Recently heard about a mother of 7 in Massachusetts who is afraid to leave her house or let her children play outside because gay people are out there.
Massachusetts is one of the states which has formally recognized gay marriage, FYI.
Essentially, this woman complains that because she votes and pays her taxes, she should have the ability to influence her community as she sees fit.
Only problem with that logic is the gays in the neighborhood ALSO vote and pay taxes, so whose "as I see fit" gets more weight?
The whole situation basically falls to a simple statement:
Older people who grew up with a specific paradigm of the status quo cannot and will not admit that the status quo has changed.
This has been the case since the dawn of humanity, whether it's the old man who preferred being cold because a young man discovered fire or the old man who thinks only a man and a woman should be able to marry or have any romantic relationship whatsoever because a young man decided to be honest with himself and find a nice boyfriend.
As has also always been the case, there are exceptions to the above ageistic blanket statement.
There were old men more than willing to learn how to make fire.
There were young men who thought the stubborn old men knew better than the idealistic young man with his talk of cooked meat and a warmer cave in winter.
Ian McKellen is 72, yet openly professes his self-awareness and self-honesty.
However, for the seeming majority, the only solution is to complain and complain and try to violate others' rights and get in the way of the evolution of human society.
At least until they die out.
Which the old bigots will, and their children and grandchildren will be raised on a paradigm of the status quo different from them, just as the bigots were raised on a different paradigm than THEIR parents and grandparents.
And the beat goes on...
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Friday, September 16, 2011
Attraction
“Yo dude! Come join the séance, man.” Tweaker waved me over to the circle of couches in OCCC’s main corridor. The late August sun blazed through the massive windows to sear my eyelids as Bobby moved his backpack to make room.
“Welcome to the loser’s circle, the divine nothingness, the black hole of higher education,” said Bobby. I tossed my stuff on the floor.
“Ya’ll talking about us, or O-Trip in general?”
“Hey man, if the brochures are to be believed, we’re one and the same.” Tweaker successfully achieved an even deeper slouch into the recesses of his chair.
“Since when do you pay attention to paperwork? You barely got your application and enrollment done yesterday.” I fished a Reese’s from the depths of my bag. Bobby readjusted his meditation position.
“It is not the moment of an action which gives it meaning, but the will with which it is accomplished. In the end, all we have is the ability to act, and the will to act deliberately.”
“Bleh. Bobby found Buddha this summer. Too bad the fat guy’s just another creation of the wealthy to keep the poor underfoot while they march toward a one-world government.” Tweaker produced a cigarette inhaler from his denim vest, inhaling harder than the recommended usage. He noticed my attention. “This piece of shit is the only thing I can have in my mouth around here. Doesn’t fucking matter that I’ve never smoked a cig in my life.”
“Yeah, but life would be too easy if they made an inhaler shaped like a joint.” I started on my second Reese’s cup. I found myself tempted to ask what Tweaker did with all his free time over the last three months of transition from high school to college, but it seemed redundant given the inhaler protruding from his lips. Bobby bounced out of his reverie and chair.
“So what’s your first class?” he asked from the floor.
“Psych. I’ve heard the prof’s a total bore. Some old guy more obsessed with proving Freud wrong than actually getting his students to learn anything.”
“Total drag, man.” Tweaker hopped out of his chair. “Anybody else bored as all hell?”
“Yeah. Still have an hour before class. Wanna head to the courtyard for a smoke?” I grabbed a pack of menthols from my bag. Bobby hopped up and scooped up his in a single motion.
“I desire to inhale the ecstasy of the universe, but dammit I’ve been craving one of those all day!”
A slight breeze welcomed us onto the dry turf of the courtyard, tiny green weeds pushing up to look grassier than the grass. Bobby and I lit up as Tweaker continued to breathe straight through his inhaler.
“Ya’ll have another one to spare?” A voice behind me made me turn to see a dream come true. A tidal wave of auburn hair cascaded over bare shoulders and a purple tank top which barely contained her anatomy, to say nothing of concealing anything, down to tight jeans and matching purple flip-flops.
“Er…um…yeah, sure.” It took me way too many tries to get another cig from the pack, my hands shaking as she leaned in to take it from my fingers with her teeth after I forgot to move to hand it to her.
“So, you new here?” Her voice flowed like satin on satin. My nose caught her fiery sweet scent on the breeze, blocking out the smoky smell of our cigarettes.
