Well, it’s Christmas time again, and, like the last several years, the war on the war on Christmas is in full swing. All I really have to say about that is simply this: Please, please, please, JUST SHUT UP!!!!!
This year, the big controversy seems to be that we’re not allowed to play “Baby, It’s Cold Outside”. My Facebook feed is filled to bursting with three variations on that theme:
Very, very sad people complaining about how terrible it is that we can’t play that song in today’s politically correct America, and what’s this country coming to anyway?
Smug, self-righteous people declaring that they’re going to continue to play it, regardless of what those ridiculous Social Justice Warriors say!
Intellectual (or, even more frequently, stupid) defenses of the song, laboriously analyzing the context of the time in which it was written, what certain phrases meant back then, blah, blah, blah.
What no one is mentioning, is that nobody said you can’t play it anyway! As far as I can tell, four radio stations removed it from their holiday play list, and everyone lost their minds. That’s four stations out of the approximately 15,000 radio stations in the U.S. The horror!
Now I’ll be the first to admit that I personally like the song. I don’t know what it has to do with Christmas, but I do like the song. I’m not sure why Christians (it does seem to be Christians – or at least Facebook Christians- who are so offended by the alleged ban) are so upset about the absence of a song which, if you take the most harmless interpretation of it, is basically about two unmarried people trying to justify getting (consensually) laid.
It seems a weird thing for Christians to be upset about.
Of course, it doesn’t stop there. I recently saw a meme insisting that if you think Santa should be gender neutral, you should delete him (the meme poster) now, because he doesn’t need that kind of stupidity in his life.
I didn’t even know that was a thing, much less something that I needed to be concerned about. Of course, it turns out that it’s not a thing, and not something that I need to be concerned about.
Apparently some logo company polled 4,000 people in the U.S. and U.K. about “rebranding” Santa Claus, and 17% liked the idea of a gender neutral Santa. The same “poll” found that 21% wanted Santa to be thinner, and 20% want Santa to have tattoos.
That’s 680 people out of 4,000 of the kind of meatheads, knuckleheads, and boneheads that actually take polls from logo companies. In contrast, 100% of the people I know are too busy making a living and dealing with everyday life to bother taking any kind of polls at all.
Now there’s a controversy surrounding “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer”. People are freaking out because some hippie liberal Social Justice Warriors had the audacity to criticize aspects of the beloved classic Christmas show.
Nobody seems to have noticed that pretty much all of the things the show has been criticized for are exactly the things that we all noticed when we were kids: That the other reindeer, elves, and even Santa, WERE dicks to Rudolph and Hermey, and anyone else who didn’t fit their ideas of what was correct and proper, right up until they needed Rudolph, and then well hey, he was A-OK!
I find it ironic that the only people who actually seem to be offended by any of this are the same ones who, all too often, preface their own posts with something along the lines of “I know this is going to offend some of you but I’m not afraid, ’cause I’m speaking the truth” (there are a thousand variations on that theme).
I haven’t heard or seen a single person, liberal or otherwise, who is actually suggesting banning Rudolph, or “Baby, It’s Cold Outside, or advocating that Santa should be anything other than a jolly, bearded, fat man in a red suit.
It’s enough to make me wonder who the real “snowflakes” are.
I’ve been reading and watching some pretty exciting stuff (to me anyway), and thought to myself, “Ya know, you should really tell someone about this.” So I am.
I picked this up a couple years ago at the Crazy Horse monument in the Black Hills of S. Dakota, and it has sat on my shelf since then. Last week, I forgot the book I was reading at work, and found myself in the lamentable position of going to bed with nothing to read. Well that just wasn’t going to happen, and since this was on the top of the stack by my bed, I decided to give it a try.
I had my doubts as I plowed through the two introductions; they (especially the most recent) were a little on the self-congratulatory side, and left me thinking “Oh crap, is this gonna be another one of those “Let me explain Indians to you,” kind of books, written by a white guy, and loaded with self-aggrandizement and presenting Indians as a bunch of holy men and earth mothers? (I tend toward the skeptical side, and my own experience with Indians has pretty much wrecked that romanticized, Hollywoodized, 70’s liberal view).
Boy, was I in for a (pleasant) surprise. Nerburn has written a book that I very much wished I could write. There’s nothing romanticized here. Nerburn isn’t afraid to show his white preconceptions and biases, nor is he afraid to show those preconceptions and biases getting slapped down for the (well-meaning) bullshit that they are. Dan, the Indian elder Nerburn goes on the road with, isn’t some Black Elk wannabe, full of Native mysticism. Rather, he’s an old man from an exploited, impoverished, and conquered people who has spent his life thinking and trying to make sense of his world, and the white world that surrounds his.
In a lot of ways, Dan reminds me of Jim Charging Crow, a Lakota elder that I, and others in our group, were fortunate enough to become friends with. Full of good humor, but deeply suspicious of whites and their agendas.
Nerburn’s book has opened my eyes, clarified my vision, and at least partially answered questions that I’ve had on my mind for years.
A great book, and an invaluable one for anyone who seeks to help the Sioux, or who seeks a greater understanding of America the problems that face all of us.
Pick #2: The White Tiger, by Aravind Adiga. Five stars, two thumbs up. Fiction.
A very different book, about a very different kind of Indian. The White Tiger is the story of Balram Halwai, who grows up impoverished in rural backwater of India, and how he rose from a peasant destined for a short, nasty, brutal life to become a successful entrepreneur. It’s a fascinating book: both horrifying and very funny, as it exposes the corruption rampant in India, and what happens when a man born with no options decides to make his own.
I found that, although it’s a very Indian story, that it’s also a universal story about corruption and what happens when a society rewards exploitation of the poor and the marginalized, instead of caring for them, and helping them.
A fantastic book; an easy read with some very important things to say.
Pick #3: Hostiles, a film by Scott Cooper. Fiction. Four stars, two thumbs up.
Hostiles, starring Christian Bale, Rosamund Pike, and Wes Studi, is a great movie, albeit one that plays fast and loose with actual history. While it is a western, it is, like all great westerns, about much, much more than just cowboys and Indians, and gunfights. It is a movie that attempts to show the cost that everyone paid (the Indians, the settlers, and the soldiers) to make America what it is today. It is also about the racism that has afflicted this nation since the day Columbus landed in the Caribbean. More importantly, it is about overcoming that racism, putting aside the biases and hatreds that separate us, and bringing people together through mutual, earned respect.
It doesn’t attempt to stick to the facts of history, something that really bothered me the first time I saw it (as a history buff, I kept getting side-tracked by the numerous historical inaccuracies), but once I got past that narrow view, I was able to see it for what it is: a parable of America, and, as that, it succeeds admirably. It’s one of those movies that sticks with you long after the end credits roll. It makes you think: about our country’s history, and about its present, as well as about our own, individual biases and prejudices, and where they come from.
All that philosophical wonkery aside, it is also a damned fine western, with great performances from everybody in it, lots of action, and gunfights. It is also pretty bloody and brutal in it’s depiction of the violence of the old west: definitely not one for the kiddies, or the faint of heart.
It is currently available on Netflix, and on DVD, and Blu-Ray.
Woman Walks Ahead, starring Jessica Chastain, Sam Rockwell, and Michael Greyeyes, is pretty much the exact opposite of Hostiles: It’s based on a true story, and plays fast and loose with actual history, and fails miserably in both telling its story, and in telling a larger truth.
It is the story of Caroline Weldon, a painter and activist for Indian rights, who went to Standing Rock Indian Reservation to paint a portrait of the great Sioux chief, Sitting Bull. So far, so good. Those things actually happened. What is inexplicable to me is why they felt it necessary to airbrush Weldon’s backstory, turning the somewhat Bohemian, divorced activist with a child born out of wedlock, into a widowed, society lady. The actual Weldon’s story is much more interesting.
Less mysterious is the film maker’s rearranging of historical events, to make things center around Weldon (after all the movie’s about her). However, despite what importance Weldon may have had, making this story about her is like making Mrs. Schindler the primary focus of Schindler’s List. I’m sure Frau Schindler made some important contributions, but the most important thing was saving Jews from the death camps.
The film goes so far as to turn Weldon into the stereotypical Great White Saviour, the Feminist Icon who inspires Sitting Bull to lead his people to vote against the “Allotment Treaty”. In reality, it was the Dawes Act, and, as an act of Congress, the Sioux never got a vote in it. The movie downplays the importance of the Ghost Dance, completely screws the pooch about the death of Sitting Bull, and turns Wounded Knee – a direct result of white hysteria about the Ghost Dance, and Sitting Bull’s death – into a footnote. There is a huge, important story here to be told. Instead, they made this movie.
Maybe the biggest mystery is this: weren’t there any actual Feminist Icons to make a movie about? Surely Hollywood hasn’t told the stories of all the women who’ve made huge sacrifices for not only women’t rights, but for civil rights in general. Why take a story about a pivotal moment in U.S. history, and dump all of the truly important stuff, stuff that still affects thousands, if not millions, of Americans every day, in order to manufacture a Feminist Icon? Women deserve better than that, Indians deserve better than that, Americans deserve better than that.
It’s currently on Amazon Prime Video and DVD, Blu-ray.
Anyway, that’s it. If you’re going to read three books this year, I strongly suggest that you start with Thumperica! A Novel of the Ghost of America Future. However, if you’re only going to read one or two books this year, give Thumperica a pass, and read Neither Wolf Nor Dog, and The White Tiger.
If you want to see a historical movie that ignores facts to state a larger truth, watch Hostiles.
If you want to see a historical movie that skews facts in order to get everything wrong, watch Woman Walks Ahead.
