John Phillips & Roman Polanski: Two Big Conversations and One Big Question

A big conversation got started last week when Mackenzie Phillips’ book was released and she made an appearance on Oprah. Opinions are flying around television, radio, and the Internet, and even some unfortunate jokes have been made about what happened to her. And I mean what happened to her.

I know that many people, apparently Oprah included, consider what happened to Mackenzie following the rape by her father to have been consensual because many of the acts occurred after she was legally an adult. And, under the law, we properly hold adults legally accountable for their acts. Even Mackenzie believes that because she was an adult she consented, and it is courageous of her to publicly accept her part in what happened.

But legal ability to consent is not the same as psychological ability. (I’m not offering a diminished capacity defense here, but Mackenzie isn’t being adjudicated in a court of law for a crime.) Mackenzie and her father were not equals. Her father had power over her for many reasons, not the least of which was due to her drug addiction (and it was John Phillips who taught his then-child how to put a needle into her veins). Let's not gloss over that he began the abusive relationship by raping her and then telling her they made love. Like many abusers, he cultivated a belief in his victim that her submission was consent, gaining her psychological cooperation in order to maintain his abusive power.

John Phillips failed utterly in the most important role he was blessed with in this life, being a parent. He was the very person who above all others should have been protecting his daughter from sexual abuse, from drugs, and even from harming herself. Instead, he brought harm to her, the worst kind. Phillips had been grooming and controlling Mackenzie long before he forced his penis into his daughter’s vagina, and after he did that he managed to convince his damaged and drug-addled child that she chose to be his lover. Mackenzie was the victim. She is the survivor.

And this is the stuff of jokes? I read someone’s opinion yesterday that all dark humor has a group that will be injured. I understand that, but I’d like to consider that statement further. Sure, we hear comedians joke about celebrities, reality show participants, ethnic groups, someone who has a big mole, or blondes. And, sure, that person or group is poked and could be hurt. Having said that, a successful comedian knows his or her audience. I’m not saying that poking at others is okay, but I understand that it happens. I’m the first person to poke fun at myself, or things about me that I perceive to be a shared human condition. And I’ve taken a joke too far, too. It happens. None of us is perfect. But joking about certain subjects goes beyond dark humor, and even beyond poor taste. Incest falls into that category, and, in particular, jokes about the survivor having choice or enjoying incest ought to be no-man’s land. Would it be funny to joke about the holocaust, murder, slavery, abortion, or 9/11? Incest is never funny either.

Are you dismissing this just a little bit because you’re thinking that I'm an overly sensitive survivor, too hurt to see the humor? Yes, I am a survivor of incest, and sensitive, too. This is precisely why I’m speaking up, and with some authority on the matter. Bless you if you don’t know this first hand, but survivors of incest are statistically a very large group. Survivors are also some of the most resilient and accommodating folks on the planet, sometimes too much so. And they’re some of the funniest, too, as humor is a very powerful coping mechanism. However, joking about incest sends a harmful message to survivors, and encourages everyone else to be glib about it.

Another conversation was started in the media this week about the whole Roman Polanski thing. Yesterday, Whoopi Goldberg said on The View that "It wasn't a rape-rape." Having intercourse with an unconscious 13-year-old girl isn't rape? No, Whoopi, it wasn’t rape. It was child rape. So Hollywood will gather 'round to defend this guy because what? It is more acceptable to have sex with a drugged minor than it is to do it by physical force? Why does Roman Polanski deserve a pass? Is it because the perpetrator is a talented artist and/or an old man now? Because that old man did not pay for his crime under the system of justice in which he committed the acts. Is it because the survivor has forgiven him? Forgiveness by a victim has nothing to do with absolving the perpetrator of responsibility.

These conversations in the media raise a big question in my mind. Is our society more interested in honoring and protecting persons of wealth and fame than our children? It sure seems like it to me.

[EDITED TO ADD IN RESPONSE TO COMMENTS:

Swiss filmmaker Otto Weisser called the rape and sodomy of the 13-year-old child in the Polanski case "a little mistake."

