I suppose today should not go un-noted, though to me it's not that big a deal.
Five years ago today was the last time I did heroin. I'd been clean since shortly after that Thanksgiving (more out of shock than anything else; I'd lost my job and gotten an eviction notice the same day, and it had startled me into a brief reform). I was alone, in one of the merciful interludes between bouts of the disease that was CR, and heroin was one of the few things I knew how to do to pass the time--but I was tired of it. Not so much of heroin, but of the life I was living; there was no time for anything BUT heroin, for getting the money for it, finding it, using it, getting ready to start over again. And the last days of the year 1999 seemed like as good a time as any to change my ways.
I remember thinking "okay, this is it--one last time" and going into the bathroom of my studio apartment (so I wouldn't have to share my Very Last and Final Shot with Tim, who had a sort of "mi fix, su fix" worldview--and among junkies, that's only appealing if you're the "su" to someone else's "mi".) I also remember thinking afterwards that it wasn't very impressive--I suppose that makes sense, considering I was on 150 mg/day of methadone at the time, which would pretty much keep ANYONE's opiate receptors busy. And maybe that was a good thing; had it been a wildly-impressive shot, I might have found a good reason to keep going. It wouldn't have taken much to get me started again, really; sometimes I think it still wouldn't. My thoughts of heroin are inextricably linked with the one time in my life that I remember being truly happy, and in the absence of happiness like that, heroin has become a sort of shorthand for happiness. There are times I still think about doing it. I don't like the life I'm living now--though I can reliably say that most of that unhappiness really IS about my job. I am in a rut, and since to me "happiness"="not being in a rut" and in my memory, "heroin"="happiness", it follows that heroin means somehow not being in a rut. Which--and this is my saving grace--is a lie, a lie I can generally recognize.
It's only some days, riding on the train from home, that I look out the window and think to myself I'm not done with it yet, not really. I don't know if I'll ever act on that impulse--though I've promised myself that if I'm ever diagnosed with a terminal disease and not much time to live, I'm going to take up all my old bad habits with abandon--and in the meantime...well, it's all about finding things to fill up the hours, I guess. Not a very productive view of life, really, but I'm not one of those people who can eternally believe that there's some greater destiny for everyone. Doesn't mean I don't have to keep trying; it just means that I don't have to pretend to be optimistic about my chances. I've been luckier than most, I know--I'm still here, and at least I can remember when I was happy, which is more than most people will ever have.
I sound like I'm full of self-pity today, and really I'm not (although anyone asking me about my plans for New Years Eve will most likely get their head taken off). I just think too much about what might have been, in the glaring absence of anything nearly as good.
The problem with vacations, you see, is that eventually you have to go back to the things that made you need a vacation so badly in the first place. And even though it's only Thursday, I'm already on the world's biggest, earliest Monday bus.
Thursday, December 30, 2004
Wednesday, December 29, 2004
Why I Hate People, Volume 33,592
Woman fired over makeup loses case
Items compiled from Tribune news services
Published December 29, 2004
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA -- A casino had the right to fire a woman bartender who refused to wear makeup because the company required male workers to be equally well-groomed, a federal appeals court ruled Tuesday.
The 9th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals tossed out Darlene Jespersen's sex-discrimination case against Harrah's Entertainment. The court said Harrah's requirement that male bartenders keep their hair short, nails trimmed and otherwise appear neatly groomed was roughly equivalent to the grooming demands made of its female workers.
The Reno casino fired Jespersen in August 2000 after 21 years of highly rated work. She maintained that wearing makeup should be a personal choice, unrelated to her job performance.
Items compiled from Tribune news services
Published December 29, 2004
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA -- A casino had the right to fire a woman bartender who refused to wear makeup because the company required male workers to be equally well-groomed, a federal appeals court ruled Tuesday.
The 9th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals tossed out Darlene Jespersen's sex-discrimination case against Harrah's Entertainment. The court said Harrah's requirement that male bartenders keep their hair short, nails trimmed and otherwise appear neatly groomed was roughly equivalent to the grooming demands made of its female workers.
The Reno casino fired Jespersen in August 2000 after 21 years of highly rated work. She maintained that wearing makeup should be a personal choice, unrelated to her job performance.
Monday, December 27, 2004
Clarification
Maybe my job is not the main obstacle in my path.
I have come to the conclusion: LJ has about as much use for a girlfriend as a duck has for a checkerboard.
And I am--and have been--in full bad-relationship defensive mode. Love scenes, love songs, anything that reminds me of when I was happier--I just avoid it.
I am very bad at leaving when there's nothing better immediately visible--which is exactly where I am right now. (Turns out Damian and his "girl" are actually married--poor guy.) I could always hook up with Terrence, but not only don't I trust him, I'm not even really attracted to him...though at the moment, my main qualification for being attracted to someone is "he isn't disgusted by me and doesn't consider me a nuisance".
See, what none of you can see, this being a written medium and all, is this: I am not an attractive woman, not in the traditional sense. I have known this about myself for quite a while; it hasn't gotten any better. I don't do the whole girly-girl thing--makeup, fussy clothes, cleavage, whatever--because it makes me uncomfortable. One of my bosses actually advanced the opinion to me that my choice of clothes demonstrates that I'm "uncomfortable with my femininity". Um, no; I'm uncomfortable with wearing any item of clothing that places my crotch at my knees, allows unnecessary drafts to blow into my nether regions, causes me to wobble when I walk, or precludes crawling under a desk to unplug something. I'm perfectly comfortable with my femininity--more than most, actually, which is something any man could find out, providing he was motivated enough to get past my "substandard" appearance.
And that's the problem. I haven't found anyone who WOULD look past it who'd also treat me decently--you know, take me out once in a while, not forget my birthday, talk to me spontaneously about something other than whether or not we're going to have enough money to make it through the month. (We won't even talk about the "we" in that sentence, nor the question of proportions--of how much each half of "we" contributes to the common welfare.) Most guys who'll go out with "ugly" women see it as a compromise--he sees it as I won't remind her how unattractive the world finds her, and in return she'll ignore that I belittle her, fuck around on her, take her money, whatever. Believe me--I've had that spelled out for me, courtesy of CR, who was the original case study in Men Who Date Ugly Women And The Women Who Tolerate Them.
And I'm tired of putting up a good front--for everyone else, for my friends, for myself. Some women blow their man's faults out of proportion and bitch about everything; if I blow anything out of proportion, it's his positives. I find myself defending him in my mind--oh, he's just tired, worried, broke--but that gets old, and I can't do it anymore. I just don't see any alternatives, short of putting myself in a position to become the Crazy Cat Lady, a position to which I'm sure every young girl aspires.
I have come to the conclusion: LJ has about as much use for a girlfriend as a duck has for a checkerboard.
And I am--and have been--in full bad-relationship defensive mode. Love scenes, love songs, anything that reminds me of when I was happier--I just avoid it.
