The Strange Debate Over Sexual Choice

I just heard a recurring story and it is as confusing as ever to me.

Republican (and, now, seeker of the office of President) Ben Carson, some time ago, was asked if he thinks homosexuality is a choice. He said yes. Later, he was compelled to apologize for saying this by those who found the statement offensive.

Fight of the century.
In the blue corner, Freud.

Apologize for what? For being uninformed? When one is uninformed and, as a result, misspeaks, isn't it customary to simply correct one's statement? Why apologize, in this case?

Apparently, seemingly well-meaning people are thinking, "How dare you say homosexuality is a choice? I want an apology."

If the issue of homosexuality and its personal origin in the individual is debatable (some think it is; some think it is not), why would it be so horrible for homosexuality to be a choice? Why are many gay people and advocates of their rights so against some people believing that homosexuality is a choice?

If those who think sexuality is a choice are wrong, then they are wrong; but, if that belief is offensive to those who support gay culture, doesn't that imply that these supporters believe that choosing a same sex life is somehow not okay to do? Seems paradoxical to me; a purpose and a belief out of sync.

I once saw a video in which a gay man cleverly asked straight people to explain exactly when they chose to be straight. Of course, they couldn't answer, so he made his point. But...why?

Thinking in Harmony -- a Different Kind of ADD?

I once mentioned, in a discussion with my wife and some friends, that the environment in my head is pretty crowded -- like a bunch of conversations going on all at once. This is true, except when I am listening to or composing music -- or even when I am playing. Otherwise, the old attic is full of people and they are chattering away.

When I said this about the "conversations," my wife said that this is a prime symptom of ADD. I disagreed with her diagnosis and began questioning how I could have achieved what modest academic, professional and artistic successes I have if I am an un-diagnosed sufferer of that learning disability (which, as you know, prevents focus in thinking -- or, at least, clouds focus).

Yesterday, I was taking a class on learning disabilities and we were discussing the various types of cognitive malfunctions and, as always, I found myself "hearing" several conversations at once: 1) one about my own childrens' learning styles by comparison; 2) one about students in my own school and how our program for "special education" works; 3) one about the content I was supposed to retain by the end of the class about documentation for learning disabilities; 4) one about the line between not discriminating against those with disabilities and overburdening schools 5) one about this blog post -- the workings of my own possibly learning-disabled mind; 6) one about my strategies for accomplishing my tasks for the rest of the day; 7) one about an idea for a composition that I have; 8) one about...well, you get the point.

A Plane Above the Hurting

I'm writing this at ten in the morning on Monday, which is rare for me. I'm usually done and posted by the day before. But I spent Saturday and Sunday in a state of drug-induced befuddlement.

I wish I had a good rock-star, hotel-wrecking, naked-people-everywhere story, but I don't. In my case, it comes down to a kidney stone.

I thought I had hurt my back on Saturday. I told my wife, the nurse, about this. She looked at my posture and read my random grunts and laughed a short laugh. "No, you have a kidney stone."

Sure enough...

Stupid Smart People

It's easy to be happy if you are stupid. It's harder to be happy if you are smart. It's stupid to think that you need to be sad because you are smart.

Smartness can lead you to all sorts of things, but they don't have to be the prescribed ones. (The ones, I mean, that are written into conceptual law by the movies and the rock stars.)

Lately, it has been pretty much been treated as a given, by the intellectual set, that once you get smart you need to lose faith, lose hope and lose your sincerity. A policeman gets his badge and gun and uniform on that hard-sought day; a smart person gets smartness, recieves cynicism and loses faith, because he feels he must. A smart person leaves behind his smile, but puts on the robes of sullen superiority. He sees into the world and, so, sees its dark truth; therefore, he must be sad. To be happy is to be foolish; to be happy is to be a fool who grins in the face of tragedy, the smart person thinks. Anyone who is happy, the smart person asserts, is a fool, because the Earth is wrapped up in the twine of misery as the cork core of a baseball is wrapped up in twine of a more mundane ilk.

Angry Sunday

I thought of playing this off and conjuring up a happy memory and writing about a sweet evening in a past summer when all of the notes in my head and in the winds outside my room were in perfect resonance. I almost was ready to do it, then I sat down and tried to get online and couldn't and now, it would be too much of a boldfaced lie to play it happy for my reading audience.

I write about things I see in life, and, usually, there is a wry smile and a tinge of humor in my work. Mostly, I keep it pretty calm. But crap happens, too, doesn't it? There's no denying that.

Tonight, it was truly an exercise in control when I tried to get on and got a message that, for some reason, my blog "wasn't available." I'm not, by any means, prone to rage, but I had to win quite a victory over my reptilian brain to keep from smashing my laptop. I'm not exaggerating. I did give it quite a shove, but my arms were faintly tethered to the part of me that knows I can't afford to smash laptops. Barely.