As some of you know, yesterday was my birthday (and for those of you who didn’t, what the hell, man? It’s like I’m not even one of the most important people in your life anymore. That’s just hurtful). I turned 53, and it was one of the best birthdays ever. First, I did a little birthday shopping for Jess (she is lovely and talented, but not always great at buying gifts, so I thought I’d do her a solid and do the birthday shopping for her ((also, as you can see, I haven’t lost my love of parenthesis))).
She got me some new albums by the Wood Brothers and by the Hard Working Americans, both great bands I’ve just found. Then, on my actual birthday, I had a pretty doggone good day. We got up and went to church, survived another board meeting, and went to lunch with friends. My friend Garth got me wound up talking about Trump, and sat back to watch (I mean, who doesn’t enjoy dinner and a show?). We got through lunch without me making too much of an ass of myself, and then came the only low point of the day: going to Walmart.
I really, really hate going to Walmart. However, since the object of this distasteful task was ice cream cake, I didn’t pout too much. Then we got home, and I got what every man on earth wants for their birthday — to sleep with the most beautiful woman on earth. The gorgeous and equally somnolent Jess and I got stuck into one seriously intense Sunday afternoon nap. It was awesome, and just what I needed. Jess enjoyed it too. Sadly, I can’t nap like I used to, so it only lasted about 3 hours (it’s sad when your stamina starts to go), but sometimes you’ve just gotta be thankful for what you get.
After the nap (and in case you’re thinking I’m using the word “nap” as a metaphor for something else, I’m not. Get your mind out of the gutter!), we had some leftovers, watched a couple movies, and went back to bed, and I read a couple more chapters of A. Lee Martinez‘ new book, Constance Verity Saves the World, an excellently funny book with a lot of heart, by one of my favorite living authors.
Then I went to sleep. It was a great birthday.
See, I like the unimportant birthdays (well, less-important ones anyway. They’re all important. If you don’t think so, try not having anymore). The big ones, the milestones like turning 40, 50, 60, etc., are a pain in the ass (often literally, because there’s always some jackass who thinks it’d be funny to whack you the appropriate number of times ((while I appreciate the thought, and under normal circumstances, you have to pay extra for that, I’ve reached the age where by the end, it’s just boring and painful))). Everyone also feels obligated to point out to you repeatedly and loudly that you’re one step closer to impending infirmity and death. Granted they still do that on regular birthdays, but they’re much less insistent about it, and easier to ignore.
It’s also nice, because there’s no company involved, which means I’m free to indulge my newly expanded, no-pants policy (basically it’s No-Pants Friday applied to all the other days of the week).
If you do ’em right, the less milestoney birthdays are just like regular days, only most people try to be a little nicer to you, and you get cake. There are no colorful banners announcing to the world that you’re becoming increasingly irrelevant, no boisterous well-wishers gleefully reminding you that you’re a lot closer to death than you used to be, no mess to clean up, no muss, no fuss. The biggest downside is having to respond to a large number of “Happy Birthday” posts on the Facebook, but you can even put that off a day or two.
Of course, I suppose having birthdays that are pretty much just like regular days is only good if your regular days are pretty doggone good themselves. I’m one of the lucky ones. Sometimes I forget it, but then I look at the life I have vs the life I probably deserve, and realize that pretty much everyday is a birthday, and I’d be a fool not to be grateful. As the great Ray Wylie Hubbard said, in his song “Mother Blues” (a song that I really relate to), “The days when I keep my gratitude higher than my expectations . . . well, I have really good days.”
Also, while there’s no need for you to get me anything, but you might want to get yourself a little something in honor of this auspicious day: I recommend my novel, Thumperica! A novel of the Ghost of America Future (you didn’t really think you were going to get through this without a plug for that did you?). It’s available on Amazon. Heck, if you’ve got Kindle Unlimited, you can read it for free!
Also, also, do yourself a favor and check out the links to the Wood Brothers, Hard Working Americans, Ray Wylie Hubbard, and A. Lee Martinez.
As you may or may not know, I have actually written (and published) a full-length novel entitled: Thumperica! A Novel of the Ghost of America Future. I’m pretty proud of it, I think it’s pretty darned good (of course, all parents think their baby is beautiful, even the parents of ugly ones), and I think it’s got some important food for thought on the direction this country is headed. It’s available in print, and as an ebook on both Amazon.com and Barnes and Noble.com
It’s been on sale for about a month and, although there have actually been some sales, I’ve got a long way to go before I get on the best seller’s lists (8 down and 4,992 to go! Stephen King is probably not losing sleep yet.).
At any rate, I’ve decided that maybe a free first taste might be just the thing to generate some interest (yes, I do mean sales. You see right through me, don’t you?), after all, it seems to work for heroin (not that my book is bad for you in any way, unless you think that being caused to think is a bad thing, in which case, I think you need to rethink your thinking).
Anyway, all this self-promotion (and yes, I do mean shameless begging) is getting a little embarrassing, so without further ado, please enjoy the foreword and 1st chapter of Thumperica!
The cover of the ebook edition, designed by yours truly.
Glossary of Acronyms
AARP—American™s Actively Resisting Persecution
ACRONIM—Agency for Contraction of Rightful, Officially eNdorsed Idioms and Meanings.
ANGEL—Angelic Nymph of God’s Exquisite Love
BIEF—Better Ingredients in Every Food
CA or C of A—Church of America™
CEOPIPOTUSGAME—Chief Executive Officer of the President-in-Perpetuity of the United States and God’s Annointed Messenger on Earth
CIO—Chief Information Officer
CMO—Chief Military Officer
COO—Chief Operations Officer
CPO—Chief Pastoral Officer
CSO—Chief Security Officer
GOON—Guardians Of Our Nation
HARLOT—Hospitality And Recreational Leisure Operations Trainee
Excerpt from Silas Joiner’s book, What Happened? How We Got Here, and Who’s to Blame, published by Liberty Island Underground Press, in 2183:
In the early part of the 21st century, mankind collectively went completely off the deep end. Decades of war, terrorism, fear, economic collapses, a resurgence of nationalist movements, creeping paranoia, distrust of establishment politics, and willful ignorance, fueled by organized campaigns of misinformation caused the United States to elect the bizarrely coiffured, financially and morally bankrupt businessman, and reality television falling star, Ronald Thump, president[1] in 2016.
These events were followed closely by an explosion of corporate imperialism, accompanied by a corresponding increase in world-wide poverty. National governments, apparently feeling left out, or perhaps just not recognizing their own growing irrelevance, responded with an increase in totalitarianism and nationalism.
Roughly half-way through his first term, President Thump resigned, citing health issues and pointing out that it had absolutely nothing at all to do with the blizzard of indictments against members of his staff, cabinet, and administration, as well as himself. In his farewell address, he stated: “I’m tired. I’ve been working so hard, and, I must say, doing such a great job—wouldn’t you agree?—I thought so. I’m going to take a little break, just a little break—I know, I know, I’ll miss you too—but I’m leaving you in good hands. Great hands—the best hands—C’mere Mike, show ‘em your hands—look at how big his hands are—he’s a chip off the old block, trust me, you’re in good hands. And don’t worry, I’ll be keeping an eye on things. If things start to go bad—and how could they with this guy in charge, am I right? Of course I am. You know it, I know it, everybody knows it—but I promise you—I will be back, and we’ll keep working together to make America the greatest and most powerful country the world has ever seen.” This, of course, is only an excerpt from the rambling 45 minute speech. Following the speech, Thump disappeared from public life completely, leading to speculation among his enemies that he had died. His political base however, continued to insist, for hundreds of years, that he was still alive, and just hasn’t resumed power because everything is going just fine. Vice President Michael Shilling was sworn in as President.
Before his resignation, President Thump had begun building his Mexican Border Wall, but the collapse of the U.S. economy left it unfinished. Mexico, completely disgusted, and unable to support the number of illegal immigrants flooding across its borders from the U.S., completed the wall in 2019. Numerous wars broke out world-wide, increasingly fought by corporate-owned mercenary armies.
Public confidence in conventional institutions continued to disintegrate: in 2019, the satirical news website The Onion was designated “America’s most trusted news source.” One popular comment was, “Well, at least with the Onion, I know it’s bullshit. With the rest, who knows?” The entire staff of The Onion resigned in disgust.
Shilling took credit for “forcing” Mexico to pay for the wall, and, campaigning on a platform of “Still Making America Even Greater Again” won a second term, aided by the disenfranchisement of minorities, immigrants (anyone less than 3rd-generation American on both sides), homosexuals, and the implementation of a complex illiteracy requirement (people with a high school diploma or less, got two votes, as did collegiate business majors. Humanities and Liberal Arts majors got ½ vote each. In Shilling’s words, “We’re giving power back to the good and godly Christian people who made this country great.”).
Early in his second term, Canada began erecting its own wall. The European Union collapsed, and took Great Britain with it, possibly out of spite. Industry stalled, as did much scientific research and advancement[2]. Poverty, disease, starvation, drought, and warfare began to wipe out huge portions of the world population (ultimately by as much as 60%, over the next 100 years, thanks to the reportedly “inadvertent” release of several man-made viruses). President Shilling was impeached and 92% of the nation’s Senators, Representatives, and governmental officials were indicted for high crimes and misdemeanors.
A special election was held, and ThumpCorp, former President Thump’s corporation, ran for the office of President, citing the historic “Citizens United” ruling by the Supreme Court as precedent[3]. It won in a landslide. Thump’s fifteen-year-old son and CEO of ThumpCorp, Viscount Thump, was sworn in as CEO of the President of the United States of America.