Polanski gave an interview to the novelist Martin Amis in 1979 (the year after Polanski fled this jurisdiction) that reportedly appeared in the Condé Nast U.K. publication Tatler, in which Polanski said:

“If I had killed somebody, it wouldn’t have had so much appeal to the press, you see? But… f—ing, you see, and the young girls. Judges want to f— young girls. Juries want to f— young girls. Everyone wants to f— young girls!”

So, it seems that this so-called "little mistake" was not only the intentional rape and sodomy of a child, but Polanski said he believes that everyone wants to do that to young girls. Um, no, Polanski, just so we're clear, only very sick bastards want to "f— young girls."

This is who Hollywood embraces?

For thirty-two years the victim in this case* has been victimized again and again as the media diminishes the absolute horror that she experienced, and throws support behind the perpetrator. It is completely understandable that she just wanted (and still wants) the case to go away. It's time for Polanski to go away, where he should have gone thirty-two years ago.]

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*Although she's been identified in the media, for the sake of the privacy she's said she wants, I will not identify her by name here.

Instead of Cleaning Out the Closet

I swear every morning when I'm helping Laura find something to wear to school that I'm going to clean out her closet later that day.

But then I have coffee with Trish.

Or I eat a frozen protein bar (which is almost like a frozen Snickers bar) (not really) (but frozen) (and chocolate-y) (and frozen).

Or I wander around looking for good stuff to buy at pick up cleaning supplies at Target.

Or I catch up on Nurse Jackie episodes important errands.

Or I email back and forth with Kate forty-seven times in thirty minutes about anything that doesn't have to do with cleaning out closets.

Or I watch Harry Connick Jr. on Oprah, and then email back and forth with Kate forty-seven times in thirty minutes about Harry Connick Jr. (Except that for the Harry Connick Jr. part I may or may not be emailing back and forth with myself since Kate isn't answering because she's at work probably, like, working. Whatever.)

I know. It's so unlike me to have a crush on a man who isn't wearing eyeliner, huh?

Exhibit A:

Exhibit B:

Exhibit C
(me thinking of Exhibits A and B):

Harry Connick Jr. is really dreamy and I emailed Kate to tell her that I totally want to have sex with him, except not just sex. I would totally like to go to a country fair with him, eat caramel apples, drink lemonade, and then have a picnic lunch in a nearby meadow. Only then would I have sex with him, but under the picnic blanket because I have stretch marks.

But then I felt sort of guilty thinking about having a crush on Harry Connick Jr. because from what he said to Oprah he seems to really love his wife and three daughters, and I'm married to a man who seems to really love his wife and three daughters.

So I'm better off having crushes on men who wear eyeliner because I don't have to feel guilty about that.

Also, when I emailed Kate the part about having sex with Harry Connick Jr. under a picnic blanket? I almost accidentally sent it to the wife of the pastor of my church whose name is also Kate.

The End


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(Photos of Harry Connick Jr. on whom it is inappropriate for me to have a crush, and Adam Lambert & Captain Jack Sparrow on whom it is perfectly acceptable for me to have a crush courtesy of Google Images.)

A Winner and More Breast Talk, Including Photos of My Actual Breasts Because Stu Asked

We have a winner, yo. I ran the number of comments on my last post through my transmogrifier, and number 25 was the winner. Congratulations Kelly at The Glass Dragonfly. You win a Save the Ta-Tas car magnet. I highly recommend that you don’t drive anywhere near a Volvo dealer with it on your car. Those guys are known criminals.

In other news, a certain person, who may or may not be named Stu, felt mislead by the title of my last post, “Breast Talk, Including a Covertly Taken Photo,” thinking for some odd reason that the covertly taken photo would be a photo of breasts. I can’t imagine why. However, I would never want it said that I was in any way misleading, so here are some photographs of my actual breasts:

What?

Now can we move on from breast photos to breast talk?

Cool.

On Monday, September 14, I posted a promise that I would call that day to make a follow-up mammogram appointment because my reminder card said appointments could only be made on M, W, or F. My doctor’s office prefers to do the scheduling of mammograms with the breast center (in the same building), so the mammogram and office visit can occur on the same day.

I called my doctor at 4 PM on Monday, September 14.

Gloria* told me she’d call me back on Wednesday because the breast center closed at 4 PM.

Gloria did not call back on Wednesday.

I called Gloria on Friday.

Gloria said the doctor’s computer scheduling system was down until the following Tuesday, and she’d call me back then.

I said that I thought the breast center was closed on Tuesdays, and Gloria said, “Oh, yeah,” and that she’d call back on the following Wednesday.

I was concerned that after she forgot the Wednesday before, maybe Wednesdays weren't good for Gloria and another week would go by.

So, I asked if I could just call the breast center directly and make my own mammogram appointment, and then I would call back the following Tuesday and let Gloria know when it was.

Then Gloria and I wrangled a bit because my reminder card said "bilateral" (and I knew it is supposed to be), but Gloria thought the mammogram was only supposed to be for my left breast.

My right breast and I prevailed.

Gloria said to give her ten minutes to fax the order to the breast center.

An hour and a half later the order was faxed.

I made an appointment with the breast center for the mammogram. Both sides.

I called Gloria back that same day (still Friday) and told her that although I knew that the doctor’s computer scheduling system was down, I could give her the mammogram date, if she wanted it, so she could put it in her schedule when the computer system was up again.

Gloria said that would be great.

I gave her the date.

Gloria said that date wouldn’t work with the doctor’s schedule.

I did not ask how she knew that if the scheduling system was down.

Y'all, I've had some therapy and some trial advocacy training and three daughters (two of whom are grown). It's a matter of asking the right question, you see.

So I asked, “What date would work?”

Gloria gave me the preferred date and I called the breast center to see if that was open. It wasn’t.

I called Gloria back to get a couple more options. One of them worked with the breast center.

I rescheduled the mammogram.

I called Gloria back and gave her the date.

Gloria said she put it in the doctor’s computer schedule (you know, the one that was supposed to be down until Tuesday).

And so, one week later, and several telephone calls, I have a mammogram and follow-up doctor appointments scheduled early next month.

On Wednesday of this week the breast center called me to see if I wanted an earlier appointment date.

Heck no. Gloria, my left breast, my right breast, and I finally have our schedules straight.

So, now I must ask . . .

Do you have a breast cancer detection plan? Are you current? And if you, you, you, you, or Stu is reading this, are your loved ones current?

I know the pain isn’t just having your breasts prodded, marked with a Sharpie, and smashed between cold metal plates.

Just scheduling the dang thing is a pain.

But you have to do it.

Or I’ll pursue you.

You know I will.

You know who you are.

If you want me off your back leave me a comment or send me an email that you’ve felt yourself up and that your appointment is scheduled.

That is all.



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*Gloria was named Gloria to protect the innocent.

Breast Talk, Including a Covertly Taken Photo

Let’s talk about breasts, shall we?

With a family history of breast cancer (mother and great-grandmother), I take breast care seriously. I support friends and friends of friends who do breast cancer walks. Laura and I do Save Lids to Save Lives each year. I am known to relentlessly pursue and nag anyone whom I find out is overdue for her next mammogram. I drive around with this car magnet on the back of my car:



You get the point.

And yet, my “YOU ARE DUE FOR AN APPOINTMENT” reminder card has been sitting next to my keyboard for a month. I look at that card every day and know that between the mammogram, ultrasound, follow-up office visit, and, if it goes like last time, a second set of mammograms, insurance errors, etc., this will likely take me several telephone calls, followed by several office visits, and will include some vigorous sessions during which my ta-tas are summoned from their ever-southward migration to be prodded, laid bare on a cold slab of metal, marked with a Sharpie, and repeatedly smashed.

Who wouldn’t be procrastinating?

Today, it is my solemn vow to start making that round of telephone calls to get the mammogram appointment process started. I will do it today and not tomorrow because my reminder card says in yellow-highlighted letters that I can only call on M, W, or F to schedule appointments.

And so today I am also reminding you to be sure you’re current on your breast self-exam, mammogram, and pap smear. If you’re not the type to get mammograms, like Gary, or Gary, or Mo, then remind your loved ones, k?

A couple of months ago, Laura noticed that the Save the Ta-Tas magnet on the tailgate was missing from the back of the car. I remembered that my car had been in the shop earlier that week, so I wondered if it had been removed there, but it could have gone missing anyplace, so I didn’t think much more of it. Last week, I had to take my car in again for service. When I was taking care of the paperwork, guess what I spotted behind the service counter:



Yes, that would be my car magnet on the metal filing rack behind the service counter. No, I didn’t ask for it back because I’d already replaced it, and it seemed to be spreading a fine public service announcement right there in the service department. Also, perhaps more importantly, using my finely tuned pretending-to-text technique, I was able to covertly shoot a photo for blogging purposes.

Anywho. A while back, to save on shipping and in case it went missing again, I ordered a couple of extra magnets. So, if you leave a comment that you want a “Save the Ta-Tas” car magnet, I’ll use a random-number transmogrofier to pick a winner from the comments and send you one of my extra magnets for your car or fridge.

I'm a Totally Awesome Imagineer

An end-of-summer Disneyland visit is fun. The crowds are not too bad, and the weather is still hot enough that a daily visit to Gibson Girl for ice cream is a necessity of life.

But still, a mind can wander while waiting in line on a hot day in September. A person in such circumstances might even decide to become a Walt Disney Imagineer in her own mind, and engage in covert operations in order to share with the general public her awesomely imagineered creations.

CIA agents may want to take note of this covert operation technique: Photos of a particular subject can be taken with an iPhone while pretending to photograph something else or while pretending to send a text message. [EDITED TO ADD: Agents should set the iPhone to silent mode so the shutter sound doesn't give you away. I think most digital cameras also have a way to silence the faux shutter sound, but you can't pretend text with a camera.]

Using my iPhone boyfriend, I was able to photograph my imagineered creations in order that I might share them. I employed the old pretending-to-text technique in some situations, in others I pretended to be photographing scenery or my daughter, Laura. So successful was I in my covert operation that the only technical difficulty I encountered was when my husband, Tom (who had no idea I was working undercover as a Walt Disney Imagineer), would spot me holding up my iPhone and move into the shot smiling. To maintain my cover, I would nod and thank Tom for posing. Then I’d pretend to put away my iPhone, and wait for him to look away. Once Tom was distracted again, I’d brandish my iPhone and return to the mission at hand.

So, without further adieu, I present to you, heat stroke and ice-cream induced giddiness Imagineering at its finest . . .


I imagineered this guy while in line for the Alice in Wonderland ride. I named him Enzo. As you can see, Enzo is wearing Minnie bride ears. Enzo was a newlywed and his husband was out somewhere in the park, so to speak. I asked "my wife" if we should marry Enzo, too, and she said we could if I wanted.




Meet Paulo. Paulo is Enzo’s husband, and I imagineered him while he was arriving at Tom Sawyer’s Island on a raft. Paulo is from Tuscany and he totally loves me and my wife, Kate, and his wife, Enzo, and my other husband, Adam Lambert. Paulo isn’t so interested in Tom, and I’m guessing the feeling would be mutual, if Tom knew about Paulo.




Todd was imagineered in Fantasyland. He played Rugby in college and is now the CEO of an iPhone apps company. Todd enjoys cocktails with umbrellas, beach volleyball, and giving foot massages. In the winter months, Todd likes sitting by the fire and sharing what he likes to call a “Hot Toddy.”




It turns out that I imagineered Paulo with a jealous streak. Hoping to distract us from the likes of Todd, Paulo fathered a baby for my wife and me. Totally worked. Baby Vincenzo was imagineered in Toontown, and we never call him Vinnie.





Stass was imagineered in Tomorrowland. When he’s not driving cars at Autopia, he races for Mercedes Benz. Stass totally wants to take my wife and me skiing. If we can bring our Hot Toddy? We will ski with Stass.





I would have had not-swiped-from-Google photos of Phil Donahue and Richard Attenborough look-a-likes (by the way, if Richard Attenborough was at Disneyland, who was minding Jurassic Park?), but these were two of the occasions during which Tom thought I was trying to photograph him and moved his head into my shot smiling. My covert operation had to be aborted in these two instances lest my secret identity be revealed.


And that's the story of how I became a totally awesome Walt Disney Imagineer.

What do you do this summer?