Dear Self-Righteous Windbag:
Here are a few things that piss me off about you:
1) You support world-changing ideas with an air and an attitude that indicates that a total paradigm shift is no big deal and that anyone who disagrees with you is missing the purple, glowing elephant of Truth that just stomped into the room. See, if what you are proposing is against the grain of hundreds of years of past practices, you may be wrong or right -- I may even agree with you that a change is needed -- but your argumentative tactic of broadcasting your disappointment that everyone else doesn't see what is so obvious to your discerning, superior self is weak and, honestly, embarrassing. Stop ending sentences with a gentle snort and a slight head shake. It isn't as effective as you think it is. In fact, the only purpose it serves is to make you look like a stuck-up twelve-year-old and the only people you impress with your gestures are the other stuck up twelve-year-olds who use the same tactic. Last I checked, "acting wearily annoyed" isn't an argumentative strategy they teach in college composition classes. Honestly, it makes me want to disagree with you, even when I agree with you.
2) You are like a terrier with an old shoe, the old shoe being what you think is true -- or what you wish were true. Therefore, you disregard evidence and logic in pursuit of your toy. You also do not listen to opponents but simply wait for them to take a breath so you can jump in. In fact, right now, you are assuming that I am attacking you or your school of thought, even though I have not actually done so. You have decided that I am either a liberal or a conservative (of which I am neither), and you are drooling at the chance of commenting and labeling me as typical, but you have not heard a word I have said.
3) You try to push me into a corner by imposing your philosophy of life upon me and you call me an insensitive bully with an agenda when I push back. (You also gently snort and slightly shake your head when I get done making points.) If you shove something in my face, I am going to push it away and not worry about being polite. So either think of another approach, or stop trying to make me look like a caveman with a club when I fight back while painting yourself as the voice of reason when you use the exact same tactics.
4) Most of all, you have aligned yourself with a school of thought that has swept you away like a skier in an avalanche. You think according to the club's rules and will not dissent, because there is safety in numbers. You ignore or cannot see inconsistencies within your group's philosophy. You mumble: "Fruit is sacred and must not be harmed" with your mouth full of banana. And if someone challenges you with your obviously flawed philosophy and actions, you don't say, "You know, you're right. If I think fruit is sacred, I shouldn't chew it up." Instead, you manufacture a pseudo-logical system that makes eating bananas okay. (Simply because you find them tasty.) In short you are scared to be out on your own, yet you think only of yourself. How can a crusader for right be a scheming, selfish coward?
You are either wrong (owing to complete egocentrism) or correct, if you think this letter is meant for you. You are either wrong (owing to complete thick-headedness) or correct if you think this letter not meant for you.
Sincerely,
Chris
P.S. You might also think I should have written this letter to myself, if only because of the salutation. I can live with that.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
A Bloomin' Shame (I Think)
Recently, on Yahoo, there was an article about teenaged cheerleaders in Connecticut who protested their exceedingly revealing uniforms to their school officials. Like anyone else, I cheer the cheerleaders for not wanting to be sex objects, especially when the world around them seems to encourage them to do so. You might imagine that the writer of that article is in their corner, but then you can see that the "read more" link on the opening paragraph says: "see their get ups."
See their get ups? So, the lure for reading the full article about cheerleaders who are protesting being treated like pieces of meat is to tempt the reader into wanting to see . . . more of their . . . meat. Uh, right?
Or, was the writer trying to teach us something about our lascivious selves? Maybe? I dunno.
Within the article, there is a link that entices us to "see professional cheerleaders in action," while, directly above this link, the writer discusses the correlation between anorexia and bare-midriff uniforms worn by college cheerleaders.
But maybe instead of blaming the writer, we should wonder if there is some automated program that shows "relevant" links (as far as the computers know). Are the Yahoo machines finding articles related to cheer leading and, in perfect computer fashion, totally missing the irony of what they are advertising in conjunction with this article about these refreshingly self-respecting girls?
