Monday, March 31, 2014
Saturday, March 29, 2014
Thursday, March 27, 2014
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
Monday, March 24, 2014
So, I Might Be Responsible for Hipsters
About... 15... 20 years ago? Maybe? I read an article about how art works is the point. It was in a magazine, either Maxim or Playboy, it was of that tone. It was how a guy who had been in the New York Art scene noticed how art worked and how poseurs actually had greater success than the actual artists. He described a couple of artists who he thought were doing really great and original things, but they barely sold any work. However other artists, the poseurs according to the writer (he included himself in that category) who used elements these two were using had great success. He complained that there were deeply held reasons why the first artist used blue the way he did, but the copy-cats just knew what would sell and faked it. Either way, their stuff sold and the people who influenced them didn’t. The point of the article was more about how selling paintings in the art world is less about the actual art and more about how well you can bullshit art patrons at a show, but the intro will hold long enough. Incidentally, this happens all over the place. The first time I’d ever heard of Motorhead it was in the context of “These guys influenced every guitar heavy band of the 80s from Metallica to Megadeth to Guns N Roses of all people.” Any art/entertainment world has their version “This person/group were never really mega-stars with the public, but everyone in the biz knew they were awesome and borrowed from them liberally and went on to mega-star success.”
Now, my generation grew up in a post-modern world. Even though we didn’t understand it at the time, we were being raised by a generation who themselves were reading articles in popular magazines like Time and Newsweek that had titles like “What Does It Mean To Be Cool?” and other such nonsense. The Baby-Boomers had sort of lost track of cool, to be perfectly honest, and spent much of the 80s in discussion about what fit in the Monolith of “Cool” where Arthur Fonzarelli is the perfect form of cool. Yeah, just dropped 2001, Happy Days and Plato all in one sentence. Where’s your god now? The problem of course was the belief that cool as a rule was a single ideal that could be achieved if only you understood all the graces. Except Fonzie was more of a yūrei than a human, if yūrei is indeed the word I want. Jeeves would know.
There is a great Calvin and Hobbes comic that exemplifies this idea.
So having said all that, let me tell you a story about a kid named Tim. Tim might not have been his name, but it was so long ago that I can’t honestly yank his name from the files and I’m going to give him one instead. Now Tim was a freshman when I was a senior and his growth spurt was still three years off. As such Tim might have been all of four foot eleven. I remember him being shorter than me by a considerable distance and I’m not that tall now. Tim developed what can only be called a “Straight Boy Crush” on yours truly. A part of this was probably that I actually knew the kind of music he liked (kid was a huge fan of classical) and didn’t give him shit for not knowing who Nirvana was. Side note: When that band came out, I was the only person in my class that knew it was a state of mental awareness and not just some dirty guys from Seattle thrashing away at instruments in post punk rock rage.
Now, a note about me in high school. I stopped wearing jeans as soon as I started picking out my own clothes. I never found them comfortable, I never liked them. So I worse sweatpants or dockers. I wore t-shirts and flannel shirts because of comfort, to this day a cable knit sweater at Christmas receives a hearty “Have you actually met me?” And over that was a grey trench coat and a fedora to top it off. Not a trilby! A fedora is a felt hat that looks sexy as fuck. A trilby is a doucheflag worn on the top of a douche to give instant identification of docheiness. As you might have noticed over the years, I ran out of fucks three days before my fifteenth birthday. I had quietly used up a life time supply, and from then on it was me and honey badger for life. I didn’t choose the honey badger, honey badger chose me. Although, the honey badger is not my spirit animal. My spirit animal is a two slice toaster, which is fitting when you think about it.
I didn’t listen to popular music, I listened to old Jazz, new Jazz, Prince, Mannheim Steamroller, Blues Traveler, Narada and Windham Hill collections, classical music, Irish folk music and so on. I threw some popular stuff in there, but it would get lost in so much else that no one could say with any regularity what was going to come up next. By the time I was a senior, everyone knew that trying to start shit with me was a one way ticket to Scaryville. Since I never beat a person, but rather grabbed their pressure points and explained to them in a soft, calm voice that despite what they thought, it didn’t actually hurt yet, but I could make it hurt. The last time someone had decided to snatch my hat as a gag, they were unprepared for how fast I turned, grabbed them by the throat and smashed their head down into the lunch table. This happened in the cafeteria in front of about four hundred thousand witnesses. When I didn’t beat the hell out of the guy, but simply explained “You don’t ever touch my hat, understand?” and wouldn’t let him up until he agreed that he understood and was very sorry and could he please run away forever now... that story was blown all out of proportion if you’ve heard it from another source. I didn’t even hit the guy, much less kill him. Point is though, no one fucked with the hat after that.
Except girls, who all wanted to be allowed to wear it, which I still don’t understand. It didn’t fit them and I could only tell they were winking because their cheek twitched, since the brim covered their eye, what did they want? Seriously?
So here is what Tim saw “That guy, THAT GUY! He walks around wearing a hat from before the dawn of cool. Mutha’ fucka’ is like proto-cool. He’s so cool that cool would have to chill out before it was as cool as him. And he doesn’t give people shit about not liking popular stuff, he even knows about classical and prefers Satie's Gymnopédies to Pachelbel’s Canon which I didn’t even know was allowed and maybe it isn’t, but dude ran out of fucks to give in 1982! I mean... just... holy shit dude!”
Now Tim missed a lot, having only seen the end result. He didn’t see the questioning, the bullying, the struggling, the second guessing, the fact that I had like, five friends total, or the fact that I was kind of sticking with the hat and coat at that point out of sheer bloody-mindedness. At least, I think I was, hard to tell at this stage. I need a new hat, and I very much need a new long coat. This isn’t important. Tim only saw the fact that the coolest dude in the room was a guy who didn’t much care, and did what he wanted to do and nobody could touch him. Hard for a very short 14 year old not to see that as a thing to be looked up to.
