As the flood of emotions and memories that always mark the coming of the 2nd week of September are once again in full swing, TV networks have broken out their footage of the screams, explosions, and dust covered phantoms wandering a crippled Downtown. Everybody will always have their own version of “where they were” and most will solemnly pay homage to heroes whether they wore helmets and boots, badges, or shirts and ties.
The who, what, where, when, and why regarding that dark day in September are well known but there is a part of the story that few know. It is the stories of the families that somehow managed to survive the aftermath of the atrocity and engaged in the torturous waiting game to receive word about their missing loved ones. Although many never received word at all, for my family the process lasted 19 agonizing days. This is a glimpse into that process and some of the unlikely ways we managed to cope with it.
If there is any way to call my family blessed in regards to the tragedy, it was that we were fortunate to have an unbelievable support system. In the hours after the towers fell, people began showing up at our home and in large part, with the exception of to shower and (sometimes) sleep, didn’t leave for a month. This group included family members, neighbors, and long time family friends. In terms of my sisters and me, a similar wave of friends came. Most were friends since grade school but a few were more casual acquaintances that before long became something much more.
These friends of ours became our constant companions. So much so that most, in the short term, completely ditched school and became permanent residents of our couches and bedroom floors. We talked together, sat silent together, ate together, hoped together, and certainly cried together. They came to support us but also because of their own personal relationships with my parents. It the interaction among us “kids” that brings us to the night Eddie Murphy saved our lives.
We tried as best we could to keep our minds off of things but it was mostly a losing battle. Even when we did sleep, we still spent the days emotionally drained and physically exhausted. One day, sometime within the first week (the actual timeline remains a blur), when we were continuing the routine of small talking and trying in vain to believe the whole thing wasn’t happening, one of these friends took the opportunity to stand up and say” We can’t do this anymore…I’ll be back in a bit,” and left the room,” No one knew what his plan was but we were too tired to ask.
A couple hours later he returned carrying an unmarked video tape sporting a shit eating grin. He handed me the tape and just as I was about to make a joke about this being no time for bootleg porn and declared “We are watching this tonight…all of us” I asked him what it was and he then asked me if I knew who Eddie Murphy was. I scoffed and said of course. He said “but have you ever seen his stand-up?” A bunch of us said no and my friend chuckled to himself, happy that he was the only one who knew what we were in for.
After that evening’s buffet style meal (if there is a silver lining to any tragedy it is that there is always a shitload of food), we gathered in my room and within a minute or two what seemed like 50 but was probably closer to 10-15 of us were crammed into my room and the friend who had unofficial become the MC for the viewing pushed in the tape and before it disappeared into the VCR I read the word “Delirious” written in black Sharpie on the tape label.
It was about then that something amazing happened. From the moment the young Eddie Murphy strode onto the stage wearing that red orange jumpsuit that looked like you could plug it into a wall socket and spoke we did something we weren’t sure was possible anymore; we laughed……hard. For the next hour plus we listened to the comic’s musings on the sexual habits of Mr. T and Ralph Cramden, ice cream, and family BBO’s with Bigfoot in complete hysterics.
The most unexpectedly profound moment for me came when I caught my youngest sister Cody out of the corner of my eye. She was crying but not in the way we had become all too familiar with, she was nearly curled up into a ball holding her sides and crying from laughter. It was then that I realized somewhere in my brain that somehow we were going to make it. Our emotion was just as intense but we had found a way to transfer it into another form and achieve a different yet equally important release.
Eddie Murphy’s “Delirious” remains uproariously funny regardless of where or how you saw it for the 1st time but for those of us who were in the room that night it remains something different. I have seen said special at least a dozen times since then but whenever I watch it with someone from that room, at some point there is a look and nod exchanged almost as a way of saying “we’re still here,”
To this day,
I swear that I have never laughed longer and harder than I did that night. It was that rediscovery of the ability to laugh and to be with friends that allows me to write this with a broad smile on my face nearly 9 years later. Most of the friends who were part of this story and the countless others from the period remind close but even among those that inevitably I have grown apart from the bond of having “been there” together never wanes. It is because of these people, and Eddie Murphy, that I am still here. Whatever life throws at you; don’t ever forget how to laugh because it may save your life
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Thoughts on the Ground Zero Mosque, Patriotism, and Other Concepts
For the last couple of months, the big socio-political issue captivating the nation from the media and blogosphere to the President (who has better things to do) is the proposed building of an Islamic center in the shadow of where the World Trade Center once stood. I have delayed composing my own opinions on this proposal not because I did not know what those opinions were but rather; I struggled to find the language to properly express them. For me, and I hope for many others, contemplating this mosque goes well beyond the idea of a building and as such the task of finding the proper words to contribute to this discussion should not be taken lightly.
The first of the many issues being raised and debated is whether such a mosque has the very right to exist in such a place. The answer to this is not a matter of opinion but one of law and by extension speaks to the very fabric of the American society. The First Amendment, among other things, guarantees the freedom to practice one’s religion without persecution. While the Constitution is certainly an imperfect document, its basic tenets have served us well enough for nearly 250 years and so the answer to whether this mosque has the right to exist can be nothing but a resounding yes.
Those who honestly believe the mosque can be opposed on Constitutional grounds are troubling but more troubling is how the mosque debates seem to seek to demonize the very notion of having an opinion. While the mosque has the right to be built, citizens also have the right to express their opinions on the merits of having that mosque in its proposed location as well as the various other issues surrounding it. There are plenty of sound reasons for thinking that a mosque near the World Trade Center is a good or bad idea and the current trend to frame every “good” or “bad” into a marker of morality or of patriotism is alarming.
Attempts to define patriotism or to determine who has it have existed for centuries and in turn remains a concept too large to be flushed out here. Instead all I can do is put forth what I think the duty of a “true” patriot is in debates such as this. A patriot should not be required to have or believe that devotion to one’s national concepts derives from having the “correct” opinion nor should merely having any opinion be the grounds for claiming patriotism. It is my strong belief that it is the duty of the patriot, in times of national debate, to put forth an educated opinion. “Educated” as used here goes beyond the notion of classrooms and seeks to connote the type of opinion based the knowledge of the “real” issues at hand rather then to back an opinion up on things like “just because”, Racism, White Guilt, Political bias, God or any other “knee jerk” label. Know where your opinions are derived from and seek to understand the derivation of the opposing opinion. The quest to get someone to change their opinion pales in comparison to being able to stand behind your own. There is no greater position in a debate then to have either literally or figuratively read the same books your opponent has.
Now that I have spoken briefly about my personal philosophy on having opinions, I return to discussing the various opinions I have on the issues related to this mosque building proposal. While I believe wholeheartedly in the mosque’s right to exist, the notion of opening it on September 11th 2011 (whether this is a real notion or media creation) should be dropped. As a 9/11 family member, my thoughts on commemorating the anniversary have long been conflicted. I believe it is important for the city and the nation to remember the lives of those murdered on that sadly ironic beautiful morning but another part of me has always struggled with the grief of me and the rest of my family never being truly private. Ultimately, while I understand the nation at large perhaps wanting to use the day to promote togetherness and healing, I think, in New York at least, the focus should not be on the philosophical bridges we can build but on the buildings that burned. Of course the philosophical and political impact of 9/11 continues to evolve, but the bleak reality and fact of what happened that morning in Lower Manhattan, Washington D.C., and Shanksville is that nearly 3,000 people were executed for committing the unspeakable crimes of going to work or boarding an airplane and should remain the rightful focus on that day.
When (like it or not there probably is no "if") this Islamic Center and mosque are built the organizers of its programs and services must also be realistic about the fact that their funds and affiliates will be scrutinized. The fact is that a lot of funding for Islamic programs in America comes from our shady “ally” Saudi Arabia whose state mandated Wahabbi sect of Islam is an ideological cousin to the Jihadhi-Salafist philosophies promoted by Bin Laden and his associates and there have been a number of cases of Islamic centers laundering terrorist money (often unknowingly).
Let me be very clear, I am not suggesting, nor is there any evidence that those behind or who would worship in this center are in any way connected to terrorist groups, but it’s location does make it an ideal target to be exploited by those groups into something it does not represent (as is suggested by yesterday’s public expressions of “support” for the project by Hamas) and thus it is right to demand that the people behind the project are properly vetted. I know many people will view this opinion as clear support of racial and religious profiling and provisions of the supposedly evil Patriot Act concocted by Bush and Cheney. While I concede it is not exactly the warmest and fuzziest aspect of national security, this type of monitoring has been taking place for decades. In addition one must not dismiss such policies as anti-Islamic as these policies are enacted against Christian establishments with potential neo-nazi/Christian Identity influences or violent Jewish groups. To expect all facets of National Security to be transparent is both unrealistic and naive, no matter what you call your God.
The first of the many issues being raised and debated is whether such a mosque has the very right to exist in such a place. The answer to this is not a matter of opinion but one of law and by extension speaks to the very fabric of the American society. The First Amendment, among other things, guarantees the freedom to practice one’s religion without persecution. While the Constitution is certainly an imperfect document, its basic tenets have served us well enough for nearly 250 years and so the answer to whether this mosque has the right to exist can be nothing but a resounding yes.
Those who honestly believe the mosque can be opposed on Constitutional grounds are troubling but more troubling is how the mosque debates seem to seek to demonize the very notion of having an opinion. While the mosque has the right to be built, citizens also have the right to express their opinions on the merits of having that mosque in its proposed location as well as the various other issues surrounding it. There are plenty of sound reasons for thinking that a mosque near the World Trade Center is a good or bad idea and the current trend to frame every “good” or “bad” into a marker of morality or of patriotism is alarming.
Attempts to define patriotism or to determine who has it have existed for centuries and in turn remains a concept too large to be flushed out here. Instead all I can do is put forth what I think the duty of a “true” patriot is in debates such as this. A patriot should not be required to have or believe that devotion to one’s national concepts derives from having the “correct” opinion nor should merely having any opinion be the grounds for claiming patriotism. It is my strong belief that it is the duty of the patriot, in times of national debate, to put forth an educated opinion. “Educated” as used here goes beyond the notion of classrooms and seeks to connote the type of opinion based the knowledge of the “real” issues at hand rather then to back an opinion up on things like “just because”, Racism, White Guilt, Political bias, God or any other “knee jerk” label. Know where your opinions are derived from and seek to understand the derivation of the opposing opinion. The quest to get someone to change their opinion pales in comparison to being able to stand behind your own. There is no greater position in a debate then to have either literally or figuratively read the same books your opponent has.
