Is due to truths being in and out of favor.
"The Black Cottage" (1914)- Robert Frost
"The Black Cottage" (1914)- Robert Frost
Sunday, October 05, 2014
Saturday, October 04, 2014
There's No Other Way
You're taking the fun out of everything
And making me run when I don't want to think
You're taking the fun out of everything
I don't want to think at all
There's no other way
There's no other way
All that you can do
Is watch them play
There's no other way
There's no other way
All that you can do
Is watch them play
You're taking the fun out of everything
You're making it clear when I don't want to think
You're taking me up when I don't want to go up anymore
I'm just watching it all
There's no other way
There's no other way
All that you can do
Is watch them play
I'll watch you play
I'll watch you play
There's no other way
There's no other way
All that you can do
Is watch them play
There's no other way
There's no other way
All that you can do
Is watch them play
There's no other way
There's no other way
All that you can do
Is watch them play
There's no other way
There's no other way
All that you can do
Is watch them play
Friday, October 03, 2014
Honor Among Thieves
I know I’m late arriving to the action, but I wanted to reference the recent Emma Watson speech before the UN regarding women’s rights. Watson’s rhetoric, overly simplistic and incomplete as it is, nevertheless implores men to take part in the struggle of women. On this point I do enthusiastically agree with her synopsis. I don’t think feminism will succeed if it remains a discipline that is the purview of women alone. Its books and language are pushed to a quiet corner of stores, utterly overlooked by those without an interest in gender studies or women’s studies.
As it stands now, it is true that some men associate feminism, wrongly, with misandry and man-hating. Similarly, I have encountered women who are nursing a series of complicated grievances towards men based on traumatic personal experiences. I respond by saying that the passage of time can be remarkably healing. Partially following my example, I have noticed other Quaker young men who want to embrace the title of male ally as fully as I have. I have directed the curious to the two or three websites who keep the fires burning. Those willing to learn the nomenclature and the hot button issues need to study on their own time. No guides for male allies exist. I had to take a natural curiosity and proceed from there, but my fascination with the subject matter was enough that I learned my way around eventually.
An impediment in my path were the beliefs and attitudes of some. For the past several years, I have repeatedly left comments on a blog geared specifically for young feminists. Entitled Feministe, it is followed by a motley gang of skeptics and malcontents. I’ve gotten in trouble for introducing my religious beliefs in the comment section. The anti-organized religion attitude and sneering skepticism of many has given me reason to emphasize and re-emphasize that my faith gave women a more-or-less equal say 400 years ago, putting it squarely ahead of the curve by at least a couple centuries.
Other posters have made an assumption that I was proselytizing and have not been especially understanding of the repetition. If I’ve reinforced my view multiple times, it has been to remind everyone that organized religion is capable of getting it right as it is getting it wrong. It is easy for forget the work of our ancestors, be they plainly dressed or suffragette. At this particular website, many associate Christianity only with terrible things. Most are reacting to the Evangelical, conservative Religious Right’s take on religion, which is not the same. Liberal Christianity is quite different, and not much different in many ways to their own beliefs as the self-appointed members of the commentariat.
This group I’ve noted above believed that I was desperate to be validated as a worthwhile person, wanting to hear copious praise for good deeds. That isn’t what I ever intended, nor will I ever. I see enough good liberal, good Quaker back-patting regularly. It’s obnoxious. I see it particularly with Baby Boomer Friends who marched with Martin Luther King and committed themselves to the Civil Rights Movement. Now, later in life, they seek to enshrine their good deeds forevermore and want to be revered for it.
Fortunately, this is not the only permutation of Quaker thought, though it may be dominant. Many men who are young adult Quakers activists like me want to be male allies, knowing it is important for the cause of women’s rights to move forward with our help. They are not deterred by the stigma attached by many to the word “feminism.”
After all, I live and work within a faith tradition where women are often the majority. During my leadership work, I am in the company of at least as many women as men, and probably more. Women give regular vocal ministry in Meeting for Worship, serve on committees, and take active roles. If I were intimidated by the empowerment of women, I would never have stayed where I have for as long as I have.
A recent article in the Washington Post shares a recent trend.
Is Feminism the new fad cause, whittled and pared down to its lowest common denominator? To me, anyone who embraces the label ought to have an intellectual and emotional understanding. For those like me who gotten actively involved in the ideas discussed in feminist circles, it’s easy to demand the same aspect of devotion and commitment. In my own faith group, many Friends know the basic parameters of Quaker theology, but only the card- carrying types like me have dug into our past and our rich terminology.
The argument which remains is that of purity. Each of us thinks ourselves as something of experts on a couple of issues here and there. We’ve worked hard and taken the time to enrich ourselves, and we want others to take the same leap as we have. Feminism reinforces its own causes, the prevention of sexual assault being especially prominent. I might get frustrated with this constant reprisal, but I know how important it is to end violence towards women. Whether it bothers me or not, feminist writers and activists will keep the message fresh in the minds of those who take on its causes and its cross.
After all, I live and work within a faith tradition where women are often the majority. During my leadership work, I am in the company of at least as many women as men, and probably more. Women give regular vocal ministry in Meeting for Worship, serve on committees, and take active roles. If I were intimidated by the empowerment of women, I would never have stayed where I have for as long as I have.
A recent article in the Washington Post shares a recent trend.
Do you consider yourself a feminist?”
This question is being posed to female celebrities more frequently than ever. In between Tell us about your new album! and What are the downsides of being a superstar? it comes out, some say, like a double-edged sword.
“It’s like a litmus test of some kind,” says Jaclyn Friedman, founder and executive director of Women, Action and the Media. If the celeb says she is a feminist, she risks isolating fans who don’t identify as such. If she says she is not a feminist, it’s almost guaranteed to become the story’s headline.
Is Feminism the new fad cause, whittled and pared down to its lowest common denominator? To me, anyone who embraces the label ought to have an intellectual and emotional understanding. For those like me who gotten actively involved in the ideas discussed in feminist circles, it’s easy to demand the same aspect of devotion and commitment. In my own faith group, many Friends know the basic parameters of Quaker theology, but only the card- carrying types like me have dug into our past and our rich terminology.
The argument which remains is that of purity. Each of us thinks ourselves as something of experts on a couple of issues here and there. We’ve worked hard and taken the time to enrich ourselves, and we want others to take the same leap as we have. Feminism reinforces its own causes, the prevention of sexual assault being especially prominent. I might get frustrated with this constant reprisal, but I know how important it is to end violence towards women. Whether it bothers me or not, feminist writers and activists will keep the message fresh in the minds of those who take on its causes and its cross.
Welcome Back
Hello readers! I returned from my vacation late Wednesday unexpectedly relaxed, having made up for much lost time. One of my sisters and I used to fight like cats and dogs during high school and college, but those days have fortunately ended. As a person of faith, I have to thank God for putting everyone on their best behavior and maintaining decorum and harmony the whole week. I was expecting insulting comments and miscellaneous drama common to a past incarnation, but I think everyone has grown up and finally made positive choices in their lives. Only my little sister is still mad at my parents and didn't take the time to visit with us, but I'm sure she'll grow out of it with the passage of time.
My parents, now fully retired, were as meek as lambs. I'm glad they've had the ability to decompress from forty years work of daily work, often in positions of great authority and stress. Dad had his second ulcer a few months back and lost 40 pounds, but he looks much healthier this way. I hope he keeps the weight off. Mom continues to struggle with severe back pain, but has learned to manage it with pain killers and by recognizing precisely how and why her pain flares up. The last time I saw her she was barely able to walk, but now she can take strides without much difficulty. I wish she wasn't so dependent on pain killers, but I trust her ability to mind her condition successfully.
Their new house is about 45 minutes off of the beach in an artist's commune. I know my mother will be happy among fellow craftsman and my father will eventually find some interest on his own. It really relieves me to not see him launch into angry Fox News political rants for minutes at a time, which characterized our relationship for years. He hasn't lost his blunt personality, but a kind of sweet devotion to his children is what remains. I always was told that this side of him existed, but I didn't believe it until now. He knows he won't live forever and wants to make the most of his retirement.
