While hanging out over the weekend, PBR-ing and vodka cran-ing myself into the kind of pleasant low-grade slurry only possible at a party where you don't know anyone (although everyone I met was great, total bonus!), I witnessed a cross section of ladies way bent out of shape over THIS more than a little controversial article.
For those who vomited in bulimic rage upon just reading the title, allow me to summarize: this is an Ask Men Top 10 List of ways to tell your oblivious girlfriend she's ballooned into a big 'ole fattaaaaay. Each suggestion sneakily avoids saying the words, "I've noticed you've gained weight", since the girl will already be WAY too fat to hear over how fat she is. Therefore, the author offers some more creative alternatives to talking. These include: loosening the screws on a household chair so that she breaks it, buying her clothes that are way too small, feeding her smaller portions as though she were a chubby pet, and a variety of other shame-based interventions aimed to humiliate her into maximum weight loss with minimum tact or sensitivity on the guy's part. Not that men are known as the reigning champions of sensitivity, but fucking seriously. Breaking her chair?! AND, how does this article manage to skip addressing how you are supposed to manage not laughing your ass off when she breaks it? I'm laughing just thinking about it, and you know that would totally give your master plot away.
Look. I know what you're going to say: you just cannot tell a girl she's gained weight. Never ever ever. And if you're barred from coming out and saying it because you don't want to be that asshole, what are you supposed to do?
Here: you have 2 options. Choose one.
1) Dump her. If it's bothering you to the extent you're contemplating chair-icide, it's probably not because she's "fat", if that's even the case. I mean, it might be. But it's probably because she leaves the cap off the toothpaste, listens to Tori Amos, threatens suicide every other day, can't stop texting with hearts and won't bang you anymore. The relationship sucks and you just don't like her. And you wouldn't like her if she was thin, either. There's no diet for crazy or bitchy. So do both of you a solid and break up as gracefully as possible without EVEN HAVING TO MENTION THE WEIGHT ISSUE. It's irrelevant.
2) Actually enjoy her personality, yet remain concerned and weirded out by weight gain unexplainable by a medical condition or the carrying of your child? If you truly feel the situation is dire enough that you MUST say something (although the article imagines it's impossible, you may not even mind that she gained weight) the ugly truth is that this calls for you to grow some balls and have an uncomfortable conversation. But you know what? You'll learn to talk to each other honestly and hopefully how to say what's on your mind in a sensitive, supportive way.
Key Word Here: SUPPORTIVE. Because, you're in a relationship with this person. You care about/love/enjoy banging them, theoretically. So you want to be kind to them. Right? Am I insane? Seriously, you can confront anyone - of either gender - about all sorts of icky troubles if you bother to do it kindly and thought about what to say for a few minutes. It would be easy to bash men here, but the truth is women don't do any better. Men may become passive aggressive douche-fucks, but women nag and hit below the belt. And neither are helpful.
Really, this issue is as old as dirt - probably as old as the entire concept of commitment itself. It's just as upsetting to enter into a long-term relationship thinking your lady is the sweetest, most accommodating darling ever, only to uncover an overabundance of daddy issues, violent bouts of PMS and a tendency to drink herself unconscious. And so, otherwise completely boorish article, here I side with you. But only here. Because the rest of my gripe surrounds how fucking misogynistic it is to completely ignore the hypocrisy of who's waving the fatty flag. Guys are hardly excluded from starting out supremely fuckable and devolving into I-guess-if-I-was-bored-enough. If Ask Men is going to come up with this, "Ask Women" had better get on the Top 10 ways to Insinuate Your Man Is Suddenly Shaped Like A Wine Barrel With Arms, or Has A Tiny, Unsatisfying Dick.
And all 10 better involve poster board, excel spreadsheets and Power Point presentations.
Subtly be damned.
P.S.: You could always send her a link to this, too.
7/13/2009
7/11/2009
Last Paper I Ever Wrote For School.
A "reflection paper" (gag) on Love's Executioner, By Irvin Yalom. I reread it in recent light of how fumbling/bumbling I'm feeling in general, but especially at this new job.
