One day I'll explain why I think the Jot the Dot cartoon scarred a generation of Southern white boys, including me. OK, only me.
In the meantime, I'll just say that I'm disappointed in myself. I figured out that John Edwards was no choir boy long before most realized it. I should have figured out that Charlie Rose's "aw shucks, ma'am" routine was total b.s. as well.
So last week was hard, questioning-my-outlook-on-life hard,
questioning-my-life-choices hard.
My professional life overwhelmed me
once again. It made me extremely anxious and wondering if I should be
doing what I'm doing or whether I'm even a functioning adult. Am I too
nice? Am I too generous? Am I easy to manipulate? Am I patsy, a sucker, a
chump?
But at some point on Friday, after some of the noise and
stress of the last couple of days, weeks, and months started to fade away, I realized I had survived and actually come out pretty well in the end.
I momentarily neutralized some bullies I work with (chiefly two
man-babies I have to deal with on a regular basis). I survived an
embarrassing moment. I took responsibility for a problem.
I treated people well. I supported my staff and I was supported by them
and by my superiors in return. I presented a case that showed smart
financial management, that got some people the resources they needed but
on my terms, not theirs (meaning I didn't scheme and connive to make it
happen--I used honesty and transparency instead). And I came out on
top.
I realized I don't have the ego to be in the spotlight for
too long. I realized dealing with mean people is one of the hardest
things for me. I realized my job is 99.9% operational and not very
creative, which is a problem that I haven't figured out how to fix. I realized I really really really
want to retire.
But maybe for a moment
I also realized I'm fairly smart, not a dummy, not a chump, not a
sucker. I realized that when push comes to shove, I will stand up for
myself. I realized that while I'm a bit too methodical sometimes, that
can be a plus, especially when you're dealing with other methodical
people. I realized that while I'm prone to anxiety, probably more than
most, I am also a fairly well-functioning adult.
I walk on the
high wire, the tight rope. I wobble, I stumble, I trip, and sometimes I fall. But thanks
to the people around me--family, partner, friends, colleagues, and
more--and thanks to me, I can hang on. I can fall into a
safety net if I need to. And I can shake it off and get back on the wire as many times as I need to.
Oh to know what I know now way back in 1991. I felt so old then, even though I was not yet 30. But already I was out of the dance club and into . . . what exactly? Certainly not the streets. Hibernation maybe. Escape. Transitions.
A year or so after meeting my friend S., a friend I've now had for nearly 30 years. Several months before leaving Washington and only once creeping back to live in its shadow again. Two years before graduate school. Two years before meeting G. Four years before moving to Texas, which feels like home to me and perhaps always will. Thirteen years before leaving Texas and moving back east. Twenty-two years before meeting Cairo. Twenty-four years before moving to Canada. Twenty-six years before now.
Some moments during the previous 26 years have been, frankly, terrible, including this last week or so. And then other moments have been spectacular, such as living with Cairo and talking to him this week, during one of my sadder, more frustrated, more anxious times.
My father's passing. But my mother still lives and is as vibrant as ever.
I still loathe my job and am wary of my colleagues. And yet I had probably the most successful week I've had since arriving in Canada two-and-a-half years ago, have a great staff and supportive bosses.
One of the biggest reveals this week was that once my anxiety and stress subsided, I realized that I had actually had a good week, at least professionally speaking. The anxiety has been too much of late, but I'm actually doing OK.
Would I go back in time? Would I do anything differently? Maybe or maybe not.
Except maybe . . . I'd dance more, even past the age of 30. To hear that piano again, those drums, that whistle, that call to "hold me baby/drive me crazy/touch me/all night long." To put aside the fears imagined and real, to trust in myself, to take a moment, to enjoy, to cavort, to laugh, to be carefree, sans souçi, to grab life and run with it. That I would do, at least for one night, return to the scene and dance, dance, dance away the heartache, dance away the tears.
But then I'd hurry right back to the present to savor what I have now, the good and the bad, and look forward to a better tomorrow, week, month, and year ahead.
Quite bizarrely, I find myself liking Taylor Swift's "Look What You Made Me Do," several weeks after everyone else has moved on. I still don't hear the "I'm Too Sexy" melody, but I don't necessarily need to--it's a clever, catchy, dramatic bit of pop, and more distinctive than most of the stuff out there at the moment. (Not that I have a good sense of what's au courant. All they play in Toronto is wall-to-wall Drake, Canada's Rapper.)
Having said that, I think it's high time we issued an amber alert for Taylor Swift's soul. It's been missing for years, if it ever existed at all. I suspect she sold it to Mephistopheles sometime around the age of 10 and that her real name will eventually be revealed as Taylor Faustus. In another scenario, I imagine in her spare time she's busy spinning straw into gold trying to figure out the name of that little guy that put her in this predicament. Talk to some of those German-Americans around Reading, Pennsylvania, Taylor's hometown. They know.
