(Originally published 2/3/2006)
"Jesus, Buddha, Allah, I love you all!" Homer Simpson
I am a tree-hugging, bed-wetting, what-the-h*ll-is-Michael-Dukakis-up-to-these-days, card-carrying Liberal. I think Bill Clinton was the best Republican president we‘ve ever had and that Socialists make very good points. I think children should be told what homosexuality is at an early age and that Michael Moore loves this country more than Donald Rumsfeld and Karl Rove put together. I would gladly give half of my paycheck to the government if it insured free health care for every American and Art and Music programs in every school. My eyes get misty when I watch documentaries on PBS about the struggles of Native Americans and when I read about cute fluffy animals on the verge of extinction I wanna take to the streets in protest. I am proud to be the type of American that Rush Limbaugh and Anne Coultier despise.
Recently, there was a lot of news about a situation that I guess falls under the category of Religous Insensitivity. My first reaction, because I’m an educated person who would never pretend to know what it’s like to walk in someone else’s shoes was to think, "Oh, they’ve been offended. People should be more considerate." This was my Liberal training, my God-given gift of reasonable judgment. And nine times out of ten when you hear about Religous Insensitivity that is just the case. Some idiot thought out loud and hurt someone else’s feelings, someone who they have no idea what it is to be like (for example, Sean Hannity or that b*tch from "The View" Elisabeth Hasselbeck).
But the reaction stirred by Religous Insensitivity occurring in the Middle East right now over a Danish cartoon is giving every gun-toting redneck in America another reason to hate "them Iraqi terrorists over thar." The more I thought about the way that these people are behaving in response to a drawing, a doodle by some yodeling goofball, my Liberal sense of understanding morphed into Bill O’Reilly’s take on the world. I felt like Charlton Heston. "Shoot ‘em now. Ask questions later."
What the h*ll is wrong with these people? In almost every episode of "South Park" a cartoon Jesus takes God’s name in vain. It doesn’t make the news. Why? Because the only people that show offense to such things in our culture are the crazy "Christian" types. And all they ever do in protest are make brief appearances on talk shows, form letter writing campaigns, or put Bush/Cheney bumper stickers on their cars. No "Christian" in their having been offended by "South Park" has taken to the streets with machine guns and taken hostages. (I am putting the term Christians in quotation marks to differentiate between cool Christians like me and crazy "Christians," the ones who’d protest outside of an AIDS victim’s funeral and give money to Pat Robertson, people who, in my opinion, are no way Christian.)
When the radical types get rowdy in our country and shoot up abortion clinics, even Conservatives think they’re loony. I realize that it’s blasphemous in Islam to create an image of Muhammad, but people, please. Hostages? Aren’t you being a bit dramatic over a cartoon? Trust me, just like that time I wore a dog collar out, you’re gonna feel really stupid about this in a few years.
We overreact in America too. Right now people in America are overreacting about lots of things: the Joel Stein article in the LA Times that said people who are against the war cannot honestly be for the troops, the show "The Book of Daniel" on NBC, and whatever Hillary Clinton might be up to these days. We love to overreact! We did it when Ellen Degeneres came out of the closet. And when we found out that the kids from Columbine liked Marilyn Manson. Or when a certain sitting President got his swerve on in the Oval Office. Sure, we holler and argue and forward emails of outrage back and forth. We vow to never watch certain networks or buy certain albums or see certain movies or vote for certain candidates. But none of us, no matter how offended we get, kidnap someone at gunpoint.
All cultural differences aside, I am dying to know whether or not these men have jobs. I have wet dreams about not having to work but if it means having so much time on my hands that suddenly it makes sense to buy a gun and take people hostage every time someone on Fox News p*sses me off then no thanks. I don’t think these guys have jobs. A job would keep them too busy to carry on like their dogs just died over a cartoon (an idled mind is a troubled mind). And why are they masked? Maybe they‘re supposed to be at work and don’t want their bosses to recognize them. Maybe they called out sick to go kidnappin’. And why are these terrorist types so quick to group everyone together? They hate America, so they destroy the Twin Towers filled to the brim with Americans. They are mad at Europe, so they take Europeans hostage. How stupid is this? That’s like getting mad at the dog for p*ssing on the floor and then beating the cat just because they have the misfortune of sharing the same space.
I’ve often envisioned myself in a hostage situation. "Look, Buddy," I’d tell the gunman, "I hate most Americans probably just as much as you do. But killing me is just gonna waste a bullet. If you wanna get a reaction out of the American government, have your government stop investing in American corporations and selling your oil to our country. If you looked closely at it, Kiddo, it’s not really Americans you hate. It’s your leaders who cater to our government’s every whim that you should be riding around on airplanes with."
I know that my refusal to understand their anger may seem to be a refusal to understand their culture, which would make me a Grade-A certified ignorant close-minded American. And maybe that’s so. Because a culture that caters to such extremism and violence over cartoons is not a culture I care to understand. And if it seems that I’m grouping all the people who were offended by the cartoon with terrorists, I’m not. I am, however, grouping the people who were offended by the cartoon and started kidnapping people over it with terrorists. Because they are terrorists.
I know that Islam is a religion that teaches peace and tolerance. Most religions do. My confusion, my criticism, is towards the behavior of Middle-Eastern societies in general. I guess I’ll never understand a society where no one makes a peep when a woman who was raped is stoned in the streets, but fury over a cartoon unites the country. And honestly, I wouldn’t want to understand it.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Forget me lots!
(Originally published 2/1/2006)
As human beings, it is only natural for us to forget things. Our minds are bogged down with work and family obligations, worries about the state of the world, and all of the time we spend wondering what it would be like to set Emmanuel Lewis up on a blind date with one of the Bush twins (maybe that last one’s just me). It has recently occurred to me just how forgetful I am.
Lately I’ve been doing things like forgetting to do my laundry until I have to wear swimming trunks under my dress pants to work. Or forgetting where I put my glasses or the keys to my apartment. Or looking frantically in my messenger bag for my transit pass (which ends up being in my pocket). There are so many things that we need to remember but cannot, things like birthdays, anniversaries, or to plug in the iron before we iron. I don’t think that there’s a lack of space in our brains. I think that some of the things that we need to remember just can’t fit in there next to having to remember a deadline or to go to the video store or to feed the baby. The problem is all the things in there that we just don’t need anymore. Most of the space in our heads is being taken up by the things that we just can’t seem to forget.