I am very bad at leaving when there's nothing better immediately visible--which is exactly where I am right now. (Turns out Damian and his "girl" are actually married--poor guy.) I could always hook up with Terrence, but not only don't I trust him, I'm not even really attracted to him...though at the moment, my main qualification for being attracted to someone is "he isn't disgusted by me and doesn't consider me a nuisance".
See, what none of you can see, this being a written medium and all, is this: I am not an attractive woman, not in the traditional sense. I have known this about myself for quite a while; it hasn't gotten any better. I don't do the whole girly-girl thing--makeup, fussy clothes, cleavage, whatever--because it makes me uncomfortable. One of my bosses actually advanced the opinion to me that my choice of clothes demonstrates that I'm "uncomfortable with my femininity". Um, no; I'm uncomfortable with wearing any item of clothing that places my crotch at my knees, allows unnecessary drafts to blow into my nether regions, causes me to wobble when I walk, or precludes crawling under a desk to unplug something. I'm perfectly comfortable with my femininity--more than most, actually, which is something any man could find out, providing he was motivated enough to get past my "substandard" appearance.
And that's the problem. I haven't found anyone who WOULD look past it who'd also treat me decently--you know, take me out once in a while, not forget my birthday, talk to me spontaneously about something other than whether or not we're going to have enough money to make it through the month. (We won't even talk about the "we" in that sentence, nor the question of proportions--of how much each half of "we" contributes to the common welfare.) Most guys who'll go out with "ugly" women see it as a compromise--he sees it as I won't remind her how unattractive the world finds her, and in return she'll ignore that I belittle her, fuck around on her, take her money, whatever. Believe me--I've had that spelled out for me, courtesy of CR, who was the original case study in Men Who Date Ugly Women And The Women Who Tolerate Them.
And I'm tired of putting up a good front--for everyone else, for my friends, for myself. Some women blow their man's faults out of proportion and bitch about everything; if I blow anything out of proportion, it's his positives. I find myself defending him in my mind--oh, he's just tired, worried, broke--but that gets old, and I can't do it anymore. I just don't see any alternatives, short of putting myself in a position to become the Crazy Cat Lady, a position to which I'm sure every young girl aspires.
Saturday, December 25, 2004
Okay, Question
My Christmas thought for the day:
What the hell is the deal with all these "nanny" shows? So now we need television to tell us how to raise our children? This is just a scary, scary thought.
Or is this more feminist backlash--"see, if you stayed HOME with your children, they wouldn't be such irredeemable heathens--but since you've chosen your CAREER..."
I had a conversation with my mom tonight on the ride home, prompted I guess by the presence of a couple of babies at our Christmas dinner, in which I explained to her the reasons she won't be getting any grandchildren. I'm too much of a cynic; I couldn't muster the comforting little warm-fuzzies necessary to raise well-adjusted human beings. I can't forget what I know. I can't pretend to believe in happily-ever-after, or even happily-for-more-than-a-few-minutes-ever-after. In short: I'm not having kids because I wouldn't be very good at it, and unlike quilting or golfing or skeet-shooting, if you're not good at parenting you can't just quit; if you're not good at parenting you leave generations of wreckage ever after.
"I never gave it a second thought," my mother said.
"Most people don't, I think," I told her.
For some reason, this has been one of the harder Christmases in recent memory. I am miserable in my own skin; I think I need to do something about my body because it's really, for the first time I can remember, actually making me feel bad about the rest of me. I see pictures of myself and I'm pretty much disgusted with what looks back at me. Even when I make an effort to look good, I don't look good--I look "good for ME."
Another big part of it is this: I have done nothing this year. Nothing. I've gotten up every day, gone to work, come home, gone to bed, and started over. On the weekends--I've done nothing. I am living only enough to keep living. I can even count on my fingers the number of times I've had sex in the past 365 days. And if I didn't remember a time when it was different--when I was different, when my life was different--I don't suppose it would bother me. But I do remember a time like that--and it's not something I can get back, even though it's the only thing I really want.
I'm giving my life as it stands another six months--there are some things coming up after the new year that may improve conditions, or may make them worse--but if it gets to be late May or early June and nothing has changed, I'm going to take drastic action--quit my job, maybe, just for a start. I see that as the major stumbling block in my life right now--though there are others in close second--and it's going to be the first thing to go, no matter what I have to do to get there.
I have other plans, of course--I'm a great one for plans, though weak on executions--and I will be working on them in the interim--but I will not live another year like this one. I can handle the mundane parts of life, but not when that's all there is.
What the hell is the deal with all these "nanny" shows? So now we need television to tell us how to raise our children? This is just a scary, scary thought.
Or is this more feminist backlash--"see, if you stayed HOME with your children, they wouldn't be such irredeemable heathens--but since you've chosen your CAREER..."
I had a conversation with my mom tonight on the ride home, prompted I guess by the presence of a couple of babies at our Christmas dinner, in which I explained to her the reasons she won't be getting any grandchildren. I'm too much of a cynic; I couldn't muster the comforting little warm-fuzzies necessary to raise well-adjusted human beings. I can't forget what I know. I can't pretend to believe in happily-ever-after, or even happily-for-more-than-a-few-minutes-ever-after. In short: I'm not having kids because I wouldn't be very good at it, and unlike quilting or golfing or skeet-shooting, if you're not good at parenting you can't just quit; if you're not good at parenting you leave generations of wreckage ever after.
"I never gave it a second thought," my mother said.
"Most people don't, I think," I told her.
For some reason, this has been one of the harder Christmases in recent memory. I am miserable in my own skin; I think I need to do something about my body because it's really, for the first time I can remember, actually making me feel bad about the rest of me. I see pictures of myself and I'm pretty much disgusted with what looks back at me. Even when I make an effort to look good, I don't look good--I look "good for ME."
Another big part of it is this: I have done nothing this year. Nothing. I've gotten up every day, gone to work, come home, gone to bed, and started over. On the weekends--I've done nothing. I am living only enough to keep living. I can even count on my fingers the number of times I've had sex in the past 365 days. And if I didn't remember a time when it was different--when I was different, when my life was different--I don't suppose it would bother me. But I do remember a time like that--and it's not something I can get back, even though it's the only thing I really want.
I'm giving my life as it stands another six months--there are some things coming up after the new year that may improve conditions, or may make them worse--but if it gets to be late May or early June and nothing has changed, I'm going to take drastic action--quit my job, maybe, just for a start. I see that as the major stumbling block in my life right now--though there are others in close second--and it's going to be the first thing to go, no matter what I have to do to get there.
I have other plans, of course--I'm a great one for plans, though weak on executions--and I will be working on them in the interim--but I will not live another year like this one. I can handle the mundane parts of life, but not when that's all there is.
Friday, December 24, 2004
Christmas Brinksmanship
And so, verily, there came a day when the lady of the house was called to go upon a journey, across the great city of Chicago, to the house of her mother for Christmas. And on that same day, the man of the house undertook also a journey, to the town of Maywood, there to serve half-ounces, and to smoke and drink with his comrades.