I was 7 years old, and a neighborhood friend of mine called me because her mom gave her kitten away for reasons either my friend or her mother were incapable of properly explaining. I gave up trying to figure out why pretty quickly. Initially, I probed her for reasons – are you grounded is it temporary was the kitten sick was she mad at you was she -
“I’ll never ever ever ever see him again!” she only sobbed, in that way children sob – so hard and woeful it could break you in two – and it only got worse as I asked her more questions. So I shut up. And my mom was sitting next to me, folding hot laundry, rapt and anxious, twisted up ever since she’d answered the phone to discover a warbling voice asking for me on the other end.
“Oh no,” I said, twisting my fingers into the thick phone cord. I felt terrible for her, in addition to lost as to why she had called me and just what had she expected me to do about it.
But words came to me on their own.
“You might never see him again,” I said, “But think of all the happy times you had with him. He’s still somewhere, and he’s happy and okay.” Then I told her if my mom took my puppy away I would cry too. And I don’t quite remember what else I said, but she did stop crying and eventually began to agree with my line of reasoning. We talked some more, she calmed down some more. No, I don’t think he’s dead. Yes, cats probably remember their owners, but I don’t know if they see in color. Mom, do they see in color? And when I hung up with her, I distinctly remember turning to see my mom’s overemotional expression; the kind swimming in maternal pride larger than she could contain. She hugged me fiercely and said, “That was a very kind thing you just did.” And I knew that it was, but much more than anything else I remember my confusion, coupled with a feeling of peculiar and overwhelming influence. It was unsettling, which is most likely why I still remember it.
Not to seem too creepy and prophetic, but I think I remember it as my first experience truly emotionally affecting someone else on purpose. And although the content of the memory isn’t that sensational, I had felt the magnitude of turning someone’s mood around, and so easily. And it both made me happy and totally freaked me out.
Now as a new therapist, it still does.
Which is weird, because therapy itself had been a part of my life before I’d even taken that phone call. My parents had parked me down on a couch as a six year old, commanding my counselor to fix, please fix this child as though I were a broken dishwasher. But I’d joined them in that plea – I was miserable and afraid of everything. I worried constantly my parents would die or leave me, that I would be abducted or lost, that the world around me would liquefy at any moment. The worries were compounded by guilt because they scared my parents. And after having recently been peeled from underneath a desk during a fire drill and officially banned from watching the news, it seemed they were only growing.
Lucky for me, an eternally patient and understanding lady worked with me and I got better. And I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I'm likely trying to pay her back in some cosmic way by following in her work. Since I stopped seeing her as a child, with a brief return as a teen, I’ve checked in with her every few years to say hey, and in recent months I've been tapping her for advice about career direction. I called her a few weeks ago for some South Florida networking information, and she said, in a very pleasant and revelatory tone, “Oh my God, when I met you, you were practically a baby. It’s so weird that you’re in the field now.” And I wondered if she doesn’t have that same creepy, influential feeling knowing her work with me likely lead me to this profession.
Reading Love’s Executioner, though filled with stories far darker than lost kittens, helped me somewhat clarify and verbalize the creepy feeling. Although a hugely accomplished psychiatrist at the top of his field to the extent he is writing How-To’s about therapy, Yalom's thoughts are the same that came to me during that phone call. What if I make even this worse? Why did she have to call me? Or, my favorite, I don’t even like this person. And then, as though magically, he figures out where to go - and it works, or it doesn’t. Really, I was just shocked to read how often the most seminal figure in therapy sits wondering, oh shit, now what do I do?
And that’s what I liked most about it. Although I have a very tough time envisioning him as anything beyond the stoic paragon of therapy from the videos we watched in skills, turns out his judgment is just as porous and fallible as anyone’s in this bizarre and often terrifying profession. It’s subjective and draining and warped and gray and I don’t know why I or anyone else is doing it sometimes – but if he can still have the same 7 year old doubts I had even with his countless credentials, I can only conclude I'm probably doing all right.
