It's December 31st. I'm sitting at work, looking at my webcam reflection on the video screen, and thinking rather inquisitively about New Year's and all the metamorphic promises we make to ourselves. While peering ominously at myself, I can't help but wonder ... "How am I different from last year at this time?"
It was a rough, odd, and amazing year. So I don't know how to answer the question.
Can you be optimistic, happy, and cynical all at the same time?
In 2008 I lived in DC for the first time as a non-student ... a real resident. I lived in 3 different places, started my first full-time job (and then quit, and did something better), took up line dancing and got hooked (or lassoed), and spent many happy hours with friends at Nooshi, Kramer's, Starbucks, and La Bomba. There were several trips to NYC for shows, plenty of dancing in Philly, Baltimore, and Houston's country western bars, and a week-long cruise that showed how incredible gay families are.
But this year will always be slightly stained by the memory of my mom. Sometimes I wonder - am I grumpy because I'm sad, or am I sad because I'm grumpy?
I don't feel so different. In 2007 I experienced a lot of radical changes ... triumphs, mostly. 2008 had a few more tears, and not nearly as much growth.
Maybe that's the deal with getting older. You know how birthdays are the end all and be all when you're young? But the more of these milestones we experience, the weaker their impact and fanfare.
What if personal growth is the same? Are we more oblivious to it, or does it just matter less and less to us? When does the anti-monotony of childhood give way to a plateaued life?
Even the word "resolution", the New Year's promise in a resolute society, can be somewhat ambiguous. Is it a beginning (a resolution to change), or an end (a resolution to a problem)? Does a resolution look forward, determined, or backwards, concluded?
Is it hopeful that things will change, or hopeful that things will stay the same? I get whiplashed just looking back-and-forth from the future to the past. Where is the "present" in resolution?
In the bulb there is a flower
In a seed an apple tree
In cocoons a hidden promise
Butterflies will soon be free
Those are words from a song played at mom's memorial service ... I guess it reminds me that where one resolution ends, another begins.
So ... what will be my resolve in 2009?
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
3 steps forward, 2 waves back, 6 feet under
Returning to DC was a comforting experience after spending almost 3 weeks in conservative central Florida for my mom's funeral et al. My friend picked me up from Dulles, and immediately I could feel myself ooze with the presence of feeling like "David" again. Like dunking a hard, brittle biscotti into some inviting hot chocolate, I could feel the staleness of my emotions crumble away into the welcoming mug of the city.
When I got back to my house I was greeted with 3 weeks' worth of mail. The most prominent envelopes were the super-red Netflix DVDs. Within them were my first requests on the queue: Season 1 of Six Feet Under.
Some people hesitate when they hear I've watched the entire series- was that a good idea? wasn't it morbid? did you cry a lot?
Well ... defining "morbid" is a bit of a challenge to me now ... unhealthy, diseased, and gruesome come to mind. And that's precisely what death is ... but it's also normal, ubiquitous, and -- paradoxically, a fact of life.
I guess my conclusion is that discussions in and around death are morbid solely because they are difficult. And things that are difficult become unhealthy and gruesome when we want to avoid pain.
Six Feet Under impresses me with its ability to take death and, with all of its messiness and entangled emotions, poignantly put it right in your face:
Here it is. It's real. It sucks. It's not going away ... ever.
And it's by accepting these things that you start to get through it.
Death is like stepping on a splattering of gum on the sidewalk. At first it's really sticky, and annoying as all get out. You walk and walk, the gum pulling at your every step and distracting you from everything else. But eventually the gum settles in and gets covered up by dirt and other debris from the street. So while it never goes away, you inevitably get used to it ... and keep walking.
Watching Six Feet Under was difficult, but very therapeutic. I remember, with striking clarity, some intense moments laying on the couch watching the show. I could feel this tide of emotions ... mainly sadness ... wash me over, feeling like the waves were literally rocking me backwards, forwards, and sideways all at once.
And it felt good.
Even though the rip tide threatens to drag you out into open and dangerous waters, swimming against it will only make the situation worse. But if you swim through it, parallel to shore -- not struggling, not fearing, and not fighting -- you'll eventually be safe.
So ... during the holidays I expect the ebb and flow of the tides will be particularly ripping *grin* ... and I'm not really looking forward to it.
But, luckily, my friends and family will throw me the lifesaver I need when my body can't hold out anymore.
When I got back to my house I was greeted with 3 weeks' worth of mail. The most prominent envelopes were the super-red Netflix DVDs. Within them were my first requests on the queue: Season 1 of Six Feet Under.
Some people hesitate when they hear I've watched the entire series- was that a good idea? wasn't it morbid? did you cry a lot?
Well ... defining "morbid" is a bit of a challenge to me now ... unhealthy, diseased, and gruesome come to mind. And that's precisely what death is ... but it's also normal, ubiquitous, and -- paradoxically, a fact of life.
I guess my conclusion is that discussions in and around death are morbid solely because they are difficult. And things that are difficult become unhealthy and gruesome when we want to avoid pain.
Six Feet Under impresses me with its ability to take death and, with all of its messiness and entangled emotions, poignantly put it right in your face:
Here it is. It's real. It sucks. It's not going away ... ever.
And it's by accepting these things that you start to get through it.
Death is like stepping on a splattering of gum on the sidewalk. At first it's really sticky, and annoying as all get out. You walk and walk, the gum pulling at your every step and distracting you from everything else. But eventually the gum settles in and gets covered up by dirt and other debris from the street. So while it never goes away, you inevitably get used to it ... and keep walking.
Watching Six Feet Under was difficult, but very therapeutic. I remember, with striking clarity, some intense moments laying on the couch watching the show. I could feel this tide of emotions ... mainly sadness ... wash me over, feeling like the waves were literally rocking me backwards, forwards, and sideways all at once.
And it felt good.
Even though the rip tide threatens to drag you out into open and dangerous waters, swimming against it will only make the situation worse. But if you swim through it, parallel to shore -- not struggling, not fearing, and not fighting -- you'll eventually be safe.
So ... during the holidays I expect the ebb and flow of the tides will be particularly ripping *grin* ... and I'm not really looking forward to it.
But, luckily, my friends and family will throw me the lifesaver I need when my body can't hold out anymore.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Grieving, Super Heroes, & Obama
"Seize the day, boys,
Make your lives extraordinary"
-Dead Poets Society
For serious, Dead Poets Society appeals to any budding queen in his teenage years- what could be better than a bunch of men sittin' round a cave reading poetry to each other?!? Just add a sauna with some towels and we are in business! (I'm such a poser, that doesn't actually appeal to me at all ... I think ...)
Today I was looking through some pictures of Obama and his family on election night (click) and I delighted in the fly-on-the-wall candidness of the photographs. Here is a family just like the millions of others across the world, and yet a family that is so completely extraordinary in the most fantastic way imaginable.
Obama reminds me of Superman in these photos ... one minute your average man, the next minute a superhero. And only he decides when it's his moment to shine. It was humbling to watch him sitting so serenely on a hotel room couch, the direction of his life guided only by the glow of a TV screen. And it seemed, regardless of the outcome, that he and his family knew that they would be alright.
But Obama is not unique in his ability to change from average-Joe to renowned-hero ... we all have a Batman or WonderWoman lurking just below the surface, and we can show our extraordinary sides even when everything seems to be Gotham-y (Gotham separated is 'got' + 'ham', that's weird).
Losing my mom has been very Got-ham-like for my entire family, and with only 3 months into this race we are not out of the woods yet. In fact, it really is like a hurdling race; some obstacles you clear without a scratch, and others, while presumptuously just like the rest of the hurdles, bring you crashing down. Only the clock never stops ticking, and you have to get your momentum back quick to clear the next challenge.
But in my immediate family I can already see the superheroes struggling to the surface. My dad is still going to choir practice faithfully, and he is even considering buying some cologne (which he hasn't worn in years because it always effected my mom). My sister has uprooted herself and replanted in Atlanta, surrounding herself with close friends and a solid support structure.
And while the finish line of this race doesn't even exist, at least we are all still on the track together ... with plenty of friends on the sidelines cheering, first-aid kits ready and all.
As for me, I'm still looking for my inner extraordinary, my personal SpiderMan or Storm or Wolverine. All that seems to pop up is the Joker, as I try to laugh my worries all the way to the bat cave.
Maybe I should sit quietly, like Obama, and stare at the TV watching my life unfold before me. Patient, reserved, and comforted by the knowledge that no matter what happens ... everything will be alright.
Make your lives extraordinary"
-Dead Poets Society
For serious, Dead Poets Society appeals to any budding queen in his teenage years- what could be better than a bunch of men sittin' round a cave reading poetry to each other?!? Just add a sauna with some towels and we are in business! (I'm such a poser, that doesn't actually appeal to me at all ... I think ...)
Today I was looking through some pictures of Obama and his family on election night (click) and I delighted in the fly-on-the-wall candidness of the photographs. Here is a family just like the millions of others across the world, and yet a family that is so completely extraordinary in the most fantastic way imaginable.
Obama reminds me of Superman in these photos ... one minute your average man, the next minute a superhero. And only he decides when it's his moment to shine. It was humbling to watch him sitting so serenely on a hotel room couch, the direction of his life guided only by the glow of a TV screen. And it seemed, regardless of the outcome, that he and his family knew that they would be alright.
But Obama is not unique in his ability to change from average-Joe to renowned-hero ... we all have a Batman or WonderWoman lurking just below the surface, and we can show our extraordinary sides even when everything seems to be Gotham-y (Gotham separated is 'got' + 'ham', that's weird).
Losing my mom has been very Got-ham-like for my entire family, and with only 3 months into this race we are not out of the woods yet. In fact, it really is like a hurdling race; some obstacles you clear without a scratch, and others, while presumptuously just like the rest of the hurdles, bring you crashing down. Only the clock never stops ticking, and you have to get your momentum back quick to clear the next challenge.
But in my immediate family I can already see the superheroes struggling to the surface. My dad is still going to choir practice faithfully, and he is even considering buying some cologne (which he hasn't worn in years because it always effected my mom). My sister has uprooted herself and replanted in Atlanta, surrounding herself with close friends and a solid support structure.
And while the finish line of this race doesn't even exist, at least we are all still on the track together ... with plenty of friends on the sidelines cheering, first-aid kits ready and all.
As for me, I'm still looking for my inner extraordinary, my personal SpiderMan or Storm or Wolverine. All that seems to pop up is the Joker, as I try to laugh my worries all the way to the bat cave.
Maybe I should sit quietly, like Obama, and stare at the TV watching my life unfold before me. Patient, reserved, and comforted by the knowledge that no matter what happens ... everything will be alright.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Creation Museum
Science versus religion, a tireless debate that is argued most intently by those who can only see things as either black or white, comes to a dramatic flourish of biblical proportions at the Creation Museum in Petersburg, Kentucky.
Dear lord ... there's so much to mock, I'm not entirely sure where to begin.
The Museum is home to a fascinating collection of facts drawn from a mistranslated book full of contradictions and a supreme being who enjoys torturing people just because they like to get frisky every now and then.
"Let the Rain Come" is an all-live new musical put on a few times per month for those who enjoy the thought of drowning the entire planet and then repopulating it by means of incest (which, apparently, is totally cool with the Creator ... see below). The show is chocked full of special effects (CGI would definitely be needed to squeeze all those damn dinosaurs on board, lucky God has a degree in graphic design), refreshing music, plus some surprises ("Look, kids, this is how I'm going to get my own daughter pregnant!!!" ... crowd: "ooooooh .... ahhhhh .....").
What kind of music would you put to accompany the complete annihilation of our world??? "Our God is an awesome God -- it rains from heaven above -- to kill, drown and destroy our lives -- our God is an awesome God..." *faint applause from the audience and the sound of children vomiting at the mercilessness of the Creator*
After all this talk of flooding, I definitely need a drink. Oh, how about I head down to Noah's Cafe and experience old world treats like Cincinnati-style chili and pizza. Perhaps they could explain how Noah's family was able to feed the entire population of the Ark without the dinosaurs devouring anything that moved.
"Be prepared to experience history in an unprecedented way."
"Children play and dinosaurs roam near Eden's rivers."
"Walk through the Cave of Sorrows and see the horrific effects of the Fall of man. Sounds of a sin-ravaged world echo through the room."
To which I add -- "Take your children to therapy immediately for PTSD and the ill-effects of being completely lied to by pseudo-science."
Let's get back to that pesky, pesky topic of incest. Answers in Genesis, the brains (sic) and brawn behind the Museum, have an "Answers Department" that spends its time randomly quoting scripture and uses circular reasoning to back up its preposterous claims.
From the website itself: "We’re not told when Cain married or many of the details of other marriages and children, but we can say for certain that Cain’s wife was either his sister or a close relative."
What ... the ... fuck ... ???
There's even a diagram depicting how genetic mutations increase over time until God decides to outlaw incest. Seriously, Creator, this is not some 5-year-old make-up-the-rules-as-we-go infantile game! We are talking about brothers, sisters, nieces, and nephews making babies together! *more vomiting*
Seriously -- why not just cut the crap and say it? ... "Hmm, maybe incest just ain't cool, and we shouldn't take this thing so literally, after all" ...
It isn't rocket science, now is it ???
http://www.creationmuseum.org/
http://www.answersingenesis.org/articles/nab/who-was-cains-wife
Dear lord ... there's so much to mock, I'm not entirely sure where to begin.
The Museum is home to a fascinating collection of facts drawn from a mistranslated book full of contradictions and a supreme being who enjoys torturing people just because they like to get frisky every now and then.
"Let the Rain Come" is an all-live new musical put on a few times per month for those who enjoy the thought of drowning the entire planet and then repopulating it by means of incest (which, apparently, is totally cool with the Creator ... see below). The show is chocked full of special effects (CGI would definitely be needed to squeeze all those damn dinosaurs on board, lucky God has a degree in graphic design), refreshing music, plus some surprises ("Look, kids, this is how I'm going to get my own daughter pregnant!!!" ... crowd: "ooooooh .... ahhhhh .....").
What kind of music would you put to accompany the complete annihilation of our world??? "Our God is an awesome God -- it rains from heaven above -- to kill, drown and destroy our lives -- our God is an awesome God..." *faint applause from the audience and the sound of children vomiting at the mercilessness of the Creator*
After all this talk of flooding, I definitely need a drink. Oh, how about I head down to Noah's Cafe and experience old world treats like Cincinnati-style chili and pizza. Perhaps they could explain how Noah's family was able to feed the entire population of the Ark without the dinosaurs devouring anything that moved.
"Be prepared to experience history in an unprecedented way."
"Children play and dinosaurs roam near Eden's rivers."
"Walk through the Cave of Sorrows and see the horrific effects of the Fall of man. Sounds of a sin-ravaged world echo through the room."
To which I add -- "Take your children to therapy immediately for PTSD and the ill-effects of being completely lied to by pseudo-science."
Let's get back to that pesky, pesky topic of incest. Answers in Genesis, the brains (sic) and brawn behind the Museum, have an "Answers Department" that spends its time randomly quoting scripture and uses circular reasoning to back up its preposterous claims.
From the website itself: "We’re not told when Cain married or many of the details of other marriages and children, but we can say for certain that Cain’s wife was either his sister or a close relative."
What ... the ... fuck ... ???
There's even a diagram depicting how genetic mutations increase over time until God decides to outlaw incest. Seriously, Creator, this is not some 5-year-old make-up-the-rules-as-we-go infantile game! We are talking about brothers, sisters, nieces, and nephews making babies together! *more vomiting*
Seriously -- why not just cut the crap and say it? ... "Hmm, maybe incest just ain't cool, and we shouldn't take this thing so literally, after all" ...
It isn't rocket science, now is it ???
http://www.creationmuseum.org/
http://www.answersingenesis.org/articles/nab/who-was-cains-wife
Monday, September 22, 2008
Health Care (sic .... or sick?)
The following is a meddlesome dialogue between myself and the insurance company, taken almost verbatim from a conversation a while back:
**********************
Automated British lady: Thank you for calling United HealthCare. How may I mis-direct your call?
Me: Um ... 'benefits' (with emphasis)
AB lady: You wanted (pause) gastro-bypass surgery. Is that correct?
Me: Grrr ... 'BE-NI-FITS' (loads of emphasis)
AB lady: You wanted (pause) Stephen Hawking's A Brief History of Time. Is that correct?
Me: Sigh ... 'representative'.
AB lady: Hold your horses, you little bitch. You gotta tell me who you want to speak to and then I'll transfer your sick ass.
(after much negotiating, a live person answers the line)
Live Person: Thank you for calling United HealthCare, how can I waste your time today?
Me: Yes. OK here's the deal. I tried to go to a walk-in clinic yesterday, one that was listed on your website as covered in your network. When I got there they said they wouldn't take my kind of UHC. WTF, UHC?
Live Person: Well, sir, let me explain it to you as if you were 5 years old and have recently suffered a severe trauma to the head. You don't have United HealthCare, you have MDIPA, which is a subsidiary company of UHC. However, since you have MDIPA preferred, you still have access to that specific clinic for urgent care.
Me: Oh. So, I don't have the United HealthCare that's printed on my card here?
Live Person: No, you don't.
Me: And you are a customer service representative for ...
Live Person: United HealthCare.
Me: Then ... shouldn't I speak to someone from MDIPA?
Live Person: No, you dumbass. MDIPA falls under the umbrella of UHC, but not all parts of the umbrella are covered.
Me: OK ... so I can go to this clinic, right?
Live Person: Yes ... but only for urgent care. And you'll need a referral from your primary care physician.
Me: I haven't set up my PCP yet.
Live Person: *tsk tsk* What kind of idiot hasn't set up his PCP yet? UHC and MDIPA are not liable for consumers' ignorance.
