I like country music. I really, honestly do. These days, with all the genre-bending tunes coming off the internet, radio and MTV (When MTV actually, you know, plays music videos), it’s hard to file your musical tastes by type anymore. When you ask people what they like to listen to, this is what most people say (ok, almost every person born north of the Mason-Dixon Line says):
“Oh, just about anything. Except country, of course.”
What the hell? How did America’s second-best musical export (after rock and roll; fuck you, Paul McCartney, we got there first, deal with it) become the red-headed stepchild of the musical family?
I guess maybe it isn’t true everywhere. I hang out with the fantasy/gamer/nerd crowd a lot, and they have about as much in common with pickup trucks and beer halls as Travis Tritt has with Ninja Scroll. But damn, a group that seems to like finding the appeal in the unlikely (a lot of them listen to Journey, and how much sense does that make?) categorically condemning an entire genre of music? My supposition is that none of them have ever actually listened to any of the good stuff.
To be sure, there are some shitty country musicians out there. Every musical genre (hell, every style period) has its wannabes, its really-shouldn’ts, its pretty poseurs and its that-just-plain-sucks-who-gave-this-asshole-a-shot musical wankers. But there is some good stuff out there; I know, I listen to it. So, here’s a bit of background…
Historically speaking, country music’s pedigree comes from Scots-Irish settlers fleeing famine and war to settle in the American Appalachians. They brought their songs with them; tunes depicting the simple loves, losses, and life of a farmer and working man (starting to sound vaguely familiar?) They sung them to the accompaniment of fiddles, pipes and occasionally accordions (again, remind you of anything?). As these settlers spread, they picked up other influences; blues from the Delta, mariachi and classical Spanish guitar work from the south of Texas. Thus, the sound and feel of what we now call “country” (in Bob Dylan’s day, when the hippies got hold of it, people called it “folk”) music was born. You can even hear the similarities in New-Age Celtic themed music; If you don’t believe me, play Lorenna McKennit’s “All Soul’s Night” and Steve Earle’s “Copperhead Road” back-to-back and tell me they don’t spring from the same source.
And there’s some good music to be found if you know where to look. I’m not going to tell you to move to Houston, buy a huge Stetson and a five-pound belt buckle with a “Bud Light FOREVER” logo on it (I don’t own either and personally like living where it rains once in a while), but take a deep breath and actually listen to some country for a change.
Country music is the voice of the common man. I mean the real common man; the flawed but noble beer-drinking pickup driving working stiff. His wants are simple, his problems easy to understand. And personally, listening to someone lament his lost wife or anorexic wallet (or terrible hangover, who hasn’t been there) resonates with me a lot more than some anorexic combed-over hipster fuck making neo-darkwave protest tunes about starving Somalis. And if one more teenaged pop-tart writes a song about her high school boyfriend and even ATTEMPTS to make it sound like it matters to the world, I’ll put her in a Texas cage match with Bonnie Raitt and gleefully watch Ms. New Thing get her plastic ass firmly kicked.
Don’t condemn something you’ve only nibbled on; get into the meat of it and then decide if it’s not for you. Just stop slamming one of my musical genres please, unless you want me to do more of the same. I’ve heard plenty of metal / pop / techno / emo / hip-hop / whatever musicians that scream “I suck, please shoot me” whenever they open their pie holes to “sing”. But I like parts of all those musical styles. I give everything a fair shake before dismissing it. And so should you. Who knows, you might find something you really like that you never knew existed.
Personal Note: All this support and brotherly love does not mean I’m against the idea of forming a posse and lynching Billy Ray Cyrus. Hell, I’ll drive the getaway car. I like championing some pretty weird causes, but some things are beyond the fucking pale. “Achy Breaky Heart” indeed…
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
My Favorite Albums
Ok, so today I’m reaching for a subject. But, a lot of my posts lately have been serious and angry; I like breaking the monotony occasionally. I thought reviewing some of my favorite albums might give my readership some ideas about what moves me and maybe might introduce you all to some tunes that you might not otherwise have tried.
I’m largely skipping Greatest Hits compilations; though I own a good many of them (a lot of music fans hate the concept, I don’t; I feel they’re a useful introduction to a band) I don’t really consider them “albums”. The song list usually wasn’t put together by the band, but rather by a producer, record exec or the pop charts (questionable sources at best). So, here they are, sort of in order of importance.
Jimmy Buffett, “Songs You Know by Heart” (1982): Ok, after my little speech about Greatest Hits compilations this one might seem disingenuous, but I include it because, well…damn it, I’ve listened to this album since before my balls dropped and I still love it. Buffett has a gift for writing songs you can empathize with; stuff about ordinary guys and gals, funny situations and the poignancy that real living often deals out to us. That, and the laid-back, sun soaked tunes are the best background music for chilling out that I’ve ever found. If you’re doing some serious nothing, this is your soundtrack. And “Why Don’t We Get Drunk (and Screw)” is the best pickup song EVER.
Queensryche, “Operation: Mindcrime” (1988): Written during the first Bush administration, the themes of alienation and paranoia still ring true today. Done at the apex of Queensryche’s skill and talent (Chris DeGarmo had yet to walk off with the riffs and Geoff Tate’s amazing operatic wail was still in peak form), this album is a biting piece of American political commentary wrapped up in a creepy, nihilistic rock opera about drugs and amoral skullfuckery. It’ll make you question your beliefs almost as much as bang your head. If you even remotely like 80s thrash, pick this album up and give it a listen.
Concrete Blonde, “Bloodletting” (1990): Most Goth music is reserved and antiseptically dreary (VNV nation, Cruxshadows, et. al); the artists drone on about themes of angst and depression with a stone-faced mien. Not so Concrete Blonde. Dark, edgy blues riffs grind and moan under Napolitano’s velvety alto, and gentle acoustic guitars chime in here and there to underscore the themes of lost love and faithless friends (subjects usually best confronted with a stiff drink in a dark room). Listening to this album, I can almost smell the smoke and taste the cheap tequila that inspired it.
AC/DC, “Back In Black” (1980): Ok, so I’ve heard it way too fucking much now that I work in a bar. But since I can’t stop singing along every time “Have a Drink on Me” comes on, I guess this album still counts among my favorites. Unapologetically brainless, cheerfully violent and blatantly sexual, this is one of hard rock’s finest hours. It was the first serious rock album I ever owned, and it would probably be one of the last I’d discard if some cruel soul forced me to vet my CD collection. If you want to leave your intellect on the seat next to you, just crank this fucker up and rock the hell out. Oh, and it also is great music to knock boots to.
Fleetwood Mac, “Rumours” (1977): We all know the songs on this album; you hear then every damn day on Muzak stations in supermarkets and dentist’s offices. They massive, shameless overexposure doesn’t change the fact that this is a soft-rock masterpiece. Under all the schmaltz and string arrangements, there is perhaps the greatest collection of bitter anti-love songs ever penned (listen to the lyrics of “The Chain” or “Gold Dust Woman” sometime if you think I’m wrong). Linkin Park could learn a thing or two about subtlety from listening to these guys.
Sisters of Mercy, “Floodland” (1987): These days the genre of Goth-rock is as dead as its purveyors tried to appear to be (Evanescence: Good try, but not quite). Such a shame; now, it’s all limp-wristed techno and atonal screamo (two genres I’m not especially fond of). But back in the day, this was the shit. Though Eldritch and Co. occasionally come off like the dark side of Phil Collins, licking Whidbey’s off of tattooed cleavage to “This Corrosion” remains one of my most smile-inducing teenage memories. Warning; smoking a spliff and falling asleep with “Colours” playing on repeat is a good way to have really weird dreams, especially if you do it in a cemetery (long story).
