Cable “News” & Church Pews

I think about this all the time, because I have relatives and peers who were — at one time — (seemingly) normal people.

But after years of exposure to Fox News and QAnon, and other things of that odious nature, their brains have rotted.

You may be thinking, That’s extreme. You don’t need to exaggerate, or be mean, or be judgmental. Be a little kinder!

No. I don’t think I will. People have already spent too much time mincing their words about a pretty serious situation. This is something that’s poisoned minds and hearts. We may as well call Fox News and QAnon Jupiter, because these folks have gone there to get more stupider.

And — in addition to acting more ignorant by the hour — these people are suffering from other diminished faculties. They’re more fearful than ever. They’re angry all of the time.

They’re also convinced that all Christians in America are secretly spied upon and persecuted, even though there are dozens of Baptist, Methodist, Church of Christ, Catholic, Episcopal, and non-denominational churches around here. None of those churches are boarded up, and they’re constantly holding events for new members. They send out postcards begging young families to bring their kids to game nights and car shows. They really try to make it a family affair.

Truthfully — and even the brainwashed folks, if they were being rational, would acknowledge this — the biggest “enemy” working against “the faith” is apathy. Many of these people have kids and grandkids who don’t have an interest in the church. Many young people also won’t go to church because they can find faith-based information and/or community in a judgment-free zone. The church is not — generally speaking — a judgment-free zone. The young people are tired of being bullied by people who think church is a competition or a fashion show. That is why they have no interest in attending a “more traditional” church. It feels too much like high school.

But the concept of “traditional values” has given these (usually older) folks something to rally around. They think that, if they could just convince their kids and grandkids to go back to church, that suddenly everything would fall into place. Lots of cherubic babies, little ones with soft curls and dimpled cheeks, would spill out of us, the young women, like lace unspooled from a slender filature.

With a Gunne-Sax dress covering my body from shoulder to ankle, and a beautiful (but silenced) baby on my hip, and a young man with an unfortunate face expression standing in front of me, I would be the model of perfect femininity. I would bend to my husband’s will, as the perfect helpmeet, and listen to whatever tidbits of nothingness he’d managed to collect from a busy day of listening to Ben Shapiro’s podcasts while he either (1) drove an air-conditioned tractor up and down the field or (2) dumped numbers into Google Sheets.

My husband and I would pretend to smile from sunup to sundown, and we would only get a break while we cried ourselves to sleep, miserable at having been paired off to meet the church’s No Husband Left Behind policy.

But on Sunday morning, with Cherubleigh on my hip, we’ll walk into church with our heads held high — but not too high, because the preacher’s daughter will inevitably be there, too. And she will expect us to know our place, as slow-witted peons who can’t afford designer clothing. She — and her peers and her daughters — will glide in wearing matching Coco Chanel and pearls, while I’m stuck in a cheap-o prairie dress that came from a virtual vanity boutique.

The boutique, of course, is run by the preacher’s wife or daughter. And that’s yet another way they expect us to tithe. I’m starting to wonder whether this money is funding the house of the Lord or the House of Chanel.

Anyway — as bleak as that sounds, I think that some people think this “return to traditional values” sounds nice and normal, simply because people are given a place to be in the world. That’s true — so long as everyone knows their place.

Nobody expects to be at the bottom of the ladder — except for me. I know that I would be placed on a bottom rung, and that I would be given a philanderer or an abuser, and that I would be expected to straighten him out or be a good little SAHM Soldier. I would be expected to tame the dishes, the mistresses, the laundry, and the insatiable libido. And I know I couldn’t do it, because my spirit would be broken.

Surprisingly — to many people — I am actually a straight woman. But I would prefer to choose things for myself, just as every living being does. Even children and the elderly like to choose things for themselves, because they are people, too.

And while it’s true that some children and some elderly folks need extra assistance, they still have the autonomy to refuse things — or to ask for an alternative option. If our ability to even have preferences is taken away from us, then I’m at a loss for what to do.

