I heard a lot of rhetoric yesterday, and as usual, find myself unsatisfied with either end of the argument spectrum. Here are my thoughts, if you care. If you don't, I won't hold it against you if you don't read it.
My fellow liberals: the guy who shot the congresswoman was crazy. From what I've seen of his digital footprint, he was seriously mentally disturbed. Sarah Palin didn't convince him to fire those shots. He did it because he was crazy.
In the next couple of days, the media's going to be frantically searching for reasons why he did what he did. Just like with the Columbine massacre, they're going to keep digging until they find something they can use to desperately assign meaning to an inherently meaningless act. Since the target was a politician, a lot of them will stop when they see Sarah Palin's cross-hair graphic. But liberals, if we say that Sarah Palin is somehow culpable in this tragedy, we are also saying that Marilyn Manson and Doom are somehow culpable for Columbine. We know better than this. It's tempting, I know, to hang this on Palin, because it gives us a reason for this tragedy, and a reason that makes someone we dislike look bad. But the uncomfortable truth is there are no reasons. Dude was crazy. It's terrible, but there you go.
Now, my lovely conservatives (I still have some conservative friends, right?): it is beyond tacky for Sarah Palin to take down her cross-hairs graphic, and to post on Facebook "our hearts and prayers are with the family of congresswoman Giffords." Because here's the translation of that statement:
"All of last year, when I was using an extended gun metaphor to appeal to my gun-totin' constituents, when I was 'reloading' and 'takin' aim' and 'putting them in the cross-hairs' and 'firing a salvo,' and 'keepin' in my sights,' I never meant someone should actually go out and shoot them! All I did was call them enemies of liberty, traitors, communists, terrorists, people out to destroy our country, and then suggested we take them out!"
Now, keep in mind what I said to my liberal friends: Sarah Palin isn't responsible for anyone getting shot. But it'd be awfully nice if, now that we're living in a world where someone actually did literally put someone in the cross-hairs and take her out, that we'd stop talking about it metaphorically. That maybe we'd start talking about our political opponents not as frothing demons but as people who, just like us, want the best for our country, but disagree on what that best is. Maybe we could stop talking about politics like it's a combat zone, and talk about it like a partnership.
The war isn't liberal versus conservative or Republican versus Democrat. It's the sane versus the disturbed, the good-hearted versus the violent, the sensible versus the senseles. Yesterday, there were twelve casualties. So let's stop fighting in the ranks, okay?
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Saturday, January 1, 2011
All Is Quiet On New Year's Day.
As the clock struck midnight, I didn't review the last year in my head like I thought I would. Instead, it occurred to me that this is the tenth anniversary of the start of what I will now think of forever as My Last Shitty Year.
2001: the last year I spent single, lonely, miserable, bouncing from terrible job to terrible job, always broke, always starving for affection. It began with the second half of my ridiculous attempt to make a living and/or become a rock star in Los Angeles. I lived in a studio apartment with my cat, had a fifteen-mile, hour-long commute to a boring dead-end job, and spent most evenings drinking alone at a karaoke bar, hoping my brooding would attract women. It didn't work.
So it was back to Phoenix, living with my parents again for a few months, a couple of temp jobs, another ghetto apartment. At least my attempt at selling cars for a living got cut short after 9/11 and a crisis of conscience, but quitting the salesman gig left me more broke than ever.
The end of 2001 was self-loathing and cigarettes, a couple of good friends trying to keep me sane, feeling somehow stuck and freefalling at the same time.
It's good to remember now, when the ceiling leaks in my awesome house, or I fight with my beautiful, wonderful wife, or my amazing child is being difficult, that there was an interminable amount of time where I was simply miserable with no hope of improvement. Before Jess began my life and saved my soul, before Kingdom of Loathing gave me a most improbable career, before I had a future, there was a vast, featureless expanse of gray. When I began 2001, I had no idea it'd be the Last Shitty Year.
Wonder what 2011's got?