Led Zeppelin, “II” (1969): Though most people prefer the “symbols” album (also called IV, Zoso and a host of other names) this one is my favorite slice of Zep. I will forever be grateful to the Plant-obsessed hippie chick who introduced me to this album (though her personality annoyed the shit out of me). I play it whenever I need either a boost of energy (“Living Loving Maid”, “Ramble On”) or a good chill-out moment (“Thank You”). And “Whole Lotta Love”, of course, when I’m about to go looking to get laid. No, I didn’t boink the hippie chick.
Atmosphere, “Seven’s Travels” (2003): Rap was never one of my favorite genres (except for a little mid-90s West Coast hip hop now and then from my weed-smoking days), but this guy makes hip-hop literate and relevant. He doesn’t brag; he confesses. His intricate screeds of tortured poetry (set to icy jazz samples and wistful acoustic guitar) and snarky commentary about fame and fortune (check out the songs “National Disgrace” and “Reflections”) make him one of my favorite rappers. And this album contains the best song (“Lift Her Pull Her”) about a slowly disintegrating, never-should-have-taken-this-long relationship that’s been conceived yet.
Black Sabbath, “Paranoid” (1971): Often imitated but never duplicated (go learn some Robert Johnson, you cock-rocking ripoff artists!), Black Sabbath basically invented stoner metal; this is their shining moment. Tony Iommi scrapes the mucky bottom of the blues barrel with his guitar playing, his Gibson SG vomiting up the most toxic, addictive sludge imaginable (fuck, the riff from “Electric Funeral”, played at high volume, sounds downright cancerous). Today, the songs are a little dated to shock, but imagine the look on some proper British lady’s face (circa 1972 or so) when she heard “War Pigs” coming out of her son’s bedroom. Though many since have sounded ominous and dark, none have pulled off the skanky undertone that Sabbath managed here. And no one, NO ONE, is crazier than Ozzy. Period.
Monster Magnet, “Powertrip” (1998): As can be seen from the other entries on this list, I like the old stuff. These guys do a good job of sounding like the musical heroes of yore, while still managing to come off as new. Monster Magnet wasn’t afraid to dip into rock’s roots; sex, loudness and string-bent riffs. “See You in Hell” in particular is my favorite; it sounds like someone replaced the Doobie Brothers’ doobies with a crack pipe. Listening to this CD makes you feel like you’re 12 feet tall (with a dick to match) and ready to take on anything. Oh, and for the ladies, you can dance to some of it.
Whitesnake, “Slip of the Tongue” (1984): Oh boy, I can hear the smothered snickers from here. Does anyone still like Whitesnake (legitimately, not ironically; tight-panted hipster snarks need not apply) anymore? Other than me? Ah well, fuck you all, I do. This big slice of hair-metal cheese is best appreciated when inebriated and aroused, preferably with a pretty girl in your lap who’s not averse to having her neck chewed on. Just don’t listen to “Wings of the Storm” while driving unless you like speeding tickets.
Guns n’ Roses, “Appetite for Destruction” (1987): Ok, so most anyone who even casually likes hair metal likes this album. I do too. Sue me; it’s popular because it kicks ass. Maybe these days Axl Rose just needs to go away (at least he finally finished “Chinese Democracy”…and boy, did it suck); still, this perfect fusion of glammy sleaze and punk attitude more than occasionally finds its way onto my stereo.
Kid Rock, “Devil Without a Cause” (1998): So this entire album is one big ego-trip. Who gives a fuck? It’s an AWESOME one. This is rap-metal the way it should have been done all along; no protesting, no whining, no angst, no bullshit. Kid’s machine-gun delivery, cheerful fuck-you braggadocio and old-school rock riffs (with occasional dips into funk and laid-back blues territory) make this one of the best party albums of the decade. The middle finger on the front of the CD says it all. Now if he’d just stop trying to be the Second Coming of Skynyrd…
As you can see, I like a lot of older music. I guess the days when the whole album actually had to be good are gone (with a few notable exceptions; more on this to come). It does occasionally make me sad that the only music I really connect with was made when I was only 2 feet tall (or, in some cases, before I was born). I suppose it means I’m getting old.
Oh well, I still like it loud. Guess that means I haven’t grown up yet.
I’m largely skipping Greatest Hits compilations; though I own a good many of them (a lot of music fans hate the concept, I don’t; I feel they’re a useful introduction to a band) I don’t really consider them “albums”. The song list usually wasn’t put together by the band, but rather by a producer, record exec or the pop charts (questionable sources at best). So, here they are, sort of in order of importance.
Jimmy Buffett, “Songs You Know by Heart” (1982): Ok, after my little speech about Greatest Hits compilations this one might seem disingenuous, but I include it because, well…damn it, I’ve listened to this album since before my balls dropped and I still love it. Buffett has a gift for writing songs you can empathize with; stuff about ordinary guys and gals, funny situations and the poignancy that real living often deals out to us. That, and the laid-back, sun soaked tunes are the best background music for chilling out that I’ve ever found. If you’re doing some serious nothing, this is your soundtrack. And “Why Don’t We Get Drunk (and Screw)” is the best pickup song EVER.
Queensryche, “Operation: Mindcrime” (1988): Written during the first Bush administration, the themes of alienation and paranoia still ring true today. Done at the apex of Queensryche’s skill and talent (Chris DeGarmo had yet to walk off with the riffs and Geoff Tate’s amazing operatic wail was still in peak form), this album is a biting piece of American political commentary wrapped up in a creepy, nihilistic rock opera about drugs and amoral skullfuckery. It’ll make you question your beliefs almost as much as bang your head. If you even remotely like 80s thrash, pick this album up and give it a listen.
Concrete Blonde, “Bloodletting” (1990): Most Goth music is reserved and antiseptically dreary (VNV nation, Cruxshadows, et. al); the artists drone on about themes of angst and depression with a stone-faced mien. Not so Concrete Blonde. Dark, edgy blues riffs grind and moan under Napolitano’s velvety alto, and gentle acoustic guitars chime in here and there to underscore the themes of lost love and faithless friends (subjects usually best confronted with a stiff drink in a dark room). Listening to this album, I can almost smell the smoke and taste the cheap tequila that inspired it.
AC/DC, “Back In Black” (1980): Ok, so I’ve heard it way too fucking much now that I work in a bar. But since I can’t stop singing along every time “Have a Drink on Me” comes on, I guess this album still counts among my favorites. Unapologetically brainless, cheerfully violent and blatantly sexual, this is one of hard rock’s finest hours. It was the first serious rock album I ever owned, and it would probably be one of the last I’d discard if some cruel soul forced me to vet my CD collection. If you want to leave your intellect on the seat next to you, just crank this fucker up and rock the hell out. Oh, and it also is great music to knock boots to.
Fleetwood Mac, “Rumours” (1977): We all know the songs on this album; you hear then every damn day on Muzak stations in supermarkets and dentist’s offices. They massive, shameless overexposure doesn’t change the fact that this is a soft-rock masterpiece. Under all the schmaltz and string arrangements, there is perhaps the greatest collection of bitter anti-love songs ever penned (listen to the lyrics of “The Chain” or “Gold Dust Woman” sometime if you think I’m wrong). Linkin Park could learn a thing or two about subtlety from listening to these guys.
Sisters of Mercy, “Floodland” (1987): These days the genre of Goth-rock is as dead as its purveyors tried to appear to be (Evanescence: Good try, but not quite). Such a shame; now, it’s all limp-wristed techno and atonal screamo (two genres I’m not especially fond of). But back in the day, this was the shit. Though Eldritch and Co. occasionally come off like the dark side of Phil Collins, licking Whidbey’s off of tattooed cleavage to “This Corrosion” remains one of my most smile-inducing teenage memories. Warning; smoking a spliff and falling asleep with “Colours” playing on repeat is a good way to have really weird dreams, especially if you do it in a cemetery (long story).