I've never seen my father, in particular, this docile and kind. He explained that the job he worked for ten years to draw a pension was was stressful and emotional draining. I had no idea how bad the workplace authority really was when he started, which makes me even more glad he has the right to live out the rest of his days away from their. From my perspective, seeing him chilled out and relaxed was the best, most appreciated, most unexpected joy of the entire trip. Men mellow as they get older.
My mother has become a cause lady, throwing her energy behind many worthwhile projects. In particular, she has worked closely with NAMI, the National Association for Mental Illness. Because she has a child (me) with severe bipolar disorder, she has given comfort to family members who have a child with mental illness, keeping them pumped up and informed as best she can. I'm glad for the inspiration, but I like her around more when I'm down for a vacation.
Her motives are altruistic, but a little less so when you consider the goal she seeks to reach. She wants medicine to heal me and other like me eventually. She wants money to be donated to labs and scientists working on more effective treatments for mental illness, and as the eternal optimist, thinks a cure may be discovered in the next ten to twenty years. I certainly hope so, but I don't expect it. Psychiatric medicines are expensive to develop and require much effort and brain power to pass extensive drug trials in order to win FDA approval.
On to my trip. I was in the Gulf Coast of Alabama and Florida, which I and others derisively refer to as the Redneck Riviera. I knew immediately after collecting my bags in Pensacola that I certainly wasn't in Kansas anymore. The number of extremely obese individuals was fairly impressive and almost all of them were cigarette smokers. In DC, people are exercise-conscious, diet-conscious, and health-conscious sometimes to an extreme. Neither way is my favorite.
The working class Southerners I observed had no such priorities. I should add that I smoked cigarettes for 25 years, until I grew out of them and found they were spending money they didn't really have to feed my habit. I'll never regret quitting and would never go back.
I don't want to see as though I'm somehow better than anymore. I merely want to emphasize that the culture shock was intense. Everyone was extremely nice and the small talk, regardless of how banal it was came across as comforting. One of the things about the South I love is the friendliness and unguarded desire to engage random strangers in conversation. People in the North are more suspicious of new people. I for one try to buck tradition and take a bit of the culture into which I was born to my daily dealings, even if this makes some uncomfortable.
There were unforeseen sights and sounds. The hotel we stayed at in Mobile was something of a preferred destination for sex workers and their johns. Around 8 pm, both began to enter the hotel. I encountered one of each on the same elevator as me, making awkward small talk, not mentioning the nature of her services. She was a rough looking woman, but was dressed up in her nicest set of clothes, her makeup heavy, her fingernails immaculately preserved. The john looked desperate to begin.
I think prostitution should be legalized, much as it is in Las Vegas. I consider it a victimless crime and much like the hotel workers they no doubt passed on their way to the elevators, no one sees a need to report it. There are a million loopholes exploited for the sake of plausibility denial. The black market is a poor substitute. Decriminalizing sex work will make a great difference. Men, and even some women feel a burning desire to assuage a biological need. I have no right to judge, particularly because I indulged a time or two before, though not in many years.
I could tell many other stories, but this is a good synopsis, I'm glad to be back inside my apartment, tapping away. I'll be back at full strength next week.
Thursday, October 02, 2014
Back-patting Activism, Bandwagon Jumping, and Feminist Thought
I know I’m late arriving to the action, but I wanted to
reference the recent Emma Watson speech regarding women’s rights. Watson’s
rhetoric, overly simplistic and incomplete as it is, nevertheless implores
men to take part in the struggle of women. On this point I do enthusiastically agree with her
synopsis. I don’t think feminism will succeed if it remains a discipline that is
the purview of women alone. Its books and language are pushed to a quiet corner
of stores, utterly overlooked by those without an interest in gender studies or
women’s studies.
As it stands now, it is true that some men associate feminism, wrongly, with misandry and man-hating. I have encountered women who are nursing a series of complicated grievances towards men based on traumatic personal experiences. The passage of time can be remarkably healing. Partially following my example, I have noticed other Quaker young men who want to embrace the title of male ally as I have.
I have directed the curious to the two or three websites who keep the fires burning. Those willing to learn the nomenclature and the hot button issues need to study on their own time. No guides for male allies exist. I had to take a natural curiosity and proceed from there, but my fascination with the subject matter was enough that I learned my way around eventually.
I have directed the curious to the two or three websites who keep the fires burning. Those willing to learn the nomenclature and the hot button issues need to study on their own time. No guides for male allies exist. I had to take a natural curiosity and proceed from there, but my fascination with the subject matter was enough that I learned my way around eventually.
An impediment in my path were the beliefs and attitudes of some. For the past several years, I have repeatedly left comments on a blog geared specifically for young feminists. Entitled Feministe, it is followed by a motley gang of skeptics and malcontents. I’ve gotten in trouble for introducing my religious beliefs in the comment section. The anti-organized religion attitude and sneering skepticism of many has given me reason to emphasize and re-emphasize that my faith gave women a more-or-less equal say 400 years ago, putting it squarely ahead of the curve by at least a couple centuries.
Other posters have made an assumption that I was proselytizing and have not been especially understanding of the repetition. If I’ve reinforced my view multiple times, it has been to remind everyone that organized religion is capable of getting it right as it is getting it wrong. It is easy for forget the work of our ancestors, plainly dressed or suffragette. At this particular website, many associate Christianity only with terrible things. Most are reacting to the Evangelical, conservative Religious Right’s take on religion, which is not the same. Liberal Christianity is quite different, and not much different in many ways to their own beliefs as self-appointed members of the commentariat.
This group I’ve noted above believed that I was desperate to be validated as a worthwhile person, wanting to hear copious praise for good deeds. That isn’t what I ever intended, nor will I ever. I see enough good liberal, good Quaker back-patting regularly. It’s obnoxious. I see it particularly with Baby Boomer Friends who marched with Martin Luther King and committed themselves to the Civil Rights Movement. Now they seek to enshrine their good deeds forevermore and want to be revered for it. Any number of socially conscious Baby Boomers have been writing one memoir after another.
Fortunately, this is not the only permutation of Quaker thought, though it may be dominant in some corners. Many men who are young adult Quaker activists like me want to be male allies, knowing it is important for the cause of women’s rights to move forward with our help. They are not deterred by the stigma attached by many to the word “feminism.”
After all, I live and work within a faith tradition where women are often the majority. During my leadership work, I am in the company of at least as many women as men, and probably more. Women give regular vocal ministry in Meeting for Worship, serve on committees, and take active roles. If I were somehow intimidated by the empowerment of women, I would never have stayed where I have for as long as I have.
After all, I live and work within a faith tradition where women are often the majority. During my leadership work, I am in the company of at least as many women as men, and probably more. Women give regular vocal ministry in Meeting for Worship, serve on committees, and take active roles. If I were somehow intimidated by the empowerment of women, I would never have stayed where I have for as long as I have.
Do you consider yourself a feminist?”
This question is being posed to female celebrities more frequently than ever. In between Tell us about your new album! and What are the downsides of being a superstar? it comes out, some say, like a double-edged sword.
“It’s like a litmus test of some kind,” says Jaclyn Friedman, founder and executive director of Women, Action and the Media. If the celeb says she is a feminist, she risks isolating fans who don’t identify as such. If she says she is not a feminist, it’s almost guaranteed to become the story’s headline.
Is Feminism the new fad cause, whittled and pared down to its lowest common denominator? To me, anyone who embraces the label ought to have an intellectual and emotional understanding. For those like me who gotten actively involved in the ideas discussed in feminist circles, it’s easy to demand the same aspect of devotion and commitment. In my own faith group, many Friends know the basic parameters of Quaker theology, but only the card-carrying types like me have dug into our past and our rich terminology.
The argument which remains is that of purity. Each of us thinks ourselves as something of expert on a couple of issues here and there. We’ve worked hard and taken the time to enrich ourselves, and we want others to take the same leap as we have. Feminism reinforces its own causes, the prevention of sexual assault being especially prominent. I might get frustrated with this constant reprisal, but I know how important it is to end violence towards men. Whether it bothers me or not, feminist writers and activists will keep the message fresh in the minds of those who take on its causes and its cross.