And while the lady of the house and the man of the house were making their respective journeys to their various places of Yuletide repose, upon there house there came a great blight, in the person of the Alarm Condition Of Unknown Origin. And the Angel of Brinks called unto the woman's cell phone, and said unto her: Gladys Cortez? We've received an alarm condition from your house and we just wanted to know if you wanted us to send the police, or...? And (thinking of the transactions taking place on her block, and wishing not to inconvenience the businessmen of her street) the woman said No, no, I don't think that's necessary, and called unto the man's cell-phone to send him forth from Maywood into the West Side, to ensure that the alarm had, as she suspected, been caused by one of the many livestock that lived in that house.
And lo, when the man reached the house, he called unto the woman's cell phone to report unto her that the front door of their house had been open, a little, when he got there. And the woman recollected that she had been seen by all the citizens of the block, carrying a package and a suitcase unto the car of her mother, shortly before receiving the call from the Angel of Brinks. And the man said Yeah, but it doesn't look like they had to force the door or anything...And the woman said Maybe I didn't slam the door hard enough on my way out. And there was much bickering and indecision, and nothing was resolved.
But behold, the Angels of Good Luck had been watching over the woman, and thus all their possessions were still in the house where they had left them, and the livestock had stayed indoors, washing their paws, away from the bitter and unnecessary cold. And the man reluctantly agreed to stay at the house that night, postponing his journey to the town of Maywood, to protect the house against the onslaught of desperate holiday crackheads. And lo, there was much rejoicing, and all the cherubim and seraphim settled in to smoke blunts and drink cognac, and all through the living room there was the sound of multitudes of thugs playing NBA Live.
Merry Christmas, everyone...
And while the lady of the house and the man of the house were making their respective journeys to their various places of Yuletide repose, upon there house there came a great blight, in the person of the Alarm Condition Of Unknown Origin. And the Angel of Brinks called unto the woman's cell phone, and said unto her: Gladys Cortez? We've received an alarm condition from your house and we just wanted to know if you wanted us to send the police, or...? And (thinking of the transactions taking place on her block, and wishing not to inconvenience the businessmen of her street) the woman said No, no, I don't think that's necessary, and called unto the man's cell-phone to send him forth from Maywood into the West Side, to ensure that the alarm had, as she suspected, been caused by one of the many livestock that lived in that house.
And lo, when the man reached the house, he called unto the woman's cell phone to report unto her that the front door of their house had been open, a little, when he got there. And the woman recollected that she had been seen by all the citizens of the block, carrying a package and a suitcase unto the car of her mother, shortly before receiving the call from the Angel of Brinks. And the man said Yeah, but it doesn't look like they had to force the door or anything...And the woman said Maybe I didn't slam the door hard enough on my way out. And there was much bickering and indecision, and nothing was resolved.
But behold, the Angels of Good Luck had been watching over the woman, and thus all their possessions were still in the house where they had left them, and the livestock had stayed indoors, washing their paws, away from the bitter and unnecessary cold. And the man reluctantly agreed to stay at the house that night, postponing his journey to the town of Maywood, to protect the house against the onslaught of desperate holiday crackheads. And lo, there was much rejoicing, and all the cherubim and seraphim settled in to smoke blunts and drink cognac, and all through the living room there was the sound of multitudes of thugs playing NBA Live.
Merry Christmas, everyone...
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
Human Race, Last-Place Finishers
Sometimes people just don't pass along the good shit that's been done for them.
These people, in my opinion, should be thwapped sharply in the ears and asked "What the fuck are you thinking?"
Tim called me Sunday--collect, as usual--to give me his latest report and to check in on his cats.
Oh, did I not mention that I still have the cats?? Or that Cassidy has apparently developed some sort of kitty mood-disorder, and--when he's not lying on his favorite blanket, which now has a three-inch mat of cat hair on it--has manifested his despair by crapping on the floor, repeatedly? Or that along with this emotional disturbance, he's also developed a case of the raging shits?? I didn't mention those things?? Well, you can damn well believe I mentioned them to Tim.
But I digress.
Among other things, he told me that he witnessed an acquaintance of his overdosing on heroin, on the open street, and did nothing because "you never know what the cops are gonna assume--they might think I gave it to him, or somethin."
This would be barely-forgiveable, but still within the realm of understandable human caution....were it not for the fact that once, several years ago, I called the paramedics to come pick HIS overdosing butt up off the floor of my apartment, at moderate risk to my own personal welfare, lease, and freedom. One of the main reasons I did it--though I don't even think the notion of NOT calling the paramedics ever even entered my mind--was that a couple of years before, -I- had been pulled out of an overdose by JP. You pass along the good things that people do for you--I've always believed that.
But maybe that's one of my more-naive beliefs, or something. And unlike Tim, this guy apparently didn't survive his OD. And it really kinda made me sick to hear Tim try to justify his inaction: "oh, I really didn't know the guy all that well," or "I had to be somewhere at a certain time, and if I stopped..."
Give me a fuckin' break, you know?
Regardless--when Tim comes to pick up his cats, I'm presenting him with a gift--a bucket of bleach and water, and a scrub brush. He is going to wash down every single fucking inch of that room. I am a nice person, and I am willing to help almost everyone I know...but I have my limits.
These people, in my opinion, should be thwapped sharply in the ears and asked "What the fuck are you thinking?"
Tim called me Sunday--collect, as usual--to give me his latest report and to check in on his cats.
Oh, did I not mention that I still have the cats?? Or that Cassidy has apparently developed some sort of kitty mood-disorder, and--when he's not lying on his favorite blanket, which now has a three-inch mat of cat hair on it--has manifested his despair by crapping on the floor, repeatedly? Or that along with this emotional disturbance, he's also developed a case of the raging shits?? I didn't mention those things?? Well, you can damn well believe I mentioned them to Tim.
But I digress.
Among other things, he told me that he witnessed an acquaintance of his overdosing on heroin, on the open street, and did nothing because "you never know what the cops are gonna assume--they might think I gave it to him, or somethin."
This would be barely-forgiveable, but still within the realm of understandable human caution....were it not for the fact that once, several years ago, I called the paramedics to come pick HIS overdosing butt up off the floor of my apartment, at moderate risk to my own personal welfare, lease, and freedom. One of the main reasons I did it--though I don't even think the notion of NOT calling the paramedics ever even entered my mind--was that a couple of years before, -I- had been pulled out of an overdose by JP. You pass along the good things that people do for you--I've always believed that.
But maybe that's one of my more-naive beliefs, or something. And unlike Tim, this guy apparently didn't survive his OD. And it really kinda made me sick to hear Tim try to justify his inaction: "oh, I really didn't know the guy all that well," or "I had to be somewhere at a certain time, and if I stopped..."
Give me a fuckin' break, you know?
Regardless--when Tim comes to pick up his cats, I'm presenting him with a gift--a bucket of bleach and water, and a scrub brush. He is going to wash down every single fucking inch of that room. I am a nice person, and I am willing to help almost everyone I know...but I have my limits.
Things You Can Learn From Your Cat--Episode 1
On Eating:
For whatever reason, it's better to pick up the piece of turkey from the plate and carry it to the carpet before growling over it and eating it, than it would be to eat it straight from the plate or from the nearby tile floor.