Led Zeppelin, “II” (1969): Though most people prefer the “symbols” album (also called IV, Zoso and a host of other names) this one is my favorite slice of Zep. I will forever be grateful to the Plant-obsessed hippie chick who introduced me to this album (though her personality annoyed the shit out of me). I play it whenever I need either a boost of energy (“Living Loving Maid”, “Ramble On”) or a good chill-out moment (“Thank You”). And “Whole Lotta Love”, of course, when I’m about to go looking to get laid. No, I didn’t boink the hippie chick.
Atmosphere, “Seven’s Travels” (2003): Rap was never one of my favorite genres (except for a little mid-90s West Coast hip hop now and then from my weed-smoking days), but this guy makes hip-hop literate and relevant. He doesn’t brag; he confesses. His intricate screeds of tortured poetry (set to icy jazz samples and wistful acoustic guitar) and snarky commentary about fame and fortune (check out the songs “National Disgrace” and “Reflections”) make him one of my favorite rappers. And this album contains the best song (“Lift Her Pull Her”) about a slowly disintegrating, never-should-have-taken-this-long relationship that’s been conceived yet.
Black Sabbath, “Paranoid” (1971): Often imitated but never duplicated (go learn some Robert Johnson, you cock-rocking ripoff artists!), Black Sabbath basically invented stoner metal; this is their shining moment. Tony Iommi scrapes the mucky bottom of the blues barrel with his guitar playing, his Gibson SG vomiting up the most toxic, addictive sludge imaginable (fuck, the riff from “Electric Funeral”, played at high volume, sounds downright cancerous). Today, the songs are a little dated to shock, but imagine the look on some proper British lady’s face (circa 1972 or so) when she heard “War Pigs” coming out of her son’s bedroom. Though many since have sounded ominous and dark, none have pulled off the skanky undertone that Sabbath managed here. And no one, NO ONE, is crazier than Ozzy. Period.
Monster Magnet, “Powertrip” (1998): As can be seen from the other entries on this list, I like the old stuff. These guys do a good job of sounding like the musical heroes of yore, while still managing to come off as new. Monster Magnet wasn’t afraid to dip into rock’s roots; sex, loudness and string-bent riffs. “See You in Hell” in particular is my favorite; it sounds like someone replaced the Doobie Brothers’ doobies with a crack pipe. Listening to this CD makes you feel like you’re 12 feet tall (with a dick to match) and ready to take on anything. Oh, and for the ladies, you can dance to some of it.
Whitesnake, “Slip of the Tongue” (1984): Oh boy, I can hear the smothered snickers from here. Does anyone still like Whitesnake (legitimately, not ironically; tight-panted hipster snarks need not apply) anymore? Other than me? Ah well, fuck you all, I do. This big slice of hair-metal cheese is best appreciated when inebriated and aroused, preferably with a pretty girl in your lap who’s not averse to having her neck chewed on. Just don’t listen to “Wings of the Storm” while driving unless you like speeding tickets.
Guns n’ Roses, “Appetite for Destruction” (1987): Ok, so most anyone who even casually likes hair metal likes this album. I do too. Sue me; it’s popular because it kicks ass. Maybe these days Axl Rose just needs to go away (at least he finally finished “Chinese Democracy”…and boy, did it suck); still, this perfect fusion of glammy sleaze and punk attitude more than occasionally finds its way onto my stereo.
Kid Rock, “Devil Without a Cause” (1998): So this entire album is one big ego-trip. Who gives a fuck? It’s an AWESOME one. This is rap-metal the way it should have been done all along; no protesting, no whining, no angst, no bullshit. Kid’s machine-gun delivery, cheerful fuck-you braggadocio and old-school rock riffs (with occasional dips into funk and laid-back blues territory) make this one of the best party albums of the decade. The middle finger on the front of the CD says it all. Now if he’d just stop trying to be the Second Coming of Skynyrd…
As you can see, I like a lot of older music. I guess the days when the whole album actually had to be good are gone (with a few notable exceptions; more on this to come). It does occasionally make me sad that the only music I really connect with was made when I was only 2 feet tall (or, in some cases, before I was born). I suppose it means I’m getting old.
Oh well, I still like it loud. Guess that means I haven’t grown up yet.
Parenthood
Parenting certainly has taken a dive these past few years. I look at the next generation of kids coming into adulthood, and with a few notable exceptions I don’t see much to recommend it over mine. (For that matter, I don’t see much in mine to recommend it over the previous one). What happened? Did parents start to suck worse? And who is to blame?
On the last two, here are my answers; yes, and look in a mirror.
These days, children are raised by impersonal media sources. They get their education from television, the Internet, magazines and their companions (who likely got theirs from the aforementioned sources). Parents would rather let their kids vegetate in front of World of Warcraft or American Idol than spend the time to get to know them; after all, parenting is hard work, a full-time job that does not pay. And, unless they are unbelievably lucky, said parents have to have another job to pay all the bills.
Now, I’ve never been a parent. But an experience I had when I was young forever shaped my view of child-rearing. When I was about thirteen, hunting pigeons in my dad’s warehouse, I came across a motherless squab (baby pigeon). I wasn’t hard-hearted enough to kill it, so instead I took it home and endeavored to raise it. (The fact that it was probably motherless due to my pellet gun was an irony I would not fully appreciate until adulthood.) My parents allowed me to, on the condition that I do the work. And holy crap, was it work.
Baby birds, for those of you who don’t know, need to eat about once every forty-five minutes. Good thing it was summertime or I’d never have managed it. Still, I had to take this small, delicate, helpless creature everywhere I went, endure its constant peeping for food and attention, endure occasional mockery from the other kids, and constantly wash bird shit out of my clothes. He got sick; I worried, powerless, until he got better. Once the little peeper crawled out of the portable “nest” I had built and I spent thirty frantic minutes looking for him.
But the little guy grew up and fledged; I remember teaching him to fly, or trying to (birds do fly instinctively but need a little push in the right direction; I guess defying gravity is nerve-racking even if evolution equipped you for it). I recall bursting with pride when he did finally figure it out. I figured he’d fly off and make a life for himself or something.
But that wasn’t the end of the story. The little guy (I named him Peavy, after the log-turning tool I’d found him under…don’t ask me why) didn’t want to go. He hung around the house, and as winter approached my dad and I took out a window in my room and replaced it with a wooden box and door; so he could have some shelter and come into my room if he wished. It made my room a good deal colder, but I didn’t mind. He’d come in while I was doing my homework, coo softly and beak my hair. Occasionally, he’d crap on me (pigeons aren’t really careful about where they drop their load, though he became more conscientious after a while). At dinner time, he’d sit on the table next to my plate and pick bits of food off my fork. He even followed me to school one day and sat on the windowsill of my classroom (much to the interest of the other kids, and for one glorious day I was the coolest kid in class).
I could go on, but I think you get the idea; Peavy became a part of our family. Even my parents enjoyed having him around. I loved having a pet that was so attached to me. So, imagine my utter shock and horror when Peavy was eaten by a red-tailed hawk less than twenty feet from me one cold January day. I still miss him.
As I grew up, the metaphor for parenting was inescapable. Infants are helpless and require constant care; constant care means “all the fucking time whether you want to or not”. They get sick, and you have no idea how to help, and have to frantically research childhood ailments or place a panicked call to the local doctor to find out what to do. Often, you take them to the doctor and wait, powerless and scared, until a stranger pronounces your offspring healthy again. Or they won’t, and you’ll suffer a lifetime of guilt wondering what you could have done differently.
