When it comes to other people, I'm terrified. I've written about falling in love, about death and how it changes me; in the past, I've written (in a comedic fashion) about the fallacy of caring about the world and modern notions of the modern man, and how they are anything but. I've always felt like I had a pretty good handle on reality, but then things go changing.
In my mind, my grasp on life is absolute. I wear a suit, expensive ties, and shoes that denote not class but status. When I tell a story, people listen, rapturously. Tiny lives revolve around tiny me, with tiny celestial events occurring in between. Literally and figuratively, I am a star.
In reality, my personal style is mid-1990s grunge with sprinkles of modern metro-sexual--a truly confused visage. My command of a room is tenuous; for each person I feel is into my tale, another is repulsed. Life does not revolve around me. Copernicus was right, and he was a shitwizard. What happened? I thought I had this locked down.
It would be easy to point to a sickness, an illness, and ascribe my shortcomings to it. "I am depressed." I don't feel very sad. Mostly, I just feel solitary. The difference is palpable and horrible. If I was depressed, medications and therapy could cure me. As a singular entity, external help doesn't exist. I have always hated the guy who described himself as a "people person." But the only way to form meaningful connections is to work and accept and, metaphorically, be singular.
At this point, I'm not sure what else to do. I am exhausted and I have exhausted all outlets of personal connection. What happened? Why am I compelled to concoct elaborate lies to avoid personal interaction? What am I running from? When I first moved here, I felt like I was finally at home. All I can do now is scour the landscape for an escape path. What happened in between?
Recently, I saw many of my high school friends at a concert. We hugged and shook hands and exchanged tales of what we had been doing. It was a reality existing parallel to my own. We were doing the right things but the outcome was different. Did I outgrow them? Did they outgrow me? It should have been a celebration of old friends reuniting, but I've never felt more like an anchor.
You can't go home again. There is no home, really. There is now and there is then, and they exist simultaneously but not together. And you can't be in both. Life is the choice between the two. I've never had to make a choice like this before, and it's pretty scary. If life is choice, then making no decision is suicide. What do you do when both seem wrong? What then?
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Friday, July 9, 2010
On Death
Everything I know about my maternal grandfather is based upon a story; George Paul died before I could remember him. He was a fighter pilot in World War II, and his plane was hit by German flak. He was a member of the Free Masons up to a point. He disagreed with one of their rituals and attempted to quit. Rumor has it he took issue with their racial policies. Years later, when he died, the Masons stepped in took care of all of the finances—the funeral, the coffin, and his old membership dues. Apparently, they took care of their own, and respected a secret taken to the grave.
My paternal grandfather, Vaughan Robinson, died long before I had a chance to meet him. After the death of my father’s mother, Vaughan, a truck driver, retreated into himself and died shortly after. A broken heart can be, and often is, fatal. After Vaughan passed, my father, only a teenager then, took it upon himself to care for his three siblings. He grew old and became a parent before his time, and it wasn’t fair to him. But there was a common thread among my forbearers: they understood responsibility.
Apparently, at the dinner table, George Paul would ask basic trivia questions to his children and grandchildren, and those who answered incorrectly were met with a rap from the handle of a butter knife. Why, after his heroic and selfless life, this is the only thing I remember about him, I have no idea. It just goes to show how death informs life, and how questions left unanswered remain mysteries. There is no denouement.
When I was a child, I used to ride my Big Wheel around the driveway, pretending I was Rodimus Prime or something. Kid stuff, I guess. One day, when I was too young to accurately remember things, I was adventuring through Cybertron when my father pulled into the driveway with a screech. He moved briskly and said little which was not unusual for him. But on this particular day, my brother, always the Megatron to my Prime, was poised on the deck overlooking the driveway, carefully lining up his shot. He was trying to drop an empty milk crate on my head. My father saw this, and, wordlessly, stormed into the house, emerged onto the deck, and grabbed Luke by the scruff of his neck. Luke received a spanking. At one point, Luke tried to block my father’s hand, resulting in a broken thumb. I can’t remember what happened after that.
It wasn’t until I was an adult that I learned what happened: my uncle Sean, my father’s brother, had died. This came as a surprise, because I had no idea my father even had a brother! I had a good relationship with my aunt, Beth, and had spoken to my other aunt, Patti, on the phone. But, incredibly, there was another sibling. One day, when my father was at work, my mother took me into our basement and showed me some artwork. The photorealistic style was impressive, even to an amateur such as me. My mother explained that nearly all of the art that hung in my house was created by my uncle Sean, my father’s younger brother, whom he had taken care of since the passing of their parents.
No one had mentioned Sean to me because Sean died of AIDS. He was gay. My father, for all of his inherent greatness and faults, decided it was better that my brother and I just kind of knew about this guy in the periphery of our lives. Dad was old-fashioned, and when he discovered Sean wasn’t “normal,” took it personally: he felt like he failed as a surrogate parent. I can’t imagine that: only 17 and thinking you had failed at raising one of your three children. Life is rarely fair.
And still, the idea of death existed tangentially. I knew neither Sean nor George nor Vaughan. Death seemed to be a vacation to me; you saw the time share and just bought unlimited access. Then I went to college and did what everyone does. I grew up.
While I never knew the person—male or female, name, age, whatever—when I saw that person jump from the sixth story window, an unknown gear turned. Things changed irreparably. Later, when I saw the picture in the school paper, I convinced myself that we’d never had an encounter in dining hall or the elevator. I convinced myself that I was still innocent. And then I went home.
