Rogue Valley Roasting Company
16oz Soy Mexican Hot Chocolate (yeah, it's 100 degrees outside and I wanted a hot damn chocolate... that's why I ordered the "caliente" hot chocolate...)
Almond Croissant
So you think you're not a racist... Are you sure?
You feel no animosity, no resentment - you wish no one ill. But there are differences, aren't there? That's just a fact. Oh, it's not all of them... but, yeah, definitely most of them are just that way. Statistics show that they're just different in certain ways, they act certain ways that you don't, they're more likely to do things and end up in places that you never would. And that's because of who they are and who you're not. Right? The numbers show that, don't they?
In fact, they do not. There is no number anywhere that says that race makes us fundamentally different. You hear a lot of bullshitting with statistics, but it is just that - bullshit. When you do your due diligence and examine these numbers being sited, they tell us nothing fundamental about race, only society's relationship to it. Often times the numbers being sited don't exist (except on "Bullshit Mountain" and thank you Jon Stewart for that wonderful term). On a genetic level, things are even less distinct. Skin color is about as determinative of behavior as eye color.
And if you're one of those people who believe that we are instinctively racist, here is what science says about racial diversity...
I was watching an episode of 60 Minutes that discussed a study on the behavior of very young babies and children. The upshot was that some behaviors, like identifying others as like or unlike themselves and preferring those like themselves, show up extremely early, as young as 3 months. It also showed how arbitrary was the criteria for making those distinctions. The babies related to puppets who liked the same snack as them. So they accepted as members of their baby tribe... puppets. Graham cracker loving puppets. If a baby had been exposed to a baby of other another skin color that also liked graham crackers, wouldn't that baby then become a member of the cracker-loving baby tribe?
Just because babies have been shown to recognize differences in others doesn't make those differences meaningful, nor unchangeable. In fact, as the study continued to track behaviors as the ages progressed, they found that socially negative behaviors like greed changed as the kids got older, and behaviors like generosity and concern for others emerged. Perhaps behaviors that are useful for survival when you are a newborn, like being to identify the people most likely to know you and care about your safety, are meant to go away over time.
There was another study I remember learning about a while ago that showed that women were physiologically most attracted to the man most genetically different from themselves. (The women were given stinky undershirts to sniff to determine this). This is because the body knows that there is strength in diversity. The mind should know this, too, but societies seem to get stuck in that juvenile mindset where we want the comfort of the familiar when things scare us. The "Other" becomes the easiest scapegoat. It's primitive thinking - it holds us back. Human history is at its worst in those times of mass hatred of some group or other.
A while ago, the AP (I think) did a survey that found half of Americans were racist. When I looked at the questionnaire, however, it struck me the the questions themselves were presumptive of racism. What is your opinion of white people? Strongly or moderately negative, neutral, somewhat positive, very positive... However they worded it... They went through all the groups and also had stereotype statements that you either agreed or disagreed with. My problem is that I don't have an opinion about white people, neutral or otherwise. I don't have an opinion about people who's second toe is longer than their big toe, either. It's nonsensical to me. As nonsensical as saying most people with brown eyes are likely to like West Virginia's football team.
But I am not immune to the stereotypes. It's not that I believe them on a conscious level, but they get in there. The same way I can't help but know that 15 minutes could save you 15 percent, or that m&m's melt in your mouth and not in your hand. Which is also bullshit, on a hot day like this... Just because you know the bullshit mantras by rote, doesn't mean you have to believe them. Just because you have been advertised a beer, and you drank it and lo! it was indeed a beer, that doesn't mean that was in fact less filling or tasted great.
As I said before, statistical outcomes for "people of color" have nothing - NOTHING - to do with the inherent nature of the person but of society's relationship with people of color. Our society is still heavily racially biased and the suffering falls heaviest on those with the darkest skin. It is very sad, but currently true. That is what the statistics show.
There are innumerable examples available to show identical scenarios resulting in different outcomes when you change the color of the people involved. A darker person is more likely to be stopped for the same behavior, more likely to be arrested, ticketed, or convicted, for the same behavior. Among equally eligible candidates for a job, those with darker skin or more "ethnic" sounding names are less likely to receive even an interview, let alone the job. Trying to justify harsher treatment of certain ethnic groups because of all the negative consequences of this harsher treatment (as in, it's okay to have harsher sentencing for black people because, damn, look at all those black people in jail)... it's a classic case of cart before horse. Or just being an asshole.
Obviously, all this blog has been instigated by the tragedy of Trayvon Martin and the resulting commentaries on race. My feeling about the case, specifically, is this: I didn't follow every detail of the case, so I can't say how I would make a determination of those specific charges. But, there had to be some law that would have convicted George Zimmerman, even if it was a charge less than manslaughter. You may have the right to defend yourself, but you also have the responsibility to not kill someone. The magnitude of taking a life cannot be understated and cannot go unanswered. It cannot be acceptable to stalk someone, harass them, and provoke a physical confrontation, and then kill them because they were defending themself from you. That cannot be the acceptable precedent.
There is no excuse or justification sufficient for you to take the life of another unless you had no other choice. But Trayvon Martin, both before and after his death, was presumed to be a thug, a threat. That presumption - that's probably true of most of them, right? - that presumption lead Zimmerman to think he had no other choice. Or that Martin deserved it anyway, because if he wasn't a thug already, just give it time...
If you use race to make any kind of generalization about behavior - that's racism. It is not justified and it's not okay, no matter how many anecdotes you've heard to back up the bullshit. Don't believe this "culture of victimhood" bullshit, either. And don't get defensive because you don't like being called the bad guy. Be honest first. I still believe that most people don't want to be racists, and that is important. But you can't just deflect or justify the latent racism that may lurk inside your head. Your first challenge is examining what you really believe and why you believe it. Recognizing differences might be inherent but racism is not. It is a poison to humanity. It is an unfair burden placed on some, insidious or obvious, but it persists.
If you have not lived as the Other in a society, try to take a moment to imagine what it is to walk around every day of your life "guilty." Inferior... a target... and for no offense. Any woman should be able to relate. What woman hasn't felt like a target walking down the street in a short skirt... or a mu-mu, for that matter? But being a feminist and wanting to be treated like a human being not a piece of meat doesn't make someone a man-hater, any more than being against racism makes someone anti-white people.
It occurred to me recently that affirmative action is as much about providing opportunity as it is about reprogramming - or deprogramming - racism. As you are forced to live and work alongside those you once thought different, the bullshit is overwritten with the humanity of the person at your side. The everyday human stories fill in the spaces where nonsense used to dwell. And in time, if they are allowed to, the young see the new reality that should be and not this tragic world in which we now dwell. Sometimes, the old can see it too...
We can only hope.
Friday, July 26, 2013
Friday, July 19, 2013
Adonis and Butterface
Toyota Service Center
8oz Complimentary Coffee (x2)
Gerber Fruit Squeezy
It's before noon - it's Friday - and I'm blogging. I feel weird. But my car is getting a long, long over-due servicing so it only makes sense to use this time to write. So... what shall my topic be today? I'm not sure. Let's just go for it.
