I'm well aware that television isn't real. That actors are following a script. So last night, when an actor said to gather all the dogs and poison them, I should have met the news with nothing more than a well-isn't-he-an-asshole shaking of the head. Instead, I squeezed my wife's hand and told her to help me. I could do nothing to stop the tears from filling my eyes. From thinking about the people who really feel that way and do poison dogs. From thinking about all the animals out in the world suffering, like I'm thinking right now. (Why did I have to go and bring it all up again?)
My wife looked at me and explained what I already knew--the dogs were paid actors, they were living a life of leisure, and they were having fun being on set. She was right. Still, it took me awhile to get a hold of myself.
If you haven't yet guessed it, yes, I am highly sensitive when it comes to animals.
I Am Legend almost sent me into cardiac arrest.
And Up almost killed me.
My wife is on constant commercial alert. As soon as the Sarah McLachlan songs starts, there is a panic to find the remote. I have yet to see that commercial in its entirety and for good reason. It could destroy me for days. In the arms of an angel is all I need to hear to remind me that animals are being mistreated, mishandled, and they are suffering. My wife is wise to not only keep me from it, but to keep herself from having to put me back together. She is sweet, kind, and downright wonderful when it comes to understanding my sensitivity makes me who I am. Nothing more, nothing less. Not to make fun of me or use it against me. She simply lets it be.
And in the same breath, when she clutches the arm of the sofa and her body turns to stone and she stops breathing, I spring into action, crawling around on the floor with the flashlight, waiting for the spider to crawl back out from under the sofa. Knowing that it is under her, where she is sitting, crawling around, making plans, is almost too much for her to handle. So I do what I can to keep her from it. I wrangle the little guys onto a piece of paper and throw them back outside. I would never taunt or tease her with them. I would never use them against her.
We all have our stuff. And when I think about how consuming stuff can become, I am grateful that my wife and I look out for each other. Otherwise, I may never get out of bed, and she may never sleep.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Saturday, January 29, 2011
In the Dumps
It occurred to me yesterday that I might not be handling this rejection business as well as I thought. I haven't bothered sending a query letter in sixteen days. I haven't followed any agents on twitter in two weeks. And, besides my postings, I haven't written a word in almost a month.
Houston, we have a problem.
Really? I know I'm crumbling when I use a cliché to express myself.
Why have I decided to pull down my pants and show my ass? Why have I taken such a passive approach to my future? Why can't I manage to crawl out of the dump of doubt? Because I recently thought, for the first time, 'What if I've written a shitty book!?'
Why this revelation has never presented itself before is a mystery. I shelved my ego years ago but now I wonder if it has been with me the entire time, hiding me from the harsh reality that maybe I'm not that great of a writer.
It doesn't matter how many people tell me it isn't true. It doesn't matter how many people tell me that they enjoy my writing. Nothing can overcome self doubt except self confidence.
I don't know where my confidence has gone, but if it doesn't come back soon I may have to call myself something other than "writer". And when I think of my doubt in those terms, it makes me want to prove myself wrong.
Houston, we have a problem.
Really? I know I'm crumbling when I use a cliché to express myself.
Why have I decided to pull down my pants and show my ass? Why have I taken such a passive approach to my future? Why can't I manage to crawl out of the dump of doubt? Because I recently thought, for the first time, 'What if I've written a shitty book!?'
Why this revelation has never presented itself before is a mystery. I shelved my ego years ago but now I wonder if it has been with me the entire time, hiding me from the harsh reality that maybe I'm not that great of a writer.
It doesn't matter how many people tell me it isn't true. It doesn't matter how many people tell me that they enjoy my writing. Nothing can overcome self doubt except self confidence.
I don't know where my confidence has gone, but if it doesn't come back soon I may have to call myself something other than "writer". And when I think of my doubt in those terms, it makes me want to prove myself wrong.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
The Challenges of Yoga
Rodney Yee is telling me to feel my breath. I feel it. It is nice. Moving in and out of my chest, filing into the parts of my body that are stretching.
Downward facing dog. My eyes close as Rodney tells me to focus on the back of my legs. I'm thinking about how one day, even if I pull something, my goddamn heels are going to touch the ground, when something wet hits my face.
I open my eyes and see Parker, mutt extraordinaire, excitedly wagging his nub of a tail because there is finally room for him in the routine. He stands under me like we're playing London Bridge and it's time for it to fall down. He licks my face again.
It is time to put my right foot forward, left foot forward, for standing forward bend. Rodney says nothing about maneuvering around the dog obstacle.
I sternly suggest Parker find a bed and lay down. He dejectedly walks away.
And it is time to sit down. Cobbler's pose is my favorite.
Rodney, leading me through various poses, eventually tells me to lay on my stomach and prepare for cobra pose. My forehead meets the mat, and I start thinking that what Rodney is really telling me is to go back to sleep. Rodney says to slowly lift my chest forward and up. I do.
I am staring into a dog snout that is one quarter of an inch from my face, into pleading eyes so happy that I have finally noticed his presence, Parker laying on his side like a horse who has just finished rolling around in the dirt.
He scares the shit out of me.
Rodney tells me to slowly lower back down and prepare for another cobra pose. My forehead, once again, meets the mat. I feel weight near my head. Air, from a nose, blows into my hair. A low and sleepy moan escapes, but it does not belong to me.
I lift my chest again.
Parker, spooning his head against my head, fills the open space my lifting chest creates with his head and paws. His restlessness is mounting.
I know, buddy. I'm almost done.
Rodney tells me to slowly roll back down. My forehead lands on Parker's front paw. He has no intention of moving it. We stay this way until Rodney tells me to roll over for relaxation pose. I move the paw and roll over onto my back.
Ah. That's nice.
A paw lands on my head.
I remove it.
A paw lands on my face.
I remove that one, too.
A nose buries into my hair.
And, here we go.
Celie, the basset, is up and off her bed, heading towards me. She runs her face into my face. She runs around me, her tail repeatedly hits me in the face and head. Parker steps on my hair. Celie tries to climb onto my chest. They run around and over me. I twist, turn, lean away from them, but they are unrelenting in their we-demand-attention! rhetoric.
Rodney tells me to roll over onto my right side and use my hands to help me sit up. I can't, Rodney! I have two dogs vying for the best position from which to garner my attention and favor!
I hear Rodney tell me Namaste. I tell him Pawmaste and turn off the television.
Downward facing dog. My eyes close as Rodney tells me to focus on the back of my legs. I'm thinking about how one day, even if I pull something, my goddamn heels are going to touch the ground, when something wet hits my face.
I open my eyes and see Parker, mutt extraordinaire, excitedly wagging his nub of a tail because there is finally room for him in the routine. He stands under me like we're playing London Bridge and it's time for it to fall down. He licks my face again.
It is time to put my right foot forward, left foot forward, for standing forward bend. Rodney says nothing about maneuvering around the dog obstacle.
I sternly suggest Parker find a bed and lay down. He dejectedly walks away.
