Poop lived in a small place. There weren't many people where Poop lived.
She was kind, courteous, cute. She was polite and smiled a lot. She was friendly to everybody, and she tried not to bother anyone. She was very considerate.
But some of the people in Poop's city-- if you could call a nest that small a "city"-- didn't like her. She didn't actually know if the people didn't like her, but what she knew is that they didn't act like they liked her. They would avoid her eye contact when they walked by her on the streets. They never came to her home when she invited them for parties, and they never invited her anywhere. Nobody called her. Often she would catch people talking behind their hands and looking in her direction, which made her believe they were talking about her.
She went to see a doctor, and he told her she was just making things up in her head. She hadn't heard anyone say anything negative about her so she couldn't really know if people hated her. It was probably her imagination.
Imagination or not, Poop didn't have anyone to confide in or talk with. She was alone often, and made friends with as many trees as she could.
She tried to make friends with people, but no one would talk with her. And after a while, it became pointless to ask "why?" because it simply wasn't going to be answered.
One day, Poop saw a book on the ground. It was The Ugly Duckling by Hans Christian Andersen. Knowing only that she loved books, she picked up the book and read. The story began with a mother duck and her nest filled with eggs about to hatch. When the eggs hatched, there was one particular bird who stood out as being ugly amongst her other ducklings. This bird was teased, bullied and abused by his siblings and family. He ran away from home to various other places, but he was only met with abuse and ridicule from those around him. At one point, he sees a group of migrating swans flying, and he becomes excited to join them, as he thinks it would be fun to fly, but he is too young to fly and simply watches them fly away. The more and more he's abused, the more he secludes himself and hides and runs away from everyone, until he finally can no longer take it. He decides to throw himself at the mercy of the swans, because if he's going to die he figures he might as well die at the hands of the most beautiful creatures he'd ever seen. So he went to the swans, but to his surprise they accepted him for who he was. And when he saw his reflection in the water, he saw that he had grown into a swan. He then spread his beautiful swan wings and took flight with the rest of the swans.
Poop finished the book and let her arm drop to her side.
She stared blankly ahead of her.
She was breathless.
Panting in rhythm with the book slapping her leg gently.
Slapant.
Slapant.
Slapant.
"What the fuck is wrong with you people??!!" Poop screamed at the tiny, tiny city. People poked their heads out of their windows to see what all the commotion was about. "You're all a bunch of fucking douches! You're all a bunch of fucks!!"
Poop pulled out a handgun from her waistband and let loose of a maelstrom of bullets. People dropped dead. Women's head's exploded into red mists of blood as they were separated by hot lead. Men cried and crumpled to the ground.
"We're so sorry!" the men screamed, but it was too late. Poop shot them in their knees, sending them into fits of agony. She then fired shots so close to their ears that their cheeks and scalps were burned with hot gunpowder discharge, and then she pressed the scorching gun barrel into their exposed ears, branding them for the remainder of their short, pathetic, painful lives. Poop laughed a releasing laugh as she killed the people of the town: the women who hadn't returned her calls or invited her to their parties. The school teachers who couldn't seem to remember her name even though she had participated in their classes for years and years. The store owners who always turned up their noses when she walked in. They boys who teased her. The girls who teased her. Her parents who ignored her and told her she was fat. Her school-yard peers who called her names and pushed her to the ground. All the people who beat her and kicked her and pushed her and committed horrible, horrible things to her. She released years and years of anger and repression as she bathed in the blood that she sent streaming into the sky. Everyone was in her cross hairs. And everyone, everyone, died that day with a mangled, tortured cry of agony as they realized the horrible error of their ways and understood how they had always been wrong and the pain they were feeling was justification. It was the price they were paying for their years of cruelty, and they no longer had credit cards.
Poop returned from her wonderful daydream.
She looked around at her tiny, tiny town and the tiny, tiny people who lived there.
And she took one step forward.
Away from the tiny town.
And the tiny people.
And all their tiny ways.
And that one step lead to another step.
And another step forward.
Not just away, but toward something else.
She took one more step toward something else.
She didn't know what was out there.
And she didn't know how long it would take.
But it was going to start with this step.
And this step.
And she kept stepping toward forward.
So you see, Poop was a metaphor. It was sorta like the story of the Ugly Duckling, but before the Ugly Duckling finds his group that he belongs to. And the name, Poop, was picked because it sounds like an ugly name to us, right? A person with the name Poop must be a pretty ugly person, huh? Well, Hans Cristian Andersen actually named his famous swan Poop. It's true. They just didn't include that in the original manuscript. Yeah, so now there's even more deepness to my story, right? Yeah, I'm a Literary Genius. And maybe, just maybe, we can look around and try to find those Poops that are around us, and maybe we could invite them to our parties and return their emails. Cuz they're not actually poop. They're named Poop, and they are beautiful swans. And you're pretty shallow when you don't say hi to them. And that's a way in which you can make our world a better place. You are welcome.
Friday, January 30, 2015
Thursday, January 29, 2015
On Judgment and Profiling
Some of my co-workers were emailing each other about a news article stating that there was a war on hoodies. Two men in particular were having words with each other. Let's call them A and B.
A was saying that the hoodies hadn't actually done any crimes, and declaring a war on a piece of clothing was a type of racial profiling because of the kinds of people who typically wear that piece of clothing.
B said that a piece of clothing wasn't a race, and to suggest that everything was a kind of racial profiling wasn't helpful for anyone.
A responded by asking B what he would think if he went shopping in a Walmart store and saw a fat, white man wearing torn flannel shirts and ripped jeans with three kids and a fat wife walking next to him who had chocolate stains on her cheek. A was trying to get B to admit that there was some kind of judgment B would make of the family just from looking at them.
B responded to this by saying he would see that family as just a typical American family practicing their right to be a typical American family, which was a right he had protected by serving in the military for 22 years.
A then responded by saying that B's eyes may be open but they're still glued shut, as no man can see that which he refuses to.
B then responded by saying that he was happy that he doesn't judge a person by the clothes they wear or the color of their skin, just by the stupidity that comes from their mouth, which was an old Puerto Rican proverb stated by him.
I then responded to B by asking if he was admitting to being an intelligence profiler.
No one has yet to respond to my funny, funny joke.
Before I go any further, I want you to honestly ask yourself this question: from the example above, what color/race are A and B? Did you assign a race to either or both of them? Be honest. Nobody but you will know, and nobody but you will judge. If you thought about their race, as I did, you're profiling.
Here's my take on the subject, since I don't trust or like these people enough to share my opinions with them.
Judgment works from concrete and goes to abstract.
Profiling works from abstract and goes to concrete.
Judgment: this apple looks red, so it will be delicious.
Profiling: delicious apples look red.
Judgment: those four kids walking towards me are dangerous.
Profiling: dangerous kids walk in groups.
Judgment starts with something you can see, hear, taste, touch, smell or move with your ESP powers, like a red apple or a group of kids.
Profiling starts with something intangible, like a feeling. Danger or deliciousness. Both are subjective and will not be defined by everyone in the same way in the same way.
I think it's impossible to live without judgment. Judgment happens all the time, and it gets a bad reputation. I think judgment gets a bad reputation because people make logical mistakes based on their judgments, and then take equally mistaken actions based on those incorrect judgments. My wife is pretty close to being blind, and in high school she didn't always wear her glasses, which meant there would be times when I would wave at her and she wouldn't even acknowledge my existence. "What's up with that cold shoulder??" In every day life, that typical judgment looks like this: you do something, something bad happens, you decide to never/always do certain things because of that situation. You get married, your husband beats you, you decide to never get married again. You get drunk, you get sick, you decide you're never drinking again. You saw Jaws, you hated it, you decide never to see another Stephen Spielberg film ever again. You wave, the Hottest Chick In High School completely ignores you, you decide you're never talking to her again because she's a bitch. These are all logical mistakes, and don't address the issues that have caused you pain. Your current husband beats you, not future husbands, yet you deny future husbands access to marrying you because of your past husband's actions=logical mistake. You got drunk (past tense), then you got sick and deny future drinks even in minimal proportions=logical mistake. Jaws made you sad, so you will not see any other movie which is not Jaws but was done by the same director=logical mistake. The Hot Chick didn't reciprocate, so you decide to cut off future experiences before understanding that she couldn't see you=logical mistake.
We think about judgment and profiling in the Michael Brown/Trayvon Martin/Eric Garner cases, and we instinctually feel there were obvious logical mistakes made with these three cases, even if we're not quite sure what they are. This is what we think of when with judgment and profiling-- it causes logical mistakes. Nobody wants to make a mistake, so they deny profiling and judgment all together. I don't judge people based on what they're wearing, says my coworker for fear of being seen as somebody who makes mistakes and, perhaps on the extreme, kills without reason. Trayvon's killer took notice of him and started a physical altercation with him because he was walking in a neighborhood at night. Michael's killer took notice of him because he was walking down the street in the daytime. Eric's killer took notice of him because he was breaking up a fight. There is a logical disconnect in the thinking when you see somebody walking down the street, walking in a neighborhood, or breaking up a fight, and go into a mode that leads to killing that person. Nobody wants to be thought of as a person who is crazy or paranoid enough to kill somebody just for walking down the street.