Me: So I need a referral from a doctor to see a doctor in urgent care? Doesn't that seem a little redundant and silly considering the fact it's called 'urgent'?
Live Person: Sir, your incompetence is petulant. We are a business, and too busy to mettle with petty matters such as patients' care.
Me: Could you call the clinic and verify that my insurance will cover the visit?
Live Person: Oh, absolutely sir. I could also come to your house and clean it from top to bottom, scrub all the floors with a toothbrush, and, for good measure, personally and affectionately wash your skanky feet. I could, but I'm not going to.
Me: I see. Well, is there anything else you can not do for me today?
Live Person: The list is longer than you can possibly imagine. Have a lovely day and thank you for choosing United HealthCare!
Me: My absolute pleasure. Seems I'll be under the weather for quite a while. Fortunately, though, I have your silly umbrella to keep me dry.
**********************
Automated British lady: Thank you for calling United HealthCare. How may I mis-direct your call?
Me: Um ... 'benefits' (with emphasis)
AB lady: You wanted (pause) gastro-bypass surgery. Is that correct?
Me: Grrr ... 'BE-NI-FITS' (loads of emphasis)
AB lady: You wanted (pause) Stephen Hawking's A Brief History of Time. Is that correct?
Me: Sigh ... 'representative'.
AB lady: Hold your horses, you little bitch. You gotta tell me who you want to speak to and then I'll transfer your sick ass.
(after much negotiating, a live person answers the line)
Live Person: Thank you for calling United HealthCare, how can I waste your time today?
Me: Yes. OK here's the deal. I tried to go to a walk-in clinic yesterday, one that was listed on your website as covered in your network. When I got there they said they wouldn't take my kind of UHC. WTF, UHC?
Live Person: Well, sir, let me explain it to you as if you were 5 years old and have recently suffered a severe trauma to the head. You don't have United HealthCare, you have MDIPA, which is a subsidiary company of UHC. However, since you have MDIPA preferred, you still have access to that specific clinic for urgent care.
Me: Oh. So, I don't have the United HealthCare that's printed on my card here?
Live Person: No, you don't.
Me: And you are a customer service representative for ...
Live Person: United HealthCare.
Me: Then ... shouldn't I speak to someone from MDIPA?
Live Person: No, you dumbass. MDIPA falls under the umbrella of UHC, but not all parts of the umbrella are covered.
Me: OK ... so I can go to this clinic, right?
Live Person: Yes ... but only for urgent care. And you'll need a referral from your primary care physician.
Me: I haven't set up my PCP yet.
Live Person: *tsk tsk* What kind of idiot hasn't set up his PCP yet? UHC and MDIPA are not liable for consumers' ignorance.
Me: So I need a referral from a doctor to see a doctor in urgent care? Doesn't that seem a little redundant and silly considering the fact it's called 'urgent'?
Live Person: Sir, your incompetence is petulant. We are a business, and too busy to mettle with petty matters such as patients' care.
Me: Could you call the clinic and verify that my insurance will cover the visit?
Live Person: Oh, absolutely sir. I could also come to your house and clean it from top to bottom, scrub all the floors with a toothbrush, and, for good measure, personally and affectionately wash your skanky feet. I could, but I'm not going to.
Me: I see. Well, is there anything else you can not do for me today?
Live Person: The list is longer than you can possibly imagine. Have a lovely day and thank you for choosing United HealthCare!
Me: My absolute pleasure. Seems I'll be under the weather for quite a while. Fortunately, though, I have your silly umbrella to keep me dry.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Consolation Prizes
Sometimes people don't know what to say when they try and comfort a person who has experienced a loss. Over the past month I have been the unwilling recipient of consolation prizes dished out by the bucketful from those eager to express their condolences.
Some strike a tender chord, harmonizing with my sadness. Others strike me angrily, like a 5-year-old banging on a piano.
Some of my least favorites include: “She’s rejoicing with her Lord now”. “She’s making great music in heaven”. “God has taken her home”.
The audacity of help …
For some of the prize-givers, little or no thought is given to how inappropriate or insensitive their remarks may be. Take, for example, my position on religion. It’s quite presumptuous to automatically assume my mother and I shared the same religion, or that I would be comforted by talk of heaven, and Jesus, and God’s plan to pluck people in their prime.
Personally, I lie somewhere in between the grey mix of agnosticism, atheism, and Unitarianism.
Can you imagine me going up to someone at their relative’s funeral and saying, “I’m so sorry to hear about your loss. Hopefully it will be of some comfort to know that your relative was merely a complex biological organism that has stopped functioning and will never exist again.” … or … “I hope it brings you peace to know that your relative is now part of some nondescript comprehensive epistemological existence that cannot be truly named or identified.”
Can you imagine?
The Wednesday after my mom died her school had their regular chapel meeting, only this time they devoted the service to my mom and they invited my family to attend. There were children everywhere- some performed songs, rang handbells, or walked about the sanctuary singing “Butterfly” and flapping their arms. It was all really touching …
… until one of the pastors got up and delivered his message.
“Boys and girls, I know without a doubt, if Mrs. Bruce were here today and she only had one thing she could tell you all … it would be that she loved Jesus and wants you to tell everyone you know about Jesus.”
My jaw hit the floor. My left eyebrow etched itself like a mountain peak jabbing into my forehead. I sat, transfixed in anger, while the pastor went on to further use my mother’s death to promote his personal agenda. He quite literally turned her passing into a springboard to catapult his religious propaganda into the impressionable minds of young children.
Way not cool …. Waaaaaaaaaay not cool.
She never would have said that. Instead, she would have said "I love all you children so much, and I'm really going to miss being your teacher. Keep practicing, be nice to your teachers, and eat a lot of coffee ice cream".
Sadly, none of these non-consoling consolation prizes come with a return receipt for me to exchange them. But, if they did, I know exactly what I would exchange them for- and in abundance:
a hug,
a smile,
a promise of support,
“my thoughts are with you”,
“she was such a kind and caring woman”, and
“when all the sadness passes what will be left are the amazing qualities she had that are still alive in you”.
The last one still makes me cry … these are the prizes that win first place.
Some strike a tender chord, harmonizing with my sadness. Others strike me angrily, like a 5-year-old banging on a piano.
Some of my least favorites include: “She’s rejoicing with her Lord now”. “She’s making great music in heaven”. “God has taken her home”.
The audacity of help …
For some of the prize-givers, little or no thought is given to how inappropriate or insensitive their remarks may be. Take, for example, my position on religion. It’s quite presumptuous to automatically assume my mother and I shared the same religion, or that I would be comforted by talk of heaven, and Jesus, and God’s plan to pluck people in their prime.
Personally, I lie somewhere in between the grey mix of agnosticism, atheism, and Unitarianism.
Can you imagine me going up to someone at their relative’s funeral and saying, “I’m so sorry to hear about your loss. Hopefully it will be of some comfort to know that your relative was merely a complex biological organism that has stopped functioning and will never exist again.” … or … “I hope it brings you peace to know that your relative is now part of some nondescript comprehensive epistemological existence that cannot be truly named or identified.”
Can you imagine?
The Wednesday after my mom died her school had their regular chapel meeting, only this time they devoted the service to my mom and they invited my family to attend. There were children everywhere- some performed songs, rang handbells, or walked about the sanctuary singing “Butterfly” and flapping their arms. It was all really touching …
… until one of the pastors got up and delivered his message.
“Boys and girls, I know without a doubt, if Mrs. Bruce were here today and she only had one thing she could tell you all … it would be that she loved Jesus and wants you to tell everyone you know about Jesus.”
My jaw hit the floor. My left eyebrow etched itself like a mountain peak jabbing into my forehead. I sat, transfixed in anger, while the pastor went on to further use my mother’s death to promote his personal agenda. He quite literally turned her passing into a springboard to catapult his religious propaganda into the impressionable minds of young children.
Way not cool …. Waaaaaaaaaay not cool.
She never would have said that. Instead, she would have said "I love all you children so much, and I'm really going to miss being your teacher. Keep practicing, be nice to your teachers, and eat a lot of coffee ice cream".
Sadly, none of these non-consoling consolation prizes come with a return receipt for me to exchange them. But, if they did, I know exactly what I would exchange them for- and in abundance:
a hug,
a smile,
a promise of support,
“my thoughts are with you”,
“she was such a kind and caring woman”, and
“when all the sadness passes what will be left are the amazing qualities she had that are still alive in you”.
The last one still makes me cry … these are the prizes that win first place.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
BE-ing blunt about BE Bar
The DC gay nightlife is peppered with bars and clubs for every niche of the gay male community (sorry ladies, we got the lion's share on this deal ... irony ... a lion is just a big pussy-cat). Leather at the Eagle, cowboys at Remington's, sports at Nellie's ... and, my personal favorite (insert sarcasm), the skinny young bitches at Be Bar.
Upon entering Be Bar, the last thing you can think of is simply Be-ing ... which for me is a young guy with a beard and a healthy weight (shaking-body-in-front-of-mirror flab test is showing improvement). Rather, when confronted with the clientele of Be, I am suddenly more conscious about my age ... my weight ... my man-beard ... and my lack of fashion.
At the front door you are carded by a prepubescent boy who is in dire need of a sandwich. Inside you are forever waiting for a bar tender who doesn't serve people who can actually shave. Feeling like a giant among insects, people can't seem to help but spill beer all over your jeans ("but the bearded man's just SO big, I couldn't avoid his mammoth-leg!").
And you're going to charge me a five dollar cover? On a weekday?
In a somewhat narrow space that never seems big enough to fit its patrons, despite their delicate proportions, Be Bar has a chic dance floor where you can watch the exertion of anorexia in action. Their limber bodies, clad in admittedly well put together attire, shake fervently to the beat of deafening music in order to burn off the square of cheese they scarfed down for "dinner". And, most conveniently, the bathrooms are located near the front door so you can purge and polish before stepping out into the night air.
Once outside, completely deaf and a little weary, you're greeted by a wall of smoke that resembles a tear-gas raid by police. Apparently a little lung cancer goes well with a Ghandi-like physique. But hey! They're dressed up to the nines and look absolutely hip.
Damn! This blog is a perfect example of how my personal insecurities are projected as bitchiness! Maybe I should shutup, remember that thin is in and muscles are on their way out, drink a bit more, admire the fashion, and not be so damn "old".
Thank you, Be Bar, for letting me just Be me ... which is to say, uncomfortable.
Upon entering Be Bar, the last thing you can think of is simply Be-ing ... which for me is a young guy with a beard and a healthy weight (shaking-body-in-front-of-mirror flab test is showing improvement). Rather, when confronted with the clientele of Be, I am suddenly more conscious about my age ... my weight ... my man-beard ... and my lack of fashion.
At the front door you are carded by a prepubescent boy who is in dire need of a sandwich. Inside you are forever waiting for a bar tender who doesn't serve people who can actually shave. Feeling like a giant among insects, people can't seem to help but spill beer all over your jeans ("but the bearded man's just SO big, I couldn't avoid his mammoth-leg!").
And you're going to charge me a five dollar cover? On a weekday?
In a somewhat narrow space that never seems big enough to fit its patrons, despite their delicate proportions, Be Bar has a chic dance floor where you can watch the exertion of anorexia in action. Their limber bodies, clad in admittedly well put together attire, shake fervently to the beat of deafening music in order to burn off the square of cheese they scarfed down for "dinner". And, most conveniently, the bathrooms are located near the front door so you can purge and polish before stepping out into the night air.
Once outside, completely deaf and a little weary, you're greeted by a wall of smoke that resembles a tear-gas raid by police. Apparently a little lung cancer goes well with a Ghandi-like physique. But hey! They're dressed up to the nines and look absolutely hip.
Damn! This blog is a perfect example of how my personal insecurities are projected as bitchiness! Maybe I should shutup, remember that thin is in and muscles are on their way out, drink a bit more, admire the fashion, and not be so damn "old".
Thank you, Be Bar, for letting me just Be me ... which is to say, uncomfortable.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Death is a matter of life
It's hard to believe that just one week ago I was wearing my black cherry boots and prepping my sister for her inaugural visit to Remington's for linedancing lessons.
And then there was a phone call that sent everything spinning in an endless whirl of tears, friends, family, cards, flowers, condolences, food, more food, and much more food.
I knew something was wrong when I called my mom's cell phone back after a missed call- and a man answered the phone.
15 minutes later I was sitting silently on my couch, repeating over and over in my mind "I can't do this ... I can't do this" while my sister's bright blue eyeliner was running down her face like hot fudge on a sundae.
We rode to the airport, seemingly typical DC-ites with our cell phones burning minutes and our responses to the cab driver curt and emotionless. We sailed to Dulles, the sun serenely setting on what shall always be remembered as the day I unexpectedly lost my mother to death- August 20th, 2008.
Within hours I stood collapsed in my father's arms ... the kind of hug where you become weightless and immediately fatigued ... while he stood and stared straightforward with the most eerily vacant expression on his face.
Weightless is probably the best adjective to describe the past week. I feel like I've been coasting directionless out in space, while the "should-s" and "have to-s" and "supposed to-s" have been suspended around me just out of reach ... mindless and delicately spiraling around my body- perfectly in sight, and absolutely nothing I can do to manipulate them. I don't have to do anything. I'm not supposed to be anything.
But for some reason I feel like I do. I have to be strong, organized, attentive to life insurance policies and bills due and clothing that needs to be donated and lunch boxes that remain unpacked and jewelry that stays untouched and photos that need to be sorted and- a life that needs to be lamented.
My family has been inundated by a flood of support via letters, cards, emails, messages, flowers, and food; welcome distractions, and luxurious burdens.
And the grieving is so completely unique to everyone who expresses it. My father has lost 6 pounds in as many days, and I have probably gained just as much or more. My father cries more in the morning, my sister and I more at night.
We are paradoxically helped and helpless- a wealth of support from the richness of ample friends and family, but a cold silence continues to fall upon the house once the pomp and circumstance of grieving has marched itself out the door. Thankful to all those who have shouldered the boulder that is our loss, our emotions are left to clean up the pieces of broken rock that was the cornerstone of our family- my dear sweet mother, rest and bless her soul.
There's so much more to say. I guess that will come in time.
A heartfelt thanks to all of my friends and family who have blossomed in love and support during a time where sunlight is still struggling to find its way through the overcast sky of life's circumstances. You cannot know how much it means to me.
Morale of the story- life matters.
And then there was a phone call that sent everything spinning in an endless whirl of tears, friends, family, cards, flowers, condolences, food, more food, and much more food.
I knew something was wrong when I called my mom's cell phone back after a missed call- and a man answered the phone.
15 minutes later I was sitting silently on my couch, repeating over and over in my mind "I can't do this ... I can't do this" while my sister's bright blue eyeliner was running down her face like hot fudge on a sundae.
We rode to the airport, seemingly typical DC-ites with our cell phones burning minutes and our responses to the cab driver curt and emotionless. We sailed to Dulles, the sun serenely setting on what shall always be remembered as the day I unexpectedly lost my mother to death- August 20th, 2008.
Within hours I stood collapsed in my father's arms ... the kind of hug where you become weightless and immediately fatigued ... while he stood and stared straightforward with the most eerily vacant expression on his face.
Weightless is probably the best adjective to describe the past week. I feel like I've been coasting directionless out in space, while the "should-s" and "have to-s" and "supposed to-s" have been suspended around me just out of reach ... mindless and delicately spiraling around my body- perfectly in sight, and absolutely nothing I can do to manipulate them. I don't have to do anything. I'm not supposed to be anything.
But for some reason I feel like I do. I have to be strong, organized, attentive to life insurance policies and bills due and clothing that needs to be donated and lunch boxes that remain unpacked and jewelry that stays untouched and photos that need to be sorted and- a life that needs to be lamented.
My family has been inundated by a flood of support via letters, cards, emails, messages, flowers, and food; welcome distractions, and luxurious burdens.
And the grieving is so completely unique to everyone who expresses it. My father has lost 6 pounds in as many days, and I have probably gained just as much or more. My father cries more in the morning, my sister and I more at night.
We are paradoxically helped and helpless- a wealth of support from the richness of ample friends and family, but a cold silence continues to fall upon the house once the pomp and circumstance of grieving has marched itself out the door. Thankful to all those who have shouldered the boulder that is our loss, our emotions are left to clean up the pieces of broken rock that was the cornerstone of our family- my dear sweet mother, rest and bless her soul.
There's so much more to say. I guess that will come in time.
A heartfelt thanks to all of my friends and family who have blossomed in love and support during a time where sunlight is still struggling to find its way through the overcast sky of life's circumstances. You cannot know how much it means to me.
Morale of the story- life matters.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
I'll remember my Pride
This past weekend was my 3rd experience of DC's annual Gay Pride celebration (well, not just Gay -- really it was the Pride of the GLBTQQA community ... I'm proposing we add the acronym 'WTHE' to the long string of letters, signifying "Who The Hell Else?"). And although I have been a member of the GLBTQQAWTHE community for a short 4 years, this small amount of time really accounts for the bulk of my 'life'; the previous 24 seeming like a forgotten dream.
Yes that's right, I said it -- FOUR years ago. I was 24 when I officially came out -- and I took my sweet-assed time doing it, too. Circumstances being what they were growing up, there was no fertile ground in which to tend this delicate flower. But hell -- listening to Christina Auguilera's "I Am Beautiful" enough times can compel anyone to come to bizarre and dramatic revelations ... and disclosures.
So now, 4 years into my personal renaissance, I feel that the myriad of gay experiences packed into my brief history has brought me full circle; I have come back to analyze that previous thrust of pride in myself that was necessary to finally come out of the closet.
Coming out to friends and family requires a paradigm shift, and a braveness to stare into a vast unknown and say "Eh ... screw it, I'm moving forward!". Despite our personal doubts, and those quiet voices inside our heads that say "AH! Be careful, this might not be safe!" ... we leap ...
