The Sanctity of Life Is a Sliding Scale

The other day, there was a spider in the shower, and it was black and a little larger than normal. I panicked and washed it down the drain, after which I felt sort of guilty about it. The spider was just chilling in the shower, after all. It wasn't waiting there with malevolent intent. Odds are it had wandered in there and didn't even know how to wander out; therefore, it couldn't really be faulted for being in there at all. Most times, I try to escort spiders outside when I discover them, but I was naked and feeling vulnerable, so this one had to die. I know it's just a spider, but I don't really like what that incident says about me, necessarily. It says that when it's inconvenient for me to do the right thing, my emotional reaction will reign supreme and I will act selfishly. Nobody likes having ugly aspects of themselves revealed by an act as seemingly trivial as killing a spider, least of all me.

Today, I get into the shower again, only to find four ants crawling around in there. Without a second thought, or even one thought, for that matter, it was, "Time for you sonsabitches to take a swim!" and I spend a good two-three minutes dutifully sending them all to their watery graves. I don't feel the least bit sorry for those three-segmented jerks.

So, if you want were curious about where my basic respect for life ended, it's with ants. If ants come into my house, they die. No amnesty, no second chance: one strike and you are out, ants.

Also: spiders who are larger than, say, a hamburger. Death is certain, my giant eight-legged chums.

Age, Digestion, Etc.

I am lucky enough to be one of those guys who is not aging particularly poorly, at least, externally. Here is a pic fresh from the bathroom:

Mirrorme
People tell me all the time that I don't look 40, and I'm starting to believe them. I still have a full head of hair, my face is not super wrinkly, and I still walk with fairly youthful pep (I give myself away, though, by using words such as "pep").

Internally, however, it's a whole different story. For instance, I can't eat chorizo sausage without taking a dump within the hour that smells like a tire fire. And I like chorizo sausage. I'm not going to stop eating it. Also, I can't drink caffeine past 6 or 7 in the evening, because it keeps me up all night, whereas I used to be able to play D&D all night long, swilling terrifying volumes of Coca-Cola the entire time, and drop right to sleep as soon as I was done. I also love spicy food, but my body apparently doesn't like it quite as much as I do, since I have a vague heartburny feeling in the evenings about four days out of seven.

This is all new to me. I don't want to be one of those sad old guys, sitting at Chili's with his friends, shaking his head while he peruses the menu because there's nothing on there that doesnt give him gas, heartburn or diarrhea (or perhaps all three). I still want to eat what I like to eat. I don't want to have to stick to an inflexible diet of white, flavorless gruel. I already gave up salt: that was easy.

Please don't make me give up flavor altogether. Okay, guts? We got a deal?

I need my flavor.

Living Dead Dreams

I've been having a few dreams lately about my friend who committed suicide last year. Like, I just happen to see him walking through a store, looking kempt, happy and thin, and I walk up to him and say, "Mike? Jesus, everybody told me you were dead!" and it's a nice, happy moment.

Every once in a great while I still have dreams about dead grandparents that work the same way. My dream self is thinking, "Wow, I thought grandpa died, but guess I was wrong, because here he is walking around in his house."

These dreams are comforting but, of course, ultimately heartbreaking, because eventually I'm going to wake up and realize, "Oh, yeah...those people are dead after all."

Still, it was nice to see Mike looking happy and confident, as he was before he descended into an inescapable spiral of depression and cynicism, even if it was only in my imagination.

When I heard that he'd killed himself, I wasn't even shocked. That's a sad comment upon a life, when news of a friend's suicide doesn't even phase you because it seems like the inevitable conclusion to his misery. Suicide should never be met with sad resignation.

Anyway. It was nice seeing you, dude.

Writer's Block, Sorta

Except it's really not. I have ideas for stories all the time. What I have is some sort of enthusiasm block. I start a story, and it just never goes anywhere. I think, in some way, blogging has had a detrimental effect on my writing, because I'm trained to pound out a couple paragraphs then immediately post them for instant feedback and validation. I've gotten impatient with anything that requires more than 5 minutes worth of effort.

And that's screwed up. What do some of you writers out there do? How do you manage to have a blog and still have enthusiasm for creating things that take a few weeks? I really need help with this. I started a story this morning and I have exactly one sentence written. I'm already depressed by how many more I need to write before it's done. I don't really see the point any more. I'm afraid that I'll never write anything of merit ever again.

