I love Horror movies. Always have. I honestly don’t know where this love comes from, as I hate real-life violence. I can’t stand needles, don’t like the sight of blood, and pain hurts me.
But sitting me in front of a horror film… I’ll be a happy camper. I like the adrenaline rush, the “what would I do in that situation” after-thinking, and I love watching it with a date that gets scared. I don’t mean that in a sadistic-I-like-people-to-suffer-in-fear kind of way. It’s actually a more practical reason. When a lovely young lady is scared in a movie theatre, ideally, she grabs onto your arm, squeezes up against you, and buries into your shoulder… coming to YOU for protection. In a testosterone kind of way, that’s a neat feeling… being a protector. She wants to cuddle up to me? I see that as a win-win situation… and I wish it happened more often. A good horror movie can do that.
Even though… well, face it. Most of the horror films and stories out there… suck. Majorly. There’s some wonderful diamonds in the rough… but strictly speaking… putting something in the “horror genre”, usually means you’re in for horrible effects, bad story, abysmal script, and embarrassing acting.
Yet, in the entertainment industry… Horror is a near-guaranteed moneymaker. The general consensus seems to be that its got an automatic built-in fan base, and as long as you put “Boobs and Blood” in a movie… it will sell. Personally, I think that’s half-right.
Sure, there’s a built-in fan base. I’m one of them. But it does take more than “Boobs and Blood” to make a good horror movie. Then again, those that are putting in the boobs and blood… aren’t exactly going for “good” in their pictures. Rather, they’re just going for something that will sell. Sadly, we keep buying. To be honest, when I was 13, I loved the whole “Boobs and Blood” thing… if you were a young boy just entering puberty, you would too.
But I’m about 20 years beyond that now… and I like to think my tastes are a little more discriminating.
For one… I hate nudity in films. ANY kind of film. Not because I’ve gone conservative, far from it. I always have been and always will be a big fan of the female form, in all its variations. If I’m in the mood to see nudity? There are plenty of films made for an audience old enough to rent them from the back room (or hell, just find it on the Internet for free). As a bonus, they don’t even TRY to have a plot to bog it down, and they show more naked body than any horror film would be allowed to. Or if I’m dating someone… I can see it in person (which is even better). If I want it… I can find it. Don’t bother going out of your way to throw it into a horror film. Most of the time… the filmmakers seem to be going out of their way to throw it in.
If it doesn’t make sense to the story… I don’t want to see it. I’m giving anywhere from an hour and a half to three hours (on rare occasion, more) to get involved in a movie’s story. Don’t bog it down with useless crap. Get on with it… and don’t say you’re “slowing it down a bit” so people can catch up. I don’t think people are that stupid. Treat them as if they’re intelligent, and they’ll like you more. This also applies to love scenes… rarely have I seen one that actually makes sense to the plot and story. Frankly, if I’m being chased by Werewolf-Zombie-Vampire hybrids, the last thing I’m doing is getting an erection… no matter how attractive my leading lady is. No, I’d need a few days and some therapy before I even think about that. But that’s just me…
So take out the sex/nudity, please. You should only keep it in if it makes sense to the plot and, more importantly, *drives the story forward*. If it doesn’t directly push you into the next scene, why is it in there? Take it out and make the movie a few minutes shorter. I’d much prefer that, as it lets me get on with my life. And if you do find a reason for a character to be nude? Think about something first: Does it really need to be *shown*? If you’re looking to be a little “sexy” with the scene, or show a little sensuality to the character… its usually more effective when you *don’t* see everything. Implication holds so much power in these instances. I don’t care how much of an “artistic statement” you think you’re making with it… it can be done without showing every nipple… and will often times be more effective for that. Every movie scene that I’ve heard be defended by a director saying it’s “vitally important” to the story… really hasn’t been. And every actress in those scenes that was agreeing with the director… “Really, it was artistically important for me to give him a real BJ on camera”… I just want to pull them aside and gently say, “Darlin, you’ve been conned.”