For example: How old is my father? I don’t know. When was the last time I had s*x with the guy who I thought was the love of my life? September 2004. What color are my friend Katie’s eyes? Beats me. What was the guy’s name who Mitch Bright broke up with me for in the Spring of 2000? Andrew.
Why do I remember these types of things but I don’t know how to spell my niece’s middle name? How is it possible to remember what I was wearing the last time I saw this British guy I have a huge crush on (a green zippy sweater that I looked awful in) but I don’t know my sister’s married name?
Emotional scars and obsessions aside, our brains are also filled with bizarre trivia that we could live for a million years and never find useful. For example, I know every lyric to every Indigo Girls song (go on, test me). Who but a handful of lesbians gives a hoot about that? I know how many children Karen Mackenzie had on "Knots Landing" (3 biological, 1 step, and 1 adopted). I know who shot JR and who killed Laura Palmer (Kristen and "Bob," respectively). I even know what character on "Days of Our Lives" became possessed by Satan and reeked havoc on the quiet town of Salem (Dr. Marlena Evans). But ask me if I’ve paid my electric bill this month and I couldn’t tell you.
There must be a reason why our memories can be so selective, so lazy. My brain behaves the way I do when I help a friend move. Why pick up the television or computer monitor when I can carry the ice trays? As far as our brains are concerned, it would rather carry something light like the chronological order of every Madonna album than bother lugging around Grandma’s birthday or the name of your boss’ children. I think it’s a survival mechanism. Our brain needs distractions from all that boring or bothersome cr*p we’re forgetting. It’s more fun for our brains to recall the dance steps from Pat Benatar’s "Love Is a Battlefield" video than it is to know how to repair our own computers.
Also, society has made it easy on the lazy brain. Recently, a friend of mine was arrested. Her one phone call at the police station was pointless whereas they’d confiscated her cell phone. She had no one’s phone number memorized to call and come get her. TiVo makes it easy for us to even forget what television shows we enjoy. If you forget that "Nanny 911" is on, it will remember to record it for you to watch at a later time.
So what have we learned today? Well, the next time you forget to remove the tags from a new pair of jeans before stepping out for a night on the town, the reason is that there is something clogging a part of your brain. What’s blocking that ability? Maybe it’s either the lyrics to the "Facts of Life" theme song or an ex-boyfriend’s phone number. If we could only clear our minds of the trivial and pointless facts and memories that we can’t seem to forget, then we would no longer forget things like calling our moms on Mother’s Day or closing the door to our apartments when we leave for work (not that I’ve ever forgotten to do either).
As human beings, it is only natural for us to forget things. Our minds are bogged down with work and family obligations, worries about the state of the world, and all of the time we spend wondering what it would be like to set Emmanuel Lewis up on a blind date with one of the Bush twins (maybe that last one’s just me). It has recently occurred to me just how forgetful I am.
Lately I’ve been doing things like forgetting to do my laundry until I have to wear swimming trunks under my dress pants to work. Or forgetting where I put my glasses or the keys to my apartment. Or looking frantically in my messenger bag for my transit pass (which ends up being in my pocket). There are so many things that we need to remember but cannot, things like birthdays, anniversaries, or to plug in the iron before we iron. I don’t think that there’s a lack of space in our brains. I think that some of the things that we need to remember just can’t fit in there next to having to remember a deadline or to go to the video store or to feed the baby. The problem is all the things in there that we just don’t need anymore. Most of the space in our heads is being taken up by the things that we just can’t seem to forget.
For example: How old is my father? I don’t know. When was the last time I had s*x with the guy who I thought was the love of my life? September 2004. What color are my friend Katie’s eyes? Beats me. What was the guy’s name who Mitch Bright broke up with me for in the Spring of 2000? Andrew.
Why do I remember these types of things but I don’t know how to spell my niece’s middle name? How is it possible to remember what I was wearing the last time I saw this British guy I have a huge crush on (a green zippy sweater that I looked awful in) but I don’t know my sister’s married name?
Emotional scars and obsessions aside, our brains are also filled with bizarre trivia that we could live for a million years and never find useful. For example, I know every lyric to every Indigo Girls song (go on, test me). Who but a handful of lesbians gives a hoot about that? I know how many children Karen Mackenzie had on "Knots Landing" (3 biological, 1 step, and 1 adopted). I know who shot JR and who killed Laura Palmer (Kristen and "Bob," respectively). I even know what character on "Days of Our Lives" became possessed by Satan and reeked havoc on the quiet town of Salem (Dr. Marlena Evans). But ask me if I’ve paid my electric bill this month and I couldn’t tell you.
There must be a reason why our memories can be so selective, so lazy. My brain behaves the way I do when I help a friend move. Why pick up the television or computer monitor when I can carry the ice trays? As far as our brains are concerned, it would rather carry something light like the chronological order of every Madonna album than bother lugging around Grandma’s birthday or the name of your boss’ children. I think it’s a survival mechanism. Our brain needs distractions from all that boring or bothersome cr*p we’re forgetting. It’s more fun for our brains to recall the dance steps from Pat Benatar’s "Love Is a Battlefield" video than it is to know how to repair our own computers.
Also, society has made it easy on the lazy brain. Recently, a friend of mine was arrested. Her one phone call at the police station was pointless whereas they’d confiscated her cell phone. She had no one’s phone number memorized to call and come get her. TiVo makes it easy for us to even forget what television shows we enjoy. If you forget that "Nanny 911" is on, it will remember to record it for you to watch at a later time.
So what have we learned today? Well, the next time you forget to remove the tags from a new pair of jeans before stepping out for a night on the town, the reason is that there is something clogging a part of your brain. What’s blocking that ability? Maybe it’s either the lyrics to the "Facts of Life" theme song or an ex-boyfriend’s phone number. If we could only clear our minds of the trivial and pointless facts and memories that we can’t seem to forget, then we would no longer forget things like calling our moms on Mother’s Day or closing the door to our apartments when we leave for work (not that I’ve ever forgotten to do either).