So Tim bought a hat and a coat. His was a wider brimmed chocolate brown fedora, and he got a brown London Fog trench coat. I was sporting a black hat and gray coat, so he wasn’t copying me completely, but he was super-proud of getting his shit together like I had. I told him it was cool while internally going “No, this is my look, get your own.” but not saying it because he was super-proud and I was clearly his hero. Heroes can’t just shit on somebody who announces “I’m gonna grow up to be just like you!” because... well you can’t! If I were older, I might have been sitting there having a two-word story “Skinsuit? Skinsuit!”
Now, is Tim a hipster? No, Tim is just a kid who wants to achieve something. He knows the hat is important, and the not giving even a percentage of a fuck, and the coat seems to play a roll. No, I think the third kid in this line, the one who has a straight boy crush on Tim, who only hears “I don’t give a shit, don’t listen to anything mainstream, get a hat.” I think maybe he’s the hipster. He never saw the original cool person (Mike) or the original long haired hippie (Neil) or even the angry punk (Vivian) he only saw the enthusiastic kid who was still trying to figure it all out and was wearing a hat not because Dana Andrews and Humphrey Bogart and Cary Grant (who I will crush on forever) wore the hat, but because one he knew in school wore it. That third kids saw the hat, found actual fedoras hard to come by (Seriously you have no idea how hard it was to find a fedora in 1990’s Michigan) and just bought a trilby because you could still get those at Sears. He didn’t know that the not listening to mainstream was less because I got off on other things, and thought it was because there was something inherently wrong with it. Which is wrong, there are good songs and bad songs, and while I rejected some popular music I listened to stuff that was on the charts as well.
The fourth kid in this line? That kid is TOTALLY a hipster, and probably a real douche-canoe too. His connection to this idea of cool is totally lost, he doesn’t even know that the guy who wore a fedora and sweatpants ever existed, but the hat and the coat remain as a sort of racial memory. With no understanding at all about the original cool, and with elements having dropped off over time, he thinks not caring is the key. So he has to make sure you understand how much he doesn’t care, and how very much he doesn’t listen to mainstream music. He’s going to tell you these things, because in reality he does care and he does listen to Mylie Cyrus, but thinks that’s not cool. He’s lost the fact that the original cool person thought I Love Your Smile was actually a great little song.
And that’s what happened, a person does a thing, a second person decides the first person is a Cool Person® and copies that person. Perhaps a little ersatz, but an acceptable step in self production. A third person admires the second person, and makes a copy. Now we have a copy of a copy. What made the first person so super-cool that he was constantly covered in liquefied oxygen (the sense of confidence needed to wear sweatpants with a fedora) has been lost in translation. The copies are more and more inferior, and the idea of cool has actually been splintered in a rather glorious way.
The Internet has ensured that there were never be a Monolithic Fonzie Model of Cool ever again. Cool has become like beauty, in the eye of the beholder, but we all know what the identifiers are. If we sat down and did some sciencey shit, we could probably say that this, this and this are part of the cool formula. Problem is, I was part of the, drugs, sex and self-harming Art Team. I couldn’t be doing with the writing shit down and taking measurements Science Side. Now it’s all down to what you like, what you think is cool, and who has the confidence to pull off whatever it is their doing. Probably some sort of honesty is in there too, but my brain is starting to hurt and I need some drugs or sex or something.
I never thought of myself as cool, until it was pointed out to me through the fact of someone wanting to look like me so much he went out and bought parts of his wardrobe to mimic parts of mine. It was around that time that I started to think, “Heeeey”
As a result, I’ve begun to think that me, and people like me, might be responsible for Hipsters. I’m not sorry, but I will admit I could have been a better steward of The Cool.
Now, my generation grew up in a post-modern world. Even though we didn’t understand it at the time, we were being raised by a generation who themselves were reading articles in popular magazines like Time and Newsweek that had titles like “What Does It Mean To Be Cool?” and other such nonsense. The Baby-Boomers had sort of lost track of cool, to be perfectly honest, and spent much of the 80s in discussion about what fit in the Monolith of “Cool” where Arthur Fonzarelli is the perfect form of cool. Yeah, just dropped 2001, Happy Days and Plato all in one sentence. Where’s your god now? The problem of course was the belief that cool as a rule was a single ideal that could be achieved if only you understood all the graces. Except Fonzie was more of a yūrei than a human, if yūrei is indeed the word I want. Jeeves would know.
There is a great Calvin and Hobbes comic that exemplifies this idea.
So having said all that, let me tell you a story about a kid named Tim. Tim might not have been his name, but it was so long ago that I can’t honestly yank his name from the files and I’m going to give him one instead. Now Tim was a freshman when I was a senior and his growth spurt was still three years off. As such Tim might have been all of four foot eleven. I remember him being shorter than me by a considerable distance and I’m not that tall now. Tim developed what can only be called a “Straight Boy Crush” on yours truly. A part of this was probably that I actually knew the kind of music he liked (kid was a huge fan of classical) and didn’t give him shit for not knowing who Nirvana was. Side note: When that band came out, I was the only person in my class that knew it was a state of mental awareness and not just some dirty guys from Seattle thrashing away at instruments in post punk rock rage.