As for blood and gore… well, if you ask my Mom, she’d tell you that’s what I live for. She seems to think that if I’m watching a horror movie, I must *obviously* be loving it for that very reason. On the contrary… I respect and prefer the horror films that don’t use a lot of blood and gore, or use it very sparingly. If you spend an hour of a film effectively building up the tension and story, when you finally DO show a little bit of blood, it becomes so much more effective.
When I watched the first Saw movie, I was impressed and pleased to see that it wasn’t as gory as the reputation made me believe. It actually had a decent story, and was effectively done. Sure, there were some extreme parts… but I think it could have been a LOT more visceral than it was. I applaud the filmmakers for that. In fact, whenever I look at one of the big franchises… and actually watch the very first one, I’m often surprised to see it’s not as extreme with its blood effects as the sequels. Rather, they all rest on a pretty unique idea (especially for the time it was made), and do it pretty well. It just seems that any sequels automatically lose that novelty, simply by rehashing it with “bigger and more” opportunities for the squeamish to cringe.
Take A Nightmare on Elm Street. The sequels are VERY silly. Mostly because Robert Englund is majorly hamming it up with puns and over-the-top silliness. Granted, the scripts are nothing to shake a stick at. But each killing he performs tries to go too far out-of-the-way to be a unique and imaginative one, and ends up being a little too silly. Watching that schtick makes it easy to forget that the very first movie… was actually really unsettling. Essentially, he was just jumping out and saying “Boo”, then killing in a straightforward manner… it was the unique places he was jumping *out of*, that made it different and ultra-creepy. Plus, you never saw him clearly and well-lit. The sequels, you saw every little scar and ripple on his skin, every burn mark on his sweater. The original… you rarely saw it. He either was obscured by the dark, or moving too fast to be seen. The silhouette of him became much scarier than any gross make-up that would be put on him… because when you have to imagine it… when your mind is forced to fill in the blanks that you’re not seeing… that’s what makes people’s hair stand on end.
The old classic movies really knew this. Granted, the ratings board and system was very particular about what they’d let people get away with… and it wasn’t much. But when you look at the classics… Dracula, all the Frankenstein movies, The Wolf Man, The Mummy… the filmmakers managed to do quite a lot with very little. One of my all-time favorite movies is The Haunting… the original B&W one from the early 1960s. It has no blood, no flashy special effects… just atmosphere and story all the way through. It’s freaking brilliant. (Please, avoid the remake at all costs)
Yet, I think if I were to pick a point where Horror started to go wrong… it would be at the tail-end of the period where those Universal Classics were made. After a while, they started mixing and matching. Sounds like a good idea on paper… Wolf Man was popular… Frankenstein was popular… let’s put them together and be TWICE as popular! Let’s add in Dracula, too! Hollywood Gold!
That idea may have worked for Chocolate and Peanut Butter… not so much in this case. I don’t think the Monster-Mash movies ever really worked, frankly. Sure, I love The Monster Squad… but when it comes down to it, the idea behind it doesn’t exactly mesh. (That movie in particular isn’t a horror, it’s a kid’s adventure movie. A supernatural version of The Goonies) Mainly because of the Frankenstein Monster, and Dracula. You see, a major part of the story and existence of Dracula owes itself to the notion that “God exists”. Crosses repel him, Holy Water hurts him, etc… so for that to actually make sense, it must serve as concrete proof that God does indeed exist. No problem, right? Well… then you add in the Frankenstein Monster… whose very existence is concrete proof that God does NOT exist. Which was the point of the story. (If only God can create life, the fact that a scientist created life himself invalidates the notion of God… therefore, there is nothing man is not meant to know, and he is answerable to no one but himself, with no ill consequences when we’re gone. Essentially… it’s the fear of “No Hell”) One is solid proof of God existing, the other is solid proof of God NOT existing. In either story, we’ll go along with it… that’s our suspension of disbelief (no matter what religion you are). But mashing the conflicting arguments, and saying that both are absolute fact… doesn’t make sense. And as an audience, we’re lost. We can’t be scared in that instance, because subconsciously, we’re too confused. At best, the Monster Mash movies are more “adventure-thrill-rides” than actual horror movies. Excuses for neat special effects and some referential in-jokes.