Sick!
(Originally published 1/18/2006)
Oprah Winfrey is highly credited for bringing the issue of sexual molestation into the national dialogue. Some would argue that had she not been so up front and open about a topic that had for generations plagued millions of families then not as many people would have have had the courage to come out and ask for help. Well, brace yourself. I’m about to bring a new conversation to the dinner table. It’s called Relationship Anorexia. And I have it. I have it bad.
I’d been thinking a great deal about negative body image and eating disorders, how many experts blame such conditions on the way society and the mass media depict beauty to the public. It’s almost as if the zillions of people who either don’t eat or puke up what little they do eat have finally given into the powerful marketing campaign staged against them. It would be like I lived somewhere like West Virginia, bombarded by whatever images those poor souls are bombarded with, and finally my subconscious gave in and I registered to vote as a Republican. I wouldn’t know why I did, but suddenly I would hate myself for having ever logged on to Moveon.org. I think this is similar to what happens to the millions of people suffering from anorexia and bullemia. It just takes one more glimpse of Nicole Kidman’s collarbone on the cover of US Weekly and the next thing you know you haven’t eaten anything except a piece of ice since Thursday.
Luckily, I do not suffer from negative body image. If anything, I suffer from positive body image, meaning that I think I’m cuter than I actually am (which can lead to frequent confusion as to why no one talks to me at bars except the friends I came in with). However, I recently realized that I have become a victim to one of society’s other message bombardments designed to make people who otherwise would not feel like complete sh*t: Relationship Anorexia.
Relationship Anorexia, I have decided, is the condition to which one feels self-concious, anxious, and isolated in regards to their single status. This condition is brought on by the overwhelming presence of couples and families in our society. Every song we sing along to, every television show we watch, every magazine article we read is either hyping a relationship, telling someone how to improve a relationship, or centered around someone obsessed with being in a relationship. Relationship Anorexia is the end result of a culture obsessed with happy endings and the fear of living alone.
And what’s so terrifying about being alone? I find the idea of coming home from work and having to explain to someone else why you took your pants off at the door to be terrifying. I also find it terrifying to think that I may never see but just 2 penises for the rest of my life, mine and the guy’s who I kick in my sleep. But recently I was overwhelmed with the idea that I may never meet anyone and my comfort level with my over-the-top selfishness completely disappeared. I felt freakish, like a slimy monster in the street, simply because everyone appeared to be dating someone, everyone but me!
Maybe I’d seen one too many Drew Barrymore movies. Or maybe all the press finally made me jealous of Tom and Katie. But for whatever reason I allowed myself to be freaked out. Instead of looking at my life with gratitude and saying, "I don’t have to share my bucket of delicious fried chicken with anyone," I began seeing my life with sorrow, saying, "I have no one to share this delicious bucket of fried chicken with."
So recently, I met someone, a perfect someone, a someone who knew me and found amusing (or at the very least tolerable) every weird and crazy thing about me. This someone is funny, smart, ambitious, cute, and didn’t make me feel stupid the first time he saw me naked. However, after spending three days together I found myself resenting him for being in my space, for talking to me, for even holding the elevator for me.
Perhaps I am not destined to be married, to vacation and grocery shop with someone, to attend boring office Christmas parties with someone, to watch someone get old and fat and leave me for some twenty year old floozy when I’m 55. Maybe it’s just not in my nature to share with and listen to someone, to support someone, or to rub someone’s shoulders when they’re sick. Maybe that homeless woman who spit on me last winter was right. I am an a**hole.
But a**hole status aside (this is a trait I’d suspected that I’d carried for years), there was something inside me that wanted to be nice to him and wanted him to pay attention to me. Where did this come from? Why would someone such as myself who holds their time alone in such high regard feel like I was incapable and missing out on something? Simple: Relationship Anorexia. I am a conflicted product of a society that tells me that I am not much of anything without someone else standing in as half of me, that I am incapable of being whole on my own. This is not only irritating to me, but more so to people such as this really great guy who I was nice to at first when I thought I wanted a boyfriend then ended up treating like sh*t when I realized that I didn’t.
Just as regular anorexia destroys people’s comfort zones and threatens their ways of life, so does Relationship Anorexia. It turns perfectly functioning, reasonable humans into soft, lonely piles of fluff who, when they inevitably crash, will pull down any sucker standing in their way grinning and asking them to dinner. Had society never thrust Relationship Anorexia on me, I would never have thought that I needed a boyfriend, tried to get one, then made some innocent, caring guy feel like crap.
I encourage everyone to bring the topic of Relationship Anorexia to the surface, because a society in silence is a society that breeds more victims. So bring the conversation to work, to church, to the neighborhood block party. End the violence. Bring it to the dinner table like Oprah brought incest and time will bring all of its sufferers out into the open and heal their pain.
I would love to have someone to discuss this with at dinner, but I am single and eat most of my meals alone. Hopefully I will never choke while eating because there will not be anyone there to try and save me or call 911. Because I am ugly and gross and weird and single. And nobody loves me. And I’m ugly.
God, I’m so lonely! Crap! I caught it again!
Oprah Winfrey is highly credited for bringing the issue of sexual molestation into the national dialogue. Some would argue that had she not been so up front and open about a topic that had for generations plagued millions of families then not as many people would have have had the courage to come out and ask for help. Well, brace yourself. I’m about to bring a new conversation to the dinner table. It’s called Relationship Anorexia. And I have it. I have it bad.
I’d been thinking a great deal about negative body image and eating disorders, how many experts blame such conditions on the way society and the mass media depict beauty to the public. It’s almost as if the zillions of people who either don’t eat or puke up what little they do eat have finally given into the powerful marketing campaign staged against them. It would be like I lived somewhere like West Virginia, bombarded by whatever images those poor souls are bombarded with, and finally my subconscious gave in and I registered to vote as a Republican. I wouldn’t know why I did, but suddenly I would hate myself for having ever logged on to Moveon.org. I think this is similar to what happens to the millions of people suffering from anorexia and bullemia. It just takes one more glimpse of Nicole Kidman’s collarbone on the cover of US Weekly and the next thing you know you haven’t eaten anything except a piece of ice since Thursday.