Now that I have spoken briefly about my personal philosophy on having opinions, I return to discussing the various opinions I have on the issues related to this mosque building proposal. While I believe wholeheartedly in the mosque’s right to exist, the notion of opening it on September 11th 2011 (whether this is a real notion or media creation) should be dropped. As a 9/11 family member, my thoughts on commemorating the anniversary have long been conflicted. I believe it is important for the city and the nation to remember the lives of those murdered on that sadly ironic beautiful morning but another part of me has always struggled with the grief of me and the rest of my family never being truly private. Ultimately, while I understand the nation at large perhaps wanting to use the day to promote togetherness and healing, I think, in New York at least, the focus should not be on the philosophical bridges we can build but on the buildings that burned. Of course the philosophical and political impact of 9/11 continues to evolve, but the bleak reality and fact of what happened that morning in Lower Manhattan, Washington D.C., and Shanksville is that nearly 3,000 people were executed for committing the unspeakable crimes of going to work or boarding an airplane and should remain the rightful focus on that day.
When (like it or not there probably is no "if") this Islamic Center and mosque are built the organizers of its programs and services must also be realistic about the fact that their funds and affiliates will be scrutinized. The fact is that a lot of funding for Islamic programs in America comes from our shady “ally” Saudi Arabia whose state mandated Wahabbi sect of Islam is an ideological cousin to the Jihadhi-Salafist philosophies promoted by Bin Laden and his associates and there have been a number of cases of Islamic centers laundering terrorist money (often unknowingly).
Let me be very clear, I am not suggesting, nor is there any evidence that those behind or who would worship in this center are in any way connected to terrorist groups, but it’s location does make it an ideal target to be exploited by those groups into something it does not represent (as is suggested by yesterday’s public expressions of “support” for the project by Hamas) and thus it is right to demand that the people behind the project are properly vetted. I know many people will view this opinion as clear support of racial and religious profiling and provisions of the supposedly evil Patriot Act concocted by Bush and Cheney. While I concede it is not exactly the warmest and fuzziest aspect of national security, this type of monitoring has been taking place for decades. In addition one must not dismiss such policies as anti-Islamic as these policies are enacted against Christian establishments with potential neo-nazi/Christian Identity influences or violent Jewish groups. To expect all facets of National Security to be transparent is both unrealistic and naive, no matter what you call your God.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Why the World Cup Makes Me Wish I Wasn’t American
It has been said that “patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel,” I suppose this has merit if you consider some of the things that have been done in the name of patriotism, but if that is indeed the reason behind such a statement than patriotism could easily be substituted with a word like greed, religion, or even love.
However you prefer to define patriotism, a big component of any definition is love of country. I love my country as much as anyone but watching the World Cup makes me wish I wasn’t American. The truth is that America is not and probably never will be a soccer (which from here on will be properly referred to as “football”) country and frankly I wish that it was. This wish however has little to do with the game itself. Football is often referred to as “the beautiful game” and over the last couple of years as I’ve grown into more of a fan there are definitely some unique things to love about the game but a simple enjoyment of any game or type of sporting contest merely comes down to personal preference. The bottom line is that there is no objective way to determine whether football, or any other sport, is “better” than another in and of itself. The World Cup makes me I wasn’t American because I envy the national passion it inspires in other countries.
Even if it is only for one month every 4 years, the World Cup (at least in appearances) invokes positive national fervor that we, as Americans, generally cannot relate to. This not to say that we Americans are not passionate, because Lord knows we are, but the reality is that sport does not bring us together as football does in most (if not all) other lands. In the rest of the world, when a country’s team takes the pitch for a Cup match, all other activities in said country virtually stop. Millions of eyes become glued to TV’s and radios and (to semi-borrow the slogan of this year’s tournament itself) “one game means everything,” Shops, stores, and businesses often close so that people have two hours to focus entirely on the match. I even read once that the Catholic Church in Brazil decreed that all churches within that country are open for prayer during the half-time of Brazil’s matches. Granted, to some people this notion seems utterly kooky, but as any rabid sports fan can tell you, the kooky things we do to ensure a victory is what makes being a fan so great.
The fact that this year’s Cup is taking place in South Africa brings the unifying power of football into even greater focus. Unless you’ve been living in a hole for the past several decades, you know that the racial and economic troubles of the Republic of South Africa have been well documented and unfortunately persist to this day. These problems do not cease when the South Africans play but they do seem to take a back seat for a few hours. To me, the most enduring and powerful image from the Cup coverage so far came during the very first match. During the South Africa-Mexico match, when South Africa scored, the camera cut to the crowd to show world renowned humanitarian Bishop Desmond Tutu literally dancing in the aisles with his country folk while he was decked out (again literally) from head to toe in South African colors. If that doesn’t make you smile and even choke up, check your pulse because you might be dead.
Again, when I say that the World Cup makes me wish I was from another country it is not meant to be some philosophical criticism of the ole US of A but just as a lament that my two passions for my country and for sport don’t intersect often enough. The Olympics are probably as close as we come but given that there are so many different sports encompassed within it never quite feels truly unified in the sense of one game or one sport meaning everything.
When it comes to football, we may be getting there. For Saturday’s match with England, I attempted to go to a bar because watching sports is generally more fun around other people. When I got there things were so crowded that I could not get in. I was encouraged by this but the cynic in me thinks the crowd was a combination of general interest, novelty of the first game, and that it was a Saturday. The draw with the Limey’s is good for the team (even if it was the result of shoddy goal keeping) but if and when the US team crashes and burns general interest in soccer within this country will once again plummet. Alas there is probably little hope that Americans will stop going to work and stay home to root for Landon and the boys, but one can dream and/or paint themselves in full body red, white, and blue in the meantime.
However you prefer to define patriotism, a big component of any definition is love of country. I love my country as much as anyone but watching the World Cup makes me wish I wasn’t American. The truth is that America is not and probably never will be a soccer (which from here on will be properly referred to as “football”) country and frankly I wish that it was. This wish however has little to do with the game itself. Football is often referred to as “the beautiful game” and over the last couple of years as I’ve grown into more of a fan there are definitely some unique things to love about the game but a simple enjoyment of any game or type of sporting contest merely comes down to personal preference. The bottom line is that there is no objective way to determine whether football, or any other sport, is “better” than another in and of itself. The World Cup makes me I wasn’t American because I envy the national passion it inspires in other countries.
Even if it is only for one month every 4 years, the World Cup (at least in appearances) invokes positive national fervor that we, as Americans, generally cannot relate to. This not to say that we Americans are not passionate, because Lord knows we are, but the reality is that sport does not bring us together as football does in most (if not all) other lands. In the rest of the world, when a country’s team takes the pitch for a Cup match, all other activities in said country virtually stop. Millions of eyes become glued to TV’s and radios and (to semi-borrow the slogan of this year’s tournament itself) “one game means everything,” Shops, stores, and businesses often close so that people have two hours to focus entirely on the match. I even read once that the Catholic Church in Brazil decreed that all churches within that country are open for prayer during the half-time of Brazil’s matches. Granted, to some people this notion seems utterly kooky, but as any rabid sports fan can tell you, the kooky things we do to ensure a victory is what makes being a fan so great.
The fact that this year’s Cup is taking place in South Africa brings the unifying power of football into even greater focus. Unless you’ve been living in a hole for the past several decades, you know that the racial and economic troubles of the Republic of South Africa have been well documented and unfortunately persist to this day. These problems do not cease when the South Africans play but they do seem to take a back seat for a few hours. To me, the most enduring and powerful image from the Cup coverage so far came during the very first match. During the South Africa-Mexico match, when South Africa scored, the camera cut to the crowd to show world renowned humanitarian Bishop Desmond Tutu literally dancing in the aisles with his country folk while he was decked out (again literally) from head to toe in South African colors. If that doesn’t make you smile and even choke up, check your pulse because you might be dead.
Again, when I say that the World Cup makes me wish I was from another country it is not meant to be some philosophical criticism of the ole US of A but just as a lament that my two passions for my country and for sport don’t intersect often enough. The Olympics are probably as close as we come but given that there are so many different sports encompassed within it never quite feels truly unified in the sense of one game or one sport meaning everything.
When it comes to football, we may be getting there. For Saturday’s match with England, I attempted to go to a bar because watching sports is generally more fun around other people. When I got there things were so crowded that I could not get in. I was encouraged by this but the cynic in me thinks the crowd was a combination of general interest, novelty of the first game, and that it was a Saturday. The draw with the Limey’s is good for the team (even if it was the result of shoddy goal keeping) but if and when the US team crashes and burns general interest in soccer within this country will once again plummet. Alas there is probably little hope that Americans will stop going to work and stay home to root for Landon and the boys, but one can dream and/or paint themselves in full body red, white, and blue in the meantime.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Playboy and John Mayer
So I mentioned recently that I was awaiting the arrival of the newest issue Playboy magazine for the articles and this is proof I wasn’t kidding. Now don’t misunderstand me I am not claiming to be Holier (hornier?) Than Thou and making some moral claim that I ignore the pictures in said magazine (hell, I’m “reading” it after dark on Valentine’s Day, need I say more?) merely that many of the non-naked components are quite good and I actually do “read” it monthly. My praise for these non-naked components doesn’t however include when women gracing the cover do not appear in the buff within Mr. Hugh M. Hefner’s glossy pages, TALKING TO YOU OLIVIA MUNN.
My tendency to present Playboy as a legit magazine comes from the fact that I discovered it later in life than most. You see, my dad was a Penthouse man (I include this for the chuckle of the few that know the adventure behind me finding this out), so at the time when I needed to discover all the parts of a woman while simultaneously having no idea what do with them, there was Penthouse. Aside from the occasional flip through, I only became completely familiar with Playboy 2 years ago when I decided; spur of the moment, to become a subscriber. I did this primarily because it struck me as some necessary rite of passage into manhood, or, as some way to become Hugh Hefner by osmosis. The closest I have gotten here is a love for old movies and the fact that I am never properly dressed around the house.
Once you subscribe, due to repetition and almost by accident, you begin to realize there are actually words on the pages not containing fake breasts and heavily air brushed bodies. When you start to read them out of mere curiosity, you may discover they are not half bad. For the true crime buff, there is almost always some “investigative” piece around drug or some other form of smuggling. For the fictionally inclined, they often run (sometimes exclusive) content from well known’s like Dennis Lehane, Elmore Lenard, Stephen King and even legends like Kurt Vonnegut, Norman Mailer (posthumously with those two), and Valdimir Nabokov for God’s Sake. There is the pop culture stuff too, for me film writer Stephen Rebello is one of only two out there (Peter Travers of Rolling Stone being the other) whose reviews are worth the paper they are printed on. Most importantly there is the Playboy Interview which is probably it’s most famous fully clothed feature (for you political history folks, think Jimmy Carter) and it is this month’s interviewee that brings me to the second part of this editorial missive.