Presenting . . .

The truth is, for today, I wasn't likely to write anything better than what I am about to share with you. I believe that writing should not be an egotistical exercise. You have to know when someone has said something as well as it can be said and, then, sometimes, it is wise to step aside and open the curtain for that someone.

Here is piece on a blog that I follow: "zmkc". "Z" is one of the best writers I have seen online; she writes about lots of things, from books to print/grammar issues to -- my favorite -- life, in general.

This is a piece about outer beauty and inner ugliness (and vice-versa) written with grace, incisive humor and the sort of keen observation and control I have come to expect from this fine writer. Enjoy "In the Bag," Then, pick up the flashlight and have a look inside for yourself.

(Any of my former writing students out there: study the passage of the girls at the table. That's how you do it.)

The Magnetic Mind

The human brain is a magnet. But imagine it as a magnet that works on multiple charges rather than the binary poles we know of: negative and positive. Imagine that there are innumerable types of charges in existence.

Imagine, then, that our brains are each a magnet and that there are myriad other magnets on the plane that is the world in which we live. These other magnets are ideas, concepts and perspectives on life. We cruise around atop this plane (see it as a tabletop with magnets lying everywhere) and, at a certain point, we pass by a magnet with a particular charge and -- click -- in snaps over to us and becomes part of our minds' concepts.

This happens without conscious reasoning. We are simply attracted to a concept and we attach to it instantly; for instance, the teenager who adopts a "look" (maybe low-slung skinny jeans with the boxers hanging out and jet black hair over ebony eye-makeup) doesn't necessarily reason through his targeted look. He is simply sees it on someone else, is attracted to it, and he aligns with it.

Useless Ranters

"I just have to get things off of my chest," some people say. "When I have something to say, I just have to say it. I don't care what anyone thinks."

Translation: "I am completely egocentric."

Why do people feel justified in bragging about this awful tendency? When someone says something like this, I don't know what to say. Should I respond with a sarcasm-dripping: "Wow. Awesome. You're awesome"? Or, should I praise their obnoxiousness and pretend it amounts to courage? Personally, I think, if you are going to point that out about yourself, you might as well get T-shirts printed up that say: "Hello. I am an egocentric ass. And, what's worse, I am proud of it."

Hemispheres

Can a fist fight be good? -- at least for self-understanding? I had one that was, I think.

I remember some scraps from boyhood, mostly while playing football with neighborhood friends. But there was one fight that I remember to this day because, in the middle of it, I became immediately aware of the significance of my thoughts. I was about ten.

It was fall and we were on a tree-lined field; our usual football arena. It was cold, getting close-up on winter. Everyone played the game hard, with that energy that kids radiate during their few hours of freedom under fall clouds and falling dark on a school night. 

The original "Rocky": Marciano

Something happened with an elbow -- he claimed it was mine -- and the other guy came after me, swinging maniacally.

The Soul of Hats

Someone asked me, today, why I so seldom write about the news. Where are the posts, she wanted to know, about the rebellions in the Middle East? -- the union issues in Wisconsin? I almost felt guilty for a second. But, no, in the end I don't. (In my defense, however, I wrote a cracking piece about Happy Meal regulation, once).

Why not feel guilty, you ask? Because we can't ignore the heart for the sake of the body or the home for the sake of the city or the city for the sake of the state or the state for the sake of the world. What's inside can't be neglected.

We can't forget ourselves -- I mean, literally, our selves -- in all of this. There are those who speak out about politics, quite well. There are those whose voices ring above the rest when it comes to world issues. These people are important. But I would argue that we need a place to come to look into ourselves a little. If this blog serves that purpose for you, I have all I can ask as its creator.

Self-Baking Fruitcakes

I once knew a guy who idolized David Lee Roth. He thought the essence of all music was "pizzazz". He'd wear Spandex and hop around on stage during band shows. Well, not "hop". He sort of blumpthed. I know that's not a word, but that's what he did, for criminey's sake.

And, let me tell you, Spandex is a mystical, magical fabric. The pressure per square inch inside that suit must have been immeasurable, forced outward as it was by his unreasonable rotundity; yet, it did not burst. It does, however, have opacity limits, as only a drummer, like myself, can see from his unique vantage point when a singer decides to crawl toward the audience, a la Roth.

So, this pumpkin of a chap would loll around on stage, wrapped in bumpy neon slipperiness and hocking out his own version of "Jump" in front or a room full of frozen, open-mouthed faces. If I were a woman, I would venture a guess that the mere sight of it would have been enough to instantly turn me asexual.