Luckily, I do not suffer from negative body image. If anything, I suffer from positive body image, meaning that I think I’m cuter than I actually am (which can lead to frequent confusion as to why no one talks to me at bars except the friends I came in with). However, I recently realized that I have become a victim to one of society’s other message bombardments designed to make people who otherwise would not feel like complete sh*t: Relationship Anorexia.
Relationship Anorexia, I have decided, is the condition to which one feels self-concious, anxious, and isolated in regards to their single status. This condition is brought on by the overwhelming presence of couples and families in our society. Every song we sing along to, every television show we watch, every magazine article we read is either hyping a relationship, telling someone how to improve a relationship, or centered around someone obsessed with being in a relationship. Relationship Anorexia is the end result of a culture obsessed with happy endings and the fear of living alone.
And what’s so terrifying about being alone? I find the idea of coming home from work and having to explain to someone else why you took your pants off at the door to be terrifying. I also find it terrifying to think that I may never see but just 2 penises for the rest of my life, mine and the guy’s who I kick in my sleep. But recently I was overwhelmed with the idea that I may never meet anyone and my comfort level with my over-the-top selfishness completely disappeared. I felt freakish, like a slimy monster in the street, simply because everyone appeared to be dating someone, everyone but me!
Maybe I’d seen one too many Drew Barrymore movies. Or maybe all the press finally made me jealous of Tom and Katie. But for whatever reason I allowed myself to be freaked out. Instead of looking at my life with gratitude and saying, "I don’t have to share my bucket of delicious fried chicken with anyone," I began seeing my life with sorrow, saying, "I have no one to share this delicious bucket of fried chicken with."
So recently, I met someone, a perfect someone, a someone who knew me and found amusing (or at the very least tolerable) every weird and crazy thing about me. This someone is funny, smart, ambitious, cute, and didn’t make me feel stupid the first time he saw me naked. However, after spending three days together I found myself resenting him for being in my space, for talking to me, for even holding the elevator for me.
Perhaps I am not destined to be married, to vacation and grocery shop with someone, to attend boring office Christmas parties with someone, to watch someone get old and fat and leave me for some twenty year old floozy when I’m 55. Maybe it’s just not in my nature to share with and listen to someone, to support someone, or to rub someone’s shoulders when they’re sick. Maybe that homeless woman who spit on me last winter was right. I am an a**hole.
But a**hole status aside (this is a trait I’d suspected that I’d carried for years), there was something inside me that wanted to be nice to him and wanted him to pay attention to me. Where did this come from? Why would someone such as myself who holds their time alone in such high regard feel like I was incapable and missing out on something? Simple: Relationship Anorexia. I am a conflicted product of a society that tells me that I am not much of anything without someone else standing in as half of me, that I am incapable of being whole on my own. This is not only irritating to me, but more so to people such as this really great guy who I was nice to at first when I thought I wanted a boyfriend then ended up treating like sh*t when I realized that I didn’t.
Just as regular anorexia destroys people’s comfort zones and threatens their ways of life, so does Relationship Anorexia. It turns perfectly functioning, reasonable humans into soft, lonely piles of fluff who, when they inevitably crash, will pull down any sucker standing in their way grinning and asking them to dinner. Had society never thrust Relationship Anorexia on me, I would never have thought that I needed a boyfriend, tried to get one, then made some innocent, caring guy feel like crap.
I encourage everyone to bring the topic of Relationship Anorexia to the surface, because a society in silence is a society that breeds more victims. So bring the conversation to work, to church, to the neighborhood block party. End the violence. Bring it to the dinner table like Oprah brought incest and time will bring all of its sufferers out into the open and heal their pain.
I would love to have someone to discuss this with at dinner, but I am single and eat most of my meals alone. Hopefully I will never choke while eating because there will not be anyone there to try and save me or call 911. Because I am ugly and gross and weird and single. And nobody loves me. And I’m ugly.
God, I’m so lonely! Crap! I caught it again!
Near death. Again.
(Originally published 1/13/2006)
I was due for some bad luck.
My life has generally been an enemy to me, a nemisis I’m in constant battle with, fighting over love, luck, money, poorly timed acne breakouts, and male pattern baldness. However, I was having quite the good run of it last month. I had somehow managed to save some money and was able to take off of work for four weeks. I went home for the holidays, miraculously got along with my family, found some Diesel sneakers for under $70, and had an amazing time with old friends. I even met someone who I was able to entertain thoughts of actually dating. All of these things in addition to the fact that the new Madonna CD is simply brilliant made life seem pretty dang sweet.
But, alas, the proverbial poop was destined to hit the fan. I was sitting at my desk at work last week when I was suddenly hit with a vicious migraine. Yes, most people who suffer from migraines at my age are women and, yes, I do get the irony that I am merely a single chromosome away from actually being a woman. Anyway, the headache was hands-down the worst I’d ever had in my life. Factor in that I’ve been getting migraines for most of my 30, er, 22 years, and you’ll see that this headache was no ordinary headache!
After vomitting several times (I felt like Lindsey Lohan), I decided to leave work. Long story short, my day ended with me in an ambulance with 2 hot EMTs. Now, if you watch as much porn as I do then this sounds like a much better deal than it turned out to be. There was no awkward silence followed by one of them looking me in the eye and saying, "I know exactly what you need to feel better," followed by some "sexy" 1970’s disco music and some good old-fashioned man-love. Life had gone and gotten in a nice clean kick to my groin. I was actually and seriously having a stroke!
Although life has been consistent in its cruelty towards me, it has never fully restricted me from still living as an independently functioning person. It’s as if Life is my abusive beer-guzzling redneck husband and I am its black-eyed waitress wife in desperate need of having her roots done. It just likes to remind me every so often who’s in charge then lets me on my way, crippled by the fear that any day now he’s going to come home drunk again and knock another one of my teeth out. But in the meantime, I’m fine. I can still walk, speak, drink beer, and watch VH1, so my life was only slightly affected by the stroke. However, the reality that if there is a next time it could be much worse is looming in the background like a poorly placed velvet painting of Elvis.