For the record, I have never liked John Mayer (with the one caveat being that his Your Body is a Wonderland and the Plain White T’s Hey There Delilah are two songs I wish I wrote so I would never have to worry about getting laid), he always struck me as goofball with stupid hair that while possessing some musical talent is not nearly as high up on the cool meter as someone like Jack White. That said however I will not use this space to comment on what this interview says about the state of race in America but rather as an example of the common American tragedy that occurs when someone who is not funny, makes an attempt to be so and fails… miserably. The ironic good news is that it makes the whole thing hilarious for the rest of us.
Surprisingly, most of the interview was actually fairly interesting; while he talked way too much about his masturbation habits (I suppose appropriately for the magazine of record) he did have some interesting things to say about his love for music and his motivations for making it, but soon after he proved he had the social IQ of Sarah Palin. Most people over the age of 4 understand that, if you are white, the road to becoming a social pariah starts with the phrase “Black People Love Me,” But without fail that is exactly what John Oscar Mayer Weiner declares to us all. Jesus Man, c’mon, I have black friends, most of us outside of Michael Richards do, but that doesn’t give me the right to declare myself to be in Bill Clinton territory. Listen Wonder Bread, black people deserve the right to decide when you’re more than the guy that they pick my in the car so the cops leave them alone. Just because Jay-Z thinks your music is not bad doesn’t make you James Brown.
As to offer further proof he has no idea people actually publish interviews, he continues to elaborate that people think he has a “hood pass” because of his music’s acceptance in the African American community. My man, you could have stopped there, we all know what “hood pass” means. Nope he keeps going, sees the cliff coming and steps on the gas, clarifying for us all that “hood pass” should really be called a “nigger pass,” I swear I don’t think this guy has ever left the house. BARACK OBAMA IS BARELY BLACK ENOUGH TO USE THE WORD, so unless you’re talking about Terrell Owens (I made a few calls to check this) just don’t use it knucklehead. The man didn’t even have the decency to put an “a” on the end of the word, everyone knows that would have made it ok, silly bastard.
Lastly he‘s says the thing that I have no choice but to quote in full, when asked “do black women throw themselves at him,?” Booker T. Washington responds, still without a hint of awareness…
“I don’t think I open myself to it. My dick is sort of like a white supremacist. I’ve got a Benetton heart and a fuckin’ David Duke cock. I am going to start dating separately from my dick,”
CLUNK……….shit sorry I just felt out of my chair from laughing again. First off, if you don’t know who David Duke is, look it up, because it really helps capture the utterly bizarre nature of this statement. I don’t even know where to start. I’m not quite sure I even know what it means. I’ve heard things like “it’s the way I was raised,” but “Only my penis is racist,? You have to admit it’s so dumb it’s almost genius, the scariest part to me is that I have this feeling he had thought of that answer in the past “Hmmmmmmmm if my dick was a person who would it be,?........I GOT IT, DAVID DUKE!!! (By the way, my penis is Ron Howard) I really don’t even think David Duke could have come up with that. This guy is John Rocker with a guitar pick. Then again without people like him with there would be less to write about, so in some perverse way, those of us with twisted senses of humor need Goobers like him
In the end, no I don’t think John Mayer is racist, just perhaps the stupidest son-of-bitch ever to date Jennifer Aniston. The funny thing is he did inspire some racist thought in me, when I began writing this last night I was listening to Jimi Hendrix and the song “Bold as Love,” came on and I remembered then that John Mayer covered that song and my immediate thought was “who let this fucking Honky near this song,? In fact the world would be a better place if we could bring Jimi back long enough to impale Johnnie with the flaming Monterrey Pop guitar topping it off by saying (with a smoothness only Jimi could) “Here’s your hood pass my man,”
That’s it for now, headed uptown to shoot dice and drink malt liquor
My tendency to present Playboy as a legit magazine comes from the fact that I discovered it later in life than most. You see, my dad was a Penthouse man (I include this for the chuckle of the few that know the adventure behind me finding this out), so at the time when I needed to discover all the parts of a woman while simultaneously having no idea what do with them, there was Penthouse. Aside from the occasional flip through, I only became completely familiar with Playboy 2 years ago when I decided; spur of the moment, to become a subscriber. I did this primarily because it struck me as some necessary rite of passage into manhood, or, as some way to become Hugh Hefner by osmosis. The closest I have gotten here is a love for old movies and the fact that I am never properly dressed around the house.
Once you subscribe, due to repetition and almost by accident, you begin to realize there are actually words on the pages not containing fake breasts and heavily air brushed bodies. When you start to read them out of mere curiosity, you may discover they are not half bad. For the true crime buff, there is almost always some “investigative” piece around drug or some other form of smuggling. For the fictionally inclined, they often run (sometimes exclusive) content from well known’s like Dennis Lehane, Elmore Lenard, Stephen King and even legends like Kurt Vonnegut, Norman Mailer (posthumously with those two), and Valdimir Nabokov for God’s Sake. There is the pop culture stuff too, for me film writer Stephen Rebello is one of only two out there (Peter Travers of Rolling Stone being the other) whose reviews are worth the paper they are printed on. Most importantly there is the Playboy Interview which is probably it’s most famous fully clothed feature (for you political history folks, think Jimmy Carter) and it is this month’s interviewee that brings me to the second part of this editorial missive.
For the record, I have never liked John Mayer (with the one caveat being that his Your Body is a Wonderland and the Plain White T’s Hey There Delilah are two songs I wish I wrote so I would never have to worry about getting laid), he always struck me as goofball with stupid hair that while possessing some musical talent is not nearly as high up on the cool meter as someone like Jack White. That said however I will not use this space to comment on what this interview says about the state of race in America but rather as an example of the common American tragedy that occurs when someone who is not funny, makes an attempt to be so and fails… miserably. The ironic good news is that it makes the whole thing hilarious for the rest of us.
Surprisingly, most of the interview was actually fairly interesting; while he talked way too much about his masturbation habits (I suppose appropriately for the magazine of record) he did have some interesting things to say about his love for music and his motivations for making it, but soon after he proved he had the social IQ of Sarah Palin. Most people over the age of 4 understand that, if you are white, the road to becoming a social pariah starts with the phrase “Black People Love Me,” But without fail that is exactly what John Oscar Mayer Weiner declares to us all. Jesus Man, c’mon, I have black friends, most of us outside of Michael Richards do, but that doesn’t give me the right to declare myself to be in Bill Clinton territory. Listen Wonder Bread, black people deserve the right to decide when you’re more than the guy that they pick my in the car so the cops leave them alone. Just because Jay-Z thinks your music is not bad doesn’t make you James Brown.
As to offer further proof he has no idea people actually publish interviews, he continues to elaborate that people think he has a “hood pass” because of his music’s acceptance in the African American community. My man, you could have stopped there, we all know what “hood pass” means. Nope he keeps going, sees the cliff coming and steps on the gas, clarifying for us all that “hood pass” should really be called a “nigger pass,” I swear I don’t think this guy has ever left the house. BARACK OBAMA IS BARELY BLACK ENOUGH TO USE THE WORD, so unless you’re talking about Terrell Owens (I made a few calls to check this) just don’t use it knucklehead. The man didn’t even have the decency to put an “a” on the end of the word, everyone knows that would have made it ok, silly bastard.
Lastly he‘s says the thing that I have no choice but to quote in full, when asked “do black women throw themselves at him,?” Booker T. Washington responds, still without a hint of awareness…
“I don’t think I open myself to it. My dick is sort of like a white supremacist. I’ve got a Benetton heart and a fuckin’ David Duke cock. I am going to start dating separately from my dick,”
CLUNK……….shit sorry I just felt out of my chair from laughing again. First off, if you don’t know who David Duke is, look it up, because it really helps capture the utterly bizarre nature of this statement. I don’t even know where to start. I’m not quite sure I even know what it means. I’ve heard things like “it’s the way I was raised,” but “Only my penis is racist,? You have to admit it’s so dumb it’s almost genius, the scariest part to me is that I have this feeling he had thought of that answer in the past “Hmmmmmmmm if my dick was a person who would it be,?........I GOT IT, DAVID DUKE!!! (By the way, my penis is Ron Howard) I really don’t even think David Duke could have come up with that. This guy is John Rocker with a guitar pick. Then again without people like him with there would be less to write about, so in some perverse way, those of us with twisted senses of humor need Goobers like him
In the end, no I don’t think John Mayer is racist, just perhaps the stupidest son-of-bitch ever to date Jennifer Aniston. The funny thing is he did inspire some racist thought in me, when I began writing this last night I was listening to Jimi Hendrix and the song “Bold as Love,” came on and I remembered then that John Mayer covered that song and my immediate thought was “who let this fucking Honky near this song,? In fact the world would be a better place if we could bring Jimi back long enough to impale Johnnie with the flaming Monterrey Pop guitar topping it off by saying (with a smoothness only Jimi could) “Here’s your hood pass my man,”
That’s it for now, headed uptown to shoot dice and drink malt liquor
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Porno for Broke
So I'm broke...whats worse is that I am also pretty much unemployed. I have been trying to do something about this but who would have thought that a 26 year old white male with a near masters degree in psychology is completely unemployable. So goes with the mental health fields it would appear. It seems they either want a Masters degree or like 45 years of experience with a specific treatment population. And when I say specific I mean specific, like "people with bi-polar disorder , born on Tuesday's, possessing two left feet," Translation, I'm still here looking at any classified I can find as all positive opinions I had of myself go down the toilet.
While my grip on reality and bankroll continue to dwindle, I have survived by writing little gems like this or on the Patron Saint of all unemployed film buffs...Netflix. That's right, when I realized there is only a certain amount of booze one can drink before it causes health and legal problems, I entered into a monogamous relationship with my little red envelopes (well if you wanna get technical, most of them come from the online device I have that allows me to watch them directly on my TV, but fuck off because the sentence worked better with "little red envelopes,"). For several weeks now I have lived a life reminiscent of Howard Hughes as seen in "The Aviator" (well if Howard Hughes had been broke)...Sitting in my apartment with the lights off, watching films....naked.