And it is time to sit down. Cobbler's pose is my favorite.
Rodney, leading me through various poses, eventually tells me to lay on my stomach and prepare for cobra pose. My forehead meets the mat, and I start thinking that what Rodney is really telling me is to go back to sleep. Rodney says to slowly lift my chest forward and up. I do.
I am staring into a dog snout that is one quarter of an inch from my face, into pleading eyes so happy that I have finally noticed his presence, Parker laying on his side like a horse who has just finished rolling around in the dirt.
He scares the shit out of me.
Rodney tells me to slowly lower back down and prepare for another cobra pose. My forehead, once again, meets the mat. I feel weight near my head. Air, from a nose, blows into my hair. A low and sleepy moan escapes, but it does not belong to me.
I lift my chest again.
Parker, spooning his head against my head, fills the open space my lifting chest creates with his head and paws. His restlessness is mounting.
I know, buddy. I'm almost done.
Rodney tells me to slowly roll back down. My forehead lands on Parker's front paw. He has no intention of moving it. We stay this way until Rodney tells me to roll over for relaxation pose. I move the paw and roll over onto my back.
Ah. That's nice.
A paw lands on my head.
I remove it.
A paw lands on my face.
I remove that one, too.
A nose buries into my hair.
And, here we go.
Celie, the basset, is up and off her bed, heading towards me. She runs her face into my face. She runs around me, her tail repeatedly hits me in the face and head. Parker steps on my hair. Celie tries to climb onto my chest. They run around and over me. I twist, turn, lean away from them, but they are unrelenting in their we-demand-attention! rhetoric.
Rodney tells me to roll over onto my right side and use my hands to help me sit up. I can't, Rodney! I have two dogs vying for the best position from which to garner my attention and favor!
I hear Rodney tell me Namaste. I tell him Pawmaste and turn off the television.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Hump-day Haiku: State of the Union Address
Everyone saw it.
You can't hide behind your tan;
Eye roll was extreme.
Sitting together,
Faking unity for us.
The smugness still shines.
Standing and clapping
Seems a juvenile response;
It's not a pageant.
You can't hide behind your tan;
Eye roll was extreme.
Sitting together,
Faking unity for us.
The smugness still shines.
Standing and clapping
Seems a juvenile response;
It's not a pageant.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Thinking About Writing
I am far too tired and disinterested today to write anything constructive. I thought about inviting a friend to blog for me today, but she declined. She's probably on Facebook, talking to her friends, making plans, and laughing--ha ha ha. I'm so happy for her.
I thought about posting favorite quotes, but I'm not a fan of hanging on to what other people say. I like the way I think about things too much to give control to someone else.
I thought about writing a limerick, but the girl from Nantucket retired.
"Day Before Hump-Day Haiku" just doesn't sound right.
I thought about giving my Oscar predictions, but no one has bothered to campaign for my vote. (How hard is it to send a basket of mini-muffins, Ms. Portman?)
I thought about saying something about the three men outside the window trimming a single bush, but what else can be said about how many men it takes to trim a single bush?
I thought about saying something nice about something, but
I thought about writing about how writing days like this suck, but that's obvious, now, isn't it.
I thought about posting favorite quotes, but I'm not a fan of hanging on to what other people say. I like the way I think about things too much to give control to someone else.
I thought about writing a limerick, but the girl from Nantucket retired.
"Day Before Hump-Day Haiku" just doesn't sound right.
I thought about giving my Oscar predictions, but no one has bothered to campaign for my vote. (How hard is it to send a basket of mini-muffins, Ms. Portman?)
I thought about saying something about the three men outside the window trimming a single bush, but what else can be said about how many men it takes to trim a single bush?
I thought about saying something nice about something, but
I thought about writing about how writing days like this suck, but that's obvious, now, isn't it.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Booby-Trap
How I wish I had a story to tell about a breast getting trapped into thinking it was a pop star, like the title suggests, but I don't. Instead, I've a story that, if you've not eaten, you might want to wait.
Yesterday, the day was fair enough, especially for the middle of January. Minimal snow on the ground. The sun made an appearance for the first half of the day. Pickle, the kitty, ran in and out all day long. And so did the dogs.
Late afternoon, my wife was gracious enough to carry my basket of clean clothes down the stairs, into our bedroom. (In hindsight, she said she should have known because things went from a-okay to what's-that-smell?) The quiet was disturbed by my wife shouting, "I just stepped in shit!"
I thought, 'Dude, that sucks.'
I pictured her naked feet with squishy poop between the toes, or a wool sock with a clump of poop hanging off the bottom. My tummy started turning before I even made my way down the stairs.
Like mostly everything, my wife and I have systems. When it comes to poop patrol, I do the initial removal while she follows behind for cleanup. (Usually I'm alone, outside, picking it up with no further cleanup required.) So with a plastic bag in hand, I turtled my way into my shirt, making sure my nose and mouth were covered and with determination, made my feet climb down the stairs.
I was able to assess the situation as I made my way to the crime scene. Not bad. Not bad at all. Or so I thought. It wasn't until I stepped over the crime scene and turned that I saw it: a perfectly round poop cake, smashed into the tile.
Oh, help me baby Jesus.
I have a weak stomach when it comes to saliva, vomit, penises, and poop. And I knew I was going to have to really get all-up-in-it to get it off the floor.
Gagging. Heaving. Coughing. Almost vomit.
I didn't know what my wife was doing. All I knew was she couldn't stop talking about how there was shit on <her> slipper! Shit-on-my-slipper! Shit! On! My! Slipper! Shitonmyslipper!
I know. I know there's shit on your slipper, and they really are nice slippers--down filled, fluffy and soft--but you have to understand I can't concern myself with your slippers right now. (I will not go into removal detail--my stomach cannot relive it--but I did get through it without making a mess of my own.)
A full Febreze On the Go later (when my wife broke the seal, the smell filled the house like home-made poop cookies baking in the oven,) a Scrubbing Bubbles scrubbing, and a Swiffer Wet onceover (product placement--cha-ching!), the incriminating evidence had been erased. But questions were still asked.
No one--basset nor mutt--was talking.
With the babies' plentiful access to outside, an accident was the last thing that should have happened, leading me to believe it wasn't an accident at all. We were played like a fiddle. Perfect placement and perfect outcome. Bam! Mommy's foot lands in the poop and the babies have a laugh at our expense. Although, once the slipper was clean, we all laughed about it well into the evening.
Yesterday, the day was fair enough, especially for the middle of January. Minimal snow on the ground. The sun made an appearance for the first half of the day. Pickle, the kitty, ran in and out all day long. And so did the dogs.
Late afternoon, my wife was gracious enough to carry my basket of clean clothes down the stairs, into our bedroom. (In hindsight, she said she should have known because things went from a-okay to what's-that-smell?) The quiet was disturbed by my wife shouting, "I just stepped in shit!"
I thought, 'Dude, that sucks.'