We had had Beau since she was a puppy. Her name was delightfully ironic; a girl dog named after the French word for male beauty, she was rambunctious and loyal and she was mine. We grew up together. Beau was the only friend that made the journey from Alaska to Minnesota with me. She loved her new life, what with three acres of prime land to explore and be wild. One day, while walking to the end of the drive way to get on the bus, I heard a gunshot and, for a split second, a yelp. I knew immediately it was Beau. I ran back to my house and tearfully told my parents what had happened. They did all they could: they told me it was probably nothing, and solemnly drove me to school. Later that day, they took me from classes early. Beau had been shot, and was at the local veterinarian’s. We always knew who had shot her, and that it was done simply out of spite, but never took any vengeance. This is frequently something I think about before falling asleep; it is my private shame.
Beau survived the attack, but lost a leg. She lost none of her personality and spunk, however. We placed boxes all over the house so that she could jump to her favorite spots: the living room couch, my bed. She was more timid, and more reserved, but she was still Beau. And when I would leave my house to go to high school and later to college, Beau was on the forefront of my mind. Loyalty is, sometimes, just a word. And sometimes, it’s palpable.
When Beau was diagnosed with cancer, my parents again did all they could. They invited me into their home, and they gave me plenty of time to spend with her. And on that Saturday, they took Beau in for a routine appointment, but returned red-eyed and puffy-cheeked. We didn’t talk about what happened. I went into the driveway, sat down, and cried harder than I ever had before. And when the rain started, I walked back inside, and I gathered my laundry, and I drove back to college.
Today, I frequently think about my own death. I don’t think about taking my own life, but I often wonder what people would think about me. With Beau, I had lost a companion, and a pet, and a part of me, and in a way, my innocence. Will I be missed? Will I be mourned? Part of me, the shameful, tragic part, wants there to be a tearful woman in attendance at my funeral, lamenting my loss. But mostly, I envy Sean. Those who knew and loved him mourned, and those who didn’t were able to look back at his life’s passion and work, and be inspired. But I’ve grown up, and life is rarely fair.
My paternal grandfather, Vaughan Robinson, died long before I had a chance to meet him. After the death of my father’s mother, Vaughan, a truck driver, retreated into himself and died shortly after. A broken heart can be, and often is, fatal. After Vaughan passed, my father, only a teenager then, took it upon himself to care for his three siblings. He grew old and became a parent before his time, and it wasn’t fair to him. But there was a common thread among my forbearers: they understood responsibility.
Apparently, at the dinner table, George Paul would ask basic trivia questions to his children and grandchildren, and those who answered incorrectly were met with a rap from the handle of a butter knife. Why, after his heroic and selfless life, this is the only thing I remember about him, I have no idea. It just goes to show how death informs life, and how questions left unanswered remain mysteries. There is no denouement.
When I was a child, I used to ride my Big Wheel around the driveway, pretending I was Rodimus Prime or something. Kid stuff, I guess. One day, when I was too young to accurately remember things, I was adventuring through Cybertron when my father pulled into the driveway with a screech. He moved briskly and said little which was not unusual for him. But on this particular day, my brother, always the Megatron to my Prime, was poised on the deck overlooking the driveway, carefully lining up his shot. He was trying to drop an empty milk crate on my head. My father saw this, and, wordlessly, stormed into the house, emerged onto the deck, and grabbed Luke by the scruff of his neck. Luke received a spanking. At one point, Luke tried to block my father’s hand, resulting in a broken thumb. I can’t remember what happened after that.
It wasn’t until I was an adult that I learned what happened: my uncle Sean, my father’s brother, had died. This came as a surprise, because I had no idea my father even had a brother! I had a good relationship with my aunt, Beth, and had spoken to my other aunt, Patti, on the phone. But, incredibly, there was another sibling. One day, when my father was at work, my mother took me into our basement and showed me some artwork. The photorealistic style was impressive, even to an amateur such as me. My mother explained that nearly all of the art that hung in my house was created by my uncle Sean, my father’s younger brother, whom he had taken care of since the passing of their parents.
No one had mentioned Sean to me because Sean died of AIDS. He was gay. My father, for all of his inherent greatness and faults, decided it was better that my brother and I just kind of knew about this guy in the periphery of our lives. Dad was old-fashioned, and when he discovered Sean wasn’t “normal,” took it personally: he felt like he failed as a surrogate parent. I can’t imagine that: only 17 and thinking you had failed at raising one of your three children. Life is rarely fair.
And still, the idea of death existed tangentially. I knew neither Sean nor George nor Vaughan. Death seemed to be a vacation to me; you saw the time share and just bought unlimited access. Then I went to college and did what everyone does. I grew up.
While I never knew the person—male or female, name, age, whatever—when I saw that person jump from the sixth story window, an unknown gear turned. Things changed irreparably. Later, when I saw the picture in the school paper, I convinced myself that we’d never had an encounter in dining hall or the elevator. I convinced myself that I was still innocent. And then I went home.
We had had Beau since she was a puppy. Her name was delightfully ironic; a girl dog named after the French word for male beauty, she was rambunctious and loyal and she was mine. We grew up together. Beau was the only friend that made the journey from Alaska to Minnesota with me. She loved her new life, what with three acres of prime land to explore and be wild. One day, while walking to the end of the drive way to get on the bus, I heard a gunshot and, for a split second, a yelp. I knew immediately it was Beau. I ran back to my house and tearfully told my parents what had happened. They did all they could: they told me it was probably nothing, and solemnly drove me to school. Later that day, they took me from classes early. Beau had been shot, and was at the local veterinarian’s. We always knew who had shot her, and that it was done simply out of spite, but never took any vengeance. This is frequently something I think about before falling asleep; it is my private shame.
Beau survived the attack, but lost a leg. She lost none of her personality and spunk, however. We placed boxes all over the house so that she could jump to her favorite spots: the living room couch, my bed. She was more timid, and more reserved, but she was still Beau. And when I would leave my house to go to high school and later to college, Beau was on the forefront of my mind. Loyalty is, sometimes, just a word. And sometimes, it’s palpable.