It's not just films, I also delve into TV shows when it suits my mood. When I am not fantasizing about actually being one of my TV heroes like Don Draper or Hank Moody, I am trying to catch up on the 5th Season of Lost before the new one begins.
My marathon naked movies sessions have not been completely counter productive however. For one I have now accrued knowledge of enough movies lines to never have to utter an original sentences ever again. Second, it has allowed to me forge a solution to my money and employment problems. Porn. You see during one of my recent my film sessions I re-watched Paul Thomas Anderson's "Boogie Nights"... and at some point when I got "Motorin" out of my head it hit me: whether the economy is good or bad, people will continue to do two things: Get fucked up and get fucked. I can't mix a drink for shit so that leaves the sex business. At first I thought about prostituting myself or starring in porn myself, but I quickly realized that would likely lead to nationwide outbreaks of hysterical blindness so I have decided to stick to my truer talent; the written word. Think about it, somebody's gottta write those things, why not me? How hard can it be? Observe
WARNING THE FOLLOWING SCENE CONTAINS SEXUAL CONTENT... ALBEIT FOR COMEDIC PURPOSES. IF YOU FIND SUCH THINGS OFFENSIVE.......STOP READING
While my grip on reality and bankroll continue to dwindle, I have survived by writing little gems like this or on the Patron Saint of all unemployed film buffs...Netflix. That's right, when I realized there is only a certain amount of booze one can drink before it causes health and legal problems, I entered into a monogamous relationship with my little red envelopes (well if you wanna get technical, most of them come from the online device I have that allows me to watch them directly on my TV, but fuck off because the sentence worked better with "little red envelopes,"). For several weeks now I have lived a life reminiscent of Howard Hughes as seen in "The Aviator" (well if Howard Hughes had been broke)...Sitting in my apartment with the lights off, watching films....naked.
It's not just films, I also delve into TV shows when it suits my mood. When I am not fantasizing about actually being one of my TV heroes like Don Draper or Hank Moody, I am trying to catch up on the 5th Season of Lost before the new one begins.
My marathon naked movies sessions have not been completely counter productive however. For one I have now accrued knowledge of enough movies lines to never have to utter an original sentences ever again. Second, it has allowed to me forge a solution to my money and employment problems. Porn. You see during one of my recent my film sessions I re-watched Paul Thomas Anderson's "Boogie Nights"... and at some point when I got "Motorin" out of my head it hit me: whether the economy is good or bad, people will continue to do two things: Get fucked up and get fucked. I can't mix a drink for shit so that leaves the sex business. At first I thought about prostituting myself or starring in porn myself, but I quickly realized that would likely lead to nationwide outbreaks of hysterical blindness so I have decided to stick to my truer talent; the written word. Think about it, somebody's gottta write those things, why not me? How hard can it be? Observe
WARNING THE FOLLOWING SCENE CONTAINS SEXUAL CONTENT... ALBEIT FOR COMEDIC PURPOSES. IF YOU FIND SUCH THINGS OFFENSIVE.......STOP READING
Miami Ice
Scene opens on a beach house in Miami, the camera spans through the front door to reveal the lady of the house sitting in the kitchen she is fanning herself with Oriental style fan, she is wearing a robe but it is open to reveal her body
Woman: Ughhh I hate Miami in the Summer.......it's soooooooo Hoooooooot, I wish I had some way to cool down
The woman eyes the refrigerator on the other side of the room, suddenly her face seems to suggest she has an idea, she glides over the refrigerator seductively, she hits the button on the door and two ice cubes fall into her hands, she giggles, leans back against the table and begins to rub the Ice on her nipples
This continues for 12-14 minutes (various moans are uttered)
Suddenly the ice cubes fall from her chest to the floor breaking into many small pieces
Woman: Uh Nooooo (she pouts and sighs deeply)
The Woman again hits the button on the fridge, nothing happens, she presses it repeatedly, still nothing, the she opens the ice compartment, it is empty
Woman: Oh dammit, I just filled this thing...it must be broken I should call a repair man
She returns to the table and flips open to a phone book, various explicit ads for escort services are visible, after a moment she finds what she is looking for and dials her cell phone
Voice on Phone: Big Dick's Refrigerator and Heating Repair
Woman (flustered and breathless): Hello, my Ice Machine is broken, I need you to send someone right away, I am so very hot
Voice on Phone: Certainly Ma'am I'll send my biggest err I mean best man over immediately
The scene returns to the outside of the home. A repair van pulls up to the house. A very muscular repair man steps from the van and walks toward the door. various long tools hang from his belt. Before he can knock on the door, it opens
Woman: Oh my goodness, I'm sooo glad to see you
Cut to the repair man standing in front of the fridge looking inside tinkering
Repair Man: Well it would appear that either your pipes need to be cleaned or you even need to a new pump, if that's the case it is expensive
Repair man closes the fridge as he says this. As the door closes, the woman is seen behind the door, her robe has again fallen to reveal her breasts
Woman: Oh Dear oh much will it cost me?
Repair Man (Staring at her breasts): Well I suppose I could give you a pump for free,
The two lock eyes intensely, various sex acts take place through the house
Scene
See that wasn't so hard (ha unintentional pun). That right there (once you factor in position changes) is like 47 minutes of a skin picture. It may not all that original but it's just off the top of my head. Like it matter's anyway. In the end I'm not broke anymore and plenty of other people have relieved some tension.
Dare I say it's.......Gold
See you at the AVN awards kids....and remember that's what she said
Saturday, December 12, 2009
A Forgotten Minority
In many ways, the current era is one of progressive change. A black man is in the White House, a Latina woman has a position on our Supreme Court, and, in spite of some major setbacks in the marriage arena, sexual acceptance is also more widespread. While it would be too short-sighted to point to these achievements as then end of racism or inequality, there is certainly plenty of reasons to be optimistic. Sadly this growing sense of empowerment does not extend to all members of society, there undoubtedly remain, in this country and worldwide, a number of forgotten minorities. Among them is the broadly defined "disabled" community.
Given this broad definition, I can only speak for a specific sub-set of which I am a member. In my case I speak of the plight of those with permanent visible physical disabilities centered primarily around mobility difficulties. I was born with Cerebral Palsy and since the age of 4 have relied on the use of wheelchair. For about the last decade I have relied in a motorized wheelchair specifically.My life has not been all bad of course, I am blessed with a very supportive family and close friends, I live on my own, and am Ivy League educated and currently am pursuing a Masters Degree. In spite of these blessings however, I am everyday faced with the physical and emotional mountain of coping with a city and world at large that remains largely unprepared for and generally uninterested in challenges of the disabled.
These challenges begin at home so to speak. By this I mean with the wheelchairs themselves. First, they are expensive; the model I use for example costs around $14,000. Yes, insurance does exist, but as with most things, they cover very little. If it was up to insurance, they would seem to view a kitchen chair with bicycle wheels as sufficient for a "normal life (while I'm on the subject of insurance, they also will not pay for long term physical therapy under the logic that I am not going to get any better. ute, huh?) . The shocker here is that a kitchen chair with bicycle wheels doesn't really do the trick and so, if you do desire that elusive normal life you have to come up with 14K all by yourself (or with your family's help if you are lucky). The good news here is: once you shell out the dough for the chair you get a piece of equipment that works like a charm......for about 2-3 months.
In the about 3 years or so that I have had my current wheelchair, I have averaged a major problem 3 to 4 times a year by conservative estimate. These problems have included such things as, the controller falling off, foot rests cracking, batteries burning out, a wheel falling off (yes, I said wheel), and a host of additional electrical problems. These issues can range from minor annoyances to things that have left me immobile on sidewalks several miles from my apartment (a grateful nod should be paid here to the NYPD, who while they have been perplexed by the situation, have helped me home more than once, which is no small feat considering the chair weighs about 500 pounds all told).
Once you've broken down and are lucky enough to make it to a safe place, there remains the problem of fixing the chair. While the wheelchair mechanics that do exist are dedicated and hardworking, there are just too few of them and they have no emergency and/or 24 hour capability. To the best of my knowledge there 3 companies that have the ability to service my equipment and they are located in Flushing Queens, Fort Totten Queens, and Ronkonkoma Long Island respectively. Of the one company that I have used that does home pick-up, they only have the resources to do so once a week. While my chair is being fixed I have no choice but to survive in back-up or loaner chairs, that while they allow for basic mobility and quality of life, the major sacrifices in independence are both physically and emotionally draining. Naturally, none of this happens for free and over the years I think it is reasonable to say I have paid for my wheelchair at least twice. My most recent still on-going electrical problem has required three trips to the manufacturer and thousands of dollars. If any other type of company had a comparable lack of success rate there would be safeguards and calls for over sight (think Lemming laws). When it comes to wheelchairs, you are the mercy of a deeply flawed system.
If, on a good day, I have the good fortune of being able to leave my home, I dive head first into the NYC transit system. Of the major methods of transport available in said city, only the bus system is fully accessible. The subway has some stations that are accessible but they are few and far between and (from what I hear) the elevators providing this access are rarely serviced. In my 6 years of living in the city, I have used the subway one time during which my chair got stuck between the gap and I had to rely on my friends and a Good Samaritan or two to pull me onto the train. While I have faith that many a good Samaritans still exist, feeling as though you may be forced to rely on them is of little comfort.
About now you may be thinking "what about those neat little taxi's with the ramps I have seen around," Once again they exist, but largely cease to be practical for many reasons. For one, they are impossible to hail from the street because you cannot tell whether they are accessible until they are right on top of you. Secondly if you do hail them you may be told, as I have on one occasion, by the driver that he "can't take a wheelchair," as I stare at the handicapped logo on the side door. While I relieved some stress in this situation by utilizing my middle finger and a few four letter words, the fact remained I still lacked a ride uptown.
The TLC claims to have a number that you can call and reserve an accessible taxi ahead of time; however, this system has only worked a small percentage of the time I have used it. Amazingly, (as I was told by a cab driver, who both claimed to be high up in the union and a supporter of accessible taxis), these requests are sent out over a blackberry system that not all drivers in the accessible cabs have access to, and these drivers reserve the right to refuse these jobs up to twice a shift and the refusal of more than two results in a type of sanction ticket which is little more than symbolic. In the end you can request a cab but it’s a crap shoot as to whether one shows up. As recently as last night, I waited for a cab that never came, and thus was unable to attend a belated birthday party for my sister.