... and hit the ground running, a whole new world to explore. What interests me is that the personal doubts and often problematic negative self-talk do not go away with coming out; there is an entirely new set of problems that challenge how we view ourselves. Namely dating.
I find that the internal conflict which postponed my coming out is somewhat similar to my current struggle in identifying a place in the world of male relationships. Will I be rejected? Will I lose my dignity, will someone care (sing it girl)? Isn't it better to never show my feelings? Isn't it easier just to keep everything inside? Won't I avoid pain if I never connect with someone else ... again?
This pattern of thinking has led me down the slippery slope of cynicism. It is the fear that things won't turn out right in the end, and then becoming disenchanted with the dating process altogether.
In opening the closet door, gay people become vulnerable. We cannot control what others think or how they will react to us. Similarly, opening the 'relationship door' brings its own trials of dealing with people who do not treat us the way we want to be treated -- and sometimes that stings.
I've been trying to talk down that cranky cynic in my interior monologue by reinstating the pride it took to finally come out to friends and family. Coming out came with a price: stress, difficulty, some pain, and an opening of self that required a genuineness which was sometimes hard to swallow.
Relationships come with a similar price; I have to sacrifice myself to the occasional sting of the beehive to finally reach the honey. Accepting this as the way of things continues to give me the pride to open that relationship door just a bit further. It is an affirmation of self that says, "I'm a good person, even though people don't always treat me that way."
... and I'm pretty damn proud of that ...
Yes that's right, I said it -- FOUR years ago. I was 24 when I officially came out -- and I took my sweet-assed time doing it, too. Circumstances being what they were growing up, there was no fertile ground in which to tend this delicate flower. But hell -- listening to Christina Auguilera's "I Am Beautiful" enough times can compel anyone to come to bizarre and dramatic revelations ... and disclosures.
So now, 4 years into my personal renaissance, I feel that the myriad of gay experiences packed into my brief history has brought me full circle; I have come back to analyze that previous thrust of pride in myself that was necessary to finally come out of the closet.
Coming out to friends and family requires a paradigm shift, and a braveness to stare into a vast unknown and say "Eh ... screw it, I'm moving forward!". Despite our personal doubts, and those quiet voices inside our heads that say "AH! Be careful, this might not be safe!" ... we leap ...
... and hit the ground running, a whole new world to explore. What interests me is that the personal doubts and often problematic negative self-talk do not go away with coming out; there is an entirely new set of problems that challenge how we view ourselves. Namely dating.
I find that the internal conflict which postponed my coming out is somewhat similar to my current struggle in identifying a place in the world of male relationships. Will I be rejected? Will I lose my dignity, will someone care (sing it girl)? Isn't it better to never show my feelings? Isn't it easier just to keep everything inside? Won't I avoid pain if I never connect with someone else ... again?
This pattern of thinking has led me down the slippery slope of cynicism. It is the fear that things won't turn out right in the end, and then becoming disenchanted with the dating process altogether.
In opening the closet door, gay people become vulnerable. We cannot control what others think or how they will react to us. Similarly, opening the 'relationship door' brings its own trials of dealing with people who do not treat us the way we want to be treated -- and sometimes that stings.
I've been trying to talk down that cranky cynic in my interior monologue by reinstating the pride it took to finally come out to friends and family. Coming out came with a price: stress, difficulty, some pain, and an opening of self that required a genuineness which was sometimes hard to swallow.
Relationships come with a similar price; I have to sacrifice myself to the occasional sting of the beehive to finally reach the honey. Accepting this as the way of things continues to give me the pride to open that relationship door just a bit further. It is an affirmation of self that says, "I'm a good person, even though people don't always treat me that way."
... and I'm pretty damn proud of that ...
Friday, June 13, 2008
Spreading my seed
Now really, it is quite tacky to put a suggestive title on a blog just to confuse (and entice) the reader into thinking that we will be talking about sex ... but since we're on the subject, why the hell not?!?
Rest assured- this gardener has done precious little germination in months past, so the seed that I intend to spread has nothing to do with my irrigation system. Oh no friends, we are talking about love here. LOVE.
The 'heart' shape is the ubiquitous symbol of love, and its origins have been debated by historians for years (particularly because it looks nothing like a real heart). The most likely (and sinfully delicious) theory is that the shape comes from the silphium (syphilis?) plant in northern Africa, around 500 B.C.E. Used as a one-stop shop for common ailments and disease (like Windex in My Big Fat Greek Wedding), silphium was also believed to prevent undesired pregnancies. The seeds of the silphium plant are the shape we have adopted as the 'heart'.
Basically, our symbol for love is a prophylactic.
It makes sense ... love meaning we want the pleasure of sex without the pain of raising little shits. But the transition from the symbolic "no baby here" to "oh baby be mine!" is interesting, and further complicates the mysterious dynamic between emotional and physical love, sex and genuine caring. Throw "I 'heart' you mom" into the mix, and it just gets plain gruesome.
But, like many symbols, its present-day meaning has morphed from its original intent. When I see a heart-shape the last thing I think about is birth control. Instead, I think of compassion, intimacy, and sometimes vomiting in my mouth.
Apparently the need to stop popping out little brats overwhelmed the supply of silphium- it is now extinct (hence it was a commodity, quite like the sponge-worthy Seinfeld episodes). Perhaps it is time to reconsider and change this antiquated symbol of love ... why not something more modern ... like a condom?
*Cupid shoots arrow into a Trojan ... extra-large*
So the next time you're strapping on a rubber to hold back the seed, consider the jocular link between the latex and love. And for god's sake, pray that your 'heart' doesn't get broken.
Rest assured- this gardener has done precious little germination in months past, so the seed that I intend to spread has nothing to do with my irrigation system. Oh no friends, we are talking about love here. LOVE.
The 'heart' shape is the ubiquitous symbol of love, and its origins have been debated by historians for years (particularly because it looks nothing like a real heart). The most likely (and sinfully delicious) theory is that the shape comes from the silphium (syphilis?) plant in northern Africa, around 500 B.C.E. Used as a one-stop shop for common ailments and disease (like Windex in My Big Fat Greek Wedding), silphium was also believed to prevent undesired pregnancies. The seeds of the silphium plant are the shape we have adopted as the 'heart'.
Basically, our symbol for love is a prophylactic.
It makes sense ... love meaning we want the pleasure of sex without the pain of raising little shits. But the transition from the symbolic "no baby here" to "oh baby be mine!" is interesting, and further complicates the mysterious dynamic between emotional and physical love, sex and genuine caring. Throw "I 'heart' you mom" into the mix, and it just gets plain gruesome.
But, like many symbols, its present-day meaning has morphed from its original intent. When I see a heart-shape the last thing I think about is birth control. Instead, I think of compassion, intimacy, and sometimes vomiting in my mouth.
Apparently the need to stop popping out little brats overwhelmed the supply of silphium- it is now extinct (hence it was a commodity, quite like the sponge-worthy Seinfeld episodes). Perhaps it is time to reconsider and change this antiquated symbol of love ... why not something more modern ... like a condom?
*Cupid shoots arrow into a Trojan ... extra-large*
So the next time you're strapping on a rubber to hold back the seed, consider the jocular link between the latex and love. And for god's sake, pray that your 'heart' doesn't get broken.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
in a (540) New York minute(s)
*cue Rhapsody in Blue*
9 hours ... one city. Mission? Consume a despicable amount of calories, slow down traffic with asinine parking maneuvers, and pay an absurd amount of money to watch people sing and dance on stage.
Mission accomplished.
-Rice to Riches: Think Ben & Jerry's, only for rice pudding aficionados. Adorned with humorous signs like "Eat more, you're already fat!" and "Calories don't count in rice pudding", you hardly need the encouragement to stuff yourself silly with varied flavors such as- pecan pie, mango, almond and coconut, rocky road, raspberry ... the list goes on for about 20 different tastes. And for those of you who can't tolerate something milky and gooey in your mouth (down boy!), you can just have a banal cappuccino.
-GLBT Community Center: I know, I know. Why the hell wouldn't it be called the YMCA? Aside from a refreshing pause from the blistering heat, the community center is home to meetings, support groups, 12-step programs, social events, and more. Imagine, a gathering of gay people together in one happy place ... without alcohol ... *crickets chirping*
-Pommes Frites: Aside from its ability to never be recognized by automated-411 operators (What listing? Pommes Frites. You wanted *pause* 'library', is that correct?), this french fry joint is easy enough to find because of the long line of persons who risk heat stroke outside just to consume oily-hot potato wedges. There is an even longer list of dipping sauces in case your cholesterol just isn't quite high enough- I got the parmesan peppercorn.
-"Lesbian bar": I began doing a search to try and get the name of the actual bar we went to, but being a lesbian bar I figured- eh! Who the hell cares?!? (*dodges salmonella-laced tomatoes*) Two vodkas later, and having endured Barbara Streisand internet-jukeboxed in a bar (...lesbians! *throws hands up in the air*), the prospects of dessert drew us once again into the muggy streets.
-Magnolia Bakery: Famed "Sex and the City" bakery, and host to plenty of tourists acting like they've never seen a cupcake before ("oh my god! that one has frosting! FROSTING!!!" *snaps picture of friend smiling with V-handshape*), Magnolia is a happy host to 3 post-bar scavengers in desperate need of dinner. A chocolate wafer cake layered with whipped cream, a cupcake or two, a slice of carrot cake (somewhat disappointing...) -- and god knows what else, passersby in the street were not surprised to see us scarfing down sugar like Coney Island hotdog competitors. One girl even said to her friend, "You hit him on the head, I'll grab the cupcakes". But honestly, they aren't good enough to inspire violence.
-The Lion King: Barreling through Times Square in desperate search of street parking (along with unicorns, elves, and other fantastical creatures), we finally made it (on time!) to the theater. This is the part where words completely fail me -- in all truthfulness, you have to see it for yourself. While the audience clapped and cheered in between scenes, I found myself transfixed, gaping uncontrollably towards the stage- unsure if I had imagined it all, but convinced that even my musically-minded mind could not even begin to construct that perfect synthesis of music, dancing, and culture. Oh- and Simba was fucking hot!!!
Having conquered the Apple and dazzling all senses, we made our way back to DC along the dark, un-twinkling lit interstate. My only source of consolation was the bathroom at a New Jersey rest area, where I saw a "macho" man turbulently wrestle to get his (apparently) ginormous penis back into his pants -- it was like watching someone try to stuff an angry cat into a paper bag. Certainly nothing in this world should be that strenuous ... but if so, can I have your number?
And after the looming skyscrapers and uncountable march of humanity through the streets of New York, returning to DC was like a peaceful nightcap at the end of an exhausting day; slower, gentler, and a soft pillow that ate me up as if calories didn't count.
Phew. What a day ...
9 hours ... one city. Mission? Consume a despicable amount of calories, slow down traffic with asinine parking maneuvers, and pay an absurd amount of money to watch people sing and dance on stage.
Mission accomplished.
-Rice to Riches: Think Ben & Jerry's, only for rice pudding aficionados. Adorned with humorous signs like "Eat more, you're already fat!" and "Calories don't count in rice pudding", you hardly need the encouragement to stuff yourself silly with varied flavors such as- pecan pie, mango, almond and coconut, rocky road, raspberry ... the list goes on for about 20 different tastes. And for those of you who can't tolerate something milky and gooey in your mouth (down boy!), you can just have a banal cappuccino.
-GLBT Community Center: I know, I know. Why the hell wouldn't it be called the YMCA? Aside from a refreshing pause from the blistering heat, the community center is home to meetings, support groups, 12-step programs, social events, and more. Imagine, a gathering of gay people together in one happy place ... without alcohol ... *crickets chirping*
-Pommes Frites: Aside from its ability to never be recognized by automated-411 operators (What listing? Pommes Frites. You wanted *pause* 'library', is that correct?), this french fry joint is easy enough to find because of the long line of persons who risk heat stroke outside just to consume oily-hot potato wedges. There is an even longer list of dipping sauces in case your cholesterol just isn't quite high enough- I got the parmesan peppercorn.
-"Lesbian bar": I began doing a search to try and get the name of the actual bar we went to, but being a lesbian bar I figured- eh! Who the hell cares?!? (*dodges salmonella-laced tomatoes*) Two vodkas later, and having endured Barbara Streisand internet-jukeboxed in a bar (...lesbians! *throws hands up in the air*), the prospects of dessert drew us once again into the muggy streets.
-Magnolia Bakery: Famed "Sex and the City" bakery, and host to plenty of tourists acting like they've never seen a cupcake before ("oh my god! that one has frosting! FROSTING!!!" *snaps picture of friend smiling with V-handshape*), Magnolia is a happy host to 3 post-bar scavengers in desperate need of dinner. A chocolate wafer cake layered with whipped cream, a cupcake or two, a slice of carrot cake (somewhat disappointing...) -- and god knows what else, passersby in the street were not surprised to see us scarfing down sugar like Coney Island hotdog competitors. One girl even said to her friend, "You hit him on the head, I'll grab the cupcakes". But honestly, they aren't good enough to inspire violence.
-The Lion King: Barreling through Times Square in desperate search of street parking (along with unicorns, elves, and other fantastical creatures), we finally made it (on time!) to the theater. This is the part where words completely fail me -- in all truthfulness, you have to see it for yourself. While the audience clapped and cheered in between scenes, I found myself transfixed, gaping uncontrollably towards the stage- unsure if I had imagined it all, but convinced that even my musically-minded mind could not even begin to construct that perfect synthesis of music, dancing, and culture. Oh- and Simba was fucking hot!!!
Having conquered the Apple and dazzling all senses, we made our way back to DC along the dark, un-twinkling lit interstate. My only source of consolation was the bathroom at a New Jersey rest area, where I saw a "macho" man turbulently wrestle to get his (apparently) ginormous penis back into his pants -- it was like watching someone try to stuff an angry cat into a paper bag. Certainly nothing in this world should be that strenuous ... but if so, can I have your number?
And after the looming skyscrapers and uncountable march of humanity through the streets of New York, returning to DC was like a peaceful nightcap at the end of an exhausting day; slower, gentler, and a soft pillow that ate me up as if calories didn't count.
Phew. What a day ...
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
The mean of averages ...
Mean people exist - it's a cultural universal. Where 2 or more are gathered, there is a high probability that one of these persons will be a nasty bitch at some point.
We expect this level of animosity among the rich and famous; that is, after all, what we are exposed to on TV everyday. Lou Dobbs, Judge Judy, Rosie O'Donnell when dieting ... the inner bitch becomes a media stunt to draw in viewers who are captivated by the cantankerous and cranky.
But what about the average Joe & Jane? Are we crabby with each other simply to appease our own personal audience? What benefit do we receive by being ill-tempered?
DC has its fair share of quarrels and spats, as was demonstrated to me in the past couple of weeks:
-CVS-PMS: One evening at a CVS a very disgruntled woman was anxiously waiting in line to check out. Due to some confusion by the manager and other store clerks, some customers were waiting longer than usual. Livid beyond imagination, she began chucking her items this way and that, kicking things across the floor, and stomped out. Wow- no need to get that upset about over-priced gum and Aleve!
-Giant bitch: While waiting in line to check out at a Giant food store, my cashier began speaking to another customer in line using her native language (not English). A short, grisly old white lady looked at both of them and indignantly asked in condescending tones -- "What country am I in???" Shocking ...
-Metro blockade: A man with 3 extra-large suitcases held a train at Union Station an extra minute during rush hour while propping the car doors open and laboriously hauling his stuff on to the train. He pushed his suitcases to the back of the train, cornering me and my friend in our seats so that we couldn't get up. My friend, in a fit of laughter at the audacity of this man's inconsiderateness, began to draw the attention of several people on the train. Suitcase man looked at one of the male passengers and growled "Stop looking at me, or I'll claw your fucking eyes out". Whoa.
.... So what fuels this phenomenon?
Maybe it's fear. Fear of feeling inferior and unappreciated, fear of diversity and sacrificing privilege, and fear of embarrassment and the opinions of others. We are mean to others because we feel ... and we feel because we are mean ...
... average or otherwise.
We expect this level of animosity among the rich and famous; that is, after all, what we are exposed to on TV everyday. Lou Dobbs, Judge Judy, Rosie O'Donnell when dieting ... the inner bitch becomes a media stunt to draw in viewers who are captivated by the cantankerous and cranky.
But what about the average Joe & Jane? Are we crabby with each other simply to appease our own personal audience? What benefit do we receive by being ill-tempered?
DC has its fair share of quarrels and spats, as was demonstrated to me in the past couple of weeks:
-CVS-PMS: One evening at a CVS a very disgruntled woman was anxiously waiting in line to check out. Due to some confusion by the manager and other store clerks, some customers were waiting longer than usual. Livid beyond imagination, she began chucking her items this way and that, kicking things across the floor, and stomped out. Wow- no need to get that upset about over-priced gum and Aleve!
-Giant bitch: While waiting in line to check out at a Giant food store, my cashier began speaking to another customer in line using her native language (not English). A short, grisly old white lady looked at both of them and indignantly asked in condescending tones -- "What country am I in???" Shocking ...
-Metro blockade: A man with 3 extra-large suitcases held a train at Union Station an extra minute during rush hour while propping the car doors open and laboriously hauling his stuff on to the train. He pushed his suitcases to the back of the train, cornering me and my friend in our seats so that we couldn't get up. My friend, in a fit of laughter at the audacity of this man's inconsiderateness, began to draw the attention of several people on the train. Suitcase man looked at one of the male passengers and growled "Stop looking at me, or I'll claw your fucking eyes out". Whoa.
.... So what fuels this phenomenon?