It is nice to be reminded I really don’t have to repair every frayed kite-string in my head that leads to some illogical belief about myself or the world. I don’t have to be on top of every neurosis or have perfect relationships with everyone in my life to be an effective therapist. And I don’t always have to know the right words to say, because there are no right words. Hopefully, people will most pick up on the caring involved in my quest to find them.
I was 7 years old, and a neighborhood friend of mine called me because her mom gave her kitten away for reasons either my friend or her mother were incapable of properly explaining. I gave up trying to figure out why pretty quickly. Initially, I probed her for reasons – are you grounded is it temporary was the kitten sick was she mad at you was she -
“I’ll never ever ever ever see him again!” she only sobbed, in that way children sob – so hard and woeful it could break you in two – and it only got worse as I asked her more questions. So I shut up. And my mom was sitting next to me, folding hot laundry, rapt and anxious, twisted up ever since she’d answered the phone to discover a warbling voice asking for me on the other end.
“Oh no,” I said, twisting my fingers into the thick phone cord. I felt terrible for her, in addition to lost as to why she had called me and just what had she expected me to do about it.
But words came to me on their own.
“You might never see him again,” I said, “But think of all the happy times you had with him. He’s still somewhere, and he’s happy and okay.” Then I told her if my mom took my puppy away I would cry too. And I don’t quite remember what else I said, but she did stop crying and eventually began to agree with my line of reasoning. We talked some more, she calmed down some more. No, I don’t think he’s dead. Yes, cats probably remember their owners, but I don’t know if they see in color. Mom, do they see in color? And when I hung up with her, I distinctly remember turning to see my mom’s overemotional expression; the kind swimming in maternal pride larger than she could contain. She hugged me fiercely and said, “That was a very kind thing you just did.” And I knew that it was, but much more than anything else I remember my confusion, coupled with a feeling of peculiar and overwhelming influence. It was unsettling, which is most likely why I still remember it.
Not to seem too creepy and prophetic, but I think I remember it as my first experience truly emotionally affecting someone else on purpose. And although the content of the memory isn’t that sensational, I had felt the magnitude of turning someone’s mood around, and so easily. And it both made me happy and totally freaked me out.
Now as a new therapist, it still does.
Which is weird, because therapy itself had been a part of my life before I’d even taken that phone call. My parents had parked me down on a couch as a six year old, commanding my counselor to fix, please fix this child as though I were a broken dishwasher. But I’d joined them in that plea – I was miserable and afraid of everything. I worried constantly my parents would die or leave me, that I would be abducted or lost, that the world around me would liquefy at any moment. The worries were compounded by guilt because they scared my parents. And after having recently been peeled from underneath a desk during a fire drill and officially banned from watching the news, it seemed they were only growing.
Lucky for me, an eternally patient and understanding lady worked with me and I got better. And I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I'm likely trying to pay her back in some cosmic way by following in her work. Since I stopped seeing her as a child, with a brief return as a teen, I’ve checked in with her every few years to say hey, and in recent months I've been tapping her for advice about career direction. I called her a few weeks ago for some South Florida networking information, and she said, in a very pleasant and revelatory tone, “Oh my God, when I met you, you were practically a baby. It’s so weird that you’re in the field now.” And I wondered if she doesn’t have that same creepy, influential feeling knowing her work with me likely lead me to this profession.
Reading Love’s Executioner, though filled with stories far darker than lost kittens, helped me somewhat clarify and verbalize the creepy feeling. Although a hugely accomplished psychiatrist at the top of his field to the extent he is writing How-To’s about therapy, Yalom's thoughts are the same that came to me during that phone call. What if I make even this worse? Why did she have to call me? Or, my favorite, I don’t even like this person. And then, as though magically, he figures out where to go - and it works, or it doesn’t. Really, I was just shocked to read how often the most seminal figure in therapy sits wondering, oh shit, now what do I do?
And that’s what I liked most about it. Although I have a very tough time envisioning him as anything beyond the stoic paragon of therapy from the videos we watched in skills, turns out his judgment is just as porous and fallible as anyone’s in this bizarre and often terrifying profession. It’s subjective and draining and warped and gray and I don’t know why I or anyone else is doing it sometimes – but if he can still have the same 7 year old doubts I had even with his countless credentials, I can only conclude I'm probably doing all right.
