Fallacious Measure of a Man

"...the legal size is 5 inches. There is a woman in the process of divorce because her husband is only 3 inches."

My car radio is almost permanently tuned to NPR, and with the twist of the car keys, the news started piping through the speakers as soon as the engine started. I was driving home, mouth agape, as the talk of size and its legal implications began to register. Did I really hear what I thought I just heard?

The voice of a man with an accent continued to chatter from my speakers about the physiology of this man's 3 inch phallus. I'm not sure what country has a legal phallus size, but apparently it's reason for divorce. To assure their man is appropriately sized, future wives-to-be are demanding a cast of their fiancé’s "specimen." Perhaps they also skip over "for better, for worse" in their marriage vows.

What about the poor suitor who doesn't quite measure up? Chances for marriage could be slim. It's clear who wears the pants in this country, wherever it is.

The interviewee turned out to be Segador Shartinson, head of the Icelandic Phallological Museum. Here you can see specimens from over 100 land and sea mammals, including the amazing phallus of a sperm whale. According to Shartinson, "You couldn't just put this under your arm and run away." It's that big. Obviously, the sperm whale would have no problem with the legal minimum.

In his heyday, Shartinson also had no problem with the legal minimum and is planning to donate his member to his museum when he dies.

As for the Three Inch Willie:

Smokefree DC

On a recent trip to Monticello, two friends and I sat in a college restaurant “full of charm” right behind UVA’s rotunda. Almost as soon as our food arrived, a lady not more than 8 yards away lit up.

“Who’s smoking???” I asked incredulously, inflecting my voice to just the right pitch to sound slightly exasperated. Who smokes in a restaurant anymore? Is that even allowed? Is it too much to ask for a decent meal sans pernicious fumes creeping into my lungs and adulterating any sense of taste?

“We’re in Virginia. You’re allowed to smoke,” said Crystal in a voice as matter-of-fact as if she were NPR’s Melissa Block recounting today’s death toll in Iraq. Great. One more reason to add to my “Why Virginia is Indeed Part of The South” list.

Lucky for Washingtonians, the DC smoking ban took effect last year for restaurants and this year for bars. That means no more itchy, red eyes; no more smoke induced headaches; no more dousing clothes with Febreze; no more showers at the end of a night out. What it does mean, however, is that you often have walk through a gateway of sidewalk smokers to enter establishments. I can handle that.

For those of you with a hankering to puff on a fag (sorry, I couldn't resist), you can thank Virginia for being behind on the times and head down to Freddy's Beach Bar. This smoke-filled joint will be sure to satiate your nicotine cravings, as well as any unfulfilled yearnings for neon, cardboard cut-out palm trees, and kitsch. Oh, not to forget, Freddie's Follies Drag Show starts at 9:00 pm on Sundays.

A Different Kind of Mission Home

Sunday was the annual barbecue at Robert and Lani Graves house. I had heard of this infamous couple through conversations with other Affirmation members and through Carol Lynn Pearson’s book, No More Goodbyes. Now was my chance to finally meet them and see what everybody was talking about.

David and I arrived late. Robert was busy at the grill, and Lani was running around alerting everyone with news of fresh-off-the-grill burgers. She and I bumped into each other as I entered the house and she was heading to the deck.

“Hi!” Lani welcomed me with an embrace. Each having a distinct destination, we both veered our separate ways without saying much more. I assembled a burger, scooped up some broccoli salad, eyed the desserts for later, and found a seat in the dining room with a group of others who were almost finished.

Before folks cleared out, Robert invited everyone downstairs to watch a new documentary in which both he and his wife took part. “Come watch Lani, the star of the show.” Lani humbly rolled her eyes.

The film was created by Susan Polis Schutz, founder of Blue Mountain. She has an openly gay son and wanted to film stories of other families that show homosexuality not as something distant that affects “those people” but rather as something that touches anyone in every walk of life. Entitled Anyone and Everyone, the film has been aired on PBS in San Diego and will air around the country in select locations, dates and times pending.

The Graves represented a Mormon perspective and were perhaps the most seasoned of all interviewed. Robert was right; Lani was the star of the show. And it’s no wonder. She’s articulate, full of warmth and love. Fifteen years ago her son came out to her, giving her enough time to process her experience and develop a keen understanding for what families go through when a family member comes out. During one excerpt from an interview with her, I was struck by her lucid declaration, “I decided to love my son fiercely…” Robert and Lani were able to see beyond religiosity, dogma, and prejudice to simply love their child for who he is.

In doctrinal debates, it's easy to get caught up in philosophical banter and forget what each of us are blessed with from the beginning: common sense. After all, is not the worth of each individual what matters most? If in conforming to what we feel is doctrinally correct we turn our backs to our loved ones, are we not missing the mark altogether? There's so much more to life than getting hung up on sexual orientation.

On our way home, David and I both concurred. Visiting the Graves is something akin to being on a mission and visiting the Mission President's home. When's the next fireside?

Post Secret

National Postal Museum

(City Post Office)
Massachusetts Avenue and North Capitol Street, NW

1914 Graham and Burnham
1992 renovation: Shalom Baranes Associates; museum interior: Florance Eichbaum Esocoff King

entrance fee: free (part of the Smithsonian Institute)

I had to do a double take. The metro billboard looked like a cross between an ad for the Spy Museum and an episode of CSI. “Did that say the National Postal Museum?!”

I had heard of it, but really, could a museum about stamps be all that interesting? The sign said something about postal detectors and pictured a green-monochromatic photo of a guy in a lab coat. This was high-tech. Wasn’t the Museum located in just a closet of a space in some building near Union Station? I had to do some sleuth work of my own and go investigate.



Near Union Station? Yeah, um, the building was designed by the same architect as Union Station and is directly west of it. This beautiful building was recently (and successfully) renovated. From a narrow hallway, I descended the escalator into a large atrium drenched in sunlight. I was shocked. This is no closet. Just see for yourself:


For stamp afficionados and the curious alike, this museum is worth a trip if mail’s your thing. Everything you ever wanted to know about the history of our postal service is in this building. Wanting to see the “spy” exhibit, I breezed through everything else until I stumbled upon this incredibly fascinating placard:


Registered mail!!! I still can't believe it. Can you imagine being the one to handle that package?

This bit of trivia greeted me as I entered the area dedicated to crime. Ever since the Anthrax scare and unabombers, I've come to realize the importance of mail and safety can never be underestimated. But I don’t really think much about USPS's involvement in our national security on a daily basis. This hands-on exhibit gives you a taste for what they do to protect us and their involvement in catching criminals. Go ahead, take a gander. This museum's first class.