Now, a note about me in high school. I stopped wearing jeans as soon as I started picking out my own clothes. I never found them comfortable, I never liked them. So I worse sweatpants or dockers. I wore t-shirts and flannel shirts because of comfort, to this day a cable knit sweater at Christmas receives a hearty “Have you actually met me?” And over that was a grey trench coat and a fedora to top it off. Not a trilby! A fedora is a felt hat that looks sexy as fuck. A trilby is a doucheflag worn on the top of a douche to give instant identification of docheiness. As you might have noticed over the years, I ran out of fucks three days before my fifteenth birthday. I had quietly used up a life time supply, and from then on it was me and honey badger for life. I didn’t choose the honey badger, honey badger chose me. Although, the honey badger is not my spirit animal. My spirit animal is a two slice toaster, which is fitting when you think about it.
I didn’t listen to popular music, I listened to old Jazz, new Jazz, Prince, Mannheim Steamroller, Blues Traveler, Narada and Windham Hill collections, classical music, Irish folk music and so on. I threw some popular stuff in there, but it would get lost in so much else that no one could say with any regularity what was going to come up next. By the time I was a senior, everyone knew that trying to start shit with me was a one way ticket to Scaryville. Since I never beat a person, but rather grabbed their pressure points and explained to them in a soft, calm voice that despite what they thought, it didn’t actually hurt yet, but I could make it hurt. The last time someone had decided to snatch my hat as a gag, they were unprepared for how fast I turned, grabbed them by the throat and smashed their head down into the lunch table. This happened in the cafeteria in front of about four hundred thousand witnesses. When I didn’t beat the hell out of the guy, but simply explained “You don’t ever touch my hat, understand?” and wouldn’t let him up until he agreed that he understood and was very sorry and could he please run away forever now... that story was blown all out of proportion if you’ve heard it from another source. I didn’t even hit the guy, much less kill him. Point is though, no one fucked with the hat after that.
Except girls, who all wanted to be allowed to wear it, which I still don’t understand. It didn’t fit them and I could only tell they were winking because their cheek twitched, since the brim covered their eye, what did they want? Seriously?
So here is what Tim saw “That guy, THAT GUY! He walks around wearing a hat from before the dawn of cool. Mutha’ fucka’ is like proto-cool. He’s so cool that cool would have to chill out before it was as cool as him. And he doesn’t give people shit about not liking popular stuff, he even knows about classical and prefers Satie's Gymnopédies to Pachelbel’s Canon which I didn’t even know was allowed and maybe it isn’t, but dude ran out of fucks to give in 1982! I mean... just... holy shit dude!”
Now Tim missed a lot, having only seen the end result. He didn’t see the questioning, the bullying, the struggling, the second guessing, the fact that I had like, five friends total, or the fact that I was kind of sticking with the hat and coat at that point out of sheer bloody-mindedness. At least, I think I was, hard to tell at this stage. I need a new hat, and I very much need a new long coat. This isn’t important. Tim only saw the fact that the coolest dude in the room was a guy who didn’t much care, and did what he wanted to do and nobody could touch him. Hard for a very short 14 year old not to see that as a thing to be looked up to.
So Tim bought a hat and a coat. His was a wider brimmed chocolate brown fedora, and he got a brown London Fog trench coat. I was sporting a black hat and gray coat, so he wasn’t copying me completely, but he was super-proud of getting his shit together like I had. I told him it was cool while internally going “No, this is my look, get your own.” but not saying it because he was super-proud and I was clearly his hero. Heroes can’t just shit on somebody who announces “I’m gonna grow up to be just like you!” because... well you can’t! If I were older, I might have been sitting there having a two-word story “Skinsuit? Skinsuit!”
Now, is Tim a hipster? No, Tim is just a kid who wants to achieve something. He knows the hat is important, and the not giving even a percentage of a fuck, and the coat seems to play a roll. No, I think the third kid in this line, the one who has a straight boy crush on Tim, who only hears “I don’t give a shit, don’t listen to anything mainstream, get a hat.” I think maybe he’s the hipster. He never saw the original cool person (Mike) or the original long haired hippie (Neil) or even the angry punk (Vivian) he only saw the enthusiastic kid who was still trying to figure it all out and was wearing a hat not because Dana Andrews and Humphrey Bogart and Cary Grant (who I will crush on forever) wore the hat, but because one he knew in school wore it. That third kids saw the hat, found actual fedoras hard to come by (Seriously you have no idea how hard it was to find a fedora in 1990’s Michigan) and just bought a trilby because you could still get those at Sears. He didn’t know that the not listening to mainstream was less because I got off on other things, and thought it was because there was something inherently wrong with it. Which is wrong, there are good songs and bad songs, and while I rejected some popular music I listened to stuff that was on the charts as well.
The fourth kid in this line? That kid is TOTALLY a hipster, and probably a real douche-canoe too. His connection to this idea of cool is totally lost, he doesn’t even know that the guy who wore a fedora and sweatpants ever existed, but the hat and the coat remain as a sort of racial memory. With no understanding at all about the original cool, and with elements having dropped off over time, he thinks not caring is the key. So he has to make sure you understand how much he doesn’t care, and how very much he doesn’t listen to mainstream music. He’s going to tell you these things, because in reality he does care and he does listen to Mylie Cyrus, but thinks that’s not cool. He’s lost the fact that the original cool person thought I Love Your Smile was actually a great little song.
And that’s what happened, a person does a thing, a second person decides the first person is a Cool Person® and copies that person. Perhaps a little ersatz, but an acceptable step in self production. A third person admires the second person, and makes a copy. Now we have a copy of a copy. What made the first person so super-cool that he was constantly covered in liquefied oxygen (the sense of confidence needed to wear sweatpants with a fedora) has been lost in translation. The copies are more and more inferior, and the idea of cool has actually been splintered in a rather glorious way.