Help.

Murder!

Left to her own devices, my mother will watch reality murder programming all day long, with the occasional detour into the land of Maury and Jerry. This morning, I decided I wasn't going to usher in the day with murder, so I picked up the remote to change the channel.

MOM: Did I tell you that you could touch the remote?

ME: It's too early for murder. [My mother never, ever, checks the movie channels. I do and find Beverly Hills Cop.]

MOM: [Angrily] I'm not watching stupid Beverly Hills Cop. It's "too early" for that! [Does a mocking imitation of Eddie Murpy's laugh.]

ME: Hey, look, The Great Muppet Caper!

MOM: The last thing I want is some dumb Muppet movie!

Eventually, I found a documentary about the Apollo missions.

MOM: And what makes you think I want to watch this?

ME: Hey, guess what? Some people died during the Apollo missions! Maybe they were murdered!

This seemed to placate her.

Every Time I Post Something Now...

...I find myself pausing to consider if two people I've never even met will disapprove of it, and that pisses me off. They've already made up their minds anyway, and I really don't care if anybody approves of me. I already have a ton of people who approve of me, and arguably the people who love me are the only people who matter.

So, yeah...it's their loss, really. I'm a pretty good person, regardless of who I choose not to worship, regardless of the fact that, yes, I enjoy sex, and regardless of whether or not they "get" my jokes.

I guess they have enough friends that they can afford to pre-judge people this way. I have friends who probably voted for McCain in the last presidential election, who have faith in Christ and who listen to appalling music. But they're still my friends, because I don't go around throwing people away when they disagree with me.

I think somebody had something to say about tolerance that they put in a book or something one time. I can't remember who it was right now, but it was something about casting stones. That guy was a smart dude in a lot of ways, don't you think?

Pretty Girls Aren't Special

Three-pretty-girls
When I was young, I had this philosophy that can best be summed up as, "Pretty girls can do whatever they want." I thought that beauty was a rare, special quality, and that possessing it gave women some sort of super-power that lets them get away with anything. I was fine with this: I thought it was a right and proper thing.

25 years later, I now know that pretty girls are a dime a dozen. They are literally everywhere, and it doesn't take any special skill or strength of character to be one. It just takes a fortunate genetic alignment.

No matter how pretty you are, you'd better bring something else to the game if you want to play with me, because I'm not going to soft-pedal anything just because you're fun to look at.

On Tumblr as in life.

Gay? No Way! (Not with This Guy, Anyway)

I visited my friend Mike in Eugene the other day, as I mentioned in an earlier post. Whenever the two of us are visiting, we do things as friends: go to movies, go out to eat, swing by the grocery store really quick for food, etc. It never fails that when this happens, people assume that we are a couple. Seriously. This is not homophobic paranoia, trust me. Neither Mike nor myself particularly gives a shit if people think we're gay, but people do, and this is a source of constanct amusement to us.

Mike is clean, mild-mannered, and well-groomed. I am not "femmy" my any stretch, but I am admittedly not the most masculine person in the world. I understand where the misapprehension comes from, and on the one hand, I'm pleased to say that we have never been treated poorly by somebody because they thought we were "together". In fact, people tend to be pretty polite, even in the redneckiest areas of the Eugene/Springfield area: ya gotta love Oregon.

But, at times, it's just frustrating, as it was during this visit. We went to Wal-Mart to get some cheap food supplies for breakfast, and Mike had his 1-year old boy with him, who he was pushing in a stroller. He is a bi-racial baby, and Mike and I are both about as white as you can get. So, here's two guys pushing a bi-racial baby through Wal-Mart, and a woman who worked there smiled and said, "That's a pretty little baby you guys have there!" You guys, like it was our baby: a bi-racial baby who we had obviouly adopted to complete our family unit.

What amused and sort of irritated me about this situation is that it's apparently more acceptable for the denizens of Wal-Mart for us to be a gay couple who adopted than for the baby to be the product of Mike's interracial marriage. You know? The gay thing is the first, and somehow less offensive, deduction.

So, congratulations, gays! It's now officially easier for you in this country than it is for straight non-whites! 

Celebrate