So what does one do after cheating death and walking away without a scratch? What does one, specifically me, do after cheating death and walking away without a scratch for about the 17th time? I have not felt compelled to race off to church, or form a movement, or even vacuum my apartment for that matter. I don’t feel any more grateful for the life that I have than I did before the stroke, nor did I feel an obligation to express my appreciation for those around me when I realized what had happened.
I have done many things wrong in my life and will continue to do so (I bet you $50 I’m doing something wrong right now). However, I have only done one thing right in my life and to me it’s the only thing that needs to be done right. Having this happen to me and not really "learning" from it hasn’t been proof that I’m an empty, heartless, shell of a human. It has proved to me that I am living my life right. Because had that been it, me dead in the back of an ambulance with 2 hot strangers, I wouldn’t have taken a bit of remorse or regret with me. I look at the quality of people I have in my life, people that are much more kind, considerate, and caring than me. These are people that despite my being a Lucifer to their Gabriel have aligned themselves to me for life, whether as a friend, a son, or a brother. Knowing that no matter what happens to me that my legacy will be left in the hearts and memories of such great people is the only thing I’ll ever need to know.
So the next time I get lost and wind up in Cabrini Green or absent-mindedly plug in my electric razor while standing in the shower, I feel that my life has been fully appreciated and I can take my love for those people who made me appreciate it with me wherever my soul goes. Which I’m hoping to be some floating mall-like place where every other store is an Urban Outfitters, every meal is Taco Bell, and I’ll be the youngest and cutest boy at every party.
I was due for some bad luck.
My life has generally been an enemy to me, a nemisis I’m in constant battle with, fighting over love, luck, money, poorly timed acne breakouts, and male pattern baldness. However, I was having quite the good run of it last month. I had somehow managed to save some money and was able to take off of work for four weeks. I went home for the holidays, miraculously got along with my family, found some Diesel sneakers for under $70, and had an amazing time with old friends. I even met someone who I was able to entertain thoughts of actually dating. All of these things in addition to the fact that the new Madonna CD is simply brilliant made life seem pretty dang sweet.
But, alas, the proverbial poop was destined to hit the fan. I was sitting at my desk at work last week when I was suddenly hit with a vicious migraine. Yes, most people who suffer from migraines at my age are women and, yes, I do get the irony that I am merely a single chromosome away from actually being a woman. Anyway, the headache was hands-down the worst I’d ever had in my life. Factor in that I’ve been getting migraines for most of my 30, er, 22 years, and you’ll see that this headache was no ordinary headache!
After vomitting several times (I felt like Lindsey Lohan), I decided to leave work. Long story short, my day ended with me in an ambulance with 2 hot EMTs. Now, if you watch as much porn as I do then this sounds like a much better deal than it turned out to be. There was no awkward silence followed by one of them looking me in the eye and saying, "I know exactly what you need to feel better," followed by some "sexy" 1970’s disco music and some good old-fashioned man-love. Life had gone and gotten in a nice clean kick to my groin. I was actually and seriously having a stroke!
Although life has been consistent in its cruelty towards me, it has never fully restricted me from still living as an independently functioning person. It’s as if Life is my abusive beer-guzzling redneck husband and I am its black-eyed waitress wife in desperate need of having her roots done. It just likes to remind me every so often who’s in charge then lets me on my way, crippled by the fear that any day now he’s going to come home drunk again and knock another one of my teeth out. But in the meantime, I’m fine. I can still walk, speak, drink beer, and watch VH1, so my life was only slightly affected by the stroke. However, the reality that if there is a next time it could be much worse is looming in the background like a poorly placed velvet painting of Elvis.
So what does one do after cheating death and walking away without a scratch? What does one, specifically me, do after cheating death and walking away without a scratch for about the 17th time? I have not felt compelled to race off to church, or form a movement, or even vacuum my apartment for that matter. I don’t feel any more grateful for the life that I have than I did before the stroke, nor did I feel an obligation to express my appreciation for those around me when I realized what had happened.
I have done many things wrong in my life and will continue to do so (I bet you $50 I’m doing something wrong right now). However, I have only done one thing right in my life and to me it’s the only thing that needs to be done right. Having this happen to me and not really "learning" from it hasn’t been proof that I’m an empty, heartless, shell of a human. It has proved to me that I am living my life right. Because had that been it, me dead in the back of an ambulance with 2 hot strangers, I wouldn’t have taken a bit of remorse or regret with me. I look at the quality of people I have in my life, people that are much more kind, considerate, and caring than me. These are people that despite my being a Lucifer to their Gabriel have aligned themselves to me for life, whether as a friend, a son, or a brother. Knowing that no matter what happens to me that my legacy will be left in the hearts and memories of such great people is the only thing I’ll ever need to know.
So the next time I get lost and wind up in Cabrini Green or absent-mindedly plug in my electric razor while standing in the shower, I feel that my life has been fully appreciated and I can take my love for those people who made me appreciate it with me wherever my soul goes. Which I’m hoping to be some floating mall-like place where every other store is an Urban Outfitters, every meal is Taco Bell, and I’ll be the youngest and cutest boy at every party.
Friends and/or family.
(Originally posted 12/20/2005)
I don’t send out Christmas cards. What’s the point? Perhaps I could have a photograph taken of me in my underwear picking lint out of my belly button whereas I don’t have a decorated fireplace or Christmas tree to stand in front of, no boyfriend to pose with, not even a small dog with a stupid name that I can fit into my shaving kit. So the following thoughts are sort of my virtual Christmas card for my friends, my "urban family." This is the term that Bridget Jones used when describing those outside of her bloodline who she loved just as much as dear old mom and dad.
I have been abnormally blessed in my life when it comes to the friendly company I’ve kept. Most of the people in my life I’ve had standing beside me for more than half of my existence. I have never lived anywhere where I didn’t feel support from someone, whether in Memphis, at college, in Florida, or now Chicago. I am confident that if for some odd reason I had to pack up and move to Hoover, Alabama that even there I’d find someone to drink beer with, make fun of Republicans with, or cry like little babies with when they unplug Julia Roberts in "Steel Magnolias."
