and even permitting a little flashing of the (probably training) bra. Lolita to the ninth power, plus a murderous gaze and a fake castration? Page's character wasn't the victim, but represented the other girls who would have been (and the girl who actually was). The guy was the victim, but were we as the audience to feel sympathy for him?

What about the middle-aged white women who start relationships with their male high school students? Is their proclaimed "love" disputable due to the age differences?

What about the eighteen year old boy who has sex with a seventeen year old girl? Is that rape?

Is everything black and white, or are there shades of gray?

Awkward Endings.

New romantic adventures walk plank without TLC. Not T-Boz, Left Eye (R.I.P.) and Chilli, but tender love and care. It's like taking care of a 2-year-old; take your eyes off that kid for more than two seconds, and he's choking on a Brillo pad. Embarking on something new, romantically, requires a shitload of attention. It's hit or miss; rarely do substantial unions form from the mostly-neglected affairs of a date here and there, a couple texts and maybe one brief phone conversation per week.

Old romantic adventures can sink like the Titanic, each room slowly filling with the frigid water of dumb arguments, monotony, and the problems that won't seem to go away. Then, all of the sudden, you're floating in subarctic-temperature water, barely afloat, holding onto an icy blue hand, and you reluctantly realize that the time has come. The ship has sunk, and you have to let go. Jack is dead.

I remember times I'd dial a number, listen to each ring intently, knowing I'd get the voicemail, but mentally chanting "PLEASE DON'T ANSWER, PLEASE DON'T ANSWER" just in case he fucked up in his semi-slumber and hit the green button instead of the red. Story of my life. Why is it so easy for shit to go awkward?

Again, I reiterate -- it's so easy. One date with a coworker where I awkwardly pay for both of us before making out a little and heading to work, turns into befuddled glances, unnecessary tension, and twisted tales of what went wrong. Seven months of (mostly) exclusive sex and fun times eating Lucky Charms mixed into ice cream and drawing surreal cartoons turns into unspoken yet avid hatred. Story of my fucking life. Text someone religiously for two weeks, then barely say hello the next time we cross paths. Have a little sex, and forget it ever happened, while he makes it clear he remembers. There are just so many opportunities for things to go sour, awkward, ridiculous, dumb, or uncomfortable.

Belittling Bruises for "Love's" Sake.

My heart sank today when I heard that Rihanna is currently back together with Chris Brown, post-domestic abuse scandal.

I know it happens every day to countless numbers of women, and Rihanna's shambled love life is no more of my business than is Jane Doe's, but the situation's publicity added a whole new spin to things. Even if she did not elect to be a role model to young girls, her celebrity status makes it unavoidable. It's common for an abused woman to not press charges against their significant other; they don't want to make the issue grow larger and stickier, and they want to protect the person they "love" (despite being at the receiving end of their "loved" one's fist). I was just hoping that the limelight on Rihanna's abuse would force her to leave Chris permanently, even if her heart was still attached, for the sake of the millions of nosy and judgmental (not to mention the persuadable) onlookers of this unfortunate drama. She should have left him in the dust for the sake of the little girls who emulate and adore her, if not for herself. Abuse victims seem to always be looking through rose-colored glasses, like their situation does not echo millions of others'; they seem to believe their scenario is somehow different or unique. I'm not saying problems should be avoided, or that they are incapable of being fixed, but for the most part I am saying that Rihanna is too young to be compromising so deeply. No romance at Rihanna and Chris's age is worth this much trouble. He is the modern day R&B teenage heartthrob. He is lusted after by kazillions of bitches, ages nine to ninety. He can sing, he can dance, he can (somewhat) act (Does 'This Christmas' count? Ha). He, however, is also nineteen. He plays video games and masturbates. He is immature, temperamental, filthy rich, and spoiled - by his fancy cars (if hitting Rihanna really stemmed from her tossing out his Lambhorgini key - wtf), by his legions of female followers willing to suck it for free, by his lavish lifestyle altogether. He can have any girl he wants (sadly, even after this ordeal), but the same is true for Ri-Ri. She can do better. She has to do better.

When I was eighteen, during my first semester in college, I was involved with a severely immature dumbass. An argument turned frantic fight over a phone bill led to me being chokeslammed and crying as strangers gave me a bottle of water to drink at their dining room table while waiting for the police to arrive. The two officers were the first ones to let me know how most abuse victims function - they protect the people who failed to protect them, from physical harm and from the disappointment of crushed fairytale dreams and expectations. I never pressed charges like they urged me to do. I was sitting in his mother's car with him later on that same night, listening to his halfhearted and idiotic attempts at an apology. I was so eager to believe that he had really meant no harm, and that he loved me, and had simply made a grave mistake. We were having sex within an hour, in the driver's seat of the car. It was disgusting. I feel disgusting thinking about it. It is one of my most shameful and regrettable memories, but I want to share in hopes of someone avoiding the same bullshit. I feel like even the strongest women are susceptible to this trap. The smartest women are capable of having purely asinine lapses into "romantically" driven yet inexcusable poor decision making. It's in our human (and especially woman) nature to want to cling to what we define as love. But we don't truly know which way to walk until we aren't in our own shoes.

Is Rihanna following her heart, and advocating the perseverance of "true love," or is she stuck like a fat pig in a goopy mudhole? I vote mudhole.