They grow up, and you have to teach them things you barely understand yourself. You have moments of bursting pride when they learn. You have moments of aggravation when they don’t. They make messes and break things (Peavy ruined more than one dinner by shitting in it, until my mother banned him from the kitchen). They cause you to have to completely readjust your life. And sometimes, despite all your hard work, love and endless care, God or Fate deals them a bum card and they are snatched from you anyhow. And I can only imagine the complex horror of watching them grow up to be someone you don’t actually like.
I looked at my experience with Peavy, and asked myself; did I want to go through a similar experience with a child of my own blood? The answer was, and still is, a most emphatic hell no. I think everyone should have to do what I did if they want to raise a child (more detail on this in another entry).
A lot of people who decide to be parents don’t understand the level of total commitment being a good one requires. As I said before, “total” means “all the fucking time whether you want to or not, whether it’s convenient or not, whether it’s cool or not”. You never truly take a break from being a mother or a father. You can desert your duty, but it will forever remain an unfinished piece of business with your name on it. I think that’s why there are so many shitty parents in this world; because parenting is hard fucking work with no clear right answers. And that’s why we’re all to blame for it.
Society just doesn’t respect parents. Are there any sitcoms depicting happy, well adjusted families? Not in my experience. We’d rather watch shows about families more fucked up than ours because it makes us feel better than observe those that are more stable and take lessons. Women would rather keep their girlish figures than grow great with child (and considering the prevailing attitudes on female beauty and its importance, I can’t be too angry with them). Men would rather go drink with their friends and play Xbox than take kids to the park or change diapers (and again, considering the values of our time I don’t blame them either). For those who do it, and do it well, I heartily salute you.
But just because it’s hard does not mean parents should get a free pass or any sympathy for screwing it up. Theirs is the most important job there is; preparing the next generation for survival and prosperity in a cruel, unjust, and fucked-up world. It’s an awesome responsibility, the level of which should be self-evident to anyone with an IQ greater than a freeway speed limit but, sadly, it doesn’t seem to be.
So all you parents, get out there and learn; do not allow others to take up this most sacred of tasks on your behalf unless you wish to part with your offspring. If you’re not ready, condoms are free, birth control is readily available, and if those don’t appeal watch porn and scratch your biochemical itch all by your lonesome. I’ve been a very sexually active male for almost a decade and a half, and I have never knocked someone up so I know it’s possible. And if you already have made a boo-boo and don’t want to be a parent, put your child up for adoption and be smarter next time. I’m not joking; there are plenty of people out there who were cursed with infertility who’d love a shot at child rearing.
In other words, do not take it lightly. A baby is not a toy that stays warm and makes cute noises; it is a *life*. And *you* are responsible for its care and development. So, roll up your sleeves and get to work. We, as your fellow humans, are counting on you, and so is the next generation.
On the last two, here are my answers; yes, and look in a mirror.
These days, children are raised by impersonal media sources. They get their education from television, the Internet, magazines and their companions (who likely got theirs from the aforementioned sources). Parents would rather let their kids vegetate in front of World of Warcraft or American Idol than spend the time to get to know them; after all, parenting is hard work, a full-time job that does not pay. And, unless they are unbelievably lucky, said parents have to have another job to pay all the bills.
Now, I’ve never been a parent. But an experience I had when I was young forever shaped my view of child-rearing. When I was about thirteen, hunting pigeons in my dad’s warehouse, I came across a motherless squab (baby pigeon). I wasn’t hard-hearted enough to kill it, so instead I took it home and endeavored to raise it. (The fact that it was probably motherless due to my pellet gun was an irony I would not fully appreciate until adulthood.) My parents allowed me to, on the condition that I do the work. And holy crap, was it work.
Baby birds, for those of you who don’t know, need to eat about once every forty-five minutes. Good thing it was summertime or I’d never have managed it. Still, I had to take this small, delicate, helpless creature everywhere I went, endure its constant peeping for food and attention, endure occasional mockery from the other kids, and constantly wash bird shit out of my clothes. He got sick; I worried, powerless, until he got better. Once the little peeper crawled out of the portable “nest” I had built and I spent thirty frantic minutes looking for him.
But the little guy grew up and fledged; I remember teaching him to fly, or trying to (birds do fly instinctively but need a little push in the right direction; I guess defying gravity is nerve-racking even if evolution equipped you for it). I recall bursting with pride when he did finally figure it out. I figured he’d fly off and make a life for himself or something.
But that wasn’t the end of the story. The little guy (I named him Peavy, after the log-turning tool I’d found him under…don’t ask me why) didn’t want to go. He hung around the house, and as winter approached my dad and I took out a window in my room and replaced it with a wooden box and door; so he could have some shelter and come into my room if he wished. It made my room a good deal colder, but I didn’t mind. He’d come in while I was doing my homework, coo softly and beak my hair. Occasionally, he’d crap on me (pigeons aren’t really careful about where they drop their load, though he became more conscientious after a while). At dinner time, he’d sit on the table next to my plate and pick bits of food off my fork. He even followed me to school one day and sat on the windowsill of my classroom (much to the interest of the other kids, and for one glorious day I was the coolest kid in class).
I could go on, but I think you get the idea; Peavy became a part of our family. Even my parents enjoyed having him around. I loved having a pet that was so attached to me. So, imagine my utter shock and horror when Peavy was eaten by a red-tailed hawk less than twenty feet from me one cold January day. I still miss him.
As I grew up, the metaphor for parenting was inescapable. Infants are helpless and require constant care; constant care means “all the fucking time whether you want to or not”. They get sick, and you have no idea how to help, and have to frantically research childhood ailments or place a panicked call to the local doctor to find out what to do. Often, you take them to the doctor and wait, powerless and scared, until a stranger pronounces your offspring healthy again. Or they won’t, and you’ll suffer a lifetime of guilt wondering what you could have done differently.
They grow up, and you have to teach them things you barely understand yourself. You have moments of bursting pride when they learn. You have moments of aggravation when they don’t. They make messes and break things (Peavy ruined more than one dinner by shitting in it, until my mother banned him from the kitchen). They cause you to have to completely readjust your life. And sometimes, despite all your hard work, love and endless care, God or Fate deals them a bum card and they are snatched from you anyhow. And I can only imagine the complex horror of watching them grow up to be someone you don’t actually like.
I looked at my experience with Peavy, and asked myself; did I want to go through a similar experience with a child of my own blood? The answer was, and still is, a most emphatic hell no. I think everyone should have to do what I did if they want to raise a child (more detail on this in another entry).
A lot of people who decide to be parents don’t understand the level of total commitment being a good one requires. As I said before, “total” means “all the fucking time whether you want to or not, whether it’s convenient or not, whether it’s cool or not”. You never truly take a break from being a mother or a father. You can desert your duty, but it will forever remain an unfinished piece of business with your name on it. I think that’s why there are so many shitty parents in this world; because parenting is hard fucking work with no clear right answers. And that’s why we’re all to blame for it.
Society just doesn’t respect parents. Are there any sitcoms depicting happy, well adjusted families? Not in my experience. We’d rather watch shows about families more fucked up than ours because it makes us feel better than observe those that are more stable and take lessons. Women would rather keep their girlish figures than grow great with child (and considering the prevailing attitudes on female beauty and its importance, I can’t be too angry with them). Men would rather go drink with their friends and play Xbox than take kids to the park or change diapers (and again, considering the values of our time I don’t blame them either). For those who do it, and do it well, I heartily salute you.
But just because it’s hard does not mean parents should get a free pass or any sympathy for screwing it up. Theirs is the most important job there is; preparing the next generation for survival and prosperity in a cruel, unjust, and fucked-up world. It’s an awesome responsibility, the level of which should be self-evident to anyone with an IQ greater than a freeway speed limit but, sadly, it doesn’t seem to be.