The argument which remains is that of purity. Each of us thinks ourselves as something of expert on a couple of issues here and there. We’ve worked hard and taken the time to enrich ourselves, and we want others to take the same leap as we have. Feminism reinforces its own causes, the prevention of sexual assault being especially prominent. I might get frustrated with this constant reprisal, but I know how important it is to end violence towards men. Whether it bothers me or not, feminist writers and activists will keep the message fresh in the minds of those who take on its causes and its cross.
Sunday, September 28, 2014
Quote (Poem) of the Week
Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore,
Twenty-eight young men and all so friendly;
Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome.
She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank,
She hides handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window.
Which of the young men does she like the best?
Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her.
Where are you off to, lady? for I see you,
You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room.
Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth bather,
The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.
The beards of the young men glisten’d with wet, it ran from their long
hair,
Little streams pass’d over their bodies.
-Walt Whitman
Saturday, September 27, 2014
Saturday Video
Greetings from the Beach!
I once had a girl
Or should I say
she once had me
She showed me her room
Isn't it good, Norwegian wood?
She asked me to stay
And she told me to sit anywhere
So I looked around
And I noticed there wasn't a chair
I sat on a rug biding my time
Drinking her wine
We talked until two and then she said
"It's time for bed"
She told me she worked
In the morning and started to laugh
I told her I didn't
And crawled off to sleep in the bath
And when I awoke I was alone
This bird had flown
So I lit a fire
Isn't it good, Norwegian wood?
I once had a girl
Or should I say
she once had me
She showed me her room
Isn't it good, Norwegian wood?
She asked me to stay
And she told me to sit anywhere
So I looked around
And I noticed there wasn't a chair
I sat on a rug biding my time
Drinking her wine
We talked until two and then she said
"It's time for bed"
She told me she worked
In the morning and started to laugh
I told her I didn't
And crawled off to sleep in the bath
And when I awoke I was alone
This bird had flown
So I lit a fire
Isn't it good, Norwegian wood?
Friday, September 26, 2014
Up From Pain
On my last day in town, I wanted to share another writer's work. It is a masterfully written memoir about a life with many conflicts and paradoxes. In The Root, Peniel E. Joseph summarizes this unflinchingly honest account this way.
Every man in America—particularly every black man in America—should read New York Times op-ed columnist Charles M. Blow’s recent essay, “Up From Pain,” adapted from his forthcoming memoir about identity, sexual abuse and coming to terms with his own identity as a man.
This work could be my own life story. I hope you will read it yourself if you feel led.
Thursday, September 25, 2014
Doctors and Office Politics
If you’ve ever had to hang around waiting rooms or inside examination rooms as often as often as I have, I know your pain. Later this morning I will have two appointments back to back. Visiting doctors has become a part-time job. I go through the motions, signing in, waiting, having my temperature and blood pressure checked. I sit on a thin sanitary white piece of butcher paper and wait some more. In time, the doctor raps her knuckles against the door and it’s time for me to start talking.
One of my doctors is especially physically attractive. I say that as fact, not as drooling chauvinism. This fact would not be especially notable to everyone if you removed me and my own thoughts completely from the equation. It is likely only important to me and maybe a few others patients, though I inflate the presence of beauty for reasons even I cannot easily understand. Here, I live inside my head, not in rationality.
The primary complaint is that I tend to fall in love with my doctors and caregivers very easily. Responding with logic doesn’t seem to work as well as preventative care. I don’t really know any of these professionals, as much as anyone can innately know someone else who one sees for fifteen minutes at a time, three months a years. Bereft of love and companionship at crucial and formative times in my life, I’m a sucker for a sympathetic ear, presented in soothing maternal tones. I ask redundant questions to keep the doctor in the room, then feel sad when it is time for him or her to leave for their next appointment.
I ascribe being needed to the violence and isolation of my childhood. In those days, I wanted to be saved by someone and I didn’t much care in what package it arrived. A kind face and voice activates something inside me, some primal need carried over from our last evolutionary step. I wanted nothing more than a girlfriend or boyfriend when in high school, and I found them eventually. They are all my lovers to an extent.
But as for doctors, I’m aware that these feelings of mine are not and never will be reciprocated. They can never be, even if they were somehow by luck and dysfunction mutually felt, else careers would be ruined. Other doctors in the city told me that the malpractice laws in the city where I was living were especially punitive. They were written in such a way that it made it especially easy to sue a doctor, which rendered quality of care conservative, exasperating, and inflexible.
And into the middle of this high stress cocktail of paranoia and retribution came me. I was a child from a rough home, an angsty teenager with a hopeless and eternal crush on her English teacher. In fact, I had been so starved for affection that real love in any form was addictive. My imagination ran wild with almost no one's encouragement. It didn’t take much to push me over the edge. I become Thurber’s Walter Mitty quite easily.
A while ago, I was a patient at a medical center, where every employee was housed under the same roof. My primary care doctor was especially skilled at her profession, but I kept running into the same curious reaction among her co-workers. Though never explicitly spelled out, they implied that the doctor had romantic feelings for me. It was like a huge game of I’ve-got-a-secret. Over time, I surmised that she may have said, in complete harmlessness, that she thought I was cute.
In a gossipy, high stress workplace without adequate leadership, drama thrives. While waiting to get a Hepatitis B booster shot, a clinic worker sized me up in a millisecond, scoffing at my presence at even being there. It wasn’t especially professional conduct, but then again, it had not been from the beginning. The nutritionist and I spent our thirty minute sessions small-talking rather than planning out a menu. Time and time again, the doctor kept being introduced into the conversation. I wondered if the doctor was especially socially awkward without a white coat on and that this behavior was tantamount to teasing.
But then reality came crashing down. The drama this kicked up spilled over into the professional relationship between a nurse and the doctor. Theirs had been a contentious relationship from the beginning. A silly crush on my behalf was overshadowed by egocentric power plays and rivalry. The whole time I felt this must be somehow about me, when really I was only a sideshow to office politics. How easy it is to turn everything into sex or romance, when motives go well beyond it.
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
Square Pegs: A Review
Decades before Sex in the City, Sarah Jessica Parker won a degree of renown for her leading role in the CBS television sitcom Square Pegs. A time capsule of the early Eighties, or at least some version of it, the show is nearly forgotten today. Adding a degree of cred, it was created by former Saturday Night Live writer Anne Beatts. Beatts brought along to her new project the tinted and toned photographic montage she'd used for the first several seasons of SNL’s introduction. She also wrote the screenplay of roughly a third of the first and only season.
Though occasionally willing to think outside the box, Square Pegs in many ways is a conventional teen sitcom. Those that followed in years to come were edgier, tighter, and more realistic. A decade later, the ABC network sitcom My So-Called Life pushed the envelope for the whole genre, focusing on realism rather than easy laughs. Roughly around the same time, MTV gave rise to a popular animated series, Daria. Square Pegs mines similar sitcom territory common during its time, including horrible one-liners, awkward teenaged romantic interludes, and lots of talk about boys.
This series passes the Bechdel test, for the most part. Much conversation involves boys, but its primary obsession is popularity. Daria’s main character and Angela Chase of My-So Called Life could care less about their social status. Popularity is not stressed, or if it is, it is mocked. The anti-hero pose of protagonists reflects the social norms of a different era. In Square Pegs, best friends Patty Greene (Sarah Jessica Parker) and Lauren Hutchinson (Amy Linker), are two awkward teenage girls desperate to fit in at high school.
In this day and age, punks and new wavers circumnavigate the periphery, though most kids dress the same as everyone else. One of the regular cast, Johnny "Slash" Ulasewicz (Merritt Butrick), proudly identifies as new wave, down to the skinny ties and solid color shirts. Arcade games are the showcase of one episode, a reminder that there was a time where Pac Man and Donkey Kong were the obsession of many teenagers.
The band The Waitresses, best known for their song “I Know What Boys Like”, contribute the theme song for the series. During the pilot episode, they are featured in person at the tail end of a school dance. Like this show, The Waitresses are nearly a cultural afterthought today, though at the time they were a promising group. New Wave bands had a relatively short shelf life, even the witty, sarcastic ones.
Only Sarah Jessica Parker rose towards greater fame, and hers did not occur overnight. Here we see her at age sixteen, not yet a scene-stealer, but with great potential. She holds her own with the rest of the cast. She would have fit well into the brat pack of a John Hughes comedy, her immediate contemporaries. Where she would not have fit well is the cornball pre-adolescent Saved by the Bell, which aired a few years after Square Pegs’s twenty episode run was canceled in 1983.