In 2022, President ThumpCorp, citing increasing civil unrest, suspended habeas corpus, established privately-run industrial “patriotism retraining” camps, and began implementing huge cuts to the national military, increasing reliance on defense contractors like the Koch Rangers, the Cheney Freedom Fighters Inc., the Republican Guard, and its own personal military and security force, the Thumpers. Texas seceded[4] again, setting a precedent that would gain popularity in the coming years.
In 2024, President ThumpCorp won a second term, campaigning on “Still Making America the Greatest Ever Again,” after disbanding Congress and the Supreme Court, completing privatization of the U.S. military, and revoking presidential term limits. The nation splintered.
Eventually, a total of six new nations would emerge from the wreckage of the former Superpower: Texas, the New Confederate States of America[5], the Indian Nations[6], Cascadia[7], the Nation of Zion[8], and the United States of America[9], leaving the original United States of America™ (trademarked in 2025), a mere fragment of its former self. Most of Southern California broke off and sank, and the ocean flooded the remainder, from roughly San Francisco to Mexico.
All of these nations built walls wherever no natural boundaries, such as mountain ranges or major rivers existed. Alaska, apparently feeling the need for an even stronger, more authoritarian leader, seceded and was voluntarily annexed by Russia. ThumpCorp’s government responded by suing Russia for a refund. Everyone apparently just forgot about Hawaii, Puerto Rico, and the American Virgin Islands, which were happy to win their independence by default.
The splintering of nations was not limited to the U.S.A. The United Kingdom also split into its component parts. Around the globe, nationalism continued its slide into tribalism, resulting in countless civil wars, and such a constant redrawing of national boundaries that soon Cartography had the highest suicide rate of any profession.
In 2025, ThumpCorp declared itself “President-in-Perpetuity of the United States of America™,” at the same time that a coalition of the three largest and most powerful evangelical organizations, the Diehards In Christ, the Knights of Heaven, and the Evangelicals Against the Destruction of Society[10], proclaimed CEOPIPOTUS Viscount Thump “God’s Anointed Messenger on Earth.” Shortly thereafter, the three organizations combined to form the Church of America. CEOPIPOTUSGAME Thump quickly announced Christianity as the official religion, and the Church of America as the official church of the United States of America™
Over the next one hundred years or so, chaos reigned worldwide, with national borders shifting constantly. More walls went up. Eventually, everyone either died, ran out of ammunition, or just decided they’ve had enough. National borders stabilized. The more totalitarian regimes were too busy trying to control the undesirable portions of their own populations, and stopping the flood of refugees from their lands to devote time or resources to conquest. Gradually things settled down, and people began rebuilding.
Inside the dark and dusty ACRONIM office[12], Hubert Dillerschlinger was not a happy man. A very literate and, he liked to think, literary man, he spent all day, every day, all alone[13] in this room, his desk flanked on one side by a table supporting a gigantic, ancient dictionary, and another table with a matching thesaurus on the other. These were the tools he used to mutilate language to please morons, twisting meanings and mutilating beautiful words to give tacitly legal justification for the powerful to mock the powerless.
A short, baby-faced, bespectacled, balding, slightly overweight black man of forty-two years, he had started out as a messenger, and slowly worked his way up through the clerical ranks despite his race. Of course, his bookish demeanor and natural timidity had certainly helped, as had his Germanic surname; Hubert suspected that many of his superiors, having never deigned to meet him, were probably unaware of his race[14].
Hubert had dreams beyond this office however; he dreamed of writing a book – a book that would change the world, that would expose the rot in America™ to the light of day, and change the corrupted hearts and minds of the people, causing them to turn away from their xenophobia, from their fear of each other, from their prostituted, state-sponsored religion, and spur them to take their freedom back[15], but for now, he had to turn HONESTY into an acronym for the “revamped”[16] Office of TRUTH, and Y’s were always a bitch to work with.
The office acronyms were bad enough, but what really stuck in Hubert’s craw were the job titles. He felt that while most people, if they thought about it, could see through the office acronyms, it was the titles and terms by which they were referenced, that did the most damage. If girls were taught from an early age to want to grow up to be a HARLOT or a WENCH, if boys were raised to think that being a THUG, or a GOON was the highest aspiration a boy could have, if working class children grew up thinking of their parents (and themselves) as MORONS and SAPS, then they would always think of themselves as harlots, wenches, thugs, goons, morons, saps, etc., even though, deep down, they would know what those words really meant. As a NIGGERR who had risen to the ranks of middle-management, he knew that much.
Hubert looked at the clock; quitting time, thank God. “Are we ready to call it a day, Mr. Johnson?” he asked his GOON, Charlie Johnson, who was dozing in the corner[17].
“Hmh? Oh.” Charlie looked at the clock on the wall, “Yeah, yeah. I was about to say that.” Charlie wiped at the line of drool dripping from his chin. “I was just resting my eyes for a minute,” he said, for the benefit of the ThumpCom CompleteSecure camera mounted in the corner.
Hubert assumed the traditional position while Charlie patted him down to make sure he hadn’t pocketed anything, Like there’s anything here to steal, they both thought, and then Charlie escorted Hubert through security, and out to the street.
“See you tomorrow Hubie.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Johnson. Seven o’clock sharp, just like always.”
The two parted; Charlie headed to the bar, and Hubert for home. As he walked the potholed streets and broken sidewalks, past the murals and statues of the various Thumps and other national heroes, he saw some GOONs beating a handcuffed kid for spray painting “Fuck ThumpCorp!” across the bottom of a mural showing Genghis Thump[18] riding a bald eagle as he slaughtered some generic enemies of the nation. Everywhere he looked were flags, banners, and stickers displaying the golden Thumpsticka, the Revolving T of Thumpian Progress (building a better next week, tomorrow!) The few people on the street made a point of not noticing each other, as they scurried from one door to another, like roaches hiding from the light. It made him sick. This is no way for people to live.
It was only a thirty minute walk from the office to his apartment (twenty if he was feeling particularly brave or extra late, and took the old subway tunnels that crisscrossed the city, but like most of the not-that-desperate, he preferred the streets), and he didn’t see one smiling face or even anyone making eye contact. It all made him that much more glad to be home. At least in his apartment, he had his books, and there were no people to remind him of how alone he was.
While unlocking the door to his basement apartment, Hubert surreptitiously checked the door for signs that it had been opened. The toothpick was still wedged into the doorframe, but the short length of monofilament line glued to the inside top of the doorframe was protruding on the outside of the door. Someone had been inside, someone who didn’t want him to know. That meant government men, probably GOONs. Thieves wouldn’t have cared, and wouldn’t have bothered closing the door, much less replace the toothpick, and TIA agents would have been smart enough to realize the toothpick trick was too well known. Either that, or they thought he was stupid enough to rely on it anyway.
Either way, it made him happy. There was nothing the least bit incriminating in his apartment, and, knowing that they had been here made finding both the listening device and the drugs they’d hidden much easier. He left them both alone. He had nothing to hide from the bug, and, if they (whoever “they” were, this time) really wanted to get him, then getting rid of the drugs would just tip them off that he was onto them[19].
He changed his clothes, and then heated up a Wealthy Choice meal[20]. He hated the very idea of them, but as exploitative and condescending as they were, he had some faint hope that at one point, the food may have had more than a passing acquaintance with a farm, as opposed to a laboratory. He knew he should just be happy that, as a government employee, he could afford to eat at least that well. He felt vaguely guilty as he thought of the vast majority of Americans™ who couldn’t, and had to make do with BIEFburger[21] and VEGGIES[22] or worse, for every meal. As always, he didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed when it turned out to be almost completely tasteless. After dinner, he cracked a can of Thumpweiser, selected a book – The Collected Works of John Stuart Mill, cleverly printed with a cover from Mein Kampf[23] – from his meager collection, and sat down to read[24].
When the alarm on his Trumplex wristwatch beeped, he laid the book aside, removed the watch, leaving it on the arm of the chair[25], and used a remote control to start random playback of the sound effects he had recorded of himself coughing, going to the bathroom, fixing a drink, and making various other “no need to worry, I’m right here at home” noises.
He slipped quietly out the door, setting his little traps, softly closing it as the recording played a particularly harsh coughing fit. He made his way out the back of the building into the dark streets, winding his way through the street markets, past the buildings with their giant murals of the various Thumps and other national heroes. When he reached the Only The Best Chinese Takeout, he stepped inside.
A counter ran the full width of the room, trapping the customers in a short but extremely wide waiting area, and the air reeked of rancid oil and burnt meat and noodles. There was only one other customer. “Use your bathroom?” Hubert asked the surly old woman seated on a stool behind the payment console, reading Atlas Shrugged as smoke from the cigar[26] clamped between her teeth rose into her rheumy, unblinking eyes. She stared at him for a moment, and jerked her nicotine-stained thumb toward a door marked “Private.”
He stepped into the tiny, reeking bathroom, stood there for a moment, then turned, opened the door, and rushed back out, dragging a wave of stale stench behind him. As the foulness washed over him, the other customer blanched and pulled his shirt collar up over his nose, and Hubert told the old woman, “There’s no toilet paper. Also, I’d like a number 24.”
She scowled even more deeply, and handed him a fistful of napkins. He returned to the bathroom, where he closed and locked the door, laid the napkins on top of the toilet tank, and quietly knocked “shave and a haircut” on the back wall. From the other side, came the “two” knock, and he finished with the “bits.” Half of the wall panel behind the toilet folded back, revealing a man with a gun.
Hubert stepped through, and shook the man’s hand, “Phil, good to see you.”