I need my cops to make judgment calls when determining who is a bad guy and who is a good guy. I need my soldiers to keep me safe and profile the enemy. We all need that. We also need sane soldiers, cops, public servants who don't judge you as a criminal simply for wearing a hoodie or walking through a neighborhood at night, or for being black. We need to stop that kind of insanity, that kind of paranoia. It cannot be acceptable any more for people to behave in ways that endanger people. And I think the first step to stopping the insanity is to admit that it's there.
It was insane that Trayvon Martin was killed for walking through his neighborhood.
It was insane that Michael Brown was killed for walking down the street.
It was insane that Eric Garner was killed for breaking up a fight.
It was insane that the grand juries decided not to indict in the Brown and Garner cases.
It. Was. Insane.
I find myself being worried that cops around the nation have the means to end life, and in some circumstances they are required to end life, and that life might be mine. I identify closer to Trayvon Marin, Michael Brown and Eric Garner than I do with any of the police officers involved in those incidents, which causes me to become concerned for my safety. And that, too, has a bit of insanity to it primarily because I'm white.
Now that we've admitted it's there, we all can work on getting treatment for this insanity.
And that is a subject for another day.
A was saying that the hoodies hadn't actually done any crimes, and declaring a war on a piece of clothing was a type of racial profiling because of the kinds of people who typically wear that piece of clothing.
B said that a piece of clothing wasn't a race, and to suggest that everything was a kind of racial profiling wasn't helpful for anyone.
A responded by asking B what he would think if he went shopping in a Walmart store and saw a fat, white man wearing torn flannel shirts and ripped jeans with three kids and a fat wife walking next to him who had chocolate stains on her cheek. A was trying to get B to admit that there was some kind of judgment B would make of the family just from looking at them.
B responded to this by saying he would see that family as just a typical American family practicing their right to be a typical American family, which was a right he had protected by serving in the military for 22 years.
A then responded by saying that B's eyes may be open but they're still glued shut, as no man can see that which he refuses to.
B then responded by saying that he was happy that he doesn't judge a person by the clothes they wear or the color of their skin, just by the stupidity that comes from their mouth, which was an old Puerto Rican proverb stated by him.
I then responded to B by asking if he was admitting to being an intelligence profiler.
No one has yet to respond to my funny, funny joke.
Before I go any further, I want you to honestly ask yourself this question: from the example above, what color/race are A and B? Did you assign a race to either or both of them? Be honest. Nobody but you will know, and nobody but you will judge. If you thought about their race, as I did, you're profiling.
Here's my take on the subject, since I don't trust or like these people enough to share my opinions with them.
Judgment works from concrete and goes to abstract.
Profiling works from abstract and goes to concrete.
Judgment: this apple looks red, so it will be delicious.
Profiling: delicious apples look red.
Judgment: those four kids walking towards me are dangerous.
Profiling: dangerous kids walk in groups.
Judgment starts with something you can see, hear, taste, touch, smell or move with your ESP powers, like a red apple or a group of kids.
Profiling starts with something intangible, like a feeling. Danger or deliciousness. Both are subjective and will not be defined by everyone in the same way in the same way.
I think it's impossible to live without judgment. Judgment happens all the time, and it gets a bad reputation. I think judgment gets a bad reputation because people make logical mistakes based on their judgments, and then take equally mistaken actions based on those incorrect judgments. My wife is pretty close to being blind, and in high school she didn't always wear her glasses, which meant there would be times when I would wave at her and she wouldn't even acknowledge my existence. "What's up with that cold shoulder??" In every day life, that typical judgment looks like this: you do something, something bad happens, you decide to never/always do certain things because of that situation. You get married, your husband beats you, you decide to never get married again. You get drunk, you get sick, you decide you're never drinking again. You saw Jaws, you hated it, you decide never to see another Stephen Spielberg film ever again. You wave, the Hottest Chick In High School completely ignores you, you decide you're never talking to her again because she's a bitch. These are all logical mistakes, and don't address the issues that have caused you pain. Your current husband beats you, not future husbands, yet you deny future husbands access to marrying you because of your past husband's actions=logical mistake. You got drunk (past tense), then you got sick and deny future drinks even in minimal proportions=logical mistake. Jaws made you sad, so you will not see any other movie which is not Jaws but was done by the same director=logical mistake. The Hot Chick didn't reciprocate, so you decide to cut off future experiences before understanding that she couldn't see you=logical mistake.
We think about judgment and profiling in the Michael Brown/Trayvon Martin/Eric Garner cases, and we instinctually feel there were obvious logical mistakes made with these three cases, even if we're not quite sure what they are. This is what we think of when with judgment and profiling-- it causes logical mistakes. Nobody wants to make a mistake, so they deny profiling and judgment all together. I don't judge people based on what they're wearing, says my coworker for fear of being seen as somebody who makes mistakes and, perhaps on the extreme, kills without reason. Trayvon's killer took notice of him and started a physical altercation with him because he was walking in a neighborhood at night. Michael's killer took notice of him because he was walking down the street in the daytime. Eric's killer took notice of him because he was breaking up a fight. There is a logical disconnect in the thinking when you see somebody walking down the street, walking in a neighborhood, or breaking up a fight, and go into a mode that leads to killing that person. Nobody wants to be thought of as a person who is crazy or paranoid enough to kill somebody just for walking down the street.
I need my cops to make judgment calls when determining who is a bad guy and who is a good guy. I need my soldiers to keep me safe and profile the enemy. We all need that. We also need sane soldiers, cops, public servants who don't judge you as a criminal simply for wearing a hoodie or walking through a neighborhood at night, or for being black. We need to stop that kind of insanity, that kind of paranoia. It cannot be acceptable any more for people to behave in ways that endanger people. And I think the first step to stopping the insanity is to admit that it's there.
It was insane that Trayvon Martin was killed for walking through his neighborhood.
It was insane that Michael Brown was killed for walking down the street.
It was insane that Eric Garner was killed for breaking up a fight.
It was insane that the grand juries decided not to indict in the Brown and Garner cases.
It. Was. Insane.
I find myself being worried that cops around the nation have the means to end life, and in some circumstances they are required to end life, and that life might be mine. I identify closer to Trayvon Marin, Michael Brown and Eric Garner than I do with any of the police officers involved in those incidents, which causes me to become concerned for my safety. And that, too, has a bit of insanity to it primarily because I'm white.
Now that we've admitted it's there, we all can work on getting treatment for this insanity.
And that is a subject for another day.
Wednesday, January 28, 2015
Turtle and Tortise and The Stupid Story
Turtle addressed her class.
"I am very disappointed in you. I asked you all to finish your homework, and only 3 of you actually did that I asked you to do. There are 400 of you in here! I don't know what your problem is, but you had better get your act together!"
Most of Turtle's students turned their noses up at her.
"What a bitch."
"She has no idea what we're going through."
"Fuck her, I'm not listening to her anymore."
"I did my homework, but I don't like getting yelled at. I know she's not yelling at me. But she's yelling at all of us, and I'm a part of all of us. This doesn't make me want to do anything for her again."
The next time Turtle asked her class to do their homework, only 2 completed their work. Again, Turtle chastised them, telling them they had all fallen short of her expectations and they were disappointing to her. Ultimately, none of Turtle's students did their homework. They all failed school. And they were all put on welfare. All because they didn't finishe their homework in Turtle's class.
Tortise addressed her class.
"Well, I noticed that only 3 of you were able to complete your homework, leaving 397 of you who weren't able to finish your homework. So you know, I'm going to continue to assign homework, and it is part of your grade in this class. So I need to make sure you guys do as much of your homework as you can. I'd like to see what's going on with you guys so that I can adjust things as needed to give you all the best chances to succeed that I can."
And Tortise then guided a respectful class discussion.
The students didn't say much, but most of them would say they felt respected.
And none of them were yelled at.
And the following week, more students turned in their work.
And more continued to turn in their work as the semester continued.
And they all passed.
And they all went on to be happy and wealthy and President of the United States of America.
"I am very disappointed in you. I asked you all to finish your homework, and only 3 of you actually did that I asked you to do. There are 400 of you in here! I don't know what your problem is, but you had better get your act together!"
Most of Turtle's students turned their noses up at her.
"What a bitch."
"She has no idea what we're going through."
"Fuck her, I'm not listening to her anymore."
"I did my homework, but I don't like getting yelled at. I know she's not yelling at me. But she's yelling at all of us, and I'm a part of all of us. This doesn't make me want to do anything for her again."