Maybe it's fear. Fear of feeling inferior and unappreciated, fear of diversity and sacrificing privilege, and fear of embarrassment and the opinions of others. We are mean to others because we feel ... and we feel because we are mean ...
... average or otherwise.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Holy copyright infringement
"When God saw the wicked he knew what to do
Told Noah bring the animals two-by-two
Cuz I'm gonna keep your boat afloat for forty days
Yes the good Lord works in mysterious ways"
-The Color Purple
The story of Noah's ark is a staple of any Christian Sunday school class. And hell, Noah's "leave it all behind" legacy is really quite appealing. Much like a modern-day pleasure cruise with a gigantic zoo on deck, the ark was an escape from the cruel reality of a wicked earth and it brought its passengers to an exotic and unknown destination. Imagine-- soaking up the sun, going for a dip in the rain, and kicking back with your loved ones while wondering how this whole "re-populate the planet" thing is gonna work with your aunts and uncles. Ew.
Well you gotta hand it to Noah- a schizophrenic carpenter with animal-taming instincts like Steve Irwin is hard to find. How did he prevent the crocodiles from eating the soft bunny rabbits, anyways?
But wait- before you start pondering the consequences of intra-familiar procreation, first remember that the story of Noah's ark comes 2,000 years after the same tale had been spun in Mesopotamia by the Sumerians (do what now?).
What the Sumerians failed to realize was that this story had great marketable potential and it should have been copyrighted immediately. There are several major world religions that depict a story similar to Noah's. And watching the animals march two-by-two to the tune of Pomp and Circumstance in Fantasia 2000 is just damn CUTE!
The Bible Archaeology Search and Exploration Institute is a Colorado-based non-profit organization that seeks to "help validate to the world that the Bible is true", because apparently the Creator can't handle that task on his/her own. The BASE Institute has spent a considerable amount of time and money on research to locate the ark ... and defy the principles of science (wood decay, atmospheric/barometric conditions, and a human being's ability to survive it all).
But in an age where Biblical literalism is more important than equal rights and the fight against discrimination, it makes sense that the BASE people are on a quest to validate incest and the gross potential for genetic mutations.
This July I'll be going on the Rosie O'Donnell Family Cruise, and it got me wondering about the similarities between a Rosie and Noah nautical experience. Both cruise liners are trying to get away from a world that is different from them ... that doesn't understand them. Both are seeking peace, and a fresh new beginning for the world.
And both are sailing out into the distant blue sea, with a rainbow banner flying high overhead.
Told Noah bring the animals two-by-two
Cuz I'm gonna keep your boat afloat for forty days
Yes the good Lord works in mysterious ways"
-The Color Purple
The story of Noah's ark is a staple of any Christian Sunday school class. And hell, Noah's "leave it all behind" legacy is really quite appealing. Much like a modern-day pleasure cruise with a gigantic zoo on deck, the ark was an escape from the cruel reality of a wicked earth and it brought its passengers to an exotic and unknown destination. Imagine-- soaking up the sun, going for a dip in the rain, and kicking back with your loved ones while wondering how this whole "re-populate the planet" thing is gonna work with your aunts and uncles. Ew.
Well you gotta hand it to Noah- a schizophrenic carpenter with animal-taming instincts like Steve Irwin is hard to find. How did he prevent the crocodiles from eating the soft bunny rabbits, anyways?
But wait- before you start pondering the consequences of intra-familiar procreation, first remember that the story of Noah's ark comes 2,000 years after the same tale had been spun in Mesopotamia by the Sumerians (do what now?).
What the Sumerians failed to realize was that this story had great marketable potential and it should have been copyrighted immediately. There are several major world religions that depict a story similar to Noah's. And watching the animals march two-by-two to the tune of Pomp and Circumstance in Fantasia 2000 is just damn CUTE!
The Bible Archaeology Search and Exploration Institute is a Colorado-based non-profit organization that seeks to "help validate to the world that the Bible is true", because apparently the Creator can't handle that task on his/her own. The BASE Institute has spent a considerable amount of time and money on research to locate the ark ... and defy the principles of science (wood decay, atmospheric/barometric conditions, and a human being's ability to survive it all).
But in an age where Biblical literalism is more important than equal rights and the fight against discrimination, it makes sense that the BASE people are on a quest to validate incest and the gross potential for genetic mutations.
This July I'll be going on the Rosie O'Donnell Family Cruise, and it got me wondering about the similarities between a Rosie and Noah nautical experience. Both cruise liners are trying to get away from a world that is different from them ... that doesn't understand them. Both are seeking peace, and a fresh new beginning for the world.
And both are sailing out into the distant blue sea, with a rainbow banner flying high overhead.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
E.T. replaced by W.W.J.D. alien
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/24598508/
The Vatican's top astronomer has given a hearty two thumbs up to the belief that extra-terrestrial life could exist on other planets due to the universe's enormity and the limitless power of God's creativity.
Reverend Funes is the director of the Vatican Observatory (which immediately springs to mind a giant eyeball ... quite like Sauron's in Lord of the Rings ... *cough* ... Holy See, indeed....), and believes that alien life would not contradict the Catholic faith.
Had this been the 17th century, Funes would probably have been burned at the stake or placed under house arrest like Galileo for his astronomical views. But in an age where pollution is a sin and indulgences are just an old-fashioned fad, perhaps it is time to readjust our telescopes to see how religion, science, and reality can become the new holy trinity of the 21st century.
Following the precedent of the Vatican, we can expect to see a religious race into the galaxy quite like the great space race of the 1960s -- except this time it will be with the Pope at the helm ... like Jean-Luc Picard with a very tall head-piece.
***Space ... the final frontier. These are the voyages of the Starship Vatican-O ... Its continuing mission: to explore strange new worlds (provided they do not challenge its theology or doctrine), to seek out new life and new civilizations (unless they are witches, in which case teleport some more firewood), to boldly go where no Pope has gone before!!! (excluding nude-y bars and 3-star hotels) ***
Bishop #1: "Captain!!! We have an enemy craft approaching sector 8.27"
Pope: "On screen."
***appears a tan, muscular man with elaborate machinery in shades of pink and lavender scantily covering his private parts***
Homo-Borg #1: "We are the Homo-Borg. You cannot resist us. You will be ASSimilated. Resistance is futile."
***the two spacecrafts exchange firepower of holy water, rainbow-painted missiles, crucifixes, CDs of ABBA and the YMCA, flaming candles, and Martinis***
Yikes!!!
Upon discovery of intelligent alien life, the Pope descends from his spaceship and extends his arms ... "I have come to bring you the good news of a savior who is a carbon-based life-form completely dissimilar from you and everything you know -- but nevertheless you must believe in him or perish in the fire of eternal damnation ..."
Upon quick review of the Church's oopsies! and boo-boos! during the Inquisition and the unfortunate killings and blatant corruptions throughout its history, the aliens decide that the best course of action would be to vaporize the Silly-Hat Man immediately and then go get some breakfast.
Perhaps we should hold off on the whole "intergalactic missionary work" thing for right now, and concentrate on things closer to home. After all Mr. Pope, things like Mars, Jupiter- hell, even Uranus- are yet to be explored ...
The Vatican's top astronomer has given a hearty two thumbs up to the belief that extra-terrestrial life could exist on other planets due to the universe's enormity and the limitless power of God's creativity.
Reverend Funes is the director of the Vatican Observatory (which immediately springs to mind a giant eyeball ... quite like Sauron's in Lord of the Rings ... *cough* ... Holy See, indeed....), and believes that alien life would not contradict the Catholic faith.
Had this been the 17th century, Funes would probably have been burned at the stake or placed under house arrest like Galileo for his astronomical views. But in an age where pollution is a sin and indulgences are just an old-fashioned fad, perhaps it is time to readjust our telescopes to see how religion, science, and reality can become the new holy trinity of the 21st century.
Following the precedent of the Vatican, we can expect to see a religious race into the galaxy quite like the great space race of the 1960s -- except this time it will be with the Pope at the helm ... like Jean-Luc Picard with a very tall head-piece.
***Space ... the final frontier. These are the voyages of the Starship Vatican-O ... Its continuing mission: to explore strange new worlds (provided they do not challenge its theology or doctrine), to seek out new life and new civilizations (unless they are witches, in which case teleport some more firewood), to boldly go where no Pope has gone before!!! (excluding nude-y bars and 3-star hotels) ***
Bishop #1: "Captain!!! We have an enemy craft approaching sector 8.27"
Pope: "On screen."
***appears a tan, muscular man with elaborate machinery in shades of pink and lavender scantily covering his private parts***
Homo-Borg #1: "We are the Homo-Borg. You cannot resist us. You will be ASSimilated. Resistance is futile."
***the two spacecrafts exchange firepower of holy water, rainbow-painted missiles, crucifixes, CDs of ABBA and the YMCA, flaming candles, and Martinis***
Yikes!!!
Upon discovery of intelligent alien life, the Pope descends from his spaceship and extends his arms ... "I have come to bring you the good news of a savior who is a carbon-based life-form completely dissimilar from you and everything you know -- but nevertheless you must believe in him or perish in the fire of eternal damnation ..."
Upon quick review of the Church's oopsies! and boo-boos! during the Inquisition and the unfortunate killings and blatant corruptions throughout its history, the aliens decide that the best course of action would be to vaporize the Silly-Hat Man immediately and then go get some breakfast.
Perhaps we should hold off on the whole "intergalactic missionary work" thing for right now, and concentrate on things closer to home. After all Mr. Pope, things like Mars, Jupiter- hell, even Uranus- are yet to be explored ...
Friday, May 9, 2008
Rain, man!
Washington DC can be characterized by the following pissy items: a piss-poor political administration, the mysterious odor of piss on the Metro and in public buildings (most notably the White House), and the contemptuous pissing down of rain. From misty to torrential downpour DC has got you covered, quite literally-- covered head to toe with water, despite your vain attempts to direct your petty umbrella in the direction where the most rain is coming from.
The umbrella is almost pointless in DC's malevolent wind and rainy season. The rain, guided swiftly by DC's obnoxiously unpredictable gusts of wind, sends cascades of moisture scurrying this way and that like a herd of antelope evading a predator. No matter which direction you point your umbrella to combat this precipitating attack by mother nature, the wind somehow manages to circumvent every inch of polyester and soak your legs, torso, and aspirations of arriving to work without your clothes cementing to your body.
I have to wonder ... what's the point? I may as well just wear a plastic grocery bag over my face and call it a day.
And what is the deal with the extra-large umbrellas??? I am for serious-- umbrellas should be regulated so that they are a size proportional to the carrier's body!!! I saw a 90 pound 5'3" lady walking around today with an umbrella that looked like China on a stick. As she was cruising down the street, her dark dome eclipsing almost all of the natural light beneath itself, she continuously rammed every other regular-sized brolly like bumper boats in the air.
Water flying, people whipping around angrily to see who was piloting the polyester vessel, short utterances of surprise and consternation ... unfortunately this woman couldn't hear a blessed thing as her umbrella acoustics only allowed for the reverberation of her own ignorance to the world beyond her 10-food diameter dry zone.
It all ties into the American value of "happy me, screw you hippies". Dry, content, and oblivious to anything other than what is dry and content, we are pleased ... and anyone in the way can take a supersoaker up their arse (why did the song "Superman" just pop into my head). The greater good, i.e. civility and courteousness, can drown itself in its own tears of impertinence; my rights come before yours.
So as I steer my umbrella in the DC breeze, more like a kite than anything else, and enjoy a good lashing of a rain that travels sideways and on occasion from the ground up, I begin to wonder if that lady is also the line-cutter at the grocery store, the intersection-blocker at a stop light, the person who boards a Metro car before others have exited, or the cell phone talker at the movies ... Could they all be the same person???
Not to rain on anyone's parade, but unfortunately there is more than just one umbrella lady out there ...
The umbrella is almost pointless in DC's malevolent wind and rainy season. The rain, guided swiftly by DC's obnoxiously unpredictable gusts of wind, sends cascades of moisture scurrying this way and that like a herd of antelope evading a predator. No matter which direction you point your umbrella to combat this precipitating attack by mother nature, the wind somehow manages to circumvent every inch of polyester and soak your legs, torso, and aspirations of arriving to work without your clothes cementing to your body.
I have to wonder ... what's the point? I may as well just wear a plastic grocery bag over my face and call it a day.
And what is the deal with the extra-large umbrellas??? I am for serious-- umbrellas should be regulated so that they are a size proportional to the carrier's body!!! I saw a 90 pound 5'3" lady walking around today with an umbrella that looked like China on a stick. As she was cruising down the street, her dark dome eclipsing almost all of the natural light beneath itself, she continuously rammed every other regular-sized brolly like bumper boats in the air.
Water flying, people whipping around angrily to see who was piloting the polyester vessel, short utterances of surprise and consternation ... unfortunately this woman couldn't hear a blessed thing as her umbrella acoustics only allowed for the reverberation of her own ignorance to the world beyond her 10-food diameter dry zone.
It all ties into the American value of "happy me, screw you hippies". Dry, content, and oblivious to anything other than what is dry and content, we are pleased ... and anyone in the way can take a supersoaker up their arse (why did the song "Superman" just pop into my head). The greater good, i.e. civility and courteousness, can drown itself in its own tears of impertinence; my rights come before yours.
So as I steer my umbrella in the DC breeze, more like a kite than anything else, and enjoy a good lashing of a rain that travels sideways and on occasion from the ground up, I begin to wonder if that lady is also the line-cutter at the grocery store, the intersection-blocker at a stop light, the person who boards a Metro car before others have exited, or the cell phone talker at the movies ... Could they all be the same person???
Not to rain on anyone's parade, but unfortunately there is more than just one umbrella lady out there ...
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
The Perfect Man
"You've got the charm
you simply disarm me
every time ..."
-Effie
The perfect man, amongst other nonsensical oxymorons like "Microsoft works" and "good morning", is an ideal generated in the human psyche from a lifetime of watching romantic comedies and Disney classics. Ariel falls in love with Prince Eric just by fanatically watching him dance with a dog, Leonardo yearns for a suicidal forward-thinking aristocrat and steams up a fancy car (and I bet the owner didn't appreciate those stains ... no worry, I'm sure they washed out), and Princess Leia kisses her brother --err, um ... oh dear, ok let's just skip that one.
And we fall for it every time ... We know it's foolish, impossible, and void of modern day realities like prenuptials and emotionally-unavailable partners. But subliminally imprinted in the subconscious is that wish for the easy, extreme, and impregnable companionship that defies all logic and reasoning.
So here it is; my attempt to juggle the ingrained lavish longings of the Freudian id with the principles of realistic living -- the definition of the perfect man for an imperfect world.
-thoughtfulness: it's different for everyone ... for some people it's a gift, a text message, a phone call, or an extra minute's embrace. So the perfect man is able to identify his own way of thoughtfulness, deliver, and then recognize it in others ... abundantly.
-listening: hearing what you say, seeing what you do, and sensing what you feel.
-humor: letting your hair down, if you have any, and being ok with embarrassment. The ability to laugh at chickens, merely because they walk funny and make unusual sounds. Farting and then blaming it on the old lady sitting next to you on the Metro with puzzled and accusatory glances in her direction.
-persistence: not giving up when challenged with hardship in the relationship. Fighting the urge to detach emotionally, and staying the course.
-time: to exist in a place where time is generous. Content with a movie on a Friday night and a bedtime of 10:00 if that means an extra hour of cuddling in the morning. To spend an entire day without accomplishing much, yet doing-- or being more than you anticipated.
-insight: to see in yourself and in others that special something that usually goes unnoticed.
It's funny ... after re-reading this list, I was surprised to discover that I'm actually describing the qualities of my own self that I'd like to improve upon.
Perhaps the quest for the perfect man is really the search for the perfect man inside of me.
So I guess, in short, what identifies the perfect man in my mind is simply his struggle to do better-- by himself, and for others.
I suppose it's not as oxymoronic as I thought ...
you simply disarm me
every time ..."
-Effie
The perfect man, amongst other nonsensical oxymorons like "Microsoft works" and "good morning", is an ideal generated in the human psyche from a lifetime of watching romantic comedies and Disney classics. Ariel falls in love with Prince Eric just by fanatically watching him dance with a dog, Leonardo yearns for a suicidal forward-thinking aristocrat and steams up a fancy car (and I bet the owner didn't appreciate those stains ... no worry, I'm sure they washed out), and Princess Leia kisses her brother --err, um ... oh dear, ok let's just skip that one.
And we fall for it every time ... We know it's foolish, impossible, and void of modern day realities like prenuptials and emotionally-unavailable partners. But subliminally imprinted in the subconscious is that wish for the easy, extreme, and impregnable companionship that defies all logic and reasoning.
So here it is; my attempt to juggle the ingrained lavish longings of the Freudian id with the principles of realistic living -- the definition of the perfect man for an imperfect world.
-thoughtfulness: it's different for everyone ... for some people it's a gift, a text message, a phone call, or an extra minute's embrace. So the perfect man is able to identify his own way of thoughtfulness, deliver, and then recognize it in others ... abundantly.
-listening: hearing what you say, seeing what you do, and sensing what you feel.
-humor: letting your hair down, if you have any, and being ok with embarrassment. The ability to laugh at chickens, merely because they walk funny and make unusual sounds. Farting and then blaming it on the old lady sitting next to you on the Metro with puzzled and accusatory glances in her direction.
-persistence: not giving up when challenged with hardship in the relationship. Fighting the urge to detach emotionally, and staying the course.
-time: to exist in a place where time is generous. Content with a movie on a Friday night and a bedtime of 10:00 if that means an extra hour of cuddling in the morning. To spend an entire day without accomplishing much, yet doing-- or being more than you anticipated.
-insight: to see in yourself and in others that special something that usually goes unnoticed.
It's funny ... after re-reading this list, I was surprised to discover that I'm actually describing the qualities of my own self that I'd like to improve upon.