So all you parents, get out there and learn; do not allow others to take up this most sacred of tasks on your behalf unless you wish to part with your offspring. If you’re not ready, condoms are free, birth control is readily available, and if those don’t appeal watch porn and scratch your biochemical itch all by your lonesome. I’ve been a very sexually active male for almost a decade and a half, and I have never knocked someone up so I know it’s possible. And if you already have made a boo-boo and don’t want to be a parent, put your child up for adoption and be smarter next time. I’m not joking; there are plenty of people out there who were cursed with infertility who’d love a shot at child rearing.
In other words, do not take it lightly. A baby is not a toy that stays warm and makes cute noises; it is a *life*. And *you* are responsible for its care and development. So, roll up your sleeves and get to work. We, as your fellow humans, are counting on you, and so is the next generation.
Monday, June 1, 2009
A Sad State of Affairs
At work today, I decided to flip through the paper in a moment of boredom. I don’t normally read the paper; it’s usually full of news I’d rather not read about. I know, it is indeed a head-in-the-sand tactic of the worst order, but I have enough reasons to be depressed that I don’t need to add more to the list. But I was bored; really, really bored. And I figured, come on, the news can’t be bad all the time.
Boy, was I wrong. The first article I encountered was a piece about a late-term abortion doctor being gunned down in a church. Look it up, and if you aren’t shocked and horrified, you aren’t fucking human.
Now, I’m not going to tackle the morality of abortions (not in this post, anyway) or the surgeons who perform them. But Jesus Christ must be spinning in his grave like an F1 racer’s driveshaft as he beholds this latest infamy of mankind. Shooting a 67 year old husband and father? Gunning down a DOCTOR, someone committed to the health and safety of his fellow humans, over what amounts to a debatable point? Doing it during a CHURCH SERVICE, right in fucking front of the image of the man who preached universal love and peaceful tolerance? In full view of families and children, including this poor man’s WIFE? The fact that this sick fuck committed cold-blooded murder, profaning a house of God in the process, and did it in the name of the “pro-life” movement makes this event so savagely ironic I don’t know where to start.
Whoever is responsible for this atrocity needs his head examined. Maybe we can find out what mental loose wire caused him to commit this vile crime, so that no person need be subject to its precursors ever again. Fortunately, from the article I read it sounds like they caught the bastard. Good. I hope that the guilty party is punished to the fullest extent of the law.
I am ordinarily a firm believer in the death penalty; humanity’s true monsters do not deserve to be fed and housed on the tax money provided by law-abiding citizens. In committing the most heinous of crimes, they have made themselves the enemy of their fellow man, and as such they forfeit their rights to life. It should be done as humanely as possible, with as much brevity and respect as can be managed. But I believe it should be done.
However, in this fucker’s case, I’ll make a BIG exception.
He DESERVES incarceration. A long, dreary stretch in the nastiest armpit of a prison as can be found. Marion, Illinois perhaps (I’ve heard that place is a real shithole). And most definitely NOT in solitary confinement; put him in with the rest of the hardened felons and tattoo his crime across his fucking forehead. Hopefully, he would spend the rest of his life being horribly ass-raped by the biggest (take that either way) and most sadistic career cons in the joint. A long, slow, humiliating death from abuse and neglect (if the prison guards have any sense of justice, they’ll just let it happen) is way more poetically appropriate for this waste of skin who felt justified in blowing blood and brains all over a church foyer. And there should be doctors there to keep him healthy, so that he both lives a long time and maybe, possibly grows to respect the service they provide. I’d gladly pay extra on my tax bill just so this can happen; shit, any Hells Angels or New York mafiosi who end up shagging his pink ass can send me a letter. I’ll send you a carton of Marlboros for your service to your country. Two if you give him herpes.
Anyone who even dares to suggest that commission of this murder made the killer a hero or a martyr should join him. Whatever twisted social group that spawned this horrible atrocity should be taken to task for it (and hopefully silenced) as well. Such vicious and selfish thinking should not be allowed to spread.
I’ll climb off my soap box now. I’ll calm down, put my outrage aside and let the wheels of justice turn (hopefully swiftly and surely). But I hope this is a wake-up call to militant, self-righteous “true believers” everywhere who are willing to kill over points of conjecture.
You aren’t helping.
Boy, was I wrong. The first article I encountered was a piece about a late-term abortion doctor being gunned down in a church. Look it up, and if you aren’t shocked and horrified, you aren’t fucking human.
Now, I’m not going to tackle the morality of abortions (not in this post, anyway) or the surgeons who perform them. But Jesus Christ must be spinning in his grave like an F1 racer’s driveshaft as he beholds this latest infamy of mankind. Shooting a 67 year old husband and father? Gunning down a DOCTOR, someone committed to the health and safety of his fellow humans, over what amounts to a debatable point? Doing it during a CHURCH SERVICE, right in fucking front of the image of the man who preached universal love and peaceful tolerance? In full view of families and children, including this poor man’s WIFE? The fact that this sick fuck committed cold-blooded murder, profaning a house of God in the process, and did it in the name of the “pro-life” movement makes this event so savagely ironic I don’t know where to start.
Whoever is responsible for this atrocity needs his head examined. Maybe we can find out what mental loose wire caused him to commit this vile crime, so that no person need be subject to its precursors ever again. Fortunately, from the article I read it sounds like they caught the bastard. Good. I hope that the guilty party is punished to the fullest extent of the law.
I am ordinarily a firm believer in the death penalty; humanity’s true monsters do not deserve to be fed and housed on the tax money provided by law-abiding citizens. In committing the most heinous of crimes, they have made themselves the enemy of their fellow man, and as such they forfeit their rights to life. It should be done as humanely as possible, with as much brevity and respect as can be managed. But I believe it should be done.
However, in this fucker’s case, I’ll make a BIG exception.
He DESERVES incarceration. A long, dreary stretch in the nastiest armpit of a prison as can be found. Marion, Illinois perhaps (I’ve heard that place is a real shithole). And most definitely NOT in solitary confinement; put him in with the rest of the hardened felons and tattoo his crime across his fucking forehead. Hopefully, he would spend the rest of his life being horribly ass-raped by the biggest (take that either way) and most sadistic career cons in the joint. A long, slow, humiliating death from abuse and neglect (if the prison guards have any sense of justice, they’ll just let it happen) is way more poetically appropriate for this waste of skin who felt justified in blowing blood and brains all over a church foyer. And there should be doctors there to keep him healthy, so that he both lives a long time and maybe, possibly grows to respect the service they provide. I’d gladly pay extra on my tax bill just so this can happen; shit, any Hells Angels or New York mafiosi who end up shagging his pink ass can send me a letter. I’ll send you a carton of Marlboros for your service to your country. Two if you give him herpes.
Anyone who even dares to suggest that commission of this murder made the killer a hero or a martyr should join him. Whatever twisted social group that spawned this horrible atrocity should be taken to task for it (and hopefully silenced) as well. Such vicious and selfish thinking should not be allowed to spread.
I’ll climb off my soap box now. I’ll calm down, put my outrage aside and let the wheels of justice turn (hopefully swiftly and surely). But I hope this is a wake-up call to militant, self-righteous “true believers” everywhere who are willing to kill over points of conjecture.
You aren’t helping.
Young Enough Not to Care
A wasted youth is better by far than a wise and productive old age.
-Meat Loaf, “Everything Louder Than Everything Else”
I hang out in the gamer-anime-nerd-freak crowd and sometimes, I’m really surprised by it. Ok, so that social group has a reputation for emotional repression. But, I remember the days when being the balls-to-the-wall “freak” was cool and accepted. The other evening, at an all-night iHOP coffee grind (a gamer institution if ever there was one) we got round to trading funny stories. As everyone started dragging out their "I can't believe I actually did this" tales, I found that mine were some of the only ones that sounded in the least risky. What the hell, I thought. I wasn't THAT dangerous and street as a teenager...was I?