The next time Turtle asked her class to do their homework, only 2 completed their work. Again, Turtle chastised them, telling them they had all fallen short of her expectations and they were disappointing to her. Ultimately, none of Turtle's students did their homework. They all failed school. And they were all put on welfare. All because they didn't finishe their homework in Turtle's class.
Tortise addressed her class.
"Well, I noticed that only 3 of you were able to complete your homework, leaving 397 of you who weren't able to finish your homework. So you know, I'm going to continue to assign homework, and it is part of your grade in this class. So I need to make sure you guys do as much of your homework as you can. I'd like to see what's going on with you guys so that I can adjust things as needed to give you all the best chances to succeed that I can."
And Tortise then guided a respectful class discussion.
The students didn't say much, but most of them would say they felt respected.
And none of them were yelled at.
And the following week, more students turned in their work.
And more continued to turn in their work as the semester continued.
And they all passed.
And they all went on to be happy and wealthy and President of the United States of America.
Tuesday, January 20, 2015
My Arcade Dream
My arcade would have the following games (in no particular order):
Gorf
Q*Bert
Donkey Kong
Donkey Kong Jr.
Pac-Man
Ms. Pac-Man
Tron
Cyber Sled with two functional audio seats for players one and two
Tempest
Space Invaders
Phoenix
Qix
Gauntlet with 4-player controls
X-Men with 6-player controls
Asteroids Deluxe
Bagman
Frogger
House of the Dead
Spy Hunter with the steering wheel and pedal controls
Tetris
Street Fighter II
Barrier (the first video game I remember getting a high score on)
Missile Command
Jungle King (with the original audio)
Moon Patrol
Galaga
Battlezone
Centipede
Karate Champ
Yie Ar Kung Fu
Punch Out!!
Crystal Castles
Burger Time
San Francisco Rush 2049: Special Edition 4 seat version
Robotron
Wizard of Wor
Berzerk
Joust
Commando
Pole Position
Mappy
Dig Dug
Star Trek
Star Wars sit down version
Tapper
Journey with a working tape deck playing Journey music
The Simpsons Arcade Game 4 player version
Vanguard
Tekken
I would serve beer and soda. I would have a real popcorn maker. I would serve good pizza and really good burgers. No food or drinks would be allowed in the arcade. I would have skee ball and ticket games and prizes. I would have music playing from a solid jukebox with rad tunes inside. There would be lots of black lights so your shoe laces and teeth look like they're glowing. It would have great temperature controls, so you'd never get too hot, and you'd never get too cold. High scores would be posted on large screens around the arcade, showing daily, weekly, and all-time high scores. Big screen TVs would be around the arcade, bathing the players in the moderate light from movies like Tron and Halloween. Maybe not that. Scratch that, it would negate the mood lighting and black lights. And it would be so much fun. And you'd want to drink and eat and much popcorn and bring your friends to play games. You'd have so much fun at my arcade, you wouldn't want to leave and you couldn't wait to come back. You'd have a favorite food and drink, but you'd try them all, but you would have one that was delicious to you. You'd have a lot of favorite games, but you'd have just one or two that you were really good at. And you'd meet people at the arcade who were like you, and they would help you get better, and you'd help them get better. And every game would only be a quarter, no $0.50 games here! And there would be change machines and drink rails. And you could rent the arcade for special occasions. And it would be a blast. And the music of all those machines would play all night long and be glorious. And the beer would be cold and crisp and fresh. And the food would be hot and flavorful. And the popcorn would be like movie popcorn, but better. Buttery and salty and melt-in-your-mouth good. And people would have fun and love it and be happy. And it would be so great. Yeah... ... ... ...
Gorf
Q*Bert
Donkey Kong
Donkey Kong Jr.
Pac-Man
Ms. Pac-Man
Tron
Cyber Sled with two functional audio seats for players one and two
Tempest
Space Invaders
Phoenix
Qix
Gauntlet with 4-player controls
X-Men with 6-player controls
Asteroids Deluxe
Bagman
Frogger
House of the Dead
Spy Hunter with the steering wheel and pedal controls
Tetris
Street Fighter II
Barrier (the first video game I remember getting a high score on)
Missile Command
Jungle King (with the original audio)
Moon Patrol
Galaga
Battlezone
Centipede
Karate Champ
Yie Ar Kung Fu
Punch Out!!
Crystal Castles
Burger Time
San Francisco Rush 2049: Special Edition 4 seat version
Robotron
Wizard of Wor
Berzerk
Joust
Commando
Pole Position
Mappy
Dig Dug
Star Trek
Star Wars sit down version
Tapper
Journey with a working tape deck playing Journey music
The Simpsons Arcade Game 4 player version
Vanguard
Tekken
I would serve beer and soda. I would have a real popcorn maker. I would serve good pizza and really good burgers. No food or drinks would be allowed in the arcade. I would have skee ball and ticket games and prizes. I would have music playing from a solid jukebox with rad tunes inside. There would be lots of black lights so your shoe laces and teeth look like they're glowing. It would have great temperature controls, so you'd never get too hot, and you'd never get too cold. High scores would be posted on large screens around the arcade, showing daily, weekly, and all-time high scores. Big screen TVs would be around the arcade, bathing the players in the moderate light from movies like Tron and Halloween. Maybe not that. Scratch that, it would negate the mood lighting and black lights. And it would be so much fun. And you'd want to drink and eat and much popcorn and bring your friends to play games. You'd have so much fun at my arcade, you wouldn't want to leave and you couldn't wait to come back. You'd have a favorite food and drink, but you'd try them all, but you would have one that was delicious to you. You'd have a lot of favorite games, but you'd have just one or two that you were really good at. And you'd meet people at the arcade who were like you, and they would help you get better, and you'd help them get better. And every game would only be a quarter, no $0.50 games here! And there would be change machines and drink rails. And you could rent the arcade for special occasions. And it would be a blast. And the music of all those machines would play all night long and be glorious. And the beer would be cold and crisp and fresh. And the food would be hot and flavorful. And the popcorn would be like movie popcorn, but better. Buttery and salty and melt-in-your-mouth good. And people would have fun and love it and be happy. And it would be so great. Yeah... ... ... ...
Thursday, January 15, 2015
Pig, Peacock, Panther (Huh-huh-huh... I Said, "Cock"... Huh-huh-huh...)
Bird stood in front of everyone.
"Everyone, listen up! Things are going to change. I know you've become used to how things are, but they aren't going to stay that way. I know we'd all like things to stay the same, but they're not going to. They're going to change."
Pig became excited. "I'm excited for this change! It means that we will all have an adventure!" And Pig started to list very well-thought, intelligent possibilities for how things could get better because of this change.
Peacock was less than happy. "You have no idea what's coming, and things could be horrible. Here, let me list for you the ways in which things will become worse than they are now." And Peacock started to list very well-thought, intelligent possibilities for how things could get worse because of this change.
Panther was unfazed. "I'm not changing. They can't make me." Panther dug in his heels.
The Change Happened.
Some good Change, some bad Change, some Change was neither good nor bad.
Pig went through the Change with everyone else and felt how Pig felt.
Peacock went through the Change with everyone else and felt how Peacock felt.
Panther went through the Change, because even though Panther decided not to change, there is no escaping Change.
"Everyone, listen up! Things are going to change. I know you've become used to how things are, but they aren't going to stay that way. I know we'd all like things to stay the same, but they're not going to. They're going to change."
Pig became excited. "I'm excited for this change! It means that we will all have an adventure!" And Pig started to list very well-thought, intelligent possibilities for how things could get better because of this change.
Peacock was less than happy. "You have no idea what's coming, and things could be horrible. Here, let me list for you the ways in which things will become worse than they are now." And Peacock started to list very well-thought, intelligent possibilities for how things could get worse because of this change.
Panther was unfazed. "I'm not changing. They can't make me." Panther dug in his heels.
The Change Happened.
Some good Change, some bad Change, some Change was neither good nor bad.
Pig went through the Change with everyone else and felt how Pig felt.
Peacock went through the Change with everyone else and felt how Peacock felt.
Panther went through the Change, because even though Panther decided not to change, there is no escaping Change.
Clam and Fish
Fish and Clam sat talking.
"It's cold in here," said Clam.
And Fish knew how to fix it!
Fish ran to the thermostat and turned on the heat. That would help Clam. Fish returned to Clam, proud that Fish was able to help.
"It's not cold anymore," said Clam. "Now it's hot."
And Fish knew how to fix it!
Fish ran and got a fan, plugged it in, pointed it at Clam, and turned it on. That would help Clam, Fish thought.
"It's a little breezy," said Clam. "My toupee is kinda flying off."
And Fish knew how to fix it!
Fish ran and got tape, the stickier the better, and neatly placed it on Clam's head, and then stuck Clam's toupee to the sticky tape. Aha, though Fish. This will fix Clam's problems.
Clam sat and thought.
Clam was glad to have a friend like Fish, seemingly dedicated to fixing Clam's life.
