When I was twelve years old, as unusual places began to itch and even odder ones sprouted hair, there was nothing I wanted more than to be morbidly depressed. Adolescent angst, suicidal tendencies, a complete disregard for the fashion standards of the day, these were the attributes I admired. After hearing the term on a late night foreign film where the chicks had armpit hair but you got to see their boobs, I proudly labeled myself an “existentialist”. Hair creeping down past my eyes, oversized black Doc Martins, and a middle school social career teetering on the margins, I had the groundwork laid. If only my damn sense of general contentment and overall fulfillment hadn’t kept getting in the way.
While other kids my age played sports, rode bikes, and exaggerated each other’s homosexual tendencies to compensate for their own confusing feelings about Zack Morris, I promenaded around my neighborhood wearing a scarf and pretending that bright light hurt my eyes. You see, I was an artist, and though I had no talent or original thoughts, I was convinced that the key to my success was in suffering. Moping through the hallways of my upper middle class suburban existence, I was determined to my mock my fortune and disdain my privilege. Pottery Barn accent pillows? Uh, they were off the man! Holiday scented bowls of potpourri? Please, I preferred patchouli.
But then just as I had myself convinced that life had no meaning, my mom would call from the kitchen. “Love muffin, do you want to lick the brownie bowl?”
Do I want to lick the brownie bowl? You bitch!
I mean, who doesn’t want to lick the bowl? Damn it! Once again my efforts were thwarted! How could I be a frustrated, disenchanted artist when there were chocolate covered beaters to enjoy?
Realizing that eternal joy would haunt me for the rest of my life, I decided I needed to move on and find a new artificial, protective identity. I spent a few days as a liberal activist until realizing I enjoyed eating meat and didn’t care for people who were different. Then I thought I could be one of those super hip Christians who refer to Jesus as their best friend and use too much gel in their hair, but the whole believing in Jesus thing kept getting in the way. Outdoors man one day, eccentric recluse the next, I exhausted myself searching for something I couldn’t identify or really even understand. In the throes of adolescence, I felt compelled to shift and search for my identify. Well, shift, search, and masturbate. I wanted to masturbate too.
Now, 27 years old and a bit more content, I revisit these embarrassing trails as a reminder; a therapeutic refresher on why I am thankful to now discuss co-pays and credit rating over drinks with friends. Yes, now I have to make a car payment, but I also do not have to worry about my mom finding my “special” sock hidden under my bed.
You see, as I get closer and closer to my wedding date, I can’t help but wonder, when in the hell did I grow up?
Working with 12 year olds on a daily basis, I understand more than anyone how much their lives suck. So don’t get me wrong, I have no desire to return to those “carefree” days. Nor am I trying to skirt responsibility or bitch about the realities of grown-up life.
I am more just in awe of me as an adult.
Wasn’t it just last week I was wearing brown loafers with white socks up to my knees wondering when I would finally get my man smell? I mean, I just recently realized I had completed puberty.
While I am happy to have left black fingernail polish and my DC Talk cassette tapes behind, I am a little concerned I have lost more than that.
Recently, I have been working with my students on Red Ribbon Week, a celebration of a drug-free lifestyle and the promotion of smart choices. Me. The guy who once got so high I announced to all my friends that “I was erosion” and then ate 9 pudding Snack Packs. And now here I am wearing a red shirt, pink tie, and a “Reach for the Stars Not Drugs” sticker because that’s just how drug free I really am! Next, I’ll be handing out True Love Waits buttons because premarital sex makes the baby Jesus cry.
How did I become an adult? What marked the occasion? Was it financial independence? Job security? That Friday night I opted to stay in and watch Flip that House over going to the bar with friends? How did carefree experimentation and an expression of youthful liberty suddenly translate into a pathetic waste and grounds for a restraining order?
I am not trying to complain. I am perfectly content with going to bed at 9:00 on Fridays and getting overly excited about the 2 for 1 Chardonnay special at my local Chili’s. I have just been taken off guard.