That’s a reflection on the nature of Horror as a whole… where a lot of movies and stories seem to go wrong, I think. They don’t play to the metaphor. In too many ways, we’ve lost the meaning to many of the classic monsters and fears.
One of my biggest annoyances in horror concerns Vampires. Too often I’ll hear interviews about a Vampire Movie where the actors or the directors talk about how “Vampires have always been metaphors for Sex”.
I want to track them down, tie them to chairs and beat them severely about the head and shoulders screaming why they are certifiably WRONG in that. Vampires have not “always been about Sex”. If anything, Sex was only briefly introduced just over 100 years ago, and only gained real prominence in the last 25 years.
Look at what we call a “Zombie”… a walking corpse trying to eat people. (Technically, that’s not a Zombie. A zombie is a Voodoo slave… and not even really dead.) But 1,000 years ago… that image was what they called a Vampire. This was due to a little thing called The Black Plague. It rotted your skin, made you pale, deathly-looking, and when you were kicked out of your town because you were going to infect everyone else, you shambled over the countryside, trying to get help. To others, you’re a disgusting-looking monster trying to eat them. Hence, the origin of “Wampyre”. Now, this directly ties into the age-old methods of Vampire dissuasion… Garlic is healthy for you; An old home remedy for curing sickness and “whatever ails ye”. If something medically mystified people back then, they turned to their local priest, who brought in God to cast away the evil demonic sickness… hence, crosses and holy water and most anything connected to God, are now vampire-fighting weapons.
Vampires are metaphors for Disease. That’s how they are ingrained into our subconscious. Look at some of the vampire literature from the Victorian era… where it started to really bloom. People want to make Dracula into the “definitive sexual example” of vampire fiction. Now, I love that book… I won’t argue its greatness. And yes, there are sexual ELEMENTS… but you also need to look at them in context. In 1898, in England at the time (where the book was written), there was an outbreak of syphilis. It was considered to be on an epidemic proportion. Syphilis… can be spread sexually. So now the images of rape and (very heterosexual) intercourse are a bit on the obvious side. Again… a symptom, not the origin. One of the side-effects of Syphilis? Insanity: Renfield is in an insane asylum, not to mention Jonathan Harker feeling like he’s going insane and trapped in Dracula’s Castle. Look at the symptoms of syphilis, and the events of the book… you might realize a whole other angle you’ve never seen before. Especially when you see that Dracula is moving around in the daylight, and other normal vampire stereotypes aren’t exactly fitting to the book. Those were all elements that Hollywood inserted in… often just “making them up”.
Side note: H.P. Lovecraft… long considered one of the greatest horror writers of all time, suffered from syphilis. Most, if not all, of his stories deal with extreme insanity and his characters are always going crazy. Cause he himself was.
There is a slightly earlier vampire tale, by Sheridan Le Fanu, called Carmilla. Some have pointed to that as being “obviously” a metaphor for sex. The story of a young female vampire seducing a young girl. Plenty of lesbianism to go around… eat that, blog boy! Not quite. Yes, the homosexuality is abundant… but remember that it was written during a time where homosexuality was considered a *disease*… and a curable one at that. Sorry to spoil it… but it’s got a happy ending, with the vampire being vanquished, and the young heroine surviving, and going on to lead a normal life, evermore.
Fast forward to the early 1970s… to Anne Rice’s Vampire Chronicles. Written in 1973, published in 1976. Right around that time, in the medical community, a little something was starting to pop up. Wouldn’t be given full publicity until the late 70s, early 80s… but groups of people were already starting to be affected. This little something would eventually be called HIV/AIDS. And the largest demographic group being affected? Gay men… especially in the San Francisco area, the largest hub of Gay Culture imaginable… where Anne Rice was living and writing her books. “Gee, I wonder why there’s so much Homoeroticism in these stories… Hmmmm?” She has even said that the character Claudia is based on her daughter who died of leukemia in 1972. Again.. disease.