Clam also took stock of the silly, silly mess Clam was currently in. Clam sat in a cold room, with the heater on, a fan blowing on Clam, and Clam's toupee strongly stuck to Clam's head with tape.
None of the things Clam had said were in need of fixing.
Clam had enjoyed things the way they were, and Clam hadn't asked for anything to change in any way.
Fish had seen problems where there were no problems.
Clam was just talking, but Fish heard the words as complaints. Which Clam had not intended.
And now Clam was confused about how to proceed.
Should Clam say something which will get "fixed" by Fish, even though it's fine the way it is?
Or should Claim say nothing, which still could be "fixed" by Fish, seeing everything as a complaint.
Clam looked at Fish.
Fish, eager to fix the things Clam complained about, looked back at Clam.
"Thank you for your kindness," Clam said to Fish.
"It's cold in here," said Clam.
And Fish knew how to fix it!
Fish ran to the thermostat and turned on the heat. That would help Clam. Fish returned to Clam, proud that Fish was able to help.
"It's not cold anymore," said Clam. "Now it's hot."
And Fish knew how to fix it!
Fish ran and got a fan, plugged it in, pointed it at Clam, and turned it on. That would help Clam, Fish thought.
"It's a little breezy," said Clam. "My toupee is kinda flying off."
And Fish knew how to fix it!
Fish ran and got tape, the stickier the better, and neatly placed it on Clam's head, and then stuck Clam's toupee to the sticky tape. Aha, though Fish. This will fix Clam's problems.
Clam sat and thought.
Clam was glad to have a friend like Fish, seemingly dedicated to fixing Clam's life.
Clam also took stock of the silly, silly mess Clam was currently in. Clam sat in a cold room, with the heater on, a fan blowing on Clam, and Clam's toupee strongly stuck to Clam's head with tape.
None of the things Clam had said were in need of fixing.
Clam had enjoyed things the way they were, and Clam hadn't asked for anything to change in any way.
Fish had seen problems where there were no problems.
Clam was just talking, but Fish heard the words as complaints. Which Clam had not intended.
And now Clam was confused about how to proceed.
Should Clam say something which will get "fixed" by Fish, even though it's fine the way it is?
Or should Claim say nothing, which still could be "fixed" by Fish, seeing everything as a complaint.
Clam looked at Fish.
Fish, eager to fix the things Clam complained about, looked back at Clam.
"Thank you for your kindness," Clam said to Fish.
Tuesday, January 13, 2015
Doctor's First Experiment
The Doctor was doing an experiment, and Patient came into the room.
Doctor handed Patient a piece of paper.
"On that paper," said Doctor, "I have written a name. I want you to tell me what the name is."
"Your handwriting is atrocious," said Patient, looking at the paper, "I can't tell what it's supposed to be."
"Take a guess," said Doctor, gently. "This is the experiment."
Patient took a long look at the paper, trying to decipher each individual letter. The first letter was definitely an R. After that, everything was one large squiggly mess. What names start with R? Robert? No, it doesn't look like Robert because there aren't any twigs sticking up that could be the B or the T. Ricky? No. Ramona... okay, yeah, I could see that. It might be Ramona. And now the last name... Sampson? No. St... Ste... I have no idea! I just can't read this writing. I'm gonna make the best educated guess I can.
"Ramona Stetson?"
"No," Doctor said calmly. "It's Rinkley Stotzen."
Patient looked at Doctor.
Doctor smiled.
Patient beat the shit out of Doctor.
"What the fuck kind of test is this, you fuck?!"
Doctor tried to shield his head from the vigorous beating he was getting. "It's to show you what's possible! You didn't know that name existed mere moments ago! Now you know that name exists! What new things will exist in the next few moments for you that you never knew existed before?? The world has more possibilities than you can even imagine!"
Patient lifted the exam table over his head and knocked Doctor unconscious with it. It was a sturdy table. Made from, I dunno, hard wood. Or really, really hard granite.
Doctor lay on the floor.
"That's a dumb test," Patient said to Doctor's motionless body. "You're a dumb test."
And with that, Patient walked out of the room, down to the corner deli, and ate a sandwich, pissed. It was, you know, something common. Like pastrami, or something you eat when you're pissed at a deli.
And as Doctor's warm, red blood slowly oozed onto the floor, he dreamed of the brand new, exciting world of possibility that was now open to Patient because of Doctor's experiment.
Doctor handed Patient a piece of paper.
"On that paper," said Doctor, "I have written a name. I want you to tell me what the name is."
"Your handwriting is atrocious," said Patient, looking at the paper, "I can't tell what it's supposed to be."
"Take a guess," said Doctor, gently. "This is the experiment."
Patient took a long look at the paper, trying to decipher each individual letter. The first letter was definitely an R. After that, everything was one large squiggly mess. What names start with R? Robert? No, it doesn't look like Robert because there aren't any twigs sticking up that could be the B or the T. Ricky? No. Ramona... okay, yeah, I could see that. It might be Ramona. And now the last name... Sampson? No. St... Ste... I have no idea! I just can't read this writing. I'm gonna make the best educated guess I can.
"Ramona Stetson?"
"No," Doctor said calmly. "It's Rinkley Stotzen."
Patient looked at Doctor.
Doctor smiled.
Patient beat the shit out of Doctor.
"What the fuck kind of test is this, you fuck?!"
Doctor tried to shield his head from the vigorous beating he was getting. "It's to show you what's possible! You didn't know that name existed mere moments ago! Now you know that name exists! What new things will exist in the next few moments for you that you never knew existed before?? The world has more possibilities than you can even imagine!"
Patient lifted the exam table over his head and knocked Doctor unconscious with it. It was a sturdy table. Made from, I dunno, hard wood. Or really, really hard granite.
Doctor lay on the floor.
"That's a dumb test," Patient said to Doctor's motionless body. "You're a dumb test."
And with that, Patient walked out of the room, down to the corner deli, and ate a sandwich, pissed. It was, you know, something common. Like pastrami, or something you eat when you're pissed at a deli.
And as Doctor's warm, red blood slowly oozed onto the floor, he dreamed of the brand new, exciting world of possibility that was now open to Patient because of Doctor's experiment.
Waddaya Wanna Doo
Counselor One told the groups to get in the water, so the groups did.
Counselor Two said, "Take these canoes and make it work with your partner."
Each group got a canoe.
Patty and Perry got in their canoe and they decided that they wanted to go as fast as they could. So they each paddled in the same direction, and they hunkered down in the canoe itself, trying to get as little wind resistance as possible, and before long, FLOOMF! They were speeding down the river as fast as they could.
Oblate and Orglaf got in their canoe and decided that they wanted to spin in a circle. So they sat side by side in their canoe, Oblate facing front, Orglaf facing back, and they paddled. And before long, SWOOMF! They were spinning like a top that spins in water.
Nerb and Neeb decided that they wanted to see if they could keep perfectly still in the river, so they waited for the current to turn their canoe in just the right way so they could jam their oars into the river bed and use them as a kind of anchor. And with a little patience, Nerb and Neeb's canoe sat perfectly still while the river ran around them.
And Counselor One and Counselor Two sat on the side of the river and watched. One group was sailing down the river. Another group was spinning wildly in place. A third group was not going anywhere.
Counselor One said to Counselor Two, "What do you want to do?"
Counselor Two said, "Take these canoes and make it work with your partner."
Each group got a canoe.
Patty and Perry got in their canoe and they decided that they wanted to go as fast as they could. So they each paddled in the same direction, and they hunkered down in the canoe itself, trying to get as little wind resistance as possible, and before long, FLOOMF! They were speeding down the river as fast as they could.
Oblate and Orglaf got in their canoe and decided that they wanted to spin in a circle. So they sat side by side in their canoe, Oblate facing front, Orglaf facing back, and they paddled. And before long, SWOOMF! They were spinning like a top that spins in water.
Nerb and Neeb decided that they wanted to see if they could keep perfectly still in the river, so they waited for the current to turn their canoe in just the right way so they could jam their oars into the river bed and use them as a kind of anchor. And with a little patience, Nerb and Neeb's canoe sat perfectly still while the river ran around them.
And Counselor One and Counselor Two sat on the side of the river and watched. One group was sailing down the river. Another group was spinning wildly in place. A third group was not going anywhere.
Counselor One said to Counselor Two, "What do you want to do?"
Book Title
I'm thinking of this as the title of my book:
Pair o' Bulls: Shittah Dolts Lafayette (May Bee)
Waddaya think?
Would this title make you buy a copy without knowing what's inside???
Pair o' Bulls: Shittah Dolts Lafayette (May Bee)
Waddaya think?
Would this title make you buy a copy without knowing what's inside???
Reader and Author
The Reader approached the Author.
READER: I read your book, and you write in parables, which are for kids, but you use adult words, like "butt". Why would you do that?
AUTHOR: Parables don't have to be exclusively for children. My stories are for anyone, everyone, but my intended audience is one primarily made of adults.