I wonder if other people face this conundrum or if it’s just me? Do any of us really ever grow up or do we just get taller and open more lines of credit? Are Playstation 3’s and iPods just more expensive and sophisticated G.I. Joes?
I don’t know. But I will tell you one thing, I do not care how many pairs of white pants I own or how much I bitch about modern music, I will always lick the bowl.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Silence = Death
The other day I was in church, a divine miracle unto itself, when the minister stepped up to begin his sermon. On this particularly Sunday, the topic was “Approaches to Bible Interpretations”, and as I was attending a Unitarian service, I was all ready for some gay sex and marijuana, when a fat, blonde, miniature, blob cankeled onto the stage. With his stretched stained t-shirt working overtime to cover his pinched skin, the little fat bastard tried to impress the crowd by performing a hand stand, except his bursting stomach got in the way. Bent forward with this short little arms grasping for purchase, I imagined this is what it must look like if a dwarfed Tyrannosaurus Rex with Down Syndrome attempted the same feat.
Well, I let out an over-exaggerated sigh and knowingly looked around, silently saying to the other members of the congregation, “Can you believe this kid. Boy, is he about to get it.” And by “get it”, I meant his father was going to charge the stage with a fury, rip him up by his flabby little arm, and then beat his ass. I know that’s what would have happened to me, and I thought it only fair that this child suffer the same inappropriate, mentally scarring punishment. Apparently, however, I was wrong. Instead, Mom and Dad Freaknick just watched with pride as “Moonbeam” or little “We love black people” waddled across stage. The poor minister charged on, trying desperately to speak over the squeals and clapping, as I looked around dumbfounded.
When did kids come back in vogue?
Why can’t we return to the wholesome 1950’s mindset where children were seen and not heard? When kids were expected to be silent and numb while mom and dad threw back martinis, puffed packs of menthols, and had affairs with their neighbors and secretaries. What has happened to our sense of family values?
The worst thing about the whole situation is your expected silence. Mommy’s little “10 beers and the Cubs won so daddy’s in the mood” surprise is allowed to wail his guts out, but if I dare offer up some Nyquil or big sip of whiskey, I am the insensitive asshole.
Why are we all so afraid to say what needs to be said?
A few years back a good friend of mine’s brother and his wife had a baby. Sadly, a week before the due date, their father unexpectedly past away. Arriving at the funeral, I walked in as soft somber music poured over the sea of mourners, flowers completely surrounded the coffin, and everyone wore faces of concern and discontent, a sad yet typical setting.
I stood in the back, trying to allow the family time to visit and mourn, when I noticed a dark suit hopping among the collections of the bereaved. Stepping forward to get a better look, I suddenly found myself literally colliding with the expecting father, the mysterious pouncing phantom. After a brief hug and my condolences, I asked John about his wife and their future baby. Clearly waiting for the opportunity, he busted open with excitement: “She’s dilated 7 centimeters, 7 centimeters!” Before I could even respond, he hugged me again and then leaped to the next group to share his happy news.
Now don’t get me wrong, here. I think it’s great he was so excited; hell, it was even a little cute. But is your father’s funeral the time or the place to run around telling everyone that your wife’s vagina is spreading? I mean, even if it wasn’t a funeral, is it ever necessary for me to know that someone else’s labia is parting? Would a simple “She’s close” not do?
Again, though, God forbid I bring this to someone’s attention and ruin their fun. No, I should sit in silence why they provide me with a detailed anatomy lesson. Hell, why don’t we just start taking pictures of the placenta and carry it around in our wallets? “Here’s Susie’s first day of school, and her 3rd birthday, and here look, this is the afterbirth.”
Well, I think things have finally gone too far, and I am not going to sit silent anymore. This is America, the land of expression, the land of free press, the land of bitching and hating other people for superficial reasons.
So here goes, the start of a revolution. These are My Top Three Unspoken Things Spoken.