The Internet has ensured that there were never be a Monolithic Fonzie Model of Cool ever again. Cool has become like beauty, in the eye of the beholder, but we all know what the identifiers are. If we sat down and did some sciencey shit, we could probably say that this, this and this are part of the cool formula. Problem is, I was part of the, drugs, sex and self-harming Art Team. I couldn’t be doing with the writing shit down and taking measurements Science Side. Now it’s all down to what you like, what you think is cool, and who has the confidence to pull off whatever it is their doing. Probably some sort of honesty is in there too, but my brain is starting to hurt and I need some drugs or sex or something.
I never thought of myself as cool, until it was pointed out to me through the fact of someone wanting to look like me so much he went out and bought parts of his wardrobe to mimic parts of mine. It was around that time that I started to think, “Heeeey”
As a result, I’ve begun to think that me, and people like me, might be responsible for Hipsters. I’m not sorry, but I will admit I could have been a better steward of The Cool.
Friday, March 21, 2014
Fred Phelps' Legacy
You know, though his antics, Fred Phelps made a lot of people realize how silly homophobia was. He really made people sit back with wonder, and ask themselves if the problem wasn't internal. He gave a perfect emblem that people could point to and ask "Are you like him?" when the question of homosexuality came up. Fred Phelps was, if anything the greatest force in the universe for the advancement of gay rights. By trolling everyone so stupendously, he got people who would have taken decades to even admit the humanity of the other ally themselves in this cause.
And all those people who had more or less decided to just keep quite about it. Who thought that the gays weren't doing any harm, but didn't want to get involved? You picket a soldier's funeral and they get involved. Suddenly it was about all of us! It gave them the courage to speak their mind, say as they find, and announce that he was an asshole. 78 year old church goer this week told me she thought he was an asshole. Awesome. Every time someone noticed what a raging dickhead Phelps and his clan were, the further they wanted to be from agreeing with them.
THANKS FRED! Your legacy is that some very (formerly) homophobic people I know examined their reasons, found them lacking and switched sides. You made the world markedly less homophobic. Couldn't have done it without you.
And all those people who had more or less decided to just keep quite about it. Who thought that the gays weren't doing any harm, but didn't want to get involved? You picket a soldier's funeral and they get involved. Suddenly it was about all of us! It gave them the courage to speak their mind, say as they find, and announce that he was an asshole. 78 year old church goer this week told me she thought he was an asshole. Awesome. Every time someone noticed what a raging dickhead Phelps and his clan were, the further they wanted to be from agreeing with them.
THANKS FRED! Your legacy is that some very (formerly) homophobic people I know examined their reasons, found them lacking and switched sides. You made the world markedly less homophobic. Couldn't have done it without you.
Thursday, March 20, 2014
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
Genghis Khan Would Have Taken Bitchin' Selfies
Genghis Khan's empire stretched from Iran to Korea. He basically got all of China and most of Russia and his name was actually Temujin, but we'll ignore that for now. The larger issue is, if he'd had cellphones he'd have gotten a lot more done. With cell net technology, he could have expanded to encompass all of Eurasia. And he would have used Text messaging if available. He not only would he have texted while riding a horse, he would have taken bitchin' selfies and photo bombed them with the head of some dude he just chopped off.
You know why? Because there was nothing in that man's life that wasn't totally bitchin'! ALSO! Because he was a brilliant man who used all the technology, organizational skill and leadership techniques that were at his fingertips. He wouldn't have pretended that this or that tech was a fad, or below him. He would have used it to the fullest extent and pretending that he wouldn't is just ignorant bullshit. George Washington would have used Twitter (more likely Thomas Paine would have run the official Revolutionary Army's Twitter account) to tell the French how much is sucked freezing to death at Valley Forge, The Impressionists would have had a Facebook Group, and if the Algonquin Round Table could have utilized whatever the hell Google is calling their videochat service this week, you can bet your ass they would have.
You aren't even a Luddite! THAT was a reaction to mill owners being dickheads, and not the machines that actually powered the mills. Their complaint was one of economics and not technophobia. If anything, the Luddites were just an early trade union. The only reason any of these people went without these things is that they hadn't been invented yet and if Eilmer of Malmesbury had gotten his glider to work a little better, or Hero of Alexandria hadn't been killed, maybe it would have all kicked off sooner!
Pretending some kind of superiority, either moral or intellectual, because "These damn kids" are ahead of the technological curve and you don't like it, is just bullshit. And if y'all don't know who Eilmer of Malmesbury is, then how can you claim to be intellectually superior to anyone? My CAT knows who Eilmer of Malmesbury is. That ain't a deep cut, that's just basic aviation history son.
You know why? Because there was nothing in that man's life that wasn't totally bitchin'! ALSO! Because he was a brilliant man who used all the technology, organizational skill and leadership techniques that were at his fingertips. He wouldn't have pretended that this or that tech was a fad, or below him. He would have used it to the fullest extent and pretending that he wouldn't is just ignorant bullshit. George Washington would have used Twitter (more likely Thomas Paine would have run the official Revolutionary Army's Twitter account) to tell the French how much is sucked freezing to death at Valley Forge, The Impressionists would have had a Facebook Group, and if the Algonquin Round Table could have utilized whatever the hell Google is calling their videochat service this week, you can bet your ass they would have.
You aren't even a Luddite! THAT was a reaction to mill owners being dickheads, and not the machines that actually powered the mills. Their complaint was one of economics and not technophobia. If anything, the Luddites were just an early trade union. The only reason any of these people went without these things is that they hadn't been invented yet and if Eilmer of Malmesbury had gotten his glider to work a little better, or Hero of Alexandria hadn't been killed, maybe it would have all kicked off sooner!