Suppose I do decide to marry a Godly young man, but I would prefer for us to attend a different church — for one reason or another. If I don’t have a say in the matter, how is that fair to me? Similarly, how is that fair to my husband and/or family, to have a sulking mother who’s on the path to becoming an apostate, all because they wouldn’t allow me to have my own thoughts and feelings?

Ah, well. They don’t care about that. These are the same people who leave “F**k your feelings!” in the comments on every Facebook posts — from the poorly-generated AI art to the AT&T ads.

While I know they don’t care about confining people to a lifetime of unhappiness, I find it odd that they think their sons and daughters, or grandsons and granddaughters, would find being a Trad Spouse Content Creator exciting. Besides, that market is beyond oversaturated by now. I can’t compete with the Ballerina Farms lady, because I’m not a ballerina and I don’t own my own farm.

I’m certainly not opposed to spirituality and faith — and I find a lot of folks find strength in their faith. But making faith a commodity and/or fodder for influencers, and making church feel like a country club, and making people feel that any Outsiders — even other Protestants — are not to be trusted?

Those are the things that have made me feel uncomfortable and unwelcome in the various churches I’ve attended or visited.

Yet there’s still this lingering idea that, if we could get every American soul — to say nothing of the bodies! into a pew on Sunday morning, that the country would experience a complete reversal of fortunes. Everyone would have a stately, ornate dining room. Everyone would have a solid gold toilet. Everyone would drive a freshly-waxed Maserati.

Well, everyone except for the people I hate!”

But enough about that.

Anyway, the folks at that terrible cable “news” network — a channel that focuses on punditry and opinion shows, a channel that rarely broadcasts actually news content — have landed on a gold mine. They know that they can pay someone to ramble about highly-emotional topics — faith, bravery, veterans, children — and that they’ll entice millions of Boomers to sweat issues that …

Frankly, these issues are best handled on a family-by-family basis. Not every family has kids — some are childless, some are childfree, some are TTC, and some have stepchildren who are only in the home half of the month, or half of the year, or only during summers. Not every family goes to the Baptist church — though some are Methodists, some are Catholics, some are not religious, and some are happily living in interfaith families. Because of this variety, there’s no one prescription to “save” all the “families” of America.

For the people who are all about states’ rights, or taking away federal power, it seems that they’d be able to understand the need to make less centralized decisions, or to give the power to choose back to the individual.

But these are the same people who ignore the “well-regulated” in front of “militia,” so I can’t be too certain they’d appreciate the irony of this situation.

To be perfectly honest, I didn’t spend a lot of time drafting this post — simply because I spend most of my time living this post. The South is, of course, where America buckles its Bible Belt. I’m used to hearing people (of all backgrounds, ages, economic classes, denominations) speak about their faith, their church, their volunteer group, or their Bible study class.

I don’t flinch. I certainly don’t insult people. I’ve even taken people up on their offers to visit their churches, because I am admittedly quite nosy, and because I have family members who’ve affiliated with nearly every denomination.

So perhaps it’s shocking when I say that church can still be isolating — and that the biggest “offenders” who have lectured people for not attending church are usually people who are themselves unchurched.

These are the people who have had their names read at a packed Sunday service, or who have argued with a preacher, or who got hopping mad when they saw that a gay couple is now “allowed” to attend services.

It’s hard not to judge the judgmental person who wants to “ban gays” from coming to church. On the other hand, it’s hard not to feel sorry for the woman who quit going to church because she had her name read — a form of public shaming — after divorcing an abusive spouse. There are all kinds of people who have left church — from the judgmental to the unfairly judged.

Through careful planning or dumb luck, the folks at Fox News — and Conservative commentators and podcasters — have landed on the magic formula: make people afraid and get them screaming-mad about feeling persecuted. The delicious irony of this, considering that their own enemies are “snowflakes.”

In fact, that was my original reason for writing this post. After seeing pushback in the wake of the Opening Ceremony — pushback to “mocking religion,” to Greek gods, to pagan priestesses — I realized we were fighting a losing battle against willful ignorance. And after calmly explaining the allusions to Greek mythology at an Olympic celebration, I realized that they didn’t even want an explanation. They’re just as bad as a playground bully who wants to fight. How childish and weirdly unnecessary. Get a better hobby than arguing on Facebook!