I guess it’s a question of time and place; when I rolled into this scene (in the mid-90s, for some of you as distant as the Precambrian Period) Anne Rice was still trendy, clove cigarettes were the thing and being a gamer-geek didn’t mean you had an aversion to bacchanalia. “Emo” was called “Goth”, long hair and trench coats were the fashion, free love and the occult the order of the day. Indeed, when I started hanging with the crowd, such rowdy behavior was par for the course. So, being teen-aged and impressionable, I grew my hair out, stuck a cig in my mouth and went with the flow. And what a flow it was.
The freaks of my youth didn’t throw keggers; they threw wild bashes that would make Bluto and Bacchus both sit up and shout “ok, what the fuck is going ON over there?” Hard alcohol, nudity, fire-breathing, sword fighting (usually with foam weapons but NOT always), casual semi-public lovemaking, and philosophical rambling all combined into a series of hazy, crazy nights. Hardly anyone got sick or hurt (though there was the occasional injury, accident, or trip to the hospital for stitches and stomach pumping); people mostly just had a good time and dealt with the hangovers. I still remember my first serious gamer-party; within an hour I was making out with a twenty-year old sex kitten sporting a tongue piercing, blue hair and a tattoo, thinking I’d died and gone to heaven.
Sometimes I miss being sixteen and easily amused.
I can recall, with wistful clarity, being shown the proper way to imbibe Whidbey’s Liqueur; off an attractive female’s nipple or stomach. I also remember, with somewhat less clarity, on another occasion drinking “spodi” (a flammable and potentially lethal combination of diced fruit and strong spirits left to macerate in a trash can for several days) until I passed out. I greeted the cold dawn that day wearing nothing more than leather pants (that weren’t mine) and a hickey collection; as to the origins of both, don’t ask me, I’m still not sure.
I had bad times, I had good times. I screwed some women, kissed some boys (deciding that such probably wasn't my thing), did some drugs and had awesome intoxicant-drenched adventures in an era when being a hard-drinking, chain-smoking freak was not yet the anachronism it currently seems to be. I never once got horribly injured or arrested (though my grades suffered and I scraped through some horrific morning-afters) and I learned a little something about the seamy side of life. Also, I came away with some great stories to tell in my old age should I ever, you know, decide to grow up. Someday, if I’m really drunk and sitting at my computer, I’ll do a post about the six hits of gelatin LSD, the ten foot alien, and the woman known as “Aleena, the Potato Queen” (word to the wise; no matter how much I may advocate youthful misbehavior, do yourself a favor and never EVER drop acid at a sci-fi convention).
But that, dear reader, is why the current generation of teenage gamers make me more than a little sad. Oh, they’re good kids; they are fun to be around and just as bright and bushy-tailed about the RPG cosa nostra as I once was. I try and listen to their “unique” character concepts and in-game braggadocio with as much interest as I can muster; I remember being 17 and thinking I was pushing the boundaries of gamer-dom, and I know that learning you really aren’t is something that only comes with time. Besides, if I actually take a moment to listen, I find that more often than not they are indeed being insightful, unique and creative. Just because I’m a jaded old gamer-carcass doesn’t mean that I have to be an egotistical prick about it (as so many gone-to-seed roleplayers I know tend to be; more on this in another post).
But these bright, loveable kids just aren’t taking any risks. These days, I sit and tell stories of my “misspent” youth (only exaggerating a little when pleasantly drunk), and I either have a rapt audience of wide-eyed youngsters, or a bunch of said youngsters giving me the “oh, bullshit” look. (That thing with the Potato Queen really happened, I swear). My life can’t have POSSIBLY been that interesting, unless everyone else’s suddenly became boring by comparison. And considering I steered clear of more than I tried, that fact is a little depressing.
Now, before anyone bristles at my glib romanticizing of drug use, rampant alcohol consumption, and casual sex, listen to this. I am fully aware that I could have been hurt doing what I did. I could have caught AIDS from one of those girls I so casually bedded, or made a trip to the hospital (or a six foot hole) from a bad reaction to the drugs I did. I could have been arrested, or saddled with a child. One of those freakazoids who I partied with could have knocked me unconscious and cut my kidneys out for sale on the black market, or simply buggered me, taken my wallet and left me in a ditch. And I DID do a bunch of puking in the bushes (though not as much as some), got horribly grounded and had to deal with more than one scary situation. A thousand bad things could have potentially happened to me, and more than a few did.
But I am still here.
I’m still mostly healthy, with all my mental and physical faculties intact. I am not a father or a felon, and the only scarring I suffered from my youth was a bad high school GPA and some parent-child fighting (and you’ll have some of that no matter HOW good you are). I came out of my freak time without any addictions (except to cigarettes, stay away from those WHATEVER you decide) or serious life-altering consequences. And, I consider my life fully enriched by my shenanigans; having felt the joyous adrenaline of saying “Oh my god I can’t believe I just DID that and got AWAY with it” more than makes up for the pain of having occasionally, well…not.
Life is risk, and risk makes you feel alive; ignore that fact at your peril. Youth is the TIME for indiscretion. Waiting until you are older just means that you are behaving badly when people (children, spouses, employers) are depending on you. And the midlife crisis happens because you look back at 40 and think, “damn, I missed out; I’ve spent my whole life being good and now I’m bored, I want to play”. By then, it’s usually too fucking late. You have a mortgage, kids, a good job and a body that’s not up to the things you want to put it through. And outlandish, childish, hedonistic behavior causes people to shake their heads in disgust because you are, at that point, “old enough to know better”.
So if you’ve gotten an invite to a party that involves things that aren’t EXACTLY legal, aren’t EXACTLY healthy, and aren’t EXACTLY safe, take it if you think you can come home intact. I’m not advocating anyone to go smoke crack with five-dollar whores, or shoot up in alleyways, have rampant unprotected sex with animals (I’m not merely being hyperbolic; some sub-groups of homo sapiens constitute a lower form of life). Just get a little crazy, confront the risks with a hefty measure of good sense and you don’t have much to fear. Remember, though, that you are taking a risk and that there always is a chance that you can get seriously messed up. And even if you don’t suffer permanent damage, chances are it will hurt a bit, but that’s ok. A serious, stomach-shredding, head-pounding oh-my-god-its 3am-where-am-I-FUCK-these-pants-aren’t-my-pants hangover is something I think everyone should endure; it at least imparts upon one a gut-level respect for the power of controlled substances.
Here’s a bit of hard-won advice. When choosing to be daring, make sure you do a good cost-benefit analysis, educate yourself on potential consequences and NEVER let anyone make important choices on your behalf (remember; your friends don’t have to live with the fallout from drinking/smoking/fucking that, you do). If you are informed, perceptive and somewhat careful, you should get through with nothing more than a headache and a colorful anecdote. And if the damage is permanent, learn the lesson Fate is handing you and take your scar as a badge of honor; it was earned in an error of commission.
Hopefully, when you do decide to settle down, you can have some “been there, done that” wisdom to impart to your children when THEY start getting into their OWN trouble. The fact that my parents misbehaved, lived to tell about it, and gave me a no-BS rundown on drugs and alcohol is the reason I survived my bad behavior mostly intact.
Pleasurable stupidity can hurt. But, you only get one chance to be young enough not to care.
Take it.
(Note: I wrote this while polishing off a half-full bottle of Captain Morgan’s and staying up all night, in case anyone questions my Hedon-cred.)