Whatever the source, the melange of messages here is fairly indicative of the shape our cultural morality is in -- maybe that it has always been in. Just loads and loads of paradoxical signals. And loads and loads of arbitrary decisions about what is considered appropriate.
Bloomers, for instance. One day after school, in high school, I was sitting with some friends and some of the cheerleaders in the hallway outside our gym. The cheerleaders were goofing around and one of them turned a handspring in her short uniform skirt, which, of course, flew up. Another cheerleader exclaimed, "Oh, no, Carla! You forgot to put your bloomers on!" Carla turned beat red, and nearly cried, until the other girl revealed that it had been a joke -- she'd had them on. But it got me thinking: What, exactly, was the difference between the bloomers and underwear? Then it occurred to me: a societal definition. That was it.
In short, someone, somewhere, had decided it was okay to do back flips in a short skirt, as long as a girl wears underwear over her underwear. Ah. I get it. This must be the same reasoning that makes it okay to show two people moaning, sweating and bouncing around in a bed (under covers) at one in the afternoon on a soap opera, but makes it not okay to show a woman or a man naked on a Discovery Channel documentary about evolution at eleven o'clock at night.
At any rate, the school board of the Connecticut high school is going to purchase black body suits for the girls to wear under their revealing uniforms. Which makes perfect sense.
See their get ups? So, the lure for reading the full article about cheerleaders who are protesting being treated like pieces of meat is to tempt the reader into wanting to see . . . more of their . . . meat. Uh, right?
Or, was the writer trying to teach us something about our lascivious selves? Maybe? I dunno.
Within the article, there is a link that entices us to "see professional cheerleaders in action," while, directly above this link, the writer discusses the correlation between anorexia and bare-midriff uniforms worn by college cheerleaders.
But maybe instead of blaming the writer, we should wonder if there is some automated program that shows "relevant" links (as far as the computers know). Are the Yahoo machines finding articles related to cheer leading and, in perfect computer fashion, totally missing the irony of what they are advertising in conjunction with this article about these refreshingly self-respecting girls?
Whatever the source, the melange of messages here is fairly indicative of the shape our cultural morality is in -- maybe that it has always been in. Just loads and loads of paradoxical signals. And loads and loads of arbitrary decisions about what is considered appropriate.
Bloomers, for instance. One day after school, in high school, I was sitting with some friends and some of the cheerleaders in the hallway outside our gym. The cheerleaders were goofing around and one of them turned a handspring in her short uniform skirt, which, of course, flew up. Another cheerleader exclaimed, "Oh, no, Carla! You forgot to put your bloomers on!" Carla turned beat red, and nearly cried, until the other girl revealed that it had been a joke -- she'd had them on. But it got me thinking: What, exactly, was the difference between the bloomers and underwear? Then it occurred to me: a societal definition. That was it.
In short, someone, somewhere, had decided it was okay to do back flips in a short skirt, as long as a girl wears underwear over her underwear. Ah. I get it. This must be the same reasoning that makes it okay to show two people moaning, sweating and bouncing around in a bed (under covers) at one in the afternoon on a soap opera, but makes it not okay to show a woman or a man naked on a Discovery Channel documentary about evolution at eleven o'clock at night.
At any rate, the school board of the Connecticut high school is going to purchase black body suits for the girls to wear under their revealing uniforms. Which makes perfect sense.
Monday, October 4, 2010
See the Love, Spit at the Rain
Of all the nights, we had to be moving my parents when Tropical Storm Nicole decided to blow us a little kiss. After a full day of work, after having been up since six in the morning, I stood in our old house in the light of a single, shadeless lamp on the floor, looking at boxes and piles of things to move. We stared out at sheets of rain, feeling like we were behind a waterfall, and my sister said, "So, what do we do?" The road in front of the house was a dirty river. My brother-in-law and I just exchanged a look that said: "We move." Out into the storm, we went.
At times, I stepped in water up to my shins. We lifted and carried, and the only thing I could hear over the rainfall was my own heartbeat. We were pushing pretty hard.