Unusual for its time, the writing of Square Pegs was completed almost exclusively by women. Being that the two main characters were female was part of this unusual distinction, but not all of it. Young women on screen are usually the most active participants, though the roles of male characters are equally crucial to the action on screen. Though at times a few scenarios are silly and fatuous, the show retains just enough veracity to keep the attention of its audience.
The best way to describe Square Pegs, from episode 1 to episode 20, is cute and gentle. A few situations involve race, but these are glancing blows without moral platitudes. Teen melodrama is the show’s bread and butter, as is the convoluted relationships between heterosexual couples, since apparently queer characters didn't exist then. It should be said that the series was filmed 32 years ago. The sweetly jovial is the pervasive mood. There are no best friends with drug addictions or unwanted pregnancies. What we see before us is escapist fun, never intended to be deep and complicated.
Today’s audience might find it a fascinating historical document. I was two years old when Square Pegs was showed, far too young to watch it myself. Speaking honestly, I see us now in a more cynical media age that began in the 1990’s and has continued since then. The same cute jokes were no longer enough, and audiences were no longer willing to suspend their disbelief. We clamored for the real world, and as much as the small screen ever could, it gave it to us.
See for yourself. The full series is released on October 21.
Monday, September 22, 2014
Leave of Absence
I'll finish out blogging this week, then head for the Gulf Coast for a beach trip. Though summer no longer formally exists, it will still be plenty warm, and the hordes of college students will be gone. I fly out Saturday morning and come back the first week of October.
Sunday, September 21, 2014
New Voices
What is divinity if it can come
Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?
Divinity must live within herself:
Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;
Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued
Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;
These are the measures destined for her soul.-
from “Sunday Morning” by Wallace Stevens
________________
I’m home and not at Meeting. In approximately eight minutes, Worship will begin and I will not be there. Most people with whom I interact and befriend do not understand the guilt I feel for not being present today. Weekly attendance was never stressed for them. If one didn’t feel like going, one didn’t. I can, I admit, be somewhat contemptuous of those who think of Quaker Meeting as a tourist attraction, especially in my very transient, urban Meeting in Washington, DC.
My experience was quite different. Every week, when I was a child, I dressed up in a suit and tie. I could generally manage the suit part of dressing myself, but I could never get the hanging of tying a necktie. My father, who is left-handed, had to show me how to do it in a mirror, backwards. With difficulty, I can manage, but not easily. The next time I have to dress formally, I’m contemplating buying a bow tie. If it makes me look seventy years old, I don’t care.
My Meeting can be emotionally and psychologically draining. Giving every attender the right to speak in Worship means that the message shared can be alternately brilliant and very offensive. One of the long-term members is an autistic woman who gives ministry that can be inspiring, but often rambles, frequently lambasting the Meeting for treating her like a pariah and not incorporating her views. Friends grit their teeth and put up with her. She has no life outside of Quakerism, which is tragic, but despite this, she has no right to verbally berate the rest of us. This is an old issue, and I seek not to fan the fire, only to make a larger point.
I believe that religion ought to be an open avenue for all who seek it, but I can understand why the non-religious see our pacifism and beliefs as naive, impotent, and tolerant to the point of masochism. Inclusivity doesn’t mean getting abused on anyone's behalf. This morning I’m taking a brief break to refresh. When I lived in a different city, I felt excited when I parked outside and walked inside the Meetinghouse. I knew I was going to be greeted with warmth and friendliness. I knew I would be made to feel welcome and loved.
In very different surroundings, I feel loved and appreciated usually by a minority group of members and attenders. It is not the lack of general socializing that gets to me most, it’s the scattershot and undisciplined vocal ministry, even with recent improvements. Some Friends confuse NPR or a Thích Nhất Hạnh with the Holy Spirit, even when they are well-intentioned. I know this is commonplace to liberal Quakerism, especially in an urban setting, but I favor Friends who honor what we denote as Spirit-led vocal ministry. We are given a great gift of freedom to form our own message and honor our own Divinity, but we take it too nonchalant and informally.
An update. Meeting has already started and I am not there. I still feel guilty. When I was a very young child, I was highly anxious and afraid of my own shadow. The Methodist church I attended had an adjacent graveyard where the elders of the church were buried. I would flee and cower behind one of the ancient gravestones because I was deathly afraid of Sunday School. But by the time the service began, I would remove myself from my hiding place and take my place alongside my family. Even then, I knew this to be part of my moral duty, though I would not have put it that way at the time.
Sermons I heard could be of a very high quality or very dull. I happen to think that effective preaching is a gift from God and relatively rare. I think I would have remained a member of a mainline Protestant denomination had the minister been reliably charismatic and inspiring. Since then, I’ve taken on a new standard of ministry, though sometimes I feel that I alone have to keep everyone focused in the same direction with what I share. I listen closely within myself to the messages that are the most powerful and the most inclusive. I see my role as one of enhancing Worship for others, and I see this as my God-given leading.
But when I am not present or I am not led to share, the wheels seem to come off the bus at times. I am not aware of anyone else whose leading and duty to the Meeting corresponds to my own. It is not my responsibility to steer Meeting for Worship in the proper direction. After all, I am a minister, but not the minister. When I was a member and clerk of Ministry and Worship, I was privy to many complaints regarding the quality of vocal ministry. I took these to heart.
In an unprogrammed Meeting, the rules that govern ministry are very open-ended. It is imperative upon the faith and belief of the individual Friend to discern a true leading from one that is not. If we don’t know how to do this, we are often left either with a political diatribe, a public service announcement for Eastern philosophy, or a psychotherapy session. The question then remains as to whether genuine Spirit-led ministry can truly be taught.
Part of it is a question of learned helplessness. We know someone else will take part in a committee, so we don't. We know someone else will give the vocal ministry weighing on our hearts, so we refrain. Learned helplessness is sometimes called the bystander effect. In the middle of a crisis, many hesitate because they know someone else will do the heavy lifting.
We have a few guidebooks along the way, but as religious mystics, much of that inner work is our own. No one said it was easy, but to be Quakers, we must challenge ourselves for the good of everyone. Those who are not Quaker might see this opportunity as something of direct democracy. Every Friend's voice is valued, but I now have observed years of problems that transpire when there are no checks and balances within reason to resolve crises. More recently, it took us over 10 years to draft plans to build a handicap-accessible campus, for example.
When I was a member of a programmed faith, I never once wanted to intercede and take the place of the minister in the middle of his weekly talk. I had been conditioned to politely listen and hopefully be inspired for twenty minutes. With unprogrammed Worship, we are commanded to think of ministry very differently. At its best, a gathered meeting, our goal, is an extended, harmonious dialogue from every person who stands to speak that can go off the rails or line up perfectly. It has inspired in me a kind of direct communion with God that was never possible before. I do understand why the Early Friends took on this radical form.
We usually take an indirect approach to this concern. We assume if people feed their own spiritual needs, the rest will follow. But I wonder what direct classes and workshops on the subject of vocal ministry would provide those enrolled. At my Meeting, maybe 10-20% of those in attendance regularly share ministry, but this leaves 80% who do not. I think some of us are better at it than others, but I encourage a renewed focus that might bring new voices, enriching others and themselves in the process. Even when there are no official leaders, some speak more loudly and more frequently than others. Others who are less talkative ought not doubt their skill. This may be my leading, but it is not solely my own.
Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?
Divinity must live within herself:
Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;
Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued
Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;
These are the measures destined for her soul.-
from “Sunday Morning” by Wallace Stevens
________________
I’m home and not at Meeting. In approximately eight minutes, Worship will begin and I will not be there. Most people with whom I interact and befriend do not understand the guilt I feel for not being present today. Weekly attendance was never stressed for them. If one didn’t feel like going, one didn’t. I can, I admit, be somewhat contemptuous of those who think of Quaker Meeting as a tourist attraction, especially in my very transient, urban Meeting in Washington, DC.
My experience was quite different. Every week, when I was a child, I dressed up in a suit and tie. I could generally manage the suit part of dressing myself, but I could never get the hanging of tying a necktie. My father, who is left-handed, had to show me how to do it in a mirror, backwards. With difficulty, I can manage, but not easily. The next time I have to dress formally, I’m contemplating buying a bow tie. If it makes me look seventy years old, I don’t care.