READER: I can tell they're supposed to be about things that apply to my life. Why do you write about me in parables, Author?
AUTHOR: The things that apply to your life also apply to others. I'm not just writing about you, I'm also writing about me and anyone else who recognizes something of their world in my stories.
READER: But I don't like it. I feel like you're taunting me with a child's story. It makes me feel guilty about doing things you are judging me for.
AUTHOR: I'm not judging you, Reader. After all, you ended that previous sentence with a preposition. I'm just writing about how I see things.
READER: It feels like when you write in broad terms, like your parables allow you to, you skip over the details of people's lives that would give them reasons to act the way they do. Like Craig in the pool with Veronica. I felt like Craig, but I wouldn't help Veronica because I have deep vein thrombosis and I have problems of my own.
AUTHOR: That's where you and Craig are different. Craig didn't have deep vein thrombosis and wasn't struggling like you. It sounds like you're more like Veronica than Craig, from what you're telling me.
READER: But I ain't no woman! I'm just saying, people have reasons, I have reasons for not helping others!
AUTHOR: I'm glad that people have reasons for behaving poorly, otherwise people would be acting without reason, which is called "chaos". Yet, it's still behaving poorly, reasons or not, wouldn't you agree?
READER: (ignoring AUTHOR) Why would you write like you do when you so obviously want to just blame others for the problems of the world rather than taking responsibility yourself, you uppity, left-wing, liberal communist??
AUTHOR: (taking a beat) Because writing in parables is easier than telling everybody they're doing it all wrong. And I'm lazy.
READER: Are you making fun of me?
AUTHOR: No. You're right to be upset at an author of a book, because there's no better place for your anger to be aimed.
READER: I don't like you.
AUTHOR: Of course.
READER walks away.
READER: I read your book, and you write in parables, which are for kids, but you use adult words, like "butt". Why would you do that?
AUTHOR: Parables don't have to be exclusively for children. My stories are for anyone, everyone, but my intended audience is one primarily made of adults.
READER: I can tell they're supposed to be about things that apply to my life. Why do you write about me in parables, Author?
AUTHOR: The things that apply to your life also apply to others. I'm not just writing about you, I'm also writing about me and anyone else who recognizes something of their world in my stories.
READER: But I don't like it. I feel like you're taunting me with a child's story. It makes me feel guilty about doing things you are judging me for.
AUTHOR: I'm not judging you, Reader. After all, you ended that previous sentence with a preposition. I'm just writing about how I see things.
READER: It feels like when you write in broad terms, like your parables allow you to, you skip over the details of people's lives that would give them reasons to act the way they do. Like Craig in the pool with Veronica. I felt like Craig, but I wouldn't help Veronica because I have deep vein thrombosis and I have problems of my own.
AUTHOR: That's where you and Craig are different. Craig didn't have deep vein thrombosis and wasn't struggling like you. It sounds like you're more like Veronica than Craig, from what you're telling me.
READER: But I ain't no woman! I'm just saying, people have reasons, I have reasons for not helping others!
AUTHOR: I'm glad that people have reasons for behaving poorly, otherwise people would be acting without reason, which is called "chaos". Yet, it's still behaving poorly, reasons or not, wouldn't you agree?
READER: (ignoring AUTHOR) Why would you write like you do when you so obviously want to just blame others for the problems of the world rather than taking responsibility yourself, you uppity, left-wing, liberal communist??
AUTHOR: (taking a beat) Because writing in parables is easier than telling everybody they're doing it all wrong. And I'm lazy.
READER: Are you making fun of me?
AUTHOR: No. You're right to be upset at an author of a book, because there's no better place for your anger to be aimed.
READER: I don't like you.
AUTHOR: Of course.
READER walks away.
Veronica's Pool
Everyone was in the pool.
It was a big pool.
That's how everyone could fit.
There was plenty of room for everyone to do what they wanted and needed to do.
And everyone was swimming.
Craig noticed Veronica was struggling to keep her head above water. He stopped swimming and tread water so that he could watch as she struggled to keep her head up.
He looked around at everyone else.
Some noticed Veronica struggling. Some didn't.
Bert was not looking at Veronica, and Craig swam over to him.
"Hey, Bert, did you notice Veronica struggling behind you?" It was, after all, hard not to notice her splashing and struggling.
Bert looked at Craig.
He did not look at Veronica.
He did not look in Veronica's direction.
"No, Craig, I didn't notice whoever doing the thing-ever you saidy what."
And Bert looked at the sky.
Craig noticed Veronica continue to struggle.
But, after a while of looking at her, a calm ran over him.
He didn't need to worry about Veronica.
It's not like she's dying. She's still breathing.
And why should he do something when others weren't?
After all, everybody was swimming.
Everybody.
It's not Craig's job to... you know... whatever to Veronica.
What on earth could he do to help?
What on earth could anyone do to help?
And with that, Craig stopped thinking about Veronica and looked at the sky.
One of Veronica's struggles produced a splash that hit Craig on his shoulder.
Sheesh, Craig thought, annoyed, there goes the neighborhood.
It was a big pool.
That's how everyone could fit.
There was plenty of room for everyone to do what they wanted and needed to do.
And everyone was swimming.
Craig noticed Veronica was struggling to keep her head above water. He stopped swimming and tread water so that he could watch as she struggled to keep her head up.
He looked around at everyone else.
Some noticed Veronica struggling. Some didn't.
Bert was not looking at Veronica, and Craig swam over to him.
"Hey, Bert, did you notice Veronica struggling behind you?" It was, after all, hard not to notice her splashing and struggling.
Bert looked at Craig.
He did not look at Veronica.
He did not look in Veronica's direction.
"No, Craig, I didn't notice whoever doing the thing-ever you saidy what."
And Bert looked at the sky.
Craig noticed Veronica continue to struggle.
But, after a while of looking at her, a calm ran over him.
He didn't need to worry about Veronica.
It's not like she's dying. She's still breathing.
And why should he do something when others weren't?
After all, everybody was swimming.
Everybody.
It's not Craig's job to... you know... whatever to Veronica.
What on earth could he do to help?
What on earth could anyone do to help?
And with that, Craig stopped thinking about Veronica and looked at the sky.
One of Veronica's struggles produced a splash that hit Craig on his shoulder.
Sheesh, Craig thought, annoyed, there goes the neighborhood.
Monday, January 12, 2015
Dr. DickHead's Playroom, January 12th Edition
Dr. DickHead said, today, that the only reason why there are so many computer viruses in the world is because Apple makes them.
Which, to me, is peculiar, seeing as Apple is primarily a hardware company, dealing with plastics, metals. You know, hardware. While computer viruses are exclusively software related, harmful pieces of programming code. You know, software. It's like saying that the Whirlpool Oven Company is responsible for all the salmonella in chickens because they manufacture it.
God I wanna fucking murder him!
Which, to me, is peculiar, seeing as Apple is primarily a hardware company, dealing with plastics, metals. You know, hardware. While computer viruses are exclusively software related, harmful pieces of programming code. You know, software. It's like saying that the Whirlpool Oven Company is responsible for all the salmonella in chickens because they manufacture it.
God I wanna fucking murder him!
Friday, January 9, 2015
So Wrong
The Doctor in the cube next to mine is talking to the IRS, saying that he received his income tax refund for 2012, but hasn't received his refund for 2013.
Starting pay for doctors at my job is over $130,000 a year.
My pay is less than $50,000.
My wife makes less than $10,000.
Rounding up, she and I combined make less than half what this Doctor makes.
We did not receive a refund in 2012 or 2013. We had to pay money both years.
In 2013, my wife did our taxes.
In 2012, we paid a tax attorney to do our taxes. We paid him a lot of money so that we could pay more money to the government.
Our annual income for both of those years combined did not equal ONE year for this Doctor.
And he received a refund for BOTH years.
This is really, REALLY fucking wrong. So unbelievably wrong.
And, as far as I know, there's nothing we can do.
Story of my life.
"Shit sucks. Sorry. You just gotta keep getting fucked, dude. Nothing to be done."
"Nothing to be done."
---Estragon
Starting pay for doctors at my job is over $130,000 a year.
My pay is less than $50,000.
My wife makes less than $10,000.
Rounding up, she and I combined make less than half what this Doctor makes.
We did not receive a refund in 2012 or 2013. We had to pay money both years.
In 2013, my wife did our taxes.
In 2012, we paid a tax attorney to do our taxes. We paid him a lot of money so that we could pay more money to the government.
Our annual income for both of those years combined did not equal ONE year for this Doctor.
And he received a refund for BOTH years.
This is really, REALLY fucking wrong. So unbelievably wrong.
And, as far as I know, there's nothing we can do.
Story of my life.
"Shit sucks. Sorry. You just gotta keep getting fucked, dude. Nothing to be done."
"Nothing to be done."
---Estragon
Thursday, January 8, 2015
We're Really Moving... Aren't We?