Pretending some kind of superiority, either moral or intellectual, because "These damn kids" are ahead of the technological curve and you don't like it, is just bullshit. And if y'all don't know who Eilmer of Malmesbury is, then how can you claim to be intellectually superior to anyone? My CAT knows who Eilmer of Malmesbury is. That ain't a deep cut, that's just basic aviation history son.
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
Sunday, March 16, 2014
Saturday, March 15, 2014
Can we talk about this "You're an Inspiration... Fatty" bullshit for a moment?
Can we talk about this "You're an Inspiration... Fatty" bullshit for a moment?
Read this, now read this.
Okay, got all that? What we have here is “fit” people bullying “not fit” people (air quotes because the idea of fitness is rarely what you think it is). That really is it. The tone of every single one of these is "Oh, look at you, you fatty, actually trying to do something... that's adorable!" Gosh, why don't out of shape people go to the gym more? Could it be because fit people shame and degrade them at every turn? Maybe? Calling someone “Fatty” over and over again is not something a friendly person does, it’s what a bully does. If not to insult or degrade, then why use the insulting term? Why start off in a way that’s going to make it sound like an insult, which it is, if you want someone to feel good? Not only that, but loading up on the stereotypes that you just assume someone conforms to.... fuck off forever and die by the hands of an angry mob of china dolls. When you praise an overweight person for running and explain that each step is paying off another chocolate bar, I have to ask, do you praise a black person for speaking so well? I mean, you have the most worthless piece of shit imaginable, and the only thing they can do to make themselves feel better it to point out that someone else isn’t in peak physical condition. Sometimes they try to pretend they’re putting a positive spin on it, but that’s just so much more bullshit and you know it.
That got off to a nasty start, but I know bullying when I see it and when I see it, the red mist comes a rushin’ in and all I can do is be mean.
Let’s talk about my personal journey for a second, okay? I used to be in super good shape, and the gods weren’t just kind when they sculpted my features. Quite frankly, they were showing off at that point. I was lithe and sexy and your girlfriend wanted to do me so hard it hurt a little when she looked at me. Your boyfriend wanted me too, don’t pretend my hotness didn’t transcend gender or preference. I was looked on by straight men as someone who could turn them, alright?
And then something happened in my early to middle 20s. Let’s call it depression because that’s an easy enough single-word concept for people to get right about now. So I drank a lot of pop to stave off the darkness, and eat a lot of food to fill up the emptiness inside. The only emotions I had were “tired” or “horny” or “angry” and I was just lucky they were socially acceptable for a man to feel. After a while, someone I loved left me because she couldn’t take watching me destroy myself anymore. There were other reasons, but I’m not going to expose my whole being to you right now. Point is, I decided I needed to do something and came up with a multi-stagerocket to take out London plan to get back to my idea of humanity.
Now here is the important part – Your idea of why a person should get fit is not my idea. In fact, unless you know me really well, you probably have no idea how my mind works or what it’s given reasons for things are.
I don’t much give a fuck about my body image. It’s a sack of meat to carry around my brain, and as such isn’t that important to me. My body image issues are things I know are ultimately cosmetic. Looking good isn’t an issue for me. If nothing else, I’m a white American male. Men aren’t “chubby”, we’re “Cuddly” and we aren’t “skinny” either, we get to be “Lithe” and when we start to go gray at the temples that shit is “Distinguished” because we go from “Fuckable” to “Fuckable for different reasons” in this world. That’s not everyone’s experience, but we’re talking about my personal journey.
So body image is out. Do I want to be able to “Do more stuff without getting winded” or some such thing? No. I’m actually fairly active. I work in retail, I walk for 8 hours a day. That was stage 2: Get a job, move around. Nailed it, I’m still on the floor, but now I’m management. I have mild asthma, so I get winded no matter what, but I always tried to run anyway because that’s what you do when you’re young. I still run sometimes, but I make sure to take it a little easier.
Do I want to be stronger? More manly? Physically able to defend myself? Some other bit of patriarchal bullshit? No. I was killing it when I was fit. I learned like, a dozen martial arts, some of them involving swords, knives and sticks. I know three different forms of sword fighting (Kendo, Fencing, Broadsword) I can do Boxing, Judo, Karate Kung-Fu, Greco-Roman Wrestling, and so on and so on. Worse yet, because I was a small kid, most the things I know work even if you’re out of shape or don’t have much muscle mass. I know where it hurts, and I know how to hit there, because when you’re little you just want the fight over as soon as possible. And I’ve been carrying a knife of some kind all the time since I was 18, along with a pocket handkerchief, eye drops and a time telling device (it sounds less weird if you lump it together as a group). So what I’m saying is, basically, the only reason I haven’t killed you is because I don’t want you dead yet.
So why did I buy the dumbbells? Why did I walk at a brisk pace through the park all last summer? Why am I doing these stupid exercises? I am trying to stay alive! Not health wise. Me, my father, my grandfather, his father before him and so on since Ask and Embla have all been far healthier than any three horses. Despite the rotund Nero Wolfe like appearance, my heart pounds in an easy, regular beat that neither work nor drugs has ever been able to get out of rhythm. My lungs are strong and healthy, my liver and kidneys are awesome, and my bowels could make the most delicious sausage you ever ate. Remember, the gods weren’t proud of their work, they were smug.
No, the only problem I have is that when my parents had the party, they forgot to invite a couple of fairies. As a result, one spurned fairy brought dyslexia, the other brought ADD, and the third fairy (who hadn’t been invited to my sister’s party either and was getting pissed by now) gifted me with depression. It put the good looks, the brains, the charm, and the ability to shoot fire from my finger tips into something of a tailspin.