2001: the last year I spent single, lonely, miserable, bouncing from terrible job to terrible job, always broke, always starving for affection. It began with the second half of my ridiculous attempt to make a living and/or become a rock star in Los Angeles. I lived in a studio apartment with my cat, had a fifteen-mile, hour-long commute to a boring dead-end job, and spent most evenings drinking alone at a karaoke bar, hoping my brooding would attract women. It didn't work.
So it was back to Phoenix, living with my parents again for a few months, a couple of temp jobs, another ghetto apartment. At least my attempt at selling cars for a living got cut short after 9/11 and a crisis of conscience, but quitting the salesman gig left me more broke than ever.
The end of 2001 was self-loathing and cigarettes, a couple of good friends trying to keep me sane, feeling somehow stuck and freefalling at the same time.
It's good to remember now, when the ceiling leaks in my awesome house, or I fight with my beautiful, wonderful wife, or my amazing child is being difficult, that there was an interminable amount of time where I was simply miserable with no hope of improvement. Before Jess began my life and saved my soul, before Kingdom of Loathing gave me a most improbable career, before I had a future, there was a vast, featureless expanse of gray. When I began 2001, I had no idea it'd be the Last Shitty Year.
Wonder what 2011's got?
Sunday, November 28, 2010
The Last. . .
This morning, after I had taken Oliver out of his crib and given him his morning change, I went back to bed and my wife watched him while I tried to sleep off whatever ridiculous cold/flu/plague I can't seem to shake. While I was sleeping, my wife watched Oliver climb out of the crib and almost fall to the ground. Just like that, it was time to switch him to a toddler bed.
So we hit up Craigslist, and we looked at some options, and we ended up with a nice little toddler bed. Oliver was thrilled to have a 'big boy bed,' and we laughed and clapped as we put it together in his room, and he jumped on it until he was dizzy and exhausted.
But then a thought occurred to me: last night was the last night I will ever put Oliver down to sleep in his crib. Even sadder, this morning was the last morning I will ever see him standing in his crib, smiling, holding out his arms and saying "Up!"
And I didn't know. This morning when I picked him up out of that crib for the last time, I didn't know it was the last. If I had known, would I have taken an extra second to smile back at him? Would I have cherished that weight in my arms as I lifted him? Would it have mattered if I did? Would I be more ready for this change -- all these changes -- all these little endings and beginnings?
Probably not. Life can only be perceived in the rearview mirror. Most of the important things we only recognize for what they are after they have passed. So we have to mourn a little, shed a few tears, and then move on, lest we miss the next big thing -- like our freshly minted big boy's first night in his big boy bed.
But then a thought occurred to me: last night was the last night I will ever put Oliver down to sleep in his crib. Even sadder, this morning was the last morning I will ever see him standing in his crib, smiling, holding out his arms and saying "Up!"
And I didn't know. This morning when I picked him up out of that crib for the last time, I didn't know it was the last. If I had known, would I have taken an extra second to smile back at him? Would I have cherished that weight in my arms as I lifted him? Would it have mattered if I did? Would I be more ready for this change -- all these changes -- all these little endings and beginnings?
Probably not. Life can only be perceived in the rearview mirror. Most of the important things we only recognize for what they are after they have passed. So we have to mourn a little, shed a few tears, and then move on, lest we miss the next big thing -- like our freshly minted big boy's first night in his big boy bed.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
From the Left Wing.
Twice in the past 24 hours, I've been caught in an argument against people who insist that voting independent is the only logical choice this election day. I've been called a mindless drone and a lunatic for my stance, and I'm done with it.
Edit: First, there's the bizarre idea that a third-party candidate is somehow better than an establishment candidate just because of the third-party status. Just being a Libertarian or a Green Party candidate doesn't automatically mean you're some hallowed savior sent to fix the system; like Democrat or Republican, it's just a label.