Last night I was talking with my 18-year-old. He said he wished he could make video games. I told him that I wished he could, too. I told him I wished I could, and that I was looking into going to school to see about doing that.
"Why?" he asked with a tone that clearly said I Can't Think Of Anything I Would Enjoy Less Than Going To School For Any Reason Ever.
"Because," I explained, "I don't like my current job. I can't support our family right now being an actor here. I can't support our family being an actor in Oregon. So my choice is to continue doing what I hate doing in order to support our family, or try to find something else I might enjoy more. Doing something computer related seems like it might be a good option, as it's something I could do here while we're still living here, and it should transfer well to something I could do in Oregon when we move there. I'm planning ahead for our move. And it's not for five years, but I need to take steps now in order to do what I'd like to do in the future."
His face got... something. Surprised? Shocked? Scared? Some other word that starts with "S"?
"We're really moving, aren't we?" he asked, still with that look on his face.
"That's what I'm planning on. Now, it's not for five years yet, and a lot can happen in five years. Making sure that my parents are well cared for is really the only thing I can think of right now that might prevent me from moving, but other than that, I don't see anything right now that would stop me from moving. But, as I said, it's five years away and a lot can happen in five years."
He was still looking at me, not blinking. It was odd.
"Does that scare you?" I asked.
"Scare me? No. I don't think so." He wiped his eyes, and I was still having a hard time understanding what he was going through. He continued. "I guess it's hard for me to imagine things happening. I guess I'm still used to when I lived at [my father's] house. A lot of things were said but none of them happened."
My 18-year-old has taken to calling his father by his father's first name in a conscious effort to separate himself. He is able to think about his time with his father, while it is painful, but it's still too painful for him to think about actually being related to the man. He doesn't get the title of father. He gets his first name.
I don't understand fully what it was like over there, for my wife or her boys. I've heard them often speak about how things would be said and never happen, and I saw how traumatized they were and, to some degree, continue to be. But the things that I was told about were things like going to see the Batman movies. [Father] would say that he was going to take the boys to see Batman, because Batman was his favorite super hero. This was a big enough deal for both boys to say that they didn't want to see the Batman movies without their [Father], because he would be upset if they went to see the movies without him. My wife even said that she didn't want to take the boys to see Batman because she knew it was something [Father] wanted to do with the boys. But Batman came and left the theatre, and the boys didn't see it. It was released on video, and still there were no plans to see it. The boys' patience was worn out, and they didn't understand why their father wouldn't take them to Batman and why their mother and I were not allowing them to see Batman. Obviously, they ultimately said to us, if he wanted to take us to Batman, he would have taken us to see Batman. So finally, we purchased The Dark Knight, and we watched it with the boys. And [Father] got upset with me, my wife, and the boys.
And that's the first story that comes to mind when I think about Things Being Said That Didn't Happen At [Father's] House: the boys didn't see Batman in the theatre.
When you tell somebody else that story, even when I read it, it's hardly cause for alarm. Fathers have been not taking their children to movies long before Harry Chapin recorded the 1974 Dead Beat Dad Anthem "Cat's In The Cradle", and while it's disappointing, it shouldn't be cause for trauma, unless something else happened. There shouldn't be trauma unless [Father] getting upset means something other than what I think of, and what I'm guessing is most of the rest of the world thinks of, as "getting upset", where one or all of the following happens:
eyes are cast downward
face mildly crinkles with pained expression
no harsher words than "damn" are expressed, as in, "You saw the movie without me? Damn."
[Father] goes to bed without supper
These are the most severe actions that are expressed when I hear the words "get upset", and when you say "Dad got upset," I think of these actions as the most that could happen.
I've heard everyone talk of "interrogations" that happened over there, where their father would separate them and then question them repeatedly for extended periods of time, 10-45 minutes depending on the subject matter. I'm certain that interrogations happened over the Batman incident, because I know that interrogations happened when they returned from spending any kind of time with their mother. The boys spent the week with their mother, and when they returned to [Father], one boy was called into his office and blocked from leaving the room. What did you do over there? Did your mother force you to do that? Why didn't you do this thing? It's not appropriate for your mother to not have you do that thing that you didn't do. What else is she doing that's not appropriate? What did you eat? Why didn't you eat at this specific time? Why did you listen to this specific music? What were you thinking? Why are you behaving so poorly? Why aren't you better? What's wrong with you? What are you doing to yourself? Do you know how your actions are making me look? Do you realize that when you screw up it reflects poorly on me? I won't allow that to happen.
It's difficult to understand, because so much of it is outside the realm of reality for most of us. And why, you ask, did the mother and boys put up with this? They didn't. They asked for help. Mother asked for help from her mother, who later told the boys' attorney that she felt [Father] was a better parent than her own daughter. Mother asked attorneys for help, and was told that she was a hippy, that she was involved in a "Kramer vs. Kramer" case, where she left and then decided that she didn't want to be without her boys which is entirely not true. She told attorneys that interrogations go on, that harassment goes on, and they said that she couldn't prove harassment. She brought audio recordings of the harassment, and nobody used them in court. She tried to get a job to afford attorneys, and, oddly, no full-time employment was to be found for a 12-year former stay-at-home mother without a college degree, and almost not part-time employment was to be found. People she once considered friends stopped returning her calls, so she couldn't even talk to somebody about her situation. She was abandoned, almost entirely. And the only people who stood by her, me and my family, were unable to make attorneys listen to her, understand her trauma, fight for her and for the boys. We were unable to do much of anything except watch her and the boys, repeatedly, get turned away. And the youngest was so traumatized that he refuses to stand up for himself to this day. When he heard about how North Korea had hacked into Sony Pictures in an attempt to stop the release of The Interview, he said that the best thing for them to do was to go along with the demands of the bullies (North Korea) until they could get away and make their own decisions. The talk we had about this incident mirrored so much of his life it was hard for me to talk about it without seeing Sony Pictures as him and North Korea as [Father]. And I hope that he is able to recognize that Sony Pictures had support from The President, and with that support, as well as the support of millions more, Sony Pictures went ahead with the release of their film, despite the actions of the bullies/terrorists, and everything turned out okay. But it's probably difficult for him to see that everything could turn out okay when his mother, brother, and step-father are still being bullied by his North Korea, so it's still in his best interest to keep doing what North Korea wants until he can make his own decisions. Fuck, I got lost. Where was I? Oh yeah, it's hard to get people to understand what the hell is going on with this guy, because it's not rational. And at our attorney's rate of $350 an hour, it's difficult to make the story affordable.
I hope our family can move. I hope my son can face his insecurities and take that step with me into a world where his father definitely can't touch him. I hope my wife can face her insecurities and take that step with me into a world where she is more than capable of holding a job, of being important to others, of being respected, love, appreciated for exactly who she is, faults and all, without trauma. I hope that I can make enough money to pay for rent for these two people and me so that we can live in a place where we all can be comfortable. I hope my parents will move with us, because I like spending time with them, and it would be difficult to take care of them if I'm two time zones away from them.
I hope software developer and engineer is a something I enjoy.
I hope I can go through school quickly.
I hope I can make a lot of money doing that job here and in Oregon.
I hope I can pay for the school that I will enjoy and will challenge me.
Interesting.
When I wrote "challenge me", it made me think of my son.
He's said that he doesn't like to be challenged in video games, because he plays for enjoyment.
From that, I can assume that challenges aren't enjoyable to him.
I watched him play a game yesterday. His team of good guys were killing bad guys. His team started with 200 people, as did the bad guys. When he was only 10 guys ahead of the bad guys, he didn't like it. When he was over 100 guys ahead, he said, "Now it's becoming a game I enjoy where the odds are in my favor."
Something else I hope is that my son will know he can face challenges and find success, even in his perceived failure, and that challenges won't prevent him from taking actions that will ultimately make his life better. I hope my wife, her son, and me can find challenges exciting in the coming years, because we know those challenges won't defeat us.
...I feel like I got lost again. What the fuck was I saying?
Oh. I'd like to move to Oregon in five years with my family. The End.
"Why?" he asked with a tone that clearly said I Can't Think Of Anything I Would Enjoy Less Than Going To School For Any Reason Ever.
"Because," I explained, "I don't like my current job. I can't support our family right now being an actor here. I can't support our family being an actor in Oregon. So my choice is to continue doing what I hate doing in order to support our family, or try to find something else I might enjoy more. Doing something computer related seems like it might be a good option, as it's something I could do here while we're still living here, and it should transfer well to something I could do in Oregon when we move there. I'm planning ahead for our move. And it's not for five years, but I need to take steps now in order to do what I'd like to do in the future."
His face got... something. Surprised? Shocked? Scared? Some other word that starts with "S"?
"We're really moving, aren't we?" he asked, still with that look on his face.
"That's what I'm planning on. Now, it's not for five years yet, and a lot can happen in five years. Making sure that my parents are well cared for is really the only thing I can think of right now that might prevent me from moving, but other than that, I don't see anything right now that would stop me from moving. But, as I said, it's five years away and a lot can happen in five years."