-Meat Loaf, “Everything Louder Than Everything Else”
I hang out in the gamer-anime-nerd-freak crowd and sometimes, I’m really surprised by it. Ok, so that social group has a reputation for emotional repression. But, I remember the days when being the balls-to-the-wall “freak” was cool and accepted. The other evening, at an all-night iHOP coffee grind (a gamer institution if ever there was one) we got round to trading funny stories. As everyone started dragging out their "I can't believe I actually did this" tales, I found that mine were some of the only ones that sounded in the least risky. What the hell, I thought. I wasn't THAT dangerous and street as a teenager...was I?
I guess it’s a question of time and place; when I rolled into this scene (in the mid-90s, for some of you as distant as the Precambrian Period) Anne Rice was still trendy, clove cigarettes were the thing and being a gamer-geek didn’t mean you had an aversion to bacchanalia. “Emo” was called “Goth”, long hair and trench coats were the fashion, free love and the occult the order of the day. Indeed, when I started hanging with the crowd, such rowdy behavior was par for the course. So, being teen-aged and impressionable, I grew my hair out, stuck a cig in my mouth and went with the flow. And what a flow it was.
The freaks of my youth didn’t throw keggers; they threw wild bashes that would make Bluto and Bacchus both sit up and shout “ok, what the fuck is going ON over there?” Hard alcohol, nudity, fire-breathing, sword fighting (usually with foam weapons but NOT always), casual semi-public lovemaking, and philosophical rambling all combined into a series of hazy, crazy nights. Hardly anyone got sick or hurt (though there was the occasional injury, accident, or trip to the hospital for stitches and stomach pumping); people mostly just had a good time and dealt with the hangovers. I still remember my first serious gamer-party; within an hour I was making out with a twenty-year old sex kitten sporting a tongue piercing, blue hair and a tattoo, thinking I’d died and gone to heaven.
Sometimes I miss being sixteen and easily amused.
I can recall, with wistful clarity, being shown the proper way to imbibe Whidbey’s Liqueur; off an attractive female’s nipple or stomach. I also remember, with somewhat less clarity, on another occasion drinking “spodi” (a flammable and potentially lethal combination of diced fruit and strong spirits left to macerate in a trash can for several days) until I passed out. I greeted the cold dawn that day wearing nothing more than leather pants (that weren’t mine) and a hickey collection; as to the origins of both, don’t ask me, I’m still not sure.
I had bad times, I had good times. I screwed some women, kissed some boys (deciding that such probably wasn't my thing), did some drugs and had awesome intoxicant-drenched adventures in an era when being a hard-drinking, chain-smoking freak was not yet the anachronism it currently seems to be. I never once got horribly injured or arrested (though my grades suffered and I scraped through some horrific morning-afters) and I learned a little something about the seamy side of life. Also, I came away with some great stories to tell in my old age should I ever, you know, decide to grow up. Someday, if I’m really drunk and sitting at my computer, I’ll do a post about the six hits of gelatin LSD, the ten foot alien, and the woman known as “Aleena, the Potato Queen” (word to the wise; no matter how much I may advocate youthful misbehavior, do yourself a favor and never EVER drop acid at a sci-fi convention).
But that, dear reader, is why the current generation of teenage gamers make me more than a little sad. Oh, they’re good kids; they are fun to be around and just as bright and bushy-tailed about the RPG cosa nostra as I once was. I try and listen to their “unique” character concepts and in-game braggadocio with as much interest as I can muster; I remember being 17 and thinking I was pushing the boundaries of gamer-dom, and I know that learning you really aren’t is something that only comes with time. Besides, if I actually take a moment to listen, I find that more often than not they are indeed being insightful, unique and creative. Just because I’m a jaded old gamer-carcass doesn’t mean that I have to be an egotistical prick about it (as so many gone-to-seed roleplayers I know tend to be; more on this in another post).
But these bright, loveable kids just aren’t taking any risks. These days, I sit and tell stories of my “misspent” youth (only exaggerating a little when pleasantly drunk), and I either have a rapt audience of wide-eyed youngsters, or a bunch of said youngsters giving me the “oh, bullshit” look. (That thing with the Potato Queen really happened, I swear). My life can’t have POSSIBLY been that interesting, unless everyone else’s suddenly became boring by comparison. And considering I steered clear of more than I tried, that fact is a little depressing.
Now, before anyone bristles at my glib romanticizing of drug use, rampant alcohol consumption, and casual sex, listen to this. I am fully aware that I could have been hurt doing what I did. I could have caught AIDS from one of those girls I so casually bedded, or made a trip to the hospital (or a six foot hole) from a bad reaction to the drugs I did. I could have been arrested, or saddled with a child. One of those freakazoids who I partied with could have knocked me unconscious and cut my kidneys out for sale on the black market, or simply buggered me, taken my wallet and left me in a ditch. And I DID do a bunch of puking in the bushes (though not as much as some), got horribly grounded and had to deal with more than one scary situation. A thousand bad things could have potentially happened to me, and more than a few did.
But I am still here.
I’m still mostly healthy, with all my mental and physical faculties intact. I am not a father or a felon, and the only scarring I suffered from my youth was a bad high school GPA and some parent-child fighting (and you’ll have some of that no matter HOW good you are). I came out of my freak time without any addictions (except to cigarettes, stay away from those WHATEVER you decide) or serious life-altering consequences. And, I consider my life fully enriched by my shenanigans; having felt the joyous adrenaline of saying “Oh my god I can’t believe I just DID that and got AWAY with it” more than makes up for the pain of having occasionally, well…not.
Life is risk, and risk makes you feel alive; ignore that fact at your peril. Youth is the TIME for indiscretion. Waiting until you are older just means that you are behaving badly when people (children, spouses, employers) are depending on you. And the midlife crisis happens because you look back at 40 and think, “damn, I missed out; I’ve spent my whole life being good and now I’m bored, I want to play”. By then, it’s usually too fucking late. You have a mortgage, kids, a good job and a body that’s not up to the things you want to put it through. And outlandish, childish, hedonistic behavior causes people to shake their heads in disgust because you are, at that point, “old enough to know better”.
So if you’ve gotten an invite to a party that involves things that aren’t EXACTLY legal, aren’t EXACTLY healthy, and aren’t EXACTLY safe, take it if you think you can come home intact. I’m not advocating anyone to go smoke crack with five-dollar whores, or shoot up in alleyways, have rampant unprotected sex with animals (I’m not merely being hyperbolic; some sub-groups of homo sapiens constitute a lower form of life). Just get a little crazy, confront the risks with a hefty measure of good sense and you don’t have much to fear. Remember, though, that you are taking a risk and that there always is a chance that you can get seriously messed up. And even if you don’t suffer permanent damage, chances are it will hurt a bit, but that’s ok. A serious, stomach-shredding, head-pounding oh-my-god-its 3am-where-am-I-FUCK-these-pants-aren’t-my-pants hangover is something I think everyone should endure; it at least imparts upon one a gut-level respect for the power of controlled substances.
Here’s a bit of hard-won advice. When choosing to be daring, make sure you do a good cost-benefit analysis, educate yourself on potential consequences and NEVER let anyone make important choices on your behalf (remember; your friends don’t have to live with the fallout from drinking/smoking/fucking that, you do). If you are informed, perceptive and somewhat careful, you should get through with nothing more than a headache and a colorful anecdote. And if the damage is permanent, learn the lesson Fate is handing you and take your scar as a badge of honor; it was earned in an error of commission.
Hopefully, when you do decide to settle down, you can have some “been there, done that” wisdom to impart to your children when THEY start getting into their OWN trouble. The fact that my parents misbehaved, lived to tell about it, and gave me a no-BS rundown on drugs and alcohol is the reason I survived my bad behavior mostly intact.
Pleasurable stupidity can hurt. But, you only get one chance to be young enough not to care.
Take it.