It is nice to be reminded I really don’t have to repair every frayed kite-string in my head that leads to some illogical belief about myself or the world. I don’t have to be on top of every neurosis or have perfect relationships with everyone in my life to be an effective therapist. And I don’t always have to know the right words to say, because there are no right words. Hopefully, people will most pick up on the caring involved in my quest to find them.
7/08/2009
Dear Diary...
Today was shitty.
I mean flat tire, stood up for your senior prom level shitty. What in the circuitous-driving-'round-Broward-County-hell happened to me, ask ye? All manner of misfortune. I think the specifics are unimportant.
Suffice it to say it was a shitty day multipack.
BUT!
I've got a job during a recession, a fine ole' ass, no rent and 2 industrial sized bags of $3 reward candy scattered throughout the nether regions of my car.
So suck a fuck, 7/8/09. You numerically sequential piece of shit.
And you know this.
I mean flat tire, stood up for your senior prom level shitty. What in the circuitous-driving-'round-Broward-County-hell happened to me, ask ye? All manner of misfortune. I think the specifics are unimportant.
Suffice it to say it was a shitty day multipack.
BUT!
I've got a job during a recession, a fine ole' ass, no rent and 2 industrial sized bags of $3 reward candy scattered throughout the nether regions of my car.
So suck a fuck, 7/8/09. You numerically sequential piece of shit.
And you know this.
7/04/2009
PANCAKES
Overheard in Broward County:
"Please, do us all a favor and don't feed the iguanas. It only encourages them to live." - Walgreens manager to iguana-lovin' lady.
"Girl. Girl. Girl. Girl. Don't be walkin' with that switch. You'll kill a man. WALK NORMAL." Drunken (?) gentleman in front of Bank of America - to me. I didn't and don't know wtf he meant.
"I knew he was going to leave me. Especially since the Restylane wore off." 40-ish Boca skank at Barnes and Noble. I shit you not.
"Zach Efron is hideous, man. But the kid can sing." One middle aged stock trader to another in front of Panera Bread.
"Bone bone bone boneeeee, bone bone bone bone boneeeeeeeeeee" - 5-year-old singing Bone Thugs in Harmony at Publix.
Appropriate So Fla Jams accompanying the colorful character studies I encounter all day:
"Please, do us all a favor and don't feed the iguanas. It only encourages them to live." - Walgreens manager to iguana-lovin' lady.
"Girl. Girl. Girl. Girl. Don't be walkin' with that switch. You'll kill a man. WALK NORMAL." Drunken (?) gentleman in front of Bank of America - to me. I didn't and don't know wtf he meant.
"I knew he was going to leave me. Especially since the Restylane wore off." 40-ish Boca skank at Barnes and Noble. I shit you not.
"Zach Efron is hideous, man. But the kid can sing." One middle aged stock trader to another in front of Panera Bread.
"Bone bone bone boneeeee, bone bone bone bone boneeeeeeeeeee" - 5-year-old singing Bone Thugs in Harmony at Publix.
Appropriate So Fla Jams accompanying the colorful character studies I encounter all day:
6/30/2009
Yeah, I wanna.
Typically, I have an instant resentment toward anything Pitchfork decides they're going to cream their inordinately tight jeans over. Them dudes hide up in their hipster tower and review music as if God himself ordained it. I don't know of their credentials to do such a thing, as they are just music-nerd grumps who seem more bent on making the world aware of their overwrought writing - which is saying a lot coming from me, as I'm certainly guilty of overwriting some shit. Makes me want a spoon for gaggin'. Plus, I bet they all have teeny, micro dicks.
I digress.
Really, they just hate on damn near everything in a really holier than thou tone that encapsulates why I can't stand contradictory, impenetrable, not-really-ironic hipster culture in the first place. I don't drink haterade, but to my maximum annoyance sometimes pitchfork and I love the same shit. Figures.