“And you,” the man smiled, “you’re the last to arrive. I was starting to worry.”
“I just took a longer route this time.” Hubert went down a flight of steps, into a room with several people who all looked up at his entrance. An extremely large, young, black man in an Only The Best Chinese Takeout t-shirt stepped forward, nodded in welcome, took Hubert’s hooded jacket, squeezed into it, and started up the steps. “Don’t forget to flush,” Hubert called after him, then shook his head as he thought, It’s a good thing we all look alike to them.
The young man – Kwantrell – was a decoy. He would pose as Hubert for the camera upstairs and leave, then return with Hubert’s coat in a backpack. When Hubert left, he would wear Kwantrell’s OTBCT jacket, and his own coat in a delivery bag, leaving Kwantrell’s in a designated place.
A tall, fiercely handsome man with a movie-star smile shook Hubert’s hand. “Good to see you Hubie.” Tough, strong, picturesquely scarred and meaningfully tattooed, Ajax Steele was an honest-to-God hero, a man of action and the most-wanted resistance leader in America, and surrounded, as always by a crowd of starry-eyed young female admirers hanging on his every word. Hubert respected the man for his reputation, loathed him for his personality, and sometimes seriously questioned his mental capacity. Still, Hubert had to admit he’d been good for recruiting, bringing in as many male admirers as female to the cause. He was one of those guys that women wanted, and men wanted to be.
“Good to see you too, Ajax.”
“Let’s get down to business,” Ajax said to the crowd, and they all surrounded the table. “I hereby call this meeting of the AARP to order.” He pounded the table with the ancient six-shooter (reputed to have belonged to either Wild Bill Hickok, John Wayne, or General George Patton, depending on how much alcohol Ajax had imbibed before telling the story) that he used as a gavel, and grinned at Hubert. “Sorry Hubie, I know you hate it when I do that.”
“I just don’t think it’s safe.”
“Ah, you worry too much. Anyway, let’s get this show on the road. Hit it, Mr. Secretary.”
Hubert gritted his teeth as he returned Ajax’ smile. Just call me Hubert, you moron. “Okay, Clari, you’re up first.”
Clari, a stocky, middle-aged woman cleared her throat, and reported that her crews had tunneled into four of the six known GOON munitions storage facilities and were close to breaching the others. In the four already accessed, they were making slow, but sure, progress in sabotaging the ammunition. “If we can get more equipment, it’ll go a lot faster though.”
Ajax instructed Luis, their head of supply to get with Clari, find out what she needed, and do everything in his power to get it for her. “Alf?” he asked, turning to another man, “how’s it going on bypassing the internet filter servers[27]?”
That’s okay, you just run the meeting then.
Alf, a heavy-set, older man with food in his beard cleared his throat, stood up, and proceeded to give a lengthy report, very little of which was even remotely understood by anyone else present. As far as Hubert could tell, Alf and his techies were busy backward learning a CCIT blahblahblah, blah, blah blah choke packet and attempting to install a blah, blah, blahblahblah, blahblah, blah, black hole cluster controller in the resource blahblahblahblah in order to tweak and upload a blah, blah, and blahblah, blah blahblahblah, blah in the blahblah blah blahblahblah in order to subinterface an X1200 blahblahblahblah blahblahblah encoding into the blah of the blah and blah blah, or something to that effect.
When he sat down Ajax, Hubert, and the rest did their best to appear to consider his report. “Uhhhh,” Ajax said, “. . . and that’ll do it, you think?”
“Oh yeah, no doubt,” Alf said, “as long as the . . .,” and he was off and running again while Hubert’s and everyone else’s eyes glazed over. Eventually, Alf wound down.
“Okay then . . . that’s great . . . really great work Alf,” said Ajax. “Thanks for clearing that up for us.” Before Alf could erupt into another burst of tech-speak, Ajax asked, “Does anyone else have anything to report?”
Alf’s hand shot up.
No, no, no, don’t do it, keep moving, keep it moving.
“Pete, Michelle, how are the new recruits working out?” asked Ajax, clearly not noticing Alf’s hand, which waved like a fifth-grade teacher’s pet practicing semaphore.
Perhaps I’ve misjudged you, Ajax.
The meeting continued until all past and current business had been covered, and plans had been laid for their next steps. Like all staff meetings, it was long, boring, and not really worth recording, and long. Very long.
“Okay then, I think we’d better call it a night.” Ajax slammed his six-shooter down. There was a pop and a puff of smoke, one of Ajax’ groupies grunted, and everyone else ducked. “What the—“ Ajax said, looking at the gun, “—I could’ve sworn I unloaded . . .”
Hubert took the gun from him, while others examined the groupie who’d been hit. She was lucky—the powder was old, and the bullet didn’t have enough velocity to even break the skin.
“Are you happy now?” Hubert asked Ajax.
“Hell no, I’m not happy,” Ajax said, “that bullet was an antique too, part of the set. Do you know how much money I just lost?”
Hubert looked at him disbelievingly, or at least mostly disbelievingly.
“I mean, yeah, I’m happy that Julie—Jenny?—Ginny?—dammit, her—that she’s not hurt or whatever too, of course.”
Hubert was speechless.
Ajax wasn’t. “That’s why gun safety is so important people!” he announced to the room. “Think about what could have happened, and let that be a lesson to you all. These things are nothing to fool around with.”
After that, the assembly broke up, everyone leaving individually by various exits. Ajax waved Hubert over; “Hubie, I’ve been thinking. I still think we need a better name, one with some . . . uh . . . some oomph to it.”
“Oomph?”
“Yeah. I was thinking something like The Avengers, or The Guardians; it’s not fair—all these security groups have such cool names and our name sounds like somebody throwing up, you know what I mean? I mean, dammit Hubie, even our competition all have better names than us[28]”
This again? “Ajax, it’s just a name. It doesn’t matter what we’re called, it’s what we do that’s important.”
“Yeah, but still . . . I was hoping you’d be able to help out, you know, because of your job, you know?”
“I think we’ve got more important things to worry about, don’t you?” Hubert put on Kwantrell’s jacket, and handed the gun back to Ajax. “Listen, you think about it and we’ll talk about it next week, okay?” He started up the stairs.
“But that’s what you said last week!” Ajax called after him.
Hubert waved without turning around. It’s what I’m gonna say next week too, you jackass. Good God, it’s going to be a long revolution
[1] As previously noted, establishment politics were viewed very, very unfavorably at this point in time. In fact, Thump’s bloviating style, abrasive attitude, and monumental disregard for anything that didn’t have his name on it, worked in his favor. Voters seemed to think that he must be a political outsider, as he was simply too big an asshole to get anywhere within the system.
[2] Except, perhaps ironically, cosmetic surgery, certain recreational transplant procedures, erectile dysfunction medication, penis enlargement procedures, and cryogenics, all of which became prohibitively expensive for virtually all but the richest and most powerful.
[3] One campaign ad stated, “The Supreme Court said I’m a person: If I can buy a politician, why can’t I just be one?” The campaign was hailed as a return to truth and transparency in politics.
[4] The first successful national campaign for peace occurred at this point, when the remaining states unanimously refused to go to war to force Texas to rejoin the Union. The day the secession was announced, The New York Times headline was, “Finally Some Good News!”
[5] Same as the old CSA, with the addition of Kentucky and W. Virginia.
[6] Essentially everything from Texas to Canada, and from the Rockies to the Mississisippi River
[7] The northwest, from what was left of California, to the Rocky Mountains.
[10] Somehow, the irony-challenged leaders of these organizations never considered the inevitable acronymization of their collective names, until it was enshrined in the national consciousness.
[11] Formerly New York City. Now the capitol of the United States of America™
[12] “ACRONIM” had been formed not long after the accidental acronym DICKHEADs became part of the public consciousness, largely to prevent similar embarrassments in the future.
[13] Except, of course, for his GOON, who made sure he didn’t slack off on his work, and made sure he got through security every day.
[14] Although it is possible, maybe even likely that they knew: It is entirely possible that Hubert’s advancement was the result of a little known government program known as Affirmative Action, a program aimed at proving that equal opportunities were available to all, by ensuring that a token number of (mostly lower-level) government positions were filled by minorities, as a way of “proving” that racism in America™ was a thing of the past. It is also possible that they were simply unable to find a white candidate willing to spend all his time with his nose in books, thinking about words.
[16] Frequently changing the names of agencies and offices, under the guise of rooting out corruption, along with “appointing special investigative task forces” and other false flag operations generally removed the need for any further changes.
[17] Give the guy a break. The only thing more boring than making acronyms all day, is watching someone make acronyms all day.
[18][18] CEOPIPOTUSGAME #23 (They started the count over with Viscount Thump).
[19] Being a black, low-level executive in America™ was a dangerous and complex life.
[20] Wealthy Choice: made from only the freshest meals left over by the very best people. You may not be rich and famous, but now you can eat like them at affordable prices. Now beggars CAN be choosers—eat like a winner, not like a loser; eat Wealthy Choice. From Thump Foods.
[21] a line of affordable meat-adjacent food products from Thump Laboratories’ Digestibles Division. BIEF was one acronym Hubert tried very hard not to think too much about.
[23]Mein Kampf ranks high on the list of Approved Reading Material, right between the collected works of Ronald Thump, and Ayn Rand’s works,
[24] While clearly, the disguised books would have been considered incriminating, there was no safer place in Thumperica to hide something than a book, which were largely just considered knickknacks for those with delusions of intellect.
[25] It is widely (correctly) suspected that all TrumpTronix products have GPS tracking devices installed.