I pictured her naked feet with squishy poop between the toes, or a wool sock with a clump of poop hanging off the bottom. My tummy started turning before I even made my way down the stairs.
Like mostly everything, my wife and I have systems. When it comes to poop patrol, I do the initial removal while she follows behind for cleanup. (Usually I'm alone, outside, picking it up with no further cleanup required.) So with a plastic bag in hand, I turtled my way into my shirt, making sure my nose and mouth were covered and with determination, made my feet climb down the stairs.
I was able to assess the situation as I made my way to the crime scene. Not bad. Not bad at all. Or so I thought. It wasn't until I stepped over the crime scene and turned that I saw it: a perfectly round poop cake, smashed into the tile.
Oh, help me baby Jesus.
I have a weak stomach when it comes to saliva, vomit, penises, and poop. And I knew I was going to have to really get all-up-in-it to get it off the floor.
Gagging. Heaving. Coughing. Almost vomit.
I didn't know what my wife was doing. All I knew was she couldn't stop talking about how there was shit on <her> slipper! Shit-on-my-slipper! Shit! On! My! Slipper! Shitonmyslipper!
I know. I know there's shit on your slipper, and they really are nice slippers--down filled, fluffy and soft--but you have to understand I can't concern myself with your slippers right now. (I will not go into removal detail--my stomach cannot relive it--but I did get through it without making a mess of my own.)
A full Febreze On the Go later (when my wife broke the seal, the smell filled the house like home-made poop cookies baking in the oven,) a Scrubbing Bubbles scrubbing, and a Swiffer Wet onceover (product placement--cha-ching!), the incriminating evidence had been erased. But questions were still asked.
No one--basset nor mutt--was talking.
With the babies' plentiful access to outside, an accident was the last thing that should have happened, leading me to believe it wasn't an accident at all. We were played like a fiddle. Perfect placement and perfect outcome. Bam! Mommy's foot lands in the poop and the babies have a laugh at our expense. Although, once the slipper was clean, we all laughed about it well into the evening.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Two Hours of Bullshit
109. 17.
As I begrudgingly sat through the second installation of the Twilight movie saga last night, I could not get those two numbers out of my head.
I have many issues with Twilight. In all fairness, I tried reading the books, making it to page 140 in the first book before I decided I wasn't going to waste anymore of my life on it. Not only has the word "chagrin" been ruined for me forever, I also had a moral issue with the book.
When did it become permissible for a 109-year-old man to pursue a 17-year-old girl!?
I don't care how young he looks. I don't care if Edward is a virgin. He lived through the Depression. World War I and World War II. He was somewhere when Kennedy was assassinated. He witnessed the passing of civil rights. Bella, on the other hand, was shitting in her diaper when Nirvana hit it big. It's disgusting.
Age difference aside, I didn't mind the first Twilight movie. It was fairly entertaining. However, the second movie was an overwhelming pile of shit. I couldn't shovel it fast enough. I felt like I was watching the same scene over and over during the first thirty minutes:
Bella: I'm nothing.
Edward: You're everything.
Cut! Okay. Let's switch to the woods and do it again!
The script was incoherent and confusing, and there seemed to be absolutely no point.
Don't even get me started on what a pathetic, flip-flopping, boo-hooing, blank canvas that is Bella. The author, Stephenie Meyer, said she wanted Bella's character to be general so that every woman reading the book could see herself in Bella.
What self respecting woman would want to do that!? There is nothing remotely interesting about Bella. She has no guts. No backbone. No personality. Her validation and identity comes by way of the two men who choose to love her. And it's bullshit. Considering how many women--young and old--read the book and loved it, I fear for how those women see themselves. It's no wonder why there is a team for Edward and a team for Jacob, yet no team for Bella.
I can only hope that as the fantasy genre continues to gain popularity and steam, another author will deliver us a heroine worth rooting for. A heroine with substance. A heroine who makes her own decisions concerning the direction her life is heading, never once leaving it up to an old man who hangs out in a high school.
As I begrudgingly sat through the second installation of the Twilight movie saga last night, I could not get those two numbers out of my head.
I have many issues with Twilight. In all fairness, I tried reading the books, making it to page 140 in the first book before I decided I wasn't going to waste anymore of my life on it. Not only has the word "chagrin" been ruined for me forever, I also had a moral issue with the book.
When did it become permissible for a 109-year-old man to pursue a 17-year-old girl!?
I don't care how young he looks. I don't care if Edward is a virgin. He lived through the Depression. World War I and World War II. He was somewhere when Kennedy was assassinated. He witnessed the passing of civil rights. Bella, on the other hand, was shitting in her diaper when Nirvana hit it big. It's disgusting.
Age difference aside, I didn't mind the first Twilight movie. It was fairly entertaining. However, the second movie was an overwhelming pile of shit. I couldn't shovel it fast enough. I felt like I was watching the same scene over and over during the first thirty minutes:
Bella: I'm nothing.
Edward: You're everything.
Cut! Okay. Let's switch to the woods and do it again!
The script was incoherent and confusing, and there seemed to be absolutely no point.
Don't even get me started on what a pathetic, flip-flopping, boo-hooing, blank canvas that is Bella. The author, Stephenie Meyer, said she wanted Bella's character to be general so that every woman reading the book could see herself in Bella.
What self respecting woman would want to do that!? There is nothing remotely interesting about Bella. She has no guts. No backbone. No personality. Her validation and identity comes by way of the two men who choose to love her. And it's bullshit. Considering how many women--young and old--read the book and loved it, I fear for how those women see themselves. It's no wonder why there is a team for Edward and a team for Jacob, yet no team for Bella.
I can only hope that as the fantasy genre continues to gain popularity and steam, another author will deliver us a heroine worth rooting for. A heroine with substance. A heroine who makes her own decisions concerning the direction her life is heading, never once leaving it up to an old man who hangs out in a high school.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Del and Tiffani Go To a Party
"Oh my god, Del. He's so hot!"
Del turned to look at who her friend, Tiffani, was referring to, curious to see who was hot enough to interrupt their conversation about sneaking out to this weekend's senior party. On the cusp of turning fifteen, Del thought they surely could pass for seniors. They only had to tell their parents a convincing story so they could stay out late, which they were two details away from nailing down. Del recognized the hot guy: everyone knew Jacob.
Tiffani leaned into Del and whispered, "I heard he got Kelly a twenty-five dollar gift certificate to Starbucks for her birthday." Yes, he had. And it was still a pretty big fucking deal. "I'm totally gonna sleep with him at the party if he asks."
Stop right there.
Tiffani, do you even understand what you're saying?
I hate to be the one to burst your bubble, kick your puppy, sink your ship, and blow out your candles, but teenagers don't have good sex. Teenagers like Jacob especially.
You see, Tiffani, unless a New World Order has been issued, Jacob could care less how to satisfy you. After all, he can ask ten girls to sleep with him at the party and eight of them will say yes. You're not so naive to think you're the only one saying these things, do you?