I caught the Dirty Projectors at Bonnaroo, and hadn't the slightest shit who they were. However, I found their performance mesmerizing - particularly the vocal aerobics the two chicks in the band managed. I later found it even more impressive hearing it recorded; they were identical live. Nuts! The lead singer dude was grating live and more grating on the record, but - oddly - it starts to grow on you in a Joanna Newsom type of way.
It's really just the type of music Pitchfork would love, and listening to it I almost wonder if it wasn't a conscious effort on the band's part to throw together aspects they've previously lauded as totally awesome to ensure indie-cred success: quick changing time signatures, very short cute girls singing impressive harmony, hand claps.
Despite the ~look at us we're so experimental~ thing I'm generally uninterested with, the music grabbed me on it's own, despite myself. I love it, I can't even front. Fuck man, am I turning hipster? I think, somehow, in some way I can't quite explain....I'm just too hispanic to pass. And not from wealthy enough a background for my poverty to be properly ironic.
Oh well.
FYI- this video is bizarre/hilarious.
ETA: OKAY, NEVERMIND TIMES INFINITY. THEY HAVE BEEN STAMPED FOR APPROVAL BY HER EMINENCE, Björk Guðmundsdóttir:
I digress.
Really, they just hate on damn near everything in a really holier than thou tone that encapsulates why I can't stand contradictory, impenetrable, not-really-ironic hipster culture in the first place. I don't drink haterade, but to my maximum annoyance sometimes pitchfork and I love the same shit. Figures.
I caught the Dirty Projectors at Bonnaroo, and hadn't the slightest shit who they were. However, I found their performance mesmerizing - particularly the vocal aerobics the two chicks in the band managed. I later found it even more impressive hearing it recorded; they were identical live. Nuts! The lead singer dude was grating live and more grating on the record, but - oddly - it starts to grow on you in a Joanna Newsom type of way.
It's really just the type of music Pitchfork would love, and listening to it I almost wonder if it wasn't a conscious effort on the band's part to throw together aspects they've previously lauded as totally awesome to ensure indie-cred success: quick changing time signatures, very short cute girls singing impressive harmony, hand claps.
Despite the ~look at us we're so experimental~ thing I'm generally uninterested with, the music grabbed me on it's own, despite myself. I love it, I can't even front. Fuck man, am I turning hipster? I think, somehow, in some way I can't quite explain....I'm just too hispanic to pass. And not from wealthy enough a background for my poverty to be properly ironic.
Oh well.
FYI- this video is bizarre/hilarious.
ETA: OKAY, NEVERMIND TIMES INFINITY. THEY HAVE BEEN STAMPED FOR APPROVAL BY HER EMINENCE, Björk Guðmundsdóttir:
ASK A BITCH ANSWER BAG .............(of dildos)
All right, fine, so it was just one question again. The shame. Ann Landers I am not. But, whatever, here we go:
I keep having dreams where people from my past are serving me strange kinds of alcohol in strange locales. I'm not sure why, but duct tape is always involved. Sometimes I wake up in a cold sweat. And, I think, something has been biting me in my sleep. What should I do?
You crazy!
Kiddingggggggg.
Yay, dreams! Ignoring that any dream we remember the next day always seems inherently weird, "strange" dreams are a fairly universal human experience - even fucking creepy, David Lynchian reoccurring ones. So no matter how freaky a dream experience may be, I'm always quick to normalize it.
Dreams are the brain's way of processing life's recent stressors, mini-traumas or any perplexing dilemmas you might be mulling about during the day. Generally, they can be triggered by anything from leaving The Fresh Prince of Bell Air on before bed, to emotional angst too painful to sit and work though. Whatever you're trying not to deal with inevitably comes out in your dreams, and as the unconscious mind is want to do, your shit will definitely get flipped, turned upside down. Usually to the extent that dream situations become unrecognizable to the mundane situations that inspire them.