Essentially if I want to get somewhere, I am left with using my wheelchair or taking the bus. All NYC buses are equipped with ramps or lifts but also remain limited. Buses have the capacity to transport two wheelchairs at a time so if a couple old ladies beat me to it, I am left with no choice but to wait for the next bus, which depending on traffic can take between 15-40 minutes. The traffic issue (which I know is unavoidable) makes it so that any trip to an outer borough takes so long it is not practical. Lastly, not all buses run all night and so if I desire to have a social life that extends beyond midnight (which I think is a fair request with me being a 25 year old single male) you either stay local or take your chances. Oh and if it snows, forget it.
What is contained above is not intended to be an exercise in woe or even necessarily as representative of the problems of all disabled folks, instead it is merely designed to be a glimpse into the problems that face the disabled such as myself. These scenarios described in my "glimpse" have caused me not only to miss out on things like social functions, but also things like work, school, and job interviews. Reality also remains such that the problems are even deeper than described here. The Americans with Disabilities Act remains known more for its loop holes than benefits thus leaving me with countless buildings I am unable to enter or, once inside, left without a bathroom facility. The point of setting this piece against the backdrop of the strides represented by Obama and Sotamayor is that if such inequalities described here were the result of something like religion or race, outcry would be fierce as opposed to largely non-existent. In the end, I am left to speculate that this lack of outrage is the primary difference between a building that lacks a wheelchair ramps and one that has "Whites Only" scrawled on ts front door.Some of you who were unaware of these problems may be tempted to offer some sort of apology for not having been aware, and the truth is I need not your apologies, but instead, I implore your future vigilance and support. Remember these issues and don't allow them to continue. I ask you to forward these words to all friends and families or places of influence such as politicians and newspapers.
I cannot crusade alone so help me stand for those who can't........
Given this broad definition, I can only speak for a specific sub-set of which I am a member. In my case I speak of the plight of those with permanent visible physical disabilities centered primarily around mobility difficulties. I was born with Cerebral Palsy and since the age of 4 have relied on the use of wheelchair. For about the last decade I have relied in a motorized wheelchair specifically.My life has not been all bad of course, I am blessed with a very supportive family and close friends, I live on my own, and am Ivy League educated and currently am pursuing a Masters Degree. In spite of these blessings however, I am everyday faced with the physical and emotional mountain of coping with a city and world at large that remains largely unprepared for and generally uninterested in challenges of the disabled.
These challenges begin at home so to speak. By this I mean with the wheelchairs themselves. First, they are expensive; the model I use for example costs around $14,000. Yes, insurance does exist, but as with most things, they cover very little. If it was up to insurance, they would seem to view a kitchen chair with bicycle wheels as sufficient for a "normal life (while I'm on the subject of insurance, they also will not pay for long term physical therapy under the logic that I am not going to get any better. ute, huh?) . The shocker here is that a kitchen chair with bicycle wheels doesn't really do the trick and so, if you do desire that elusive normal life you have to come up with 14K all by yourself (or with your family's help if you are lucky). The good news here is: once you shell out the dough for the chair you get a piece of equipment that works like a charm......for about 2-3 months.
In the about 3 years or so that I have had my current wheelchair, I have averaged a major problem 3 to 4 times a year by conservative estimate. These problems have included such things as, the controller falling off, foot rests cracking, batteries burning out, a wheel falling off (yes, I said wheel), and a host of additional electrical problems. These issues can range from minor annoyances to things that have left me immobile on sidewalks several miles from my apartment (a grateful nod should be paid here to the NYPD, who while they have been perplexed by the situation, have helped me home more than once, which is no small feat considering the chair weighs about 500 pounds all told).
Once you've broken down and are lucky enough to make it to a safe place, there remains the problem of fixing the chair. While the wheelchair mechanics that do exist are dedicated and hardworking, there are just too few of them and they have no emergency and/or 24 hour capability. To the best of my knowledge there 3 companies that have the ability to service my equipment and they are located in Flushing Queens, Fort Totten Queens, and Ronkonkoma Long Island respectively. Of the one company that I have used that does home pick-up, they only have the resources to do so once a week. While my chair is being fixed I have no choice but to survive in back-up or loaner chairs, that while they allow for basic mobility and quality of life, the major sacrifices in independence are both physically and emotionally draining. Naturally, none of this happens for free and over the years I think it is reasonable to say I have paid for my wheelchair at least twice. My most recent still on-going electrical problem has required three trips to the manufacturer and thousands of dollars. If any other type of company had a comparable lack of success rate there would be safeguards and calls for over sight (think Lemming laws). When it comes to wheelchairs, you are the mercy of a deeply flawed system.
If, on a good day, I have the good fortune of being able to leave my home, I dive head first into the NYC transit system. Of the major methods of transport available in said city, only the bus system is fully accessible. The subway has some stations that are accessible but they are few and far between and (from what I hear) the elevators providing this access are rarely serviced. In my 6 years of living in the city, I have used the subway one time during which my chair got stuck between the gap and I had to rely on my friends and a Good Samaritan or two to pull me onto the train. While I have faith that many a good Samaritans still exist, feeling as though you may be forced to rely on them is of little comfort.
About now you may be thinking "what about those neat little taxi's with the ramps I have seen around," Once again they exist, but largely cease to be practical for many reasons. For one, they are impossible to hail from the street because you cannot tell whether they are accessible until they are right on top of you. Secondly if you do hail them you may be told, as I have on one occasion, by the driver that he "can't take a wheelchair," as I stare at the handicapped logo on the side door. While I relieved some stress in this situation by utilizing my middle finger and a few four letter words, the fact remained I still lacked a ride uptown.
The TLC claims to have a number that you can call and reserve an accessible taxi ahead of time; however, this system has only worked a small percentage of the time I have used it. Amazingly, (as I was told by a cab driver, who both claimed to be high up in the union and a supporter of accessible taxis), these requests are sent out over a blackberry system that not all drivers in the accessible cabs have access to, and these drivers reserve the right to refuse these jobs up to twice a shift and the refusal of more than two results in a type of sanction ticket which is little more than symbolic. In the end you can request a cab but it’s a crap shoot as to whether one shows up. As recently as last night, I waited for a cab that never came, and thus was unable to attend a belated birthday party for my sister.
Essentially if I want to get somewhere, I am left with using my wheelchair or taking the bus. All NYC buses are equipped with ramps or lifts but also remain limited. Buses have the capacity to transport two wheelchairs at a time so if a couple old ladies beat me to it, I am left with no choice but to wait for the next bus, which depending on traffic can take between 15-40 minutes. The traffic issue (which I know is unavoidable) makes it so that any trip to an outer borough takes so long it is not practical. Lastly, not all buses run all night and so if I desire to have a social life that extends beyond midnight (which I think is a fair request with me being a 25 year old single male) you either stay local or take your chances. Oh and if it snows, forget it.
What is contained above is not intended to be an exercise in woe or even necessarily as representative of the problems of all disabled folks, instead it is merely designed to be a glimpse into the problems that face the disabled such as myself. These scenarios described in my "glimpse" have caused me not only to miss out on things like social functions, but also things like work, school, and job interviews. Reality also remains such that the problems are even deeper than described here. The Americans with Disabilities Act remains known more for its loop holes than benefits thus leaving me with countless buildings I am unable to enter or, once inside, left without a bathroom facility. The point of setting this piece against the backdrop of the strides represented by Obama and Sotamayor is that if such inequalities described here were the result of something like religion or race, outcry would be fierce as opposed to largely non-existent. In the end, I am left to speculate that this lack of outrage is the primary difference between a building that lacks a wheelchair ramps and one that has "Whites Only" scrawled on ts front door.Some of you who were unaware of these problems may be tempted to offer some sort of apology for not having been aware, and the truth is I need not your apologies, but instead, I implore your future vigilance and support. Remember these issues and don't allow them to continue. I ask you to forward these words to all friends and families or places of influence such as politicians and newspapers.
I cannot crusade alone so help me stand for those who can't........
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
The Cell
It's 5:20 am. I wish I could tell you that I have gotten up early with an eager enthusiasm to face the day and it's challenges, but the truth is, I have yet to sleep . Given that I am a chronic night owl, I have only been trying to sleep for a short time but this has the feeling like that rest is not coming anytime soon, the kind of night where even sleeping pills are a lost cause.
Alone I sit at this desk waiting for the dawn to mock me as she does every morning to those who have spent the night teased by the bitch-goddess of sleep. The noise in my head is at full pitch and I am unable to do anything but listen. I write now for reasons I am unsure of although I think, in the end if I am going to go insane, I'd rather do so on the page than while staring at the ceiling. Or, to put it more bleakly, it seems better to spill forth a bleeding heart then to contemplate the thought of a bloody wrist.
The cliche of the moment seems to be that I can't get out of my own way, or specifically out of my own head. I can think only of the devices of this mental torture chamber that continually ravage my mind and soul. Fear, doubt, depression, and low self-esteem are my tormentors. I am 25 years old, currently flat broke and unemployed, am I working towards an advanced degree which feels as though it will not pay dividends anytime soon, and gripped by a cycle of seemingly endless romantic and sexual frustrations. My only ally is logic which tells me both that my problems are common and/or that can be alleviated through patience or pro activity. All decent arguments, but the voice of logic tends to fade as the hope for sleep does.
I have a body that doesn't work or at the very least doesn't cooperate with me thus meaning that I have only my self poisoning mind to rely on. My old friend logic tries again to tell me that am I and always will be a survivor but the head demons drown it out with a drum beat on my brain that serves only as a reminder of just how exhausting it can be to have to metaphorically (or even literally at times) to go through the back door or take the long road. The dull body aches from lack of movement made worse by the psycho-somatic contributions of depression. All this could be cured by sleep....a sleep which doesn't come at all or just shallow enough to hint at pleasant dreams.
Instead most days I remain all too awake, a legally sanctioned junkie, slave to the "fixes" of pale orange bottles named "zoloft" or "ambien" or "xanax", again like a junkie getting no high but only maintaining to say alive in a sense, a dull status quo that at times seems at the brink of madness. Wanting to scream and claw at my brain but lacking the energy even for that. A state of uncertainty where I am paralyzed in body and soul begets a desire to look for God at the bottom of a bottle or in the form of disciples that come filling needles. Luckily or not, that logic again mostly keeps me from such pilgrimages and I instead dance around the golden calves of modernity taking the forms of bad food or bad TV or novels that canonize the tortured soul as my only patron saint. Sometimes the light at the end of the tunnel comes only from the glow of a cigarette, a poison glow that can kill me even before the weight of the world does.