1987… Near Dark, the first “southwestern Vampire movie” (before it became a trend). The Vampires are shown as people “from the wrong side of the tracks”, the kind of people that are often considered “a disease on society”. That one, is a very neat twist… and works wonderfully.
Disease. Do I need a pie chart to make it clearer?
Werewolves are also metaphors for disease… but in a different way from Vampires. Vampires are physical diseases. The common “condition” associated with Werewolves is “Lycanthropy”. And Lycanthropy IS an actual medical disease. It’s not a person who turns into a wolf… it’s someone who THINKS they’re turning into a wolf. It’s a mental disease. One of the earliest illustrated depictions of a “werewolf” is of a farmer who “turned into a wolf and ate his children” while his shocked wife looked on. But the man… doesn’t have a snout or tail. If you look closely, he’s just on all fours, with an overgrowth of hair and beard, with his kid in his mouth, chomping away. Definitely not normal… but look at the circumstances. This was from back in the day where a large portion of the world was not civilized. This depiction is just a farmer out in the middle of nowhere… probably only makes the long slow trip into a village maybe once every 4 months, and his only company is his wife and very small children. The guy just went stir crazy… he was seeing the SAME people every day, cooped up… effectively cut off from civilization. It’s called Cabin Fever… and some people do just snap and kill their families. Sometimes, they just lose it, and think they themselves are wolves (one of the animals they were seeing on a frequent basis, and fighting off)… hence, the mental disease of Lycanthropy.
An American Werewolf in London… in my humble opinion, the best werewolf movie there is, puts a lot of focus on the main character’s feelings of going crazy. His dream sequences, which truly are maddening, are the scariest parts of that movie. Even the classic Universal picture The Wolf Man spends a large part having Lon Chaney Jr. say, “I’m going crazy! I’m mad, I tell you!” Dog Soldiers, deals with special ops soldiers fighting off werewolves. Makes for great action… and gives you a nice appreciation when you think of the condition “Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder” or “Shell Shock”, which you see these characters are definitely going to have when they’re through… if they survive, that is.
The Strange Case of Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde… its metaphor? Alcoholism. That one may be hard to see at first. But notice how Dr. Jekyll drinks his “formula” and becomes a different person? Yet, he feels he can control it? So, he keeps drinking the formula, becoming Mr. Hyde… then soon, he needs the formula to STOP from becoming Mr. Hyde, that’s when he realizes he’s in deep doo doo. Bring that basic explanation to any AA meeting, and I’m willing to bet you get a lot of knowing nods.
Godzilla… the original movie was a Japanese Horror film. His metaphor? He’s the walking embodiment of nuclear terror. From a country that was still recovering from having Fat Man and Little Boy dropped on them, causing mindless destruction in its wake. So that movie freaked the living hell out of them. Can you blame them?
We’re missing the metaphors these days. Too many movies and books are churned out without giving us those hooks that really connect us to it… and that’s what really scares us.
A few years ago, I picked up a book… a Vampire book. It looked interesting, it had won the “Bram Stoker” award the previous year, and had a lot of praise written on the back. So I got it, and read it. That book… was the biggest pile of SHIT that I’ve ever read in my life. Narrative-wise… it was atrocious. The very beginning and the very end of the book were one plot… which the entire middle had NOTHING to do with. I only fought my way to the end of the book, hoping to the Almighty that it would redeem itself with a great ending. Nope. If anything, the ending was the worst part. Some interviews praised it for its “honest sexuality”… so an elderly man’s fantasy about a pubescent-girl’s body is “honest”??? I seriously thought the guy was rubbing one out while he was at the typewriter. I don’t call that “honest sexuality”… I call it pathetic masturbation fantasies. Useless references to incest (added nothing to nowhere)… introducing “major characters” 4/5 of the way through the book… casually doing away with the creepiest villains of the story with nothing more than a “oh, I killed them” side note… languishing too long on the uninteresting parts… and all-too-quickly-glossing-over of what would have been the most interesting parts. I hate that book and author with the fury of a thousand suns… and no longer have any faith in the “Bram Stoker Award”, because they apparently give it out to utter crap. When I found out that this was one of the author’s last books, and he had died about a year earlier… I felt bad… because now I couldn’t personally lambaste him for being the worst hack I’ve ever read. I really hope that guy didn’t die of natural causes. I won’t even honor it enough to mention its name on this blog. My blood is actually boiling, and I read this several years ago.