[26] One of the major accomplishments of President ThumpCorp’s first term was the repeal of virtually all health and food safety regulations.
[27] While the internet was still operational, all internet lines coming from outside America™ ran through filter servers that screened out all undesirable information, and all American servers were strictly partitioned; the average citizen could still access social media, pornography, games, and entertainment, but most educational and defense-related information was blocked.
[28] From the “Some things never change” file: Liberals have historically always had trouble working together. Consequently, there are, at last count, 263 recognized resistance movements in the U.S.A.™, all of whom hate each other only slightly less passionately than they hate the current regime. Even the fact that many, possibly even most, individuals of the resistance are members of multiple resistance groups, and the fact that the biggest difference between most of the groups is the wording of their charters. Ajax is right about one thing, however: almost all the other groups have much cooler names than the AARP.
Ever have one of those days when you really wish Jesus would quit fooling around and just come back already? You know what I mean; we all have days that we know going in are going to be bad, but then they turn out to be so much worse than we expected. This has been one of those days for me.
It started almost immediately: the wonderful but occasionally absent-minded and mildly careless Jess forgot to set her alarm and overslept, so I had to get up, take care of the dogs, fix her coffee and stuff. I really didn’t mind that. It happens fairly regularly, so it’s a minor hiccup–I figure, at least I get to go back to bed, she has to go to work. Then, later, when I do get up, my sister-in-law Andie is up fooling around in the kitchen.
I love Andie and look forward to her visits. However, we were expecting her today, and I figured I’d have time to clean up the house before she got here. She got here yesterday instead.
Now, neither Jess nor I are what you’d call neat freaks. We’re basically feral and, since the amazing and diligent Jess went back to work I’ve been responsible for housekeeping. Needless to say, Andie’s version of clean and mine are pretty different. She likes things to be neat, organized, and genuinely clean, while I feel pretty strongly that as long as nobody sticks to anything they lean on and I know what’s in the piles of stuff, well that’s good enough.
So the first thing I say to Andie as I’m taking the dogs out is that I’m going to take care of the dishes in a little bit. By the time I come back in, she’s already doing the dishes, she’s put away the clean dishes, “put away” some of the piles, and reorganized the remaining piles. She’s standing there waiting for me to tell her where the stuff in the remaining piles belongs. I’m like “right there.” I like to think that Jess and I aren’t the only people on the planet who don’t actually have a “place for everything.” To be honest, I don’t even know what half of that stuff is, much less where to put it.
She wanted me to do something about the recyclables, and then seemed shocked when that “something” turned out to be tying the bags shut and lobbing them down the stairs to the basement (don’t worry, next time I go downstairs, I’ll kick them over to where they belong).
Anyway, I had bigger fish to fry: I’m supposed to get my first colonoscopy (and endoscopy too! Hope they use a different tube for that one, or at least do the endoscopy first.) tomorrow, and so I had to swill down half of a giant bottle of Turbo-Lax to start my day off (gotta make sure I’m squeaky clean inside!). I get to get up at 6 tomorrow morning to drink the other half–yay.
So already the day is not great. When that Turbo-Lax kicks in, it’s not fooling around. I’m pretty sure I’m going to be taking my colon to the hospital in a bucket tomorrow. It’s also kind of tough discovering that I am literally as full of shit as people have always told me (well, not any more, so there!).
Then, Molly, our golden retriever that was my mom’s dog, collapsed on the porch. She hasn’t been doing well for a while, and apparently today was the day. I called Jess and asked her to make an appointment for Molly at the vet, so she did that and then took off early to go with us. While I waited for Jess, I alternated between sitting next to Molly, petting and talking to her, and running to the bathroom.
We got her to the vet, and it was as bad as we had feared: we had to make the call that nobody ever wants to make. They gave us a little more time with her and we both sat on the floor with her petting her and telling her she was a good girl while we both bawled like babies. I told her to go kick Harry’s (another one of our former dogs, who was kind of a jerk) ass, and Jess laughed and then said Molly’d be too busy looking for mom. That really set off the waterworks. I never could look at Molly without thinking of Mom. Molly was the last thing that Mom really recognized. Mom couldn’t remember her name, but she’d cup Molly’s head in her hands, lean forward and say “You’re my dog. Yes you are, you’re my dog.” Then she’d kiss the top of Molly’s head.
Anyway, we’re bawling our eyes out, and the girl came in and gave Molly THE SHOT. She was gone in just a few seconds. She was such a good girl. One of the sweetest dogs I’ve ever known.
Then we come home, and Andie’s cooking chili. The air is thick with the smell of frying hamburger, venison, and bacon. BACON! Who the hell puts BACON in chili? And what kind of monster does it on a day when one of the world’s great bacon lovers and chili lovers is on a clear liquid diet? The sister-in-law kind of monster, that’s what kind.
So my eyes hurt from crying, my ass hurts from . . . well you can imagine, although I recommend you don’t try too hard . . . and I’ve got to take even more laxatives, while smelling all that good food. Food that I CAN’T HAVE!!!!!
I go outside to have a smoke, and there’s a good breeze blowing. I turn my back to the wind, and all of a sudden, there’s a sound . . . a weird sound . . . a sound like somebody blowing across the top of a giant, empty, coke bottle. Halfway through the cigarette, I had to rush back inside, and the sound stopped. I’m pretty sure that, after today, the doctor won’t have to worry about using the micro-camera equipment–he’ll be able to just grab a camcorder and shove his arm up there. I think there’ll be plenty of room.
Needless to say, I’m not looking forward to tomorrow. Maybe I’ll get lucky and Jesus’ll come back tonight.
“Words can be like X-rays, if you use them properly–they’ll go through anything.” Aldous Huxley, Brave New World.
I’m a writer (or at least I flatter myself that I am), so words are kind of my thing. Every once in a while, I’ll run across something that seriously changes my outlook, or how I think, or even my world. A few days ago, I was reading Huxley’s Brave New World, and I came across the line that starts this post. I read that, and my brain just kind of melted.
Over the years, I’ve had thoughts similar to that, but Huxley actually articulated what I’ve always thought, far better than I ever did, and actually put my ambition into words: I want to write X-rays. I want to write words in a way that cuts through to the heart of the matter, whatever the matter happens to be. Words that illuminate the hidden problems and that help to solve them. Words that make people think. Words that make people think, “That’s what I’ve been thinking!” Words that make people think, “Why didn’t I think of that?”
Ever since I was a kid, certain phrases or sayings have stuck with me that either changed my life or formed the way I thought. Phrases like “I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it,” which I always thought was said by Patrick Henry, but was apparently originally written by Evelyn Beatrice Hall in her book The Friends of Voltaire, published in 1906. That saying, to my young mind, represented the entire idea of Free Speech, and much of what it meant to be an American. I remember a time when Americans were proud to quote that phrase.
Patrick Henry’s famous “Give me liberty, or give me death!” is another phrase that formed the way I saw the world. To this day, I resent anything I see as an intrusion of my liberty. Of course, I’ve come to understand that there is no such thing as absolute liberty. In any society, there are necessarily going to be limits to what members of that society are at liberty to do. I think the closest we can get to absolute liberty is a society where every member is actually treated equally, regardless of sex, race, religion, or financial status.
It’s funny how so much of my identity as a person is tied to my identity as an American. I really believe the words “All men are created equal” but it troubles me that, as a country, we still have trouble accepting it. I don’t think that any objective observer looking at our country would really believe that it is, or ever has been, a central tenet of our national consciousness. That bothers me, both as a person, and as an American. In our defense, I will say that we are closer than we were at the beginning, and I do think that we’re continually making progress in that direction, but clearly, we’ve got a long way to go.
Perhaps all the kerfuffle over Columbus Day has brought another phrase that has haunted me, and informed how I see the world, to the forefront of my mind. I first read The Lord of the Rings when I was 10 or 11 years old. In his forward to The Lord of the Rings, Peter S. Beagle wrote, “We are raised to honor all the wrong explorers and discoverers–thieves planting flags, murderers carrying crosses.”
Even though I was too young to understand what he meant, I knew that what he was saying was important, and more importantly, right. As I got older and began to study history, and especially as I began to study history outside of history class, I came to see how right he was. Columbus’ “discovery” of America began centuries of genocide and exploitation so vile that it makes the Nazis look like pikers. Much of it was carried out under the guise of Christian Evangelism and Manifest Destiny, and, in a thousand little ways, in a thousand little places out of the way enough that we don’t notice, it continues to this day, but under the guise of economic pragmatism.
Don’t believe me? Just go to Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in S. Dakota, or the Navajo or Apache reservations in Arizona, or the inner city of, well, pretty much any city in America, or the coal country of Appalachia, or the factory towns of the rust belt. The machine doesn’t care about your race, or your color; it just cares about being fed and moving on.
Another saying that really puzzled me as a kid was “Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel.” Samuel Johnson said that back in 1775. As a kid in love with the America I learned about in school and by watching John Wayne defeat not only the Indians, but the Japanese, and thrilling to the hyper-patriotic fervor of the Bicentennial, it just didn’t make sense. It didn’t make sense, but it just wouldn’t let me go, either. Once again, as I grew, and studied, I came to see what he meant, and to realize that he was right. Or almost right. Patriotism isn’t the “last refuge” any more (if it ever was).
It isn’t the scoundrel’s Alamo, where they make their last stand; these days it’s their launching pad, from which the flag-pin wearing bastards use the flag-draped caskets of dead soldiers to justify stripping away our rights, to brand those who protest injustice as unAmerican, to present themselves as the only ones who can save us from all of the “evils” that they have worked so hard to make us afraid of.