Now, the only thing my doctor was willing to prescribe, since my depression was the “sit quietly in the corner in a dull gray fog” variety and not the actual self-harming variety was exercise. That was all well and good when I was in a dull fog, because you might as well have told me all I had to do was fly to the moon under my own power and I would never be sad again. However, when I had gone through Stages 1-3 I actually started having enough energy to be suicidal. So I said “Oh shit! I’d best put in a 4b or something and buy some motha fuckin dumbbells or some shit.” because I’m still not comfortable enough around people to exercise in front of them. I have that planned for Stage 7, but I’m not enthusiastic about it. Of course, I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of “Go shopping for groceries all by yourself” which was Stage 1, but now that I’ve done it for a couple of years I like it.
So if you see me, one fine spring day, marching down a path with a dumbbell in each hand pumping away with a determined look in my eye... keep your fucking thoughts to yourself. Your input is neither required, nor desired. I am not doing this to get thin, I don’t need encouragement, I’m working this one out on my own. I know I don’t look that fat now, but we’re in Stage 5 and by Stage 5 I should look like I look now. I’ve lost 5 pant sizes since stage 1, even though I weigh EXACTLY the same. Also, these dumbbells are heavy and if I hit you with one, you will cry.
I am doing this to fight off depression, and having this part of my personal journey pointed out to me by someone who has absolutely ZERO idea what it took to just get here feels like bullying. I dealt with a lot of bullies growing up, and I found that putting their face into the ground and making them cry for their mother was an easy way to not get bothered anymore. Remember, I’m carrying heavy metal weights and I am armed with a good sharp knife. Nod, smile, give a thumbs up if you must acknowledge the fact that we have passed each other, but basically leave me the fuck alone. I’m not in a good place, and you probably don’t spend a lot of time thinking “Will I sound helpful here, or will I sound like a condescending asshole” and as such you are always the later.
I am not your inspiration, I’m not even my inspiration, I am just a pile of meat trying to convince it’s brain that there are better things out there than self destruction. I don’t want your encouragement, I’m doing that on my own. I don’t want your advice, I looked this shit up and I know what I’m doing. I really don’t want you trying to offer helpful criticism of my method of working out. I am walking with weights because that is what I have decided to do today. Trying to tell me there are better ways to work out, without understanding my goal (and you didn’t even know that Stage 1 was “Go to the grocery store and buy groceries by yourself” so shut up) feels like you just stopped a stranger to tell them they’re wrong for not doing what you’re doing. I don’t wish to sound mean, or nasty, but there is literally no nice way to put this... I will fucking cut you. I would fucking cut you if you approached me and told me my hair was too long or that my Poly lifestyle was against the made-up laws of the god you made up yesterday and I will tear into you if you try and explain that I’m working on my own shit in a manner that isn’t approved of by you or whatever guru you’re following this week.
Worse yet, I might not cut you. I might just tear into you verbally, and I’ve got 30 fucking years of old books, filled with acidic comments and flowery language that can make you feel about two inches high. I’m not well, I haven’t been well and I’m probably not going to be well for some time. And as for trying to “Encourage” some other “Fatty” as you jog though your life, god help you if you decide to “Encourage” someone like me who is only at Stage 2. I was extremely nasty at Stage 2, it would be embarrassing to see one you genetic lottery winners with a face full of gravel while some “Fatty” explains through what I would be willing to swear in court was “Merely an interpretive dance” that there is a hell of a lot of “Muscle” that you can’t see under all that “Fat” and a fair few of us had to learn how to fight because some asshole like you picked us as the thing you’d stand on to make yourself feel taller for that day.
AND! If you are one of those people, like me, who is fighting the good fight, trying to get over your own brain chemistry and an addiction that science told me this week was more powerful than cocaine or heroin, all I can say to you is fight on. Don’t let the bastards win! Even someone like me who physically won the genetic lottery can fall from grace. It happens, and each of these Stages was super hard. Stage One was practically paralyzing the first time. Stage Two was incredibly hard and I thought I’d gotten done with Stage 3 four, fucking, times, before I actually was ready to move onto Stage 4. You will slip, you will fall, or at least you will if you’re anything like me. I slipped up, fell down, gave up and tried again. Just try. Fuck what Yoda said, you fucking TRY all you can.
Read this, now read this.
Okay, got all that? What we have here is “fit” people bullying “not fit” people (air quotes because the idea of fitness is rarely what you think it is). That really is it. The tone of every single one of these is "Oh, look at you, you fatty, actually trying to do something... that's adorable!" Gosh, why don't out of shape people go to the gym more? Could it be because fit people shame and degrade them at every turn? Maybe? Calling someone “Fatty” over and over again is not something a friendly person does, it’s what a bully does. If not to insult or degrade, then why use the insulting term? Why start off in a way that’s going to make it sound like an insult, which it is, if you want someone to feel good? Not only that, but loading up on the stereotypes that you just assume someone conforms to.... fuck off forever and die by the hands of an angry mob of china dolls. When you praise an overweight person for running and explain that each step is paying off another chocolate bar, I have to ask, do you praise a black person for speaking so well? I mean, you have the most worthless piece of shit imaginable, and the only thing they can do to make themselves feel better it to point out that someone else isn’t in peak physical condition. Sometimes they try to pretend they’re putting a positive spin on it, but that’s just so much more bullshit and you know it.
That got off to a nasty start, but I know bullying when I see it and when I see it, the red mist comes a rushin’ in and all I can do is be mean.
Let’s talk about my personal journey for a second, okay? I used to be in super good shape, and the gods weren’t just kind when they sculpted my features. Quite frankly, they were showing off at that point. I was lithe and sexy and your girlfriend wanted to do me so hard it hurt a little when she looked at me. Your boyfriend wanted me too, don’t pretend my hotness didn’t transcend gender or preference. I was looked on by straight men as someone who could turn them, alright?