So what now? Do I give in to the deafening noise shrieking from the dark corners of my mind and die a living Death? Do I strain against the din and listen for whispers of hope? Do I fall to my knees and pray to God for deliverance?
Who knows....
For now,
I will settle for sleep
Alone I sit at this desk waiting for the dawn to mock me as she does every morning to those who have spent the night teased by the bitch-goddess of sleep. The noise in my head is at full pitch and I am unable to do anything but listen. I write now for reasons I am unsure of although I think, in the end if I am going to go insane, I'd rather do so on the page than while staring at the ceiling. Or, to put it more bleakly, it seems better to spill forth a bleeding heart then to contemplate the thought of a bloody wrist.
The cliche of the moment seems to be that I can't get out of my own way, or specifically out of my own head. I can think only of the devices of this mental torture chamber that continually ravage my mind and soul. Fear, doubt, depression, and low self-esteem are my tormentors. I am 25 years old, currently flat broke and unemployed, am I working towards an advanced degree which feels as though it will not pay dividends anytime soon, and gripped by a cycle of seemingly endless romantic and sexual frustrations. My only ally is logic which tells me both that my problems are common and/or that can be alleviated through patience or pro activity. All decent arguments, but the voice of logic tends to fade as the hope for sleep does.
I have a body that doesn't work or at the very least doesn't cooperate with me thus meaning that I have only my self poisoning mind to rely on. My old friend logic tries again to tell me that am I and always will be a survivor but the head demons drown it out with a drum beat on my brain that serves only as a reminder of just how exhausting it can be to have to metaphorically (or even literally at times) to go through the back door or take the long road. The dull body aches from lack of movement made worse by the psycho-somatic contributions of depression. All this could be cured by sleep....a sleep which doesn't come at all or just shallow enough to hint at pleasant dreams.
Instead most days I remain all too awake, a legally sanctioned junkie, slave to the "fixes" of pale orange bottles named "zoloft" or "ambien" or "xanax", again like a junkie getting no high but only maintaining to say alive in a sense, a dull status quo that at times seems at the brink of madness. Wanting to scream and claw at my brain but lacking the energy even for that. A state of uncertainty where I am paralyzed in body and soul begets a desire to look for God at the bottom of a bottle or in the form of disciples that come filling needles. Luckily or not, that logic again mostly keeps me from such pilgrimages and I instead dance around the golden calves of modernity taking the forms of bad food or bad TV or novels that canonize the tortured soul as my only patron saint. Sometimes the light at the end of the tunnel comes only from the glow of a cigarette, a poison glow that can kill me even before the weight of the world does.
So what now? Do I give in to the deafening noise shrieking from the dark corners of my mind and die a living Death? Do I strain against the din and listen for whispers of hope? Do I fall to my knees and pray to God for deliverance?
Who knows....
For now,
I will settle for sleep
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Ordinary courage
I've always felt it a little cliche to write directly around the 9/11 anniversary (and probably why I waited three weeks), but I, like most others, have many concepts and ideas brought to mind around this time of year. An obvious example of this is the concept of courage. In 9/11 recaps and commemorations all over the world, stories of extraordinary courage are re-told with reverence. People remain awed by the stories of firefighters, police, and EMS running into instead of away from the doomed towers, building workers assisting injured or disabled colleagues both in NY and in the Pentagon, a handful of people attempting to regain control of their hijacked plane, and lastly (heartbreaking as it may be) those who leaped to their deaths to avoid an inferno. Of course these stories should be told and their protagonists honored, but the human tendency to focus on "extraordinary courage" sometimes obscures what in some ways may be an even more valuable concept, "ordinary courage"
"Ordinary courage", as I define it here refers to the courage it takes to live one's day to day life, regardless of what it looks like. This is not meant to imply that life is or should be miserable but rather, on the contrary, that it merely takes a lot of courage to see the beauty in it. Only you know what your ordinary courage is required to cope with but most of us probably have some experience with things like physical or mental illness, addiction, broken homes, and financial struggle etc. Sometimes to get out of bed in the wake of these types of issues, can seem like an epic battle, and it may very well be. My point is to say that whatever your epic battle is, the only important thing is that you keep fighting in hopes of some day winning that battle.
To some, everything I just wrote may seem like common sense, but from my observances in my two and half decades on this on earth it seems that many people do not give themselves enough credit for their ordinary courage. I believe this comes not from modesty (which is largely a good thing) but as a negative side effect of the human tendency to create what I'll call "a hierarchy of pain" This basically is the idea to attempt motivate oneself by adopting the notion that "someone out there is worse off then I" While this phrase has it's point and may work for some, too often I believe the supposed motivation from this attitude is instead a masquerade that people use to downplay their own struggles and/or make themselves believe they should/need to apologize for their own difficulties. Sure, they are people in this world "worse off than you" (what does that really even mean if you think about it) but in the end they are not you and you are not them, so the whole idea of comparison is useless and unproductive.
As usual the best way I can think of to further illustrate my ideas, is to explain how I have experienced this personally. Often when people become aware of all or part of my life story, they will attempt to compliment my achievements by saying something to the effect of "you are so much stronger than I" or "I could not have gotten through that," Of course I know the attempted meaning behind these sentiments but, on another level I see it as a means for people to downgrade themselves and their struggles yet again. My life is my life, and only I have to learn to survive that life. It's your job to survive your own life, not someone else's. To put it more crudely, just because your pile of shit looks different from mine doesn't mean it is not also a pile of shit.
While wallowing in misery is never a good suggestion, when you do feel overwhelmed by your everyday struggles, make sure to acknowledge as them legitimate and difficult problems rather than dismiss them as "not good enough" or "something that isn't so bad". This will allow you to feel a sense of a greater accomplishment when you do get out of bed, or whatever form your achievement through ordinary courage takes. I truly believe that therein lies the ability to give your life and your inner self value on a daily basis. If I may border on cliche once again, you can have no real value to anyone else if you don't first value yourself.
I started this post by calling to mind the "extraordinary courage" exhibited by countless people on 9/11 and I bring it up again as I close to make one final point. Instances of "extraordinary courage" are those that with them bring the strongest urge to unleash phrases like "I could never be that brave," The truth is..... you don't know that. The potential for these "extraordinary courage's" probably lies within all of us. Most importantly, we must remember that, in all likelihood, those who exhibit extraordinary courage in extraordinary circumstances could only do so because they embraced the ordinary courage it took to live every previous day of their lives.
God Bless
"Ordinary courage", as I define it here refers to the courage it takes to live one's day to day life, regardless of what it looks like. This is not meant to imply that life is or should be miserable but rather, on the contrary, that it merely takes a lot of courage to see the beauty in it. Only you know what your ordinary courage is required to cope with but most of us probably have some experience with things like physical or mental illness, addiction, broken homes, and financial struggle etc. Sometimes to get out of bed in the wake of these types of issues, can seem like an epic battle, and it may very well be. My point is to say that whatever your epic battle is, the only important thing is that you keep fighting in hopes of some day winning that battle.
To some, everything I just wrote may seem like common sense, but from my observances in my two and half decades on this on earth it seems that many people do not give themselves enough credit for their ordinary courage. I believe this comes not from modesty (which is largely a good thing) but as a negative side effect of the human tendency to create what I'll call "a hierarchy of pain" This basically is the idea to attempt motivate oneself by adopting the notion that "someone out there is worse off then I" While this phrase has it's point and may work for some, too often I believe the supposed motivation from this attitude is instead a masquerade that people use to downplay their own struggles and/or make themselves believe they should/need to apologize for their own difficulties. Sure, they are people in this world "worse off than you" (what does that really even mean if you think about it) but in the end they are not you and you are not them, so the whole idea of comparison is useless and unproductive.
As usual the best way I can think of to further illustrate my ideas, is to explain how I have experienced this personally. Often when people become aware of all or part of my life story, they will attempt to compliment my achievements by saying something to the effect of "you are so much stronger than I" or "I could not have gotten through that," Of course I know the attempted meaning behind these sentiments but, on another level I see it as a means for people to downgrade themselves and their struggles yet again. My life is my life, and only I have to learn to survive that life. It's your job to survive your own life, not someone else's. To put it more crudely, just because your pile of shit looks different from mine doesn't mean it is not also a pile of shit.
While wallowing in misery is never a good suggestion, when you do feel overwhelmed by your everyday struggles, make sure to acknowledge as them legitimate and difficult problems rather than dismiss them as "not good enough" or "something that isn't so bad". This will allow you to feel a sense of a greater accomplishment when you do get out of bed, or whatever form your achievement through ordinary courage takes. I truly believe that therein lies the ability to give your life and your inner self value on a daily basis. If I may border on cliche once again, you can have no real value to anyone else if you don't first value yourself.
I started this post by calling to mind the "extraordinary courage" exhibited by countless people on 9/11 and I bring it up again as I close to make one final point. Instances of "extraordinary courage" are those that with them bring the strongest urge to unleash phrases like "I could never be that brave," The truth is..... you don't know that. The potential for these "extraordinary courage's" probably lies within all of us. Most importantly, we must remember that, in all likelihood, those who exhibit extraordinary courage in extraordinary circumstances could only do so because they embraced the ordinary courage it took to live every previous day of their lives.
God Bless
Monday, August 3, 2009
Fear and Loathing...and online dating
Lets face it, everybody wants to be loved. True, I do have one close friend who blissfully lives his life devoid of most meaningful human contact, and while at times I think he may actually be some kind of perverted genius, I think we can all agree, he's not normal. Normal in this case, is wanting to be loved romantically.
Platonic friends are fine but the truth is you can reach a point where you begin to think that Plato and his theories on love and friendship are the work of an asshole who likes to fuck with people's minds and bodies.
In the end all of us on some level desire someone we can feel close to and, as an added bonus, have sex with from time to time. The problem lies in finding the proper setting for human contact to accomplish this goal. If you are anything like me: perpetually searching but in the process get shot down shot down more often than a blind fighter pilot, you probably have tried any number of different things. In my case, the latest adventure in finding a way to flip Plato off is the purgatory of online dating.
First off, I know what some of you are thinking, " I know someone who found someone online" or "What about all the happy people on the TV ads" Well those bastards have got to be actors because nobody that is goddamn happy. I grant you however that it probably works for some, in fact I know at least one couple that met online headed for marriage, but for the rest of us it either becomes an exercise in frustration or a way to figure out just how good or bad of a liar you are.
A couple months back a filled out a profile on an online dating website for the third time (because it has to be the website, not me right?, RIGHT?). Now you may be saying "wow good for you, way to be proactive and take advantage of technology,", save your applause folks, cause this shit is the final frontier, the wild west of dating.