When Beau was diagnosed with cancer, my parents again did all they could. They invited me into their home, and they gave me plenty of time to spend with her. And on that Saturday, they took Beau in for a routine appointment, but returned red-eyed and puffy-cheeked. We didn’t talk about what happened. I went into the driveway, sat down, and cried harder than I ever had before. And when the rain started, I walked back inside, and I gathered my laundry, and I drove back to college.
Today, I frequently think about my own death. I don’t think about taking my own life, but I often wonder what people would think about me. With Beau, I had lost a companion, and a pet, and a part of me, and in a way, my innocence. Will I be missed? Will I be mourned? Part of me, the shameful, tragic part, wants there to be a tearful woman in attendance at my funeral, lamenting my loss. But mostly, I envy Sean. Those who knew and loved him mourned, and those who didn’t were able to look back at his life’s passion and work, and be inspired. But I’ve grown up, and life is rarely fair.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
The Unspoken Things
I fall in love on a daily basis, many times with the same person. This has been a constant source of personal turmoil for me. Much of the time, my love goes both unspoken and unrequited; this is to be expected, because I am cowardly and vainglorious and stupid. But girls don’t make it easy.
When I was in the third grade, the librarian at my elementary school, a warm but homely woman named Mrs. Adams, stormed into my class and sternly asked me to join her. Because I was a nerd, this immediately reminded me of the scene in The Empire Strikes Back, in which Darth Vader unsuccessfully asks Luke to join him on the dark side—ha!—and rule the galaxy together. I was never interested in sleeping with my sister, so I would have gone with him. That inclination proved well-minded.
Our library was relatively small, but only when you weren’t looking. The stacks held all the usual suspects—Shel Silverstein, Bernstein Bears, etc.—along with a small bank of computers used primarily to kill daughters of dysentery in Oregon Trail. Tucked away behind the furthest wall, past the “big kid books” like Dune and such, was a dusty old door. Through this door was a small, windowless room filled with ancient machinery used to test the senses; basic visual tests, hearing tests, and the like were performed in here. When I walked in, I was administered these tests, and I assume I had passed, as Mrs. Adams seemed coldly placated. She then sat opposite me at the tiny table in the room, and asked me some of the toughest questions of my life.
“What is a group of crows called?” She asked.
“Spell ‘garage’.”
“What’s the square root of 64?”
And so on. Although I spelled it correctly, the fact that I had to think about how to spell “garage” and eventually pinned my success on a guess wakes me in the night. After she was finished, I was sent back to class with a terse “Well done,” and that was it. Or so I thought.
The next day, Mrs. Adams appeared to me, this time much more excited to see me. After lunch, she told me to meet her in the library. Met with a brief wave, I was whisked to the opposite corner of the library that hid a massive staircase cordoned off with a velvet rope. How I had never seen this before, I have no idea. She led me up the staircase to a loft littered with real books—dictionaries, thesauruses, collections of poems—globes, maps, computers, and a large round table, around which sat five kids I had never seen before.
This was my first introduction to ELP, the extended learning program, a new initiative at our school that sought out the brightest kids and brought them together to thrive. It was in the fucking loft of our library! The librarian was the group’s administrator! J.K. Rowling would have creamed her jeans if she knew. It was incredible; we’d do mind-teasers, engineering projects, algebra, and general smart-kid stuff. We probably solved a crime or two, I don’t know. But none of that interested me. I was interested in Laura.
She didn’t exist in my universe before then. She had a soft personality, delicate, and freckles on her nose. She was constantly brushing her hair behind her ear. Almost twenty years later, I remember how she chewed on the end of her pencil, not out of frustration, but out of a kind of curiosity. She was quiet, and we had shared classes since kindergarten. During ELP, we would share jokes about transcribing miles to kilometers and planetary orbits. She would smile, and softly tap the back of my hand with her pencil. It was a whirlwind romance. It occurred during a single day.
The next day, at lunch, I looked for her, hoping to sit next to her and be smart together. And, from across the lunch room, we locked eyes. They widened slightly. Although I knew who was there, I couldn’t bring myself to look to her left. She said nothing, but her eyes desperately sent me a message, which I received. These unspoken things have a bizarre capacity to unleash oceans of pure pain upon a person.
At ELP, she sat next to me, took my hand, and squeezed. We never looked at each other, but she squeezed my hand the entire forty-five minutes. Third grade was psychologically destructive. I saw her everyday over the next four years, and every day I fell in love with her again, sometimes for weeks, but mostly for minutes. It was the same with Amanda, and Theresa, and Nicole, and Sara, and all the rest. The times I’ve been legitimately in love were similar, but stretched out over months and years. I like to think my real relationships could have worked, had I gotten the unspoken things. I like to think that.
I’m not complaining. I love the girls I’m interested in today, mostly because I can be myself around them. And that cowardly, vainglorious, stupid man will always love them, because he can’t help himself.
When I visited Alaska, two years after I had abruptly moved, I saw her again. At 16, she was industrious; she made sandwiches at Subway. She recognized me, she had to, but clearly she didn’t remember. I ordered my sandwich, and like always, she was delicate: tenderly laying the ham in the bread, spreading the mustard, sprinkling the lettuce. It was just like our first encounter, shifted a few degrees to the left. When I paid, she gave me the scripted “thank you” her employed required. The restaurant was empty, and I could have eaten there, but she didn’t want me to. It was in her eyes. It was one of those unspoken things.
Just like that: in love, and out. A terrifying oscillation.
When I was in the third grade, the librarian at my elementary school, a warm but homely woman named Mrs. Adams, stormed into my class and sternly asked me to join her. Because I was a nerd, this immediately reminded me of the scene in The Empire Strikes Back, in which Darth Vader unsuccessfully asks Luke to join him on the dark side—ha!—and rule the galaxy together. I was never interested in sleeping with my sister, so I would have gone with him. That inclination proved well-minded.