My advice to you, Tiffani, is that if Jacob does ask you to have sex with him, go ahead and do it (just promise you'll make him wear a condom!). No one can stop you crazy kids from doing sloppy, messy, bunny-humping things to each other. But you let him know that if you don't orgasm you're going to tell the entire school that he has a teeny, tiny penis that looks just like a baby carrot when it stands at attention. If that's not enough, you'll also tell everyone he called out his best friend's name--LUKE!--when he came.
One more thing. When you see teenagers--just like you!--having sex in movies or on television, understand that they are faking their way through it too.
Del turned to look at who her friend, Tiffani, was referring to, curious to see who was hot enough to interrupt their conversation about sneaking out to this weekend's senior party. On the cusp of turning fifteen, Del thought they surely could pass for seniors. They only had to tell their parents a convincing story so they could stay out late, which they were two details away from nailing down. Del recognized the hot guy: everyone knew Jacob.
Tiffani leaned into Del and whispered, "I heard he got Kelly a twenty-five dollar gift certificate to Starbucks for her birthday." Yes, he had. And it was still a pretty big fucking deal. "I'm totally gonna sleep with him at the party if he asks."
Stop right there.
Tiffani, do you even understand what you're saying?
I hate to be the one to burst your bubble, kick your puppy, sink your ship, and blow out your candles, but teenagers don't have good sex. Teenagers like Jacob especially.
You see, Tiffani, unless a New World Order has been issued, Jacob could care less how to satisfy you. After all, he can ask ten girls to sleep with him at the party and eight of them will say yes. You're not so naive to think you're the only one saying these things, do you?
My advice to you, Tiffani, is that if Jacob does ask you to have sex with him, go ahead and do it (just promise you'll make him wear a condom!). No one can stop you crazy kids from doing sloppy, messy, bunny-humping things to each other. But you let him know that if you don't orgasm you're going to tell the entire school that he has a teeny, tiny penis that looks just like a baby carrot when it stands at attention. If that's not enough, you'll also tell everyone he called out his best friend's name--LUKE!--when he came.
One more thing. When you see teenagers--just like you!--having sex in movies or on television, understand that they are faking their way through it too.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Just Once
I once had a woman tell me that every woman should try motherhood once.
Um, I don't think so.
This suggestion, this advice, this idea was in direct response to me saying I had no interest in having a child, birthing, raising, or otherwise. Yet this woman approached the subject like I could try it out; if I didn't like it I could change my mind in twenty or so minutes. As if. A child is a child for life. Yours. Forever. Years and years and years and years and years. While I do have that kind of time, the notion of raising a child is, quite honestly, one of my biggest nightmares.
I have a counteroffer to women who think all women should give motherhood a go: every woman should sleep with another woman at least once. It's not nearly as time consuming as committing to a child. There is little to no commitment, in fact. If you don't like it, you really can change your mind twenty minutes into it. And you might find yourself enjoying it more than you thought.
Huh? Can't see yourself going there? Can't picture staring into another woman's vagina? Too much? Kicks up your gag reflex? Makes you sweat in weird places? You could receive but not give? A nipple in your mouth attached to a woman's breast makes you feel oddly gross? Too creepy? You couldn't relax enough to find it pleasurable? Downright terrifying?
Yeah. Tell me about it. It's exactly how I feel when I think about birthing and raising a child.
Um, I don't think so.
This suggestion, this advice, this idea was in direct response to me saying I had no interest in having a child, birthing, raising, or otherwise. Yet this woman approached the subject like I could try it out; if I didn't like it I could change my mind in twenty or so minutes. As if. A child is a child for life. Yours. Forever. Years and years and years and years and years. While I do have that kind of time, the notion of raising a child is, quite honestly, one of my biggest nightmares.
I have a counteroffer to women who think all women should give motherhood a go: every woman should sleep with another woman at least once. It's not nearly as time consuming as committing to a child. There is little to no commitment, in fact. If you don't like it, you really can change your mind twenty minutes into it. And you might find yourself enjoying it more than you thought.
Huh? Can't see yourself going there? Can't picture staring into another woman's vagina? Too much? Kicks up your gag reflex? Makes you sweat in weird places? You could receive but not give? A nipple in your mouth attached to a woman's breast makes you feel oddly gross? Too creepy? You couldn't relax enough to find it pleasurable? Downright terrifying?
Yeah. Tell me about it. It's exactly how I feel when I think about birthing and raising a child.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Outdated Tradition
Hotels. Motels. Bed and breakfasts. Resorts. No matter where I go, where I stay, there is always a bible knocking around in a bedside drawer. Isn’t this tradition a bit antiquated?
Unless I need consultation on how to punish my slaves or tend to my livestock, what’s the point exactly? You don’t need to believe in God to be well versed in the Ten Commandments; although, they’re a bit outdated too. (“You shall not murder” needs to make a serious surge to number one. It currently follows keeping the Sabbath day—“in it you shall do no work: you…nor your male servant, nor female servant, nor cattle,” wtf?—holy, and taking the Lord’s name in vain, as well as three others.) As long as you have the basics down, is it not permissible to take a couple days off from reading the scriptures?
If I weren’t feeling so lazy I would turn to the internet to find out why it started. But like a bride who doesn’t want to know why she wears a veil or gets carried over the threshold, I, too, do not want to know why a bible must adorn a five-star hotel room. I don’t care. I just want it to not be there.
Libraries are free, but I don’t like to handle books that someone else read while eating Cheetos, following their cheesy fingerprints, page after page, to the dramatic conclusion. I end up spending more time wondering what else they did while reading than if the narrator gets out of her predicament. Considering the bible is the holiest of books, I imagine believers feel the same way about a community bible.
I think the bible is there to ensure patrons feel guilty about doing something “naughty” on the comforter so it doesn’t need to be washed after every guest.
If someone told me it was there because without it the hotel would burn to the ground, then sure, I’m all for it. Leave it in the drawer. But seeing how it’s 2011 and not all of us need a book to show us how to be morally responsible, give the bibles to a more fearful, superstitious community. Vacationing hotel guests hardly qualify.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Hump-day Haiku: Road Trip
The initial fun
Is soon confounded by facts:
Four hours to go.
What are you doing?
You can't break on the highway.
McDonalds will wait.
Shoulders and back sore,
The landscape isn't changing;
Whose idea was this?
Is soon confounded by facts:
Four hours to go.
What are you doing?
You can't break on the highway.
McDonalds will wait.
Shoulders and back sore,
The landscape isn't changing;
Whose idea was this?
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
The City Different
When I'm in Santa Fe I feel like I'm home.
There's a restaurant there dedicated to vegans. To vegans! If chefs there can do it, chefs everywhere can do it, but they choose not to. And the food is phenomenal. I ate a chocolate "cheesecake" last night that made me want to slap my momma.
I feel like I can run! run! run! and keep on running down the quiet residential streets. (It's probably attributed to running at six thousand feet instead of nine thousand feet, but I like to think it's the city breathing life into my lungs and legs.)