When trying to "analyze" dreams, your best bet is to ask yourself a few really basic questions (not that I'm a dream analysis expert by ANY means whatsoever, or have any certifications, grand wizardry licenses or merit badges in this....but I done read some books):
1) What has been going on in your life the past 24-72 hours? It's okay if this is a reoccurring dream - whatever is going on in your head might be constant enough that it's been on your mind within that time frame.
2) How were you feeling during the dream? Sad? Happy to be drinkin' amongst friends? Confused? Waking up in a cold sweat insinuates that it's possibly scary? The most important step in finding "meaning" - if you're going to try - is how you're feeling during a dream and when you wake up.
3) What do the past people in the dreams mean to you? Are they long lost pals? Ex-girl or boyfriends, dead-beat friends? How did you feel around them? AND, forgive how weird this question is, how do you feel about duct tape? What do you typically use it for? What's it's function in the dream?
Things likely won't add up crystal clear, but they might! Just stuff to think about.
As far as the biting you in your sleep, you might just need to invest in this:
Maybe some mosquito netting? Some elaborate trip wire to wake you up upon noticing a hungry roommate gnawing your legs as you sleep? Important things to know.
I keep having dreams where people from my past are serving me strange kinds of alcohol in strange locales. I'm not sure why, but duct tape is always involved. Sometimes I wake up in a cold sweat. And, I think, something has been biting me in my sleep. What should I do?
You crazy!
Kiddingggggggg.
Yay, dreams! Ignoring that any dream we remember the next day always seems inherently weird, "strange" dreams are a fairly universal human experience - even fucking creepy, David Lynchian reoccurring ones. So no matter how freaky a dream experience may be, I'm always quick to normalize it.
Dreams are the brain's way of processing life's recent stressors, mini-traumas or any perplexing dilemmas you might be mulling about during the day. Generally, they can be triggered by anything from leaving The Fresh Prince of Bell Air on before bed, to emotional angst too painful to sit and work though. Whatever you're trying not to deal with inevitably comes out in your dreams, and as the unconscious mind is want to do, your shit will definitely get flipped, turned upside down. Usually to the extent that dream situations become unrecognizable to the mundane situations that inspire them.
When trying to "analyze" dreams, your best bet is to ask yourself a few really basic questions (not that I'm a dream analysis expert by ANY means whatsoever, or have any certifications, grand wizardry licenses or merit badges in this....but I done read some books):
1) What has been going on in your life the past 24-72 hours? It's okay if this is a reoccurring dream - whatever is going on in your head might be constant enough that it's been on your mind within that time frame.
2) How were you feeling during the dream? Sad? Happy to be drinkin' amongst friends? Confused? Waking up in a cold sweat insinuates that it's possibly scary? The most important step in finding "meaning" - if you're going to try - is how you're feeling during a dream and when you wake up.
3) What do the past people in the dreams mean to you? Are they long lost pals? Ex-girl or boyfriends, dead-beat friends? How did you feel around them? AND, forgive how weird this question is, how do you feel about duct tape? What do you typically use it for? What's it's function in the dream?
Things likely won't add up crystal clear, but they might! Just stuff to think about.
As far as the biting you in your sleep, you might just need to invest in this:
Maybe some mosquito netting? Some elaborate trip wire to wake you up upon noticing a hungry roommate gnawing your legs as you sleep? Important things to know.
6/28/2009
Ladies and Gentlemen....
I'm BRINGIN IT BACK!
Let's see if I can get more than one fucking question this time. Come, lend me your highly anonymous problems in the comments section, and I will solve them with adeptness and hilarity!
Do it! Don't make me threaten you with promises of mediocre posts to come. Cuz I can talk about unfunny/stupid topics all day people. ALL day.
Let's see if I can get more than one fucking question this time. Come, lend me your highly anonymous problems in the comments section, and I will solve them with adeptness and hilarity!
Do it! Don't make me threaten you with promises of mediocre posts to come. Cuz I can talk about unfunny/stupid topics all day people. ALL day.
6/25/2009
Being Topical. Not like a rash cream, like the news.