My Meeting can be emotionally and psychologically draining. Giving every attender the right to speak in Worship means that the message shared can be alternately brilliant and very offensive. One of the long-term members is an autistic woman who gives ministry that can be inspiring, but often rambles, frequently lambasting the Meeting for treating her like a pariah and not incorporating her views. Friends grit their teeth and put up with her. She has no life outside of Quakerism, which is tragic, but despite this, she has no right to verbally berate the rest of us. This is an old issue, and I seek not to fan the fire, only to make a larger point.
I believe that religion ought to be an open avenue for all who seek it, but I can understand why the non-religious see our pacifism and beliefs as naive, impotent, and tolerant to the point of masochism. Inclusivity doesn’t mean getting abused on anyone's behalf. This morning I’m taking a brief break to refresh. When I lived in a different city, I felt excited when I parked outside and walked inside the Meetinghouse. I knew I was going to be greeted with warmth and friendliness. I knew I would be made to feel welcome and loved.
In very different surroundings, I feel loved and appreciated usually by a minority group of members and attenders. It is not the lack of general socializing that gets to me most, it’s the scattershot and undisciplined vocal ministry, even with recent improvements. Some Friends confuse NPR or a Thích Nhất Hạnh with the Holy Spirit, even when they are well-intentioned. I know this is commonplace to liberal Quakerism, especially in an urban setting, but I favor Friends who honor what we denote as Spirit-led vocal ministry. We are given a great gift of freedom to form our own message and honor our own Divinity, but we take it too nonchalant and informally.
An update. Meeting has already started and I am not there. I still feel guilty. When I was a very young child, I was highly anxious and afraid of my own shadow. The Methodist church I attended had an adjacent graveyard where the elders of the church were buried. I would flee and cower behind one of the ancient gravestones because I was deathly afraid of Sunday School. But by the time the service began, I would remove myself from my hiding place and take my place alongside my family. Even then, I knew this to be part of my moral duty, though I would not have put it that way at the time.
Sermons I heard could be of a very high quality or very dull. I happen to think that effective preaching is a gift from God and relatively rare. I think I would have remained a member of a mainline Protestant denomination had the minister been reliably charismatic and inspiring. Since then, I’ve taken on a new standard of ministry, though sometimes I feel that I alone have to keep everyone focused in the same direction with what I share. I listen closely within myself to the messages that are the most powerful and the most inclusive. I see my role as one of enhancing Worship for others, and I see this as my God-given leading.
But when I am not present or I am not led to share, the wheels seem to come off the bus at times. I am not aware of anyone else whose leading and duty to the Meeting corresponds to my own. It is not my responsibility to steer Meeting for Worship in the proper direction. After all, I am a minister, but not the minister. When I was a member and clerk of Ministry and Worship, I was privy to many complaints regarding the quality of vocal ministry. I took these to heart.
In an unprogrammed Meeting, the rules that govern ministry are very open-ended. It is imperative upon the faith and belief of the individual Friend to discern a true leading from one that is not. If we don’t know how to do this, we are often left either with a political diatribe, a public service announcement for Eastern philosophy, or a psychotherapy session. The question then remains as to whether genuine Spirit-led ministry can truly be taught.
Part of it is a question of learned helplessness. We know someone else will take part in a committee, so we don't. We know someone else will give the vocal ministry weighing on our hearts, so we refrain. Learned helplessness is sometimes called the bystander effect. In the middle of a crisis, many hesitate because they know someone else will do the heavy lifting.
We have a few guidebooks along the way, but as religious mystics, much of that inner work is our own. No one said it was easy, but to be Quakers, we must challenge ourselves for the good of everyone. Those who are not Quaker might see this opportunity as something of direct democracy. Every Friend's voice is valued, but I now have observed years of problems that transpire when there are no checks and balances within reason to resolve crises. More recently, it took us over 10 years to draft plans to build a handicap-accessible campus, for example.
When I was a member of a programmed faith, I never once wanted to intercede and take the place of the minister in the middle of his weekly talk. I had been conditioned to politely listen and hopefully be inspired for twenty minutes. With unprogrammed Worship, we are commanded to think of ministry very differently. At its best, a gathered meeting, our goal, is an extended, harmonious dialogue from every person who stands to speak that can go off the rails or line up perfectly. It has inspired in me a kind of direct communion with God that was never possible before. I do understand why the Early Friends took on this radical form.
We usually take an indirect approach to this concern. We assume if people feed their own spiritual needs, the rest will follow. But I wonder what direct classes and workshops on the subject of vocal ministry would provide those enrolled. At my Meeting, maybe 10-20% of those in attendance regularly share ministry, but this leaves 80% who do not. I think some of us are better at it than others, but I encourage a renewed focus that might bring new voices, enriching others and themselves in the process. Even when there are no official leaders, some speak more loudly and more frequently than others. Others who are less talkative ought not doubt their skill. This may be my leading, but it is not solely my own.
Quote of the Week
“Do not commit the error so common among the young of assuming that if you cannot save the whole of mankind, you have failed.”- Jan de Hartog
Saturday, September 20, 2014
Saturday Video
You can take me to paradise,
And then again you can be as cold ice.
I'm over my head,
Oh but it sure feels nice.
You can take me anytime you like,
I'll be around if you think you might love me baby,
And hold me tight.
Your mood is like a circus wheel,
You're changing all the time,
Sometimes I can't help but feel,
That I'm wasting all of my time.
Your mood is like a circus wheel,
You're changing all the time,
Sometimes I can't help but feel,
That I'm wasting all of my time.
Think I'm looking on the dark side,
But everyday you hurt my pride,
I'm over my head,
Oh but it sure feels nice,
I'm over my head,
But it sure feels nice.
I'm over my head,
But it sure feels nice.
Friday, September 19, 2014
The Voyeur Mafioso (Teaser)
I have had a lot of work to do this week, so I thought I'd round out the week by posting another short story excerpt. Here's a teaser, if you will, of a much larger work. I think I posted a work in progress of this story several months back. Now it has been edited and revised considerably.
I envisioned this story as a modern day film noir, a genre that has always intrigued me.
________________
The Voyeur Mafioso
A work of fiction.
To be honest, I’m not sure what started me along this path. It could have been boredom or the excitement of a new passion. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that many of our sexual thoughts and fantasies are fueled in large part by the basics of voyeurism. Some take it to extremes, and some play it safe. Nevertheless, our private glee and secret arousal often is motivated by observing something supposedly off-limits and forbidden.
With time, those fantasies grow more refined, layered and amplified due of our own advanced personal tastes and rich fantasy life. Both are enhanced considerably by an increase in life experiences. Mine started, as I’m sure is not uncommon, in middle school gym class. I made a game of seeing if I could look up the gym shorts of girls. I rarely succeeded, but when on the odd chance I did, it felt as though I’d had something akin to a religious experience.
In those idyllic days, when puberty was by turns fresh, exciting, but also horrifying, one of my classmates decided to take matters into his own hands. Because he was small of stature and didn’t weight much, he managed to remove a ceiling tile from the boys’ bathroom. From there he climbed into the women’s’ facilities, only a few short yards away. For as long as his weight would hold him, he observed the bathroom habits of several of our female classmates.
With time, however, the flimsy supports gave way, never designed to hold that much weight. He crash-landed somewhere in the neighborhood of one of the sinks. It was fortunate that no girls were present, as he quickly fled the room, feeling aroused and terrified all at once. Of course he told all of us boys about it. Being that his last name was Bates, afterwards someone decided to start calling him Master Bates. The nickname stuck, though he absolutely hated it.
Over time, his story changed a little. Clearly glad to tell it, he embellished a few details here and there. In each subsequent account, the names of the girls he’d viewed from above were a little different from start to finish. Still, we had it on good faith from the girls that their bathroom had to be closed for repair for two days solid. It was too plausible a story to be doubted, though by the hundredth retelling, it was probably not strictly factual.
Each of us wished we’d first thought of what Bates did. In those days of soaring testosterone levels, the only thing girls had to do was play with their hair or bend over In front of their lockers to elicit a response. It was as if a fire hose had been turned on full blast, and we were incapable of shutting it off.