And then something happened in my early to middle 20s. Let’s call it depression because that’s an easy enough single-word concept for people to get right about now. So I drank a lot of pop to stave off the darkness, and eat a lot of food to fill up the emptiness inside. The only emotions I had were “tired” or “horny” or “angry” and I was just lucky they were socially acceptable for a man to feel. After a while, someone I loved left me because she couldn’t take watching me destroy myself anymore. There were other reasons, but I’m not going to expose my whole being to you right now. Point is, I decided I needed to do something and came up with a multi-stage
Now here is the important part – Your idea of why a person should get fit is not my idea. In fact, unless you know me really well, you probably have no idea how my mind works or what it’s given reasons for things are.
I don’t much give a fuck about my body image. It’s a sack of meat to carry around my brain, and as such isn’t that important to me. My body image issues are things I know are ultimately cosmetic. Looking good isn’t an issue for me. If nothing else, I’m a white American male. Men aren’t “chubby”, we’re “Cuddly” and we aren’t “skinny” either, we get to be “Lithe” and when we start to go gray at the temples that shit is “Distinguished” because we go from “Fuckable” to “Fuckable for different reasons” in this world. That’s not everyone’s experience, but we’re talking about my personal journey.
So body image is out. Do I want to be able to “Do more stuff without getting winded” or some such thing? No. I’m actually fairly active. I work in retail, I walk for 8 hours a day. That was stage 2: Get a job, move around. Nailed it, I’m still on the floor, but now I’m management. I have mild asthma, so I get winded no matter what, but I always tried to run anyway because that’s what you do when you’re young. I still run sometimes, but I make sure to take it a little easier.
Do I want to be stronger? More manly? Physically able to defend myself? Some other bit of patriarchal bullshit? No. I was killing it when I was fit. I learned like, a dozen martial arts, some of them involving swords, knives and sticks. I know three different forms of sword fighting (Kendo, Fencing, Broadsword) I can do Boxing, Judo, Karate Kung-Fu, Greco-Roman Wrestling, and so on and so on. Worse yet, because I was a small kid, most the things I know work even if you’re out of shape or don’t have much muscle mass. I know where it hurts, and I know how to hit there, because when you’re little you just want the fight over as soon as possible. And I’ve been carrying a knife of some kind all the time since I was 18, along with a pocket handkerchief, eye drops and a time telling device (it sounds less weird if you lump it together as a group). So what I’m saying is, basically, the only reason I haven’t killed you is because I don’t want you dead yet.
So why did I buy the dumbbells? Why did I walk at a brisk pace through the park all last summer? Why am I doing these stupid exercises? I am trying to stay alive! Not health wise. Me, my father, my grandfather, his father before him and so on since Ask and Embla have all been far healthier than any three horses. Despite the rotund Nero Wolfe like appearance, my heart pounds in an easy, regular beat that neither work nor drugs has ever been able to get out of rhythm. My lungs are strong and healthy, my liver and kidneys are awesome, and my bowels could make the most delicious sausage you ever ate. Remember, the gods weren’t proud of their work, they were smug.
No, the only problem I have is that when my parents had the party, they forgot to invite a couple of fairies. As a result, one spurned fairy brought dyslexia, the other brought ADD, and the third fairy (who hadn’t been invited to my sister’s party either and was getting pissed by now) gifted me with depression. It put the good looks, the brains, the charm, and the ability to shoot fire from my finger tips into something of a tailspin.
Now, the only thing my doctor was willing to prescribe, since my depression was the “sit quietly in the corner in a dull gray fog” variety and not the actual self-harming variety was exercise. That was all well and good when I was in a dull fog, because you might as well have told me all I had to do was fly to the moon under my own power and I would never be sad again. However, when I had gone through Stages 1-3 I actually started having enough energy to be suicidal. So I said “Oh shit! I’d best put in a 4b or something and buy some motha fuckin dumbbells or some shit.” because I’m still not comfortable enough around people to exercise in front of them. I have that planned for Stage 7, but I’m not enthusiastic about it. Of course, I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of “Go shopping for groceries all by yourself” which was Stage 1, but now that I’ve done it for a couple of years I like it.
So if you see me, one fine spring day, marching down a path with a dumbbell in each hand pumping away with a determined look in my eye... keep your fucking thoughts to yourself. Your input is neither required, nor desired. I am not doing this to get thin, I don’t need encouragement, I’m working this one out on my own. I know I don’t look that fat now, but we’re in Stage 5 and by Stage 5 I should look like I look now. I’ve lost 5 pant sizes since stage 1, even though I weigh EXACTLY the same. Also, these dumbbells are heavy and if I hit you with one, you will cry.
I am doing this to fight off depression, and having this part of my personal journey pointed out to me by someone who has absolutely ZERO idea what it took to just get here feels like bullying. I dealt with a lot of bullies growing up, and I found that putting their face into the ground and making them cry for their mother was an easy way to not get bothered anymore. Remember, I’m carrying heavy metal weights and I am armed with a good sharp knife. Nod, smile, give a thumbs up if you must acknowledge the fact that we have passed each other, but basically leave me the fuck alone. I’m not in a good place, and you probably don’t spend a lot of time thinking “Will I sound helpful here, or will I sound like a condescending asshole” and as such you are always the later.