My favorite independent bookstore--Collected Works--doesn't ask me to repeat the authors' names of the books I'm looking for. They've heard of the authors I'm referencing and create a connection I crave.
Culture is everywhere, from the art galleries to the men who sell newspapers on the street.
Religion there feels different. It feels like history instead of preaching.
Don't even get me started on the chile. Red or green? When in doubt, let it be Christmas all over again.
People who live in Santa Fe call it the City Different for rightful reasons. There is culture, entertainment, and art. Cormac McCarthy, opera, and ballet. Malls, movies, and macabre. It is a small city with big city culture. There is a serious sense of collective creativity. The city is alive with ideas and when I'm there, I am too.
There's a restaurant there dedicated to vegans. To vegans! If chefs there can do it, chefs everywhere can do it, but they choose not to. And the food is phenomenal. I ate a chocolate "cheesecake" last night that made me want to slap my momma.
I feel like I can run! run! run! and keep on running down the quiet residential streets. (It's probably attributed to running at six thousand feet instead of nine thousand feet, but I like to think it's the city breathing life into my lungs and legs.)
My favorite independent bookstore--Collected Works--doesn't ask me to repeat the authors' names of the books I'm looking for. They've heard of the authors I'm referencing and create a connection I crave.
Culture is everywhere, from the art galleries to the men who sell newspapers on the street.
Religion there feels different. It feels like history instead of preaching.
Don't even get me started on the chile. Red or green? When in doubt, let it be Christmas all over again.
People who live in Santa Fe call it the City Different for rightful reasons. There is culture, entertainment, and art. Cormac McCarthy, opera, and ballet. Malls, movies, and macabre. It is a small city with big city culture. There is a serious sense of collective creativity. The city is alive with ideas and when I'm there, I am too.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
People Pleasers
I am not fragile. I can handle an onslaught of criticism, varying opinions, and flat-out disagreements.
So stop blowing smoke up my ass.
Unless you're an agent, editor, or publisher, don't tell me what you think I want to hear.
I'm a vegan. So what. Don't act meek and embarrassed when it comes to eating your double cheeseburger with extra bacon and a side of pork chops. Had I not sat next to you you wouldn't think twice about eating two-thirds of an animal.
I'm a runner. Big deal. You don't have to tell me all about how you're going to start running too. If you feel inspired because you're sitting next to me, great, but don't tell me about it. We both know that as soon as I'm out of sight you'll feel differently. Just do it. I'll be glad to discuss it with you after you've been dedicated for a month.
I take my health seriously. Whatever. Please don't tell me how you're going to do something miraculous to change your life. It's boring. You've said it a million times. The more you say it, the more I realize I'm going to be standing over your casket.
I'm not a "health nut". So don't call me one. It's not endearing or a compliment. There is nothing "nutty" about me taking an interest in my quality of life. There is nothing extraordinary surrounding the way I treat my body. What I'm doing used to be called living; now it's called healthy. What you're doing used to be called gluttonous and lazy; now it's called commonplace.
Me? A people pleaser? Not even close.
So stop blowing smoke up my ass.
Unless you're an agent, editor, or publisher, don't tell me what you think I want to hear.
I'm a vegan. So what. Don't act meek and embarrassed when it comes to eating your double cheeseburger with extra bacon and a side of pork chops. Had I not sat next to you you wouldn't think twice about eating two-thirds of an animal.
I'm a runner. Big deal. You don't have to tell me all about how you're going to start running too. If you feel inspired because you're sitting next to me, great, but don't tell me about it. We both know that as soon as I'm out of sight you'll feel differently. Just do it. I'll be glad to discuss it with you after you've been dedicated for a month.
I take my health seriously. Whatever. Please don't tell me how you're going to do something miraculous to change your life. It's boring. You've said it a million times. The more you say it, the more I realize I'm going to be standing over your casket.
I'm not a "health nut". So don't call me one. It's not endearing or a compliment. There is nothing "nutty" about me taking an interest in my quality of life. There is nothing extraordinary surrounding the way I treat my body. What I'm doing used to be called living; now it's called healthy. What you're doing used to be called gluttonous and lazy; now it's called commonplace.
Me? A people pleaser? Not even close.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Hump-day Haiku: Public Restrooms
What is on the seat?
It can't be what it looks like.
Happy to hold it.
The hover method
Requires constant training.
Shaky legs will fail.
You are not sneaky.
You weren't in there long enough
to have washed your hands.
When men leave bathrooms,
I cannot help thinking they
just touched their penis.
It can't be what it looks like.
Happy to hold it.
The hover method
Requires constant training.
Shaky legs will fail.
You are not sneaky.
You weren't in there long enough
to have washed your hands.
When men leave bathrooms,
I cannot help thinking they
just touched their penis.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Rejection...
...happens to me frequently. Thankfully, I have someone in my life who believes in me like the streams believe in mountain snow to sustain their bubbly flow.
Granted, I do have my days. From time to time I permit myself one day to let the rejections sink in; to grab onto their meaning and let them steer as they take me places I don't recognize. As I drift into the heavy thickness, my wife is always there to snatch and bring me back. I never invite my wife to my pity parties but she always shows up, throws the cake on the floor, pops all the balloons, and beats the shit out of the DJ.
If you want to pursue something that requires competition, that requires overcoming close to impossible odds, your resolve must run like cement through your veins, pumping into your heart like tiny shots of belief. Perseverance must become your bff. And above all, you must know quitting is crazy talk.
But if you have a day when none of that works, having someone reflecting (back to you) what they know you already are makes all the doubt evaporate like silly steam.
Granted, I do have my days. From time to time I permit myself one day to let the rejections sink in; to grab onto their meaning and let them steer as they take me places I don't recognize. As I drift into the heavy thickness, my wife is always there to snatch and bring me back. I never invite my wife to my pity parties but she always shows up, throws the cake on the floor, pops all the balloons, and beats the shit out of the DJ.
If you want to pursue something that requires competition, that requires overcoming close to impossible odds, your resolve must run like cement through your veins, pumping into your heart like tiny shots of belief. Perseverance must become your bff. And above all, you must know quitting is crazy talk.
But if you have a day when none of that works, having someone reflecting (back to you) what they know you already are makes all the doubt evaporate like silly steam.
Monday, January 10, 2011
15 Minutes
When the weather turns snowy, a local news station sends a few of their minions to various locations around the city. They always send someone up to our area and broadcast on the side of the road.
It snowed overnight, and we were told last night that road conditions would be a concern.
This morning, as my wife and I drove around the bend, making our way down the snow-packed main street, there they were. The van with the call numbers. The news crew on the sidewalk. Camera hoisted onto the cameraman's shoulder. The light was turned on. The female reporter was lit up and pointing at the street.
I couldn't believe it. We were half a mile from being on TV!