I really hope that’s not what the world of Horror is heading towards. I’ve heard a lot of complaints about the current “Torture Porn”… and frankly… You’re preaching to the choir.
While I did enjoy the first Saw… it was novel and different. Anything after that… is old hat. So, I don’t even need to see the movies whose only selling point is the extreme violence. That’s not a story. (Same reason I didn’t see The Passion of the Christ… I already knew the story, and the violence isn’t an attraction, so why bother?) The gore IS the story, not a tool for the story. Now, I could be wrong on that… maybe there are very intelligent metaphors that inspired those stories, I don’t know. Honestly… I haven’t watched them. But when the focus by the media and filmmakers is all about “look at the gross stuff we can do”… I have no interest to even look for a good metaphor. Gross-out stuff will only disgust me, but it won’t actually *scare* me.
I wanna be scared.
I’ve only been scared by one movie. I’ve jumped at a few, but only one that actually crawled under my skin and really frightened me: The Blair Witch Project.
It was the last movie I saw right before I moved to California…. I saw it with my best friend. The entire theatre was packed with young folk aged 16-19… the age group that you’d definitely consider to be the rowdiest, loudest and most obnoxious theatergoers of all.
The place was so silent, you could hear a pin drop. Love Blair Witch or hate it… most people hit one of those extremes… it was definitely original. It’s worth seeing it for the marketing campaign alone… And that experience of seeing it was one of the most unique ones I’ve ever had in a theatre.
Why did it scare ME so much? Possibly because all the stupid crap those characters were doing: Finding old graveyards, exploring old condemned houses in the dark, etc… My friends and I have actually DONE that crap ourselves. I have seen an abandoned house in northern New Hampshire… that has black handprints on the walls. (No, it wasn’t the same house in the movie) Once the movie finished, I turned to my best friend and said, “You know… in retrospect, maybe we shouldn’t have done all that creepy, stupid shit through college”. She said, “yup”… and neither of us slept that night.
I think Horror can get better. For all the crap out there… we do find some really good stuff every now and then. Once in a while, a new classic will be born… one that really hits us where it counts, and makes us scared again… and then 1,001 bad knockoffs will instantly be born.
Which is probably the scariest thing about it. *shrug*
4.18.2008
4.11.2008
Who is Victor Riley?
I suppose I should explain this eventually. As a semi-regular column called “The Hidden Hero” doesn’t make that much sense, especially since there’s not a lot of heroics written on here.
Victor Riley is NOT my real name, it is just an alias. But it’s an alias with a story.
Back in 1994, I was in undergraduate college… and the unthinkable actually occurred. Miracle of miracles… an on-campus construction project was actually FINISHED! In the several years I had schooling, whether it be public, college and beyond… that was the only construction project that HAD been completed and I was there to see.
It was the new “union building”… it had all the mailboxes that the students were now to use, had conference rooms for clubs, computer rooms, a gymnasium that wasn’t used solely by the Athletics department, a small canteen with a Taco Bell and cafeteria spin-off, etc. It was meant to be the centerpiece of the campus for the students. Seeing as how it wasn’t a large campus to begin with, that wouldn’t have been hard.
It had opened up in the spring, right after Spring Break. There hadn’t been an official “opening ceremony” yet, but everyone was allowed to start using it. I was walking by myself one day and started walking through, seeing what it had to offer. It was all-new modern architecture, it was clean, it was shiny… and I said to myself, “We need to make a spy movie here.”
I’m sure you see the logical progression, there. Isn’t it obvious?
At dinner that night, meeting with all my friends, I announced my reaction/conclusion to the new building. They emphatically agreed. (See? It *was* obvious.)