For whatever reason, it's better to pick up the piece of turkey from the plate and carry it to the carpet before growling over it and eating it, than it would be to eat it straight from the plate or from the nearby tile floor.
Ho', Ho', Ho'.
In the true spirit of holiday time-wasting, I am sitting here at my desk in Place Where I Work, reading any website that crosses my path and listening to iTunes.
I came across an article in...what was that, the New York Times or something?...anyway, it doesn't matter. The article was about "Chrismukkah", which is, for fans of teenage soap operas at least, apparently the equivalent of Festivus. Not being an "O.C" fan, I personally could care less.
What _was_ entertaining to me was the Google ad box at the bottom. It included this sentiment, which--Governor Ahnuld aside--I can imagine might not be very popular in ANY blue state, let alone Cali:
Christmas is Adultery
Jesus Christ views Christmas as whoredom with false gods.
www.LetGodBeTrue.com
As for me...I wanna be the Christmas Whore.
I came across an article in...what was that, the New York Times or something?...anyway, it doesn't matter. The article was about "Chrismukkah", which is, for fans of teenage soap operas at least, apparently the equivalent of Festivus. Not being an "O.C" fan, I personally could care less.
What _was_ entertaining to me was the Google ad box at the bottom. It included this sentiment, which--Governor Ahnuld aside--I can imagine might not be very popular in ANY blue state, let alone Cali:
Christmas is Adultery
Jesus Christ views Christmas as whoredom with false gods.
www.LetGodBeTrue.com
As for me...I wanna be the Christmas Whore.
Saturday, December 18, 2004
Conditioning
I think I would be a much different person if only I lost the self-restraint that keeps me from throwing things when I really want to.
I was sitting watching TV today--or rather, listening to TV, since I was flipping around through the cable music channels all the way at the end of the list--and I realized: ten years ago I thought I would be someone, be doing some amazing important thing right now. And now I'm 34 years old, broke, lonely, trapped in a job that I despise, doing absolutely nothing of any importance at all...and I don't know what to do about it. I could change jobs, but it wouldn't change the root cause of why I hate this job--I'd still be at someone else's mercy, still dealing with someone else's whims and judgements. I could change relationships but it still wouldn't live up to my memories.
And sitting there, listening to Smashing Pumpkins, changing channels, I thought of all the waste and all the loss, all the time that's passed without making any progress, all the energy and money I've spent getting nowhere at all--becoming, in fact, something my ten-years-ago self would despise, something I despise even now...
My hand just itched to throw that remote through the wall--just whip it at something, just to hear the smash. Just to take revenge for one small moment, just to lash out against all that time and all that waste. And I couldn't even do that. Too much self-restraint; too many years of conditioning, short-circuiting my muscles. Too much "what's the point?"
I am so damn tired.
I was sitting watching TV today--or rather, listening to TV, since I was flipping around through the cable music channels all the way at the end of the list--and I realized: ten years ago I thought I would be someone, be doing some amazing important thing right now. And now I'm 34 years old, broke, lonely, trapped in a job that I despise, doing absolutely nothing of any importance at all...and I don't know what to do about it. I could change jobs, but it wouldn't change the root cause of why I hate this job--I'd still be at someone else's mercy, still dealing with someone else's whims and judgements. I could change relationships but it still wouldn't live up to my memories.
And sitting there, listening to Smashing Pumpkins, changing channels, I thought of all the waste and all the loss, all the time that's passed without making any progress, all the energy and money I've spent getting nowhere at all--becoming, in fact, something my ten-years-ago self would despise, something I despise even now...
My hand just itched to throw that remote through the wall--just whip it at something, just to hear the smash. Just to take revenge for one small moment, just to lash out against all that time and all that waste. And I couldn't even do that. Too much self-restraint; too many years of conditioning, short-circuiting my muscles. Too much "what's the point?"
I am so damn tired.
Thursday, December 16, 2004
More Endless Fun With Public Transportation
You know those signs that say "Federal Time for Gun Crime"? The ones in three sections:
"Felons Who Carry This..." (with a picture of a gun below it)
"Say Goodbye to Them..." (picture of a happy little Hispanic family)
"And Go Here." (picture of a stereotypical penitentiary)
Today, I saw one with graffiti added:
"Felons Who Carry This...should go to war in Iraq! Law-abiding citizens should carry concealed!"
"Say Goodbye to Them..."
"And GoHere To WAR IN IRAQ!!"
"Felons Who Carry This..." (with a picture of a gun below it)
"Say Goodbye to Them..." (picture of a happy little Hispanic family)
"And Go Here." (picture of a stereotypical penitentiary)
Today, I saw one with graffiti added:
"Felons Who Carry This...should go to war in Iraq! Law-abiding citizens should carry concealed!"
"Say Goodbye to Them..."
"And Go
Endless Fun With Public Transportation
So today, I'm sitting on the train. For nearly an hour, actually--there was some nebulous "delay" that left four El lines stranded throughout the downtown area.
But that's a whole 'nother story, and frankly I'm so sick of public transit that I can't even see straight--there's something else I'd rather discuss, anyway.
Scene: I'm listening to the radio while stranded as described. I flip stations pretty rapidly, but I tend to land pretty frequently on Q101--the local "alternative" mainstay for about twelve years now.
Like everything else in the last ten years or so, Q101 has gone completely to the dogs. The first step was when they hired Asscow--my nickname for Mr. M@nc0w Muller, the morning drive fuckstick whose name I will not type because I don't want any of his fucktard minion listeners to touch my blog--and then they started playing Metallica and calling it "alternative", and then they put the last nail in the coffin a few months ago by hiring three more fucktards for afternoon drive--"Woody, Tony, and Ravey". These three are the dregs of humanity and they totally contravene everything alternative music supposedly stood for in its heyday. Things they don't like are "queer" and "gay", women are manipulative fuck-toys judged solely on their looks, and--along with minorities--are regularly the butt of jokes.
Today, I stopped at Q101 and caught this treasure right here--an absolutely stunning example of Bush-era thinking:
The topic was a study showing that teens are having sex less than they used to--boys as well as girls--and claiming that it's because of the educational efforts in promoting abstinence. And I can quote the following sentence verbatim, because I wrote it down.
"See, little teenaged boys...they'll have sex with anything, as long as you LET them. See, THAT's where you get the win--you get the little GIRLS to say no, and then the boys won't be having any sex!"
This, disgustingly neoconservative sentiment though it was, wouldn't have been too jarring, coming from them--but then they led directly into the next song:
"Heart-Shaped Box", by Nirvana.
You know--that band who led off a revolution which, among its other good ideas, advanced the wild notion that women were PEOPLE, even in rock--and that it was perfectly all right to want what you want, even if that means you go against the prevailing tide. The same revolution that, just for a brief while, acknowledged that women were sexual beings and that was fine.