Some years later, I read My Secret Life, an erotic book published by an anonymous author around the end of the 19th Century, shortly before the conclusion of the Victorian Era. It could never be confused as a work of great fiction, or even good fiction, but its veracity could not be questioned. One particular anecdote has always stuck with me.
In the days before mass produced, easy to obtain pornography, men turned to other sources to appease themselves sexually. I recall one section of the work, an extended interlude upon a group trip through the woods. The men were to dress and bathe in one segregated area of the camp. The women were to occupy still another space where they might presumably have privacy.
Several men took vantage points along the top of a hill, directly next to where the women dressed. They witnessed many women changing and taking time for bodily functions. The account was, like the rest of the book, alternately bizarre and uncomfortably graphic. Its author was much kinkier and sexually adventurous than I was or ever would be. He fancied himself a bit of a dandy and was willing to take risks I could not and would not. He was quite wealthy and could afford to play daredevil. I envied his proficiency and access, though some of his behavior was beyond even me.
I envisioned this story as a modern day film noir, a genre that has always intrigued me.
________________
The Voyeur Mafioso
A work of fiction.
To be honest, I’m not sure what started me along this path. It could have been boredom or the excitement of a new passion. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that many of our sexual thoughts and fantasies are fueled in large part by the basics of voyeurism. Some take it to extremes, and some play it safe. Nevertheless, our private glee and secret arousal often is motivated by observing something supposedly off-limits and forbidden.
With time, those fantasies grow more refined, layered and amplified due of our own advanced personal tastes and rich fantasy life. Both are enhanced considerably by an increase in life experiences. Mine started, as I’m sure is not uncommon, in middle school gym class. I made a game of seeing if I could look up the gym shorts of girls. I rarely succeeded, but when on the odd chance I did, it felt as though I’d had something akin to a religious experience.
In those idyllic days, when puberty was by turns fresh, exciting, but also horrifying, one of my classmates decided to take matters into his own hands. Because he was small of stature and didn’t weight much, he managed to remove a ceiling tile from the boys’ bathroom. From there he climbed into the women’s’ facilities, only a few short yards away. For as long as his weight would hold him, he observed the bathroom habits of several of our female classmates.
With time, however, the flimsy supports gave way, never designed to hold that much weight. He crash-landed somewhere in the neighborhood of one of the sinks. It was fortunate that no girls were present, as he quickly fled the room, feeling aroused and terrified all at once. Of course he told all of us boys about it. Being that his last name was Bates, afterwards someone decided to start calling him Master Bates. The nickname stuck, though he absolutely hated it.
Over time, his story changed a little. Clearly glad to tell it, he embellished a few details here and there. In each subsequent account, the names of the girls he’d viewed from above were a little different from start to finish. Still, we had it on good faith from the girls that their bathroom had to be closed for repair for two days solid. It was too plausible a story to be doubted, though by the hundredth retelling, it was probably not strictly factual.
Each of us wished we’d first thought of what Bates did. In those days of soaring testosterone levels, the only thing girls had to do was play with their hair or bend over In front of their lockers to elicit a response. It was as if a fire hose had been turned on full blast, and we were incapable of shutting it off.
Some years later, I read My Secret Life, an erotic book published by an anonymous author around the end of the 19th Century, shortly before the conclusion of the Victorian Era. It could never be confused as a work of great fiction, or even good fiction, but its veracity could not be questioned. One particular anecdote has always stuck with me.
In the days before mass produced, easy to obtain pornography, men turned to other sources to appease themselves sexually. I recall one section of the work, an extended interlude upon a group trip through the woods. The men were to dress and bathe in one segregated area of the camp. The women were to occupy still another space where they might presumably have privacy.
Several men took vantage points along the top of a hill, directly next to where the women dressed. They witnessed many women changing and taking time for bodily functions. The account was, like the rest of the book, alternately bizarre and uncomfortably graphic. Its author was much kinkier and sexually adventurous than I was or ever would be. He fancied himself a bit of a dandy and was willing to take risks I could not and would not. He was quite wealthy and could afford to play daredevil. I envied his proficiency and access, though some of his behavior was beyond even me.
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
A Mirror's Contemplation, Take 2
Regular readers may be familiar with this story already. I put it in competition once already, a few months back, and had no luck with it. So, as always, back to the revision board. As I often do, here's a teaser, a few pages of a much longer work.
____________
Trading sips of a long-necked beer in brown glass, which we passed back and forth between us, Stephanie and I entered the bathroom to change. She set the bottle on top of the closed toilet seat, a
surface just flat enough for our purposes. A day of sunbathing, people watching, and mostly meaningless flirtation would eventually culminate in a party that night. It had already reached mythic proportions and hadn't even happened yet.
We were both giddy and feeling playful. The two of us were nineteen. Still a year or two from being able to drink legally, this fact somehow did not dissuade our efforts. There were always ways. Someone with a decent fake ID or compliant older brother had purchased an obscene amount of alcohol. The boldest among us could drink for hours without stopping. Neither she nor I were drinkers, lightweights really, but it seemed like the thing to do. We were already feeling buzzed and silly.
In long accustomed fashion, I played foil to Stephanie’s loquaciousness and exaggeration. I was quiet and she was loud. This was the nature of our friendship and it had always been this way. As if to
illustrate the distinction further, today she was clothed completely in black but I was dressed completely in white. She was dressed to kill while I was dressed for comfort, mostly.
And all I gotta say is that Ryan is fine! She gave the word “fine” a particularly strong emphasis, stretching out the vowels and consonants, in addition to slightly increasing the volume to underscore how attractive she thought he was.
Stephanie always talked a good game, but her confidence sometimes deserted her in crucial moments.
In my company, she did not feel restrained to express her true feelings. Among crowds, rivals, and
uncertainty, she overcompensated by way of her vocal cords. Her humor was always goofy and over-
the-top, which disguised a deep need for validation she rarely ever acknowledged. I saw it, but, respecting our friendship, I did not call attention to it. I never wanted to rain on her parade, but I did wonder at times whether I should gently call attention to her flaws.
She was the only person I’d ever known who had gotten a boob job. Her parents paid for the whole thing, as though it was some life-threatening surgery, which was another way that the two of us differed vastly. My folks would have made me save up and completely subsidize myself a procedure they found to be unnecessary and distasteful. Truthfully, I liked them just fine before the surgery, but I held my tongue.
They were really flat before. Stephanie said this while preening in front of a mirror. She was tipsy already after one beer and a little unsteady on her feet.
I need to get one, I found myself saying this, but without much conviction. Sometimes even in my most self-conscious days I wondered if I’d benefit from breast augmentation. It seemed to work well enough for her. She got four times the attention now, if attention was the entire goal in having them done. When I was in high school, a couple years before, I’d gotten my navel pierced at the request of my then-boyfriend. It was one of the first times I’d done something colossally stupid for a boy, or at least for boys as an entire group. And yet I kept it, mostly as a reminder to think twice before making the same mistake.
I was not quite as adventurous as Stephanie was. She quickly shimmied into a black bikini, while I put on a more modest one-piece. I was an observer more than an active participant. Our friendship was built upon opposites in personality. I rarely made decisions and usually deferred to hers. I felt like a movie camera that never shut off, silently documenting the events placed before it, only documenting, never participating.
It was time to go back out again, as I rubbed suntan lotion onto every exposed patch of skin. I was usually absent when it came time for another carefree mug shot before the camera because I always was the person behind the viewfinder. I couldn’t bring myself to ask Stephanie's motivations. It shocked me how quickly I’d validated her methods by even contemplating the very same thing myself, if only for a few seconds. Peer pressure, even when it isn’t overt, can be a powerful force.
I saw evidence of this earlier when we were walking the beach, the waves lapping against my feet. The number of bad tattoos I saw walking the shore's edge was astonishing. The trend must have started somewhere. The scrapbooks my parents kept of their own summer holidays before I was born showed no evidence of ink. I always felt that tattoos, tastefully placed and limited in number, were acceptable. But few people kept such restraint or discretion.