He was still looking at me, not blinking. It was odd.
"Does that scare you?" I asked.
"Scare me? No. I don't think so." He wiped his eyes, and I was still having a hard time understanding what he was going through. He continued. "I guess it's hard for me to imagine things happening. I guess I'm still used to when I lived at [my father's] house. A lot of things were said but none of them happened."
My 18-year-old has taken to calling his father by his father's first name in a conscious effort to separate himself. He is able to think about his time with his father, while it is painful, but it's still too painful for him to think about actually being related to the man. He doesn't get the title of father. He gets his first name.
I don't understand fully what it was like over there, for my wife or her boys. I've heard them often speak about how things would be said and never happen, and I saw how traumatized they were and, to some degree, continue to be. But the things that I was told about were things like going to see the Batman movies. [Father] would say that he was going to take the boys to see Batman, because Batman was his favorite super hero. This was a big enough deal for both boys to say that they didn't want to see the Batman movies without their [Father], because he would be upset if they went to see the movies without him. My wife even said that she didn't want to take the boys to see Batman because she knew it was something [Father] wanted to do with the boys. But Batman came and left the theatre, and the boys didn't see it. It was released on video, and still there were no plans to see it. The boys' patience was worn out, and they didn't understand why their father wouldn't take them to Batman and why their mother and I were not allowing them to see Batman. Obviously, they ultimately said to us, if he wanted to take us to Batman, he would have taken us to see Batman. So finally, we purchased The Dark Knight, and we watched it with the boys. And [Father] got upset with me, my wife, and the boys.
And that's the first story that comes to mind when I think about Things Being Said That Didn't Happen At [Father's] House: the boys didn't see Batman in the theatre.
When you tell somebody else that story, even when I read it, it's hardly cause for alarm. Fathers have been not taking their children to movies long before Harry Chapin recorded the 1974 Dead Beat Dad Anthem "Cat's In The Cradle", and while it's disappointing, it shouldn't be cause for trauma, unless something else happened. There shouldn't be trauma unless [Father] getting upset means something other than what I think of, and what I'm guessing is most of the rest of the world thinks of, as "getting upset", where one or all of the following happens:
eyes are cast downward
face mildly crinkles with pained expression
no harsher words than "damn" are expressed, as in, "You saw the movie without me? Damn."
[Father] goes to bed without supper
These are the most severe actions that are expressed when I hear the words "get upset", and when you say "Dad got upset," I think of these actions as the most that could happen.
I've heard everyone talk of "interrogations" that happened over there, where their father would separate them and then question them repeatedly for extended periods of time, 10-45 minutes depending on the subject matter. I'm certain that interrogations happened over the Batman incident, because I know that interrogations happened when they returned from spending any kind of time with their mother. The boys spent the week with their mother, and when they returned to [Father], one boy was called into his office and blocked from leaving the room. What did you do over there? Did your mother force you to do that? Why didn't you do this thing? It's not appropriate for your mother to not have you do that thing that you didn't do. What else is she doing that's not appropriate? What did you eat? Why didn't you eat at this specific time? Why did you listen to this specific music? What were you thinking? Why are you behaving so poorly? Why aren't you better? What's wrong with you? What are you doing to yourself? Do you know how your actions are making me look? Do you realize that when you screw up it reflects poorly on me? I won't allow that to happen.
It's difficult to understand, because so much of it is outside the realm of reality for most of us. And why, you ask, did the mother and boys put up with this? They didn't. They asked for help. Mother asked for help from her mother, who later told the boys' attorney that she felt [Father] was a better parent than her own daughter. Mother asked attorneys for help, and was told that she was a hippy, that she was involved in a "Kramer vs. Kramer" case, where she left and then decided that she didn't want to be without her boys which is entirely not true. She told attorneys that interrogations go on, that harassment goes on, and they said that she couldn't prove harassment. She brought audio recordings of the harassment, and nobody used them in court. She tried to get a job to afford attorneys, and, oddly, no full-time employment was to be found for a 12-year former stay-at-home mother without a college degree, and almost not part-time employment was to be found. People she once considered friends stopped returning her calls, so she couldn't even talk to somebody about her situation. She was abandoned, almost entirely. And the only people who stood by her, me and my family, were unable to make attorneys listen to her, understand her trauma, fight for her and for the boys. We were unable to do much of anything except watch her and the boys, repeatedly, get turned away. And the youngest was so traumatized that he refuses to stand up for himself to this day. When he heard about how North Korea had hacked into Sony Pictures in an attempt to stop the release of The Interview, he said that the best thing for them to do was to go along with the demands of the bullies (North Korea) until they could get away and make their own decisions. The talk we had about this incident mirrored so much of his life it was hard for me to talk about it without seeing Sony Pictures as him and North Korea as [Father]. And I hope that he is able to recognize that Sony Pictures had support from The President, and with that support, as well as the support of millions more, Sony Pictures went ahead with the release of their film, despite the actions of the bullies/terrorists, and everything turned out okay. But it's probably difficult for him to see that everything could turn out okay when his mother, brother, and step-father are still being bullied by his North Korea, so it's still in his best interest to keep doing what North Korea wants until he can make his own decisions. Fuck, I got lost. Where was I? Oh yeah, it's hard to get people to understand what the hell is going on with this guy, because it's not rational. And at our attorney's rate of $350 an hour, it's difficult to make the story affordable.
I hope our family can move. I hope my son can face his insecurities and take that step with me into a world where his father definitely can't touch him. I hope my wife can face her insecurities and take that step with me into a world where she is more than capable of holding a job, of being important to others, of being respected, love, appreciated for exactly who she is, faults and all, without trauma. I hope that I can make enough money to pay for rent for these two people and me so that we can live in a place where we all can be comfortable. I hope my parents will move with us, because I like spending time with them, and it would be difficult to take care of them if I'm two time zones away from them.
I hope software developer and engineer is a something I enjoy.
I hope I can go through school quickly.
I hope I can make a lot of money doing that job here and in Oregon.
I hope I can pay for the school that I will enjoy and will challenge me.
Interesting.
When I wrote "challenge me", it made me think of my son.
He's said that he doesn't like to be challenged in video games, because he plays for enjoyment.
From that, I can assume that challenges aren't enjoyable to him.
I watched him play a game yesterday. His team of good guys were killing bad guys. His team started with 200 people, as did the bad guys. When he was only 10 guys ahead of the bad guys, he didn't like it. When he was over 100 guys ahead, he said, "Now it's becoming a game I enjoy where the odds are in my favor."
Something else I hope is that my son will know he can face challenges and find success, even in his perceived failure, and that challenges won't prevent him from taking actions that will ultimately make his life better. I hope my wife, her son, and me can find challenges exciting in the coming years, because we know those challenges won't defeat us.
...I feel like I got lost again. What the fuck was I saying?
Oh. I'd like to move to Oregon in five years with my family. The End.
Tuesday, January 6, 2015
Video Games as Art?
To my knowledge, no one in or out of the field has ever been able to cite a game worthy of comparison with the great dramatists, poets, filmmakers, novelists and composers. That a game can aspire to artistic importance as a visual experience, I accept. But for most gamers, video games represent a loss of those precious hours we have available to make ourselves more cultured, civilized and empathetic.
—Roger Ebert
Apparently, there's a big discussion going on about video games and if they can be considered art.
One obvious difference between art and games is that you can win a game. It has rules, points, objectives, and an outcome. Santiago might cite a [sic] immersive game without points or rules, but I would say then it ceases to be a game and becomes a representation of a story, a novel, a play, dance, a film. Those are things you cannot win; you can only experience them.
—Roger Ebert
I asked my wife what art was to her. She said "anything that's made". She also didn't want to talk with me about something as "deep" as what I had asked her right before bed.
By April 2002, however, controversy over the topic was still a legal reality as Judge Stephen N. Limbaugh, Sr., upon reviewing gameplay from "'The Resident of Evil Creek' [sic], 'Mortal Combat' [sic], 'DOOM,' and 'Fear Effect'" ruled in Interactive Digital Software Association v. St. Louis County that "just like Bingo, the Court fails to see how video games express ideas, impressions, feelings, or information unrelated to the game itself."
My initial feelings are that it's important to define art. After you define what art is, then you can see what different things match the definition. My wife said art is anything that's made. I asked if babies were art, and she said yes, they were. I asked if a refrigerator was art, and she said it was. She, also, didn't want to have such a heavy brain-meal before bed, so she could have been saying anything just to get me to shut up. Or, just as likely, she might have been serious. It's difficult to tell with her sometimes. Often, even she doesn't know what she's saying. Part of her charm.