I get a little passionate about this. I was a beneficiary of that revolution and I am now contending with the aftereffects of the backlash against it. I allowed a man to revoke my sexual autonomy for almost four years because he had his own notions of what it meant to "be a man"--which involved the subjugation of all those who didn't fit that definition of "a man". I am still dealing with the effects of those four years, and unfortunately the guy I'm with now, though he's a wonderful man and makes me very happy, has no concept of what I have to get past, or how to help.
So when I see evidence of that old stupid Eisenhower-era thinking coming back into vogue, even among people who ought to know better--yeah, I'm gonna get pissed, even if it's just some lame, meaningless radio show.
But that's a whole 'nother story, and frankly I'm so sick of public transit that I can't even see straight--there's something else I'd rather discuss, anyway.
Scene: I'm listening to the radio while stranded as described. I flip stations pretty rapidly, but I tend to land pretty frequently on Q101--the local "alternative" mainstay for about twelve years now.
Like everything else in the last ten years or so, Q101 has gone completely to the dogs. The first step was when they hired Asscow--my nickname for Mr. M@nc0w Muller, the morning drive fuckstick whose name I will not type because I don't want any of his fucktard minion listeners to touch my blog--and then they started playing Metallica and calling it "alternative", and then they put the last nail in the coffin a few months ago by hiring three more fucktards for afternoon drive--"Woody, Tony, and Ravey". These three are the dregs of humanity and they totally contravene everything alternative music supposedly stood for in its heyday. Things they don't like are "queer" and "gay", women are manipulative fuck-toys judged solely on their looks, and--along with minorities--are regularly the butt of jokes.
Today, I stopped at Q101 and caught this treasure right here--an absolutely stunning example of Bush-era thinking:
The topic was a study showing that teens are having sex less than they used to--boys as well as girls--and claiming that it's because of the educational efforts in promoting abstinence. And I can quote the following sentence verbatim, because I wrote it down.
"See, little teenaged boys...they'll have sex with anything, as long as you LET them. See, THAT's where you get the win--you get the little GIRLS to say no, and then the boys won't be having any sex!"
This, disgustingly neoconservative sentiment though it was, wouldn't have been too jarring, coming from them--but then they led directly into the next song:
"Heart-Shaped Box", by Nirvana.
You know--that band who led off a revolution which, among its other good ideas, advanced the wild notion that women were PEOPLE, even in rock--and that it was perfectly all right to want what you want, even if that means you go against the prevailing tide. The same revolution that, just for a brief while, acknowledged that women were sexual beings and that was fine.
I get a little passionate about this. I was a beneficiary of that revolution and I am now contending with the aftereffects of the backlash against it. I allowed a man to revoke my sexual autonomy for almost four years because he had his own notions of what it meant to "be a man"--which involved the subjugation of all those who didn't fit that definition of "a man". I am still dealing with the effects of those four years, and unfortunately the guy I'm with now, though he's a wonderful man and makes me very happy, has no concept of what I have to get past, or how to help.
So when I see evidence of that old stupid Eisenhower-era thinking coming back into vogue, even among people who ought to know better--yeah, I'm gonna get pissed, even if it's just some lame, meaningless radio show.
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
That's Just Funny.
So what does it mean, I wonder. when a man who isn't yours starts putting in dinner requests?
The other day, while I was out at Mom's to do the Christmas baking, LJ called to let me know that Damien would be crashing in the spare room that night, and also that he had expressed an interest in "more of that spaghetti". (This is apparently in the aftermath of the last time he was here, with his brother, and I fed them both while waiting for LJ to show up.) So after baking five different kinds of cookies at Mom's, I went home and made a huge pot of command-performance spaghetti sauce, with meatballs.
I got home last night expecting to eat the leftovers for dinner...yeah, right. The pan which had been practically overflowing when last seen, was now sitting on the counter, emptied and washed.
If I hadn't been so damn hungry, I would have been charmed. (Okay...actually I was kinda charmed anyway.)
The other day, while I was out at Mom's to do the Christmas baking, LJ called to let me know that Damien would be crashing in the spare room that night, and also that he had expressed an interest in "more of that spaghetti". (This is apparently in the aftermath of the last time he was here, with his brother, and I fed them both while waiting for LJ to show up.) So after baking five different kinds of cookies at Mom's, I went home and made a huge pot of command-performance spaghetti sauce, with meatballs.
I got home last night expecting to eat the leftovers for dinner...yeah, right. The pan which had been practically overflowing when last seen, was now sitting on the counter, emptied and washed.
If I hadn't been so damn hungry, I would have been charmed. (Okay...actually I was kinda charmed anyway.)
Sunday, December 12, 2004
Filed Under "Um, WHAT?"
Someone actually queried the following and found their way to this blog:
"Kanye West is a gay pink mafia crew member."
"Kanye West is a gay pink mafia crew member."
Friday, December 10, 2004
Friends Don't Let Friends Make Waffles
So, feeling much better today, I decided tonight to fix myself one of those self-indulgent breakfast-for-dinner dinners that every child dreams of. I plugged in the waffle iron, beat milk and eggs in a bowl, and went for the flour.
I keep my flour in a big square Tupperware-type bin, just big enough to hold the contents of a five-pound bag. It sits--because I have no cabinets (don't ask)--on a shelf with the rest of my canned goods and staples.
I grabbed the bin by the lip, and somehow it got away from me. And somehow in the process of getting away from me, the lid came off. And--of course--the bin was brim-full. (These sort of things never seem to happen when the bin is 3/4 empty, do they.)
Did I mention that I was wearing a fleece sweatshirt and fleece slippers at the time?
I now look like the Cocaine Princess. And that's AFTER beating both the slippers and the shirt.
And we won't even discuss the condition of my kitchen--even AFTER sweeping, mopping, sponging, and blotting.
The waffles were good, though.
I keep my flour in a big square Tupperware-type bin, just big enough to hold the contents of a five-pound bag. It sits--because I have no cabinets (don't ask)--on a shelf with the rest of my canned goods and staples.
I grabbed the bin by the lip, and somehow it got away from me. And somehow in the process of getting away from me, the lid came off. And--of course--the bin was brim-full. (These sort of things never seem to happen when the bin is 3/4 empty, do they.)
Did I mention that I was wearing a fleece sweatshirt and fleece slippers at the time?
I now look like the Cocaine Princess. And that's AFTER beating both the slippers and the shirt.
And we won't even discuss the condition of my kitchen--even AFTER sweeping, mopping, sponging, and blotting.
The waffles were good, though.
Wednesday, December 8, 2004
So This Is Getting Ridiculous
I am now sick for a record-setting FOURTH day.
I don't get sick like this. The last time I remember being sick like this was back in college. In fact, Firefly and I were BOTH sick, so we lay in our bunk-beds and whimpered pitifully (in that case, it was Incapacitating Death-Flu, not Lung-Hacking Malarial Plague or whateverthefuck this is) and begged our friends down the hall to take my car and bring back some ginger ale.
At the moment, I'd settle for Robitussin, even though THAT can set off a really entertaining pharmaceutical interaction. (Methadone + Robitussin= Gladys Gets Really Goofy and Then Sleeps For Thirteen Hours.) Instead I'm sitting here drinking gallons of hot tea and watching Seth Green on Sesame Street. And you know, Seth Green would be kinda hot, if he was taller.