A million thoughts raced through my mind. Wave. Smile. Make a face. Say Hi to Mom. Smash my boobs against the window. Pull down my pants and do the same with my butt. Flip the bird. Pick my nose. Kiss my wife. Show one of my tattoos. Roll down the window and whistle the universal you're-a-sexy-lady tune.
But I didn't do anything. I even turned my head when we passed by the camera to say, "We're on TV!" to my wife. She said I should yell something to plug my book. Smart. If only it was published.
It was a "fifteen minute" opportunity and I blew it. However, winter isn't over yet. I will not leave the house again without my JOHN 3:16 sign and face paint!
It snowed overnight, and we were told last night that road conditions would be a concern.
This morning, as my wife and I drove around the bend, making our way down the snow-packed main street, there they were. The van with the call numbers. The news crew on the sidewalk. Camera hoisted onto the cameraman's shoulder. The light was turned on. The female reporter was lit up and pointing at the street.
I couldn't believe it. We were half a mile from being on TV!
A million thoughts raced through my mind. Wave. Smile. Make a face. Say Hi to Mom. Smash my boobs against the window. Pull down my pants and do the same with my butt. Flip the bird. Pick my nose. Kiss my wife. Show one of my tattoos. Roll down the window and whistle the universal you're-a-sexy-lady tune.
But I didn't do anything. I even turned my head when we passed by the camera to say, "We're on TV!" to my wife. She said I should yell something to plug my book. Smart. If only it was published.
It was a "fifteen minute" opportunity and I blew it. However, winter isn't over yet. I will not leave the house again without my JOHN 3:16 sign and face paint!
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Solitary Funk
I should be working on my second novel, sending out queries, writing blog posts, but I can't stop reading. In order to write this, I had to put the book I am reading aside, promising to pick it back up once I knock this out.
Something is going on with me. When I think about doing the things I should be doing, I can feel my heart sigh, my lungs seize, and I want to curl into a ball. I don't feel particularly funny. I don't feel remotely insightful. And I know I have been here before.
I can officially say I'm in a funk...again.
Did the funk start before or after reading? I think the books I've been reading might be a contributing factor. The subject matter hasn't been overly cheery. I devoured Emily Gould's memoir, And the Heart Says Whatever, and did the same with the novel Room, by Emma Donoghue. I couldn't put either book down. They both took me on dark journeys I had not been on before. And they were both wholly magnificent.
The isolation of what I do is catching up with me. I read alone; I write alone. There is no one for me to talk to about the books I have read because no one around me has read them. There is no one for me to talk to about writing because everyone around me is taking a different path. But this isn't a Bell Jar situation. I just think the characters I've been spending my time with are garnering more attention than the people I see everyday. And I'm finding that a real bitch to deal with.
Something is going on with me. When I think about doing the things I should be doing, I can feel my heart sigh, my lungs seize, and I want to curl into a ball. I don't feel particularly funny. I don't feel remotely insightful. And I know I have been here before.
I can officially say I'm in a funk...again.
Did the funk start before or after reading? I think the books I've been reading might be a contributing factor. The subject matter hasn't been overly cheery. I devoured Emily Gould's memoir, And the Heart Says Whatever, and did the same with the novel Room, by Emma Donoghue. I couldn't put either book down. They both took me on dark journeys I had not been on before. And they were both wholly magnificent.
The isolation of what I do is catching up with me. I read alone; I write alone. There is no one for me to talk to about the books I have read because no one around me has read them. There is no one for me to talk to about writing because everyone around me is taking a different path. But this isn't a Bell Jar situation. I just think the characters I've been spending my time with are garnering more attention than the people I see everyday. And I'm finding that a real bitch to deal with.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Ah, Morning
The alarm beep-beep-beeped at 5:30 this morning. It took me a minute to realize what was happening. The dogs circled the bed, wagging their tails, making little happy whining noises. They were glad it was time for my wife and me to get up. I, on the other hand, couldn't believe it. I just went to sleep! But no, I was mistaken. I tossed the covers to the side, threw my pillow away from me, and reluctantly swung my legs over the bed. I sat there; I needed a minute to collect myself. I sleepily made my way up the stairs, the cold air nipping at my legs. I dressed without a sense of urgency. I used the facilities and made my way back into the living room where my wife was prepping for yoga: adjusting her mat, pleading with the dogs to find their way to a bed, getting the television ready. We don't normally do the same thing in the morning, but I decided to do yoga with her.
I rolled out my mat. Sat down. Staff pose. Rodney Yee's voice soothed me into downward dog, forward bend; from triangle into warrior pose. My muscles were gratefully stretching. My heartbeat quickened in response to the swift pace of the poses. And then, all done.
Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhh.
I headed up to the loft, where the weights are located, to finish my morning exercise. My mind followed suit with my body and started to wake up. I laid down my mat, looked around to see what I was in the mood to do and set my mind to it. My wife jumped on the bike, attached to a trainer, and started peddling like her life depended on it, with the television remote in hand.
Loud techno music followed by uncomfortable metallic sounds. People fighting. People screaming. People dying. Utter mayhem.
"What kind of shit are you watching?" I asked.
"It's one of the Blades," she responded.
How weird? That's exactly what I was thinking. Get out of the warm bed. Walk up the frigid staircase. Get dressed. Listen to Rodney's lotion-y voice. Connect with your breathing. Gradually welcome your mind and body to the day. Blow out the living room with a movie that revolves around a human-vampire hybrid who kills vampires who in turn kill humans.
Namaste.
I rolled out my mat. Sat down. Staff pose. Rodney Yee's voice soothed me into downward dog, forward bend; from triangle into warrior pose. My muscles were gratefully stretching. My heartbeat quickened in response to the swift pace of the poses. And then, all done.
Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhh.
I headed up to the loft, where the weights are located, to finish my morning exercise. My mind followed suit with my body and started to wake up. I laid down my mat, looked around to see what I was in the mood to do and set my mind to it. My wife jumped on the bike, attached to a trainer, and started peddling like her life depended on it, with the television remote in hand.
Loud techno music followed by uncomfortable metallic sounds. People fighting. People screaming. People dying. Utter mayhem.
"What kind of shit are you watching?" I asked.
"It's one of the Blades," she responded.
How weird? That's exactly what I was thinking. Get out of the warm bed. Walk up the frigid staircase. Get dressed. Listen to Rodney's lotion-y voice. Connect with your breathing. Gradually welcome your mind and body to the day. Blow out the living room with a movie that revolves around a human-vampire hybrid who kills vampires who in turn kill humans.
Namaste.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Weddings
Prologue:
L.A. Story used to be one of my favorite movies. There is a scene in the movie where Steve Martin is trying to win back the affection of a recent ex-girlfriend, running around outside her house from window to window. In his hand is a book. He stops outside one of the windows and excitedly says, "Let me read to you from this book of poems! 'Oh, pointy bird, oh, pointy pointy!'" It makes me laugh every time.