The lines between video games and art become blurred when exhibitions fit the labels of both game and interactive art. The Smithsonian American Art Museum held an exhibit in 2012, entitled "The Art of Video Games", which was designed to demonstrate the artistic nature of video games, including the impact of older works and the subsequent influence of video games on creative culture. The Smithsonian later added Flower and Halo 2600, games from this collection, as permanent exhibits within the museum. Similarly, the Museum of Modern Art in New York City has aimed to collect forty historically important video games in their original format to use as exhibits to showcase video games as an art form. The annual "Into the Pixel" art exhibit held at the time of the Electronic Entertainment Expo highlights video game art selected by a panel of both video game and art industry professionals.
Personally, I think art is anything that causes an emotional response. While not everything that causes an emotional response is art, art must cause an emotional response. I think I believe this because I took art classes in school, and I was told certain things were art. I was told Van Gogh was an artist, and everything he created was art. But I'm color blind, and a lot of his work deals with colors, and upon visiting his exhibit at the Detroit Institute of Arts, many of his paintings looked like dark grey-green rectangles. The titles of these rectangles implied that there was supposed to be something going on within their frames, but I couldn't see it.
In 2006, Ebert took part in a panel discussion at the Conference on World Affairs entitled "An Epic Debate: Are Video Games an Art Form?" in which he stated that video games don't explore the meaning of being human as other art forms do. A year later, in response to comments from Clive Barker on the panel discussion, Ebert further noted that video games present a malleability that would otherwise ruin other forms of art. As an example, Ebert posed the idea of a version of Romeo & Juliet that would allow for an optional happy ending.
I live in a world where a minor handicap prevents me from seeing what others see. I sometimes cannot see the colors Van Gogh uses. Is that, then, the only thing that makes his works art? I don't think so. I saw "Starry Night" while at the DIA, and I really liked it. I stared at it for a long time. I got lost in it. It was fun, and I remember that well.
So what is art? Wikipedia describes it here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Art. Arguably, this article states that anything created by a human imagination or skill is art. A baby, therefore, wouldn't be considered art, as it requires neither skill nor imagination to create. Trees, mountains, wind, streams... none of these would be considered art, as humans didn't create them. A refrigerator could be considered art, as it takes some skill to create a refrigerator. I will probably use the following definition until a better definition comes along: art is anything a human creates which involves imagination or skill and evokes an emotional response. I think it's important to attach an emotional response to things which are art, because I believe art is something different than creation. If a child completes his homework assignment, I wouldn't call that art. But when his mother looks at the plate covered in glued-on macaroni, she has an emotional response, and suddenly the homework is art. It's that single emotional response that makes something art. If it's simply created with imagination or skill and no emotional response, it's homework.
So why the hell do I care about all this?
I think this hits a nerve with me that resonates into almost every area of my current life.
We live on this planet with over 7 billion others. Many, if not most, of those 7 billion people are trying to tell us what to do. And many, if not most, of those 7 billion people don't give two fucks about you or me, but they're gonna tell us what to do, how to feel, what is normal, what speed to drive, and they're gonna pass out their opinions like they're free, which they are. In fact, some people actually make their living giving out their opinions. Judges do. Critics do. Teachers do. Laws that we follow today are simply somebody's opinion from a while ago that enough people agreed upon and voted into law. Similarly, all the things which school children are subjected to as art are things which people agreed upon a long time ago, and now, today, I'm stuck reading "A Separate Peace" and "The Bell Jar" because some rich fuck decided it was art. I am learning what somebody else decided a long time ago I should learn. And you know what? I hated "The Bell Jar". It was boring and stupid and I read this emotionally charged piece of shit in high school when I was trying to sort out my own emotions and wondering why my dick got hard when I wore fleece pants.
Why isn't George Carlin's "A Place For My Stuff" routine considered art? It's just as musical as Chopin. It's as finely crafted as "Watership Down". It's as theatrical in performance as Henry Fonda in Clarence Darrow. Why isn't the movie Tootsie or Parenthood considered art? They are both as emotionally moving as Amadeus, certainly more so than Chariots of Fire, and both of those won Best Picture Academy Awards. Tootsie was nominated for Best Cinematography, meaning others recognized it for being skillfully filmed, yet it lost to Gandhi, and I was moved at the shot in Parenthood when Jason Robards pulls down the "no smoking" sign after he's passed out cigars in the hospital waiting room to celebrate the birth of his new grandson. Parenthood had two Oscar nominations, one for Best Supporting Actress for Diane Wiest (she lost to Brenda Fricker in the drama My Left Foot), and one for Randy Newman's original song, "I Love To See You Smile" (he lost to "Under The Sea" from The Little Mermaid), so we know that others agree there is artistic merit to this movie, as well.
I live in a world where I am moved every day by what others call kitsch, skits, and silliness. They call these things "low art" at best, with tones of disapproval. These pieces of fluff, they say, are not as meaningful or important as true pieces of art. These pieces are fun, but they aren't worthy of being studied in high school. The Mona Lisa is Art. "All In The Family" is not.
I live in a world where I am disregarded by almost everybody's opinion. And the way we have established education teaches me that I'm to disregard my own opinion in favor of somebody else's. I don't even know who's opinion was important enough or rich enough to force me into having to read The Old Man and the Sea, to watch Laurence Olivier in blackface in Othello, or to view Arrangement in Grey and Black No. 1, aka Whistler's Mother, by James McNeill Whistler as art, but I know they were forced into me as facts. Fact: the planets revolve around the Sun. Fact: water is one oxygen atom and two hydrogen atoms joined in covalent bonds. Fact: King Lear is Shakespeare's greatest play.
According to whom? And why must I answer this way in order to get a grade which allows me to pass high school and get a job where other people are going to force their opinions down my throat as if they were facts??
The answer: that's the way it worked.
Yes, "worked".
It worked that way when you had the power to grade me, to hinder me, to hold me down if I didn't do what you told me to. If I didn't answer the way you told me to. If I didn't rock your boat too much. Or more to the point, if I didn't do something which you perceived as rocking of the boat, but in all actuality was me growing into my own thoughts, feelings, and beyond the boundaries of the status quo into something that we could and SHOULD aspire to be. Something more than what we were. Something we might achieve ahead.
It worked that way in the past.
But not anymore.
Today, you have a choice.
You have a voice.
And I have a voice.
I am no longer being tested to see if I'm worthy of working for a living. I am no longer being evaluated to see if I can respond like a Pavlovian dog to your bells. I am no longer living in a world dictated by your opinions-masked-as-facts.
You.
Don't.
Own.
Me.
And so, to all those saying video games aren't art, I say...
You're Not Qualified.
You may say that you can't see the art in video games.
That is acceptable.
In saying this, you make yourself and your audience aware of your disability, like my color blindness.
I am unable to see some of Van Gogh's work.
You who cannot see the art in video games carry the same impairment.
You Cannot See.
You Cannot Hear.
You are blind and deaf and your opinion should be carried with the weight afforded to those who are blind and deaf.
From Hence Forward...
I Decree...
The Only Opinion That Matters...
Is Your Own...
And It Stops Where My Opinions Begin...
It Stops Where Other Opinions Begin...
And No One Shall Be Listened To Who Brings Shit Unto This World.
So Spaketh Me.
Fuck you, dick heads.
You can't tell me what to do anymore.
I've got a brain, and I have an opinion as valid as yours.
Whistler's Mother is just as artistic as the yellow smiley face seen on t-shirts typically accompanied by the phrase "have a nice day".
Donkey Kong is art.
Duran Duran, Van Halen, The Police, Michael Jackson, and Eminem hold the same artistic merits as Haydn.
To Roger Ebert, who is dead, I say you can win a competition or contest, but you play a game.
Films have winners in their competitions, musicians have winners in their competitions, and there are many Pulitzer Prize winners. Simply having a winner doesn't exclude something from being art. Similarly, there are rules to painting a picture in a similar way to the rules in a video game. It must be on a canvas of some kind. It must be visible. Of course you can bend, even break these rules, but they are still rules and do not disqualify something from being art.
You Who Say 'It Is Not' Cannot See And Are Disqualified From National Discourse.
My opinion about Van Gogh is valid-- the jerk doesn't paint as good as my wife-- but others will tell me I'm wrong.
Fuck Others.
Others said Little Big Planet 3 wasn't a good video game.
Fuck Others.
Others said that Ebn-Ozn was a joke band.
Fuck Others.
Others said that blah blah blah blah.
Fuck! Others!
I only give you power over yourself.
You no longer control me.
I have broken free and have seen the Matrix.
And the Matrix is me.
I control it.
You say blah.
I say, "shhhh".
This is the way the world works, you scream!
Shhh.
I know what's best!
Shhh.
You must listen to what I have to say!
Shhh.
Shhh.
Shhh.
Go to sleep, little man.
Go to sleep, little control freak.
Gooooooooo
Tooooooooooo
Sleeeeeeeeeeeeep.
Here
I Am King.
And I stop being king...
...Where You Start Being King...
Here Endeth The Lesson.
Unless otherwise noted, all quotes come from here: