Category Archives: Marc Tschida

Hot Air

They Are The Enemy

Slut-shaming is in the news these days following the Isla Vista murder rampage. Elliott Rodger’s shooting and stabbing spree followed the release of a manifesto indicting all women primarily for being, well, sluts. Rodger had found a like-minded community of incels, puahaters, and garden-variety woman haters. In the ensuing ten days, some commentators have suggested that males who aren’t enraged to the point of homicide by members of the opposite sex ought to put some real pressure on their fellow XY-ers to knock off the name-calling and the foul categorization of women as sex monsters.

From Surviving Incel blog

From The Blog, Surviving Incel

It ain’t easy, I’ll tell you that.

I know a young man who had a girlfriend a few years back, probably 2010, IIRC. The two were inseparable. They made no secret of their nearly uncontrollable passion for each other. They’d slip away at any time of the day or night and return, perhaps 45 minutes later, with cat-that-ate-the-canary smirks on their faces.

In fact, the only thing that could rival their hunger for each other was their taste for pot. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen two people who had more sex and smoked more marijuana in a day than those two. If I had one-tenth the intercourse and got high one-twentieth the time these two did, I’d probably be in a coma.

Let’s call them Randy and Ashley.

Randy had no job nor any prospects. Ashley worked several jobs, seating customers at a couple of local restaurants and taking pizza orders over the phone at another. They both lived at home with their parents. Those of us who knew the two figured that all the money she earned went to buy pot. They were pot aficionados. They bragged they only smoked the best. Once I asked Randy how much he typically paid for his pot and he responded, pride in his voice, “A thousand dollars an ounce.” When I reported back to the rest of the folks who know them, we all agreed that Randy and Ashley had to kill off a quarter ounce every three or four days, easily. That meant they had to come up with a thou every two weeks.



That would be Ashley’s dough. It seemed she was perfectly content sharing her hard-earned wages with Randy. On the outside, at least. On the inside, perhaps, she might have harbored some resentment. Who knows? I only know that one day the bad news came around that Randy and Ashley had broken up. It was a shock.

Next time I saw young Randy, I asked him what happened.

“Ashley,” he blurted, disgusted, ” is a slut.”

I considered this for a moment. My first guess was that she’d found somebody else and had thrown Randy over. Generally, when a suburban stoner gets dumped, he’ll characterize the ex as a slut, a whore, a cunt, or in any and all of a dozen other ways, most of which have to do with the former girlfriend being incapable of refraining from having sex with anyone, up to and including the unwashed homeless and the dangerously insane.

As I sat there pondering this, I’d already started formulating a plan to introduce the idea to him that just because Ashley had given him the gate didn’t mean that she was pathologically sexual. People break up with each other all the time, I would say. Even married people. Often there’s Another Man/Woman involved.

45 Label

Ironically, that’s how Randy and Ashley had gotten together. He’d begun hanging out with a stoner crowd of which she was a part. Even though she was going out with another member of the group at the time, they hooked up and next thing anybody knew she’d thrown over the old boyfriend for Randy.

At no time during their torrid affair did Randy ever imply that Ashley was a slut for jumping from her old boyfriend to him. I’d imagine Randy viewed that switch of allegiances as a testament to her good sense and fine taste. She should have been lauded for that decision, I’m sure Randy thought.

“So,” I said, “she’s seeing somebody else now, huh?”

“Nah,” Randy said.

I spluttered: “Whuh?”

“Yeah, she told me some shit about how I wasn’t lookin’ hard enough for a job,” he explained. “I mean, what the fk? There’s no jobs, man! What does she want? I can’t make anybody hire me.”

I was aware, though, that Randy’s job search was limited to a casual scan of the Sunday classified ads — when his father was looking at him. Otherwise, Randy’s prospects of getting a job depended mainly on the unlikely possibility that an employer would ring his doorbell and ask if anyone who needed a job was in.

I was puzzled. “Why,” I asked, “is Ashley a slut then?”

“She just is,” Randy said, a hint of impatience in his voice. “She fks anybody.”

“Oh. But she’s not seeing anybody now, right?”

“No. Not that I know of. But she probably will. Fkin’ slut.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I don’t get it. Why is she a slut?”

“Look, she’s a slut, alright,” Randy said, his voice rising. “I know her. You don’t. Don’t give me any shit, alright?”

“Yeah, but….”

“Drop it, alright!”

See, the worst thing a female can be is a slut. That is, even if she’s not pathologically preoccupied with sexual congress. Ashley had hurt Randy. She’d abandoned him. There may be no worse sin to commit against a young man with no ambition and no purpose than to leave him. Now, he’s stuck with himself. That’s an almost unbearable sentence.

Anybody who’d do that is the lowest form of life there is. A slut.

I don’t see much of Randy these days. I do know that he’s still looking for a job and that there still aren’t any offers coming in immediately following an unexpected knock on the front door. I never did get the chance to at least hint that Ashley might not be a slut. I should have tried harder.

How To Play

How ’bout that Marc Tschida? Our town’s puzzle guy just got word that the National Museum of Play will be displaying one of his Bloomington jigsaw puzzles.


Tschida On The Cutting Edge

Cool, huh?

She’s Gone

Aw heck, I was thinking about this song after finding that 45 label above, so let’s listen to the blue-eyed soul brothers together.


Your Daily Hot Air


Barack Obama yesterday spoke like a black man for the first time since he hit the national scene. He said, “You know, when Trayvon Martin was first shot I said that this could have been my son. Another way of saying that is: Trayvon Martin could have been me 35 years ago.”

Photo by Carolyn Kaster/AP

Impromptu & Unexpected

Now, I’ve just read about this impromptu speech on the Guardian UK website. My immediate reaction was: Guaranteed, tons of folks in this holy land are gonna say, “If only that was Barack Obama 35 years ago.”

So let me take a break for a few moments so I can go through my go-to Right wingnut sites and see if  the oh-so dependable crypto-racists of Murrica have made a seer out of me.

While you wait for me to do this pressing research, enjoy this:

Okay, I’m back. In fact, I was finished with my search long before the above vid was over. Ya gotta love the Right; they come through every time.

The reactionary conservative world had apoplexy over the prez’ comments, natch. Among other things, they accused Obama of trying to “tear the nation apart,” they called him the “Race-baiter in Chief.” One woman wrote, “I had no idea Obama sucker-punched a watch volunteer & then bashed his head in. Who knew?” Another called him a “buffoon,” “racist,” a lyncher, and guilty of sedition. A third called him “the most irresponsible president in history.” Jim Hoft, AKA the Dumbest Man on the Internet, wrote, “Good Lord — he is stoking a race war.”

And that very sensitive deep thinker Sean Hannity wondered aloud if Obama really meant he was like Martin because he (Obama) had smoked pot and “did a little blow” when he was the age of the late Florida teenager.

Now, bingo! Here’s the magic comment by someone named OldHickory21 on the Daily Caller website: “If only Obama had run into a George Zimmerman there in Hawaii, we wouldn’t be watching our country going down the drain right now. Too bad.”

From the Daily Caller

Good to know some things are reliable in this ever-changing world.

Pretty Little Terrorist

Speaking of the deranged Right (and ain’t I always?), our nation’s non compos mentalists found themselves all aflutter earlier in the week when Rolling Stone put a photo of Dzhokhar Tsarnaev on its cover.

Rolling Stone Cover

For years, being on the cover of the Rolling Stone was seen as perhaps the ultimate honor a rock star or movie actor could earn. Hell, there was even a hit song about it called — what else? — “Cover of the Rolling Stone” back in 1973.

Ignoring the fact that the remaining couple of dozen people who still read Rolling Stone are those who were young and hip aways back in 1973 and now are concerned mostly with erectile dysfunction and the rising cost of cemetery plots, the hysterical Right concluded that the mag was championing young Tsarnaev and his alleged pressure cooker attack on the Boston Marathon.

For some odd reason, the unreasonable of this nation feel the rather normal-looking mug of the accused deep-fryer bomber will inspire doddering former hippies to revolt. Presumably, they’ll attack the Silent Majority with their canes and walkers.

It follows, then, that a number of drug and convenience stores had removed the publication from their shelves because…, well, because. And some guy from the Massachusetts State Police said the cover “glamorized the face of terror.”

I have no idea what they’d have preferred Jan Wenner put on the cover — perhaps a photo of a warthog or Adolf Hitler or simply a garden variety brown Arab. Now those things are ugly and/or evil. Tsarnaev the Younger can even be described as attractive. What kind of monster would attach a picture of a cute white kid to a story about a vicious terrorist act, even if the cute white kid (allegedly) did the act?


The Face Of Terror

Anyways, my concern here is with the retailers who took the mag off their shelves. It makes me think of my recent promises to refuse to sell certain books to people at (shameless plug here) Bloomington’s only remaining independent bookseller, the Book Corner.

Loyal readers know that I’ve promised not to participate in a transaction with any customer who wants to buy faux-pimp James O’Keefe’s memoir, anything by the execrable Glenn Beck, and anything by or on behalf of doughy vigilante George Zimmerman. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself knowing I’d helped those chuckleheads earn even a penny.

My take on those who refuse to peddle the Tsarnaev Rolling Stone is that they’re narrow minded prigs who dig censorship.

So I have to ask myself, when all is said and done: Aren’t I, too?

To be frank, I don’t know the answer yet. Either that or I do know the answer and I simply don’t want to admit it.

It Is A Puzzle(ment)

Here’s a fun heads up. Theater and non-profit maven Marc Tschida is making, with his bare hands, a neat selection of Bloomington-oriented jigsaw puzzles.


Marc Tschida

Well, okay, he’s using a jigsaw, among other handy tools, but y’know.

Thus far, he’s produced a nifty Buskirk Chumley Theater puzzle as well others depicting Cardinal Stage Company productions and the face of a beloved local citizen whose identity will remain a secret until he gets all the appropriate releases signed and sealed. Look for tons more B-town landmarks and defining images to pop up in stores near you within the next few months.

Tschida Puzzle

Tschida’s “Charlotte’s Web” Puzzle

Tschida is donating gobs of the puzzles to area non-profits for fundraising raffles and giveaways. Pencillistas, unbuckle your money belts and throw a little cash Tschida’s way.

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