When the we-are-gathered-here-today started, I had on my wedding face. Mouth stern. Eyes soft and pleading-like. Face serious. No big deal. I knew I wouldn't cry; weddings don't affect me that way. I might have been sweating in places that felt unnatural, but I was going to make it. I was attentive. I was engaged. My wife, sitting very closely beside me, seemed to be in the same place.
We were welcomed. There was prayer. Everything was going really well...until the woman officiating announced that the bride's sister wanted to read from a book of poems.
Oh, holy mother of hell.
I could feel it, welling from a place deep inside of me; so deep I didn't think to put it in check.
The sister started reading, from the book of poems, and son-of-a-bitch if she didn't mention something about a goddamn bird.
You have got to be kidding me!
My body started shaking. I looked into my lap. I snorted. I looked over at my wife. Big mistake. She, too, knew all about the pointy bird.
We were cooked. Done for. Over.
Her shaking body mimicked my own. Together, we laughed into each other like two lunatics, completely mad from something so unbelievably hysterical that nothing could bring us back. Tears leapt from my eyes. My stomach hurt. Keeping it inside was proving to be almost too much. I lost track of what was going on. The people around us were looking at us like we'd farted. They crinkled their noses, tsk-tsked us by shaking their heads, kicked us off their list of respectable human beings.
Come on, people. Why do weddings always have to be so serious? Who says love can't be silly and strange and comical instead of riding-white-horses-on-the-beach, making-love-by-the-candle-light romantic? Because if that's your idea of love, you're fucked. Love is sloppy and weird and hysterical and cute and overwhelming and normal and warm and running-down-your-leg fantastic! This whole notion that weddings have to be this showy, serious event is killing me.
When the day comes that I get to marry my wife, I will cry, but not because I'm taking it too seriously. It will be the direct result of finally being able to marry the person I love. No matter, really, because after Steve is done reading from his book of poems, there won't be a dry eye in the house.
L.A. Story used to be one of my favorite movies. There is a scene in the movie where Steve Martin is trying to win back the affection of a recent ex-girlfriend, running around outside her house from window to window. In his hand is a book. He stops outside one of the windows and excitedly says, "Let me read to you from this book of poems! 'Oh, pointy bird, oh, pointy pointy!'" It makes me laugh every time.
When the we-are-gathered-here-today started, I had on my wedding face. Mouth stern. Eyes soft and pleading-like. Face serious. No big deal. I knew I wouldn't cry; weddings don't affect me that way. I might have been sweating in places that felt unnatural, but I was going to make it. I was attentive. I was engaged. My wife, sitting very closely beside me, seemed to be in the same place.
We were welcomed. There was prayer. Everything was going really well...until the woman officiating announced that the bride's sister wanted to read from a book of poems.
Oh, holy mother of hell.
I could feel it, welling from a place deep inside of me; so deep I didn't think to put it in check.
The sister started reading, from the book of poems, and son-of-a-bitch if she didn't mention something about a goddamn bird.
You have got to be kidding me!
My body started shaking. I looked into my lap. I snorted. I looked over at my wife. Big mistake. She, too, knew all about the pointy bird.
We were cooked. Done for. Over.
Her shaking body mimicked my own. Together, we laughed into each other like two lunatics, completely mad from something so unbelievably hysterical that nothing could bring us back. Tears leapt from my eyes. My stomach hurt. Keeping it inside was proving to be almost too much. I lost track of what was going on. The people around us were looking at us like we'd farted. They crinkled their noses, tsk-tsked us by shaking their heads, kicked us off their list of respectable human beings.
Come on, people. Why do weddings always have to be so serious? Who says love can't be silly and strange and comical instead of riding-white-horses-on-the-beach, making-love-by-the-candle-light romantic? Because if that's your idea of love, you're fucked. Love is sloppy and weird and hysterical and cute and overwhelming and normal and warm and running-down-your-leg fantastic! This whole notion that weddings have to be this showy, serious event is killing me.
When the day comes that I get to marry my wife, I will cry, but not because I'm taking it too seriously. It will be the direct result of finally being able to marry the person I love. No matter, really, because after Steve is done reading from his book of poems, there won't be a dry eye in the house.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Hump-day Haiku: Resolutions
I'm resolved not to
Treat you like an idiot
When you are silent.
There is more to it
Than saying you'll do something.
I give it three weeks.
I think it's great you
bought running shoes. They look
nice with your work pants.
Treat you like an idiot
When you are silent.
There is more to it
Than saying you'll do something.
I give it three weeks.
I think it's great you
bought running shoes. They look
nice with your work pants.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Give It a Rest
For fuck's sake, O'Donnell. Give it a rest already.
The election is over and yet Christine O'Donnell cannot accept her fate quietly. The Delaware Doofus cannot keep her hand out of the bank account--I mean the headlines--hitting the airwaves on Sunday, protesting that she's being unfairly targeted by a left-wing-nut-bag group for campaign fraud.
Permit me a moment of absolute honesty: I'm so disgusted with people doing shady shit and then blaming someone else when said shit hits the new's cycle. What happened to personal responsibility? Nut up, Christine! I find it odd that in the midst of your alleged crimes you're talking about who is attacking you instead of taking a position. If you're innocent, or guilty, why does it matter who launches an investigation?
Your strategy reeks of immaturity. My grandma changes the subject when you bring up something she doesn't want to discuss, too.
Gee, Christine, maybe you shouldn't have "paid" your mother money from your campaign account. And maybe you should have taken a step back and considered how it looked to pay rent, again from your campaign account, on a townhouse you now say you didn't live in. Surely you're smart enough to know that the political world isn't a kind one and these things should have been taken into account?
If you're innocent, great. If you're guilty, great. Regardless, stop acting like a child being asked by your parents, Who ate the last cookie? Chances are if you keep blaming your parents for looking in the cookie jar, people are going to start to wonder what the hell you're talking about, tarnishing your legitimacy even more.
Too bad you're not a witch. I'm sure there is some kind of spell you could cast to make us understand bullshit.
The election is over and yet Christine O'Donnell cannot accept her fate quietly. The Delaware Doofus cannot keep her hand out of the bank account--I mean the headlines--hitting the airwaves on Sunday, protesting that she's being unfairly targeted by a left-wing-nut-bag group for campaign fraud.
Permit me a moment of absolute honesty: I'm so disgusted with people doing shady shit and then blaming someone else when said shit hits the new's cycle. What happened to personal responsibility? Nut up, Christine! I find it odd that in the midst of your alleged crimes you're talking about who is attacking you instead of taking a position. If you're innocent, or guilty, why does it matter who launches an investigation?
Your strategy reeks of immaturity. My grandma changes the subject when you bring up something she doesn't want to discuss, too.
Gee, Christine, maybe you shouldn't have "paid" your mother money from your campaign account. And maybe you should have taken a step back and considered how it looked to pay rent, again from your campaign account, on a townhouse you now say you didn't live in. Surely you're smart enough to know that the political world isn't a kind one and these things should have been taken into account?