I consider myself an expert at finding friends and think it’s a shame that society puts so much pressure on people to find someone to marry before they can find someone to window shop and eat cookie dough with. If people put half as much effort into trying to make solid friendships as they do their efforts at finding "the one" the world would be a much better place. I will probably never marry. If I bought into what society projects onto someone with my kind of luck in the dating department then I would be a sad, poorly dressed mess. But because I fully value the other relationships that I have in my life I am not crashing down to the ground having leapt out the window of my apartment on the 18th floor.
I meet people all the time who only seem to have one friend at a time, a reality that baffles me whereas every time something social comes up in my life I have the good fortune of calling on many different people to join me. Whether or not just one or all of them accompany me, I know that I will have a ton of fun. The trick to having and maintaining great friendships is to become friends with someone whose company will breed other friendships. If you meet someone and everyone you meet through them is an a**hole, then odds are that at some point in time they will reveal themselves to be an a**hole of a similar nature.
But having friends as good as mine comes at a price. What is that price? The b*stards have turned out to be as close to my heart as my crazy family is, and we all know how much those family f*ckers can wear you down. And just as families grow, so has my list of close friends. I find myself fighting with some of my friends like I would with my father or my sister, the types of arguments where you’ll say anything that comes to mind with absolutely no filter because you know that no matter what, that person ain’t going anywhere. But that fact is a small sacrifice to be made. The world is a big and scary place and you need as many people in your corner as possible, whether you came from the same gene pool or not.
Here are some other tips I have for making friends. If you want dating advice, watch Dr. Phil. Also, watch how creepy his wife looks when she stares at him so lovingly. I think he has her on medication. Anyway…
1. Don’t confuse friendships with love! This is a rookie mistake. Just because you have tons of things in common with someone and you two know each other inside out DOES NOT mean that you want to jump their bones. My Uncle Ronnie loves me but this does not mean that I have misinterpreted his love for wanting to have sex with me. Now, if I had an Uncle Brad Pitt, that would be a different story. I have made this mistake twice in my life (not sleeping with a relative, that mistake I only made once and I was REALLY drunk, but mistaking a friend for a crush). It comes with serious consequences that potentially may never resolve themselves.
2. If you’re just getting to know someone and while out in public they don’t introduce you to anyone that they know socially do not return any of their phone calls from that point forward. This type of behavior is the opposite of the point I made previously. You can’t fully judge someone if you are unable to judge who else they consider worthy of their friendship. I believe such actions to be those of a highly disturbed individual. Especially if you’re both single. Single people who do not introduce their other single friends to one another are typically jealous and homicidal maniacs afraid of someone "taking over their turf." I call this the "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane" complex.
3. As you should do in dating, do not pursue a friendship with anyone who makes you throw up a "red flag." Red Flag behavior can vary from them saying something like "Your exboyfriend is hot. Is he single?" Or "You look really f*cking stupid in that outfit. You can’t wear that if you expect me to be seen with you tonight." This sort of commentary is reserved only for individuals with whom you’ve invested some considerable amount of time, not someone who you met at work and thought that it might be nice to go out and have a friendly Margarita with. Just as in dating, when a Red Flag presents itself (they make you pay after inviting you out to dinner at the most expensive restaurant in town for example) walk away. Walk quickly away.
4. Friends who you would describe as the complete opposite of yourself are the best friends to have. Since they harbor characteristics that you can’t seem to uphold, they help you to become a complete person. For example, a common trait within most of my friends is their level-headedness. I am not level-headed. I have been fired from more jobs than most people have ever been asked whether or not they want paper or plastic. My appeal to them is my carefree, go-with-the-flow attitude. Well, that, my verbal diarrehea, and my ability to make a cocktail seem necessary under any circumstance (a wedding, a promotion, a shoe sale, not getting hit by a bus that day, etc…)
People should put work into finding friends. And when you find a good fit, you should put faith into that friendship and be grateful that you met one more soul that makes life a little warmer. You can never have too many good friends. If you’re lucky, the same people that were around when you turned 21 will be the same ones around when you turn 41, or 51, and so forth. I don’t think I tell my friends enough how much I love and need them, but it’s Christmas so I’m doing it now.
Maybe I should tell my family how much they mean to me while I’m at it. Well, right after The Simpsons. Then I’ll get right on that.
I don’t send out Christmas cards. What’s the point? Perhaps I could have a photograph taken of me in my underwear picking lint out of my belly button whereas I don’t have a decorated fireplace or Christmas tree to stand in front of, no boyfriend to pose with, not even a small dog with a stupid name that I can fit into my shaving kit. So the following thoughts are sort of my virtual Christmas card for my friends, my "urban family." This is the term that Bridget Jones used when describing those outside of her bloodline who she loved just as much as dear old mom and dad.
I have been abnormally blessed in my life when it comes to the friendly company I’ve kept. Most of the people in my life I’ve had standing beside me for more than half of my existence. I have never lived anywhere where I didn’t feel support from someone, whether in Memphis, at college, in Florida, or now Chicago. I am confident that if for some odd reason I had to pack up and move to Hoover, Alabama that even there I’d find someone to drink beer with, make fun of Republicans with, or cry like little babies with when they unplug Julia Roberts in "Steel Magnolias."
I consider myself an expert at finding friends and think it’s a shame that society puts so much pressure on people to find someone to marry before they can find someone to window shop and eat cookie dough with. If people put half as much effort into trying to make solid friendships as they do their efforts at finding "the one" the world would be a much better place. I will probably never marry. If I bought into what society projects onto someone with my kind of luck in the dating department then I would be a sad, poorly dressed mess. But because I fully value the other relationships that I have in my life I am not crashing down to the ground having leapt out the window of my apartment on the 18th floor.
I meet people all the time who only seem to have one friend at a time, a reality that baffles me whereas every time something social comes up in my life I have the good fortune of calling on many different people to join me. Whether or not just one or all of them accompany me, I know that I will have a ton of fun. The trick to having and maintaining great friendships is to become friends with someone whose company will breed other friendships. If you meet someone and everyone you meet through them is an a**hole, then odds are that at some point in time they will reveal themselves to be an a**hole of a similar nature.
But having friends as good as mine comes at a price. What is that price? The b*stards have turned out to be as close to my heart as my crazy family is, and we all know how much those family f*ckers can wear you down. And just as families grow, so has my list of close friends. I find myself fighting with some of my friends like I would with my father or my sister, the types of arguments where you’ll say anything that comes to mind with absolutely no filter because you know that no matter what, that person ain’t going anywhere. But that fact is a small sacrifice to be made. The world is a big and scary place and you need as many people in your corner as possible, whether you came from the same gene pool or not.