Perhaps the quest for the perfect man is really the search for the perfect man inside of me.
So I guess, in short, what identifies the perfect man in my mind is simply his struggle to do better-- by himself, and for others.
I suppose it's not as oxymoronic as I thought ...
Monday, April 28, 2008
The Dentist
Dentists are evil and must be destroyed.
This morning I had my first cleaning with a new dentist in Silver Spring. Granted, I hadn't been for a dental cleaning in a long while because Gallaudet's health insurance covers its students about as much as Britney Spears covers her no-no parts. Still, I feel that my cleaning was unusually harsh and unnecessarily painful, like spraying alcohol on a paper cut when all you really need is a band-aid.
The year is 2008, people. Teeth have been around quite a while; they are not a new phenomenon in the evolution of our species. Therefore, I believe it is a serious disappointment that in our advancement as conscious beings we have not yet invented a more suitable way to bring our molars and bicuspids up to their hygienic par.
It's a very compromising position to have your head tilted back and your mouth gaping wide open, like a baby bird in a nest waiting for its pre-digested meal from mommy. You are at the complete mercy (or lack of mercy) of the hygienist or dentist- who could obviously use a seminar or two on empathy and compassion for human suffering. What ever happened to "do no harm"?!?
That little scraper they use to grind in between the teeth and gums is barbaric yet surprisingly legal. I swear my dentist was using it like a pickax going after gold in some cave. I was clutching the sides of the chair and wincing when I opened my eyes and silently pleaded with the man to leave me in peace- in peace!!! And the only thing this bastard could say was "Wow, the rain is sure coming down hard, isn't it?" Yeah, the rain is very interesting, especially when you're trying to saw my face in half.
I think dentists take it personally when you haven't been for your checkup in a while. They're like a disgruntled date who is steamed that you didn't call soon enough, only in this situation the date has unlimited power to maximize your pain-- and then you actually pay for it!!! They always give you that look like "Oh ... you haven't been back promptly at 6 months ... well, I hate to see you suffer, but I have a contract with Satan and must do as he bids ..."
It must be a very dissatisfying experience to know that your entire career is disliked by the general public- quite like auto mechanics, telemarketers, and Richard Simmons. But dentists are consoled by the mantra they say to themselves every morning-- "Because of plaque, they'll always come back".
And so we do, and so we shall, until modern medicine actually becomes modern. Until then, I fear that these closeted S&M fetish-ers will have free reign over our cake holes and continue to manipulate the population with their scrapers, water pics, and saliva-slurping vacuums that always seem excessively loud ...
Perhaps that noise is there to drown out the wails of despair from another schmuck down the hall who is suffering an all too familiar fate at the hands of a monster we affectionately call the dentist.
This morning I had my first cleaning with a new dentist in Silver Spring. Granted, I hadn't been for a dental cleaning in a long while because Gallaudet's health insurance covers its students about as much as Britney Spears covers her no-no parts. Still, I feel that my cleaning was unusually harsh and unnecessarily painful, like spraying alcohol on a paper cut when all you really need is a band-aid.
The year is 2008, people. Teeth have been around quite a while; they are not a new phenomenon in the evolution of our species. Therefore, I believe it is a serious disappointment that in our advancement as conscious beings we have not yet invented a more suitable way to bring our molars and bicuspids up to their hygienic par.
It's a very compromising position to have your head tilted back and your mouth gaping wide open, like a baby bird in a nest waiting for its pre-digested meal from mommy. You are at the complete mercy (or lack of mercy) of the hygienist or dentist- who could obviously use a seminar or two on empathy and compassion for human suffering. What ever happened to "do no harm"?!?
That little scraper they use to grind in between the teeth and gums is barbaric yet surprisingly legal. I swear my dentist was using it like a pickax going after gold in some cave. I was clutching the sides of the chair and wincing when I opened my eyes and silently pleaded with the man to leave me in peace- in peace!!! And the only thing this bastard could say was "Wow, the rain is sure coming down hard, isn't it?" Yeah, the rain is very interesting, especially when you're trying to saw my face in half.
I think dentists take it personally when you haven't been for your checkup in a while. They're like a disgruntled date who is steamed that you didn't call soon enough, only in this situation the date has unlimited power to maximize your pain-- and then you actually pay for it!!! They always give you that look like "Oh ... you haven't been back promptly at 6 months ... well, I hate to see you suffer, but I have a contract with Satan and must do as he bids ..."
It must be a very dissatisfying experience to know that your entire career is disliked by the general public- quite like auto mechanics, telemarketers, and Richard Simmons. But dentists are consoled by the mantra they say to themselves every morning-- "Because of plaque, they'll always come back".
And so we do, and so we shall, until modern medicine actually becomes modern. Until then, I fear that these closeted S&M fetish-ers will have free reign over our cake holes and continue to manipulate the population with their scrapers, water pics, and saliva-slurping vacuums that always seem excessively loud ...
Perhaps that noise is there to drown out the wails of despair from another schmuck down the hall who is suffering an all too familiar fate at the hands of a monster we affectionately call the dentist.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Water into wine ... and beer
Express, April 22, 2008
"Tapping the Keg of Life"
Beer was on tap as a new church held its inaugural service in a Sidney, Ohio, bar. The bar-room church is an offshoot of Sidney United First Methodist Church, whose head pastor says he's been looking for creative ways to reach people. The church's Web site for its new branch advertises "Top regional bands, pizza, wings, rowdy fun and a short message." The Rev. Chris Heckaman's sermon compared staying on the bar's mechanical bull to learning how to get along in life.
Church website- http://www.sidneyfirst.com/Discover/CountryRockChurch/tabid/140/Default.aspx
OH MY GOD ... where do I begin?
A few months ago I wrote a blog about a minister who challenged the married couples of his congregation to have sex every night for 30 days ... and now we are worshipping in a bar. Reverend Heckaman, head of the church sipping the head of his beer, has decided that alcohol consumption is definitely the new direction for Methodists.
Just imagine ... for communion there will be shot glasses filled with Bloody Marys, bar nuts will replace the body of Christ (why not?! he never used his own!), and the choir will take a back seat (or stool) to the whims of drunken karaoke-ers singing "Summer Lovin' ... from Jesus ".
I suppose that regular church protocol would not apply to congregants while worshipping in a bar; it doesn't matter whether you're standing, sitting, or kneeling since the room is spinning anyway. Baptisms will be replaced by the minister gently lowering the person's head back and letting them chug directly from the keg. And the following morning, people won't know if that pain in their head was caused by an atrocious hangover or from the smack they received when filled with the spirit.
One major concern is how to discern drunken bar-speech from those actually speaking in tongues. Put a little tequila in Granny McAllen and suddenly you can't tell the difference between her and an evangelical on speed. Once she starts dancing around and raising her hands in the air ... well, let's just say y'all better move the darts out of the way in case she decides to smite the wicked.
While the bar is hushed in reverence during quiet prayer time, one can't help but be distracted by the sound of someone blowing chunks loudly in the restroom, reminding us all that everything- even communion- should be taken in moderation.
And then the sermon- "Life is like riding a mechanical bull". What, if you continue doing something for only 8 seconds you get a medal? Life is full of bullshit? Life can can make your ass sore? (giggle)
Finally the reverend makes one "last call !!!" for congregants to come to the front to accept forgiveness -- your sins are now washed away, compliments of Smirnoff.
Go in peace. Amen. And call a cab ...
"Tapping the Keg of Life"
Beer was on tap as a new church held its inaugural service in a Sidney, Ohio, bar. The bar-room church is an offshoot of Sidney United First Methodist Church, whose head pastor says he's been looking for creative ways to reach people. The church's Web site for its new branch advertises "Top regional bands, pizza, wings, rowdy fun and a short message." The Rev. Chris Heckaman's sermon compared staying on the bar's mechanical bull to learning how to get along in life.
Church website- http://www.sidneyfirst.com/Discover/CountryRockChurch/tabid/140/Default.aspx
OH MY GOD ... where do I begin?
A few months ago I wrote a blog about a minister who challenged the married couples of his congregation to have sex every night for 30 days ... and now we are worshipping in a bar. Reverend Heckaman, head of the church sipping the head of his beer, has decided that alcohol consumption is definitely the new direction for Methodists.
Just imagine ... for communion there will be shot glasses filled with Bloody Marys, bar nuts will replace the body of Christ (why not?! he never used his own!), and the choir will take a back seat (or stool) to the whims of drunken karaoke-ers singing "Summer Lovin' ... from Jesus ".
I suppose that regular church protocol would not apply to congregants while worshipping in a bar; it doesn't matter whether you're standing, sitting, or kneeling since the room is spinning anyway. Baptisms will be replaced by the minister gently lowering the person's head back and letting them chug directly from the keg. And the following morning, people won't know if that pain in their head was caused by an atrocious hangover or from the smack they received when filled with the spirit.
One major concern is how to discern drunken bar-speech from those actually speaking in tongues. Put a little tequila in Granny McAllen and suddenly you can't tell the difference between her and an evangelical on speed. Once she starts dancing around and raising her hands in the air ... well, let's just say y'all better move the darts out of the way in case she decides to smite the wicked.
While the bar is hushed in reverence during quiet prayer time, one can't help but be distracted by the sound of someone blowing chunks loudly in the restroom, reminding us all that everything- even communion- should be taken in moderation.
And then the sermon- "Life is like riding a mechanical bull". What, if you continue doing something for only 8 seconds you get a medal? Life is full of bullshit? Life can can make your ass sore? (giggle)
Finally the reverend makes one "last call !!!" for congregants to come to the front to accept forgiveness -- your sins are now washed away, compliments of Smirnoff.
Go in peace. Amen. And call a cab ...
Monday, April 21, 2008
Polk County - a news magnet
"The National Face of Polk County"
http://www.theledger.com/article/20080420/COLUMNISTS0301/804200330
A recent article in the Lakeland Ledger, Polk County's finest news source (their coverage of the 1987 Lake Morton mysterious swan disappearance is legendary, almost got the Pulitzer), came about in response to the the surge of negative press surrounding the P.C. in recent months.
Lakeland, my home town, has gained national attention due to a YouTube video that shows some white-trash girls beating up a fellow cheerleader, smacking her around a good few times, and having a jolly laugh about the whole thing. Slapping, shoving, and punching are Polk County's preferred methods of conflict resolution, and can often be observed in vivo at home during domestic disputes and then reproduced for the general public via networking sites.
The author's biggest complaint in her article was the shocking "cheap shots" other newspaper giants and news sources around the country have taken when describing Polk County, namely-- "rural Florida" and "Lakeland, a lower-middle-class town".
Well guess what? Polk County IS rural, the opposite of urban (New York, LA, Chicago), and it IS a lower-middle-class town (and the last thing those cheerleaders had was class!).
But why get caught up in labels for a county that has violent cheerleaders, cop killings (which resulted in the suspect's untimely death by a disturbing 110 shots fired by authorities ... apparently 100 bullets aren't enough to kill someone?), and bloody parent-butcherings. Hey, what can you expect from an urban upper-class town like Lakeland???
A general search for Polk County on CNN.com reveals its impact on a national level:
April 10 - YouTube video cheerleaders could get life in prison
Feb 16 - The North Illinois University shooter's father lives in Lakeland, FL
Oct 6 - Registered sex-offender in Polk County arrested for allegedly luring a 15-year-old girl through MySpace
Sept 29 - "Florida police kill suspect in deputy's slaying" ... (referenced above) I'd like to call attention to the word "suspect", I'm just saying ...
Sept 13 - "Judge warns victims' mother not to cry on stand" ... oh yeah SURE she's only telling about how she came upon the bloodied bodies of her children, how inappropriate to tear up over that ...
There are more, but I got bored ...
How can one small county gain such infamy? Perhaps the Ledger article should be re-named "The National Egg-on-Face of Polk County" ...
http://www.theledger.com/article/20080420/COLUMNISTS0301/804200330
A recent article in the Lakeland Ledger, Polk County's finest news source (their coverage of the 1987 Lake Morton mysterious swan disappearance is legendary, almost got the Pulitzer), came about in response to the the surge of negative press surrounding the P.C. in recent months.
Lakeland, my home town, has gained national attention due to a YouTube video that shows some white-trash girls beating up a fellow cheerleader, smacking her around a good few times, and having a jolly laugh about the whole thing. Slapping, shoving, and punching are Polk County's preferred methods of conflict resolution, and can often be observed in vivo at home during domestic disputes and then reproduced for the general public via networking sites.
The author's biggest complaint in her article was the shocking "cheap shots" other newspaper giants and news sources around the country have taken when describing Polk County, namely-- "rural Florida" and "Lakeland, a lower-middle-class town".
Well guess what? Polk County IS rural, the opposite of urban (New York, LA, Chicago), and it IS a lower-middle-class town (and the last thing those cheerleaders had was class!).
But why get caught up in labels for a county that has violent cheerleaders, cop killings (which resulted in the suspect's untimely death by a disturbing 110 shots fired by authorities ... apparently 100 bullets aren't enough to kill someone?), and bloody parent-butcherings. Hey, what can you expect from an urban upper-class town like Lakeland???
A general search for Polk County on CNN.com reveals its impact on a national level:
April 10 - YouTube video cheerleaders could get life in prison
Feb 16 - The North Illinois University shooter's father lives in Lakeland, FL
Oct 6 - Registered sex-offender in Polk County arrested for allegedly luring a 15-year-old girl through MySpace
Sept 29 - "Florida police kill suspect in deputy's slaying" ... (referenced above) I'd like to call attention to the word "suspect", I'm just saying ...
Sept 13 - "Judge warns victims' mother not to cry on stand" ... oh yeah SURE she's only telling about how she came upon the bloodied bodies of her children, how inappropriate to tear up over that ...
There are more, but I got bored ...
How can one small county gain such infamy? Perhaps the Ledger article should be re-named "The National Egg-on-Face of Polk County" ...
Friday, April 18, 2008
The Little Mermaid: A Critique
"If only you would notice
how I ache behind my smile..."
Ariel
The Little Mermaid sailed into Broadway last fall in Disney's attempt to make yet another animated classic come to life. The smash success of Beauty and the Beast, The Lion King, and Phil Collins' Tarzan .... ok strike that -- xxxx the smash success of just Beauty and the Beast and The Lion King have certainly upped the ante for stage productions to max out their visual effects, as well as enticing younger audiences to dip into the deep end of the theatrical world.
Does anyone find it interesting that The Little Mermaid highlights a young girl's struggle to obtain "true love" at the risk of losing everything she values- her friends, her family - her FINS, for cryin' out loud. Ariel is willing to sacrifice her entire life- even her body and voice- at the shot of being with a man she hasn't even met. What a gamble!! (heads or tails? ... I mean, legs or tails?). Is this the message we want to be sending young girls and gay boys?
Naturally I was thrilled when I heard the LM would be making a splash on the big stage, and I was on iTunes the day the album was released to hear the pumped up and boisterously-belted showtune version of a childhood fascination.
Alan Menken, who is largely responsible for the Disney renaissance beginning with the LM and declining with - damn, that Tarzan again - delivered (as usual) with clever and spunky songs that swim in circles around your head all day long. And then pair up the lyrical genius of Howard Ashman with that of Glenn Slater and you get .... a tsunami.
Honestly- how can you compare Ashman's
"each little clam here know how to jam here,
that's why it's hotter under de water,
yeah we in luck here down in the muck here
under the sea"
with Slater's
"If only you could know the things I want to say,
if only I could tell you what I wish I could convey" ???
Now let me try! ... "Roses are red, violets are blue ..."
Slater!!! You are dealing with a Walt Disney masterpiece ... be careful!!!!
Which is not to say the entire production is like a fish out of water. Despite its simplistic vocabulary and a rudimentary rhyme scheme, Menken pulls through the swishy-washy words and has me singing "She's in Love" to the rhythm of jackhammers during my morning commute.
And despite its message that abandoning your family and friends can ultimately bring you to true love, there is a lot to be said about a heroine who isn't comfortable in her own scales. I remember singing Part of Your World as a kid and wishing that I, too, could cast aside my gills and breathe easier in a world where I belonged ... i.e. a world where I was "normal".
But now I can walk (in Dupont Circle), now I can run (at the gym), now I can stay all day in the sun (at Rehoboth) ... no fear of drowning here *takes in a deep breath*
I still gotta find a pair of those purple shells, though ...
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
A visit of Papal proportions
"I know we've come so far, but we've got so far to go ..." -- Hairspray
Radio, TV, internet sites and almost every news source have gone ga-ga over the Pontiff's arrival in America - quite like a mob of jittery Japanese teenage girls trailing after Justin Timberlake. It is inescapable- the only competition for some limelight on CNN is the presidential election, and probably only because the primaries are beginning to resemble a WWF match ("you BITTER frigid bitch!" followed by Obama-bitch-slap).
WE GET IT ... the Pope is here. He's old, he's introverted, and he has never had sex. Talk about a crowd-pleaser!
And what a busy schedule for an aging direct link to god ... birthday at the White House, visits to Catholic University, mass at the National's Stadium ("Play ball !!! Just not with his !!!) ... and all the while he is rebuking the American priest sex scandals and hoping to reunify the Church and abate declining revenue.
In his pre-Pope days, Ratzinger ... which incidentally sounds like the name of a villain in some Disney film (and prompting me to coin the phrase "I don't give a Ratzinger's ass about the Pope coming to town") ... had a notorious anti-gay record of denouncements and blatantly discriminatory acts of Vatican law. And so his arrival in DC could not be met with less scorn on my part.
Ratzinger's paw prints have plagued numerous documents issued by the Vatican declaring its stance on homosexuality- not only in homosexual practice but also in terms of support, i.e. non-discriminatory behaviors. Ratzinger's influence in several Vatican organizations has resulted in statements such as- "the Church may not admit to the seminary and Holy Orders those who practice homosexuality, show profoundly deep-rooted homosexual tendencies, or support the so-called gay culture".