I saw a picture of a half-naked fat chic online (there's a promising opening sentence) and it got me thinking. Mostly the accompanying text was about all the positive responses, though it acknowledged the god-awful body hate that also got dredged up. So let me throw down what I think about beauty and love and all that crap. This may be "date hair" part 2, in a way. I feel like all this should be a given, but sometimes it's important to see it written aloud. So here goes...
I wonder how far women could have gone in this last century if modern media - movies, magazines, television - hadn't been invented until after society had already embraced women's liberation. Would we still have the relentless body shaming being beaten into us from every direction? I wonder... But as it is, we have to work hard to do our own deprogramming.
So, first thing you need to accept: fat people are not Love's lepers. They can be beautiful, too. They can, in fact, be considered attractive - even by skinny people. And most importantly, they can be loved - by anyone.
This should not be shocking. No one should be going, "yeah, but..." Nope. Basically everything you've been told about beauty and love by movies and stories and fashionistas is nonsense. It's a bullshit mythology so expansive and so ingrained in our collective psyche that we are emotionally crippled for most of our lives. No matter how much we try to over-write the coding in our brains, we are still so drowning in the bullshit messaging that when we see a storyline that deviates - a love-interest 10 pounds over the Hollywood norm - our mind recoils and says that it's unrealistic. We can't believe that someone that looks like us could be found attractive to a Hollywood Heartthrob. Even though that is the reality that surrounds us everyday - somehow we can't see it.
Not to toot my own horn but I have stopped traffic (on more than one occasion) when I was still about 180 pounds. That's obese for my height. Not just overweight - obese. I reduced a guy to a slack-jawed, giggling idiot at 200 pounds. And I'm not attracting only equally overweight guys. One guy who asked me out looked like a goddamn Adonis. He was a sweet guy, too. But I turned him down. He was a subordinate. And I didn't have my Date Hair on. But, though he was hotter than any Hollywood hunk I can think of right now, he was still into rubenesque - obese - me.
The truth is beauty will turn a head. But that is not the whole story of attraction, and certainly not of love. And beauty is highly subjective to each person. There is an innate beauty to health - the genetic symmetry and the physical display that shows viability for child-bearing and child-rearing. When it comes to our fat stores, from a health standpoint, it's beneficial to have some extra in cases of emergency (sickness, food shortages, etc.), but there's a limit to the benefit. At some point, carrying around too much extra is going to put strain on systems throughout your body, though that point is a lot farther out than Hollywood would have you believe, and you can still maintain your fitness even carrying a lot extra.
But we're not just rutting animals. We're social animals. We're complicated. And we care about the mental health of our mates as well. Happy people are attractive, whatever else they look like. I've said before. I've never found someone with a genuine smile to be unattractive. And then there's that intangible - personality. Quirks, favorite bands, your civility while driving... they infuse attraction as well.
For me, parking your car an extra space farther away from your destination just so that the next person will have an easier time parallel parking - that's damn sexy.
I'm sure that I have a "type" that I could call that most attractive to me. I have a favorite color, after all, why not a favorite face or body-type? Well, for one thing, not everything in my life is the same color. My car is blue, my microwave is red, my favorite dress is green. In fact, I don't generally believe in having a favorite anything. It robs you of enjoyment of a multitude of things by fixating on one thing. I don't want to have a favorite song. I like all kinds of music and I would give you wildly different answers depending on the mood I'm in. So, too, with people. I have liked and loved all kinds of people. Short guys, tall guys, fat guys, small guys - and a plethora of Dr. Seuss combinations all around. And all of them have been attractive to me - beautiful - in their own way.
When it comes to appearance, people can control how they dress and how they groom themselves, they can control their fitness (though it doesn't always feel like it). But people cannot control their genetic make up. So someone's appearance seems to be the most ludicrous and inconsequential thing to compliment. And, yet, we do it. We're obsessed with it. And we still conflate the concept of beauty with someone's random genetic result. I put zero work into this face, these... huge tracts of land... But I have put considerable work into my mind. I've contemplated the shit out of the Universe... and religion and politics and economics and so much nonsense. That's where I dwell. And no grainy internet picture is going to capture that.
So, I cannot deny that a pretty face will turn your head. But a pretty face alone will not hold your heart's attention forever. Not really. And beauty is something much deeper and more complex than appearance, and, in truth, is unconstrained by something so random as numbers on a scale.
8oz Complimentary Coffee (x2)
Gerber Fruit Squeezy
It's before noon - it's Friday - and I'm blogging. I feel weird. But my car is getting a long, long over-due servicing so it only makes sense to use this time to write. So... what shall my topic be today? I'm not sure. Let's just go for it.
I saw a picture of a half-naked fat chic online (there's a promising opening sentence) and it got me thinking. Mostly the accompanying text was about all the positive responses, though it acknowledged the god-awful body hate that also got dredged up. So let me throw down what I think about beauty and love and all that crap. This may be "date hair" part 2, in a way. I feel like all this should be a given, but sometimes it's important to see it written aloud. So here goes...
I wonder how far women could have gone in this last century if modern media - movies, magazines, television - hadn't been invented until after society had already embraced women's liberation. Would we still have the relentless body shaming being beaten into us from every direction? I wonder... But as it is, we have to work hard to do our own deprogramming.
So, first thing you need to accept: fat people are not Love's lepers. They can be beautiful, too. They can, in fact, be considered attractive - even by skinny people. And most importantly, they can be loved - by anyone.
This should not be shocking. No one should be going, "yeah, but..." Nope. Basically everything you've been told about beauty and love by movies and stories and fashionistas is nonsense. It's a bullshit mythology so expansive and so ingrained in our collective psyche that we are emotionally crippled for most of our lives. No matter how much we try to over-write the coding in our brains, we are still so drowning in the bullshit messaging that when we see a storyline that deviates - a love-interest 10 pounds over the Hollywood norm - our mind recoils and says that it's unrealistic. We can't believe that someone that looks like us could be found attractive to a Hollywood Heartthrob. Even though that is the reality that surrounds us everyday - somehow we can't see it.
Not to toot my own horn but I have stopped traffic (on more than one occasion) when I was still about 180 pounds. That's obese for my height. Not just overweight - obese. I reduced a guy to a slack-jawed, giggling idiot at 200 pounds. And I'm not attracting only equally overweight guys. One guy who asked me out looked like a goddamn Adonis. He was a sweet guy, too. But I turned him down. He was a subordinate. And I didn't have my Date Hair on. But, though he was hotter than any Hollywood hunk I can think of right now, he was still into rubenesque - obese - me.
The truth is beauty will turn a head. But that is not the whole story of attraction, and certainly not of love. And beauty is highly subjective to each person. There is an innate beauty to health - the genetic symmetry and the physical display that shows viability for child-bearing and child-rearing. When it comes to our fat stores, from a health standpoint, it's beneficial to have some extra in cases of emergency (sickness, food shortages, etc.), but there's a limit to the benefit. At some point, carrying around too much extra is going to put strain on systems throughout your body, though that point is a lot farther out than Hollywood would have you believe, and you can still maintain your fitness even carrying a lot extra.
But we're not just rutting animals. We're social animals. We're complicated. And we care about the mental health of our mates as well. Happy people are attractive, whatever else they look like. I've said before. I've never found someone with a genuine smile to be unattractive. And then there's that intangible - personality. Quirks, favorite bands, your civility while driving... they infuse attraction as well.