I do not believe for a second, especially in the context of the last two years, that the Democrats are 'just as bad' as the Republicans. No, senores. The Democrats haven't been actively blocking any attempt at improving the quality of life of the poor and middle class, while whining about expiring tax cuts for billionaires. The Dems haven't demonized everyone from Mexicans to Muslims to stir up fear and hate. The Dems haven't whined about deficit spending and refused to pass job-creating legislation, while also holding on to the tax cuts that will cost the country billions.
Most importantly, the Dems haven't embraced a culture of lies, willful ignorance, hateful stereotype, manipulation through terror, and anti-intellectualism. The Republicans have done all of those things, and more. Never before has an agenda been so transparent: protect the wealth of billionaires above all -- if a poor person having health care inconveniences a billion-dollar corporation, let the peasant die. If people getting unemployment benefits means rolling back the Bush tax cuts on the wealthy, let the peasants starve! They'll still vote for us, because we'll tell them if they don't, terrorists and immigrants and commies will take over the country!
No, the Democratic party isn't perfect. Yes, they've done a few things I don't agree with. They lack the backbone to be truly progressive, to stand up to pressure and do the right thing. They lack the discipline to get the entire voting bloc moving in unison, which leads to stalemates and deal-making (see the health care reform bill. Republican smear campaigns led to polls which scared off conservative democrats, which led to horseshit in the back room, all the while Republicans were voting as a single monolithic bloc). They're dead wrong about copyright law, and they are beholden to special interests.
But a lack of perfection does not mean they're the 'lesser of two evils.' I think in this election we have one evil, one good-hearted but flawed, and one party you can vote for if you want the evil guys to win. So no. I'm not voting for some damn libertarian or green party candidate this election, when the very soul of the nation is on the line. Maybe if the moderate right wing retakes the Republican party from these Tea Party, Sarah Palin, Glenn Beck lunatics, then I'd consider risking them winning an election and cast a vote for a third party. But not this time.
Edit: First, there's the bizarre idea that a third-party candidate is somehow better than an establishment candidate just because of the third-party status. Just being a Libertarian or a Green Party candidate doesn't automatically mean you're some hallowed savior sent to fix the system; like Democrat or Republican, it's just a label.
I do not believe for a second, especially in the context of the last two years, that the Democrats are 'just as bad' as the Republicans. No, senores. The Democrats haven't been actively blocking any attempt at improving the quality of life of the poor and middle class, while whining about expiring tax cuts for billionaires. The Dems haven't demonized everyone from Mexicans to Muslims to stir up fear and hate. The Dems haven't whined about deficit spending and refused to pass job-creating legislation, while also holding on to the tax cuts that will cost the country billions.
Most importantly, the Dems haven't embraced a culture of lies, willful ignorance, hateful stereotype, manipulation through terror, and anti-intellectualism. The Republicans have done all of those things, and more. Never before has an agenda been so transparent: protect the wealth of billionaires above all -- if a poor person having health care inconveniences a billion-dollar corporation, let the peasant die. If people getting unemployment benefits means rolling back the Bush tax cuts on the wealthy, let the peasants starve! They'll still vote for us, because we'll tell them if they don't, terrorists and immigrants and commies will take over the country!
No, the Democratic party isn't perfect. Yes, they've done a few things I don't agree with. They lack the backbone to be truly progressive, to stand up to pressure and do the right thing. They lack the discipline to get the entire voting bloc moving in unison, which leads to stalemates and deal-making (see the health care reform bill. Republican smear campaigns led to polls which scared off conservative democrats, which led to horseshit in the back room, all the while Republicans were voting as a single monolithic bloc). They're dead wrong about copyright law, and they are beholden to special interests.
But a lack of perfection does not mean they're the 'lesser of two evils.' I think in this election we have one evil, one good-hearted but flawed, and one party you can vote for if you want the evil guys to win. So no. I'm not voting for some damn libertarian or green party candidate this election, when the very soul of the nation is on the line. Maybe if the moderate right wing retakes the Republican party from these Tea Party, Sarah Palin, Glenn Beck lunatics, then I'd consider risking them winning an election and cast a vote for a third party. But not this time.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
You look Incredible!
This has got to stop.