What was going to be a challenging weeknight move of a whole house into an apartment became a nightmare that would eventually last until two o'clock in the morning -- just the two of us lugging boxes and furniture; my sister cleaning and organizing an entire house. (She didn't escape the drenching either, by the way.)
In short, my self-pity needle was in the red as was my sense of desperation -- we would be at this all night. I had imagined maybe ten or eleven, at the latest. No way, now -- we would be lucky to wrap up before sunrise. And I had to work the next day. Anger at the situation started to creep in -- even a little at my parents for having put me in that position. But then, in the middle of a shining ebony parking lot, crouching for a breather, rain coming down like God was punishing the world with a heavenly fire hose, I saw something --a memory played on the movie screen in my head:
I was eight. I had just gotten a new toy -- a Star Trek phaser. It was an exact replica of the ones they had on the show. But it needed to be assembled by, like, a NASA engineer. There were more parts to the thing than there were pee puddles at a Beatles concert. But, in the light of a single lamp in the living room, there was the figure of my mother sticking with it, cursing softly from time to time under her breath, thinking I couldn't hear. For hours she worked: reading instructions, gluing, comparing pieces, pulling them apart to fix them, doing it all again. I'd wander in there between my TV shows, but she'd given up TV that night. She gave up relaxation on a weeknight. (I'm a dad now. I know how it feels to need that more than food.) She didn't give up her night to move me into a new house; nor to save my life; nor to teach me about the workings of the world. She did it to make me smile. To give me a toy to play with -- one I would probably break within a week. But I did sleep with it near my pillow that night.
Moms and dads will do that -- they will give up an hour, a day, a week, a month, a year, a lifetime to see their kids' faces light up for a second.
That's how they love you.
That's how I love my kids.
The memory finished playing at about midnight. That's when I stood up, spat at the rain, told big bad Nicole to piss off, put my head down and worked harder than maybe I ever have.
That's how they love you.
At times, I stepped in water up to my shins. We lifted and carried, and the only thing I could hear over the rainfall was my own heartbeat. We were pushing pretty hard.
What was going to be a challenging weeknight move of a whole house into an apartment became a nightmare that would eventually last until two o'clock in the morning -- just the two of us lugging boxes and furniture; my sister cleaning and organizing an entire house. (She didn't escape the drenching either, by the way.)
In short, my self-pity needle was in the red as was my sense of desperation -- we would be at this all night. I had imagined maybe ten or eleven, at the latest. No way, now -- we would be lucky to wrap up before sunrise. And I had to work the next day. Anger at the situation started to creep in -- even a little at my parents for having put me in that position. But then, in the middle of a shining ebony parking lot, crouching for a breather, rain coming down like God was punishing the world with a heavenly fire hose, I saw something --a memory played on the movie screen in my head:
I was eight. I had just gotten a new toy -- a Star Trek phaser. It was an exact replica of the ones they had on the show. But it needed to be assembled by, like, a NASA engineer. There were more parts to the thing than there were pee puddles at a Beatles concert. But, in the light of a single lamp in the living room, there was the figure of my mother sticking with it, cursing softly from time to time under her breath, thinking I couldn't hear. For hours she worked: reading instructions, gluing, comparing pieces, pulling them apart to fix them, doing it all again. I'd wander in there between my TV shows, but she'd given up TV that night. She gave up relaxation on a weeknight. (I'm a dad now. I know how it feels to need that more than food.) She didn't give up her night to move me into a new house; nor to save my life; nor to teach me about the workings of the world. She did it to make me smile. To give me a toy to play with -- one I would probably break within a week. But I did sleep with it near my pillow that night.
Moms and dads will do that -- they will give up an hour, a day, a week, a month, a year, a lifetime to see their kids' faces light up for a second.
That's how they love you.
That's how I love my kids.
The memory finished playing at about midnight. That's when I stood up, spat at the rain, told big bad Nicole to piss off, put my head down and worked harder than maybe I ever have.
That's how they love you.
Labels:
parenthood
Friday, October 1, 2010
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?
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?
Labels:
books,
psychology
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
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?
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?
Labels:
halloween,
psychology
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