For me, parking your car an extra space farther away from your destination just so that the next person will have an easier time parallel parking - that's damn sexy.
I'm sure that I have a "type" that I could call that most attractive to me. I have a favorite color, after all, why not a favorite face or body-type? Well, for one thing, not everything in my life is the same color. My car is blue, my microwave is red, my favorite dress is green. In fact, I don't generally believe in having a favorite anything. It robs you of enjoyment of a multitude of things by fixating on one thing. I don't want to have a favorite song. I like all kinds of music and I would give you wildly different answers depending on the mood I'm in. So, too, with people. I have liked and loved all kinds of people. Short guys, tall guys, fat guys, small guys - and a plethora of Dr. Seuss combinations all around. And all of them have been attractive to me - beautiful - in their own way.
When it comes to appearance, people can control how they dress and how they groom themselves, they can control their fitness (though it doesn't always feel like it). But people cannot control their genetic make up. So someone's appearance seems to be the most ludicrous and inconsequential thing to compliment. And, yet, we do it. We're obsessed with it. And we still conflate the concept of beauty with someone's random genetic result. I put zero work into this face, these... huge tracts of land... But I have put considerable work into my mind. I've contemplated the shit out of the Universe... and religion and politics and economics and so much nonsense. That's where I dwell. And no grainy internet picture is going to capture that.
So, I cannot deny that a pretty face will turn your head. But a pretty face alone will not hold your heart's attention forever. Not really. And beauty is something much deeper and more complex than appearance, and, in truth, is unconstrained by something so random as numbers on a scale.
Saturday, July 6, 2013
Date Hair
Evo's Coffee Lounge
8oz Soy Mocha
Vegan Heart Biscuit with jam
I am 34 years old. Thirty-four years. That's a long damn time. Carter was president when I was born. Gas prices were causing rationing with long lines of gas-guzzlers stretching down the road. My brother's and I used to fight over the front seat as kids. Now we would have been squeezed into into three booster seats in the back. Lenders couldn't charge you more than 10% interest when I was born, and a summer job could pay an entire year's tuition.
And on and on the changes I've seen in thirty-four years... I remember the Challenger disaster. I remember coming home from school to the news that we were at war in Iraq (the first time). I remember the L.A. Riots. I remember not really caring for Bill Clinton until the impeachment spectacle. I remember thinking then that I definitely could never be president - I do not have that kind of emotional stamina to go through that and just keep working.
But I did give serious thought to being president when I was a kid. It was really an option for a while. Along with many other things... philosopher, physicist, writer, lawyer, truck driver, opera singer... My biggest problem then was deciding. But I'm not a kid anymore. And I'm not any of those things... on a professional level, anyway. On reflection, I'm kinda all those things informally.
Because I'm interesting. I am an interesting, autonomous human being. But the most interesting thing is that, in thirty-four years - I haven't thought of you once.
...Mr. You're-a-Fat-Bitch-because-you're-not-interested-in-me...
I have contemplated the shape and nature of the Universe. I have worried over things large and small. But I have never once in 34 years worried about the opinion of a man who does not respect me enough to leave me alone. I have never gotten up in the morning and said to myself, "How should I dress today so I can please the next guy who wants to stare at my ass?" I have never once - not ever - wanted a complete or virtually complete stranger to comment on the size or buoyancy of my tits. Never. It is not a compliment. It is a threat. It is the reduction of a human being to an appendage, an object, a thing inferior to the person making the comment.
I shouldn't have to say I'm in a relationship or that I just forgot to put my wedding ring back on after cleaning apples for my kids' lunch. I shouldn't have to say, "Yeah, I'd totally be into you, but the chemo is really taking it out of me today." I shouldn't have to say that I have some emotional stuff going on and I'm a little fragile. Or a lot fragile. I shouldn't have to tell you that it is not okay to touch me in any way at all. I shouldn't have to say that grabbing my ass is actually a sexual assault. That should be a goddamn given.
The fact of the matter is that the vast majority of the time, if a girl rejects your advances, it has almost nothing to do with you. Sometimes there's nothing wrong with the guy asking you out for coffee but there's nothing particularly appealing to you either. There's nothing wrong with just not being interested. And I completely respect that guys feel vulnerable asking a girl out and it's hard to deal with even a kind rejection. But just as a woman should not feel validated as a human being only when someone finds her sexually attractive, so should a man not feel like less of a man if any given woman isn't interested.
I know that women are sometimes very unkind to men. And again, that is often mostly unrelated to the man talking to her. Just try to remember that for every shy guy who plucks up the courage to ask her out, there is a barrage of assholes calling her a Fat Bitch just for walking past them wearing any amount of clothing, not to mention all the subtle and not-so-subtle misogynist messaging from every imaginable source in society. Some times it's just bad timing.
I have turned down a number of potentially wonderful relationships simply because I didn't have my Date Hair on.
Date Hair means you are willing to invest the energy getting to know someone. You're willing to shave your legs and make yourself more presentable to society at large. You feel stable enough with your own crap that you're willing to let someone in, to take the emotional hit if it turns out bad. And even when you're not looking you may still find someone who knocks you off your feet anyway. (So don't take it personally if someone who said she wasn't dating anybody right then ends up going out with some other guy a week later).
So, good guys, hang in there. Don't get cynical, and maybe experiment with getting to know a girl for the purpose of being a friend rather than being a perspective girlfriend for a change.
And please knock your asshole friends upside their heads because they're kinda ruining for the rest of you.
Okay, posting! No edits.
My boys are waiting in the car for me.
8oz Soy Mocha
Vegan Heart Biscuit with jam
I am 34 years old. Thirty-four years. That's a long damn time. Carter was president when I was born. Gas prices were causing rationing with long lines of gas-guzzlers stretching down the road. My brother's and I used to fight over the front seat as kids. Now we would have been squeezed into into three booster seats in the back. Lenders couldn't charge you more than 10% interest when I was born, and a summer job could pay an entire year's tuition.
And on and on the changes I've seen in thirty-four years... I remember the Challenger disaster. I remember coming home from school to the news that we were at war in Iraq (the first time). I remember the L.A. Riots. I remember not really caring for Bill Clinton until the impeachment spectacle. I remember thinking then that I definitely could never be president - I do not have that kind of emotional stamina to go through that and just keep working.
But I did give serious thought to being president when I was a kid. It was really an option for a while. Along with many other things... philosopher, physicist, writer, lawyer, truck driver, opera singer... My biggest problem then was deciding. But I'm not a kid anymore. And I'm not any of those things... on a professional level, anyway. On reflection, I'm kinda all those things informally.
Because I'm interesting. I am an interesting, autonomous human being. But the most interesting thing is that, in thirty-four years - I haven't thought of you once.
...Mr. You're-a-Fat-Bitch-because-you're-not-interested-in-me...
I have contemplated the shape and nature of the Universe. I have worried over things large and small. But I have never once in 34 years worried about the opinion of a man who does not respect me enough to leave me alone. I have never gotten up in the morning and said to myself, "How should I dress today so I can please the next guy who wants to stare at my ass?" I have never once - not ever - wanted a complete or virtually complete stranger to comment on the size or buoyancy of my tits. Never. It is not a compliment. It is a threat. It is the reduction of a human being to an appendage, an object, a thing inferior to the person making the comment.
I shouldn't have to say I'm in a relationship or that I just forgot to put my wedding ring back on after cleaning apples for my kids' lunch. I shouldn't have to say, "Yeah, I'd totally be into you, but the chemo is really taking it out of me today." I shouldn't have to say that I have some emotional stuff going on and I'm a little fragile. Or a lot fragile. I shouldn't have to tell you that it is not okay to touch me in any way at all. I shouldn't have to say that grabbing my ass is actually a sexual assault. That should be a goddamn given.
The fact of the matter is that the vast majority of the time, if a girl rejects your advances, it has almost nothing to do with you. Sometimes there's nothing wrong with the guy asking you out for coffee but there's nothing particularly appealing to you either. There's nothing wrong with just not being interested. And I completely respect that guys feel vulnerable asking a girl out and it's hard to deal with even a kind rejection. But just as a woman should not feel validated as a human being only when someone finds her sexually attractive, so should a man not feel like less of a man if any given woman isn't interested.
I know that women are sometimes very unkind to men. And again, that is often mostly unrelated to the man talking to her. Just try to remember that for every shy guy who plucks up the courage to ask her out, there is a barrage of assholes calling her a Fat Bitch just for walking past them wearing any amount of clothing, not to mention all the subtle and not-so-subtle misogynist messaging from every imaginable source in society. Some times it's just bad timing.
I have turned down a number of potentially wonderful relationships simply because I didn't have my Date Hair on.
Date Hair means you are willing to invest the energy getting to know someone. You're willing to shave your legs and make yourself more presentable to society at large. You feel stable enough with your own crap that you're willing to let someone in, to take the emotional hit if it turns out bad. And even when you're not looking you may still find someone who knocks you off your feet anyway. (So don't take it personally if someone who said she wasn't dating anybody right then ends up going out with some other guy a week later).
So, good guys, hang in there. Don't get cynical, and maybe experiment with getting to know a girl for the purpose of being a friend rather than being a perspective girlfriend for a change.
And please knock your asshole friends upside their heads because they're kinda ruining for the rest of you.
Okay, posting! No edits.
My boys are waiting in the car for me.
Saturday, June 29, 2013
Rogue Roasts
I knocked back the last swallow of my coffee
the taste of it was the smell of Wrightwood
the first week of November...
cold enough to snow, whether it has or not...
the smell of frigid autumn evening...
still enough light for the walk home,
but no more sun to pierce a crack
in the mountain line...
the pines...
the crisp air on my tongue...
and most of all, the touch of fire from a multitude of hearths,
like sentinels lining my path home...
what a conflation of memory and sense...
and all from a cup of - no...
from the dregs of
a cup of coffee.
- 6/12/13.
A shorty today for a nostalgic weekend with visiting family... With appreciation to Rogue Valley Roasting Company for providing the path to memories of many a walk to home.
the taste of it was the smell of Wrightwood
the first week of November...
cold enough to snow, whether it has or not...
the smell of frigid autumn evening...
still enough light for the walk home,
but no more sun to pierce a crack
in the mountain line...
the pines...
the crisp air on my tongue...
and most of all, the touch of fire from a multitude of hearths,
like sentinels lining my path home...
what a conflation of memory and sense...
and all from a cup of - no...
from the dregs of
a cup of coffee.
- 6/12/13.
A shorty today for a nostalgic weekend with visiting family... With appreciation to Rogue Valley Roasting Company for providing the path to memories of many a walk to home.
Saturday, June 22, 2013
From "Gopher fur" to "Rock 'n Roll!"
Downtowne Coffee
12oz Coffee (that's right - just mutherfuckin' coffee)
Everything bagel with cream cheese
First, let me give a shout-out to Gene Burnett. He is the talented singer-songwriter currently serenading us with his guitar. The main reason I want to take a moment to mention him is because of the little postcard/flyer thingy left around the coffeehouse. There's a little write-up on the back explaining that he is giving his music away for free. He doesn't want to be rich and famous, he just wants to make music and be happy. He says he is making more money now giving his music away online and with a digital tip jar than he made selling his music. As he puts it on his little postcard, "I only want to do what feels most deeply right and this is it." So there you go, people: GeneBurnett.com. It's a good ethos and happens to be good music.
I didn't have a particular tie-in in mind when I decided to include that little shout out, but then the cynical thought hit me, "I wonder if he got his postcards done by VistaPrint." And I remembered that watch too much TV. And that does tie-in to this article/bloggy thingy: my boys watch too much damn TV. And that's my fault. How do I know they watch too much? Let me relate a little skill little Henry has picked up.
A little while ago, I was walking with the boys, and Henry started pointing at a car and repeating, "Gopher fur!" He repeated it, deliberately, several times, but I couldn't figure out what he was talking about. He has come a long way with his speech but it's still often hard to understand him. I think I said something like, "Yes, honey, it's a car." I think he repeated back, "Car," and then, "Gopher fur!" again.
Later on at home, at the end of a Ford commercial, Henry deliberately restated the words, "Gopher fur!" to the TV. The tag line on the Ford commercial - "Go further." Oh. Not "gopher fur" - "go further." I thought it was cute and little advanced that he had recognized the Ford logo on the car and had been able to connect it to the tag line from the commercial. I think he had just turned three, after all. I also thought, "too much TV." But Henry's prowess was not limited to Fords.
Soon, I began to recognize, whenever he saw the car on the street... "Toyota: Let's go places," and, "Su-ba-woo" (Subaru), and my favorite - as voiced by Henry's namesake, Henry Rollins - "Infinity: Inspired performance," which Henry pronounces as, "Spider formance." He also says, "Akira," for Acura, which I know will make some of my anime-loving friends smile.
So, while all of this is cute and speaks highly of Henry's intellect, it also speaks of my bad habit of leaving the TV on too damn much.
It is amazing what the boys absorb. They can see something once and be repeating it later that night. Or they can see or hear something a thousand times and not seem to take it in at all (like, "It's time to put the toys away!"). They seem not to, anyway. But I'm certain now that everything is sticking - and that really worries me. I am shocked that I have not yet heard the words, "erectile dysfunction," from either of them. I am sure they don't understand what it means, because right now all they can associate it with is a lot of slow-motion shots of smiling middle-aged couples playing sports and laughing and dancing slow with their foreheads together. Not very interesting to them now, but the words are in there, I have no doubt.
The hardest part about this revelation that they're getting too much screen time is that I have done very little to amend that. In fact, there are a lot of things I do as a parent that I really wish I did not. It's like trying to lose weight: you know what you ought to be doing (eating your greens, getting some exercise) but you somehow can't seem to get yourself to do it. And that's depressing. It is for me, anyway... although, to be fair, depression is kinda what I do.
I don't get them enough exercise, their diet is wanting, I'm not consistent with their daily schedule... but much worse than all that, I yell too much and I've really taken to the swearing. The other day, as I was hanging up the phone, instead of the usual, "Bye-bye, Daddy," from the backseat, I heard, "Bye-bye, motherfucker." Yes, I laughed. And then I tried to explain that that is one of Mommy's mad words (though I think he probably got it from Daddy) and that he shouldn't use it. Mommy shouldn't use it, either (not all the time, anyway), and she's trying not to. She's trying to stop talking in the third-person, too.
Henry and I have been talking a lot about our feelings. When we're mad, especially. We acknowledge whatever it is we're feeling - like disappointment at having to leave the playground, or frustration when he's shrieking an inch from my ear (I have gone partially deaf for short periods of time) - and we try to take a breath and let those feelings be and redirect ourselves. Oliver has his moments, too, but Henry is more like me. He's sensitive and seems to feel everything a little deeper and a little longer.
I've talked before about dealing with mental health stuff. A few months ago, I began a group therapy class. I word it that way, specifically, because it wasn't really a "processing" group where you go around and hash out all your baggage. It was a class and it just finished last week. We learned about Acceptance and Commitment Therapy, or ACT. You may or may not have heard of it before. The heart of it, as the name implies, was learning how to be aware of what you are really feeling (mindfulness) and how to accept what you are feeling it instead of trying to fight it. It's the fighting it that makes the feeling more intense.
If you've ever had a panic attack or a public "break-down" then you can probably understand how the fear of the break-down, the fear of the panic, is often what causes the attack. When you practice recognizing what you're feeling and both disconnecting from it while acknowledging and accepting it, then the intensity will generally die down and pass. "I'm having the sensation of a rapid heartbeat... I'm having the thought that everyone is looking at me... I'm having the feeling of disappointment..." Like I'm having a burrito for lunch. Whatever you're experiencing is there, but it isn't who you are, and it is a passing thing. That make's it easier to feel the next thing, which you hope is relief and something more positive.
Obviously, there's a lot more to it, but that's what I've been working on. Instead of getting mad at Henry for his frustrating inconsistencies - like the one time we really have to be somewhere he decides he doesn't know how to put on his own shoes and socks - I'm trying to put myself in his mind (or mood) and acknowledge whatever might be the hold up.
"I know you're disappointed because you wanted to watch Pocoyo - I like Pocoyo, too... And you're probably mad at Mommy for yelling. I was getting frustrated because I don't want us to miss our appointment. But I shouldn't have yelled - I'm sorry." And hopefully that and a hug will get things moving again. It works sometimes. I also figured out that his socks were getting too small and he was having trouble doing it on his own. Sometimes he'll tell me, "too small," and sometimes he just gives up and kinda checks out while I get more frustrated and yell-y, and that just makes it all worse.
Children are the embodiment of all those uncontrollable emotions. Neither you nor they have the ability to control what they are feeling or how they act because of them. All you can do is accept what they (or you) are feeling and control the actions you take in response.
Over this last week, there was Father's Day and there was my mother's birthday. I didn't call either of them (I sent a card and left a Facebook post, respectively). I meant to, but... well, hey, they raised me. And neither of them are really bad parents. They love me and taught me many good and useful things. They tried to do what they thought was best. But they couldn't know everything that I was going to need to learn that they never taught me. Like how to get to bed on time and how to keep my house clean and how to be happy with myself.
But they did teach me how to think for myself instead of just accepting the words or opinions of others. They gave me good music and wonder for the Universe. And because of my mom, my purse is prepared for just about any eventuality.
This week, Stephen Colbert said a beautiful and emotional farewell to his mother at the beginning of one of his shows. I can only hope that I can be a mother like that, who will earn that kind of send off when I, one day, depart. Even if I do let the boys watch the Comedy Central at this tender age...
Yesterday, when we got into the car, the Sargent Pepper's CD I had been listening to started playing. From the back seat I heard Henry say in his adorable 3-year-old lisp, "Rock 'n Roll!" A moment later, this was echoed by Oliver's excited little shriek - "Wock 'n Woll!"
Yes, babies. This is rock 'n roll.
Maybe I'm not such a bad mom after all.
12oz Coffee (that's right - just mutherfuckin' coffee)
Everything bagel with cream cheese
First, let me give a shout-out to Gene Burnett. He is the talented singer-songwriter currently serenading us with his guitar. The main reason I want to take a moment to mention him is because of the little postcard/flyer thingy left around the coffeehouse. There's a little write-up on the back explaining that he is giving his music away for free. He doesn't want to be rich and famous, he just wants to make music and be happy. He says he is making more money now giving his music away online and with a digital tip jar than he made selling his music. As he puts it on his little postcard, "I only want to do what feels most deeply right and this is it." So there you go, people: GeneBurnett.com. It's a good ethos and happens to be good music.
I didn't have a particular tie-in in mind when I decided to include that little shout out, but then the cynical thought hit me, "I wonder if he got his postcards done by VistaPrint." And I remembered that watch too much TV. And that does tie-in to this article/bloggy thingy: my boys watch too much damn TV. And that's my fault. How do I know they watch too much? Let me relate a little skill little Henry has picked up.
A little while ago, I was walking with the boys, and Henry started pointing at a car and repeating, "Gopher fur!" He repeated it, deliberately, several times, but I couldn't figure out what he was talking about. He has come a long way with his speech but it's still often hard to understand him. I think I said something like, "Yes, honey, it's a car." I think he repeated back, "Car," and then, "Gopher fur!" again.
Later on at home, at the end of a Ford commercial, Henry deliberately restated the words, "Gopher fur!" to the TV. The tag line on the Ford commercial - "Go further." Oh. Not "gopher fur" - "go further." I thought it was cute and little advanced that he had recognized the Ford logo on the car and had been able to connect it to the tag line from the commercial. I think he had just turned three, after all. I also thought, "too much TV." But Henry's prowess was not limited to Fords.
Soon, I began to recognize, whenever he saw the car on the street... "Toyota: Let's go places," and, "Su-ba-woo" (Subaru), and my favorite - as voiced by Henry's namesake, Henry Rollins - "Infinity: Inspired performance," which Henry pronounces as, "Spider formance." He also says, "Akira," for Acura, which I know will make some of my anime-loving friends smile.
So, while all of this is cute and speaks highly of Henry's intellect, it also speaks of my bad habit of leaving the TV on too damn much.
It is amazing what the boys absorb. They can see something once and be repeating it later that night. Or they can see or hear something a thousand times and not seem to take it in at all (like, "It's time to put the toys away!"). They seem not to, anyway. But I'm certain now that everything is sticking - and that really worries me. I am shocked that I have not yet heard the words, "erectile dysfunction," from either of them. I am sure they don't understand what it means, because right now all they can associate it with is a lot of slow-motion shots of smiling middle-aged couples playing sports and laughing and dancing slow with their foreheads together. Not very interesting to them now, but the words are in there, I have no doubt.
The hardest part about this revelation that they're getting too much screen time is that I have done very little to amend that. In fact, there are a lot of things I do as a parent that I really wish I did not. It's like trying to lose weight: you know what you ought to be doing (eating your greens, getting some exercise) but you somehow can't seem to get yourself to do it. And that's depressing. It is for me, anyway... although, to be fair, depression is kinda what I do.
I don't get them enough exercise, their diet is wanting, I'm not consistent with their daily schedule... but much worse than all that, I yell too much and I've really taken to the swearing. The other day, as I was hanging up the phone, instead of the usual, "Bye-bye, Daddy," from the backseat, I heard, "Bye-bye, motherfucker." Yes, I laughed. And then I tried to explain that that is one of Mommy's mad words (though I think he probably got it from Daddy) and that he shouldn't use it. Mommy shouldn't use it, either (not all the time, anyway), and she's trying not to. She's trying to stop talking in the third-person, too.