We paused briefly to prepare ourselves for the sea and sand. Before then, we’d simply dithered along the farthest expanse of the waves, not dressed to jump into the water and swim. In all circumstances, Stephanie enjoyed playing the role of the high femme, the girly girl, and her clothes and behavior reflected it. Aside from a hat to keep out the sun that looked like it had been purchased in the fishing department of a sporting goods store, the rest of her appearance was immaculate. For the moment, she wore a black tank top, tight and revealing shorts, and not much else.
Let’s get obliviated tonight. Stephanie meant obliterated and though I knew she was wrong, I never corrected her. I enjoyed her banter and silly boasting. It was all for show. I’d never seen Stephanie rip-roaring drunk, not even once. She may have been a little buzzed at the moment, but not much. She was more inclined to nurse a solitary beer for hours. She told me, in a rare moment of naked honesty, that she associated intoxication with being out of control. The phobia it produced was intense enough to keep her always more or less sober.
The men’s bathroom was placed only a door down from the women’s facilities. At times, clueless or
disoriented men staggering towards the building from a combination of intense heat and intoxication
would halfway open the wrong door. Realizing immediately their error, they would mumble an apology and then swiftly depart.
There’s a lot of perverts here now, don’t you think?
Stephanie launched into a litany of complaints and minor annoyances about the boys in our group of
friends. It was all for show. One of them had approached her in an unskillful way earlier in the day. He’d come across too strong, something men often did. She liked playing indignant, but relished any dollop of attention and praise she could find.
I’m like, what are you doing? I’m like, what, put that thing back in your pants.
I laughed. She wasn’t really annoyed, as I’d suspected. Truth be told, Stephanie never turned down any man's company, and here was a perfect example of her mock exasperation with men. Some women would take offense to the occasional bad pickup line or the arrogance of a delusional ladies’ man.
Stephanie knew enough to brush them aside, knowing them for what they were. Like many women who got a lot of attention, she’d seen and heard it all. I envied her successes, even when I questioned her tactics. Stephanie got a lot of phone numbers, most of which she quickly discarded. I felt sorry for the worthwhile guys who misunderstood her real intentions. She enjoyed being desired more than she sought a boyfriend or even going to bed. As long as she was single, she had any number of frequent ego boosts at her disposal.
____________
Trading sips of a long-necked beer in brown glass, which we passed back and forth between us, Stephanie and I entered the bathroom to change. She set the bottle on top of the closed toilet seat, a
surface just flat enough for our purposes. A day of sunbathing, people watching, and mostly meaningless flirtation would eventually culminate in a party that night. It had already reached mythic proportions and hadn't even happened yet.
We were both giddy and feeling playful. The two of us were nineteen. Still a year or two from being able to drink legally, this fact somehow did not dissuade our efforts. There were always ways. Someone with a decent fake ID or compliant older brother had purchased an obscene amount of alcohol. The boldest among us could drink for hours without stopping. Neither she nor I were drinkers, lightweights really, but it seemed like the thing to do. We were already feeling buzzed and silly.
In long accustomed fashion, I played foil to Stephanie’s loquaciousness and exaggeration. I was quiet and she was loud. This was the nature of our friendship and it had always been this way. As if to
illustrate the distinction further, today she was clothed completely in black but I was dressed completely in white. She was dressed to kill while I was dressed for comfort, mostly.
And all I gotta say is that Ryan is fine! She gave the word “fine” a particularly strong emphasis, stretching out the vowels and consonants, in addition to slightly increasing the volume to underscore how attractive she thought he was.
Stephanie always talked a good game, but her confidence sometimes deserted her in crucial moments.
In my company, she did not feel restrained to express her true feelings. Among crowds, rivals, and
uncertainty, she overcompensated by way of her vocal cords. Her humor was always goofy and over-
the-top, which disguised a deep need for validation she rarely ever acknowledged. I saw it, but, respecting our friendship, I did not call attention to it. I never wanted to rain on her parade, but I did wonder at times whether I should gently call attention to her flaws.
She was the only person I’d ever known who had gotten a boob job. Her parents paid for the whole thing, as though it was some life-threatening surgery, which was another way that the two of us differed vastly. My folks would have made me save up and completely subsidize myself a procedure they found to be unnecessary and distasteful. Truthfully, I liked them just fine before the surgery, but I held my tongue.
They were really flat before. Stephanie said this while preening in front of a mirror. She was tipsy already after one beer and a little unsteady on her feet.
I need to get one, I found myself saying this, but without much conviction. Sometimes even in my most self-conscious days I wondered if I’d benefit from breast augmentation. It seemed to work well enough for her. She got four times the attention now, if attention was the entire goal in having them done. When I was in high school, a couple years before, I’d gotten my navel pierced at the request of my then-boyfriend. It was one of the first times I’d done something colossally stupid for a boy, or at least for boys as an entire group. And yet I kept it, mostly as a reminder to think twice before making the same mistake.
I was not quite as adventurous as Stephanie was. She quickly shimmied into a black bikini, while I put on a more modest one-piece. I was an observer more than an active participant. Our friendship was built upon opposites in personality. I rarely made decisions and usually deferred to hers. I felt like a movie camera that never shut off, silently documenting the events placed before it, only documenting, never participating.
It was time to go back out again, as I rubbed suntan lotion onto every exposed patch of skin. I was usually absent when it came time for another carefree mug shot before the camera because I always was the person behind the viewfinder. I couldn’t bring myself to ask Stephanie's motivations. It shocked me how quickly I’d validated her methods by even contemplating the very same thing myself, if only for a few seconds. Peer pressure, even when it isn’t overt, can be a powerful force.
I saw evidence of this earlier when we were walking the beach, the waves lapping against my feet. The number of bad tattoos I saw walking the shore's edge was astonishing. The trend must have started somewhere. The scrapbooks my parents kept of their own summer holidays before I was born showed no evidence of ink. I always felt that tattoos, tastefully placed and limited in number, were acceptable. But few people kept such restraint or discretion.
We paused briefly to prepare ourselves for the sea and sand. Before then, we’d simply dithered along the farthest expanse of the waves, not dressed to jump into the water and swim. In all circumstances, Stephanie enjoyed playing the role of the high femme, the girly girl, and her clothes and behavior reflected it. Aside from a hat to keep out the sun that looked like it had been purchased in the fishing department of a sporting goods store, the rest of her appearance was immaculate. For the moment, she wore a black tank top, tight and revealing shorts, and not much else.
Let’s get obliviated tonight. Stephanie meant obliterated and though I knew she was wrong, I never corrected her. I enjoyed her banter and silly boasting. It was all for show. I’d never seen Stephanie rip-roaring drunk, not even once. She may have been a little buzzed at the moment, but not much. She was more inclined to nurse a solitary beer for hours. She told me, in a rare moment of naked honesty, that she associated intoxication with being out of control. The phobia it produced was intense enough to keep her always more or less sober.
The men’s bathroom was placed only a door down from the women’s facilities. At times, clueless or
disoriented men staggering towards the building from a combination of intense heat and intoxication
would halfway open the wrong door. Realizing immediately their error, they would mumble an apology and then swiftly depart.
There’s a lot of perverts here now, don’t you think?
Stephanie launched into a litany of complaints and minor annoyances about the boys in our group of
friends. It was all for show. One of them had approached her in an unskillful way earlier in the day. He’d come across too strong, something men often did. She liked playing indignant, but relished any dollop of attention and praise she could find.
I’m like, what are you doing? I’m like, what, put that thing back in your pants.
I laughed. She wasn’t really annoyed, as I’d suspected. Truth be told, Stephanie never turned down any man's company, and here was a perfect example of her mock exasperation with men. Some women would take offense to the occasional bad pickup line or the arrogance of a delusional ladies’ man.
Stephanie knew enough to brush them aside, knowing them for what they were. Like many women who got a lot of attention, she’d seen and heard it all. I envied her successes, even when I questioned her tactics. Stephanie got a lot of phone numbers, most of which she quickly discarded. I felt sorry for the worthwhile guys who misunderstood her real intentions. She enjoyed being desired more than she sought a boyfriend or even going to bed. As long as she was single, she had any number of frequent ego boosts at her disposal.
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
The Drugs Don't Work
A candidate for one of the most depressing songs of all time, but the melody is attractive. I abbreviated this version because at 4 minutes plus it's already a long song.