Meanwhile, work has called five times, for issues as varied as "could you move those records?" to (ten minutes later) "have you moved those records yet?" and then "Where is Samuel's problem box?" (Samuel's problem box is approximately five feet to the left of where it was before. For some reason, this was a problem that merited forcing me to unglue my tonsils from the back of my trachea.)
There's nothing terribly delicious to eat here, either. One of those green-and-black, warm-blooded, fire-starting Popsicles would go down well right about now.
I don't get sick like this. The last time I remember being sick like this was back in college. In fact, Firefly and I were BOTH sick, so we lay in our bunk-beds and whimpered pitifully (in that case, it was Incapacitating Death-Flu, not Lung-Hacking Malarial Plague or whateverthefuck this is) and begged our friends down the hall to take my car and bring back some ginger ale.
At the moment, I'd settle for Robitussin, even though THAT can set off a really entertaining pharmaceutical interaction. (Methadone + Robitussin= Gladys Gets Really Goofy and Then Sleeps For Thirteen Hours.) Instead I'm sitting here drinking gallons of hot tea and watching Seth Green on Sesame Street. And you know, Seth Green would be kinda hot, if he was taller.
Meanwhile, work has called five times, for issues as varied as "could you move those records?" to (ten minutes later) "have you moved those records yet?" and then "Where is Samuel's problem box?" (Samuel's problem box is approximately five feet to the left of where it was before. For some reason, this was a problem that merited forcing me to unglue my tonsils from the back of my trachea.)
There's nothing terribly delicious to eat here, either. One of those green-and-black, warm-blooded, fire-starting Popsicles would go down well right about now.
Tuesday, December 7, 2004
Free To A Good Home
Would anyone like a lung?
It's a lovely shade of pink. I think it's a right one, but I don't know if that's "right, facing ME" or "right, facing AWAY".
I just hacked it up about ten minutes ago, and now it looks lonesome.
Also, the cats are scaring it.
I'll throw in a free bag of Purina Lung Chow.
It's a lovely shade of pink. I think it's a right one, but I don't know if that's "right, facing ME" or "right, facing AWAY".
I just hacked it up about ten minutes ago, and now it looks lonesome.
Also, the cats are scaring it.
I'll throw in a free bag of Purina Lung Chow.
Monday, December 6, 2004
Wacky Shit You Probably Didn't Know About Popsicles
Okay. So here I am at Place Where I Work--yes, I'm blogging from work because...well, you'll see in a moment.
In the morning I have a set routine of things to read. Some of them are relevant to my job; others (coff--televisionwithoutpity) are not. Eric Zorn's Notebook is a little of each. And today he had a link to "20 Questions".
I ran through a few less-common items: an eggplant, sour cream, hydrogen peroxide, a mailing label--and then I tried a popsicle.
At the end of each session, it gives you the other questions it COULD have asked about the item, grouped under the heading of "uncommon knowledge about _______" Here's the results for "popsicle":
Uncommon Knowledge about a popsicle:
Is it green or black? I say Probably. (A BLACK popsicle? That kinda makes me WANT to eat the black jellybeans.)
Is it made of crystals? I say Probably.
Does it have lots of buttons? I say Yes. (And I say: WTF???)
Is it a carnivore? I say Probably. (That must be the dreaded Popasaurus Rex flavor. )
Does it have cash value? I say No.. (Except in the barter system of the Quiescently Frozen Land. There, it is more precious than gold.)
Does it bounce? I say Probably. (Um..... I know a bunch of four-year-olds who would say different.)
Does it hop? I say Probably. (Man, what are YOU smoking?)
Is it an insect? I say Probably. (Now, I know the purity standards for food are a little lax here in the States, but aren't you being a little excessive?)
Do you use it when it rains? I say Probably. (Let a popsicle be your umbrella...and you'll have sticky purple hair.)
Is it green? I say Yes.
Can it be measured? I say No. (So all you popsicle-measurers out there are shit outta luck.)
Does it have good vision? I say Probably. (If you can't see it, it can't see you.)
Is it very large? I say Probably. (Compared to one of those piddly little ice-cream sandwiches, perhaps.)
Is it a warm-blooded animal? I say Probably. (If it was warm-blooded, wouldn't it melt itself?)
Does it have lights on it? I say Yes. (So you can see it before it sees you, is my guess. Safety first!)
Can it be used to start fires? I say Yes. (I'd pay to watch that....)
THEN it gives a list of "similar objects". For "popsicle", these are its similar items:
a bottle of pop, a bloody mary, ice cream, gazpacho (cold soup), yogurt, a can of soda, lemonade, a milkshake, a TV dinner, a fajita, custard, lip gloss.
20 Questions also was kind enough to inform me that if I was inclined to try to stump it, "celeriac" would be a good item to choose. (Also, it doesn't seem to know what quinoa is.)
In the morning I have a set routine of things to read. Some of them are relevant to my job; others (coff--televisionwithoutpity) are not. Eric Zorn's Notebook is a little of each. And today he had a link to "20 Questions".
I ran through a few less-common items: an eggplant, sour cream, hydrogen peroxide, a mailing label--and then I tried a popsicle.
At the end of each session, it gives you the other questions it COULD have asked about the item, grouped under the heading of "uncommon knowledge about _______" Here's the results for "popsicle":
Uncommon Knowledge about a popsicle:
Is it green or black? I say Probably. (A BLACK popsicle? That kinda makes me WANT to eat the black jellybeans.)
Is it made of crystals? I say Probably.
Does it have lots of buttons? I say Yes. (And I say: WTF???)
Is it a carnivore? I say Probably. (That must be the dreaded Popasaurus Rex flavor. )
Does it have cash value? I say No.. (Except in the barter system of the Quiescently Frozen Land. There, it is more precious than gold.)
Does it bounce? I say Probably. (Um..... I know a bunch of four-year-olds who would say different.)
Does it hop? I say Probably. (Man, what are YOU smoking?)
Is it an insect? I say Probably. (Now, I know the purity standards for food are a little lax here in the States, but aren't you being a little excessive?)
Do you use it when it rains? I say Probably. (Let a popsicle be your umbrella...and you'll have sticky purple hair.)
Is it green? I say Yes.
Can it be measured? I say No. (So all you popsicle-measurers out there are shit outta luck.)
Does it have good vision? I say Probably. (If you can't see it, it can't see you.)
Is it very large? I say Probably. (Compared to one of those piddly little ice-cream sandwiches, perhaps.)
Is it a warm-blooded animal? I say Probably. (If it was warm-blooded, wouldn't it melt itself?)
Does it have lights on it? I say Yes. (So you can see it before it sees you, is my guess. Safety first!)
Can it be used to start fires? I say Yes. (I'd pay to watch that....)
THEN it gives a list of "similar objects". For "popsicle", these are its similar items:
a bottle of pop, a bloody mary, ice cream, gazpacho (cold soup), yogurt, a can of soda, lemonade, a milkshake, a TV dinner, a fajita, custard, lip gloss.