Our library was relatively small, but only when you weren’t looking. The stacks held all the usual suspects—Shel Silverstein, Bernstein Bears, etc.—along with a small bank of computers used primarily to kill daughters of dysentery in Oregon Trail. Tucked away behind the furthest wall, past the “big kid books” like Dune and such, was a dusty old door. Through this door was a small, windowless room filled with ancient machinery used to test the senses; basic visual tests, hearing tests, and the like were performed in here. When I walked in, I was administered these tests, and I assume I had passed, as Mrs. Adams seemed coldly placated. She then sat opposite me at the tiny table in the room, and asked me some of the toughest questions of my life.
“What is a group of crows called?” She asked.
“Spell ‘garage’.”
“What’s the square root of 64?”
And so on. Although I spelled it correctly, the fact that I had to think about how to spell “garage” and eventually pinned my success on a guess wakes me in the night. After she was finished, I was sent back to class with a terse “Well done,” and that was it. Or so I thought.
The next day, Mrs. Adams appeared to me, this time much more excited to see me. After lunch, she told me to meet her in the library. Met with a brief wave, I was whisked to the opposite corner of the library that hid a massive staircase cordoned off with a velvet rope. How I had never seen this before, I have no idea. She led me up the staircase to a loft littered with real books—dictionaries, thesauruses, collections of poems—globes, maps, computers, and a large round table, around which sat five kids I had never seen before.
This was my first introduction to ELP, the extended learning program, a new initiative at our school that sought out the brightest kids and brought them together to thrive. It was in the fucking loft of our library! The librarian was the group’s administrator! J.K. Rowling would have creamed her jeans if she knew. It was incredible; we’d do mind-teasers, engineering projects, algebra, and general smart-kid stuff. We probably solved a crime or two, I don’t know. But none of that interested me. I was interested in Laura.
She didn’t exist in my universe before then. She had a soft personality, delicate, and freckles on her nose. She was constantly brushing her hair behind her ear. Almost twenty years later, I remember how she chewed on the end of her pencil, not out of frustration, but out of a kind of curiosity. She was quiet, and we had shared classes since kindergarten. During ELP, we would share jokes about transcribing miles to kilometers and planetary orbits. She would smile, and softly tap the back of my hand with her pencil. It was a whirlwind romance. It occurred during a single day.
The next day, at lunch, I looked for her, hoping to sit next to her and be smart together. And, from across the lunch room, we locked eyes. They widened slightly. Although I knew who was there, I couldn’t bring myself to look to her left. She said nothing, but her eyes desperately sent me a message, which I received. These unspoken things have a bizarre capacity to unleash oceans of pure pain upon a person.
At ELP, she sat next to me, took my hand, and squeezed. We never looked at each other, but she squeezed my hand the entire forty-five minutes. Third grade was psychologically destructive. I saw her everyday over the next four years, and every day I fell in love with her again, sometimes for weeks, but mostly for minutes. It was the same with Amanda, and Theresa, and Nicole, and Sara, and all the rest. The times I’ve been legitimately in love were similar, but stretched out over months and years. I like to think my real relationships could have worked, had I gotten the unspoken things. I like to think that.
I’m not complaining. I love the girls I’m interested in today, mostly because I can be myself around them. And that cowardly, vainglorious, stupid man will always love them, because he can’t help himself.
When I visited Alaska, two years after I had abruptly moved, I saw her again. At 16, she was industrious; she made sandwiches at Subway. She recognized me, she had to, but clearly she didn’t remember. I ordered my sandwich, and like always, she was delicate: tenderly laying the ham in the bread, spreading the mustard, sprinkling the lettuce. It was just like our first encounter, shifted a few degrees to the left. When I paid, she gave me the scripted “thank you” her employed required. The restaurant was empty, and I could have eaten there, but she didn’t want me to. It was in her eyes. It was one of those unspoken things.
Just like that: in love, and out. A terrifying oscillation.
Monday, May 24, 2010
It's Not Easy Being Green
This one is from the archives! Enjoy.
I remember growing up and watching The Muppets and The Muppet Babies. “Watching” probably doesn’t capture the essence of what I did; in the case of The Muppet Babies, I would pretend to be sick to stay home from school to watch this show. I did this until I was 17 years old. I knew Rowlf was a pimp before I even knew what a pimp was; Statler and Waldorf probably played a larger part than my parents in shaping my personality. And then, of course, there’s Kermit the Frog, who was loveable and dopey and kind of a pussy. Now, speaking for all of us at Reactionary Century, you should never, under any circumstance, hit a woman. That being said, I’d fucking kill Miss Piggy with a shovel.
Kermit’s big claim to fame was his catchphrase and signature song, It’s Not Easy Being Green. This sentiment couldn’t be anymore prescient; “being green” or being an environmentalist or whatever is, I guess, a pretty good thing. And popular, too! It seems everyone has opinion on where my old newspaper and cardboard ends up. Judging by the stares I get, my best guess is it goes up my neighbor’s ass, but that’s not really the point. The point is that being green is great, but everyone is doing it wrong. So, as a scientist/magician, I thought it was my duty to educate people on how to really stay green. The following will ensure that you are truly green and not some judgmental faux-environmentalist. I’m the judgmental one here, assholes. Anyway! The tips:
DON’T buy anything. According to The Sierra Club, every product available for purchase contains some part of a bald eagle. The shrink-wrap on that Iron Man DVD you just bought is actually made of a film that’s produced when you take eagle eyeballs and boil them. I’m pretty certain this is true. Consumer products aren’t shipped by truck or train or plane anymore, either. About twelve eagles are attached to a crate, and they just fly around the country. This of course exhausts and kills the eagles, but we don’t feed the dead eagles to the homeless or anything, we just let them sit there. You can eat the eagles in China, though. I guess we know where the real democracy is, don’t we?