After another futile day spent shopping for a pair of jeans, I'm about ready to hit up the Goodwill and buy some dead man's pants made back before the world lost its damn mind.
Every pair of jeans now comes with the descriptor "sits just below the waist." This does not mean, as you might imagine, that the jeans go right under a man's navel, thereby covering the man's butt and allowing room for a man's genitlia in the front.
No, 'sits below the waist' means "sits so low that every time you so much as sit in a chair and stand back up, you'll be tugging them back up over your ass, and crushing your nuts when you do so because there's no room in there for your junk." Actually, that's giving these pants too much credit. Even with a belt, as you walk around throughout the day, they're constantly working their way over the butt and down the legs. So you're either hanging in the breeze, or constantly adjusting your pants.
Now, I can understand the necessity of indelicate wardrobe-adjustments if the tradeoff is a pleasing aesthetic effect. If these pants made me look like the bottom half of Brad Pitt, or something, I would happily put up with constantly adjusting them. But they don't. They ride so low that they erase your ass in the back and emphasize your gut in the front. Basically, they make anyone who wears them look like Mr. Incredible: a giant tub of pudding on top of two spindly li'l legs:
I'm sure any woman who reads this isn't exactly overflowing with sympathy, because women have been putting up with this for years. Not only do they contend with the ass-erasing, muffin-toping, butt-cleavage pants, but so much more clothing that is ill-fitting, uncomfortable, and unflattering. But let's be fair, ladies: they sold it to you because you bought it.
And now, sadly, it looks like not enough men put on these ridiculous nut-crushing plumbers-butt pants and said "you may insert these trousers forcibly into your rectum, Old Navy and The Gap, because my self-esteem is not hinged upon dressing trendily when the trends are fucktarded, so I shan't be buying your bullshit jeans." Nope. Have we finally lost our common sense, men? Have we finally lost that dignity that kept us from wearing ridiculous clothing just to chase a trend?
Given how many dudes I saw in calf-length plaid shorts this summer, I'm guessing yes.
Maybe I'll take up kilts.
After another futile day spent shopping for a pair of jeans, I'm about ready to hit up the Goodwill and buy some dead man's pants made back before the world lost its damn mind.
Every pair of jeans now comes with the descriptor "sits just below the waist." This does not mean, as you might imagine, that the jeans go right under a man's navel, thereby covering the man's butt and allowing room for a man's genitlia in the front.
No, 'sits below the waist' means "sits so low that every time you so much as sit in a chair and stand back up, you'll be tugging them back up over your ass, and crushing your nuts when you do so because there's no room in there for your junk." Actually, that's giving these pants too much credit. Even with a belt, as you walk around throughout the day, they're constantly working their way over the butt and down the legs. So you're either hanging in the breeze, or constantly adjusting your pants.
 |
| Look out, ladies. |
And now, sadly, it looks like not enough men put on these ridiculous nut-crushing plumbers-butt pants and said "you may insert these trousers forcibly into your rectum, Old Navy and The Gap, because my self-esteem is not hinged upon dressing trendily when the trends are fucktarded, so I shan't be buying your bullshit jeans." Nope. Have we finally lost our common sense, men? Have we finally lost that dignity that kept us from wearing ridiculous clothing just to chase a trend?
Given how many dudes I saw in calf-length plaid shorts this summer, I'm guessing yes.
Maybe I'll take up kilts.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
In a word: Peacemaker
You pay too much money for tickets, even without the fees. You pay a little too much for parking. You pay a little too much for drinks at the venue. You stand in front of a stage and you get jostled a little too much, shoved a little too much, pushed a little too much. The music is a little too loud. You're gonna stay out a little too late, and morning will come a little too soon.
And you do it because when they play, they open a tap in your brain and release a flood of happy memories: how she came bounding back to you through the crowd to dance during Green and Dumb. How you sang "Mexico" in Mexico. How "Nada" saved your life in Los Angeles. How Charlie told you the band who played that Jean Luc Picard song was doing a concert, and you went and they played for four amazing hours. How you watched the pregnant hippie dance at the Sedona show. Justin, Charlie, Ted, Erin, Autumn, Shannon, Jake, Taylor. So many friends, and so many shows, and so many good songs and you know every single word.