The weird thing for me--and this is no great reveal as I've wondered about this for some time--is how real is any of this? Was Taylor ever a good girl? Is she now a bad girl? Does she have a beef with Katy Perry? Is she just serving as a beard for any number of fey pop stars and movie actors? And most importantly of all, why do any us have to give a shit?
It's not the details of a thousand cuts that keep me puzzled and pondering, however. It's the whole "star-maker machine," the pop culture industrial complex. Britney and Justin did it back in the day. Madonna has always done it. Bowie is Bowie because of it. Our "dizazsthuh" of a president currently revels in it.
"It" being this fabricated narrative that keeps us watching, turned in, and tuned out to the stuff that really matters--family, friends, human rights, economic equality, and real music.
But what do I know? I'm seriously considering paying for and legally downloading this ditty.
So keep on groovin', TS Industries, Inc. You're manufacturing some memorable, interesting-sounding pop.
I know 1941 was a harsh year in human history, but, oh, to be this joyous, to be this carefree, to be this liberated from the worries of the world once again.
"The
initial explanation offered by some neighbors of both men and the
attacker's lawyer -- that the episode occurred due to a dispute over
leaves or grass trimmings -- was even stranger.
"Rene
Boucher pleaded not guilty Thursday morning in a Bowling Green [Kentucky]
courtroom to misdemeanor fourth degree assault charges stemming from the
Nov. 3 incident in the gated community where the two men live."
Strange? Strange that someone would attempt to beat the crap out of America's no. 1 Jheri Curl right-wing politician over something as innocuous as lawn clippings? Ha. Have you met Rand Paul?
In a matter of seconds, I came come up with a number of reasons why Mr. Boucher might want to (literally) crush on Paul:
He calls himself Rand. Actually, his name is Randal (one 'l' because I guess he secretly harbors being a character in a Game of Thrones novel?), and apparently he was not named after Ayn Rand, even though he studied her writings.
He studied Ayn Rand's writings and calls himself Rand, nonetheless.
He's a self-described libertarian. Give my regards to the NRA, Randy.
That often smug look on his face.
That I'm-barely-tolerating-your-stupidity-infidel! tone to his voice during interviews.
The fact that he was born in Pittsburgh, grew up in Texas, and still turned out to be a dick.
That poncy hairstyle. Maybe it's real, maybe it's not a perm, but the tips and curls often seem gelled. The whole 'do seems like a desperate cry of regret from the Hair Club for Men.
The fact that he touts his credentials as a LASIK surgeon to qualify himself as an expert on health care in the U.S. LASIK: Plastic surgery for your eyes.
The fact that he lives in a gated community. (Just to be clear, a chain-link fence with a gate is not the same as a gated community....)
Skaggs said he "very much likes" both men, though he noted that Paul "is a very different character than most people.""He's
a deep believer in his own thoughts," Skaggs said. "And he believes his
own thoughts are right -- and they are right 100% of the time."
So while the specific triggering event might remain a bit of a mystery (my money's on a heady mix of yard waste and coveting/insulting thy neighbor's wife), there is no actual mystery in why someone would get crackin' on Pauly Bore. Heck, with that sense of surprise attack and the ability to break some ribs, I think the Tennessee Titans may have found a new teammate.
Mark
your calendars: CNN is reporting that the time to talk about gun
control has been set for Sunday, December 31, 2017, between 11:59:50 and
11:59:59 pm.*
*This appointment may be suspended if a horrific
shooting occurs prior to the designated time or is believed likely to
happen after the designated time.
(Hey, don’t shoot the messenger! The National Rifle Association sets the rules, not me.)
(Oh, who am I kidding? You’re totally allowed to shoot the messenger.
Wouldn’t want to be accused of interfering with your 2nd Amendment rights. Unfettered access to firearms über alles and all that.)
And because it's not a guns situation, can we assume that Our Fearless Leader won't be bothered when a brown terrorist or a white lone wolf starts "mental healthing" at him?
After all, the murderer isn't trying to shoot you. He's just trying to make a rush appointment for some mental health counseling.
Which he probably doesn't have access to because he has no health insurance... but let's not sweat the policy details of you and your colleagues in Congress.
Time to break out the handy "Mass shooting in US checklist":
Send thoughts & prayers but not actually do anything useful
Argue over semantics of the term "assault rifle"
Argue over semantics of the term "terrorist" - if Muslim use it, if
Christian/white use term "lone wolf" "mentally ill" "troubled past"
Congress does nothing but NRA increases donations just in case
Wait for next one, rinse, repeat
I'd like to add a couple of items to this checklist, things I've noticed that have become part of the "national conversation" that leads to total inaction:
Report statistics that state more people die from handguns, car crashes, cancer, etc., to downplay the horror of mass shootings and indicate that mass shootings aren't really a problem after all.
Argue that you can’t change or repeal the 2nd Amendment of the
Constitution. (Hint: Yes, we can. The 2nd Amendment is already a change
to the original Constitution.)
Argue that the 2nd Amendment is your right--and a superior right at that. Ignore all other rights.
Ignore the promise of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness in the
U.S. Declaration of Independence. Continue to believe that your right
to bear arms supersedes all other rights.