DON’T leave your house. Every time you start a car, millions of tons of pollution are released into the air. This pollution forms a protective cocoon around the earth, keeping it warm and melting the ice caps and generally providing more opportunities to swim. Swimming is an amazing aerobic exercise, so people who fight this “global warming” are also pro-obesity. Doesn’t that fact just make you sick? The reason you shouldn’t leave your house is simple: the swimming pools are coming to you, so why bother? That’s just common sense.
DON’T have sex with anyone, ever. Something tells me that if you’re reading this website, that’s probably not going to be a problem anyway. But overpopulation is a big issue for the health of our planet. With such a huge number of people roaming the earth, it was only a matter of time before someone just decided to give vapid human atrocities the limelight. I find myself wondering what advanced civilizations will make of our time on the planet. Here’s hoping they annihilate us for our bad decisions!
DO protest something. Protesting is the greasy eagle’s oil that lubricates change in our society. All real environmentalists know that standing on a street corner, holding a sign, and chanting “What do we want? _______! When do we want it? Now!” is how all social movement has occurred throughout the country’s history. I don’t even care what you decide to protest; the sheer act of protesting displays a sort of unity that prompts our leaders to get shit done. Ah, I’m just kidding. Protesting is about as useful as writing a letter to your local congressman. But still protest, though. I have a fantasy of driving down the street, opening my car window, and throwing a hamburger at some guy’s chest.
DO quit school. Do you have any idea at all how many trees are needlessly killed in order to make all those books that no one ever reads? If you’re sitting at your computer thinking, “Gosh, Adam, I certainly read those books in high school,” go back to your Dungeons and Dragons campaign, nerd. I was too busy partying with the cool kids to read your precious books. Besides, what did school ever do for you? Your fancy-pants education has done wonders saving the planet. Leave the thinking to the real geniuses.
It may seem like I’m coming down hard on you “green” folk. That’s because I am. Being the smartest person in the room is a burden I don’t enjoy bearing, but someone has to save the planet. As Kermit said, it’s not easy being green.
I remember growing up and watching The Muppets and The Muppet Babies. “Watching” probably doesn’t capture the essence of what I did; in the case of The Muppet Babies, I would pretend to be sick to stay home from school to watch this show. I did this until I was 17 years old. I knew Rowlf was a pimp before I even knew what a pimp was; Statler and Waldorf probably played a larger part than my parents in shaping my personality. And then, of course, there’s Kermit the Frog, who was loveable and dopey and kind of a pussy. Now, speaking for all of us at Reactionary Century, you should never, under any circumstance, hit a woman. That being said, I’d fucking kill Miss Piggy with a shovel.
Kermit’s big claim to fame was his catchphrase and signature song, It’s Not Easy Being Green. This sentiment couldn’t be anymore prescient; “being green” or being an environmentalist or whatever is, I guess, a pretty good thing. And popular, too! It seems everyone has opinion on where my old newspaper and cardboard ends up. Judging by the stares I get, my best guess is it goes up my neighbor’s ass, but that’s not really the point. The point is that being green is great, but everyone is doing it wrong. So, as a scientist/magician, I thought it was my duty to educate people on how to really stay green. The following will ensure that you are truly green and not some judgmental faux-environmentalist. I’m the judgmental one here, assholes. Anyway! The tips:
DON’T buy anything. According to The Sierra Club, every product available for purchase contains some part of a bald eagle. The shrink-wrap on that Iron Man DVD you just bought is actually made of a film that’s produced when you take eagle eyeballs and boil them. I’m pretty certain this is true. Consumer products aren’t shipped by truck or train or plane anymore, either. About twelve eagles are attached to a crate, and they just fly around the country. This of course exhausts and kills the eagles, but we don’t feed the dead eagles to the homeless or anything, we just let them sit there. You can eat the eagles in China, though. I guess we know where the real democracy is, don’t we?
DON’T leave your house. Every time you start a car, millions of tons of pollution are released into the air. This pollution forms a protective cocoon around the earth, keeping it warm and melting the ice caps and generally providing more opportunities to swim. Swimming is an amazing aerobic exercise, so people who fight this “global warming” are also pro-obesity. Doesn’t that fact just make you sick? The reason you shouldn’t leave your house is simple: the swimming pools are coming to you, so why bother? That’s just common sense.
DON’T have sex with anyone, ever. Something tells me that if you’re reading this website, that’s probably not going to be a problem anyway. But overpopulation is a big issue for the health of our planet. With such a huge number of people roaming the earth, it was only a matter of time before someone just decided to give vapid human atrocities the limelight. I find myself wondering what advanced civilizations will make of our time on the planet. Here’s hoping they annihilate us for our bad decisions!
DO protest something. Protesting is the greasy eagle’s oil that lubricates change in our society. All real environmentalists know that standing on a street corner, holding a sign, and chanting “What do we want? _______! When do we want it? Now!” is how all social movement has occurred throughout the country’s history. I don’t even care what you decide to protest; the sheer act of protesting displays a sort of unity that prompts our leaders to get shit done. Ah, I’m just kidding. Protesting is about as useful as writing a letter to your local congressman. But still protest, though. I have a fantasy of driving down the street, opening my car window, and throwing a hamburger at some guy’s chest.
DO quit school. Do you have any idea at all how many trees are needlessly killed in order to make all those books that no one ever reads? If you’re sitting at your computer thinking, “Gosh, Adam, I certainly read those books in high school,” go back to your Dungeons and Dragons campaign, nerd. I was too busy partying with the cool kids to read your precious books. Besides, what did school ever do for you? Your fancy-pants education has done wonders saving the planet. Leave the thinking to the real geniuses.