Out came the notebooks and pencils, frantically scribbling down ideas as they came to us. At no point in this creative process did myself, or anyone else really, give a flying crap about quality story. We just wanted to have fun. Therefore, we did not look at this project as, “We have intriguing characters, let’s find the right person for the role”. Rather, we said, “We have friends, let’s find a role for them.” So, there were a LOT of characters.
We had the villain: Mr. Big.
The Femme Fatale: Ida Know
Our own “Q” type character: Dr. Ette Degree
The Double Agent: Bea Trayer
The head of the Good Guy Agency: The Boss, Bob Boss.
The Informant: Guido D. Stoolie
A rival agent to the hero… Seymour Berkowitz… this one has a small story of its own. Very soon after this project was undertaken, we were having an unrelated “Evil Dead Marathon” (all 3 movies in a row). Myself and another friend (the one playing “Boss Bob Boss”) went walking around exploring the campus’ steam tunnel network, which was my first time doing it, and it was neat. (If your campus has steam tunnels, do yourself a favor and check them out. Just for the hell of it. So you can say you did.) When we finished, we went to the dorm room where the Marathon would take place, and our other friend started off with:
“Very funny, guys.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Real cute. My question is: Who’s Seymour Berkowitz?”
We looked at him very quizzically… “Huh?”
“The phone message you left… on my answering machine.”
“Uh… we didn’t leave any message. We’ve been in the Steam Tunnels for the last hour… right after we saw you at dinner.”
“Wait… really?
“Yeah. So what are you talking about?”
“Uh… then this makes NO sense. Listen to this.”
He presses ‘play’ on his answering machine and we hear:
“Yah, dis is Seymour Berkowitz, calling for ‘Da Boss’. Wanted to let him know I’ll meet him at his house at 9:00. Later.”
“I thought it was YOU guys, cause he said “the Boss” (as in Boss Bob Boss)… but I just didn’t know who Seymour Berkowitz was. So what the hell was that?”
*shrug* We never found out an explanation. Maybe just a very odd-yet-coincidental prank phone call? That’s the best guess I had. So, with such a random name as “Seymour Berkowitz”… we HAD to make him a character.
We even had a character we called “The Running Gag”. His main thing… go streaking across the screen, wearing a gag over his mouth.
We were ALL about the silly joke names.
The Hero’s partner we named Honesty Mace… a play on the name of an old spy-novel heroine named Modesty Blaise by Peter O’Donnell. (I have no idea how many of my friends knew the connection, other than myself. Yeah, I came up with this one.)
Finally, we got to the hero. When I asked, “Who should be the hero?”, everyone thought for a second, looking around. Then one of them said, (I don’t even remember who) “Well, this was all your idea… and out of all of us, you’re probably the best suited for it… so I say it should be you.” Next thing I know, everyone is agreeing… and it was then settled, *I* was the hero. (A nice unexpected compliment)
But what should we name the character? Someone mentioned “Victor”… because then, at the end of the movie, someone can hand him a granola bar and say, “Kudos to the Victor”.
Victor, it was. Last name? That took a little more thought. Then someone else said, “How about ‘Riley’?” That way if someone asks “Really?” You can respond with “No, Riley”. Then we got the inspiration to add in “The Running Gag” with it. So the full gag would be:
“Really?”
“No, Riley”
(Running Gag enters, exits)
“What was that?”
“A Running Gag.”
We loved this stupid joke so much, that before you know it, we were using it in our regular conversations. Since asking, “really?” was fairly common usage, it all flowed nicely… even if we weren’t talking about Victor Riley, or the movie, or anything related to it. “Really?” “No, Riley” “What was that?” “A Running Gag”.
Ultimately, the movie itself never got made. Frankly, we had more fun just talking about it and giggling over all the gags then actually doing the work to film it. But, this exchange would be repeated… for YEARS. Seriously. We’ve never had so much fun with a silly joke. It never got old. It went on so long, and so often, that even when I moved to Northern California, I was chatting with someone, and in response to something I stated, they said, “Really?”
I immediately, without even thinking just said, “No, Riley”.