I am not your inspiration, I’m not even my inspiration, I am just a pile of meat trying to convince it’s brain that there are better things out there than self destruction. I don’t want your encouragement, I’m doing that on my own. I don’t want your advice, I looked this shit up and I know what I’m doing. I really don’t want you trying to offer helpful criticism of my method of working out. I am walking with weights because that is what I have decided to do today. Trying to tell me there are better ways to work out, without understanding my goal (and you didn’t even know that Stage 1 was “Go to the grocery store and buy groceries by yourself” so shut up) feels like you just stopped a stranger to tell them they’re wrong for not doing what you’re doing. I don’t wish to sound mean, or nasty, but there is literally no nice way to put this... I will fucking cut you. I would fucking cut you if you approached me and told me my hair was too long or that my Poly lifestyle was against the made-up laws of the god you made up yesterday and I will tear into you if you try and explain that I’m working on my own shit in a manner that isn’t approved of by you or whatever guru you’re following this week.
Worse yet, I might not cut you. I might just tear into you verbally, and I’ve got 30 fucking years of old books, filled with acidic comments and flowery language that can make you feel about two inches high. I’m not well, I haven’t been well and I’m probably not going to be well for some time. And as for trying to “Encourage” some other “Fatty” as you jog though your life, god help you if you decide to “Encourage” someone like me who is only at Stage 2. I was extremely nasty at Stage 2, it would be embarrassing to see one you genetic lottery winners with a face full of gravel while some “Fatty” explains through what I would be willing to swear in court was “Merely an interpretive dance” that there is a hell of a lot of “Muscle” that you can’t see under all that “Fat” and a fair few of us had to learn how to fight because some asshole like you picked us as the thing you’d stand on to make yourself feel taller for that day.
AND! If you are one of those people, like me, who is fighting the good fight, trying to get over your own brain chemistry and an addiction that science told me this week was more powerful than cocaine or heroin, all I can say to you is fight on. Don’t let the bastards win! Even someone like me who physically won the genetic lottery can fall from grace. It happens, and each of these Stages was super hard. Stage One was practically paralyzing the first time. Stage Two was incredibly hard and I thought I’d gotten done with Stage 3 four, fucking, times, before I actually was ready to move onto Stage 4. You will slip, you will fall, or at least you will if you’re anything like me. I slipped up, fell down, gave up and tried again. Just try. Fuck what Yoda said, you fucking TRY all you can.
Friday, March 14, 2014
Wednesday, March 12, 2014
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
Book Lists
I always find lists like this one about Underrated Novels by Great Authors a little troubling. Not because I assume snobbery on the part of the writer, I'm not getting that vibe from this. There ARE plenty of lists out there that are just "If you read/don't read these, then you are a worthless asshole who shouldn't even be allowed to read my blog GET OFF MY BLOG!" however, this isn't one of those.
This is just someone saying "HEY! These are great stories and if you like great stories then these are some stories you might want to read and maybe you don't know about them, and that's why I'm telling you!" which I'm always fine with. Any time you want to share what makes you joyful, I will listen.
No, they're troubling because I have that moment of "Aw man. Now I've got eight more books to throw on the every growing pile of books that I haven't been able to get to, but would probably really enjoy." Because the world is FULL of books. It's eight because I've read two of these, you guess which two. There are more books in a single local library than you could read in a lifetime.
This is just someone saying "HEY! These are great stories and if you like great stories then these are some stories you might want to read and maybe you don't know about them, and that's why I'm telling you!" which I'm always fine with. Any time you want to share what makes you joyful, I will listen.
No, they're troubling because I have that moment of "Aw man. Now I've got eight more books to throw on the every growing pile of books that I haven't been able to get to, but would probably really enjoy." Because the world is FULL of books. It's eight because I've read two of these, you guess which two. There are more books in a single local library than you could read in a lifetime.
Monday, March 10, 2014
Sunday, March 9, 2014
Friday, March 7, 2014
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
Music
We had a rather rambling discussion about music at dinner tonight. Rather than tell you about it (which would be pointless) I would rather give you the songs and you can try and see what the hell lead to that one. And all these songs did play off to the side, because we live in an episode of The Young Ones.
Monday, March 3, 2014
Sunday, March 2, 2014
Popcorn- SRS BZNZ!
When I was a kid, we had a heavy metal pot. It was awesome. It had sides about a quarter of an inch thick, and a lid you could use to kill a donkey with (4th Birthday (Don't ask)) It was the sort of thing that would cause guys in leather jackets to point and yell "NOW THAT'S METAL!" because I knew that kind of metal head. The wooden handle had warped so badly that it just spun around on the shaft, so you could only manipulate the evil son of a bitch with pot holders and nerves of steel. It was a demon for popcorn. A veritable popcorn popping djinn that was so perfect, the gods themselves would weep.
My father foolishly allowed my sister to take it with her when she moved, and I've never found anything as good since. It's hard to look someone trying to sell you a lovely dutch oven and tell them "This is insufficient to mine dark designs" because putting mine in a sentence like that is sort of unwieldy, but you have to do it right. Even the closest thing I've found doesn't match up.
Syd favors the Whirley Pop design, but Syd doesn't know any better. I'm pretty sure she was raised by wolves. She doesn't understand my disdain for the aluminum abomination she has brought into our home. At least she doesn't try to foist some air popper on our household.
I am alone, I am bereft, I am without proper popcorn.
I'd say that cry myself to sleep, but that insinuates I ever sleep...
My father foolishly allowed my sister to take it with her when she moved, and I've never found anything as good since. It's hard to look someone trying to sell you a lovely dutch oven and tell them "This is insufficient to mine dark designs" because putting mine in a sentence like that is sort of unwieldy, but you have to do it right. Even the closest thing I've found doesn't match up.
Syd favors the Whirley Pop design, but Syd doesn't know any better. I'm pretty sure she was raised by wolves. She doesn't understand my disdain for the aluminum abomination she has brought into our home. At least she doesn't try to foist some air popper on our household.
I am alone, I am bereft, I am without proper popcorn.
I'd say that cry myself to sleep, but that insinuates I ever sleep...
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