20 Questions also was kind enough to inform me that if I was inclined to try to stump it, "celeriac" would be a good item to choose. (Also, it doesn't seem to know what quinoa is.)
Sunday, December 5, 2004
Spitting Out Body Parts, Part 2
So now I am sick.
Fortunately, THIS is just a nasty cold or something--I'm not congested or sneezing or anything, but I have a pretty good fever--and every time I take a deep breath I start coughing. It's like my airway seems to be annoyed...much like the rest of me.
This is what I get for eating his dinner, I guess. Because this morning, after coming home at 10 AM from wherever he was last night (the man never learns!), he came into the bedroom at 11:00 to let me know that he and his buddy were leaving.
"You that tired?" he said, when I failed to budge.
"Nah--I'm sick," I told him.
"Oh," he said. He paused for a moment to ponder. "You mean like, 'stay-away-from-me' sick?"
This is where thinking on my feet would be a really good trait to have--I feel like George Costanza. Because there were two perfectly good retorts here, neither of which I used:
1.) "No--as in 'be exceptionally nice to me and coddle me just a little bit' sick. Is that a kind of sick with which you're familiar, buttmunch??"
or
2.) "Oh, you mean there's a way you could actually manage to stay MORE away from me?"
This is where the whole machismo bit starts to wear a wee bit thin, boys and girls.
And yes, I'm feeling neglected and un-adored, but the main reason I'm cranky right now has nothing at all to do with LJ:
There's no way I could call off work tomorrow. Even if I felt like ass on a plate, I still have to go in, 100+-degree fever and all. And I can't begin to tell you how much I think that blows.
Fortunately, THIS is just a nasty cold or something--I'm not congested or sneezing or anything, but I have a pretty good fever--and every time I take a deep breath I start coughing. It's like my airway seems to be annoyed...much like the rest of me.
This is what I get for eating his dinner, I guess. Because this morning, after coming home at 10 AM from wherever he was last night (the man never learns!), he came into the bedroom at 11:00 to let me know that he and his buddy were leaving.
"You that tired?" he said, when I failed to budge.
"Nah--I'm sick," I told him.
"Oh," he said. He paused for a moment to ponder. "You mean like, 'stay-away-from-me' sick?"
This is where thinking on my feet would be a really good trait to have--I feel like George Costanza. Because there were two perfectly good retorts here, neither of which I used:
1.) "No--as in 'be exceptionally nice to me and coddle me just a little bit' sick. Is that a kind of sick with which you're familiar, buttmunch??"
or
2.) "Oh, you mean there's a way you could actually manage to stay MORE away from me?"
This is where the whole machismo bit starts to wear a wee bit thin, boys and girls.
And yes, I'm feeling neglected and un-adored, but the main reason I'm cranky right now has nothing at all to do with LJ:
There's no way I could call off work tomorrow. Even if I felt like ass on a plate, I still have to go in, 100+-degree fever and all. And I can't begin to tell you how much I think that blows.
Saturday, December 4, 2004
Don't Drink The Kool-Aid, Part 6
I love my man. Truly I do.
But whatever it is he drank last night, I would like to know its name...
...so I can avoid it like the plague.
That man was puking out BODY PARTS this afternoon, from the sound of things.
I did feel sympathy for him, truly I did...
...but I also ate his dinner.
(Hey, he wasn't gonna be needing it.)
But whatever it is he drank last night, I would like to know its name...
...so I can avoid it like the plague.
That man was puking out BODY PARTS this afternoon, from the sound of things.
I did feel sympathy for him, truly I did...
...but I also ate his dinner.
(Hey, he wasn't gonna be needing it.)
Wednesday, December 1, 2004
Gladys C., Countercultural Attache
So, as I mentioned yesterday, we have some anti-Wiccan-ness going around the office.
And I swear, I was going to just drop the whole thing. But this morning Stella brought it up again, and finally I just couldn't take it anymore. She said something about "Wiccans or witches or whatever she is that wears all that black nail polish and pink hair..." and I finally couldn't keep my mouth shut.
"You know, it sounds like you're describing two different things. There's Wiccans, and then there's Goths--they're the ones with the black clothes and the music."
"What's the difference?" Stella asked. "Every time her mother mentions 'Wiccan', somewhere later in the same sentence she mentions 'Goth'. So aren't they the same?"
There were so many things wrong here that I wasn't even sure where to begin. But one thing is for sure: no WONDER Tracy has issues. If she's doing something that is upsetting her mother, and her mother doesn't even take the time to get her terminology straight before she ties her ass into a knot about it--yeah, obviously ol' Moms is really connected to her daughter's life, you know?
With that in mind, I began my first Counterculture 101 class.
"Wicca is a belief system or a religion. Goth is a lifestyle. Wicca has more to do with what you believe, and Goth has more to do with how you present yourself. Wiccans--REAL Wiccans, which is a necessary qualifier because so many people CLAIM to be Wiccan without having the slightest grasp of what Wicca supposedly really is--REAL Wiccans have a more positive outlook on life. Goths are more known for their despair, their depression, their unhappy outlook. It's very rare to find a true Wiccan who is also a Goth. They may dress alike, sorta, but their outlooks just don't mesh.
"Now, there are people who CLAIM to be Wiccans, but they're really what are more commonly perceived when you say somebody is a 'witch'. They're kinda the 'bad witch' vs. the Wiccan 'good witch', if you want to see it that way. They're more likely to have a darker outlook that would mesh better with Goth-ness."
"So do Wiccans believe in God?" Stella asked.
"They believe in a god--actually, goddess--but not 'THE' God."
She seemed slightly comforted by the fact that at least they believed in SOMETHING. "So they don't worship Satan or anything like that."
"No, not Wiccans. Wiccans are more into the earth-based beliefs--again, REAL Wiccans." I digressed here to tell her about the Trib article with the "parking-space Wiccan", and how it made Pepsi come out my nose. "Now, the so-called 'witches'--there are some of THEM who claim to worship Satan, yeah...not all, but some."
"Well," she said. "This is what I'm hearing...." And she went on to tell me the story: apparently this girl is involved with a boy who is a Goth, whose parents are ALSO Goths, and whose parents apparently spend all their time hanging out with their son and this girl.
Now, call it Goth, call it Wiccan, call it a commune, or call it Bob--something there just ain't right, if you ask me. Adults are adults; kids are kids. And at 15, kids should be making their break from adults. Something is DEFINITELY fishy about this whole situation--Wicca, Goth, and Marilyn Manson sound like the least of the problems in this picture.
The mom says the girl refuses to spend any time with anyone other than this family and the few other kids the boy's parents have sorta gathered this way. Tracy says they're "the only ones who accept her and understand her completely." Apparently there are two girls in this group who made suicide attempts, and apparently the parents of this boy were justifying the attempts--around the kids!--with the whole "it's a cold, cruel world, and you gotta do what you gotta do" theory. Meanwhile, Tracy is defending the Columbine killers in arguments, saying that she understands why they would do what they did; her grades are falling, and she says she doesn't care about anything else, even the things she used to enjoy.