Henry and I have been talking a lot about our feelings. When we're mad, especially. We acknowledge whatever it is we're feeling - like disappointment at having to leave the playground, or frustration when he's shrieking an inch from my ear (I have gone partially deaf for short periods of time) - and we try to take a breath and let those feelings be and redirect ourselves. Oliver has his moments, too, but Henry is more like me. He's sensitive and seems to feel everything a little deeper and a little longer.
I've talked before about dealing with mental health stuff. A few months ago, I began a group therapy class. I word it that way, specifically, because it wasn't really a "processing" group where you go around and hash out all your baggage. It was a class and it just finished last week. We learned about Acceptance and Commitment Therapy, or ACT. You may or may not have heard of it before. The heart of it, as the name implies, was learning how to be aware of what you are really feeling (mindfulness) and how to accept what you are feeling it instead of trying to fight it. It's the fighting it that makes the feeling more intense.
If you've ever had a panic attack or a public "break-down" then you can probably understand how the fear of the break-down, the fear of the panic, is often what causes the attack. When you practice recognizing what you're feeling and both disconnecting from it while acknowledging and accepting it, then the intensity will generally die down and pass. "I'm having the sensation of a rapid heartbeat... I'm having the thought that everyone is looking at me... I'm having the feeling of disappointment..." Like I'm having a burrito for lunch. Whatever you're experiencing is there, but it isn't who you are, and it is a passing thing. That make's it easier to feel the next thing, which you hope is relief and something more positive.
Obviously, there's a lot more to it, but that's what I've been working on. Instead of getting mad at Henry for his frustrating inconsistencies - like the one time we really have to be somewhere he decides he doesn't know how to put on his own shoes and socks - I'm trying to put myself in his mind (or mood) and acknowledge whatever might be the hold up.
"I know you're disappointed because you wanted to watch Pocoyo - I like Pocoyo, too... And you're probably mad at Mommy for yelling. I was getting frustrated because I don't want us to miss our appointment. But I shouldn't have yelled - I'm sorry." And hopefully that and a hug will get things moving again. It works sometimes. I also figured out that his socks were getting too small and he was having trouble doing it on his own. Sometimes he'll tell me, "too small," and sometimes he just gives up and kinda checks out while I get more frustrated and yell-y, and that just makes it all worse.
Children are the embodiment of all those uncontrollable emotions. Neither you nor they have the ability to control what they are feeling or how they act because of them. All you can do is accept what they (or you) are feeling and control the actions you take in response.
Over this last week, there was Father's Day and there was my mother's birthday. I didn't call either of them (I sent a card and left a Facebook post, respectively). I meant to, but... well, hey, they raised me. And neither of them are really bad parents. They love me and taught me many good and useful things. They tried to do what they thought was best. But they couldn't know everything that I was going to need to learn that they never taught me. Like how to get to bed on time and how to keep my house clean and how to be happy with myself.
But they did teach me how to think for myself instead of just accepting the words or opinions of others. They gave me good music and wonder for the Universe. And because of my mom, my purse is prepared for just about any eventuality.
This week, Stephen Colbert said a beautiful and emotional farewell to his mother at the beginning of one of his shows. I can only hope that I can be a mother like that, who will earn that kind of send off when I, one day, depart. Even if I do let the boys watch the Comedy Central at this tender age...
Yesterday, when we got into the car, the Sargent Pepper's CD I had been listening to started playing. From the back seat I heard Henry say in his adorable 3-year-old lisp, "Rock 'n Roll!" A moment later, this was echoed by Oliver's excited little shriek - "Wock 'n Woll!"
Yes, babies. This is rock 'n roll.
Maybe I'm not such a bad mom after all.
Friday, June 14, 2013
Making the bed while you're lying in it.
Mix Sweet Shop
12 oz Americano
(surreptitious oatmeal cookie from my purse)
This is supposed to be a short, quick blog since it's late (and Friday!) and I've got to get home before too long. It will probably go long anyway. I'm trying to do this a day early this week so that I can stay home tomorrow and try to "deal" with the chaos there. Why? In short, I flooded the front room. Just a bit.
Last week was hot as all heckers, so I maneuvered out the portable a/c unit, stuck the exhaust vent in the window, and stressed over how to keep the door to the room open to get that cool air while keeping boys out of it. The front room, you see, is the "closet" room. We moved the beds to the back room and turned the front room into the dumping ground for everything else we didn't want the boys getting in to. Of course, that meant it became the life-sized junk drawer for everything I wanted to be dealing with but somehow could never get to. Boxes of mail that just need to be sorted into "shred" piles and "file" piles... stretching back for years now as time pushes on past my intentions, still stuck in the mire.
I hate that room. As my thighs are the physical representation of my mistreatment of my health, this room is the physical representation of me not getting my shit together. The contents of that room loom over me. Well... "loomed" would be more correct. By the time I finally entered, noticed the funky smell, and approached the corner of the room with the a/c unit (to finally put the laundry away from several days previous), my foot squelched on a patch of carpet several feet away from the unit. Crap. Apparently, in the disorder of the room, the little black stopper that keeps the excess condensation from dripping out the back was dislodged, lost. It also doesn't help that we haven't cleaned the vent part in, oh, I don't know if we've ever cleaned it in the three years we've had it, leading to an inordinate amount of drippage.
So, despite the impressive absorbancy of several Sham-Wows, we destroyed the chip-board flooring beneath the carpet. Our friendly neighborhood handy man was literally shoveling it out yesterday morning. It has since been replaced with new plywood, new padding, and the now dry old carpet has been stretched back into place. However, it's Friday and we won't be able to get it cleaned until some time next week.
It may have occurred to you that this room sounds like it must be empty now to have done all this work. It is. And where has the contents of the junk drawer gone? Mostly to the kitchen. Three of the four bookcases and all of the books, and some other goodies. The boxes of paperwork ended up in the playpen (the toys are under the table) covered by a blanket - partly, to not engender the curiosity of the boys, and partly so I don't have to look at the damn mess.
My typical reaction to all this disorder is to get over-stressed, over-whelmed, and shut down. I'm trying to be optimistic and look at it as an opportunity to start fresh. I am mistrustful of my optimism, though. I do this every time I move, at the start of every school year. I'm going to be organized, I'm going to keep a routine - I'm going to "get my shit together." I swear I'm still carting stuff around from two decades ago, just waiting for me to go through it and toss it out. And this disorder has cost me more than just mental health and storage space - it has cost me real tangible dollars. Like however much it's going to cost for all this floor repair, because I was too overwhelmed to even enter the room and notice the water beneath my feet... because there was too much disorder to keep the stopper safely in place, or because I am too disordered to keep up with the regular cleaning and maintenance of my home... I know that might sound a little harsh or excessive. Let's just say it's representative of some of the other consequences I'd rather not catalog.
The amount of work that needs to be done to fix all this could be achieved in a day... if I had no babies underfoot and a team from HGTV with a budget to redesign and update for all my storage needs. As it is, with pittance pay, two toddlers, fibromyalgia, no sleep, and the Daily Show to watch every night... let's just say it's like trying to pay off a credit card making only the minimum payments. If that. Maybe the destroyed floor is the analog for your credit finally crashing and having your account sent to a collections agency.
However difficult it is to cope with the reality of having no access to even the microwave and babies (and husband) underfoot, I cannot shut down. There is no ideal way to deal with this situation so I just have to deal with it as it is. It will take longer, for sure. It will not go as planned. There's a good chance it will not have a great result. The trick - I have been told - is accepting all that. As is, however it is. This is going to be like trying to make the bed while you're lying on top of it. Or, as one of my favorite memes put it... "Trying to clean with children in the house is like brushing your teeth while eating Oreos."
But that's life, isn't it? We seldom get the chance to step back and reexamine our lives, and we never get to step out of them altogether to fix them. You are living your life as you try to make it the life you want to live. You may have a long-term goal but every step you take towards it is also a part of it.
So be it.
12 oz Americano
(surreptitious oatmeal cookie from my purse)
This is supposed to be a short, quick blog since it's late (and Friday!) and I've got to get home before too long. It will probably go long anyway. I'm trying to do this a day early this week so that I can stay home tomorrow and try to "deal" with the chaos there. Why? In short, I flooded the front room. Just a bit.
Last week was hot as all heckers, so I maneuvered out the portable a/c unit, stuck the exhaust vent in the window, and stressed over how to keep the door to the room open to get that cool air while keeping boys out of it. The front room, you see, is the "closet" room. We moved the beds to the back room and turned the front room into the dumping ground for everything else we didn't want the boys getting in to. Of course, that meant it became the life-sized junk drawer for everything I wanted to be dealing with but somehow could never get to. Boxes of mail that just need to be sorted into "shred" piles and "file" piles... stretching back for years now as time pushes on past my intentions, still stuck in the mire.
I hate that room. As my thighs are the physical representation of my mistreatment of my health, this room is the physical representation of me not getting my shit together. The contents of that room loom over me. Well... "loomed" would be more correct. By the time I finally entered, noticed the funky smell, and approached the corner of the room with the a/c unit (to finally put the laundry away from several days previous), my foot squelched on a patch of carpet several feet away from the unit. Crap. Apparently, in the disorder of the room, the little black stopper that keeps the excess condensation from dripping out the back was dislodged, lost. It also doesn't help that we haven't cleaned the vent part in, oh, I don't know if we've ever cleaned it in the three years we've had it, leading to an inordinate amount of drippage.
So, despite the impressive absorbancy of several Sham-Wows, we destroyed the chip-board flooring beneath the carpet. Our friendly neighborhood handy man was literally shoveling it out yesterday morning. It has since been replaced with new plywood, new padding, and the now dry old carpet has been stretched back into place. However, it's Friday and we won't be able to get it cleaned until some time next week.
It may have occurred to you that this room sounds like it must be empty now to have done all this work. It is. And where has the contents of the junk drawer gone? Mostly to the kitchen. Three of the four bookcases and all of the books, and some other goodies. The boxes of paperwork ended up in the playpen (the toys are under the table) covered by a blanket - partly, to not engender the curiosity of the boys, and partly so I don't have to look at the damn mess.
My typical reaction to all this disorder is to get over-stressed, over-whelmed, and shut down. I'm trying to be optimistic and look at it as an opportunity to start fresh. I am mistrustful of my optimism, though. I do this every time I move, at the start of every school year. I'm going to be organized, I'm going to keep a routine - I'm going to "get my shit together." I swear I'm still carting stuff around from two decades ago, just waiting for me to go through it and toss it out. And this disorder has cost me more than just mental health and storage space - it has cost me real tangible dollars. Like however much it's going to cost for all this floor repair, because I was too overwhelmed to even enter the room and notice the water beneath my feet... because there was too much disorder to keep the stopper safely in place, or because I am too disordered to keep up with the regular cleaning and maintenance of my home... I know that might sound a little harsh or excessive. Let's just say it's representative of some of the other consequences I'd rather not catalog.
The amount of work that needs to be done to fix all this could be achieved in a day... if I had no babies underfoot and a team from HGTV with a budget to redesign and update for all my storage needs. As it is, with pittance pay, two toddlers, fibromyalgia, no sleep, and the Daily Show to watch every night... let's just say it's like trying to pay off a credit card making only the minimum payments. If that. Maybe the destroyed floor is the analog for your credit finally crashing and having your account sent to a collections agency.
However difficult it is to cope with the reality of having no access to even the microwave and babies (and husband) underfoot, I cannot shut down. There is no ideal way to deal with this situation so I just have to deal with it as it is. It will take longer, for sure. It will not go as planned. There's a good chance it will not have a great result. The trick - I have been told - is accepting all that. As is, however it is. This is going to be like trying to make the bed while you're lying on top of it. Or, as one of my favorite memes put it... "Trying to clean with children in the house is like brushing your teeth while eating Oreos."
But that's life, isn't it? We seldom get the chance to step back and reexamine our lives, and we never get to step out of them altogether to fix them. You are living your life as you try to make it the life you want to live. You may have a long-term goal but every step you take towards it is also a part of it.
So be it.
Saturday, June 8, 2013
The Un-fan.
Mix sweet shop
12oz Soy Mocha
I don't get the obsession with celebrity. I have been trying to think of any famous person that I would just completely lose my shhh-tuff over (ohai, mom). Name your biggest, sexiest, richest movie star, rock star, whatever, and I would probably not say a word to them if they were right here in front of me. There are more than a few that would get a smile, or maybe a polite nod - some might even get an eyebrow pop, and an extra long glance of appreciation when they're not looking. But the truth is, I treat anyone this way just walking down the street. I am just polite, friendly, and I respect peoples' space.
There are a handful of notable people I might legitimately geek out over, just a bit - Stephen Colbert and Neil DeGrasse Tyson come to mind. If I had the chance, I'd love to hang out and chat. But I really cannot picture myself getting all giggly and hyperventilate-y over them. Or anyone for that matter. Seriously. President Obama? "Leader of the Free World?" Oh-ho, you better sit down, buddy, 'cause I have words for you, sir. That would be my greatest stress (outside of the retinue of Secret Service staring me down) - trying to condense my opinion down to the handful of moments allotted under such a meeting.
For most people, though, under most circumstances, I don't think I'd say a word. I know some celebrities like to be acknowledged for their work, but I don't think a one of them wants to be accosted non-stop by rabid fan-girls and -boys who think they have some right to this person just because they're famous. I cannot think of anything I have to say that is so important that I would interpose myself into a complete stranger's life at the most inopportune moments. Especially not for my own gratification. If I felt truly compelled to speak to someone, I'd apologize for the interruption, offer my appreciation (or whatever) for their work (or whatever), and then I'd leave them the hell alone. I wouldn't ask for an autograph (that is another thing I do not understand). I doubt I'd ask for a picture. It would be pretty close to the level of interrupting someone to compliment their hat.
So what is behind the cult of celebrity in our culture? Why do people think that these celebrities are something greater than mere human beings? And, more importantly, why do they feel they have the right to unfettered access? I understand that these famous people are familiar to us, in a distant sort of way. I've run into my small share of famous people, and it's jarring at first. They are the familiar stranger. There's a weird kind of intimacy. But you know their faces they way you know national monuments you've never been to but have seen all your life. They are like the Grand Canyon or the Statue of Liberty. And you can read all the books you want, look at all the pictures, the movies... but you don't know the place till you're there.