Whossat?

Thomas Eakins. "The Baby At Play"

The other day, my mother mentioned the first thing I ever said. It was a question: "Whossat?" This was, of course, the closest I could get to "Who's that?"

According to all the stories, I said it every single time I saw someone enter the room, pass the window or drive by in the street. This went on for quite some time. It occurred to me that my first "word" pretty summed up what I would be all about for the rest of my life. It foretold who I was going to be: someone who is preoccupied with figuring out who the people around me are, really -- what makes them do the things they do and feel the things they feel; what moves them; what scares them; what deludes them; what drives them to walk, act, think and dream in certain particular ways.

Don't Fear the Weirdness

My wife and I bought a book that we both wanted to read. She started it first, which was okay with me, because I was in the middle of another book. As it turns out, I finished mine before she finished the new one. She had been held up by everyday stuff, so it was slow-going for her. She suggested I just start reading the book, too -- she wouldn't be getting back into it for a while.

I couldn't do it.

Yes, I realize this is weird, but I have never been accused of fearing weirdness. Why don't I feel right about reading a book someone else is in the middle of? 

I mean, it is not like eating with someone else's spoon. But it feels that way, a little. (By the way, I have no problem eating off of my wife's spoon. I hope this doesn't spawn an international gag reflex. Then again, perhaps this could become the Internet's version of "the wave".)

I think it may be a manifestation of greed, really. If we rent a cozy little house in Provence for a week, I don't want to share it with another family -- it's our house for the week. Maybe it is the same with the book: I want it to be my intellectual, material and emotional property, alone. For some reason it is okay to share the thing by talking about it afterward -- no problem. But I don't want someone else's filthy little brain-fingers paddling through the book's ideas while I am. (For the record, if my wife had brain-fingers, I am sure they would be clean and sparkly. I'm talking about everyone else. But not you. Just those other people. Keep your brain-fingers clean, I say. But I digress . . .) I want the ideas in the book to be mine alone for a few weeks.

Now, you could argue that there are other people reading the same book at the same time across the planet, but this is different. I'm not talking about multiple copies of the book. I'm talking about that particular book. The tactile object, in and of itself, has meaning to me. See, I have never been a cut-to-the-chase type. Nothing I ever do is about simply doing it. Books are an experience for me, not just a way to gather knowledge or to be entertained. Somehow, they represent more than just a vehicle for ideas -- they're like my tree-fort; my refuge; my Shangri la, if you will (even if you won't). I'm cool with occupying it before and after other people, but I don't want pass them in the hall on my way to the shower.

WHADDYOU THINK: What weird, yet explainable, hang-ups do you have or have you seen?

Mausoleum, Sweet Mausoleum

Well, I am not the culinary blog type of fellow, but I simply must tell you about my dinner last night! It was a delightful, harmonious melange of blood soup filled with steaming, meaty human eyeballs. How they frolicked like swimming toddlers each time we plunged in the spoons! At the base of the plate there was a garnish of severed fingers with stewed brain dipping sauce. Yum-my. I won't even get into the spinal cord remoulade -- there simply are not words enough. For dessert, my wife served chopped earlobes sprinkled over iced entrails. Oh -- the ecstasy of the taste buds.

Afterwards, we retreated to the torture room where we dusted the skeletons (always a chore around the metatarsals) and then tapped our feet in time to the panicked screams of our suffering captives. Ha. Good times. Great for the digestion. Nothing says "home" like the creaking of the ropes on the rack as a loved one cranks the capstan. Why, I remember my grandmother shutting children into the oven (oh, they were strays she found in the forest) -- she would always sing the same song in her cute, emaciated, wavering little soprano: "A Fat Little Treat For Grandma to Eat." Memories . . .

After our post-dinner rest, my wife and I got the blood-caked axes out of the umbrella stand and went out for a twilight walk, looking for someone to dismember. On our journey we would wave the axes menacingly at passing kids. Fortunately, we happened upon that annoying fellow down the street who cuts his grass at eight on Sunday mornings, long before we have to get up and go to black mass. (We'll be sleeping in this week.)

So, after that -- shall we say -- "exercise," we two climbed into our cozy coffins and lapsed into hibernation. Oh, it only lasts until the blood lust kicks in again in the morning, but we get the rest we need.

Sigh . . .

Can someone please tell me why talk like this is okay once a year? What is it about Halloween that makes severed limbs in casual conversation acceptable? I mean we get used to it and all, and tolerate it because we smile while we say it, but doesn't anyone ever worry about what the joy we take in the all of this says about us as people? For God's sake, everyone: BEWARE YOURSELVES!!!!!! The day is coming . . .

Where does it come from?