Now, call me crazy, but does anyone else here think it sounds like maybe Tracy is depressed, and that all this darkness and despair is a symptom? But somehow everyone's blaming the depression on the people she's hanging around with, rather than considering that she's looking for acceptance and these are the people she's found--people who seem to accept her even though she isn't all cheery and perky?
And here's why that worries me. A lot of times, sketchy adults latch onto kids who ARE depressed, who are dealing with things too big for them to handle--kids who need someone to accept them--and with the acceptance comes an introduction to whatever skeevy stuff the adults are into. I'm wondering if that's what's going on here.
It sounds to me like the parents are either a) into something sketchy themselves--some weird coven-type fantasy where they're "recruiting" kids, for lack of a better term; or b) extremely immature themselves, and trying to be "cool" parents by manifesting the same attitudes they see their son manifesting. Or c)--and c) is what scares me for Tracy's sake--something even worse. Either way, as I said: something doesn't sound right.
I did mention to Stella, though, that the "telephone" effect may be in play here: Stella is getting her information from the mom, who's getting it second- or third-hand herself. So there may be other distortions here as well.
I don't even know this family. I just couldn't listen to the distortions anymore. People are so facile with their terminology, and it really fucks up any hope of tolerance when you're conflating the Earth Goddess with the so-called "Trenchcoat Mafia" (another Columbine myth, incidentally). If you're going to judge people, at least get a handle on what it is you're judging. For fuck's sake, that's why there's Google! Two million search results, and though you're claiming your kid is into this, you can't even be bothered to check a couple of them out?
As for Tracy...I'm starting to agree with Stella that there could be cause to worry here. Not that their worry will likely do any good, since it's entirely misdirected...the adults in her life seem to be worrying about the symptoms rather than the disease, which sounds less like "fringe beliefs" and more like "a textbook case of depression".
But at least I think I acquitted the Wiccans.
And I swear, I was going to just drop the whole thing. But this morning Stella brought it up again, and finally I just couldn't take it anymore. She said something about "Wiccans or witches or whatever she is that wears all that black nail polish and pink hair..." and I finally couldn't keep my mouth shut.
"You know, it sounds like you're describing two different things. There's Wiccans, and then there's Goths--they're the ones with the black clothes and the music."
"What's the difference?" Stella asked. "Every time her mother mentions 'Wiccan', somewhere later in the same sentence she mentions 'Goth'. So aren't they the same?"
There were so many things wrong here that I wasn't even sure where to begin. But one thing is for sure: no WONDER Tracy has issues. If she's doing something that is upsetting her mother, and her mother doesn't even take the time to get her terminology straight before she ties her ass into a knot about it--yeah, obviously ol' Moms is really connected to her daughter's life, you know?
With that in mind, I began my first Counterculture 101 class.
"Wicca is a belief system or a religion. Goth is a lifestyle. Wicca has more to do with what you believe, and Goth has more to do with how you present yourself. Wiccans--REAL Wiccans, which is a necessary qualifier because so many people CLAIM to be Wiccan without having the slightest grasp of what Wicca supposedly really is--REAL Wiccans have a more positive outlook on life. Goths are more known for their despair, their depression, their unhappy outlook. It's very rare to find a true Wiccan who is also a Goth. They may dress alike, sorta, but their outlooks just don't mesh.
"Now, there are people who CLAIM to be Wiccans, but they're really what are more commonly perceived when you say somebody is a 'witch'. They're kinda the 'bad witch' vs. the Wiccan 'good witch', if you want to see it that way. They're more likely to have a darker outlook that would mesh better with Goth-ness."
"So do Wiccans believe in God?" Stella asked.
"They believe in a god--actually, goddess--but not 'THE' God."
She seemed slightly comforted by the fact that at least they believed in SOMETHING. "So they don't worship Satan or anything like that."
"No, not Wiccans. Wiccans are more into the earth-based beliefs--again, REAL Wiccans." I digressed here to tell her about the Trib article with the "parking-space Wiccan", and how it made Pepsi come out my nose. "Now, the so-called 'witches'--there are some of THEM who claim to worship Satan, yeah...not all, but some."
"Well," she said. "This is what I'm hearing...." And she went on to tell me the story: apparently this girl is involved with a boy who is a Goth, whose parents are ALSO Goths, and whose parents apparently spend all their time hanging out with their son and this girl.
Now, call it Goth, call it Wiccan, call it a commune, or call it Bob--something there just ain't right, if you ask me. Adults are adults; kids are kids. And at 15, kids should be making their break from adults. Something is DEFINITELY fishy about this whole situation--Wicca, Goth, and Marilyn Manson sound like the least of the problems in this picture.
The mom says the girl refuses to spend any time with anyone other than this family and the few other kids the boy's parents have sorta gathered this way. Tracy says they're "the only ones who accept her and understand her completely." Apparently there are two girls in this group who made suicide attempts, and apparently the parents of this boy were justifying the attempts--around the kids!--with the whole "it's a cold, cruel world, and you gotta do what you gotta do" theory. Meanwhile, Tracy is defending the Columbine killers in arguments, saying that she understands why they would do what they did; her grades are falling, and she says she doesn't care about anything else, even the things she used to enjoy.
Now, call me crazy, but does anyone else here think it sounds like maybe Tracy is depressed, and that all this darkness and despair is a symptom? But somehow everyone's blaming the depression on the people she's hanging around with, rather than considering that she's looking for acceptance and these are the people she's found--people who seem to accept her even though she isn't all cheery and perky?
And here's why that worries me. A lot of times, sketchy adults latch onto kids who ARE depressed, who are dealing with things too big for them to handle--kids who need someone to accept them--and with the acceptance comes an introduction to whatever skeevy stuff the adults are into. I'm wondering if that's what's going on here.
It sounds to me like the parents are either a) into something sketchy themselves--some weird coven-type fantasy where they're "recruiting" kids, for lack of a better term; or b) extremely immature themselves, and trying to be "cool" parents by manifesting the same attitudes they see their son manifesting. Or c)--and c) is what scares me for Tracy's sake--something even worse. Either way, as I said: something doesn't sound right.
I did mention to Stella, though, that the "telephone" effect may be in play here: Stella is getting her information from the mom, who's getting it second- or third-hand herself. So there may be other distortions here as well.
I don't even know this family. I just couldn't listen to the distortions anymore. People are so facile with their terminology, and it really fucks up any hope of tolerance when you're conflating the Earth Goddess with the so-called "Trenchcoat Mafia" (another Columbine myth, incidentally). If you're going to judge people, at least get a handle on what it is you're judging. For fuck's sake, that's why there's Google! Two million search results, and though you're claiming your kid is into this, you can't even be bothered to check a couple of them out?
As for Tracy...I'm starting to agree with Stella that there could be cause to worry here. Not that their worry will likely do any good, since it's entirely misdirected...the adults in her life seem to be worrying about the symptoms rather than the disease, which sounds less like "fringe beliefs" and more like "a textbook case of depression".
But at least I think I acquitted the Wiccans.
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