Suddenly, I started to feel a little embarrassed, because I just pretty much blurted out a non-sequitor that doesn’t make ANY sense to the people now around me. But at that moment, a third person… one who didn’t quite hear what I said, asked, “What was that?”
Wow… 3 naked women inviting me to a foursome would not have been more tempting. The situation was too damn perfect. I tried to resist, but it didn’t work. I don’t care if I become “That guy that just *says things*”… it was truly the greatest Running Gag I’ve ever known.
But that’s where it stayed, for a good long while. Just an in-joke amongst a few friendly weirdoes. That’s where we liked it. It did start to bleed into our lives in other ways… whenever you ended up doing something *really cool*… like, say you’re walking and you trip, but on the way down, you just happen to tuck your head the right way, and next thing you know you’re doing a roll, and back on your feet… we called that a “Victor Riley moment”. (Because he was the cool, awesome hero Super-Spy) When a moment of absolute coolness or heroism comes your way, and you amaze even yourself… that’s the spirit of Victor Riley possessing you. Those… ALWAYS made for good stories.
Then, in 1999, I had a breakthrough. I was at my local Staples store, and happened to notice their prices on business cards. 9.99 for 1000 of them. That’s each one for a penny, and you buy 999 of them, you get 1 free! Neat! I had never had a NEED for business cards, nor could I fathom what to do with them, other than a joke. But for 10 bucks… that’s a joke I could do 1000 times. So of COURSE I’m going to do it. But what to get?
My initial idea was inspired by Wile E. Coyote. In some of his cartoons with Bugs Bunny, he presented a business card that said:
Wile E. Coyote
Super-Genius
And I wanted a business card that said my name and “Super-Genius” right below it. That’s it. No number, no contact, nothing. I think that would be hilarious. But I wasn’t 100% with that idea… because it WAS done by Wile E. Coyote first, and no matter what, it’s just re-using that joke that someone else made up. As great as a joke as it is (to me), it’s not original. All the ideas I “wanted” to do… were already done in another cartoon or show… and it just didn’t feel right. I was wishing I could do something “original”, that wasn’t found anywhere else, something I could come up with that, suck or great, came from *me*.
Then, it hit me.
As I stood there, with the pen and the order form, half a second away from writing my own name and “Super-Genius” underneath it… it totally hit me. I then got 1000 business cards that said:
Victor Riley
Hero
Has the inspiration of the Wile E. Coyote – Super-Genius… but was mine. Nay, OURS.
Because I shared this. As soon as I got that first batch of cards, I was going to see friends that night. I walked in the door, when right over to the living room, and started handing out chunks of cards with instructions:
“Whenever you do something nice for someone, whether they know it or not: Hand them a card. Leave it on their car windshield. Discreetly slip it to them, anything. When you perform a small or large act of daily heroism… let this be the mark of your “Victor Riley Moment”. Don’t tell them your name… don’t explain this. Just leave it, and walk away. Even if nothing remotely heroic is done… just hand them out to strangers.”
One day, in Northern California, I handed one to a guy I knew. He stopped, looked at me and said, “Where did you get this?”
“Huh? Oh, I made them.”
“No, seriously… where did you get this? Where did it come from? What does it mean?”
“It’s… just something I had made, kind of an in-joke. Why? What are you talking about?”
“Dude… when I was home in Los Angeles… I found one of these, and I’ve been wondering ever since where the hell it came from!”
Hehehehe… it was getting around more than I thought. How awesome is that?
We were now taking Victor Riley to the next level. Out of the realm of in-joke… and into the area of Urban Legend. Unlike other Urban Legends that are usually about death, pain, serial killers, kidney thieves, and whatnot… this would be a *good* one. One that people would like the idea of believing in, even perpetuating. How great would it have been if stories of heroic acts started sprouting up all over the place, being attributed to Victor Riley? Someone’s family is saved by an unidentified savior? That’s Victor Riley.