When I was seven years old, the dance company I was apart of had us perform what could only be described as an 80s gaystravaganza piece to Michael Jackson's "Thiller". This involved much shifty-legged zombie dancing, older dancers doing jazz splits during Vincent Price's creepo rap part, and.....glow-in-the-dark gloves. One night I came down with one of my 9 million incidences of strep throat before I got my tonsils out and was relegated to sitting in the audience with my mom, hysterical I couldn't go on.
I loved that damn dance.
So I think my appreciation for the gloved one truly materialized when I first heard Thriller. I probably wouldn't have thought much of it if it weren't so Halloween related, and Oct. 31 is my birthday. As a kid you're acutely self centered, so I felt like Thriller was kinda my own personal theme song. That dance choreography with the voguing glow hands was like my little moment in the sun. So as time went on and my knowledge of MJ's discography grew, I was predisposed to dig it. Clearly, in recent years he hadn't done much beyond find baffling new ways to be weird, so old Michael is the only Michael I've recognized since around 1995.
Really, look at 'em. He's damn adorable.
And today, he totally died. Full on sudden death. To those who give a damn, it likely stings like the unexpected demise of Mufasa from the Lion King. And you know that shit was heart wrenching.
Naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaants ingonyama bagithi Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaba......it's the CIRCLE OF LIIIIIIIIIIIIFE.
Anyway.
Upon his death, feelings seem to be conflicted regarding whether or not to continue vilifying an undeniably fucking freakish person who bought human bones and monkeys as pets, never made a BFF over the age of 12 and dangled his kid out a window. Not to mention the multiple child molestation charges and whatever the fuck he did to his alleged "face" over the past 20-ish years. But...hear me out for a sec.
This may be douchey of me, but I've always felt a fascinated empathy for his plight. I was fucking RIVETED by this VH1 special on his mental health issues that came out a few years ago. Because the thing is, there is absolutely no precedent for how famous he was, for as long as he's been, with only the possible exception of historical religious figures. And that's gotta fuck with you in ways one can hardly imagine. Not to mention having so much money you don't even know how much you have.
AND NOT TO MENTION...
1) Growing up in a crazy poor household with eight siblings and Jehovah's Witness parents - a religion that tells you if you're sexually abused, it can only be proven if there are 2 witnesses to it, and you can never speak against your parents (and ya'll know physically and sexually abused kids are more likely to become abusers themselves).
2) Horrendous physical and emotional abuse from his crazy ass Dad, who called him ugly constantly and fucked with him so much little MJ would sometimes vomit upon seeing him (that's what he told Oprah, anyhow). Seems like a logical impetus for getting plastic surgery, and if you can afford as much as you want....and you're fuckin' coocoo for cocopuffs and there's no one to ever tell you no.....hey. Plus, you're worth more money than God, and you're clearly weird as hell. So how easy would it be to blackmail or exploit the hell out of that by claiming to be touched in your bathing suit area by a dude who's got obvious I-missed-my-own-childhood peter pan proclivities? And it seems the only thing more logical that than is that he was a disturbed dude with a warped sense of reality and totally a kid toucher.
There are just so many compounding factors, it's difficult to find a clear answer amongst the fun house mirror of shenanigans that was this guy's life in general. But no matter what he did, he's a certainly a fascinating character and an icon of inflated fame, money and maybe, in the end, an ugly reflection of the self-hatred and instability that comes with being a minority and the most famous person alive. He was the product of a childhood upbringing that, frankly, I'm seeing a lot of everyday I go to work. So I can't help but feel it's like goldfish that get as big as their habitats allow. Most people aren't in positions to let their flaws and vulnerabilities explode as tremendously as he was afforded. It's like the biggest case study in abuse pathology in the history of ever.
Aside from all that, peeps that are all OMG I'M GLAD HE'S DEAD.....come on, now. Whatever. I'm not sad he's dead, but I'm not doing a dance either. It just is. So it goes, as Vonnegut said. In the end, we're all just left with all the sweet, sweet jams and that crazy fucking lean he did in Smooth Criminal.
And if you can't get down to this, you're just dead inside.
ETA: Hmmmm, I like being topical. Should I cover the Iranian protests next?