It may seem like I’m coming down hard on you “green” folk. That’s because I am. Being the smartest person in the room is a burden I don’t enjoy bearing, but someone has to save the planet. As Kermit said, it’s not easy being green.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Our Nintendo Life
My relationship with my older brother has always been awkward. While five years is really not much to overcome, we straddled different generations. Luke, my brother, was on the tail-end of Generation X (an incredible name, by the way) and I was on the bleeding edge of the Millennial Generation (a significant step down in generational names). When we were kids, we truly loved each other in a way that only brothers can. But time will pass, and it has a tendency to change things.
This may surprise you, but I was a quiet kid growing up. I mean, now I’m known for Lewis Black-esque rage sessions about videogames and pop culture but, growing up, I was kind of shy. Luke was anything but shy, though. He was boisterous and in love with the limelight; he’d tell the same story three different ways in order to be the focus of the party. It was simultaneously amazing and infuriating. Things like that came easy to him. Me? Videogames came easy to me.
I don’t remember getting a NES, but I do remember playing Super Mario Bros. with my brother. As far as Luigis were concerned, I was a cancer. When his Mario died, I’d take over for multiple levels. We’d even do the “toss some elbows, fuck the other guy up” kind of one-upsmanship. It didn’t matter what kind of game we played, but I was always superior to him. After a while, I would throw him a game or two. I’d say, “Dang, Luke, you are getting really good at this,” but he would know what was going on. He would never say anything, but our gaming sessions would get shorter and shorter as time went on.
While I don’t have a Nintendo-64-Kid like documentation of the occasion, I remember getting a Nintendo 64 for Christmas. We didn’t get it at launch; we got it with Mario and Pilotwings and, most damning, Star Fox. The day after Christmas, Luke and his best friend, J.J., played Star Fox for hours. I would sit there, studying each craft movement, what each button did, how each evasive maneuver was beneficial in a given a situation. After a while, J.J. passed the controller to me, and I dominated the following games. For an hour, I was a furry Red Baron. Each time I would win a round, my brother would put the controller down harder, until he was slamming it against the coffee table. It, unlike other things, never broke.
In 1999, my family moved from Alaska to Minnesota. At this point, I was 14 and just discovering my personal identity. Luke was 19 and had moved out of the house; he had had a falling out with my parents over a number of different issues. He stayed in Kodiak while I moved away. The fact that this didn’t bother at me the time is something that, today, shakes me to my core. I sometimes wonder at which point in our lives we stopped being brothers and became acquaintances, but I dismiss the thought. You can recover what was lost.
When we moved to Minnesota, I decided to change myself. I was going to be outgoing and loud and funny and just like Luke. And it worked. It didn’t take much effort to make myself into a person I barely knew. Osmosis is very funny that way. One thing I never gave up, though, was videogames. I kept playing and buying and getting better. And unbeknownst to me, so did he. While our lives were on separate courses, our passions remained parallel.
Eventually, Luke moved to Minnesota, but only just so: he lived in a town that was close but still a drive. We saw each other, as family should do, but only on special occasions. When we talked, it was stilted and awkward until, of course, we talked about what the other had been playing. We didn’t know what to say to the other person, but we knew what games were good, and could recommend them to each other.
When we would hang out, we would have to get drunk to have any sort of rapport; that is, unless we played games. On my own, I was lucky enough to afford all of the major systems: the Wii, the 360, the PS3. It was bizarre; I had all of these gaming consoles, but very rarely played by myself. If friends or family came over, it was time to break out the games and grease the wheels. Luke and I would visit from time to time: his now-wife was pregnant and my job was going well and boy, he’d really like a chance to play that Playstation 3 and man, I would love to have someone to play Smash Brothers with.
For a very long time, my brother was a stranger that I was attached to through fate. We had some similar hobbies but our interactions were forced and uncomfortable. Recently, my girlfriend, who I was planning to marry because that’s what you do, broke up with me. Alone for the first time in my adult life, stranded at the age of 24, I called the only person who I knew would talk to me. Luke drove down to Minneapolis at 11:00 pm, sat with me while I cried, and played Goldeneye with me. In the morning, we watched the Super Mario Bros. Super Show and had pancakes.
My brother and I are completely separate people; we want different things out of life and have opposite tastes in almost everything. But we will always have Nintendo, and videogames, and those unspoken moments of companionship when you earned an extra life. I regret that, as a person, I will never know and understand his motivations. In the end, though, we both strove for the same thing: a green and white mushroom, which signaled the chance to spend one more minute with each other.
This may surprise you, but I was a quiet kid growing up. I mean, now I’m known for Lewis Black-esque rage sessions about videogames and pop culture but, growing up, I was kind of shy. Luke was anything but shy, though. He was boisterous and in love with the limelight; he’d tell the same story three different ways in order to be the focus of the party. It was simultaneously amazing and infuriating. Things like that came easy to him. Me? Videogames came easy to me.
I don’t remember getting a NES, but I do remember playing Super Mario Bros. with my brother. As far as Luigis were concerned, I was a cancer. When his Mario died, I’d take over for multiple levels. We’d even do the “toss some elbows, fuck the other guy up” kind of one-upsmanship. It didn’t matter what kind of game we played, but I was always superior to him. After a while, I would throw him a game or two. I’d say, “Dang, Luke, you are getting really good at this,” but he would know what was going on. He would never say anything, but our gaming sessions would get shorter and shorter as time went on.
While I don’t have a Nintendo-64-Kid like documentation of the occasion, I remember getting a Nintendo 64 for Christmas. We didn’t get it at launch; we got it with Mario and Pilotwings and, most damning, Star Fox. The day after Christmas, Luke and his best friend, J.J., played Star Fox for hours. I would sit there, studying each craft movement, what each button did, how each evasive maneuver was beneficial in a given a situation. After a while, J.J. passed the controller to me, and I dominated the following games. For an hour, I was a furry Red Baron. Each time I would win a round, my brother would put the controller down harder, until he was slamming it against the coffee table. It, unlike other things, never broke.