Here are some other tips I have for making friends. If you want dating advice, watch Dr. Phil. Also, watch how creepy his wife looks when she stares at him so lovingly. I think he has her on medication. Anyway…
1. Don’t confuse friendships with love! This is a rookie mistake. Just because you have tons of things in common with someone and you two know each other inside out DOES NOT mean that you want to jump their bones. My Uncle Ronnie loves me but this does not mean that I have misinterpreted his love for wanting to have sex with me. Now, if I had an Uncle Brad Pitt, that would be a different story. I have made this mistake twice in my life (not sleeping with a relative, that mistake I only made once and I was REALLY drunk, but mistaking a friend for a crush). It comes with serious consequences that potentially may never resolve themselves.
2. If you’re just getting to know someone and while out in public they don’t introduce you to anyone that they know socially do not return any of their phone calls from that point forward. This type of behavior is the opposite of the point I made previously. You can’t fully judge someone if you are unable to judge who else they consider worthy of their friendship. I believe such actions to be those of a highly disturbed individual. Especially if you’re both single. Single people who do not introduce their other single friends to one another are typically jealous and homicidal maniacs afraid of someone "taking over their turf." I call this the "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane" complex.
3. As you should do in dating, do not pursue a friendship with anyone who makes you throw up a "red flag." Red Flag behavior can vary from them saying something like "Your exboyfriend is hot. Is he single?" Or "You look really f*cking stupid in that outfit. You can’t wear that if you expect me to be seen with you tonight." This sort of commentary is reserved only for individuals with whom you’ve invested some considerable amount of time, not someone who you met at work and thought that it might be nice to go out and have a friendly Margarita with. Just as in dating, when a Red Flag presents itself (they make you pay after inviting you out to dinner at the most expensive restaurant in town for example) walk away. Walk quickly away.
4. Friends who you would describe as the complete opposite of yourself are the best friends to have. Since they harbor characteristics that you can’t seem to uphold, they help you to become a complete person. For example, a common trait within most of my friends is their level-headedness. I am not level-headed. I have been fired from more jobs than most people have ever been asked whether or not they want paper or plastic. My appeal to them is my carefree, go-with-the-flow attitude. Well, that, my verbal diarrehea, and my ability to make a cocktail seem necessary under any circumstance (a wedding, a promotion, a shoe sale, not getting hit by a bus that day, etc…)
People should put work into finding friends. And when you find a good fit, you should put faith into that friendship and be grateful that you met one more soul that makes life a little warmer. You can never have too many good friends. If you’re lucky, the same people that were around when you turned 21 will be the same ones around when you turn 41, or 51, and so forth. I don’t think I tell my friends enough how much I love and need them, but it’s Christmas so I’m doing it now.
Maybe I should tell my family how much they mean to me while I’m at it. Well, right after The Simpsons. Then I’ll get right on that.
I'll be homo for Christmas.
(Originally published 12/16/2005)
I will be throwing myself to the lions via Northwest Airlines next week. I am going home for Christmas. Being the only grandchild on my father’s side who does not have children I am constantly subjected to questioning in regards to why I am still single and have not spawned at the rate of my cousins and my sister (there are nine kids under the age of 8 between the five of them). My grandmother cannot even work a microwave so the concept of me being a homosexual has probably never crossed her mind. My aunts and uncles must know but more than likely feel some sort of pity for my parents for having raised such an outcast. Although I’ve never discussed it with them, my cousins are on to me.
Although it would be highly amusing, I have never considered "coming out" over a festive turkey dinner. Perhaps if I felt some resentment towards my family I would do this in a second. My immediate family knows, however I think that my father would have a stroke and die face-first in the green bean casserole. My sister would simply go catatonic which would ruin Christmas for my neice and nephews. She wouldn’t be very handy assembling the Santa Claus display if she was off in the corner sitting motionless with a puddle of drool in her lap. There was an understanding when I came out at 18 between my parents, my sister, and myself. Whatever you do, don’t tell anyone else.
Of all six grandkids on that side of the family, I am the only one who does not live within ten miles of where I was born. So over time my cousins have all bonded over the fact that they’re all practically neighbors and they meet up frequently to discuss topics such as having gotten married too young and what it’s like to have children before you can even legally rent a car (this is what I assume they talk about). No one would dare come right out and ask me, however I envision them sitting around and talking about me and my bone-smoking ways.
"I asked him if he watched ‘Will and Grace’ the other night. He said that he didn’t. What a liar!"
"I wonder what his drag name is."
"Maybe he could could help me highlight my hair."
What bothers me most about being the only single person within our pack of offspring is that even if I did have a boyfriend my cousins would never know about it. I have loved 2 men in my life and those 2 men loved me back (not like that one-sided relationship a**hole Rob Thomas). So not only do they think I’m a social reject, they also think that I’m a social reject who can’t find a date.
"So, are you dating anyone?" they might ask.
"So, will your husband still f*ck you even though you haven’t lost any of that baby fat?" I reply.
But Christmas is about letting your family know that you’re still up and running. Parents and Grandparents like to take stock on their bloodline. So my sitting on my grandmother’s sofa listening to screaming children, dodging personal questions, and jonesing for a cigarette and a beer is my contribution to the family lineage. It’s all part of the inventory straight people like to take on their heritage. Here is my family. Here is my reason for having been put on this planet. Kind of like how the gays like to count how many pairs of shoes they have (I have sixteen!).
Anyway, I’m sure that in my abscense my neice has at some point outed me. She’s fond of announcing at the most awkward moments that "Uncle Tony likes boys." She’s going to make a terrific fag hag someday. I can’t wait to teach her about Madonna and how to make a Gin and Tonic.
I will be throwing myself to the lions via Northwest Airlines next week. I am going home for Christmas. Being the only grandchild on my father’s side who does not have children I am constantly subjected to questioning in regards to why I am still single and have not spawned at the rate of my cousins and my sister (there are nine kids under the age of 8 between the five of them). My grandmother cannot even work a microwave so the concept of me being a homosexual has probably never crossed her mind. My aunts and uncles must know but more than likely feel some sort of pity for my parents for having raised such an outcast. Although I’ve never discussed it with them, my cousins are on to me.