Tye Pennington – I hate that mother fucker. I apologize for being crass, but give me a break. If I have to spend one more Sunday evening watching him gallop through Sears and hold back tears as he builds a new home for some retarded, poor, armless minority family, I am going to lose it. Yes, I’ll admit back in 2001 he was a The Learning Channel star; we could all only be that lucky. However, close to ten years later, the flannel shirt is still untucked, the hair remains spiked and shiny, and no one gives a shit. Fuck you Tye Pennington, fuck you!
Hurricane “Victims” – “Certain Death.” “Grave Danger.” “Massive Flooding & Apocalyptic Damage.” Now I did not major in meteorology, but when terms like these are thrown around by weathermen and reporters, I am usually pretty confident that whoever is living in the area is fucked. I mean, in Memphis, when there is even the slightest threat of a tornado or severe storm, I spend the evening in my bathtub with a giant bottle of wine and my hand crank radio, the mattress from the guest bed spread over top me. And yet, after every major hurricane, the headlines always lament about the hundreds of people stranded in their homes with pictures of them of their roofs as helicopters swoop down to save them. What in the hell is wrong with these people? And when questioned about why they chose to stay, the always respond the same “I wanted to wait it out.” What were you waiting for? God? The four horsemen? Why doesn’t Jesus just swoop down and pick them up then? I say next time people ignore a mandatory evacuation we let them stay huddled in their attics eating canned peaches, drinking contaminated water, and reflecting on their super decision. Let them keep “waiting it out…”
People who are Different – I don’t mean to be ugly, but as much as I love diversity and being part of God’s rainbow, and whatever, I am really fed up with all the weird ass people in this world. And I am probably not talking about the one’s you think I am either. If you want to be half black and half Icelandic and have sex with turtles as your transgendered boyfriend / masochistic slave watches and weeps while taking Polaroid shots, hey, I’m cool; rock it out my friend.
No, that doesn’t bother me. I can see your pierced lips and Hot Topic apparel coming from a mile away and know to begin judging you in silence. It’s the ones who catch you off guard, the ones that you don’t expect, that sliver under my skin. Take, for instance, the “mildly retarded.” There I am at Kroger, waiting to be checked out by your average specimen of white trash, when suddenly the cashier opens his mouth and begins mumbling about how he is having a “happy” day. I am completely thrown out of orbit. My defenses down, I am not ready for this kind of attack. With lightning speed I have to retrieve my fake smile and uncomfortable nod, as my brain races to figure out what in the hell is wrong with this person. Why can’t these people just go for the gold and be all and out retarded, slapping their face and uncontrollably flatulenting? At least then we’d know.
Well, I let out an over-exaggerated sigh and knowingly looked around, silently saying to the other members of the congregation, “Can you believe this kid. Boy, is he about to get it.” And by “get it”, I meant his father was going to charge the stage with a fury, rip him up by his flabby little arm, and then beat his ass. I know that’s what would have happened to me, and I thought it only fair that this child suffer the same inappropriate, mentally scarring punishment. Apparently, however, I was wrong. Instead, Mom and Dad Freaknick just watched with pride as “Moonbeam” or little “We love black people” waddled across stage. The poor minister charged on, trying desperately to speak over the squeals and clapping, as I looked around dumbfounded.
When did kids come back in vogue?
Why can’t we return to the wholesome 1950’s mindset where children were seen and not heard? When kids were expected to be silent and numb while mom and dad threw back martinis, puffed packs of menthols, and had affairs with their neighbors and secretaries. What has happened to our sense of family values?
The worst thing about the whole situation is your expected silence. Mommy’s little “10 beers and the Cubs won so daddy’s in the mood” surprise is allowed to wail his guts out, but if I dare offer up some Nyquil or big sip of whiskey, I am the insensitive asshole.
Why are we all so afraid to say what needs to be said?
A few years back a good friend of mine’s brother and his wife had a baby. Sadly, a week before the due date, their father unexpectedly past away. Arriving at the funeral, I walked in as soft somber music poured over the sea of mourners, flowers completely surrounded the coffin, and everyone wore faces of concern and discontent, a sad yet typical setting.