In 1999, my family moved from Alaska to Minnesota. At this point, I was 14 and just discovering my personal identity. Luke was 19 and had moved out of the house; he had had a falling out with my parents over a number of different issues. He stayed in Kodiak while I moved away. The fact that this didn’t bother at me the time is something that, today, shakes me to my core. I sometimes wonder at which point in our lives we stopped being brothers and became acquaintances, but I dismiss the thought. You can recover what was lost.
When we moved to Minnesota, I decided to change myself. I was going to be outgoing and loud and funny and just like Luke. And it worked. It didn’t take much effort to make myself into a person I barely knew. Osmosis is very funny that way. One thing I never gave up, though, was videogames. I kept playing and buying and getting better. And unbeknownst to me, so did he. While our lives were on separate courses, our passions remained parallel.
Eventually, Luke moved to Minnesota, but only just so: he lived in a town that was close but still a drive. We saw each other, as family should do, but only on special occasions. When we talked, it was stilted and awkward until, of course, we talked about what the other had been playing. We didn’t know what to say to the other person, but we knew what games were good, and could recommend them to each other.
When we would hang out, we would have to get drunk to have any sort of rapport; that is, unless we played games. On my own, I was lucky enough to afford all of the major systems: the Wii, the 360, the PS3. It was bizarre; I had all of these gaming consoles, but very rarely played by myself. If friends or family came over, it was time to break out the games and grease the wheels. Luke and I would visit from time to time: his now-wife was pregnant and my job was going well and boy, he’d really like a chance to play that Playstation 3 and man, I would love to have someone to play Smash Brothers with.
For a very long time, my brother was a stranger that I was attached to through fate. We had some similar hobbies but our interactions were forced and uncomfortable. Recently, my girlfriend, who I was planning to marry because that’s what you do, broke up with me. Alone for the first time in my adult life, stranded at the age of 24, I called the only person who I knew would talk to me. Luke drove down to Minneapolis at 11:00 pm, sat with me while I cried, and played Goldeneye with me. In the morning, we watched the Super Mario Bros. Super Show and had pancakes.
My brother and I are completely separate people; we want different things out of life and have opposite tastes in almost everything. But we will always have Nintendo, and videogames, and those unspoken moments of companionship when you earned an extra life. I regret that, as a person, I will never know and understand his motivations. In the end, though, we both strove for the same thing: a green and white mushroom, which signaled the chance to spend one more minute with each other.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
The Post-Modern Times: Part Two: The Core Allegory
Remembering old movies is so much more fun than re-watching them. Plot points become confused over time, characters melt into each other, and circumstances start to exaggerate. That’s why every time The Core is on TV, I turn the set off, pour myself a glass of red wine, and take myself back to a time when the Earth wanted us dead.
The plot of The Core is great: for some reason that I cannot remember (which invariably leads me to believe that the reason didn’t exist), the Earth’s molten core stops spinning, which causes all of the world’s scientists to say “Fuck it, let’s drill down in there.” I hate to say this, but that would be my first instinct, too. When are you going to get another chance for something like this?
The premise—trying to save the planet with science—could be good. But the movie follows the thriller/horror tropes gleefully, with Earth’s molten core diabolically picking off the intrepid scientists one by one. Isn’t that fantastic? Somewhere, a mole man is screaming “SOME THINGS MAN SHOULD NOT KNOW!” and clapping. In the pantheon of horror movie villains, the planet Earth stands shoulder-to-shoulder with the goblins in Troll 2, in the section labeled “Utterly, flagrantly ludicrous.”
Aha! Flash-forward to today: China is continually rocked by earthquakes that decimate entire cities (while the Earth was aiming for one person, just like in The Core, all Chinese people look the same so it ball-parked. Zing!). The godless heathens of the Gulf Coast are either drowning in water from hurricanes or oil from rig spills. Haiti—oh, Jesus Christ, Haiti—gets an earthquake, probably because the Earth was targeting one guy again (Hey-O!), followed by insufficient government and barren lands. Volcanoes are erupting whenever they damn well please, and Pierce Brosnan is nowhere to be found.
These are scientific facts proving that the planet is fighting back. But why? Sure, the reasons behind China and Haiti are locked down like the Atlanta Hawks’ offense, but the rest of the stuff? What is going on?
Much of the world’s recent disasters, if they can be so called, have served to inconvenience humanity in one way or another. Sure, the loss of life involved in these things is regrettable, but we have like a bajillion people on this planet. And it’s not like the dead care. They don’t have to wade into greasy marshlands and collect dead dolphins. They don’t have to put up people displaced by collapsed houses and have them crash on your couch. And they especially don’t have to tolerate and endless stream of media talking heads telling me how bad I should feel.
I am not being cynical. This is realism. We, as a society, pillage and plunder and rape our way across the planet, and like Jodie Foster in every Jodie Foster movie ever made, the planet has had enough abuse and finally bought a gun.
My advice is this: let’s rewrite the script to these movies. Let’s be proactive. Let’s learn the lessons available in The Core: get a big drill, and nuke the motherfucker already.
The plot of The Core is great: for some reason that I cannot remember (which invariably leads me to believe that the reason didn’t exist), the Earth’s molten core stops spinning, which causes all of the world’s scientists to say “Fuck it, let’s drill down in there.” I hate to say this, but that would be my first instinct, too. When are you going to get another chance for something like this?
The premise—trying to save the planet with science—could be good. But the movie follows the thriller/horror tropes gleefully, with Earth’s molten core diabolically picking off the intrepid scientists one by one. Isn’t that fantastic? Somewhere, a mole man is screaming “SOME THINGS MAN SHOULD NOT KNOW!” and clapping. In the pantheon of horror movie villains, the planet Earth stands shoulder-to-shoulder with the goblins in Troll 2, in the section labeled “Utterly, flagrantly ludicrous.”