How about some more Vatican statements: "There are areas in which it is not unjust discrimination to take sexual orientation into account" - namely: adoption, education, medical (contagious diseases), and mentally ill persons.
The Congregation for the Doctrine of Faith (led by Ratzy) stated in 1992 that homosexuality itself "must be seen as an objective disorder". Well ... as an aspiring clinician, the only real disorders I can see are a lack of compassion, an inability to tolerate/appreciate differences, and the audacity to use religious doctrine in masking personal agendas which consistently fuel discrimination on all levels of society.
It's just plain gross.
I remember when the new Pontiff was elected- I was living in Rome at that time, not even 2 miles from the Vatican where all the whoop-de-do was occurring. Thousands of people had come to pay their tributes to the recently deceased Pope, and thousands more gathered in St. Peter's Square to welcome Benedict as the new head of the Catholic Church.
During the service, I was jogging on a treadmill in an empty gym that was normally bustling with Italian life. Everyone had gone to St. Peter's to get a glimpse of the new Pope ... quite like the masses that will descend upon DC in the next few days, trailing him like group-ies, following in his footsteps...
I just pray that most of us are truly wise enough not to follow in those footsteps ...
Radio, TV, internet sites and almost every news source have gone ga-ga over the Pontiff's arrival in America - quite like a mob of jittery Japanese teenage girls trailing after Justin Timberlake. It is inescapable- the only competition for some limelight on CNN is the presidential election, and probably only because the primaries are beginning to resemble a WWF match ("you BITTER frigid bitch!" followed by Obama-bitch-slap).
WE GET IT ... the Pope is here. He's old, he's introverted, and he has never had sex. Talk about a crowd-pleaser!
And what a busy schedule for an aging direct link to god ... birthday at the White House, visits to Catholic University, mass at the National's Stadium ("Play ball !!! Just not with his !!!) ... and all the while he is rebuking the American priest sex scandals and hoping to reunify the Church and abate declining revenue.
In his pre-Pope days, Ratzinger ... which incidentally sounds like the name of a villain in some Disney film (and prompting me to coin the phrase "I don't give a Ratzinger's ass about the Pope coming to town") ... had a notorious anti-gay record of denouncements and blatantly discriminatory acts of Vatican law. And so his arrival in DC could not be met with less scorn on my part.
Ratzinger's paw prints have plagued numerous documents issued by the Vatican declaring its stance on homosexuality- not only in homosexual practice but also in terms of support, i.e. non-discriminatory behaviors. Ratzinger's influence in several Vatican organizations has resulted in statements such as- "the Church may not admit to the seminary and Holy Orders those who practice homosexuality, show profoundly deep-rooted homosexual tendencies, or support the so-called gay culture".
How about some more Vatican statements: "There are areas in which it is not unjust discrimination to take sexual orientation into account" - namely: adoption, education, medical (contagious diseases), and mentally ill persons.
The Congregation for the Doctrine of Faith (led by Ratzy) stated in 1992 that homosexuality itself "must be seen as an objective disorder". Well ... as an aspiring clinician, the only real disorders I can see are a lack of compassion, an inability to tolerate/appreciate differences, and the audacity to use religious doctrine in masking personal agendas which consistently fuel discrimination on all levels of society.
It's just plain gross.
I remember when the new Pontiff was elected- I was living in Rome at that time, not even 2 miles from the Vatican where all the whoop-de-do was occurring. Thousands of people had come to pay their tributes to the recently deceased Pope, and thousands more gathered in St. Peter's Square to welcome Benedict as the new head of the Catholic Church.
During the service, I was jogging on a treadmill in an empty gym that was normally bustling with Italian life. Everyone had gone to St. Peter's to get a glimpse of the new Pope ... quite like the masses that will descend upon DC in the next few days, trailing him like group-ies, following in his footsteps...
I just pray that most of us are truly wise enough not to follow in those footsteps ...
Monday, April 7, 2008
Life & Death
Nothing brings people together quite like a death in the family. Funerals do not discriminate- young and old, relative or otherwise, interested or required--- a funeral is like a social black hole. You can either swim against the rip-tide, and wear yourself out, or roll with it and enjoy the plunge out to sea (so much for being led beside still waters).
And so my family survived a 3-day weekend without much drama or shocking family secrets revealed (Jerry Springer audience sighs and dejectedly sits down); nevertheless, there was enough activity to keep me on my toes and attentive despite my sleep-deprived state:
-Cousins: I have 5 cousins on my mom's side. Three are about my age, and the other two are youngins (aged six and nine). This was our first chance to meet (well ... meet as speaking and conversation-holding people, not while changing diapers and smelling poo). We played, ran, laughed, and sang songs from Enchanted (I challenge any of you to find another 27-year-old cousin who is cool enough to know all the words).
-Mischief managed: I forget that the ideas I come up with are not always appropriate for children, including: trying to fly a kite inside the house using wind generated from a standing fan, catching bubbles on your tongue (which are carcinogenic, I was later informed), sneaking cookies 10 minutes before dinner, doing line dances in the middle of the grocery store aisle, and claiming that Lufthansa airlines is the best because they serve free alcohol.
-The art of Haiku: In honor of our late grandfather, an avid haiku poet, the following were constructed:
Drinking with cousins
And watching Lord of the Rings
What is malt made of?
Granddaddy is dead
We come here now to mourn him
His neighbor's a queer
-Gay gay gay: In reference to the previous haiku, my gaydar spiked to unprecedented levels after the memorial service while munching on "Thanksgiving-stuffed-between-two-buns" type sandwiches provided by a local church. My grandfather's neighbor, who pinged on my boy-barometer way before the stereotypes began to kick in (lover of music, noticed I had lost weight compared to my photo 6 years prior, and a 1st grade teacher), indicated that his wife had gone with him to some flower show a few weekends before-- which promptly caused me to choke on my food and cough hysterically (gag reflex, you'd think I'd have had that fixed by now).
-Gay gay gay (part deux): My six-year-old cousin turns and asks politely, "Do you have a girlfriend?" Used to this question from kids, I didn't bat an eyelash and honestly replied, "No, I do not have a girlfriend. Do you have a girlfriend?" ... "No, I'm a girl!" ... "Well girls can have girlfriends, too." ... "Yeah ... when I asked you that question something weird happened. I don't know what, but something weird happened". Damn perceptive six-year-olds!!!
-Somberness: Funerals are not always such a sad affair. My sister and I were jamming to the Lion King's "Circle of Life" on the way to the service (appropriate), as well as Beyonce's "Get Me Bodied" (somewhat less appropriate). The Starbucks barista, amused by our glimmer and giggle as we eagerly dived into our morning mochas, suggested we try on our somber hats before we arrive at the grave site.
-Albums and photos: The time-honored tradition of pouring over the pictures and moving pictures of years past. It's embarrassing, like that feeling you get when someone walks in on you in the bathroom-- you haven't done anything wrong, but you feel awkward nonetheless. Moreover, in the home-made movies, you re-experience the idiotic and extremely flamboyant things you said as a child that should have clued your parents in to your sexuality about 15 years prior.
We sat around and swapped stories, as families tend to do: the one with granddaddy fighting with the bakery delivery woman for bringing stale cinnamon buns, the one where a 3-year-old David puked all over granddaddy's table after tasting bad Chinese (and thus instilling a fear of Chinese food until the age of 19), or the one where granddaddy tolerated the fancy of his adolescent grandchildren and wore a bicycle helmet while assuming his role as the Good Wizard in an amateur production of insanity.
The entire weekend reminded me that the memories we leave behind continue long past our brief mortality. So ... what will my legacy be???
And so my family survived a 3-day weekend without much drama or shocking family secrets revealed (Jerry Springer audience sighs and dejectedly sits down); nevertheless, there was enough activity to keep me on my toes and attentive despite my sleep-deprived state:
-Cousins: I have 5 cousins on my mom's side. Three are about my age, and the other two are youngins (aged six and nine). This was our first chance to meet (well ... meet as speaking and conversation-holding people, not while changing diapers and smelling poo). We played, ran, laughed, and sang songs from Enchanted (I challenge any of you to find another 27-year-old cousin who is cool enough to know all the words).
-Mischief managed: I forget that the ideas I come up with are not always appropriate for children, including: trying to fly a kite inside the house using wind generated from a standing fan, catching bubbles on your tongue (which are carcinogenic, I was later informed), sneaking cookies 10 minutes before dinner, doing line dances in the middle of the grocery store aisle, and claiming that Lufthansa airlines is the best because they serve free alcohol.
-The art of Haiku: In honor of our late grandfather, an avid haiku poet, the following were constructed:
Drinking with cousins
And watching Lord of the Rings
What is malt made of?
Granddaddy is dead
We come here now to mourn him
His neighbor's a queer
-Gay gay gay: In reference to the previous haiku, my gaydar spiked to unprecedented levels after the memorial service while munching on "Thanksgiving-stuffed-between-two-buns" type sandwiches provided by a local church. My grandfather's neighbor, who pinged on my boy-barometer way before the stereotypes began to kick in (lover of music, noticed I had lost weight compared to my photo 6 years prior, and a 1st grade teacher), indicated that his wife had gone with him to some flower show a few weekends before-- which promptly caused me to choke on my food and cough hysterically (gag reflex, you'd think I'd have had that fixed by now).
-Gay gay gay (part deux): My six-year-old cousin turns and asks politely, "Do you have a girlfriend?" Used to this question from kids, I didn't bat an eyelash and honestly replied, "No, I do not have a girlfriend. Do you have a girlfriend?" ... "No, I'm a girl!" ... "Well girls can have girlfriends, too." ... "Yeah ... when I asked you that question something weird happened. I don't know what, but something weird happened". Damn perceptive six-year-olds!!!
-Somberness: Funerals are not always such a sad affair. My sister and I were jamming to the Lion King's "Circle of Life" on the way to the service (appropriate), as well as Beyonce's "Get Me Bodied" (somewhat less appropriate). The Starbucks barista, amused by our glimmer and giggle as we eagerly dived into our morning mochas, suggested we try on our somber hats before we arrive at the grave site.
-Albums and photos: The time-honored tradition of pouring over the pictures and moving pictures of years past. It's embarrassing, like that feeling you get when someone walks in on you in the bathroom-- you haven't done anything wrong, but you feel awkward nonetheless. Moreover, in the home-made movies, you re-experience the idiotic and extremely flamboyant things you said as a child that should have clued your parents in to your sexuality about 15 years prior.
We sat around and swapped stories, as families tend to do: the one with granddaddy fighting with the bakery delivery woman for bringing stale cinnamon buns, the one where a 3-year-old David puked all over granddaddy's table after tasting bad Chinese (and thus instilling a fear of Chinese food until the age of 19), or the one where granddaddy tolerated the fancy of his adolescent grandchildren and wore a bicycle helmet while assuming his role as the Good Wizard in an amateur production of insanity.
The entire weekend reminded me that the memories we leave behind continue long past our brief mortality. So ... what will my legacy be???
Thursday, March 13, 2008
The Tooth Fairy
What is the appropriate compensation an imaginative hoax should leave a child in exchange for an ejected piece of the human body? According to a recent CNN report, parents across the country are worried about the proper amount the faux-fairy should repay something that requires no effort at all and is a normal biological function. Am I paid every time I pee? Do I get a lump of gold for a lump of poo?
Inflation aside, children are demanding more of their fanciful fairy than in years past. The gold standard has generally been a quarter, but in an age where Christmas gifts have gone from Parcheesi to Playstation the financial fairy is suffering from a drastic increase in customer demand. Customer satisfaction, too, is threatened by the petty playground banter in which children compare their dental achievements (which can go as high as $20 a tooth, although the average is around $2.50).
What is a parent to do amidst a recession and the woes of fessing up to their fraudulent fairy practices? Should children know the truth? Should we continue giving them unearned money that reinforces a declining work ethic? Should they be taught to invest their earnings in stocks and mutual funds? Should children be taught the critical thinking skills necessary to discern that the idea of a winged tooth-collecting creature with a non-depleting source of capital is only an elaborate prank?!?
Some people argue that lying to children is actually good for them- the Tooth Fairy encourages imagination and later helps children make a distinction between reality and make-believe. Well, I don't think that children are at all suffering from a lack of imagination. And who the hell knows fact from fiction, anyways? Teenagers lie 98% of the time to their parents- perhaps this is in retaliation for the 98% of parents who tell their children about the Tooth Fairy.
But what would the world be like if we grew up and still held on to our childhood fantasies? Imagine a world where Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy were a part of every day discussion ("Oh my god then there was this Fairy in my bed ... oh wait, that was me"), and the mystically intangible splendor of magic keeps us locked in a circling spell of wonder-- and hope?-- and provides an escape from the harsh realities of the grown-up world.
Inflation aside, children are demanding more of their fanciful fairy than in years past. The gold standard has generally been a quarter, but in an age where Christmas gifts have gone from Parcheesi to Playstation the financial fairy is suffering from a drastic increase in customer demand. Customer satisfaction, too, is threatened by the petty playground banter in which children compare their dental achievements (which can go as high as $20 a tooth, although the average is around $2.50).
What is a parent to do amidst a recession and the woes of fessing up to their fraudulent fairy practices? Should children know the truth? Should we continue giving them unearned money that reinforces a declining work ethic? Should they be taught to invest their earnings in stocks and mutual funds? Should children be taught the critical thinking skills necessary to discern that the idea of a winged tooth-collecting creature with a non-depleting source of capital is only an elaborate prank?!?
Some people argue that lying to children is actually good for them- the Tooth Fairy encourages imagination and later helps children make a distinction between reality and make-believe. Well, I don't think that children are at all suffering from a lack of imagination. And who the hell knows fact from fiction, anyways? Teenagers lie 98% of the time to their parents- perhaps this is in retaliation for the 98% of parents who tell their children about the Tooth Fairy.
But what would the world be like if we grew up and still held on to our childhood fantasies? Imagine a world where Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy were a part of every day discussion ("Oh my god then there was this Fairy in my bed ... oh wait, that was me"), and the mystically intangible splendor of magic keeps us locked in a circling spell of wonder-- and hope?-- and provides an escape from the harsh realities of the grown-up world.
I suppose that believing in the Tooth Fairy isn't all so terrible- children continue to stare patiently into the fog of the impossible, and earn a little cash on the side while they're at it.
FYI- if you search the Internet, you can always find people who will pay for your urine.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Roller coaster weekend
Drama: it is a word that has truly come to embody my entire existence over the past few years. Drama is synonymous with several key aspects of my life-- Gallaudet, relationships, housemate situations, employment -- everything coming with a significant second-helping of heaping portion-proportions, all wedged and packed tightly into an emotional architecture that is buckling under the strain.
So on this, a most dizzying weekend of ups and downs, we can see just how high that roller coaster climbs- only to watch it move steeply down from time to time while I cling to the bar and squeal.
Friday:
My grandfather died. And, as with any death, the immediate family ties are put to the test in a delicate tug-of-war battle (How hard should I pull? When do I finally let go? How can I see the line to cross in all of this damned mud!). He and I weren't very close, so the situation is a bit awkward for me. I haven't talked about it much with others because most people expect a grandfather's death to be horrifically devastating- I think the fact that it isn't traumatic makes me even sadder.
Friday night:
Deaf Professional Happy Hour. As with any DPHH event, there is a swirling social cacophony(wink) of spinning hands and fantastic fingers. Old friends, catching up, sharing news, quick hellos and hugs, spilling drinks, feeling connected- the more times you say hello, the more you feel a sense of community and warmth. Ahhhh ....
Saturday:
EggSpectations is a cute restaurant in downtown Silver Spring which plays on words that begin with an "egg" sound, and thus is perfect for a dork like me who thinks he's clever every time he tells his waitress his omelet is "egg-cellent" ... *cough*. The door handles for the main entrance and the bathroom are egg beaters (for the bathroom??? Hmm, my right hand IS tired from all this repetitive whipping action). There was consumption of delicious eats and comforting times with friends.
Saturday afternoon:
BAKING !!! 5 hours in the kitchen, singing along to showtunes with a dear friend. Nothing is better! But wait, there's more!!! I got the call that I'd been accepted to do peer counseling for the Whitman Walker Clinic- OH MY GOD !!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Saturday evening:
Gay prom. Yes, you heard me right- GAY PROM. Dolled up with my lady date (yes, a lady- there are still some things I can't get straight ... oh wait ...) and ready to shake it uninhibited with the boys ... life was rocketing skyward past Cloud 7, Cloud 8, Cloud 8-and-a-half ...
BOOM ... shards of rocket shatter and give in to gravity, falling uncontrollably to the ground. I had reached my 3-drink limit, and had progressed on to my fourth. After 3 drinks, any emotion is magnified 100-fold, and that filter which controls, suppresses, and obscures the external masquerade of emotions suddenly becomes void, and there are no flood gates to hold back the unforgiving surge that follows.
Sunday morning:
Hosting a nasty hangover (with all that water, you'd think I wouldn't be dehydrated the following morning!), and cursing daylight savings time with a mad passion (4 hours sleep is NOT enough), I dragged myself to church at 9:00 to prepare for the 11:00 service. By the time 12:30 had rolled around, I had interpreted an inspirational sermon about affordable housing in the District, and I had shaken hands with Mayor Fenty and interpreted his 10-minute speech about the government's current efforts to improve the lives of DC citizens.
Sunday afternoon:
In a somewhat drowsy daze, I proceeded to Mt. Pleasant with 2 friends to eat at a charming and cheap El Salvadorian restaurant and chat the afternoon away. After a Sticky Fingers Bakery run, I returned home to the inviting cushioning of 2 pillows and a mattress that seemed to envelope me like a spoon being pushed into a bowl of thick pudding. 4 hours of disconnected bliss ...
Sunday night:
Swing dancing at a straight bar. wha Wha WHAT? The gays took to the floor and showed the breeders how to really swing their hips and sweep the floor at McGinty's in Silver Spring. Laughter, pictures galore, some tasty french fries, and testing the societal rules of a straight locale- lovely :-)
Monday morning:
Sleeping through the alarm, late for work, mad and panicked dash to get to my desk before 9:00a.m., with only seconds to spare and with somewhat frazzled hair. And so, the work week begins all over again.
*steps off roller coaster, slightly giddy, slightly nauseous*
Drama, indeed. Perhaps I shouldn't wait in line for the ride.
So on this, a most dizzying weekend of ups and downs, we can see just how high that roller coaster climbs- only to watch it move steeply down from time to time while I cling to the bar and squeal.
Friday:
My grandfather died. And, as with any death, the immediate family ties are put to the test in a delicate tug-of-war battle (How hard should I pull? When do I finally let go? How can I see the line to cross in all of this damned mud!). He and I weren't very close, so the situation is a bit awkward for me. I haven't talked about it much with others because most people expect a grandfather's death to be horrifically devastating- I think the fact that it isn't traumatic makes me even sadder.
Friday night:
Deaf Professional Happy Hour. As with any DPHH event, there is a swirling social cacophony(wink) of spinning hands and fantastic fingers. Old friends, catching up, sharing news, quick hellos and hugs, spilling drinks, feeling connected- the more times you say hello, the more you feel a sense of community and warmth. Ahhhh ....
Saturday:
EggSpectations is a cute restaurant in downtown Silver Spring which plays on words that begin with an "egg" sound, and thus is perfect for a dork like me who thinks he's clever every time he tells his waitress his omelet is "egg-cellent" ... *cough*. The door handles for the main entrance and the bathroom are egg beaters (for the bathroom??? Hmm, my right hand IS tired from all this repetitive whipping action). There was consumption of delicious eats and comforting times with friends.
Saturday afternoon:
BAKING !!! 5 hours in the kitchen, singing along to showtunes with a dear friend. Nothing is better! But wait, there's more!!! I got the call that I'd been accepted to do peer counseling for the Whitman Walker Clinic- OH MY GOD !!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Saturday evening:
Gay prom. Yes, you heard me right- GAY PROM. Dolled up with my lady date (yes, a lady- there are still some things I can't get straight ... oh wait ...) and ready to shake it uninhibited with the boys ... life was rocketing skyward past Cloud 7, Cloud 8, Cloud 8-and-a-half ...
BOOM ... shards of rocket shatter and give in to gravity, falling uncontrollably to the ground. I had reached my 3-drink limit, and had progressed on to my fourth. After 3 drinks, any emotion is magnified 100-fold, and that filter which controls, suppresses, and obscures the external masquerade of emotions suddenly becomes void, and there are no flood gates to hold back the unforgiving surge that follows.
Sunday morning:
Hosting a nasty hangover (with all that water, you'd think I wouldn't be dehydrated the following morning!), and cursing daylight savings time with a mad passion (4 hours sleep is NOT enough), I dragged myself to church at 9:00 to prepare for the 11:00 service. By the time 12:30 had rolled around, I had interpreted an inspirational sermon about affordable housing in the District, and I had shaken hands with Mayor Fenty and interpreted his 10-minute speech about the government's current efforts to improve the lives of DC citizens.
Sunday afternoon:
In a somewhat drowsy daze, I proceeded to Mt. Pleasant with 2 friends to eat at a charming and cheap El Salvadorian restaurant and chat the afternoon away. After a Sticky Fingers Bakery run, I returned home to the inviting cushioning of 2 pillows and a mattress that seemed to envelope me like a spoon being pushed into a bowl of thick pudding. 4 hours of disconnected bliss ...
Sunday night:
Swing dancing at a straight bar. wha Wha WHAT? The gays took to the floor and showed the breeders how to really swing their hips and sweep the floor at McGinty's in Silver Spring. Laughter, pictures galore, some tasty french fries, and testing the societal rules of a straight locale- lovely :-)
Monday morning:
Sleeping through the alarm, late for work, mad and panicked dash to get to my desk before 9:00a.m., with only seconds to spare and with somewhat frazzled hair. And so, the work week begins all over again.
*steps off roller coaster, slightly giddy, slightly nauseous*
Drama, indeed. Perhaps I shouldn't wait in line for the ride.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
No Cussing??? What the #&%#?!?!?
The pursuit for an adequate definition of "cuss":
cuss: to curse or curse at
curse: to swear
swear: to use profane oaths
profane: to treat with irreverence
irreverence: lack of reverence or due respect
respect: willingness to show consideration or appreciation
OK -- putting this all together, I would propose that "cussing" could be tediously defined as "a lack of due consideration and appreciation in the form of an oath".
Jimminy-Christmas, it is so difficult to get a friggin' handle on what in the tarnation they are talking about! Golly gee!
Well Christmas on a cracker, leave it to the nation's friggin' youth to try and save this gosh darn planet from the viles of freaking cuss words. It means these kids actually give a poopoo about how others are treated! Holy shishkebab!
The No Cussing Club was founded by a 14-year-old son of a biscuit eater in California. The "No Cuss Challenge", necessary to obtain membership in this dang group, states::: "I won't cuss, swear, use bad language, or tell dirty jokes. Clean language is the sign of intelligence and always demands respect. I will use my language to uplift, encourage and motivate. I will Leave People Better Than I Found Them!"
The Internet is full of suggestions on how to clean up our foul potty mouths. My personal favorite: "Instead of ahhh, ****, use "ahhh shuggy duggy quack quack." -- Aside from being hilarious, this quote comes from an ex-military person, which made me think for a minute ... As conservative as the military is (don't ask, don't tell, and burn at the stake), isn't it interesting that expressions like "curse like a sailor" exist? And probably for a good reason?
Research indicates that swear words are "special" in the brain; they are not processed like other words in our vocabulary. Swear words are strongly associated with the limbic system and basal ganglia, which regulate emotions, impulse control, basic behavior, plus a whole lot of other shizzle. They are "lower" brain functions.
As a result, some people who suffer from aphasia (the inability to speak or pronounce words due to brain damage) are still fully able to cuss it up till the cows come home ("Yes, Priscilla, your son is such a handsome young man- such a shame that he is mute." -- "Fucking bitch!!!" -- "Oh dear...").
It's almost like cussing fulfills a basic and instinctual need in the brain. It arouses emotions, effects behavior- and it is almost always the first thing you want to learn about another language. Asking for cuss words in French or Italian isn't offensive to the language- we're trying to build our vocabulary from the bottom up!
Weird- I never speak Italian anymore on a regular basis, but if I'm driving in traffic and some A-hole pulls a crappy maneuver in front of me ... Italian cuss words fly out of my mouth like a bat out of Hades.
So cuss words pack quite an emotional punch! Because they are so powerful, should their use be encouraged because swearing can successfully articulate the depth of emotion in our language? Or should they be saved, used sparingly and held only for the times we really mean what we are saying?
Eh ... I don't really give a shit.
cuss: to curse or curse at
curse: to swear
swear: to use profane oaths
profane: to treat with irreverence
irreverence: lack of reverence or due respect
respect: willingness to show consideration or appreciation
OK -- putting this all together, I would propose that "cussing" could be tediously defined as "a lack of due consideration and appreciation in the form of an oath".
Jimminy-Christmas, it is so difficult to get a friggin' handle on what in the tarnation they are talking about! Golly gee!
Well Christmas on a cracker, leave it to the nation's friggin' youth to try and save this gosh darn planet from the viles of freaking cuss words. It means these kids actually give a poopoo about how others are treated! Holy shishkebab!
The No Cussing Club was founded by a 14-year-old son of a biscuit eater in California. The "No Cuss Challenge", necessary to obtain membership in this dang group, states::: "I won't cuss, swear, use bad language, or tell dirty jokes. Clean language is the sign of intelligence and always demands respect. I will use my language to uplift, encourage and motivate. I will Leave People Better Than I Found Them!"
The Internet is full of suggestions on how to clean up our foul potty mouths. My personal favorite: "Instead of ahhh, ****, use "ahhh shuggy duggy quack quack." -- Aside from being hilarious, this quote comes from an ex-military person, which made me think for a minute ... As conservative as the military is (don't ask, don't tell, and burn at the stake), isn't it interesting that expressions like "curse like a sailor" exist? And probably for a good reason?
Research indicates that swear words are "special" in the brain; they are not processed like other words in our vocabulary. Swear words are strongly associated with the limbic system and basal ganglia, which regulate emotions, impulse control, basic behavior, plus a whole lot of other shizzle. They are "lower" brain functions.
As a result, some people who suffer from aphasia (the inability to speak or pronounce words due to brain damage) are still fully able to cuss it up till the cows come home ("Yes, Priscilla, your son is such a handsome young man- such a shame that he is mute." -- "Fucking bitch!!!" -- "Oh dear...").
It's almost like cussing fulfills a basic and instinctual need in the brain. It arouses emotions, effects behavior- and it is almost always the first thing you want to learn about another language. Asking for cuss words in French or Italian isn't offensive to the language- we're trying to build our vocabulary from the bottom up!
Weird- I never speak Italian anymore on a regular basis, but if I'm driving in traffic and some A-hole pulls a crappy maneuver in front of me ... Italian cuss words fly out of my mouth like a bat out of Hades.
So cuss words pack quite an emotional punch! Because they are so powerful, should their use be encouraged because swearing can successfully articulate the depth of emotion in our language? Or should they be saved, used sparingly and held only for the times we really mean what we are saying?
Eh ... I don't really give a shit.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Musicals
You know those times when you suddenly realize there's the most random song stuck in your head (like "It's a Small World"), and then someone tells you that 5 minutes ago they had been whistling that tune? Somehow we pick up a song, bypass our consciousness, and slowly re-introduce it into our current reality. So what's going on underneath our cerebral awareness? What tunes, thoughts, and feelings are circling around like a synchronized swimmer's legs, while maintaining a composed shape on the water's surface?
I think the grey matter in my noggin creates a subconscious imagery that could hardly be described as grey; there are vibrant colors, sounds, explosions of dancing and improvised (yet harmonized) singing, outbursts of song and shimmering costumes, emotional twists and turns that transcend to a reality that is not, but should be ... in essence, a musical.
My first musical, The Sound of Music, was brought to my attention when I was 8 years old (please note that at age 6 I had already noticed that boys were cuter than girls, and so my gayness cannot be blamed on Julie Andrews- which actually is quite a shame). Before that time, I was always puzzled at why my family was so obsessed with music- my mom plays the piano, my dad the clarinet, and they were both music ed majors in college. Blah blah blah yay music ok where's my Nintendo?
In a 2nd grader's mind there is absolutely nothing unusual about 7 children and a pseudo-nun frolicking in the hills of Austria while singing about "bright copper kettles" and "warm woollen mittens". So as a child when I sat and watched these spontaneous eruptions of song and yodeling, I believe my subconscious had finally connected with a satisfying realization of my most instinctual desires. The obsession had begun.
I received poorer marks in school that year. Apparently the teachers didn't like me humming "I am sixteen going on seventeen" on loop 3 hours a day, followed by an afternoon session of "yodel-lei-he-yodel-lei-he-yodel-lei-hee-whoo". Fortunately this behavior did not incur the ridicule of my naive classmates, but I'm sure the Lutheran teachers were constant in devout prayers that this big-gay-train would hopefully derail.
I was "inattentive" and "off-task"- two qualities that I am proud to uphold to this very day. Sure, all those people on DC's public transport see a blank face while I'm peaceably riding in the Metro car-- but in my mind's eye there are scenes from Moulin Rouge, Hairspray, Wicked, and others, all adapted to the scenery of a DC backdrop and in perfect sync with the tapping of my feet.
When you take to that mythical stage, dim the house lights of reality, and belt out a passionate note that resonates twice around the world-- that is emotion in its purest form. It is joy, sorrow, lust, contempt, pride- or even love.
And so as I am sauntering down the street to work, iPod in hand, "Climb Every Mountain" booming dramatically in my ears amidst the jackhammers and exhaust fumes of everyday life- figuratively and literally- I am mellowly reminded that these pure emotions and unending musical performances have one true thing in common:
They're all in my head.
I think the grey matter in my noggin creates a subconscious imagery that could hardly be described as grey; there are vibrant colors, sounds, explosions of dancing and improvised (yet harmonized) singing, outbursts of song and shimmering costumes, emotional twists and turns that transcend to a reality that is not, but should be ... in essence, a musical.
My first musical, The Sound of Music, was brought to my attention when I was 8 years old (please note that at age 6 I had already noticed that boys were cuter than girls, and so my gayness cannot be blamed on Julie Andrews- which actually is quite a shame). Before that time, I was always puzzled at why my family was so obsessed with music- my mom plays the piano, my dad the clarinet, and they were both music ed majors in college. Blah blah blah yay music ok where's my Nintendo?
In a 2nd grader's mind there is absolutely nothing unusual about 7 children and a pseudo-nun frolicking in the hills of Austria while singing about "bright copper kettles" and "warm woollen mittens". So as a child when I sat and watched these spontaneous eruptions of song and yodeling, I believe my subconscious had finally connected with a satisfying realization of my most instinctual desires. The obsession had begun.
I received poorer marks in school that year. Apparently the teachers didn't like me humming "I am sixteen going on seventeen" on loop 3 hours a day, followed by an afternoon session of "yodel-lei-he-yodel-lei-he-yodel-lei-hee-whoo". Fortunately this behavior did not incur the ridicule of my naive classmates, but I'm sure the Lutheran teachers were constant in devout prayers that this big-gay-train would hopefully derail.
I was "inattentive" and "off-task"- two qualities that I am proud to uphold to this very day. Sure, all those people on DC's public transport see a blank face while I'm peaceably riding in the Metro car-- but in my mind's eye there are scenes from Moulin Rouge, Hairspray, Wicked, and others, all adapted to the scenery of a DC backdrop and in perfect sync with the tapping of my feet.
When you take to that mythical stage, dim the house lights of reality, and belt out a passionate note that resonates twice around the world-- that is emotion in its purest form. It is joy, sorrow, lust, contempt, pride- or even love.
And so as I am sauntering down the street to work, iPod in hand, "Climb Every Mountain" booming dramatically in my ears amidst the jackhammers and exhaust fumes of everyday life- figuratively and literally- I am mellowly reminded that these pure emotions and unending musical performances have one true thing in common:
They're all in my head.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Return to Gallaudet, revisited
Debbie Downer is on hiatus, proceed without caution ...
My second trip to Gallaudet in 2 weeks proved to be just as entertaining and hectic as the first. I had an important appointment that lasted longer than any human being should have to endure, followed by a quick buzz around campus and finally a visit to my department.
The quick buzz was great - old friends, busy schedules, homework this and that, job this and that, relationships, romance, and scurrying off to the next segment of an exhausting to-do list. Our 5 minute vignettes of complicated lives and stories that are due more attention- all in a flurry of fingers and hands that are complete gibberish to the people living just outside the gates.
I had been apprehensive about returning to my department, but after such an intense day I could have seen T.J. Holmes and reacted without much hype (ok ... that is a boldfaced lie). I did not know how I would be received.
Weird. It was like a homecoming; except it was for a place that had never felt like home. It was oddly warm and welcoming. What had changed? Me? The faculty? Both? Or perhaps even neither- maybe all that had changed was our perceptions of each other.
Which is not to say that this negates everything that happened, or how it was handled (on both ends). After all, even if you bury the hatchet, the hatchet is still there. But around and through it can sprout fresh spring flowers, opening their faces sun-ward once more to the winds of change and chance. Awww flowers are the cute ....
And as life has its way of coincidentally placing certain events close to one another to really pack a punch, last weekend I had a run-in with an ex-- one that I had hurt a while ago. He had this amazingly mature attitude-- one that appreciated our time together, and didn't continuously resent it- and it really slapped me in the face. I'm always squinting to see the silver lining, but for him it was as radiant as a star despite the pain. Wow. Maybe I need new lenses.
*strokes chin in pondering pose*
Ok *gathering notes* so ... pain is crappy but normal, anger is there to protect our ego but can eventually damper our spirits, people make mistakes but they usually have good intentions ...
Why is it that these lessons are the hardest to remember? Damn ... I miss calculus.
My second trip to Gallaudet in 2 weeks proved to be just as entertaining and hectic as the first. I had an important appointment that lasted longer than any human being should have to endure, followed by a quick buzz around campus and finally a visit to my department.
The quick buzz was great - old friends, busy schedules, homework this and that, job this and that, relationships, romance, and scurrying off to the next segment of an exhausting to-do list. Our 5 minute vignettes of complicated lives and stories that are due more attention- all in a flurry of fingers and hands that are complete gibberish to the people living just outside the gates.
I had been apprehensive about returning to my department, but after such an intense day I could have seen T.J. Holmes and reacted without much hype (ok ... that is a boldfaced lie). I did not know how I would be received.
Weird. It was like a homecoming; except it was for a place that had never felt like home. It was oddly warm and welcoming. What had changed? Me? The faculty? Both? Or perhaps even neither- maybe all that had changed was our perceptions of each other.
Which is not to say that this negates everything that happened, or how it was handled (on both ends). After all, even if you bury the hatchet, the hatchet is still there. But around and through it can sprout fresh spring flowers, opening their faces sun-ward once more to the winds of change and chance. Awww flowers are the cute ....
And as life has its way of coincidentally placing certain events close to one another to really pack a punch, last weekend I had a run-in with an ex-- one that I had hurt a while ago. He had this amazingly mature attitude-- one that appreciated our time together, and didn't continuously resent it- and it really slapped me in the face. I'm always squinting to see the silver lining, but for him it was as radiant as a star despite the pain. Wow. Maybe I need new lenses.