I want to write words like that. Words and phrases that cut through the constant 24-7 barrage of bullshit that we’re all dealing with. Of course, if you’ve read to this point, you’re probably thinking, “Well, you’re not there yet,” and you’re right, my writing (and my thinking) is still a work in progress. Hopefully though, I’m getting there. Hopefully, at this point, I’m at least making you think.
Some days, you just know going in, that it’s going to be a shitty day. Take the other day for example; I woke up when the alarm went off – my least favorite way to wake up, or at least least favorite normal way to wake up (waking up to being swallowed alive by a giant anaconda for example, would be worse, but extremely abnormal). Anyway, I get up, stagger through the canine obstacle course that is our bedroom, and head to the bathroom to find the lid on the toilet down (almost always a harbinger of impending doom).
“Huh,” I thought, with my cloudy, morning-brain, “I wonder why Jess put that down?” I figured it was to keep the dogs from drinking out of the toilet.
It wasn’t.
It turned out that my wife, the lovely-but-tragically-digestively-challenged Jess was running late for work when the previous night’s meatloaf hit her. I blame myself of course, after all, it was me who made it, and me who got careless with the garlic powder (I like garlic, sometimes a little too much). It was a new container, and instead of opening the shaker side of the lid, I accidentally opened the spoon side of the lid and gave it a hearty shake. I estimate that I dumped at least a quarter to half-cup of garlic powder into the meatloaf, hence the ensuing (and ongoing) digestive tragedy.
At any rate, not to be too indelicate, our pipes were apparently not up to the challenge, and since the diligent, and extremely time-conscious Jess was (conveniently?) running late, she simply had no choice but to leave me a fabulous parting gift. It was a disappointing and unpleasant start to the day.
Well, I got that taken care of, as well as my own ablutions (oh, don’t act so grossed out, you do the same thing), and got all the dogs outside to do their thing, had my morning smoke, got all the dogs back inside, managed to survive the three-ring-circus that is feeding time at Casa del Moon, and headed for the den to do some writing. My entry to the den was blocked, however, by the dog gate (Molly the old Golden Retriever sleeps loose in the den, and Mattie the young, crazy Jack Russel/Beagle mix sleeps in a kennel in there). Normally, the gate is only shut at night, to keep Molly from wandering.
“Huh,” I thought, “I wonder why Jess latched that gate?” I figured it was just an accident, one of those things you just do without thinking, because you’re busy thinking about other things.
It wasn’t.
It turned out that Molly had experienced a tragic digestive crisis of her own overnight. Three times (apparently what the lovely and resourceful Jess was thinking about was how glad she was that she was running late for work). For more info on why Jess latched the gate, see my post, My Dog Eats Poo: A Disgusting Allegorical Tale. ‘Nuff said on that.
So, my morning was pretty much eaten up by cleaning . . . well, let’s just leave it at that.
To top it all off, I had to go to work.
I don’t like going to work. I’ve been doing it all my life, and I’ve never liked it. That’s why I want to be a writer-it’s so much more fun. Sadly-so far at least-it’s also far less lucrative, so I get the dogs all squared away, saddle up, and head to work.
Now don’t get me wrong, I like this job better than any other job I’ve ever had. I like helping people to improve their writing skills, especially when they really want to improve. Unfortunately, this particular day’s students didn’t really seem to want to improve, they just wanted me to tell them what to write so they could pass their classes. This always puts me in a bad mood.
Then a kid comes in. While one of my colleagues is reading his paper, this kid is blathering on about one of his classes which focused (in part) on the Civil War, and he didn’t feel that the other side (the side he identified with) was fairly represented. Then, he made the mistake of asking me what I thought.
I knew where he was coming from: when I was a kid, most of my heroes were Confederates (my family also has southern roots). Let’s face it-the South had all the cool guys: Robert E. Lee, J.E.B. Stuart, Stonewall Jackson, Mosby’s Rangers, etc. What did the Union have? A bunch of incompetents, an alcoholic, and a couple of deeply devoted arsonists. But then, I told him, I read some books, a whole bunch of books, in fact, and had come to the conclusion that better men never fought and/or died for worse cause, i.e. the right to own another human being as property.
He seemed to take offense to that, pointing out that the Civil War wasn’t about slavery, it was about state’s rights.
I pointed out to him that the only state’s right the South was specifically interested in, the only one that couldn’t have been settled peaceably was the right to own slaves. If you doubt me, and I’m sure some of you do, here’s a link to the Declarations of Secession of Virginia, Texas, Georgia, Mississippi, and South Carolina. As far as I can tell, the other nine states never really mentioned any specific reasons (other than hating Lincoln, and/or perceived unfair treatment) for seceding. Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.
He, of course, countered with that old chestnut, “But most confederates didn’t even own slaves!” True enough, but, those guys were talked into war by the guys who did own slaves.
He then asked if I thought all people who fly the Confederate Flag now are racists. I told him no, I didn’t think that, but, I asked him, what would you think of me if I was flying a Nazi flag over my house, not because I was a racist, but because I was proud of my German heritage and had ancestors that fought for Germany? He didn’t seem to have an answer for this.
All this time, I was getting more and more aggravated. I have a pretty low tolerance for stupidity, and virtually no tolerance at all for willful stupidity, and this kid was pretty much the poster child for it.
It got quiet for a while, and then he asked me what I thought about the cool kids club. I didn’t know what that was, until he said it’s spelled with all K’s. I told him I wasn’t a fan.
He didn’t say anything, so I waited. And waited. And waited some more. Finally, I asked him what he thought about the KKK. He was really quick to point out that he wasn’t in favor of hurting anybody, and he really liked black people, in fact, he had a lot of black friends, but there were some things that he did like about the KKK. I asked him what those were, and he hemmed and hawed around for quite a while, just um-ing, and well-ing, etc.
I finally asked him if he was having trouble thinking of something good to say about them that wouldn’t make him sound like a racist, and he just laughed, and said something about racism being pretty much over in the good ol’ USA.
By this time, my head was about to explode, and of course, my mouth started moving faster than my brain. I told him that, of course, he could say that, he was safe. He asked me what I meant by that.
It’s important to understand, at this point, that we were not alone. There were several others present, all young white men, including one gay kid.
I said, “I mean you’re safe. I’m the safest person in this room. I’m white, middle-aged, at least marginally middle-class, and married. At this point, I am pretty much my only natural predator. You guys are less safe than me, because you’re younger, and more likely to get yourself into stupid, potentially life-threatening situations, a stage I’ve already survived. You guys are safer than Xxxxx.”
Xxxxx asked why they were safer than him, and I said, “Because you’re gay.”
This came as a complete surprise to Xxxxx, who pointed out that no, as a matter of fact, he was not gay.
Talk about derailing your own argument. Here I was, trying to point out that there are segments of our society that live their lives at considerably more risk than others, and that for those who are at virtually no risk to deny the evils of racism, xenophobia, homophobia, sexism, etc., that plague large portions of our society is, quite simply, deluded and disingenuous bullshit, and instead of making my point, I merely succeeded in making myself look (or at least feel) like the biggest asshole in the room.
Xxxxx wanted to know why I thought he was gay, and all I could think of was that I just thought he was. I had of course launched into that compulsively and diarrheatically vocal apology mode which usually only makes things worse, and makes you look like an even bigger asshole than if you’d just said, “I’m sorry” and shut the hell up.
I make no defense for myself. Xxxxx is a really nice kid. He’s very soft- and well-spoken, and speaks proper english, is always neatly and tidily dressed, doesn’t curse, doesn’t talk about women, and has good posture. Apparently, to my hunched, slouching, profane, vulgar, only conditionally showered, torn-T-shirt and worn-out jeans and shoes-wearing mind, that all adds up to gay. I made assumptions about him, based on purely circumstantial evidence, and, in a twisted kind of way, I supposed I proved my point, just not the way I expected to.
Hell, for all I know, that other kid, the stupid one, probably does have a lot of black friends.
All I know for sure is that I should have stayed in bed.
And, of course, that I, and most likely most of you too, have a lot farther to go on a personal level toward fixing the problems our society faces.
Sorry folks, but this one probably isn’t going to be very funny either: For the sake of expediency in future posts, lets just agree that, when you see the title begins with “What I Think:”, you should just skip right on by if you’re just looking for a laugh. Hopefully I’ll find something to laugh at soon (after all, I do stupid stuff on a pretty regular basis). That said, if you proceed, you have no one to blame but yourself.
I hope you do read on, and I hope it makes you think (even if it just makes you think I’m a jackass.) Enjoy!
What I Think: About Participation Trophies:
A lot of people out there seem to think that one of the problems with America, one of the primary reasons our society seems to be circling the drain, one of the liberal travesties inflicted upon us by political correctness that has caused the manhood of our nation to whither, is participation trophies, and, as much as I hate to say it; I have to agree.
I’ve received my fair share of participation trophies; we all have. I was a kid in Little League before the advent of these horrific, priority-twisting, manhood-cheapening, touchy-feely symbols of the liberal mommy-state, but I’ve done the “fun runs” (talk about two words that should never be used together), and the charity events where everybody gets a t-shirt, and sometimes even a cheap medal) just for participating. You don’t have to win, or even place. You just have to get to the finish line before the organizers get bored with waiting and go home. Sometimes they even pass them out beforehand.
I’ve gone to college, where they give you free stuff all the time, just for being a student. There’s no GPA requirement, no minimum class position, hell, most of the time, you don’t really even have to be a student; you just have to be willing to stand in line to get whatever crap they’re giving away! Thanks for playing!!!
I was in the Air Force for 20 years, and trust me, the military is the gold standard for participation trophies – they just call ’em medals. Now I want to be perfectly clear here, not all military medals are mere participation trophies; the combat medals, Purple Heart, Bronze and Silver Stars, Congressional Medal of Honor, and many more are the real deal, and I have nothing but respect for the brave men and women who sacrificed so much on our behalf.
No, what I’m talking about are the Good Conduct Medals, the Longevity Ribbons, and the others that you get for basically showing up and not screwing up (too badly anyway), and that includes some of the important-sounding ones, like the USAF Global War On Terror Service Medal. Here is the criteria for that one, direct from the AF Personnel Center website.
Not only does the criteria specifically say, “Individuals must have participated in or served in support of the Global War on Terrorism-specified operations . . .” but read the last paragraph of the criteria; you don’t even have to have left the country, or faced any danger to qualify. You simply have to have participated somehow.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not belittling those medals either; I’m the recipient of several of them. The people who got them earned them doing vital jobs. It doesn’t change the fact that it is still basically a participation medal.
Today, when I got up, there was an email from the school, telling me I had been selected as the “Outstanding Student in English” for 2017 (I know, this is a long way to go for a little cheap self-congratulation, huh?). I skimmed it, and went on with my day. No big deal. I figured there were probably at least 10 of us who’d been selected.
I didn’t realize it was a big deal (and I’ll grant you that “big deal” is really subjective), until I got to work at the Writing Center, and my boss told me “Congratulations!”
I asked her, “For what?”
She was kind enough to explain to me that it really was a big deal (at least in the world of Richmond, Indiana academia – like I said, importance is subjective). I didn’t really know how to respond. Still don’t really. I don’t know how to accept accolades – I’ve never really had one.
The closest I’ve ever really come to being singled out for distinction (at least in a good way) was, ironically enough, in Little League. One of the coaches bought, every year, and out of his own pocket, two trophies (and these were the big, cool ones, not the tiny ones); one for his team’s MVP, and one for the player with the best batting average (or some similar accomplishment). The year I was on his team, he bought three trophies; I didn’t get the MVP trophy, nor was I eligible for the Batting Trophy.
Nope, my performance on his team had inspired him to purchase and award to me the Sportsmanship Trophy! He said he’d never seen a kid who was such a good sport, and that I had really impressed him. Yay me!
Now, I don’t want to downplay that trophy, it was really nice of him to recognize me like that, but trust me, as a 10- or 12-year old kid who worshiped Pete Rose, I didn’t want to be a good sport, I wanted to be a good baseball player. Well, you can’t always get what you want. At any rate, you get the idea, my entire life, including a career in the military distinguished only by it’s utter lack of distinction, has left me completely unprepared to accept any genuine recognition of excellence.
The numerous free t-shirts and various other “participant” awards, ribbons, and medals I’ve received over the years meant exactly that to me – just a nice reminder that I was a part of something bigger for a while.
I suppose it could be argued that the problem isn’t with the participation trophies – after all, 95% of all the kids who get them know their significance immediately, or quickly figure it out, and, if the remaining 5% need that sort of validation at that tender age, then it’s good that they get it – but that the problem lies with those who so vehemently oppose the idea of them; the people who think that because of their own, or their child’s, special skill with a stick or a ball, that their trophy’s significance is decreased by the participation trophies. That it makes them, or their kid, less special, less deserving of respect, recognition, or special treatment.
Because that’s what a trophy really comes down to isn’t it? Trophies should only go to stars. We all want to be stars, but if everyone is a star, then no one is. And we need stars, don’t we? If there were no stars with trophies or awards for “excellence” in sports, or music, or acting, or war, then who would all those masses of losers look up to?
It could also be argued that an equally fair solution to the problem would be to get rid of all the trophies; after all, which is more pitiful – the 10-year-old with a participation trophy, or the adult, clinging to his or her Little League/High School/College glory days with his or her trophy collection on the mantle? It could be argued that without all those loser “participants” then the stars wouldn’t have anything to compare their own excellence to, so how would they (and everyone else) know how special they are?
It could even be argued that really, it’s just a manufactured issue; an overly simple judas goat, meant to distract people from recognizing the very real, actual sources of the myriad problems with our modern society (and yes, I know that Wikipedia is not considered a reliable source. I’m the IU East 2017 Outstanding Student in English, for Pete’s sake!).
Nah, it’s probably just those damned participation trophies. We get rid of them, everything’ll be right as rain.
You (yes, you) should only read the following post if you are actually interested is finding out what I think about LGBT&Q rights and Marriage Equality. I’m going to warn you right off the bat – this is probably not going to be very funny (of course, on the other hand, it may be; I’m a pretty funny guy). If you’re just looking for a laugh, or you don’t care what I think, then just move right along. It’s okay, I won’t be hurt.
Why I’m Writing This:
More and more, lately, I find myself being questioned about why I believe many of the things I do. Frequently, it is by people who are already convinced that I’ve gone completely off the rails, and are less interested in what I think, and why, than they are in seeing how far away from the tracks they think I should be on I’ve gotten (these people, of course, generally believe I should be on the same tracks as them).
I’m not writing this for them because frankly, I think that they’re mostly just looking for a fight, not a discussion. I’m writing this for the others, those few friends I have who, although they may believe I’m wrong, still have enough respect for me to genuinely want to know why I believe all the crazy stuff that I believe, and those who don’t actually know me, but may want to know what I think.
I’m also not writing this to try to convince, or convert, anybody to my way of thinking. I’m just putting it out there in hopes that it will make people think. This will be the first of a series in which I address some of the common sources of division in our society, in hopes of, not only making you think, but of clearly and rationally stating my own position on these issues (sometimes it’s hard to make a case for something on the fly; that kind of conversation usually devolves into issues of “feelings”, without the availability of sources to back up a position or line of reasoning).
I figured I’d start with a fairly easy one; LGBT&Q Rights and Marriage Equality (gay marriage); not that it’s particularly easy, but it (to me anyway) is a little less emotionally charged.
To start with, I’m in favor of not only LGBT&Q rights (and for the sake of expediency, from here on out I’m just gonna call ’em gay rights, which I freely acknowledge is probably insensitive and politically incorrect, but I’m a lazy typist, and it’s my blog. I apologize for any hurt feelings this may cause), I’m in favor of equal rights for all. I believe in liberty.
For Reasons of Liberty:
Now, there are a lot of people, much smarter than I, who have done a lot of thinking about this stuff. Sadly, a lot of them (at least the ones I know of) are also a lot deader than I am, so I’ll just take this opportunity to share some of their thoughts with you:
John Stuart Mill, in On Liberty, said this (among other liberty-related stuff):
“the sole end for which mankind are warranted, individually or collectively in interfering with the liberty of action of any of their number, is self-protection. That the only purpose for which power can be rightfully exercised over any member of a civilized community, against his will, is to prevent harm to others . . . Over himself, over his own body and mind, the individual is sovereign.”
In other words, no harm, no foul – if it doesn’t hurt anybody else, it’s none of your business. Mill goes on to state expressly that this applies only to people, “in the maturity of their faculties,” i.e. adults who are capable of taking care of themselves. (it is a great book, full of a lot of pretty important thoughts on liberty, and what it means. I highly recommend it. You can probably find it online for free).
The preamble to the U.S. Constitution states:
“We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.”
The parts about establishing justice, securing the blessings of Liberty, and providing for the common defense can be applied directly to this issue.
Justice
Being LGBT or Q is not illegal. It follows then, that in the interests of justice, they are entitled to the same civil rights as I am. Instead, states and the federal government are introducing more and more legislation designed to specifically allow discrimination against them, mostly under the guise of protecting my religious freedom which frankly, needs no defense. The Constitution is all the protection I need.
Honestly, I really feel that if your relationship with God is so tenuous that it can be irreparably harmed by baking a wedding cake or arranging some flowers for two dudes’ wedding, then you’ve probably got bigger issues that you should be working on.
Here are a couple of articles for your consideration: Washington Post and LA Times. I want to point out that the LA Times piece is from the Opinion section, and should be considered as opinion, not fact, but it is still worthy of consideration.
Liberty
It seems to me that to encroach on any citizen’s or demographic’s liberties opens the door to encroaching on the liberty of all. After all, if we can deny rights and protection to LGBT&Q folks, then that just creates a road map for how to deny them to my group or yours should they ever become unpopular.
Defence
I believe that to deny gay folks (or anyone else, for that matter) their liberty harms not only them, but our country. A few years back, when they made it legal for gay folks to serve in the military, there were a lot of people who were convinced that it would destroy our war-fighting ability. Clearly, it hasn’t. Back in my day, of course, it was illegal for gay people to serve, and then we were subjected to the namby-pamby hypocrisy of Bill Clinton’s “Don’t ask, don’t tell” policy, which basically said that gays could serve, as long as nobody knew they were gay.
The reasoning behind all that was that they were a security risk; if enemy agents found someone gay in the military, they could use that information to blackmail the gay service member into betraying classified information, or other treasonous acts. Not until 2010 did we face the fact that, if we removed the ban, we also removed the possibility of our enemies using that as leverage. By removing that ban, we actually made our country safer.
Of course, I can already hear the cries of “think of the children! We’ve got to protect the children!” I agree, we need to protect children; just not from gay folks. We need to protect them from pedophiles – there’s a difference, and here’s a link to a very informative paper on the subject: Facts About Homosexuality and Child Molestation. In case you didn’t take the time to read it, it basically cites a whole lot of studies which found no link between homosexuality and molesting children. The overwhelming majority of child molesters are just that – child molesters, with no sexual interest in adults of either sex.
For Reasons of Humanity:
To deny gay folks equal rights is to deny them their humanity; it tells them that they are less than fully human. Think about the damage that does to a person. To be told that your life is worth less than others, every day, in hundreds, if not thousands, of ways, both direct and indirect. That’s what happens every time a gay person’s partner is denied access to their hospital room because they’re “not family.” When they are rejected by society, by their own family. when they’re openly mocked, and all too frequently humiliated, beaten, and even killed. In fact, gay folks are way more likely to be the victims of hate crimes. Here’s a very informative NY Times article with links to FBI and Justice Departments stats and reports.
When they’re denied the right to marry, they are denied the same rights as straight folks, which seems even more ridiculous in these days of disposable marriages.
I had a good friend, who disagrees with me on a lot of these issues, ask me, “Why do they have to call it marriage?” The answer is simple; for the same reason that “Separate but Equal” didn’t work out for black folks.
I’ve never understood the idea that the existence of gay marriage somehow invalidates my own; the only people who can invalidate my marriage are me, and my wife, the long-suffering and wonderfully forgiving Jess. Two dudes or two chicks being married has no more effect on my marriage than two Muslims, or two Hindus, or two Catholics, or two Atheists, for that matter.
That same friend, who is a much better Christian, and human being, than me, brought up the biblical “marriage is between one man and one woman” argument. I countered that marriage in the bible often is one man and one woman, but it is also one man and two women (Jacob, Leah, & Rachel), one man and many women (Solomon), and apparently allowances were made for one man and one woman + one didn’t-have-any-choice-in-the-matter slave girl (Abraham, Sarah, and Hagar), just to name a few popular biblical variations on marriage. For that matter, were Adam and Eve even technically married?
I also don’t buy that whole “pastors will be forced to perform gay marriages against their will!” argument. Neither does Travis Weber, Director of the Center for Religious Liberty, a part of the Family Research Council, as conservative a bunch as you’re likely to find. He explains it much better than I could in this article, going into a lot of detail on the Constitutional protections for the clergy. He does, of course, only say that it’s not likely, and that it will probably be challenged in the courts, but what isn’t?
For Reasons of Religion:
I am a Christian. Now I know that there’s a lot of stuff in there that pretty clearly says don’t do gay stuff (at least as far as men are concerned. Oddly enough, women seem to have received a pass on this, perhaps to make up for all the other stuff they weren’t allowed to do), especially in Leviticus. However, there’s a lot of stuff in Leviticus that we no longer worry about. Things like: eating shellfish (Lev. 11:10-12), eating pork (Lev. 11:7,8), eating rabbit (Lev. 11:6), a whole chapter on female purification after childbirth (Lev. 12), and mistreating aliens (Lev. 19:33, 34) (of course, that’s a whole other post – bet you can’t wait), and a whole bunch of other stuff.
Now, I’m not being facetious (at least not too facetious), and I don’t want to turn this into a whole religious argument. Anyone who’s read any of my stuff can tell you that I’m not much of a theologian.
What I think, as a Christian, is that it is our duty to spread the word to everyone that God loves them, and spread the good news of his Grace and forgiveness. Jesus said that the greatest commandment was to love God, and that the second greatest was to love one another. I’m pretty sure he meant that to be pretty much all-inclusive.
As far as is it possible for gay folks to be Christian, I believe it is. I know that in my little country church, there is gluttony, gossip, trouble-making, foul-mouthed taking-of-the-Lord’s-name-in-vain, pridefulness, lack of forgiveness, pettiness, anger, sloth, smoking, and drinking, pretty much the whole gamut of sin, and that’s just me. If the body is supposed to be a temple, then mine is the temple of doom. That’s why I’m there; I need Jesus. They might too, and, if I behave toward them, or treat them, in a way that pushes them farther from Jesus, then I’m gonna have to answer for that, and I’ve already got enough to answer for.
Anyway, that’s what I think, and I also think I’ve beaten this dead horse enough for now. I welcome your opinions and comments on this, even if you don’t agree with me. Like I said, I don’t expect you to.
Life is weird, uncertain, and, more often than not, annoying. We all expect a certain amount of troubles, trials, and travails, but we generally expect to get through them and, we also expect a certain amount of calm after the storm ends. Not a lot, but at least enough time to catch our breath. Sometimes (usually) though, the universe and powers that be have other plans.
Take Tucker for example: Tucker is the name we’ve given to the newest addition to our apparently-endlessly-growing furry family. He’s a little beagle who turned up at our house last week; rail-thin from hunger, with claws so long they’d turned sideways, and with a pretty unbearable stench. He’d clearly been on his own for a while, and was equally clearly not good at it.
Now, both I and my wife, the lovely and compassionate Jess, both immediately realized, and verbally agreed that the last thing we needed was another dog. We’ve already got four dogs, five if you count Ralph the compound dog, and two of them were strays who were dumped. We’ve done our bit for the homeless dog population of Wayne county.
We both stated this emphatically, and with great conviction, and then I opened the gate and let him in, and Jess took him downstairs and gave him a bath and clipped his nails, and I fixed him a bowl of food. What can I say? We’re both soft touches when it comes to sad strays (I’m not complaining, that’s actually how I got Jess to take me in).
We both agreed however, that we weren’t keeping him. I got on the computer to put an ad in the paper, something that the local paper used to do for free. Guess what? Not any more! So, we called the animal shelter to see if anyone had called about a missing beagle.
Finally, we found a guy willing to take Tucker, and after a couple days with us, Tucker went to his new home. At the new home, he wasn’t allowed in the house, and was on a chain, which, apparently, he didn’t care for. This last Saturday, Tucker returned to us, just as smelly as before, but with a serious case of the runs added on.
Since the guy who had taken him never came looking for him, we figured he probably wasn’t all that attached to Tucker anyway, so we’ve sort of adopted Tucker (theoretically temporarily) while we look for a better permanent home for him.
Tucker was thrilled. He’s a timid little guy, and spent most of the first couple of days he was with us crying and panicking anytime Jess or I got up and moved around. Fortunately, Jess and I lead a fairly sedentary lifestyle, so he settled in pretty well. He learned the hard way to stay away from Elsie when she’s eating (his nose is healing nicely, by the way), and was actually starting to want to play with Mattie and Dude (who are kind of over-enthusiastic and scared the crap out of Tucker initially).
Yep, Tucker really thought he’d landed on his feet. The storm had passed, and he was safe. He’d found people to take care of him, other kids to play with, plenty of food, and a comfortable, warm home. Life was looking up. It was going to be nothing but kibble and fun forever!
Until yesterday. Yesterday, Tucker got no breakfast, new dad took him for a ride in the truck and left him with new friends. He wasn’t really thrilled about all this, and his trepidation proved to be justified when his new friends stuck him with a needle and he dozed off to wake up with no balls!
Talk about the universe yanking the rug out from under you. Actually it wouldn’t have been so bad if it had only been a rug. Then, to add insult to injury, new dad brought him home, and put this stupid cone on him so he couldn’t even kiss his own boo-boo (although frankly, “boo-boo” doesn’t really suit that sort of soul-crushing injury, does it? It’s not a skinned knee, or even a nipped nose).
Tucker is clearly less than thrilled with life’s current vicissitudes.
He spent most of yesterday afternoon just standing in one place for a while, looking sad. Then, he’d walk around a little bit, until the cone hit something, and he’d just stand there for a while. He spent about 30 minutes with his cone pressed up against my leg.
He seemed to think that the cone was a punishment for something. Think about that. He’s already had his balls cut off – through no fault of his own – and now he has to wear this embarrassing thing. He is one bummed little guy. The final blow came last night. He fell asleep standing up and fell over, which apparently brought an instant, and painful reminder of just how bad his day had been.
Does this cone make me look stupid? This was Tucker’s main activity yesterday.
He seems to be doing a little better today. His tail is wagging a little bit, but he’s clearly still not digging the cone.
Which brings me back to us (you and me, that is). We’ve all had similar experiences, when things are terrible, everything is going wrong, and there’s just no way things can get any worse. Then, just when we think we see a light at the end of the tunnel, it turns out to be an oncoming train. It’s sometimes even worse, when we think we’ve made it, and turn around to assess the past, to try to glean some meaning from our suffering, so we never even see the train coming.
I got some bad news from a friend of mine today, and I didn’t know what to tell him, other than I was sorry to hear it, and some lame comment about how I’ve found life to be largely just an ongoing source of failures, embarrassments, and humiliations, punctuated sporadically by minor personal triumphs, whiskey, and sex (which actually counts as a personal triumph in my book), and that sometimes the best you can do is to learn to embrace the awkward stupidity that is life (this may be why very few people ever ask me for advice, counsel, or comfort).
I know that usually, in my experience anyway, that feeling that I’ve stuck the landing on something is almost immediately followed by a usually very public faceplant. It just seems inevitable. However, I take comfort in the fact that, just like (no matter how much he fails to understand it, for very understandable reasons)Tucker has the extremely humane and compassionate Jess (and also me) looking out for him, I myself have, not only Jess, but an even more infinitely compassionate owner (not to get all spiritually/religiousy on you, but it’s what I believe)looking out for me.
No matter who you are, life is going to throw a lot of crap at you. Some of it happens for a reason, and some of it’s just bad luck. The trick, I think, is to learn to laugh at it (as much as possible), to be grateful for the good things, and to remember that, no matter how bad it gets, at least you’ve still got your balls (hey, listen, if you haven’t learned by now that you shouldn’t look to me for life-advice or general wisdom/philosophy of any kind, then it’s high time you did).