Aha! Flash-forward to today: China is continually rocked by earthquakes that decimate entire cities (while the Earth was aiming for one person, just like in The Core, all Chinese people look the same so it ball-parked. Zing!). The godless heathens of the Gulf Coast are either drowning in water from hurricanes or oil from rig spills. Haiti—oh, Jesus Christ, Haiti—gets an earthquake, probably because the Earth was targeting one guy again (Hey-O!), followed by insufficient government and barren lands. Volcanoes are erupting whenever they damn well please, and Pierce Brosnan is nowhere to be found.
These are scientific facts proving that the planet is fighting back. But why? Sure, the reasons behind China and Haiti are locked down like the Atlanta Hawks’ offense, but the rest of the stuff? What is going on?
Much of the world’s recent disasters, if they can be so called, have served to inconvenience humanity in one way or another. Sure, the loss of life involved in these things is regrettable, but we have like a bajillion people on this planet. And it’s not like the dead care. They don’t have to wade into greasy marshlands and collect dead dolphins. They don’t have to put up people displaced by collapsed houses and have them crash on your couch. And they especially don’t have to tolerate and endless stream of media talking heads telling me how bad I should feel.
I am not being cynical. This is realism. We, as a society, pillage and plunder and rape our way across the planet, and like Jodie Foster in every Jodie Foster movie ever made, the planet has had enough abuse and finally bought a gun.
My advice is this: let’s rewrite the script to these movies. Let’s be proactive. Let’s learn the lessons available in The Core: get a big drill, and nuke the motherfucker already.
Monday, May 10, 2010
A Talk With George
Sometimes, it's the little things that make you realize life is worthwhile. Jonathan Coulton, known mostly for anthemic nerd rock, wrote a song called "A Talk With George" which is ostensibly about an older relative telling you about how much "the good old days" were better than today. Us young-uns! We never know what we have unless someone explains it to us. A few parts of the song break from the comedic overtones and really drive home the point: "Love your friends/and miss them when they go."
Maybe it's the music, maybe it's the lyrics, maybe it's the earnestness with which the words are sung, but that part always gets me. I recently wrote a piece called "Our Nintendo Life," detailing how the relationship I have with my brother is defined and reinforced by videogames. It may seem pathetic and it may seem counter-intuitive, but what my brother and I have works. "Perfect" is the not the first word I would use to describe it, but we have a relationship. We have what many siblings do not: a functioning dialogue informed by something more than a genetic bond. So what if it is defined by something materialistic? So what if, when we decide to hang out, we talk more about the Playstation 3 than our personal lives? We have something. It's delicate and volatile and the cause for consternation. But it brings us together, and it is important to us.
On a personal level, I'm petrified that someone will discover that I spend my lunch breaks writing jokes or that when I get home I play a few rounds of Street Fighter. While these may not define me, they certainly inform my persona. Is that really so bad? I like comic books and music and movies and videogames and stand-up comedy. At what point did this become unacceptable? When did I stop doing what mattered to me and start doing what I thought was acceptable?
Our society is based solely on image, both physical and metaphysical. Strangely, it means more to be about something than to be something. Many of my contemporaries, from which I learn volumes daily, have learned this lesson before, and will be quick to pat my head and say, "Oh, son..." But when you spend your whole life living it as someone else, to please someone else; well, these things can come as sort of a revelation.
Every time I attempt to define Adam Robinson, I'm surprised to discover something I didn't know. I like cooking, I like drawing. I like things about myself that I had thought I hated. Personal journeys of discover are supposed to be personal and embarrassing and, in many situations, kind of tragic. But when you discover what you are all about, what's not be incandescent about? This is pretty joyous. I feel joy. I still have no idea who I am or what my place in this world is, but it's fun to try things. Living a life filled with regrets is what is expected. While scary, the unexpected has a tendency to be so much more fun.
Maybe it's the music, maybe it's the lyrics, maybe it's the earnestness with which the words are sung, but that part always gets me. I recently wrote a piece called "Our Nintendo Life," detailing how the relationship I have with my brother is defined and reinforced by videogames. It may seem pathetic and it may seem counter-intuitive, but what my brother and I have works. "Perfect" is the not the first word I would use to describe it, but we have a relationship. We have what many siblings do not: a functioning dialogue informed by something more than a genetic bond. So what if it is defined by something materialistic? So what if, when we decide to hang out, we talk more about the Playstation 3 than our personal lives? We have something. It's delicate and volatile and the cause for consternation. But it brings us together, and it is important to us.
On a personal level, I'm petrified that someone will discover that I spend my lunch breaks writing jokes or that when I get home I play a few rounds of Street Fighter. While these may not define me, they certainly inform my persona. Is that really so bad? I like comic books and music and movies and videogames and stand-up comedy. At what point did this become unacceptable? When did I stop doing what mattered to me and start doing what I thought was acceptable?
Our society is based solely on image, both physical and metaphysical. Strangely, it means more to be about something than to be something. Many of my contemporaries, from which I learn volumes daily, have learned this lesson before, and will be quick to pat my head and say, "Oh, son..." But when you spend your whole life living it as someone else, to please someone else; well, these things can come as sort of a revelation.
Every time I attempt to define Adam Robinson, I'm surprised to discover something I didn't know. I like cooking, I like drawing. I like things about myself that I had thought I hated. Personal journeys of discover are supposed to be personal and embarrassing and, in many situations, kind of tragic. But when you discover what you are all about, what's not be incandescent about? This is pretty joyous. I feel joy. I still have no idea who I am or what my place in this world is, but it's fun to try things. Living a life filled with regrets is what is expected. While scary, the unexpected has a tendency to be so much more fun.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)