*strokes chin in pondering pose*
Ok *gathering notes* so ... pain is crappy but normal, anger is there to protect our ego but can eventually damper our spirits, people make mistakes but they usually have good intentions ...
Why is it that these lessons are the hardest to remember? Damn ... I miss calculus.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Leapin' Lizards !!!
It's weird-- Leap Year Day is one of those "special" occasions, where you say "Oh my gosh -- it's Leap Year Day! Yay!!!!.... *cough* ... " - and that's about the end of it. It's just like the Olympics; it cycles in and out of our lives every 4 years and afterwards we wonder "now why the hell do we do that, anyway?"
Well the human race has not really come to a consensus about what to do with this pesky equinox solar rotation blah blah insert astronomy here dilemma. In fact, the approaches at trying to adequately quantify the number of days in a year is as varied as the languages we speak and the currencies we squander. For a variety of religions and countries there are distinctive calendars, all periodically revised and altered for this or that purpose.
According to the Islamic tradition, it is actually immoral to add a leap day because it is a violation of what Allah has created as sacred (Allah: "12 months and that's it, bitches!!!"). Holy crap! So in America we've got it all wrong!!! We've focused so much energy on chastising abortion and homosexuality that we have neglected to reject that nettlesome and vile 29th of February! Everywhere I turn I see sin and debauchery, all those immoral calendars flaunting their leap day lifestyle in my face! 666?!? Oh no friends, it's all about the 29 ...
Do not fear, children of the Gregorian, because there is plenty of other folklore afoot to entertain and confound. For example (if the folklore is true ... and it generally is of course)- in the 13th century it was an accepted practice for women to have the right to propose marriage to a man-- but only during a Leap Year (and the penalties for the man's refusal were stiff - or un-stiff? He paid the price of a "kiss" or he had to buy the damsel in distress a nice pretty gown- damn that's harsh). Apparently they were running out of kisses or gowns so some changed the rule so that it was only on the Leap Day itself that women could propose.
Revered or feared (in Greece it's bad luck to marry during a leap year), there's even a special name for leap years- "intercalary years". However this special name comes at a price- the non-leap year years are dispassionately referred to as "common years" (I guess leap years are like the Prodigal Son - "It's February 29th, kill the fatted calf!!!!" *moooooooo*)
So I have to wonder... if a gay man proposes marriage on the 29th, he's doubly doomed according to the Islamic faith and the Bush administration. Yikes!!!!! And as we all know, two wrongs don't make a right ...
Indeed- I have never liked the right. I shall always be a left-y.
Well the human race has not really come to a consensus about what to do with this pesky equinox solar rotation blah blah insert astronomy here dilemma. In fact, the approaches at trying to adequately quantify the number of days in a year is as varied as the languages we speak and the currencies we squander. For a variety of religions and countries there are distinctive calendars, all periodically revised and altered for this or that purpose.
According to the Islamic tradition, it is actually immoral to add a leap day because it is a violation of what Allah has created as sacred (Allah: "12 months and that's it, bitches!!!"). Holy crap! So in America we've got it all wrong!!! We've focused so much energy on chastising abortion and homosexuality that we have neglected to reject that nettlesome and vile 29th of February! Everywhere I turn I see sin and debauchery, all those immoral calendars flaunting their leap day lifestyle in my face! 666?!? Oh no friends, it's all about the 29 ...
Do not fear, children of the Gregorian, because there is plenty of other folklore afoot to entertain and confound. For example (if the folklore is true ... and it generally is of course)- in the 13th century it was an accepted practice for women to have the right to propose marriage to a man-- but only during a Leap Year (and the penalties for the man's refusal were stiff - or un-stiff? He paid the price of a "kiss" or he had to buy the damsel in distress a nice pretty gown- damn that's harsh). Apparently they were running out of kisses or gowns so some changed the rule so that it was only on the Leap Day itself that women could propose.
Revered or feared (in Greece it's bad luck to marry during a leap year), there's even a special name for leap years- "intercalary years". However this special name comes at a price- the non-leap year years are dispassionately referred to as "common years" (I guess leap years are like the Prodigal Son - "It's February 29th, kill the fatted calf!!!!" *moooooooo*)
There is an intricate set of rules that go into our current Gregorian calendar. We're used to the fact that leap years come every 4 years, however-- Years which are divisible by 100 are not leap years, unless they are also divisible by 400, in which case they are leap years.
What? What?? What person is sitting around making up all this stuff?!? "Yes, it is not a leap year if you can divide the year by 100, unless of course your sister was born on a Tuesday and the groundhog saw his shadow. In that case, but only if mauve is your favorite color and the words "diaper rash" make you cringe, then divide the year by the square root of your neighbor's insolent son's age and add your weight- in kilograms. Um ... yeah that'll about do it."
Well it could be a hard knock life for those calendared systems that do not align with the monopolizing Gregorian calendar; nevertheless, they are an indication of each group's individual cultural perspective on time- and I think that's pretty darn cool.So I have to wonder... if a gay man proposes marriage on the 29th, he's doubly doomed according to the Islamic faith and the Bush administration. Yikes!!!!! And as we all know, two wrongs don't make a right ...
Indeed- I have never liked the right. I shall always be a left-y.
Return to Gallaudet
It's been a while since I've had the chance to return to my soon-to-be-Alma-mater, right there on the magnificent Florida Avenue in NorthEast (excuse me, crack whore, but which way is the Metro?). I haven't had much reason to go back to campus since I finished my courses last May; my internship was off-site and most of my friends had graduated and cut loose.
And so there I was yesterday, 9 months later, back at a place which was so incredibly indescribable when I left it. My last dwindling moments at Gallaudet were tedious and disturbing ... like waiting for a relative in a coma to finally pass and be out of pain. That's exactly how I felt that final semester at Gallaudet- like I was in an emotional coma.
Yesterday there was the usual ritual of reuniting and catching up that always accompanies any event/location that involves Deaf people- within a half-hour I had already "bumped" into 6 people that I knew. I do miss that part of Gallaudet; there is always someone close at hand (wink) that you're connected to in some way. It's such a social place- like a dog park where you can fervently sniff all the crotches you want to and ignore the world just outside the park gates.
I went through the lines at "Gradfest", Gallaudet's one-stop shop for all of your graduation needs (4-hr long DVDs of identically-dressed persons taking fake diplomas, paying library fines, ordering rings that you'll never wear, cap and gown, etc.). And as I looked around, I realized how lonely it was to be the only person from my academic year not graduating with the rest of my class.
The problem with an institution that has left such a memorable mark in my emotional memory is that it's hard to separate the good from the bad-- like mixing a cup of cow manure into a batch of delicious cookie dough. No matter what you pull out of the oven, it will still have that unmistakable stench. So it goes with Gallaudet.
So here is the question: to go or not to go to the graduation ceremony? If I'm having a difficult time keeping my mind off of the negatives, why put myself back in that situation? When my department gives me my graduate school hood and says "Yay you finally made it!", I'll only be thinking "Yay you finally noticed who I really am!" Can I genuinely smile and thank the people who made my experience so unnecessarily painful?
Two and a half years and $50,000 worth of debt later (Galladebt is the correct spelling, FYI) I stand strong and composed at the gates of a small university while the whisperings of extinguished memories sift softly into my consciousness: the best friend turned enemy (yes officer, she did in fact say she would be relieved if I died), the department that insensitively withdrew its support and warmth from my education (the counseling department- the irony), and the first guy to ever break my heart.
*somewhere a violin plays* ;-)
"Who can say if I've been changed for the better, but because I knew you I have been changed for good" -- all the gay boys sigh ....
Well the good news is that I'm happy now- and all's well that ends well, right? Hmm ... well then perhaps it's best to leave that dusty box of mixed Gallaudet feelings on its shelf in my emotional storage locker- and never unpack it again.
:-) It's amazing how quickly things change ...
And so there I was yesterday, 9 months later, back at a place which was so incredibly indescribable when I left it. My last dwindling moments at Gallaudet were tedious and disturbing ... like waiting for a relative in a coma to finally pass and be out of pain. That's exactly how I felt that final semester at Gallaudet- like I was in an emotional coma.
Yesterday there was the usual ritual of reuniting and catching up that always accompanies any event/location that involves Deaf people- within a half-hour I had already "bumped" into 6 people that I knew. I do miss that part of Gallaudet; there is always someone close at hand (wink) that you're connected to in some way. It's such a social place- like a dog park where you can fervently sniff all the crotches you want to and ignore the world just outside the park gates.
I went through the lines at "Gradfest", Gallaudet's one-stop shop for all of your graduation needs (4-hr long DVDs of identically-dressed persons taking fake diplomas, paying library fines, ordering rings that you'll never wear, cap and gown, etc.). And as I looked around, I realized how lonely it was to be the only person from my academic year not graduating with the rest of my class.
The problem with an institution that has left such a memorable mark in my emotional memory is that it's hard to separate the good from the bad-- like mixing a cup of cow manure into a batch of delicious cookie dough. No matter what you pull out of the oven, it will still have that unmistakable stench. So it goes with Gallaudet.
So here is the question: to go or not to go to the graduation ceremony? If I'm having a difficult time keeping my mind off of the negatives, why put myself back in that situation? When my department gives me my graduate school hood and says "Yay you finally made it!", I'll only be thinking "Yay you finally noticed who I really am!" Can I genuinely smile and thank the people who made my experience so unnecessarily painful?
Two and a half years and $50,000 worth of debt later (Galladebt is the correct spelling, FYI) I stand strong and composed at the gates of a small university while the whisperings of extinguished memories sift softly into my consciousness: the best friend turned enemy (yes officer, she did in fact say she would be relieved if I died), the department that insensitively withdrew its support and warmth from my education (the counseling department- the irony), and the first guy to ever break my heart.
*somewhere a violin plays* ;-)
"Who can say if I've been changed for the better, but because I knew you I have been changed for good" -- all the gay boys sigh ....
Well the good news is that I'm happy now- and all's well that ends well, right? Hmm ... well then perhaps it's best to leave that dusty box of mixed Gallaudet feelings on its shelf in my emotional storage locker- and never unpack it again.
:-) It's amazing how quickly things change ...
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Take me baby or leave me
10 points to anyone who started singing "Take me for what I am" from Rent upon reading the blog title ..... *golf claps*
Here's a random assortment of things that people generally LOVE or HATE:
-rain storms
-coconut
-Hillary Clinton
-filling out your 1040 or 1040EZ
-diet beverages
-rice pudding
-Seinfeld episodes
-dogs
-Rosie O'Donnell
-exercising
-Backstreet Boys
-gardening
-mathematics
-high-fiving
-people who say "Ciao"
-Starbucks
-whoopie cushions
-licking stamps
-lawyers
-sick days from work
-bubble-wrap
-results from the Clinic
-tequila
-spicy foods
-dropping down low and sweeping the floor with it
-children
-reading
-a persistant suitor
-British comedy
-Hooters the restaurant
-hooters the anatomy
-anchovies
-S&M
-silent letters like the "b" in "lamb"
-gossip
-root beer
-getting mail
-Tickle Me Elmo
-Taco Bell
-blogs with no real point
Here's a random assortment of things that people generally LOVE or HATE:
-rain storms
-coconut
-Hillary Clinton
-filling out your 1040 or 1040EZ
-diet beverages
-rice pudding
-Seinfeld episodes
-dogs
-Rosie O'Donnell
-exercising
-Backstreet Boys
-gardening
-mathematics
-high-fiving
-people who say "Ciao"
-Starbucks
-whoopie cushions
-licking stamps
-lawyers
-sick days from work
-bubble-wrap
-results from the Clinic
-tequila
-spicy foods
-dropping down low and sweeping the floor with it
-children
-reading
-a persistant suitor
-British comedy
-Hooters the restaurant
-hooters the anatomy
-anchovies
-S&M
-silent letters like the "b" in "lamb"
-gossip
-root beer
-getting mail
-Tickle Me Elmo
-Taco Bell
-blogs with no real point
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
The Confederate Flag and Floridian Ignorance
I know, I know!!! Silly to put a redundancy in the title of this blog (hint- it is not "confederate flag"), but I mention the great Sunshine State only because it is the newest state to consider issuing Confederate Heritage License Plates (http://blogs.usatoday.com/ondeadline/2008/02/fla-legislator.html). Proceeds go to the Sons of Confederate Veterans (Florida division: http://www.florida-scv.org/index.htm).
Hmm ...
According to the main SCV webpage, "The citizen-soldiers who fought for the Confederacy personified the best qualities of America. The preservation of liberty and freedom was the motivating factor in the South's decision to fight the Second American Revolution. The tenacity with which Confederate soldiers fought underscored their belief in the rights guaranteed by the Constitution. These attributes are the underpinning of our democratic society and represent the foundation on which this nation was built."
Now, I know that the Civil War was fought for reasons in addition to slavery, but I think we can agree that Abraham Lincoln and slavery are the first images that come to mind when we mention the Confederacy.
And so, a few comments on the SCV's opening paragraph:
(1) "Liberty and freedom"- for WHO? The irony ...
(2) "Rights guaranteed by the Constitution"- now I don't remember my high school government classes all that well, but I do recall something our founding fathers said about "promote the general welfare", which I assume can be applied to all persons regardless of color ... hmmm perhaps the Constitution has footnotes or clauses I am unaware of?
(3) "The foundation on which this nation was built"- yes, a racist foundation that continues to divide and weaken American communities to this very day. Lovely.
I believe in honoring those who gave their lives fighting for what they believed to be moral and true. I believe in looking at history that is not written by the "winners". Most of all, I do believe in preserving history-- but only as a means to remind us of past mistakes in an effort to improve ourselves as a humane and justice-seeking nation (obviously Vietnam didn't do the trick).
The Confederate flag is a significant feature of American history. It is also one that represents a very dark period of time in the collective consciousness of present-day Americans. The pink triangle, once a horrid mark used to identify gays in concentration camps, is now used with pride and assertion in the gay community. However, the Confederate flag is a different kettle of fish (and I really wonder where that expression comes from).
Furthermore, the Sons of Confederate Veterans will only accept people to be members that are "male descendants of any veteran who served honorably in the Confederate armed forces".
Now wait a minute ... isn't this aforementioned "democratic society", one that boasts such supreme qualities and values, made up of men and women of almost every race and nationality? Aren't all of these persons able to unite beneath a banner that promotes its ideals as the foundation of our country? A country in which all of these persons live, work, and have families???
And lastly:
Charge to the Sons of Confederate Veterans
"To you, Sons of Confederate Veterans, we will commit the vindication of the cause for which we fought. To your strength will be given the defense of the Confederate soldier's good name, the guardianship of his history, the emulation of his virtues, the perpetuation of those principles which he loved and which you love also, and those ideals which made him glorious and which you also cherish. Remember, it is your duty to see that the true history of the South is presented to future generations."
Lt. General Stephen Dill Lee, Commander General, United Confederate Veterans
New Orleans, Louisiana, April 25, 1906
************************
Please make the right decision, Florida, for once in your life.
Hmm ...
According to the main SCV webpage, "The citizen-soldiers who fought for the Confederacy personified the best qualities of America. The preservation of liberty and freedom was the motivating factor in the South's decision to fight the Second American Revolution. The tenacity with which Confederate soldiers fought underscored their belief in the rights guaranteed by the Constitution. These attributes are the underpinning of our democratic society and represent the foundation on which this nation was built."
Now, I know that the Civil War was fought for reasons in addition to slavery, but I think we can agree that Abraham Lincoln and slavery are the first images that come to mind when we mention the Confederacy.
And so, a few comments on the SCV's opening paragraph:
(1) "Liberty and freedom"- for WHO? The irony ...
(2) "Rights guaranteed by the Constitution"- now I don't remember my high school government classes all that well, but I do recall something our founding fathers said about "promote the general welfare", which I assume can be applied to all persons regardless of color ... hmmm perhaps the Constitution has footnotes or clauses I am unaware of?
(3) "The foundation on which this nation was built"- yes, a racist foundation that continues to divide and weaken American communities to this very day. Lovely.
I believe in honoring those who gave their lives fighting for what they believed to be moral and true. I believe in looking at history that is not written by the "winners". Most of all, I do believe in preserving history-- but only as a means to remind us of past mistakes in an effort to improve ourselves as a humane and justice-seeking nation (obviously Vietnam didn't do the trick).
The Confederate flag is a significant feature of American history. It is also one that represents a very dark period of time in the collective consciousness of present-day Americans. The pink triangle, once a horrid mark used to identify gays in concentration camps, is now used with pride and assertion in the gay community. However, the Confederate flag is a different kettle of fish (and I really wonder where that expression comes from).
Furthermore, the Sons of Confederate Veterans will only accept people to be members that are "male descendants of any veteran who served honorably in the Confederate armed forces".
Now wait a minute ... isn't this aforementioned "democratic society", one that boasts such supreme qualities and values, made up of men and women of almost every race and nationality? Aren't all of these persons able to unite beneath a banner that promotes its ideals as the foundation of our country? A country in which all of these persons live, work, and have families???
And lastly:
Charge to the Sons of Confederate Veterans
"To you, Sons of Confederate Veterans, we will commit the vindication of the cause for which we fought. To your strength will be given the defense of the Confederate soldier's good name, the guardianship of his history, the emulation of his virtues, the perpetuation of those principles which he loved and which you love also, and those ideals which made him glorious and which you also cherish. Remember, it is your duty to see that the true history of the South is presented to future generations."
Lt. General Stephen Dill Lee, Commander General, United Confederate Veterans
New Orleans, Louisiana, April 25, 1906
************************
Please make the right decision, Florida, for once in your life.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