Although it would be highly amusing, I have never considered "coming out" over a festive turkey dinner. Perhaps if I felt some resentment towards my family I would do this in a second. My immediate family knows, however I think that my father would have a stroke and die face-first in the green bean casserole. My sister would simply go catatonic which would ruin Christmas for my neice and nephews. She wouldn’t be very handy assembling the Santa Claus display if she was off in the corner sitting motionless with a puddle of drool in her lap. There was an understanding when I came out at 18 between my parents, my sister, and myself. Whatever you do, don’t tell anyone else.
Of all six grandkids on that side of the family, I am the only one who does not live within ten miles of where I was born. So over time my cousins have all bonded over the fact that they’re all practically neighbors and they meet up frequently to discuss topics such as having gotten married too young and what it’s like to have children before you can even legally rent a car (this is what I assume they talk about). No one would dare come right out and ask me, however I envision them sitting around and talking about me and my bone-smoking ways.
"I asked him if he watched ‘Will and Grace’ the other night. He said that he didn’t. What a liar!"
"I wonder what his drag name is."
"Maybe he could could help me highlight my hair."
What bothers me most about being the only single person within our pack of offspring is that even if I did have a boyfriend my cousins would never know about it. I have loved 2 men in my life and those 2 men loved me back (not like that one-sided relationship a**hole Rob Thomas). So not only do they think I’m a social reject, they also think that I’m a social reject who can’t find a date.
"So, are you dating anyone?" they might ask.
"So, will your husband still f*ck you even though you haven’t lost any of that baby fat?" I reply.
But Christmas is about letting your family know that you’re still up and running. Parents and Grandparents like to take stock on their bloodline. So my sitting on my grandmother’s sofa listening to screaming children, dodging personal questions, and jonesing for a cigarette and a beer is my contribution to the family lineage. It’s all part of the inventory straight people like to take on their heritage. Here is my family. Here is my reason for having been put on this planet. Kind of like how the gays like to count how many pairs of shoes they have (I have sixteen!).
Anyway, I’m sure that in my abscense my neice has at some point outed me. She’s fond of announcing at the most awkward moments that "Uncle Tony likes boys." She’s going to make a terrific fag hag someday. I can’t wait to teach her about Madonna and how to make a Gin and Tonic.
My life. Your hell.
(Originally published 12/12/2005)
My friend JC walked out of my bathroom yesterday with a startling revelation. "You are not alone," he said. "There is someone else in this apartment with you."
Boo!
Perhaps I should have investigated his supernatural credentials before jumping to conclusions, but it was much easier to assume he had a sixth sense. Maybe he Tivos "Crossing Over with John Edwards" or has seen "Ghost" over twenty times. Regardless, I began to wonder if indeed I was sharing a space with a spirit.
The first question would obviously be why? What horrible thing had this person done when alive to be cursed with watching me for eternity? I’m assuming they were an axe murderer who kicked puppies. Why else would someone be chained to me forever, watching me sit in front of the television with my finger in my nose or breaking down in tears when I can’t find my house keys? I don’t lead the most exciting life. The only thing more boring than actually being me would be having to watch me be me. Even I would consider this to be a version of hell, right up there with an eternity of doing ab exercises or trying to explain how to use a computer to an old person.
I also have to consider what exactly this spirit has seen. Beyond the standard embarassments of privacy violation like unknowingly having an audience when I masturbate or poop, I wonder if it was present during other recent moments. Was it here when I practiced my Oscar speech in front of the mirror, clutching that bag of sugar in leu of my statuette? Has it seen me eating tuna right out of the can or digging through the trash looking for the remote control? Was it watching me when I spent over two hours the other day looking at pictures of James Blunt online? What did it think when I spilled that spaghetti on the kitchen floor but still ate it? Does it know that I watch that Korean channel on cable?
I should consider it comforting. Maybe I have a guardian angel. But mostly what I feel is that I want to be a better person. I don’t want to die and get stuck with someone as disgusting and painfully boring as me. I’m going to try to be nicer and more giving so that if I have to come back to watch over someone then hopefully they’ll be exciting, hot, and not disgusting. Like Prince Harry. Or that guy from "Prison Break."
My friend JC walked out of my bathroom yesterday with a startling revelation. "You are not alone," he said. "There is someone else in this apartment with you."
Boo!
Perhaps I should have investigated his supernatural credentials before jumping to conclusions, but it was much easier to assume he had a sixth sense. Maybe he Tivos "Crossing Over with John Edwards" or has seen "Ghost" over twenty times. Regardless, I began to wonder if indeed I was sharing a space with a spirit.
The first question would obviously be why? What horrible thing had this person done when alive to be cursed with watching me for eternity? I’m assuming they were an axe murderer who kicked puppies. Why else would someone be chained to me forever, watching me sit in front of the television with my finger in my nose or breaking down in tears when I can’t find my house keys? I don’t lead the most exciting life. The only thing more boring than actually being me would be having to watch me be me. Even I would consider this to be a version of hell, right up there with an eternity of doing ab exercises or trying to explain how to use a computer to an old person.
I also have to consider what exactly this spirit has seen. Beyond the standard embarassments of privacy violation like unknowingly having an audience when I masturbate or poop, I wonder if it was present during other recent moments. Was it here when I practiced my Oscar speech in front of the mirror, clutching that bag of sugar in leu of my statuette? Has it seen me eating tuna right out of the can or digging through the trash looking for the remote control? Was it watching me when I spent over two hours the other day looking at pictures of James Blunt online? What did it think when I spilled that spaghetti on the kitchen floor but still ate it? Does it know that I watch that Korean channel on cable?
I should consider it comforting. Maybe I have a guardian angel. But mostly what I feel is that I want to be a better person. I don’t want to die and get stuck with someone as disgusting and painfully boring as me. I’m going to try to be nicer and more giving so that if I have to come back to watch over someone then hopefully they’ll be exciting, hot, and not disgusting. Like Prince Harry. Or that guy from "Prison Break."
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