“Uh, yeah. First day.” Yeah, that was eloquent. Keep that up and you’ll be in her pants, comparing tampon brands. She laughed.
“Oh good, mine too. My first class starts in about forty-five minutes.”
“Really? Mine too.” Great, we have as much common ground as two people in the drive-thru at Wendy’s. Bobby, who had materialized on the other side of the courtyard, called over.
“Hey Jeremy, we’re gonna bail. Have to get Tweaker’s books before he forgets again.”
“Okay, see ya’ll later.” I waved to them. Tweaker waved back with a Cheshire grin.
“Good luck, bro! Good hunting!” I knocked the ashes off my cig and took another pull. God, why couldn’t he have just left? I’m about to crap myself as it is. The sound of exhaled cigarette smoke brought me back to the moment.
“So, Jeremy, why are you here? Seems like everybody has a reason for coming to O-Trip.” Her satin-on-satin voice nearly overwhelmed me again.
“I sucked in high school. I want to go to OU and major in psychology, but I can’t until my GPA’s higher.” I kept the cig in my lips, undecided if I should keep my hands in my pockets or rub them together, all in an attempt to stop the shaking.
“Really? I want to switch to OU too. They have great opportunities over there, but for now I’m stuck here.” She took a final pull at her cig, then extinguished it in the dirt. “I’m Rebecca, by the way. What attracts you to psych?” I followed suit.
“I like understanding what makes people tick. Plus I’m interested in the mechanics of attraction.” I couldn’t help but keep eye contact as I spoke. Ah hell, did I just get direct and blunt? All the experts I’ve read said direct equals directly rejected! My anxiety kept me so busy I didn’t hear her response until the second time. “What?”
“I said, I’d like to explore those mechanics with you sometime.” The satin-on-satin danced around in my brain. Rebecca moved so close I could feel her breath on my cheek. The menthol-flavored cig smell made my nose tingle, melding with her natural scent to slam into the pleasure center of my brain like a wrecking ball. “How about dinner tonight?”
Really? Are you serious? I wanted to shout. Reason took over. Play it cool, play it cool. “Sounds great! Uh, let me give you my number.” Two simultaneous phone deployments later, I felt more excited than I had in years, almost too excited to notice Rebecca moving in close again. Her scent overwhelmed me, but this time she didn’t stop moving until our lips had met and parted. She glanced at her watch.
“Oops, my class starts in ten minutes.” She moved toward the doors back inside. “See you tonight, Jeremy!” I waved back like a helpless fool. First day of college and I already have a date! Her words about class took a second to filter through, and I barely made it to Psychology with three minutes to spare.
Chatting with a few acquaintances, I saw the professor enter in my peripheral vision. Given what I’d heard, I didn’t pay him much attention as everyone got their spirals or laptops out to start taking notes. Not until the words “Welcome to Introduction to Psychology” flowed across the room like satin on satin did I notice the tsunami of red hair, the purple tank top, and the tight jeans staring at me from the other side of the podium.
“Welcome to the loser’s circle, the divine nothingness, the black hole of higher education,” said Bobby. I tossed my stuff on the floor.
“Ya’ll talking about us, or O-Trip in general?”
“Hey man, if the brochures are to be believed, we’re one and the same.” Tweaker successfully achieved an even deeper slouch into the recesses of his chair.
“Since when do you pay attention to paperwork? You barely got your application and enrollment done yesterday.” I fished a Reese’s from the depths of my bag. Bobby readjusted his meditation position.
“It is not the moment of an action which gives it meaning, but the will with which it is accomplished. In the end, all we have is the ability to act, and the will to act deliberately.”
“Bleh. Bobby found Buddha this summer. Too bad the fat guy’s just another creation of the wealthy to keep the poor underfoot while they march toward a one-world government.” Tweaker produced a cigarette inhaler from his denim vest, inhaling harder than the recommended usage. He noticed my attention. “This piece of shit is the only thing I can have in my mouth around here. Doesn’t fucking matter that I’ve never smoked a cig in my life.”
“Yeah, but life would be too easy if they made an inhaler shaped like a joint.” I started on my second Reese’s cup. I found myself tempted to ask what Tweaker did with all his free time over the last three months of transition from high school to college, but it seemed redundant given the inhaler protruding from his lips. Bobby bounced out of his reverie and chair.
“So what’s your first class?” he asked from the floor.
“Psych. I’ve heard the prof’s a total bore. Some old guy more obsessed with proving Freud wrong than actually getting his students to learn anything.”
“Total drag, man.” Tweaker hopped out of his chair. “Anybody else bored as all hell?”
“Yeah. Still have an hour before class. Wanna head to the courtyard for a smoke?” I grabbed a pack of menthols from my bag. Bobby hopped up and scooped up his in a single motion.
“I desire to inhale the ecstasy of the universe, but dammit I’ve been craving one of those all day!”
A slight breeze welcomed us onto the dry turf of the courtyard, tiny green weeds pushing up to look grassier than the grass. Bobby and I lit up as Tweaker continued to breathe straight through his inhaler.
“Ya’ll have another one to spare?” A voice behind me made me turn to see a dream come true. A tidal wave of auburn hair cascaded over bare shoulders and a purple tank top which barely contained her anatomy, to say nothing of concealing anything, down to tight jeans and matching purple flip-flops.
“Er…um…yeah, sure.” It took me way too many tries to get another cig from the pack, my hands shaking as she leaned in to take it from my fingers with her teeth after I forgot to move to hand it to her.
“So, you new here?” Her voice flowed like satin on satin. My nose caught her fiery sweet scent on the breeze, blocking out the smoky smell of our cigarettes.
“Uh, yeah. First day.” Yeah, that was eloquent. Keep that up and you’ll be in her pants, comparing tampon brands. She laughed.
“Oh good, mine too. My first class starts in about forty-five minutes.”
“Really? Mine too.” Great, we have as much common ground as two people in the drive-thru at Wendy’s. Bobby, who had materialized on the other side of the courtyard, called over.
“Hey Jeremy, we’re gonna bail. Have to get Tweaker’s books before he forgets again.”
“Okay, see ya’ll later.” I waved to them. Tweaker waved back with a Cheshire grin.
“Good luck, bro! Good hunting!” I knocked the ashes off my cig and took another pull. God, why couldn’t he have just left? I’m about to crap myself as it is. The sound of exhaled cigarette smoke brought me back to the moment.
“So, Jeremy, why are you here? Seems like everybody has a reason for coming to O-Trip.” Her satin-on-satin voice nearly overwhelmed me again.
“I sucked in high school. I want to go to OU and major in psychology, but I can’t until my GPA’s higher.” I kept the cig in my lips, undecided if I should keep my hands in my pockets or rub them together, all in an attempt to stop the shaking.
“Really? I want to switch to OU too. They have great opportunities over there, but for now I’m stuck here.” She took a final pull at her cig, then extinguished it in the dirt. “I’m Rebecca, by the way. What attracts you to psych?” I followed suit.
“I like understanding what makes people tick. Plus I’m interested in the mechanics of attraction.” I couldn’t help but keep eye contact as I spoke. Ah hell, did I just get direct and blunt? All the experts I’ve read said direct equals directly rejected! My anxiety kept me so busy I didn’t hear her response until the second time. “What?”
“I said, I’d like to explore those mechanics with you sometime.” The satin-on-satin danced around in my brain. Rebecca moved so close I could feel her breath on my cheek. The menthol-flavored cig smell made my nose tingle, melding with her natural scent to slam into the pleasure center of my brain like a wrecking ball. “How about dinner tonight?”
Really? Are you serious? I wanted to shout. Reason took over. Play it cool, play it cool. “Sounds great! Uh, let me give you my number.” Two simultaneous phone deployments later, I felt more excited than I had in years, almost too excited to notice Rebecca moving in close again. Her scent overwhelmed me, but this time she didn’t stop moving until our lips had met and parted. She glanced at her watch.
“Oops, my class starts in ten minutes.” She moved toward the doors back inside. “See you tonight, Jeremy!” I waved back like a helpless fool. First day of college and I already have a date! Her words about class took a second to filter through, and I barely made it to Psychology with three minutes to spare.
Chatting with a few acquaintances, I saw the professor enter in my peripheral vision. Given what I’d heard, I didn’t pay him much attention as everyone got their spirals or laptops out to start taking notes. Not until the words “Welcome to Introduction to Psychology” flowed across the room like satin on satin did I notice the tsunami of red hair, the purple tank top, and the tight jeans staring at me from the other side of the podium.
Monday, September 12, 2011
All Sins are Created Equal
Recently got into a discussion of whether or not some sins are worse than others.
In my opinion, the only difference between sins are their eternal vs. temporal consequences.
A man who lusts after a woman who is not his wife might experience ZERO consequences during his lifetime.
Many are able to separate fantasy from reality, and never experience negative consequences in their lives or marriages.
A man who commits murder is far more likely to experience negative consequences in the here and now, whether legal or psychological.
However, both of the above have the exact same eternal consequence: making the offenders unworthy of God's presence.
Similarly, both are equally capable of being covered (and thus blotted out) by God's grace.
It seems legalistic to me to say that some are worse than others when speaking in a spiritual context.
I have no problem with the argument when made in terms of temporal consequences, but using the eternal to make some sins seem worse than others sounds like a Dante's Inferno doctrine, with different sins (handpicked by church people, of course) leading to better or worse punishments in the hereafter.
In my opinion, the only difference between sins are their eternal vs. temporal consequences.
A man who lusts after a woman who is not his wife might experience ZERO consequences during his lifetime.
Many are able to separate fantasy from reality, and never experience negative consequences in their lives or marriages.
A man who commits murder is far more likely to experience negative consequences in the here and now, whether legal or psychological.
However, both of the above have the exact same eternal consequence: making the offenders unworthy of God's presence.
Similarly, both are equally capable of being covered (and thus blotted out) by God's grace.
It seems legalistic to me to say that some are worse than others when speaking in a spiritual context.
I have no problem with the argument when made in terms of temporal consequences, but using the eternal to make some sins seem worse than others sounds like a Dante's Inferno doctrine, with different sins (handpicked by church people, of course) leading to better or worse punishments in the hereafter.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
The Meeting
Lisa sipped her wine. Three months of chatting with “NoteTaker145,” aka “Bobby,” about Star Wars and martial arts and how new music sucks and old TV rocks had led to this moment. She glanced at her left-wristwatch, shifting in the plush leather chair. Guillermo, six feet of adolescent epic masculinity, refilled her wine glass and asked if she was ready to order for the fifteenth time. Lisa waved him off again. Raise that boy’s tip another ten percent. A guitar started up somewhere off in the hazy darkness. Great, Lisa thought, mood music for sitting alone. She nibbled at the lasagna fritta she had hoped to share with her date. A blonde waterfall cascading over a backless dress caught the light from the table lamp. Gina whirled on the arm of her latest man-toy.
“Lisa! Whoever expected to see you here?” She waved using only as much of her hand as she could while still seeming cordial. The guitar strumming grew a little louder.
“Hi, Gina. Just waiting for my date.” Lisa crossed and uncrossed her legs several times over the course of her greeting. The man-toy adjusted his cheap toupee.
“Is he late? Ya know a man’s trying to blow you off when he shows up la-“
“Honey, you’re not here to talk to Lisa.” Gina interrupted, grabbing the bundle of overinflated man-meat and steering him away. “See you later, darling!” She shoved him along back toward their table out in the gloom. Lisa returned to her glass, swirling it around hoping to conjure the frozen image she’d seen so many times during their conversations, his shock of black hair standing on end over eyes the color of the last moments of sunset. His features glimmered into her vision. The lilted tones of virtuoso guitar seemed louder than before.
“Hi! You’re here! I’d been wondering when you’d show up!” she gushed.
“Um, ma’am? I thought you might want to order this time around,” said Guillermo, reaching for his pad and pen. Lisa’s face fell to its usual halfway-cynical expression.
“Ugh. Fine, sure.” As he wandered off with pad holding order and brain holding “MORE WINE!” Lisa kept waiting for the familiar warmth on her forehead, but it seemed her lightweight alcohol tolerance had decided to grow a pair at the worst possible time: when she wanted a buzz. She glared at her glass. Not until the third bar of Freebird did she notice the guitar in the darkness to her left. A shock of black hair parted the shadows with its own midnight quality as the table lamp rebounded off glowing orbs the color of sunset.
“Now what would a lady of such refined taste be doing sitting alone on such a wonderful night?” strummed across the table following the dulcet tones. Lisa didn’t even look up from her glass.
“Waiting for the latest in true love innovation. The product was supposed to be delivered at 7. It’s now...” She glanced at her bare right wrist. “…too damn late to wait anymore. If he doesn’t show in five seconds, I’ll just have to hope to God I still have liquor at home.” Her head began to droop toward the table.
“Well I hope it gets here soon. I’d hate to see what happens when a judo black belt loses control.” Lisa popped up.
“Judo-wha?” He grinned at her. “…Bobby?” She jumped a few inches out of her seat. By the time she achieved re-entry, she had gained a glowing expression. “Well, where have you been?! I’ve been waiting for two hours!”
“Well if you knew how to read a watch, you wouldn’t have been waiting for so long!” he thundered back, his grin widening as he took her hand.
“Me?! You’re the one who dropped out of high school to start a heavy metal band! Now look where you are.” She pulled him closer.
“You know what? I don’t think this is going to work. We’re too different.” He slid closer, letting the guitar slip off his shoulder to clatter to the floor. Their noses touched.
“Yeah, we just can’t be together.” Their lips met, the first of many meetings for months and years and decades to come.
“Lisa! Whoever expected to see you here?” She waved using only as much of her hand as she could while still seeming cordial. The guitar strumming grew a little louder.
“Hi, Gina. Just waiting for my date.” Lisa crossed and uncrossed her legs several times over the course of her greeting. The man-toy adjusted his cheap toupee.
“Is he late? Ya know a man’s trying to blow you off when he shows up la-“
“Honey, you’re not here to talk to Lisa.” Gina interrupted, grabbing the bundle of overinflated man-meat and steering him away. “See you later, darling!” She shoved him along back toward their table out in the gloom. Lisa returned to her glass, swirling it around hoping to conjure the frozen image she’d seen so many times during their conversations, his shock of black hair standing on end over eyes the color of the last moments of sunset. His features glimmered into her vision. The lilted tones of virtuoso guitar seemed louder than before.
“Hi! You’re here! I’d been wondering when you’d show up!” she gushed.
“Um, ma’am? I thought you might want to order this time around,” said Guillermo, reaching for his pad and pen. Lisa’s face fell to its usual halfway-cynical expression.
“Ugh. Fine, sure.” As he wandered off with pad holding order and brain holding “MORE WINE!” Lisa kept waiting for the familiar warmth on her forehead, but it seemed her lightweight alcohol tolerance had decided to grow a pair at the worst possible time: when she wanted a buzz. She glared at her glass. Not until the third bar of Freebird did she notice the guitar in the darkness to her left. A shock of black hair parted the shadows with its own midnight quality as the table lamp rebounded off glowing orbs the color of sunset.
“Now what would a lady of such refined taste be doing sitting alone on such a wonderful night?” strummed across the table following the dulcet tones. Lisa didn’t even look up from her glass.
“Waiting for the latest in true love innovation. The product was supposed to be delivered at 7. It’s now...” She glanced at her bare right wrist. “…too damn late to wait anymore. If he doesn’t show in five seconds, I’ll just have to hope to God I still have liquor at home.” Her head began to droop toward the table.
“Well I hope it gets here soon. I’d hate to see what happens when a judo black belt loses control.” Lisa popped up.
“Judo-wha?” He grinned at her. “…Bobby?” She jumped a few inches out of her seat. By the time she achieved re-entry, she had gained a glowing expression. “Well, where have you been?! I’ve been waiting for two hours!”
“Well if you knew how to read a watch, you wouldn’t have been waiting for so long!” he thundered back, his grin widening as he took her hand.
“Me?! You’re the one who dropped out of high school to start a heavy metal band! Now look where you are.” She pulled him closer.
“You know what? I don’t think this is going to work. We’re too different.” He slid closer, letting the guitar slip off his shoulder to clatter to the floor. Their noses touched.
“Yeah, we just can’t be together.” Their lips met, the first of many meetings for months and years and decades to come.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
The Librarian
The book cart squealed as I labored to push it into position at the end of the shelf. A no-headphones-for-employees policy didn’t prevent Queen’s Greatest Hits from circulating in the cacophonous silence between my ears. Nothing like Freddie Mercury, Brian May, Roger Taylor, and John Deacon to help see the world as it really is.
Elizabeth Adler shoved Louisa May Alcott out of the way as my brain told me “I’m having such a good time. I’m having a ball.” Yeah, bullshit. Nothing would have pleased me more than to be “a shooting star, leaping through the sky like a tiger,” but shooting stars don’t have to worry about coming home to the scent of another man on their wives. I know I really fucked up our anniversary, but at least I ADMIT it. The least she could do is quit inviting her guy “friends” over while I’m working and going to school and Isabel Allende pushed Sarah Addison Allen to the left. Bet V.C. Andrews feels “under pressure,” but at least it’s the pressure of an entire shelf all to herself, not the weight of an inherited wedding ring that still might MEAN something.
David Baldacci shoved Sharon out of the way around an old lady too oblivious to realize I stood there halfway out of her personal bubble. Elizabeth Becka bashed her way between Glenn Beck and Simon Beckett, all sharing the “one vision” of a communal shelf, none apparently paying rent while paying for school while paying for utilities while paying for food. A girl maybe ten years old plopped down in front of me as I leaned in to push Terri Blackstock up against Lawana Blackwell. Oh, to be young again. Seems only those older and younger get any peace these days, while my generation plows through trying to take make its place in the world as Dan Brown plowed in between Dale and Sandra. The young get taken care of, the old get taken care of, and the “young adults” had damn well better learn to take care of themselves because the young and old need taking care of! “It’s a miracle” we don’t all shoot ourselves and let the young and old go fuck themselves. Christopher and William Buckley Jr. fought for space until one of them “bit the dust,” landing a few inches shy of my foot.
I coughed as Meg Cabot bumped Adrienne Byrd around, straining against the bookend. Damned thing’s back again. My granddad won’t give me a moment’s peace about all the heart problems and diabetes and general shitty physical condition of the family tree. If “only the good die young,” my family must be a bunch of assholes. Dakota Cassidy and P.C. Cast jostled each other on the bottom shelf. Mom’s been through cancer twice, but she doesn’t go on and on about it. Two Lori Copelands moved into the empty space next to Keith Coplin. Working all day every day on less and less food had helped me lose weight, but it made my bones act funny. Early osteoporosis? Probably. Or arthritis. Or maybe it’s hypertension and my heart will just shit itself to death at this damned job. Three Clive Cusslers took up residence by force, pushing Judith Cutler down to the next shelf.
Nelson DeMille and Jude Deveraux vied for the last spot on the top shelf. These are supposed to be the days when “the sun was always shining, and we just lived for fun,” but how the hell am I supposed to live at all when pressed to the grindstone day after day? Charles Dickens and Eric Jerome Dickey pushed back and forth at each other’s spaces as they filled in, but that seems a much better prospect for the future than wasted student loans rearing up after that all-important bachelor’s degree. College had been fun these last three years. Doing it on purpose helped, as opposed to my first three years when I just ran on autopilot and others’ expectations. Hadn’t had to work so damned much until now, though, pushing a line of Tim Dorseys over to squeeze Doug Dorst against the side of the shelf.
As the last Sarah Dunant slipped into place, my watch trilled into my attention. Five minutes to escape velocity. Fifty to class time. I pushed the creaking cart back through the aisles of literature toward its final temporary resting place, yearning to confine myself within an LCD monitor and a pair of earbuds. To dream of breaking free of the mundane, to soar on imagination and leave harsh reality behind. Or just turn some pixel-men into oozing masses of pixel-blood. Ya know, whatever works.
The final getthefuckoutwe’reclosed PA message echoed off desks and bookcases and ceiling tile. I shambled out the front door into the night, my slowly-tearing backpack bouncing on one shoulder as my textbooks complained at the presence of gravity. What do I want? To never waste another second steeped in this shit. To do something better with my life than sink into a dull routine and occupy space ‘till my heart explodes.
And somewhere in there to ditch the bullshit and find someplace in my own head to get lost for awhile. Good thing it’s time for class.
*Any resemblance in the preceding writing to any actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental*
Elizabeth Adler shoved Louisa May Alcott out of the way as my brain told me “I’m having such a good time. I’m having a ball.” Yeah, bullshit. Nothing would have pleased me more than to be “a shooting star, leaping through the sky like a tiger,” but shooting stars don’t have to worry about coming home to the scent of another man on their wives. I know I really fucked up our anniversary, but at least I ADMIT it. The least she could do is quit inviting her guy “friends” over while I’m working and going to school and Isabel Allende pushed Sarah Addison Allen to the left. Bet V.C. Andrews feels “under pressure,” but at least it’s the pressure of an entire shelf all to herself, not the weight of an inherited wedding ring that still might MEAN something.
David Baldacci shoved Sharon out of the way around an old lady too oblivious to realize I stood there halfway out of her personal bubble. Elizabeth Becka bashed her way between Glenn Beck and Simon Beckett, all sharing the “one vision” of a communal shelf, none apparently paying rent while paying for school while paying for utilities while paying for food. A girl maybe ten years old plopped down in front of me as I leaned in to push Terri Blackstock up against Lawana Blackwell. Oh, to be young again. Seems only those older and younger get any peace these days, while my generation plows through trying to take make its place in the world as Dan Brown plowed in between Dale and Sandra. The young get taken care of, the old get taken care of, and the “young adults” had damn well better learn to take care of themselves because the young and old need taking care of! “It’s a miracle” we don’t all shoot ourselves and let the young and old go fuck themselves. Christopher and William Buckley Jr. fought for space until one of them “bit the dust,” landing a few inches shy of my foot.
I coughed as Meg Cabot bumped Adrienne Byrd around, straining against the bookend. Damned thing’s back again. My granddad won’t give me a moment’s peace about all the heart problems and diabetes and general shitty physical condition of the family tree. If “only the good die young,” my family must be a bunch of assholes. Dakota Cassidy and P.C. Cast jostled each other on the bottom shelf. Mom’s been through cancer twice, but she doesn’t go on and on about it. Two Lori Copelands moved into the empty space next to Keith Coplin. Working all day every day on less and less food had helped me lose weight, but it made my bones act funny. Early osteoporosis? Probably. Or arthritis. Or maybe it’s hypertension and my heart will just shit itself to death at this damned job. Three Clive Cusslers took up residence by force, pushing Judith Cutler down to the next shelf.
Nelson DeMille and Jude Deveraux vied for the last spot on the top shelf. These are supposed to be the days when “the sun was always shining, and we just lived for fun,” but how the hell am I supposed to live at all when pressed to the grindstone day after day? Charles Dickens and Eric Jerome Dickey pushed back and forth at each other’s spaces as they filled in, but that seems a much better prospect for the future than wasted student loans rearing up after that all-important bachelor’s degree. College had been fun these last three years. Doing it on purpose helped, as opposed to my first three years when I just ran on autopilot and others’ expectations. Hadn’t had to work so damned much until now, though, pushing a line of Tim Dorseys over to squeeze Doug Dorst against the side of the shelf.
As the last Sarah Dunant slipped into place, my watch trilled into my attention. Five minutes to escape velocity. Fifty to class time. I pushed the creaking cart back through the aisles of literature toward its final temporary resting place, yearning to confine myself within an LCD monitor and a pair of earbuds. To dream of breaking free of the mundane, to soar on imagination and leave harsh reality behind. Or just turn some pixel-men into oozing masses of pixel-blood. Ya know, whatever works.
The final getthefuckoutwe’reclosed PA message echoed off desks and bookcases and ceiling tile. I shambled out the front door into the night, my slowly-tearing backpack bouncing on one shoulder as my textbooks complained at the presence of gravity. What do I want? To never waste another second steeped in this shit. To do something better with my life than sink into a dull routine and occupy space ‘till my heart explodes.
And somewhere in there to ditch the bullshit and find someplace in my own head to get lost for awhile. Good thing it’s time for class.
*Any resemblance in the preceding writing to any actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental*
Thursday, August 25, 2011
No me gusta mi clase...random rant
Okay seriously, there should be an application process, peer review, and student review before a person is allowed to teach a creative writing class.
This...lady...teaching my class is so deep in the "high literature" camp she probably can't see past her own syllabus to anything any of her students have written.
Some random notes taken during tonight's first class meeting:
-Overly sensitive to grittier content
-MAJOR ego issues!
-English teacher trying to teach creative writing
-No revisions? Are you kidding? What's the point of workshopping then?
-Required to write material FOR THIS CLASS, and no revisions allowed. EPIC BS!
-Are you trying to kill the rainforest with all this required printing? USE THE INTERNET!
Okay, so MAYBE I've been spoiled with my previous creative writing electives, but GOOD GOD this woman seems out to destroy the self-esteem and interest in writing in every single one of us!
"We don't write GENRES in this class!"
...someone needs to be reminded that REALISTIC FICTION is a genre.
I should know, I work at a library.
And if you're going to have the class do a writing exercise, don't do one yourself!
It puts out the vibe that you have to show us all up to maintain your own self-esteem.
The other vibe generated is that nothing less than the EXACT way she writes will earn an acceptable grade, even though its common knowledge among anyone who's ever taken a Literature class that short stories can be character-, setting-, OR plot-based.
Not simply the first, now and forever amen.
Trying to do ALL of the writing and ALL of the reading for this class AND my other elective WHILE working 30 hours a week es gonna be una beech.
Makes me even more bitter about Video Game Writing being cancelled, since if it hadn't I wouldn't even BE in this currently-hated class.
This...lady...teaching my class is so deep in the "high literature" camp she probably can't see past her own syllabus to anything any of her students have written.
Some random notes taken during tonight's first class meeting:
-Overly sensitive to grittier content
-MAJOR ego issues!
-English teacher trying to teach creative writing
-No revisions? Are you kidding? What's the point of workshopping then?
-Required to write material FOR THIS CLASS, and no revisions allowed. EPIC BS!
-Are you trying to kill the rainforest with all this required printing? USE THE INTERNET!
Okay, so MAYBE I've been spoiled with my previous creative writing electives, but GOOD GOD this woman seems out to destroy the self-esteem and interest in writing in every single one of us!
"We don't write GENRES in this class!"
...someone needs to be reminded that REALISTIC FICTION is a genre.
I should know, I work at a library.
And if you're going to have the class do a writing exercise, don't do one yourself!
It puts out the vibe that you have to show us all up to maintain your own self-esteem.
The other vibe generated is that nothing less than the EXACT way she writes will earn an acceptable grade, even though its common knowledge among anyone who's ever taken a Literature class that short stories can be character-, setting-, OR plot-based.
Not simply the first, now and forever amen.
Trying to do ALL of the writing and ALL of the reading for this class AND my other elective WHILE working 30 hours a week es gonna be una beech.
Makes me even more bitter about Video Game Writing being cancelled, since if it hadn't I wouldn't even BE in this currently-hated class.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Pop-Culture Fantasy
No, not marrying Kim Kardashian on the set of Friends.
I've been reading the first book of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel series, and I can't help but be distracted at the hoard of references to popular culture which keep popping up.
BlueTooth, iPod, Shrek, Batman Begins....all within a few paragraphs.
Now I'm not specifically criticizing the Flamel books.
In a way it'd be nice if this setup was limited to a single series.
But one of my favorite fantasy series, P.C. and Kristin Cast's House of Night, keeps throwing in pop culture as well.
It's not as prevalent, given that much of the action takes place in a somewhat archaic setting.
Of course the rarity means when Jack starts singing along to the Glee version (may they suffer a thousand hells) of "Defying Gravity" on his iPod, it like those in the Flamel books does nothing but DISTRACT from what's actually going on.
I didn't get nearly emotional enough over Jack's death two paragraphs later because I was still thinking "There's a GLEE version of Defying Gravity? What the hell?"
Pop culture distracted me, the reader, from what is supposed to be a tragic scene that leaves the reader pissed-off-as-all-hell at the series' antagonist.
Plus all this up-to-the-minute stuff means that within ten years all of it will be DATED.
Rowling was able to slip a reference in Harry Potter (to PlayStation) without it distracting because 9/10 of the series happens in a technology-less environment.
Thus the HP books have a much greater chance of achieving "timelessness" than fantasy books which use pop culture left and right.
On a side note, how long does it take for a book or series to achieve timelessness?
Does it have to survive long enough to be public domain before it's considered a "classic"?
I've been reading the first book of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel series, and I can't help but be distracted at the hoard of references to popular culture which keep popping up.
BlueTooth, iPod, Shrek, Batman Begins....all within a few paragraphs.
Now I'm not specifically criticizing the Flamel books.
In a way it'd be nice if this setup was limited to a single series.
But one of my favorite fantasy series, P.C. and Kristin Cast's House of Night, keeps throwing in pop culture as well.
It's not as prevalent, given that much of the action takes place in a somewhat archaic setting.
Of course the rarity means when Jack starts singing along to the Glee version (may they suffer a thousand hells) of "Defying Gravity" on his iPod, it like those in the Flamel books does nothing but DISTRACT from what's actually going on.
I didn't get nearly emotional enough over Jack's death two paragraphs later because I was still thinking "There's a GLEE version of Defying Gravity? What the hell?"
Pop culture distracted me, the reader, from what is supposed to be a tragic scene that leaves the reader pissed-off-as-all-hell at the series' antagonist.
Plus all this up-to-the-minute stuff means that within ten years all of it will be DATED.
Rowling was able to slip a reference in Harry Potter (to PlayStation) without it distracting because 9/10 of the series happens in a technology-less environment.
Thus the HP books have a much greater chance of achieving "timelessness" than fantasy books which use pop culture left and right.
On a side note, how long does it take for a book or series to achieve timelessness?
Does it have to survive long enough to be public domain before it's considered a "classic"?
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