Now that I’ve thought about it, Rupert Murdoch has made me a more devout person. Not because I’ve bought into any of their programming. Not at all.

Instead, this wellspring of faith has come about for another reason. I hope and pray that there is a just God watching all of this nonsensical, mean-spirited programming. And I hope that God shows mercy to every person who’s suffered at the hands of someone who’s weaponized the hateful rhetoric on that channel.

I also hope that the same God who shows mercy to others smites dishonest CEOs. If that’s not too much to ask, then I will — as they say — pray on it.

Thoughts and prayers, prayers and thoughts. Pardon me for not having kind thoughts about any of the media moghuls who are trying to deliver us to evil.

Chatterboxd

When I was in high school, I just jabbered, jabbered, jabbered all the time to my grandmother, who tolerated the incessant talking and preaching.

Even at seventeen, when other girls were hanging out with their boyfriends, I would go talk to my group of girlfriends and then go bother my grandmother with stories about what had happened at our school, in our hometown, and in the news. (I didn’t spread gossip to my grandma, unless it was well-known/established gossip. Pregnancy speculation? No. Pregnancy confirmation? Yes.)

I didn’t bother any boys because I didn’t like any of the boys I went to high school with, even though many of them have grown up to be wonderful men and fathers.

It feels funny to say that – so often, men say things like wonderful women and mothers – so I’ll say it like that, for laughs.

Even now, I feel guilty. I wish I’d done more listening than talking — especially when it came to chatting with my grandmother, who had so many interesting stories to tell.

I’ll always wish I could do more listening.

Funny Girls

I had a dream that an Internet celebrity of sorts — a hot guy from a reality show who subsequently gained a massive online following — went on Twitter and posted a screenshot of a text message exchange with his girlfriend.

None of these words were in the Bible. “I” and “dream,” maybe — but the rest of it is so … Chronically-Online American English. Yeeesh.

The hot celebrity posted screenshots of their little chat, where the girlfriend left a note inside the fridge that said something like, “If you eat the last of my barbecue, then you’ll need to buy me more by the end of the day! I don’t forget or forgive!”

I can’t remember his text in response, but he sent her something — and then she wrote two extremely funny, extremely witty replies. She was fast on her feet. She was funnier than he is.

Because this was a dream, I can’t remember what her messages said. I just remember that she sent two of them back-to-back, and that the second one built off of the first, and that she was actually pretty hilarious.

It made me wonder if, in real life, a dude who’s a celebrity — who earns his living by trying to be funny and entertaining— would feel threatened by dating a woman even funnier than he is.

Not to be all Carrie Bradshaw about it, butI had to wonder. Men like to laugh at us, but do they like to laugh with us? Can a man appreciate a funny girl without getting jealous?

I’m the kind of person who’s had my senses dulled by the pandemic. I used to be fairly funny — and I feel like I honed my skills on Twitter. But between the pandemic and the decline/fall of the Twitter Empire, I feel like I never practice being funny anymore.

The only time I very intentionally try to be funny is when I submit a one-liner for the New Yorker caption contest. And even that has a (lame) element of forcing yourself to be a little more …

Not highbrow, but a little more witty than your fellow competitors. You don’t want to make an obvious joke, you know? You don’t go for the low-hanging fruit. You go for something with a little more wordplay.

Although, lately, I’ve been less than impressed with a lot of the finalists. Each week, it seems like there’s (at least) one cringe-y finalist.

But maybe I’m just bitter because I haven’t won.

I just … I remember a time when I was more funny. There was a time when my own posts made me laugh, a time when I wrote things so funny that I couldn’t believe that I wrote them. When I write posts on Bluesky or Threads, I feel like … well, like I’m being cringey. I try to write things to make the leftists on Bluesky laugh, to make the just-left-of-neoliberal Cool Moms on Threads laugh.

Occasionally, I’m rewarded with a like or a new follower. But I just haven’t rebounded — I haven’t found my sense of humor in a post-Twitter world.