And it's worth every single 'little too' to open that tap, to remember every good time while you're having a new good time, to hold up your bottle (and if your bottle's empty, help yourself to mine) and say: "Here's to life."
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
It Was Great When It All Began . . .
The Rocky Horror Picture Show just turned 35 years old. Here's my thoughts on the subject:
I was fifteen years old, and I was a sheltered Christian kid who had somehow landed a girlfriend who was 1) a year older than I, and 2) one of two goth kids in the entire town of Prescott, Arizona. She listened to The Cure and Bauhaus and wore black lipstick. I listened to DC Talk and the Newsboys and wore shirts with a Jesus fish on them. Yeah. I don't get it either.
A few weeks before she let me touch her boobs (!), and a few weeks before she gave me a little vial of her blood to wear around my neck, she asked me if I had ever seen the Rocky Horror Picture Show. I hadn't. R-rated movies were forbidden in our household, and even if they weren't, the picture on the cover of the VHS box she showed me certainly would never have gotten in the door. There was a man dressed in women's clothes, with high heels and fishnets and a full face of makeup.
She invited a couple of friends over to her house, and put the movie on. I expected we'd sit and make out the whole time, as usual, but she was really into the movie. It seemed like she knew the script backwards and forwards; she knew where every pause in the dialog was, and she had something witty to say at every one. She and her friends even knew the Time Warp dance. For my part, I just sat and stared, transfixed.
The songs! I'd never heard anything like it! They had the sexy swagger of the rock music I was just starting to listen to, but the clever lyrics of a Broadway musical. Then there was the lingerie, the transvestism, the homoerotic undertones, the Susan Sarandon in a bra and panties . . . I was sold. Then, after I had thoroughly enjoyed the whole thing, my goth girlfriend told me I *had* to see it in the theater to get the full experience.
Months later, after the girl left me to sleep with some dude at band camp (I felt a weird pang the first time I saw American Pie), I finally got a chance to drive the two hours to the big city of Phoenix to see the movie in a theater. I borrowed a leather jacket from a friend of mine (who told me that Rocky sucked, but I could use the coat if I wanted) and pulled together a half-assed Eddie costume.
I want to say that seeing Rocky with a live cast, in a theater full of like-minded drama nerds, was some kind of revelation, an awakening, a feeling of being in harmony with fellow outcasts -- I want to say that because that's what most people say. It was definitely a blast, and it definitely demonstrated that there were far stranger things on earth than a girl who wears black lipstick and listens to the Cure. It didn't feel like coming home, but it did feel like a much-needed expanding of my small-town mind. Queers! Transvestites! Boys kissing boys kissing girls kissing girls! Jokes about people masturbating in the back row! The girl playing Columbia wearing a thong! But at the heart of it was still that clever, fun movie, where the hero is maybe the bitchy queen who isn't so great at relationships, but really just wants to expand everybody's mind and have a good time.
Even though people made fun of "I'm Coming Home," my favorite song, I still wanted to go back. I downloaded a script and studied the call-and-response lines and added a few of my own. For the next couple of years, my buddies and I made the trek down to Phoenix at least once a month, catching the midnight show and driving home as the sun was coming up. I bought the anniversary edition soundtrack, the karaoke CD, some posters, the VHS video, the DVD . . .and through the years, I saw the live show as often as I could.
The last time I went to see Rocky live, I was in the cast. There I was, 30 years old, my wife eight months pregnant, and I strapped on the high heels, the fishnets, the bodice, and performed an energetic (if imperfect) rendition of Frank N. Furter. I'm sure some people were embarrassed on my behalf. I know my wife was -- she still mentions it occasionally.
But for me, dreaming that character and being that character, running around a theater dressed like Frank N. Furter, felt like a last step from that small-town kid to a grown man who knows his place in the world. And for that, I will always love the Rocky Horror Picture Show, one of the many guides through the turbulent passageways of growing into myself.