If you're innocent, great. If you're guilty, great. Regardless, stop acting like a child being asked by your parents, Who ate the last cookie? Chances are if you keep blaming your parents for looking in the cookie jar, people are going to start to wonder what the hell you're talking about, tarnishing your legitimacy even more.
Too bad you're not a witch. I'm sure there is some kind of spell you could cast to make us understand bullshit.
Monday, January 3, 2011
A Different Reality
Reality shows have taken over, saturating the airwaves with "everyday" people doing "everyday" things.
<Raising eyebrow.>
I've never slapped anyone in a bar. Never thrown a drink in someone's face. Never considered competing for money and stabbing someone in the back to get it. Never chest-bumped someone on the dance floor because they got a little too close to my woman. Never tried to juggle relationships. Never flown on a private jet. Never crashed a White House party. Never had plastic surgery. Never been pregnant and not known it. Never weighed so much I couldn't get out of bed. Never wrote a book simply because I had six-pack abs. Never held a competition to find love. But we're to believe these things are normal.
I understand reality programming saves networks money. But the premise is growing mold. There's too much. It's starting to stink up the place. Rot the core. And it's putting me to sleep.
It's time to start letting people die.
If you are voted off Survivor, you get left out in the middle of nowhere with no food or water. If you don't win Top Chef, you lose a hand. Can't get the people's votes on American Idol? Too bad. Off with your head. A-aw...he didn't pick you to love and cherish for forever and ever? Sorry, but stones will be tied to your feet and you will be thrown into the ocean, or a lake; whichever is closest. You're fired! Off the top of a building you go. You spend the summer perusing the boardwalk of a seaside town. Guess what? When the summer's over, you're fed to sharks. Housewife today, blown up in a kitchen tomorrow.
Reality television validates completely ridiculous behavior. If the stakes were higher, we would see how bad people really want Fame! Money! Bragging rights! The average idiots would be weeded out. Don't fret. Reality programming wouldn't disappear. It would simply be elevated with a new brand of idiot.
One person always wins, and there are egos willing to accept the challenge. We see it all the time: the one person who knows they're going to win but ends up going home on the first show. All that would change is we'll never see that person again. It puts a wrench in the reunion show, but the trade off might very well be worth it.
<Raising eyebrow.>
I've never slapped anyone in a bar. Never thrown a drink in someone's face. Never considered competing for money and stabbing someone in the back to get it. Never chest-bumped someone on the dance floor because they got a little too close to my woman. Never tried to juggle relationships. Never flown on a private jet. Never crashed a White House party. Never had plastic surgery. Never been pregnant and not known it. Never weighed so much I couldn't get out of bed. Never wrote a book simply because I had six-pack abs. Never held a competition to find love. But we're to believe these things are normal.
I understand reality programming saves networks money. But the premise is growing mold. There's too much. It's starting to stink up the place. Rot the core. And it's putting me to sleep.
It's time to start letting people die.
If you are voted off Survivor, you get left out in the middle of nowhere with no food or water. If you don't win Top Chef, you lose a hand. Can't get the people's votes on American Idol? Too bad. Off with your head. A-aw...he didn't pick you to love and cherish for forever and ever? Sorry, but stones will be tied to your feet and you will be thrown into the ocean, or a lake; whichever is closest. You're fired! Off the top of a building you go. You spend the summer perusing the boardwalk of a seaside town. Guess what? When the summer's over, you're fed to sharks. Housewife today, blown up in a kitchen tomorrow.
Reality television validates completely ridiculous behavior. If the stakes were higher, we would see how bad people really want Fame! Money! Bragging rights! The average idiots would be weeded out. Don't fret. Reality programming wouldn't disappear. It would simply be elevated with a new brand of idiot.
One person always wins, and there are egos willing to accept the challenge. We see it all the time: the one person who knows they're going to win but ends up going home on the first show. All that would change is we'll never see that person again. It puts a wrench in the reunion show, but the trade off might very well be worth it.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Happy Fucking New Year
This morning was a cold one. I had the bedcovers tucked up and under my chin; all my limbs were tucked under the comforter. Anything hanging outside the warmth of the covers was returned as a slab of ice. What was once an arm, a hand, or, god forbid, a foot, came back to me as a well preserved, frozen piece of meat. I let relief wash over me, knowing I had nowhere to go, nowhere to be, nowhere but the warmth and comfort of my own bed. I sighed, nestled my head onto my pillow, and closed my eyes, refusing the idea that it was time to get up.
Rumblerumblerumble. My intestines had a different idea.
I ignored the first warning sign, not wanting my storybook sleep to end. Not wanting to step onto the cold tile just yet. But the second demanded my attention. I had precious seconds to make a wiser decision. I left the warmth of the bed and hightailed it upstairs. Yes, it was cold. Yes, I wished to live somewhere tropical. Yes, I made it in time.
A-ah. Now I could go back downstairs and crawl back into the warm bed, not necessarily to go back to sleep, but to warm up before facing a downright chilly day.
I pushed the handle of the toilet down, thinking only about spooning my wife's sleepy, warm body.
Nothing.
I pushed it down again.
Nothing still.
I manhandled the two inches of stainless steel, forcing all of my will, my prowess, my authority, into making the toilet flush.
It remained eerily silent.
Shit.
I went into the kitchen, turned on the cold water. The faucet stuck with its buddy, the toilet: nothing happened.
Motherfucker.
Fantastic. What a great way to kick off the new year. No water, shit in the toilet, cold enough to host an ice carving contest. And until it warms up, the water will not return. In the meantime, I'll be peeing in the bathtub.
Fucking funny, 2011. Is this because yesterday I said I was going to make you my bitch? Anyone keeping score, 2011: 1. Me: 0. But there are 364 days left. We'll see who has the last laugh.
Rumblerumblerumble. My intestines had a different idea.
I ignored the first warning sign, not wanting my storybook sleep to end. Not wanting to step onto the cold tile just yet. But the second demanded my attention. I had precious seconds to make a wiser decision. I left the warmth of the bed and hightailed it upstairs. Yes, it was cold. Yes, I wished to live somewhere tropical. Yes, I made it in time.
A-ah. Now I could go back downstairs and crawl back into the warm bed, not necessarily to go back to sleep, but to warm up before facing a downright chilly day.
I pushed the handle of the toilet down, thinking only about spooning my wife's sleepy, warm body.
Nothing.
I pushed it down again.
Nothing still.
I manhandled the two inches of stainless steel, forcing all of my will, my prowess, my authority, into making the toilet flush.
It remained eerily silent.
Shit.
I went into the kitchen, turned on the cold water. The faucet stuck with its buddy, the toilet: nothing happened.
Motherfucker.
Fantastic. What a great way to kick off the new year. No water, shit in the toilet, cold enough to host an ice carving contest. And until it warms up, the water will not return. In the meantime, I'll be peeing in the bathtub.
Fucking funny, 2011. Is this because yesterday I said I was going to make you my bitch? Anyone keeping score, 2011: 1. Me: 0. But there are 364 days left. We'll see who has the last laugh.
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