But the Grand Canyon and the Statue of Liberty are things that we are all, on some level, entitled to. Celebrities are not. They are just people. They have their public professions, and they have their private lives. Paparazzi and the like will argue that celebrities want to be gawked at and photographed and interrogated. I call bull pucky! Yes, some people want to be famous for the sake of being famous and popular. I think even those people have their limits, though. But whatever the percentage of reluctance for for fame for any given celebrity, it does not change the fact that the rest of us have no inherent right to their life story.
I did not appreciate the level of ferocity of the paparazzi until I was nearly mowed down by three of them in pursuit of Paris Hilton. At the time, I was working as an assistant manager in a movie theatre in West Los Angeles, so I made a point of informing the other managers on duty that we had a VIP guest, so that we could keep an eye out for any inappropriate behavior from fanboys or paparazzi. As soon as I announced this, however, one of the other managers bolted for the door. Apparently, she was a huge fan. I could only shake my head.
As I write this, Moby's "Porcelain" has just started playing overhead. (I think this is the second time I've mentioned him in a blog, come to think of it). I guess this would be the one celebrity I would probably introduce myself to were he to wander into this coffeehouse. Because Moby - I think I do owe a word of thanks to him.
After all, Henry and Oliver are just a little bit his fault.
There are many things that had to happen for my boys to exist. First and foremost, Greg and I had to celebrate certain holidays irresponsibly. But go back farther - our parents had to meet, had to hook up... the Big Bang had to do some banging, too... All things had to happen as they happened for the world to exist as it does with our boys in it. We had to make all the decisions we made throughout our lives - including the decisions to get on moby.com and sign up for the message boards that were once hosted there. That's right - Greg and I met online. On Moby's website.
And before you accuse me of hypocrisy, you should know that I am not a "fan" - not because I don't like his music. After more than a decade, I still cannot seem to get "Play" out of my car, no matter how many times I take it out of the CD holder. But I am clearly not the fangirl type. He had (has?) an amusing blog, and it was before Facebook. That's my excuse.
So, while the ending of apartheid in South Africa may still have been necessary for the world to manifest in such a way that Greg and I would meet in time to have our two beautiful boys, Moby would be a more direct catalyst for their existence. For that, I would take the time to say thank you. If I thought he'd get it, maybe I'd even send him a little card with a family pic (not the one with the handsy Santa Claus) and the brief tale of our unusual courtship.
Either way, I would still not freak out. Because I am not a fan. I equate "fan" with "fanatic." But I do appreciate his work. I guess I am the un-fan.
12oz Soy Mocha
I don't get the obsession with celebrity. I have been trying to think of any famous person that I would just completely lose my shhh-tuff over (ohai, mom). Name your biggest, sexiest, richest movie star, rock star, whatever, and I would probably not say a word to them if they were right here in front of me. There are more than a few that would get a smile, or maybe a polite nod - some might even get an eyebrow pop, and an extra long glance of appreciation when they're not looking. But the truth is, I treat anyone this way just walking down the street. I am just polite, friendly, and I respect peoples' space.
There are a handful of notable people I might legitimately geek out over, just a bit - Stephen Colbert and Neil DeGrasse Tyson come to mind. If I had the chance, I'd love to hang out and chat. But I really cannot picture myself getting all giggly and hyperventilate-y over them. Or anyone for that matter. Seriously. President Obama? "Leader of the Free World?" Oh-ho, you better sit down, buddy, 'cause I have words for you, sir. That would be my greatest stress (outside of the retinue of Secret Service staring me down) - trying to condense my opinion down to the handful of moments allotted under such a meeting.
For most people, though, under most circumstances, I don't think I'd say a word. I know some celebrities like to be acknowledged for their work, but I don't think a one of them wants to be accosted non-stop by rabid fan-girls and -boys who think they have some right to this person just because they're famous. I cannot think of anything I have to say that is so important that I would interpose myself into a complete stranger's life at the most inopportune moments. Especially not for my own gratification. If I felt truly compelled to speak to someone, I'd apologize for the interruption, offer my appreciation (or whatever) for their work (or whatever), and then I'd leave them the hell alone. I wouldn't ask for an autograph (that is another thing I do not understand). I doubt I'd ask for a picture. It would be pretty close to the level of interrupting someone to compliment their hat.
So what is behind the cult of celebrity in our culture? Why do people think that these celebrities are something greater than mere human beings? And, more importantly, why do they feel they have the right to unfettered access? I understand that these famous people are familiar to us, in a distant sort of way. I've run into my small share of famous people, and it's jarring at first. They are the familiar stranger. There's a weird kind of intimacy. But you know their faces they way you know national monuments you've never been to but have seen all your life. They are like the Grand Canyon or the Statue of Liberty. And you can read all the books you want, look at all the pictures, the movies... but you don't know the place till you're there.
But the Grand Canyon and the Statue of Liberty are things that we are all, on some level, entitled to. Celebrities are not. They are just people. They have their public professions, and they have their private lives. Paparazzi and the like will argue that celebrities want to be gawked at and photographed and interrogated. I call bull pucky! Yes, some people want to be famous for the sake of being famous and popular. I think even those people have their limits, though. But whatever the percentage of reluctance for for fame for any given celebrity, it does not change the fact that the rest of us have no inherent right to their life story.
I did not appreciate the level of ferocity of the paparazzi until I was nearly mowed down by three of them in pursuit of Paris Hilton. At the time, I was working as an assistant manager in a movie theatre in West Los Angeles, so I made a point of informing the other managers on duty that we had a VIP guest, so that we could keep an eye out for any inappropriate behavior from fanboys or paparazzi. As soon as I announced this, however, one of the other managers bolted for the door. Apparently, she was a huge fan. I could only shake my head.
As I write this, Moby's "Porcelain" has just started playing overhead. (I think this is the second time I've mentioned him in a blog, come to think of it). I guess this would be the one celebrity I would probably introduce myself to were he to wander into this coffeehouse. Because Moby - I think I do owe a word of thanks to him.
After all, Henry and Oliver are just a little bit his fault.
There are many things that had to happen for my boys to exist. First and foremost, Greg and I had to celebrate certain holidays irresponsibly. But go back farther - our parents had to meet, had to hook up... the Big Bang had to do some banging, too... All things had to happen as they happened for the world to exist as it does with our boys in it. We had to make all the decisions we made throughout our lives - including the decisions to get on moby.com and sign up for the message boards that were once hosted there. That's right - Greg and I met online. On Moby's website.
And before you accuse me of hypocrisy, you should know that I am not a "fan" - not because I don't like his music. After more than a decade, I still cannot seem to get "Play" out of my car, no matter how many times I take it out of the CD holder. But I am clearly not the fangirl type. He had (has?) an amusing blog, and it was before Facebook. That's my excuse.
So, while the ending of apartheid in South Africa may still have been necessary for the world to manifest in such a way that Greg and I would meet in time to have our two beautiful boys, Moby would be a more direct catalyst for their existence. For that, I would take the time to say thank you. If I thought he'd get it, maybe I'd even send him a little card with a family pic (not the one with the handsy Santa Claus) and the brief tale of our unusual courtship.
Either way, I would still not freak out. Because I am not a fan. I equate "fan" with "fanatic." But I do appreciate his work. I guess I am the un-fan.
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