For one, it's expensive, you have to pay like 40 bones a month just so some computer algorithm can "attempt" to find a match for you. Shit that's money up front even before you have to put in the effort of the dates themselves. Not only does that reak of extortion but If I were to take the bus down to 42nd Street and look for a similar arrangement, rather than looking for a website, I'd be looking for a pimp. Whats worse is on sites like the one I am currently affiliated with (which by the way will remain nameless to both increase the intrigue and to keep me from getting sued), the prospect of clicking that big red happy "Look for New Matches" button is no guarantee. Sometimes you'll get a lovely message saying politely something like "the matching process is complicated and requires patience, we are unable to provide new matches for you at this time, please check back tomorrow or when you become a more interesting person," OK so it doesn't say that last part, but if the implied message there doesn't leave you looking for a warm bath and a razor blade I don't know what will.
The problem I think lies in the difficulty of creating the profile itself. In my experience, no matter how creative you try to be, you only present as one of two things: Boring or insane. Allow me to illustrate. If you are still reading this and perhaps have even chuckled a few times you understand that a lot of my humor lies in sarcasm and mock outrage. The problem is those don't always translate properly in written words. If that is the case, I am saddled with the boring vs. insane dilemma.
Take for example the question "What 3 things are on your nightstand?" The truth (and what I wrote): A lamp, remote, a Bible, honest but boring. If I was going for a humorous answer I might try something like: A can of whipped cream, a framed photo of Ronald Reagan, and a Bible. Even if you do see the humor in such an answer, there will still be that lingering creepy feeling. Sometimes the problem is that the truth is stranger than fiction. Again for example lets use the question "Describe a book you recently enjoyed," My answer: blank. Those of you who know me a bit are probably wondering why I'd leave that blank given that I read all the time. The reason is that, given my interests in terrorism and forensic psychology, the truth would sound something like," I recently enjoyed selections from Kraft-Ebbing's landmark work "Psychopathia Sexualis" which rounded out my understanding of the concepts put forth in Schlesinger's work entitled "Sexual Murder" Yeah that's date material, you'd prob instead be concerned I would use your skin to make a shade for that lamp on my nightstand (next to the Bible don't forget). The truth is people in wheelchairs make terrible rapists or murders but it would be tough to include that qualifier, after all I wouldn't want people to judge my disability.
The difficulty with creating a profile runs even simpler than that, in fact it starts with putting a picture on your profile. Now of course they say you don't have to include a picture but the fact is, even if you're not overly concerned with vanity, your probably not going to show much interest in a profile sans photo. Once again if you are like me and lack a camera with which to regularly take photos, you are left with having to select something from a facebook profile or the like. Now I know I'm not unique when a say that in the vast majority of my facebook photos I am 1) under the strong influence of alcohol (most often in form of Jagermeister) or 2) striking some goofball pose that was funny in context or just for the hell of it. Once again your options are limited to either cropping the shit out of something (through which it is often easy to expose an attempt to hide insanity) or taking a photo for the purpose of a profile picture (which is again just boring)
The final hurdle in this gauntlet of compatibility are those pesky lifestyle questions. By this I mean questions involving your smoking or drinking habits. This is a clear lose-lose section of the profile especially because there are no ways to qualify the "truth" If asked if I smoke I would answer "when I drink, if I'm really stressed out or depressed, when I'm really happy or excited, if it's a nice day outside, or if it's Tuesday" Given my options on the survey that becomes "every once and a while," The drinking bit is even harder, in this particular survey your options (with my translations following) are "not at all" (you're boring or a liar), "every once and a while" (admitting you have a problem is the first step) or "several times a week," (rehab is for quitters), I'd say that leaves a helluva of gray area no? I was left with no choice but to choose "several times a week" and truthfully this makes me uncomfortable not because it's not true but because I don't like revealing my potential for substance abuse so early in the relationship process. I would have much preferred the option to state something to the effect of "I'm Irish and German, honey, draw your own conclusions".
Seeing as it is often my MO to suggest improvement to things rather than to merely rant about them, I will close with a brief discussion of a few categories I believe should be mandatory on these online dating surveys. I suggest adding categories that encompass "Major Psychological Diagnosis", "Other Substance Use" and "Criminal History," Naturally this would clear up a good deal of muddy water. If a person says they do not drink at all but use heroin recreationally, that becomes a valuable piece of information. If someone reports themselves as being schizophrenic then you will be less confused if they begin to talk to themselves. Lastly if someone has a repeated history of drunk and disorderly conduct you know you will be in for a fun night.
Some may say the inclusion of such information would encompass an undue intrusion into personal privacy or civil liberties, but the truth is, this is dating and this is America and if we don't put ourselves out there: the terrorists will have won
Platonic friends are fine but the truth is you can reach a point where you begin to think that Plato and his theories on love and friendship are the work of an asshole who likes to fuck with people's minds and bodies.
In the end all of us on some level desire someone we can feel close to and, as an added bonus, have sex with from time to time. The problem lies in finding the proper setting for human contact to accomplish this goal. If you are anything like me: perpetually searching but in the process get shot down shot down more often than a blind fighter pilot, you probably have tried any number of different things. In my case, the latest adventure in finding a way to flip Plato off is the purgatory of online dating.
First off, I know what some of you are thinking, " I know someone who found someone online" or "What about all the happy people on the TV ads" Well those bastards have got to be actors because nobody that is goddamn happy. I grant you however that it probably works for some, in fact I know at least one couple that met online headed for marriage, but for the rest of us it either becomes an exercise in frustration or a way to figure out just how good or bad of a liar you are.
A couple months back a filled out a profile on an online dating website for the third time (because it has to be the website, not me right?, RIGHT?). Now you may be saying "wow good for you, way to be proactive and take advantage of technology,", save your applause folks, cause this shit is the final frontier, the wild west of dating.
For one, it's expensive, you have to pay like 40 bones a month just so some computer algorithm can "attempt" to find a match for you. Shit that's money up front even before you have to put in the effort of the dates themselves. Not only does that reak of extortion but If I were to take the bus down to 42nd Street and look for a similar arrangement, rather than looking for a website, I'd be looking for a pimp. Whats worse is on sites like the one I am currently affiliated with (which by the way will remain nameless to both increase the intrigue and to keep me from getting sued), the prospect of clicking that big red happy "Look for New Matches" button is no guarantee. Sometimes you'll get a lovely message saying politely something like "the matching process is complicated and requires patience, we are unable to provide new matches for you at this time, please check back tomorrow or when you become a more interesting person," OK so it doesn't say that last part, but if the implied message there doesn't leave you looking for a warm bath and a razor blade I don't know what will.
The problem I think lies in the difficulty of creating the profile itself. In my experience, no matter how creative you try to be, you only present as one of two things: Boring or insane. Allow me to illustrate. If you are still reading this and perhaps have even chuckled a few times you understand that a lot of my humor lies in sarcasm and mock outrage. The problem is those don't always translate properly in written words. If that is the case, I am saddled with the boring vs. insane dilemma.
Take for example the question "What 3 things are on your nightstand?" The truth (and what I wrote): A lamp, remote, a Bible, honest but boring. If I was going for a humorous answer I might try something like: A can of whipped cream, a framed photo of Ronald Reagan, and a Bible. Even if you do see the humor in such an answer, there will still be that lingering creepy feeling. Sometimes the problem is that the truth is stranger than fiction. Again for example lets use the question "Describe a book you recently enjoyed," My answer: blank. Those of you who know me a bit are probably wondering why I'd leave that blank given that I read all the time. The reason is that, given my interests in terrorism and forensic psychology, the truth would sound something like," I recently enjoyed selections from Kraft-Ebbing's landmark work "Psychopathia Sexualis" which rounded out my understanding of the concepts put forth in Schlesinger's work entitled "Sexual Murder" Yeah that's date material, you'd prob instead be concerned I would use your skin to make a shade for that lamp on my nightstand (next to the Bible don't forget). The truth is people in wheelchairs make terrible rapists or murders but it would be tough to include that qualifier, after all I wouldn't want people to judge my disability.
The difficulty with creating a profile runs even simpler than that, in fact it starts with putting a picture on your profile. Now of course they say you don't have to include a picture but the fact is, even if you're not overly concerned with vanity, your probably not going to show much interest in a profile sans photo. Once again if you are like me and lack a camera with which to regularly take photos, you are left with having to select something from a facebook profile or the like. Now I know I'm not unique when a say that in the vast majority of my facebook photos I am 1) under the strong influence of alcohol (most often in form of Jagermeister) or 2) striking some goofball pose that was funny in context or just for the hell of it. Once again your options are limited to either cropping the shit out of something (through which it is often easy to expose an attempt to hide insanity) or taking a photo for the purpose of a profile picture (which is again just boring)
The final hurdle in this gauntlet of compatibility are those pesky lifestyle questions. By this I mean questions involving your smoking or drinking habits. This is a clear lose-lose section of the profile especially because there are no ways to qualify the "truth" If asked if I smoke I would answer "when I drink, if I'm really stressed out or depressed, when I'm really happy or excited, if it's a nice day outside, or if it's Tuesday" Given my options on the survey that becomes "every once and a while," The drinking bit is even harder, in this particular survey your options (with my translations following) are "not at all" (you're boring or a liar), "every once and a while" (admitting you have a problem is the first step) or "several times a week," (rehab is for quitters), I'd say that leaves a helluva of gray area no? I was left with no choice but to choose "several times a week" and truthfully this makes me uncomfortable not because it's not true but because I don't like revealing my potential for substance abuse so early in the relationship process. I would have much preferred the option to state something to the effect of "I'm Irish and German, honey, draw your own conclusions".
Seeing as it is often my MO to suggest improvement to things rather than to merely rant about them, I will close with a brief discussion of a few categories I believe should be mandatory on these online dating surveys. I suggest adding categories that encompass "Major Psychological Diagnosis", "Other Substance Use" and "Criminal History," Naturally this would clear up a good deal of muddy water. If a person says they do not drink at all but use heroin recreationally, that becomes a valuable piece of information. If someone reports themselves as being schizophrenic then you will be less confused if they begin to talk to themselves. Lastly if someone has a repeated history of drunk and disorderly conduct you know you will be in for a fun night.