I stood in the back, trying to allow the family time to visit and mourn, when I noticed a dark suit hopping among the collections of the bereaved. Stepping forward to get a better look, I suddenly found myself literally colliding with the expecting father, the mysterious pouncing phantom. After a brief hug and my condolences, I asked John about his wife and their future baby. Clearly waiting for the opportunity, he busted open with excitement: “She’s dilated 7 centimeters, 7 centimeters!” Before I could even respond, he hugged me again and then leaped to the next group to share his happy news.
Now don’t get me wrong, here. I think it’s great he was so excited; hell, it was even a little cute. But is your father’s funeral the time or the place to run around telling everyone that your wife’s vagina is spreading? I mean, even if it wasn’t a funeral, is it ever necessary for me to know that someone else’s labia is parting? Would a simple “She’s close” not do?
Again, though, God forbid I bring this to someone’s attention and ruin their fun. No, I should sit in silence why they provide me with a detailed anatomy lesson. Hell, why don’t we just start taking pictures of the placenta and carry it around in our wallets? “Here’s Susie’s first day of school, and her 3rd birthday, and here look, this is the afterbirth.”
Well, I think things have finally gone too far, and I am not going to sit silent anymore. This is America, the land of expression, the land of free press, the land of bitching and hating other people for superficial reasons.
So here goes, the start of a revolution. These are My Top Three Unspoken Things Spoken.
Tye Pennington – I hate that mother fucker. I apologize for being crass, but give me a break. If I have to spend one more Sunday evening watching him gallop through Sears and hold back tears as he builds a new home for some retarded, poor, armless minority family, I am going to lose it. Yes, I’ll admit back in 2001 he was a The Learning Channel star; we could all only be that lucky. However, close to ten years later, the flannel shirt is still untucked, the hair remains spiked and shiny, and no one gives a shit. Fuck you Tye Pennington, fuck you!
Hurricane “Victims” – “Certain Death.” “Grave Danger.” “Massive Flooding & Apocalyptic Damage.” Now I did not major in meteorology, but when terms like these are thrown around by weathermen and reporters, I am usually pretty confident that whoever is living in the area is fucked. I mean, in Memphis, when there is even the slightest threat of a tornado or severe storm, I spend the evening in my bathtub with a giant bottle of wine and my hand crank radio, the mattress from the guest bed spread over top me. And yet, after every major hurricane, the headlines always lament about the hundreds of people stranded in their homes with pictures of them of their roofs as helicopters swoop down to save them. What in the hell is wrong with these people? And when questioned about why they chose to stay, the always respond the same “I wanted to wait it out.” What were you waiting for? God? The four horsemen? Why doesn’t Jesus just swoop down and pick them up then? I say next time people ignore a mandatory evacuation we let them stay huddled in their attics eating canned peaches, drinking contaminated water, and reflecting on their super decision. Let them keep “waiting it out…”
People who are Different – I don’t mean to be ugly, but as much as I love diversity and being part of God’s rainbow, and whatever, I am really fed up with all the weird ass people in this world. And I am probably not talking about the one’s you think I am either. If you want to be half black and half Icelandic and have sex with turtles as your transgendered boyfriend / masochistic slave watches and weeps while taking Polaroid shots, hey, I’m cool; rock it out my friend.
No, that doesn’t bother me. I can see your pierced lips and Hot Topic apparel coming from a mile away and know to begin judging you in silence. It’s the ones who catch you off guard, the ones that you don’t expect, that sliver under my skin. Take, for instance, the “mildly retarded.” There I am at Kroger, waiting to be checked out by your average specimen of white trash, when suddenly the cashier opens his mouth and begins mumbling about how he is having a “happy” day. I am completely thrown out of orbit. My defenses down, I am not ready for this kind of attack. With lightning speed I have to retrieve my fake smile and uncomfortable nod, as my brain races to figure out what in the hell is wrong with this person. Why can’t these people just go for the gold and be all and out retarded, slapping their face and uncontrollably flatulenting? At least then we’d know.
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