Eh, no one cares. La Basura marches on with cats getting hit in the face with cheese, slankets and laments over heart-trundling boyfriends. You gotta write what you know, after all.
I loved that damn dance.
So I think my appreciation for the gloved one truly materialized when I first heard Thriller. I probably wouldn't have thought much of it if it weren't so Halloween related, and Oct. 31 is my birthday. As a kid you're acutely self centered, so I felt like Thriller was kinda my own personal theme song. That dance choreography with the voguing glow hands was like my little moment in the sun. So as time went on and my knowledge of MJ's discography grew, I was predisposed to dig it. Clearly, in recent years he hadn't done much beyond find baffling new ways to be weird, so old Michael is the only Michael I've recognized since around 1995.
Really, look at 'em. He's damn adorable.
And today, he totally died. Full on sudden death. To those who give a damn, it likely stings like the unexpected demise of Mufasa from the Lion King. And you know that shit was heart wrenching.
Naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaants ingonyama bagithi Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaba......it's the CIRCLE OF LIIIIIIIIIIIIFE.
Anyway.
Upon his death, feelings seem to be conflicted regarding whether or not to continue vilifying an undeniably fucking freakish person who bought human bones and monkeys as pets, never made a BFF over the age of 12 and dangled his kid out a window. Not to mention the multiple child molestation charges and whatever the fuck he did to his alleged "face" over the past 20-ish years. But...hear me out for a sec.
This may be douchey of me, but I've always felt a fascinated empathy for his plight. I was fucking RIVETED by this VH1 special on his mental health issues that came out a few years ago. Because the thing is, there is absolutely no precedent for how famous he was, for as long as he's been, with only the possible exception of historical religious figures. And that's gotta fuck with you in ways one can hardly imagine. Not to mention having so much money you don't even know how much you have.
AND NOT TO MENTION...
1) Growing up in a crazy poor household with eight siblings and Jehovah's Witness parents - a religion that tells you if you're sexually abused, it can only be proven if there are 2 witnesses to it, and you can never speak against your parents (and ya'll know physically and sexually abused kids are more likely to become abusers themselves).
2) Horrendous physical and emotional abuse from his crazy ass Dad, who called him ugly constantly and fucked with him so much little MJ would sometimes vomit upon seeing him (that's what he told Oprah, anyhow). Seems like a logical impetus for getting plastic surgery, and if you can afford as much as you want....and you're fuckin' coocoo for cocopuffs and there's no one to ever tell you no.....hey. Plus, you're worth more money than God, and you're clearly weird as hell. So how easy would it be to blackmail or exploit the hell out of that by claiming to be touched in your bathing suit area by a dude who's got obvious I-missed-my-own-childhood peter pan proclivities? And it seems the only thing more logical that than is that he was a disturbed dude with a warped sense of reality and totally a kid toucher.
There are just so many compounding factors, it's difficult to find a clear answer amongst the fun house mirror of shenanigans that was this guy's life in general. But no matter what he did, he's a certainly a fascinating character and an icon of inflated fame, money and maybe, in the end, an ugly reflection of the self-hatred and instability that comes with being a minority and the most famous person alive. He was the product of a childhood upbringing that, frankly, I'm seeing a lot of everyday I go to work. So I can't help but feel it's like goldfish that get as big as their habitats allow. Most people aren't in positions to let their flaws and vulnerabilities explode as tremendously as he was afforded. It's like the biggest case study in abuse pathology in the history of ever.
Aside from all that, peeps that are all OMG I'M GLAD HE'S DEAD.....come on, now. Whatever. I'm not sad he's dead, but I'm not doing a dance either. It just is. So it goes, as Vonnegut said. In the end, we're all just left with all the sweet, sweet jams and that crazy fucking lean he did in Smooth Criminal.
And if you can't get down to this, you're just dead inside.
ETA: Hmmmm, I like being topical. Should I cover the Iranian protests next?
Eh, no one cares. La Basura marches on with cats getting hit in the face with cheese, slankets and laments over heart-trundling boyfriends. You gotta write what you know, after all.
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