Some may say the inclusion of such information would encompass an undue intrusion into personal privacy or civil liberties, but the truth is, this is dating and this is America and if we don't put ourselves out there: the terrorists will have won
Monday, June 22, 2009
Some thoughts on Father's Day
OK, technically its no longer Sunday, in fact it's 4:00 Monday morning, I meant to write this earlier when it was still Father's Day, but I am working the graveyard at Red Cross and the activity has not allowed me to reflect until now. In some ways, all the better, I have always believed there is no greater time for reflection than the time as dawn approaches.
Now of course I know that Father's Day is one of those made up "holidays" designed to sell ties and gadgets as Valentines Day is designed to sell chocolate and underwear (or chocolate underwear I suppose) but that does not mean it is "made up" in a philosophical or spiritual sense. Hence then a few comments for those with or without fathers of any kind.
First topic is that closest to my heart, those with fathers who are no longer living. Obviously, that fact makes the concept of this day a little harder but also brings some unique prospectives and thoughts. I tend to think these thoughts probably have some merits whether you lost your father when he was young or old or when you were young or old. Grief has similarities no matter the specifics because no matter how you are or how old your father is or was, whether you were or are "Daddy's little girl" or one of his beloved "boys," I believe we never lose that part of us that hopes and believes that "Daddy can make anything better," Unfortunately that need or belief does not does not go away even after one's Father passes away, so I guess in the end I direct most of the comments of this sort to those who have lost father's recently, because I've been there and most importantly, I am still here.
When my Dad first died, I remember one of the thoughts that I had the most often and that terrified me the most was "what if my memories fade?, how can I survive a future when all I have to preserve my Dad is a past," The bad news is memories do fade, but they fade only in some ways. Naturally the who, what, when, where and why of all memories fade over time. The good news is, the spirit of memory never fades. Your Dad will reappear in you in ways that you could never think of. This of course will happen even if your father is still alive, but I believe that once your father passes on, it sneaks up on you in more subtle ways and often just at the right time. You will incorporate their quirks and phrases into yourself, for better and worse. Most interestingly, while some memories fade, others reappear in a sense. For once I don't mean this in any sort of Freudian repression sense, rather that they just pop up, usually little things you haven't thought about in years and recall again for no reason at all. I can tell you even with my Dad gone for nearly 8 years this still happens to me from time to time. At first this will bring tears but eventually I assure you it will bring chuckles and smiles (even if your eyes still water a bit)
Lastly, there will always remain moments that will bring you right back to the past. Although I have thus far kept away from my own personal memories (one because they are private, and two I have to maintain my emotions to write this) but I will share my own personal experience with this.
When we were younger we used to often play around the corner with the neighborhood kids like a lot of you did. Uniquely when my dad decided it was getting too dark and or we needed come home for dinner or whatever, he wouldn't call the neighbors. simply he would walk out to our front deck, put two fingers in his mouth and whistle. We heard that we wrapped up whatever game we were playing and headed back around the corner. It didn't mean we were in trouble (if that were the case he would have showed up in person with teeth clenched and eyes glaring, very effective I tell you), this was just a signal, his signal, our signal. Folks, to this day wherever I am, if I here that two fingered type whistle, I turn my head, it almost becomes instinct, an unconscious tribute of sorts, this example is supported by both my sisters, they both have the same reaction.
In the end, if you've lost your father recently, I quote Dr. Viktor Frankel from his book Man's Search for Meaning (a fantastic book on grief and survival), where he warns against "constructing monuments to your grief", I second this but instead encourage you to construct monuments to your memories, they are all you have and most importantly will always belong to you and alone.
For whose who still have your fathers in your lives, don't worry this won't just be a long way to say "to hell with you lucky bastards", rather personal thoughts on how I believe you can have the best relationship with your father (and other family members for that matter) For one, remember they are not perfect and naturally not all memories or times with your father can or will be positive, same for me, same for everybody.
Fact is part of the job of parenting is that no matter how hard they try your parents are gonna screw you up. In a movie I watched a couple days ago this was summed up with the line "...This is life, not heaven, you don't have to be perfect". Many people try their best to do the right thing but the trick is to remember that at times, the best we can give is going to be nowhere near 100 percent. The point of all this is to take the good with the bad, when it comes to Dad try to cherish the whole package best you can. Try your best to forgive and don't forget to remind him how thankful you are when he gets it right.
For better and worse, one family is all you get, save your energy for the real arguments. Family feuds and breakdowns are all too common but probably even more commonly avoidable. Avoid unnecessary regrets, they bring you nothing but a sense of premature loss. I have no idea if any of what I say is truly universal but I can tell you the last 4 words I ever said my father were "I love you Dad," so I like to think we did something right
Lastly I turn to those among us who never knew their fathers, or were abandoned, or abused by them. First things, first, you owe these men nothing aside from maybe a little card saying "Thanks for the sperm, but next time go fuck yourself,". Admiration and respect is earned not granted. The important thing to remember is although you may lack a true "dad, pretty much everyone has a man in their life that they admire and has imparted wisdom on them (by the way of course I know there plenty of mothers and women that fit this bill in our lives, by given it's fathers day I use the male examples for that reason only). Focus on these men, if they know how important they are to you, call and wish them a Happy Fathers Day or just to say thanks. If they don't know how much they mean to you, find the courage and way to tell them, chances are you'll be pleasantly surprised by the reaction. Remember that family should not always be defined by blood and blood alone. A father may share your blood, but a true "dad" shares your life. And even if on days like this if you still feel alone, take comfort in my belief that no one ever walks alone because, if I may mix metaphors, in the end, we are all passengers on the same ship and, trust me, none of us quite knows where it's going.
In love and May God Bless You Always
Now of course I know that Father's Day is one of those made up "holidays" designed to sell ties and gadgets as Valentines Day is designed to sell chocolate and underwear (or chocolate underwear I suppose) but that does not mean it is "made up" in a philosophical or spiritual sense. Hence then a few comments for those with or without fathers of any kind.
First topic is that closest to my heart, those with fathers who are no longer living. Obviously, that fact makes the concept of this day a little harder but also brings some unique prospectives and thoughts. I tend to think these thoughts probably have some merits whether you lost your father when he was young or old or when you were young or old. Grief has similarities no matter the specifics because no matter how you are or how old your father is or was, whether you were or are "Daddy's little girl" or one of his beloved "boys," I believe we never lose that part of us that hopes and believes that "Daddy can make anything better," Unfortunately that need or belief does not does not go away even after one's Father passes away, so I guess in the end I direct most of the comments of this sort to those who have lost father's recently, because I've been there and most importantly, I am still here.
When my Dad first died, I remember one of the thoughts that I had the most often and that terrified me the most was "what if my memories fade?, how can I survive a future when all I have to preserve my Dad is a past," The bad news is memories do fade, but they fade only in some ways. Naturally the who, what, when, where and why of all memories fade over time. The good news is, the spirit of memory never fades. Your Dad will reappear in you in ways that you could never think of. This of course will happen even if your father is still alive, but I believe that once your father passes on, it sneaks up on you in more subtle ways and often just at the right time. You will incorporate their quirks and phrases into yourself, for better and worse. Most interestingly, while some memories fade, others reappear in a sense. For once I don't mean this in any sort of Freudian repression sense, rather that they just pop up, usually little things you haven't thought about in years and recall again for no reason at all. I can tell you even with my Dad gone for nearly 8 years this still happens to me from time to time. At first this will bring tears but eventually I assure you it will bring chuckles and smiles (even if your eyes still water a bit)
Lastly, there will always remain moments that will bring you right back to the past. Although I have thus far kept away from my own personal memories (one because they are private, and two I have to maintain my emotions to write this) but I will share my own personal experience with this.
When we were younger we used to often play around the corner with the neighborhood kids like a lot of you did. Uniquely when my dad decided it was getting too dark and or we needed come home for dinner or whatever, he wouldn't call the neighbors. simply he would walk out to our front deck, put two fingers in his mouth and whistle. We heard that we wrapped up whatever game we were playing and headed back around the corner. It didn't mean we were in trouble (if that were the case he would have showed up in person with teeth clenched and eyes glaring, very effective I tell you), this was just a signal, his signal, our signal. Folks, to this day wherever I am, if I here that two fingered type whistle, I turn my head, it almost becomes instinct, an unconscious tribute of sorts, this example is supported by both my sisters, they both have the same reaction.
In the end, if you've lost your father recently, I quote Dr. Viktor Frankel from his book Man's Search for Meaning (a fantastic book on grief and survival), where he warns against "constructing monuments to your grief", I second this but instead encourage you to construct monuments to your memories, they are all you have and most importantly will always belong to you and alone.
For whose who still have your fathers in your lives, don't worry this won't just be a long way to say "to hell with you lucky bastards", rather personal thoughts on how I believe you can have the best relationship with your father (and other family members for that matter) For one, remember they are not perfect and naturally not all memories or times with your father can or will be positive, same for me, same for everybody.
Fact is part of the job of parenting is that no matter how hard they try your parents are gonna screw you up. In a movie I watched a couple days ago this was summed up with the line "...This is life, not heaven, you don't have to be perfect". Many people try their best to do the right thing but the trick is to remember that at times, the best we can give is going to be nowhere near 100 percent. The point of all this is to take the good with the bad, when it comes to Dad try to cherish the whole package best you can. Try your best to forgive and don't forget to remind him how thankful you are when he gets it right.
For better and worse, one family is all you get, save your energy for the real arguments. Family feuds and breakdowns are all too common but probably even more commonly avoidable. Avoid unnecessary regrets, they bring you nothing but a sense of premature loss. I have no idea if any of what I say is truly universal but I can tell you the last 4 words I ever said my father were "I love you Dad," so I like to think we did something right
Lastly I turn to those among us who never knew their fathers, or were abandoned, or abused by them. First things, first, you owe these men nothing aside from maybe a little card saying "Thanks for the sperm, but next time go fuck yourself,". Admiration and respect is earned not granted. The important thing to remember is although you may lack a true "dad, pretty much everyone has a man in their life that they admire and has imparted wisdom on them (by the way of course I know there plenty of mothers and women that fit this bill in our lives, by given it's fathers day I use the male examples for that reason only). Focus on these men, if they know how important they are to you, call and wish them a Happy Fathers Day or just to say thanks. If they don't know how much they mean to you, find the courage and way to tell them, chances are you'll be pleasantly surprised by the reaction. Remember that family should not always be defined by blood and blood alone. A father may share your blood, but a true "dad" shares your life. And even if on days like this if you still feel alone, take comfort in my belief that no one ever walks alone because, if I may mix metaphors, in the end, we are all passengers on the same ship and, trust me, none of us quite knows where it's going.
In love and May God Bless You Always
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