By far, I’ve had more success making observational videos on TikTok and by writing observational-style “messays” (memoir essays that are only quasi-messy) over on Medium. I receive very kind and very sincere feedback on the things I post, and I appreciate all of the kindness people have shown to me.

But I sometimes worry that I will never write anything funny again. I feel like — even though I was never able to be quick-witted in person, verbally, etc., I could always post something funny online.

In 2024, I feel so … so slowhanded with my humor. I have to let a joke cook sous-vide style. So maybe I’m nervous that — should a man ever stoop to acknowledge me again — I won’t be a witty conversationalist. Maybe I’m scared than no man will ever laugh at our text exchanges, or ever feel moved to share them online.

Maybe that’s why I dreamed about this.

In the dream, I feel like the celebrity fella posted the texts because the girlfriend was extremely funny in that particular instance. She isn’t forced to perform all the time for him — I hope! — but she said something so funny that he knew he had to share it. He wasn’t jealous. He was thrilled.

I still felt a twinge of jealousy — not over him or her, but jealousy over the idea that I’ll probably never have a boyfriend who posts the hysterical things I write for him. It’s obviously just a me issue. I just need to try to practice being funny again.

And not for a random dude on the Internet. For me.

I need to tickle my own funny bone.

Target Audience

I once described Lana Del Rey’s oeuvre as “the perfect soundtrack for taking Quaaludes in your married boyfriend’s ice blue, rusty-handled Thunderbird.”

It still feels true. I admire somebody who can make music for a very specific demographic.

I love the idea of someone throwing their all into making songs for beautiful alt-rock femcels who are too scared of needles to get real piercings or TGI Fridays managers who drive blue PT Cruisers and look like Guy Fieri.

Although, you know, it seems like every song on Top 40 radio back in the early 2000s was made specifically for both of those demographics. Amazing.

Slap My Face Like A Drum

After finding out about Physical 100, I lost a good two weeks of my life lusting after unattainable men.

I’ve come to realize that a variety of body types are sexy to me, but I really took an interest in finding out which sports — and what types of training — these folks do.

Particularly the hottest of the hotties. I found about four or five hunks that I plan on Instagram-stalking for a couple of weeks until I forget about them entirely by mid-May. Right on schedule.

To my surprise — and mild horror — I realized I had no idea that MMA fighters were lethally sexy. I’ve never been that into abs and pectorals — not as a primary requirement, I should say. But I promptly began lusting in my heart after watching these guys grapple and run and flex and do all sorts of strength-related stuff.

I was the living embodiment of an In Living Color: Men On … Sports sketch. I was wilting internally as I thought about the streennnnnth of these MMA men.

I Googled a couple of them, admired their rippling muscles, and then reminded myself that most MMA fighters are probably headed directly toward another big abbreviatory battle: CTE.

UFCTE? Yikes. Yiiiiiiiikes.

I realized that I would be worried about my hypothetical boyfriend’s health all of the time. I would worry about the injuries and the long-term effects on his health. I would be too afraid to get into a long-term relationship with an MMA player, even though I suppose a ships-in-the-night situation is still on the table. 🤫

But just as I was about to quit searching for information on CTE and MMA fighters, I found out about the Power Slap League.

Now, I’m the same woman who said I would rather play two sets of jai alai without a helmet than to play two minutes of pickleball. But … why?

The whole damn thing is a mess. The head injuries. The poor compensation. The lack of recognition. The limited cross-over potential. The poor compensation.

And circling back to earlier themes, it’s not even that sexy.

😬

A Cross The Universe

The fact that I listened to the titular album all of the time in tenth grade — and even asked my parents to buy a copy for me — and they still didn’t take me to get evaluated for ADHD is mind-boggling.

Fifteen years later, or thereabouts, and I feel like it’s just too much. I mean, I listened to Girl Talk, too, so the driving beats and tempo changes were part of that … indie sleaze party music scene. But Justice was more like … rock-club-swag-booming non-stop knives-out-in-the-nightclub music.

This album came from a time when we were fueled by Red Bull, Polyvore, Cobra Snake photographs, and Vitamin Water.

What a time to be alive!