All this talk of getting old
It's getting me down my love
Like a cat in a bag, waiting to drown
This time I'm comin' down
And I hope you're thinking of me
As you lay down on your side
Now the drugs don't work
They just make you worse
But I know I'll see your face again
Now the drugs don't work
They just make you worse
But I know I'll see your face again
But I know I'm on a losing streak
'Cause I passed down my old street
And if you wanna show, then just let me know
And I'll sing in your ear again
Now the drugs don't work
They just make you worse
But I know I'll see your face again
'Cause baby, ooh, if heaven calls, I'm coming, too
Just like you said, you leave my life, I'm better off dead
All this talk of getting old
It's getting me down my love
Like a cat in a bag, waiting to drown
This time I'm comin' down
Now the drugs don't work
They just make you worse
But I know I'll see your face again
'Cause baby, ooh, if heaven calls, I'm coming, too
Just like you said, you leave my life, I'm better off dead
But if you wanna show, just let me know
And I'll sing in your ear again
Now the drugs don't work
They just make you worse
But I know I'll see your face again
Yeah, I know I'll see your face again
Yeah, I know I'll see your face again
Yeah, I know I'll see your face again
Yeah, I know I'll see your face again
Monday, September 15, 2014
Good News for People Who Like Bad News
I was 13 years old. The combined forces of high estrogen and high testosterone had turned my classmates into strange creatures, alien even to ourselves. We had no idea what to expect next from day to day, as we waited for the bus stop. The fact that we spent eight hours a day together in classrooms without windows and painted cinderblock walls made us feel claustrophobic, increasing the already stout pressures each of us felt, though we could barely speak of our feelings. I never quite figured out who I was or what was expected of me. If someone had told me to march in some general cardinal direction, I would have gladly followed, desperate to escape this anarchic struggle.
One of the great peculiarities of my life was my refusal to take part in the prerequisites of jock royalty. I could have had a popular girl or even a cheerleader of my very own. One by one, when each time I was much too shy to take part in a conversation, they vied for my attention. They were silly and teasing. I acted as though my head was about to explode. I was never sure why they or any woman would be interested in me. Because I was a star, albeit a reluctant football player and they were popular girls, I was considered something of a catch by default. I wonder now how many of them were in hot pursuit more for the status of what I represented to others rather any genuine interest.
At the time, I didn’t know what the girls felt about me. I was too shy and self-doubting to believe myself boyfriend material for anyone. And yet they kept trying. What I meant to them could well have been a complete reversal, full of confidence to how I felt about myself. One especially persistent girl kept asking if she could borrow my brain. She was alluding to my unquestioned status as the smartest, most intellectually precocious kid in school. Accordingly, she would pick a large vocabulary word and quiz me on it, desperate for me to parrot the proper answer in her company. She was persuasive, but I always wondered about an ulterior motive on her part.
I could have had any number of sweet Southern Belles, except that sweet Southern Belles bored me to tears. If my priorities were very different, the process could have worked well for me. If I’d started going out with a popular girl, my stature would have risen considerably. It makes me happy that this awkward game is years in my past. What I really wanted were the intelligent girls who were high achievers and a little geeky. Winning the hand of one took a lot of convincing and patience, as I was responding to the very same reservations in someone else that I felt in myself.
Writing this piece was meant to underscore that the decisions we make ought not to be only about a rise in our personal stature. This might be one particularly compelling part of the puzzle, but there is more to romance than ego. I can truthfully say that I never regretted dodging the popular girls. It taught me life lessons. It revealed to me how easy that game is to play for some and how difficult it was for myself when I was looking for something very much outside the box. Some of my classmates were groomed to believe otherwise.
Fluffy magazines and websites reinforce this notion of worth being simply a matter of physical beauty and the ability to fit a set pattern of attractiveness. I suppose I should have been flattered that I got so much attention earlier in life, but I tossed it aside, voluntarily. As middle school became high school, some overgrown boys I knew dated popular girls because they got the dual benefit of having arm candy and, for some, sex. That could have been me, too, but sex isn’t everything.
This is a post partially in support of men. There are good men and bad men. Men fail when they do not police their own or they let their desire for popularity and belonging to a group become more important than justice. Men fail when they are accessories or guilty of what has been termed in recent years rape culture.
But both men and women find many examples in their own lives and in the lives of other friends and associates of a deplorably sad and greatly commonplace set of problems. This is especially true for those with poor moral character and a manipulative attitude. Every woman seems to have known a man who fooled her, valuing her only for her physical appearance, and that memory is never forgotten. Every man seems to know a woman who is either unfaithful or selfish. We don’t forget them, either.
Looking past our own baggage is a life’s work. And it doesn’t mean stopping the process of identifying the societal problems that are often overlooked. I often think of the title of a Modest Mouse album. It is entitled Good News for People Who Like Bad News. In my day to day work, I feel that I’m always seeking to provide Good News for the People Who Like Bad News. We can fall in love with Bad News, just as soon as we can fall in love with a cloying, optimistic notion that only whitewashes the real problem. Neither discipline can be adequately taught in any form, in my opinion. Ours must be a lived experience that comes from experience and wisdom. Few solutions can be adequately conveyed in a college class, by attending the right conference, or by reading the right book.
We may dwell for a time being part of the Bad News brigade, and find our needs satisfied there. I think all of us go there for a little while, with the right set of circumstances that push our buttons. But if we can’t express our opinions in ways that aren’t merely hurry-up-and-pay-attention-to-me righteous indignation, we’re only seeing part of the problem. For some, this is a just a phase, and the arrival of pending middle age for myself has provided needed insight. The tools we’ve once used to wound others are now kept on our metaphorical mantelpiece, next to other heirlooms, a reminder of a different time where our priorities were very different.
But both men and women find many examples in their own lives and in the lives of other friends and associates of a deplorably sad and greatly commonplace set of problems. This is especially true for those with poor moral character and a manipulative attitude. Every woman seems to have known a man who fooled her, valuing her only for her physical appearance, and that memory is never forgotten. Every man seems to know a woman who is either unfaithful or selfish. We don’t forget them, either.
Looking past our own baggage is a life’s work. And it doesn’t mean stopping the process of identifying the societal problems that are often overlooked. I often think of the title of a Modest Mouse album. It is entitled Good News for People Who Like Bad News. In my day to day work, I feel that I’m always seeking to provide Good News for the People Who Like Bad News. We can fall in love with Bad News, just as soon as we can fall in love with a cloying, optimistic notion that only whitewashes the real problem. Neither discipline can be adequately taught in any form, in my opinion. Ours must be a lived experience that comes from experience and wisdom. Few solutions can be adequately conveyed in a college class, by attending the right conference, or by reading the right book.
We may dwell for a time being part of the Bad News brigade, and find our needs satisfied there. I think all of us go there for a little while, with the right set of circumstances that push our buttons. But if we can’t express our opinions in ways that aren’t merely hurry-up-and-pay-attention-to-me righteous indignation, we’re only seeing part of the problem. For some, this is a just a phase, and the arrival of pending middle age for myself has provided needed insight. The tools we’ve once used to wound others are now kept on our metaphorical mantelpiece, next to other heirlooms, a reminder of a different time where our priorities were very different.
Sunday, September 14, 2014
Quote of the Week
"There is no escape — man drags man down, or man lifts man up"- Booker T. Washington.
Saturday, September 13, 2014
Saturday Video
Yeah
Lookin' back on the track for a little green bag
Got to find just a kind or losin' my mind
Outside in the night, outside in the day
Lookin' back on the track gonna do it my way
Outside in the night, outside in the day
Lookin' back on the track gonna do it my way
Lookin' back
Lookin' for some happiness
But there is only loneliness to find
Turn to the left turn to the right
Lookin' upstairs lookin' behind
Lookin' for some happiness
But there is so a loneliness to find
Turn to the left turn to the right
Lookin' upstairs, lookin' behind
Lookin' back on the track for a little green bag
Got to find just a kind or losin' my mind
Outside in the night, outside in the day
Lookin' back on the track, gonna do it my way
Lookin' back on the track for a little little green bag
Got to find just a kind or losin' my mind
Lookin' for some happiness
But there is only loneliness to find
Turn to the left turn to the right
Lookin' upstairs lookin' behind
Lookin' for some happiness
But there is so a loneliness to find
Turn to the left turn to the right
Lookin' upstairs lookin' behind
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