(Note: I wrote this while polishing off a half-full bottle of Captain Morgan’s and staying up all night, in case anyone questions my Hedon-cred.)
Shut Up & Dance!
I recently set out to throw a party at my house; I invited some friends, threw some steaks on the grill and grabbed a bunch of good booze. It’s something I do fairly regularly; I like having a good time and sharing the experience with others. We also threw some good, danceable music on the stereo (not techno but some booty-shaking old-school soul and funk, I like it) and people started tapping their toes and politely bopping their heads. But, very few actually danced.
Now, make no mistake; I’m white. When it comes to dancing, I’m incredibly white. I have very little rhythm, no mastery of moves (except for breakdancing, and not all that well; yes I can hear you laughing at me, you girl-pants-wearing emo fuckwad) and almost no timing. I look like a coked up chimpanzee in the midst of an epileptic seizure, and I can’t for the life of me imagine why that’s sexy or cool. But, after several shots of whiskey and a good meal, I got up and shook my ass with the few who were brave enough to join me. I’m sure I looked patently ridiculous (as always), but in no time flat, I had the prettiest girl at the party joining me in some bumping and grinding. She looked sexy; I didn’t much care what I looked like, shaking my angular derriere to Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition” was pretty damn entertaining. The hot chick dancing with me was just the icing on the cake.
When I looked over, there were a bunch of guys on the couch watching me with amusement and barely concealed jealousy. I could plainly see the source; the pretty girl was touching me and not them. And it got me to wondering; why don’t more guys do this?
Dancing is good for you. It’s exercise that isn’t mindlessly repetitive. It gets your heart rate up, releases endorphins and causes pretty women to grind their hips on yours. Believe me, if I were a little chunkier than I’d like, slacking my belt while a hot chick rubs herself on me sounds like a small slice of heaven. So what’s the hold-up?
“I can’t dance,” people say when I ask. “I’ll look stupid” say others. Well, I’ve seen what I look like while dancing, and let’s just say I won’t be tearing up Broadway or giving Michael Flatley a run for his money anytime soon. I won’t even have B-boys saying “chill move” or “that’s fucking DOPE!” if I hit the dance floor. Most likely, they’d just laugh. Personally, I don’t give a fuck.
And that’s why I can dance. Getting your freak on at a party involves literally not caring about appearance, just working up a sweat and having a good time. Usually, girls like to dance (and they have the unfair but ultimately pleasurable advantage of tits and hips to shake, we men unfortunately do not) and are collectively put out by the fact that guys don’t. At the risk of giving away one of my prime advantages (my willingness to look silly with an audience has caused more than one pair of panties to eventually evaporate) I’m going to give the guys in the audience a homework assignment.
Wait until you have the house to yourself. Or, just lock the door to your room if that’s what it takes. Find the most irrepressibly white music you can that still has a good beat (“She’s A Lady” by Tom Jones is a good choice…really). Clear some space if you can. Play the music, as loud as the sensibilities of your neighbors will allow. Now, start flailing. Move to the beat. Get your fucking freak on. I’m serious, it’s fun.
Remember that scene in “Risky Business” (A movie probably before the time of most of you; go watch it) where a teenaged Tom Cruise dances like a ninja mutant stripper around his house (in his undies no less) to Bob Seger? Yeah, it was silly. Yeah, we all laughed. But look how much fun he was having. So, try it yourself. And the next time you are at a party, and some good tunes come on, simply do the same thing. Keep your pants on, of course; tighty whities are not sexy. If you need a little push onto the dance floor, a couple shots of tequila will do the trick. It’s called “liquid courage” for a reason.
Not looking like an idiot when you dance is as simple as not worrying about looking like an idiot. Even if some people laugh at you (and they will, because some people are assholes), most will secretly be wishing they could be as secure in themselves as you appear to be. I think maybe that’s why women like men who are willing to throw a few moves out there. Nothing says good things like confidence, and confidence means not giving too much of a fuck about the opinions of people you’ve never met and who, at the end of the day, don’t really matter.
So the next time you hear something that makes you tap your toe, and there’s booze and hot chicks involved, don’t stop there. Just dance like nobody’s watching. You might be surprised at the result.
Now, make no mistake; I’m white. When it comes to dancing, I’m incredibly white. I have very little rhythm, no mastery of moves (except for breakdancing, and not all that well; yes I can hear you laughing at me, you girl-pants-wearing emo fuckwad) and almost no timing. I look like a coked up chimpanzee in the midst of an epileptic seizure, and I can’t for the life of me imagine why that’s sexy or cool. But, after several shots of whiskey and a good meal, I got up and shook my ass with the few who were brave enough to join me. I’m sure I looked patently ridiculous (as always), but in no time flat, I had the prettiest girl at the party joining me in some bumping and grinding. She looked sexy; I didn’t much care what I looked like, shaking my angular derriere to Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition” was pretty damn entertaining. The hot chick dancing with me was just the icing on the cake.
When I looked over, there were a bunch of guys on the couch watching me with amusement and barely concealed jealousy. I could plainly see the source; the pretty girl was touching me and not them. And it got me to wondering; why don’t more guys do this?
Dancing is good for you. It’s exercise that isn’t mindlessly repetitive. It gets your heart rate up, releases endorphins and causes pretty women to grind their hips on yours. Believe me, if I were a little chunkier than I’d like, slacking my belt while a hot chick rubs herself on me sounds like a small slice of heaven. So what’s the hold-up?
“I can’t dance,” people say when I ask. “I’ll look stupid” say others. Well, I’ve seen what I look like while dancing, and let’s just say I won’t be tearing up Broadway or giving Michael Flatley a run for his money anytime soon. I won’t even have B-boys saying “chill move” or “that’s fucking DOPE!” if I hit the dance floor. Most likely, they’d just laugh. Personally, I don’t give a fuck.
And that’s why I can dance. Getting your freak on at a party involves literally not caring about appearance, just working up a sweat and having a good time. Usually, girls like to dance (and they have the unfair but ultimately pleasurable advantage of tits and hips to shake, we men unfortunately do not) and are collectively put out by the fact that guys don’t. At the risk of giving away one of my prime advantages (my willingness to look silly with an audience has caused more than one pair of panties to eventually evaporate) I’m going to give the guys in the audience a homework assignment.
Wait until you have the house to yourself. Or, just lock the door to your room if that’s what it takes. Find the most irrepressibly white music you can that still has a good beat (“She’s A Lady” by Tom Jones is a good choice…really). Clear some space if you can. Play the music, as loud as the sensibilities of your neighbors will allow. Now, start flailing. Move to the beat. Get your fucking freak on. I’m serious, it’s fun.
Remember that scene in “Risky Business” (A movie probably before the time of most of you; go watch it) where a teenaged Tom Cruise dances like a ninja mutant stripper around his house (in his undies no less) to Bob Seger? Yeah, it was silly. Yeah, we all laughed. But look how much fun he was having. So, try it yourself. And the next time you are at a party, and some good tunes come on, simply do the same thing. Keep your pants on, of course; tighty whities are not sexy. If you need a little push onto the dance floor, a couple shots of tequila will do the trick. It’s called “liquid courage” for a reason.
Not looking like an idiot when you dance is as simple as not worrying about looking like an idiot. Even if some people laugh at you (and they will, because some people are assholes), most will secretly be wishing they could be as secure in themselves as you appear to be. I think maybe that’s why women like men who are willing to throw a few moves out there. Nothing says good things like confidence, and confidence means not giving too much of a fuck about the opinions of people you’ve never met and who, at the end of the day, don’t really matter.
So the next time you hear something that makes you tap your toe, and there’s booze and hot chicks involved, don’t stop there. Just dance like nobody’s watching. You might be surprised at the result.
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