Hey. I belted out "Sweet Transvestite" while DANCING on four-inch heels in front of a hundred people. I fear absolutely nothing after that.
I was fifteen years old, and I was a sheltered Christian kid who had somehow landed a girlfriend who was 1) a year older than I, and 2) one of two goth kids in the entire town of Prescott, Arizona. She listened to The Cure and Bauhaus and wore black lipstick. I listened to DC Talk and the Newsboys and wore shirts with a Jesus fish on them. Yeah. I don't get it either.
A few weeks before she let me touch her boobs (!), and a few weeks before she gave me a little vial of her blood to wear around my neck, she asked me if I had ever seen the Rocky Horror Picture Show. I hadn't. R-rated movies were forbidden in our household, and even if they weren't, the picture on the cover of the VHS box she showed me certainly would never have gotten in the door. There was a man dressed in women's clothes, with high heels and fishnets and a full face of makeup.
She invited a couple of friends over to her house, and put the movie on. I expected we'd sit and make out the whole time, as usual, but she was really into the movie. It seemed like she knew the script backwards and forwards; she knew where every pause in the dialog was, and she had something witty to say at every one. She and her friends even knew the Time Warp dance. For my part, I just sat and stared, transfixed.
The songs! I'd never heard anything like it! They had the sexy swagger of the rock music I was just starting to listen to, but the clever lyrics of a Broadway musical. Then there was the lingerie, the transvestism, the homoerotic undertones, the Susan Sarandon in a bra and panties . . . I was sold. Then, after I had thoroughly enjoyed the whole thing, my goth girlfriend told me I *had* to see it in the theater to get the full experience.
Months later, after the girl left me to sleep with some dude at band camp (I felt a weird pang the first time I saw American Pie), I finally got a chance to drive the two hours to the big city of Phoenix to see the movie in a theater. I borrowed a leather jacket from a friend of mine (who told me that Rocky sucked, but I could use the coat if I wanted) and pulled together a half-assed Eddie costume.
I want to say that seeing Rocky with a live cast, in a theater full of like-minded drama nerds, was some kind of revelation, an awakening, a feeling of being in harmony with fellow outcasts -- I want to say that because that's what most people say. It was definitely a blast, and it definitely demonstrated that there were far stranger things on earth than a girl who wears black lipstick and listens to the Cure. It didn't feel like coming home, but it did feel like a much-needed expanding of my small-town mind. Queers! Transvestites! Boys kissing boys kissing girls kissing girls! Jokes about people masturbating in the back row! The girl playing Columbia wearing a thong! But at the heart of it was still that clever, fun movie, where the hero is maybe the bitchy queen who isn't so great at relationships, but really just wants to expand everybody's mind and have a good time.
Even though people made fun of "I'm Coming Home," my favorite song, I still wanted to go back. I downloaded a script and studied the call-and-response lines and added a few of my own. For the next couple of years, my buddies and I made the trek down to Phoenix at least once a month, catching the midnight show and driving home as the sun was coming up. I bought the anniversary edition soundtrack, the karaoke CD, some posters, the VHS video, the DVD . . .and through the years, I saw the live show as often as I could.
The last time I went to see Rocky live, I was in the cast. There I was, 30 years old, my wife eight months pregnant, and I strapped on the high heels, the fishnets, the bodice, and performed an energetic (if imperfect) rendition of Frank N. Furter. I'm sure some people were embarrassed on my behalf. I know my wife was -- she still mentions it occasionally.
But for me, dreaming that character and being that character, running around a theater dressed like Frank N. Furter, felt like a last step from that small-town kid to a grown man who knows his place in the world. And for that, I will always love the Rocky Horror Picture Show, one of the many guides through the turbulent passageways of growing into myself.
Hey. I belted out "Sweet Transvestite" while DANCING on four-inch heels in front of a hundred people. I fear absolutely nothing after that.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)