It wouldn’t be meant to diminish the heroism of the real individual that DID do the rescuing… but maybe give it a little more weight. Because when *I* think of what a “hero” is… I honestly think of people like Superman, Batman, Captain America, Spider-Man, etc. Not because they’re wearing spandex and brandishing super-powers… but the ultimate underlying message. They’re individuals who want to simply *help* people… and not get, or need, any thanks in return. They wear costumes, so they can do it anonymously. They don’t want rewards, they don’t need praise… just helping someone in need, solely because they need it. The whole idea of “virtue is its own reward”. I believe in that.
In Grad School, I remember reading, “Heroes represent to the values of society”… which kind of explains a lot… namely why people like Michael Jordan is considered a “hero”. A stance I passionately disagree with. I have a hard time buying that one, especially. Why is he a hero? Because he makes millions upon millions of dollars, throwing his face and name on every endorsement deal he can, retiring and re-joining his sport because he “feels” like it? If I absolutely had to, there are other sports stars I would place above the likes of Michael Jordan, Shaquille O’Neal, Kobe Bryant (a rapist and adulterer is considered a hero? Huh?), Barry Bonds… even Tom Brady (and I’m a die-hard Patriots fan). Talented athletes, yes. Heroes? No.
I would not put sports stars on the same level as Superman, Batman, Spider-Man, and Captain America. Who WOULD I put in the same category as them? Firefighters. Police officers. EMTS and Paramedics. The altruistic individuals that tried to save lives during the Holocaust. The good Samaritans that help their fellow man and NOT feel the need to speak at a press conference or hire a Public Relations Manager so they can “take advantage of the situation”. When you try to profit by it… you lose credibility with me. Yeah, there’s always going to be a few bad apples in those bunches… the corrupt cops, or the EMT that just doesn’t care, or the firefighter that’s really a pyromaniac… but those are rarities as far as I’m concerned. Not reflective of the whole. Personally, I prefer to give the benefit of the doubt. (And for the record… I had this opinion LONG before 9/11. It wasn’t the tragedy that gave me this opinion… but in some ways it did become “fashionable” to honor them after that. It’s pathetic that’s what it took… which is more a reflection on the average joe than anyone else.)
But that’s a hero to me. Those that do good, and don’t want, or need, a reward. Those who prefer to stay hidden, because that’s where they do what they do best. The ones with a little Victor Riley in them.
So who is Victor Riley? Part in-joke. Part urban legend. Part philosophy.
Not a bad alias to have, if you ask me. :)
Victor Riley is NOT my real name, it is just an alias. But it’s an alias with a story.
Back in 1994, I was in undergraduate college… and the unthinkable actually occurred. Miracle of miracles… an on-campus construction project was actually FINISHED! In the several years I had schooling, whether it be public, college and beyond… that was the only construction project that HAD been completed and I was there to see.
It was the new “union building”… it had all the mailboxes that the students were now to use, had conference rooms for clubs, computer rooms, a gymnasium that wasn’t used solely by the Athletics department, a small canteen with a Taco Bell and cafeteria spin-off, etc. It was meant to be the centerpiece of the campus for the students. Seeing as how it wasn’t a large campus to begin with, that wouldn’t have been hard.
It had opened up in the spring, right after Spring Break. There hadn’t been an official “opening ceremony” yet, but everyone was allowed to start using it. I was walking by myself one day and started walking through, seeing what it had to offer. It was all-new modern architecture, it was clean, it was shiny… and I said to myself, “We need to make a spy movie here.”
I’m sure you see the logical progression, there. Isn’t it obvious?
At dinner that night, meeting with all my friends, I announced my reaction/conclusion to the new building. They emphatically agreed. (See? It *was* obvious.)
Out came the notebooks and pencils, frantically scribbling down ideas as they came to us. At no point in this creative process did myself, or anyone else really, give a flying crap about quality story. We just wanted to have fun. Therefore, we did not look at this project as, “We have intriguing characters, let’s find the right person for the role”. Rather, we said, “We have friends, let’s find a role for them.” So, there were a LOT of characters.
We had the villain: Mr. Big.
The Femme Fatale: Ida Know
Our own “Q” type character: Dr. Ette Degree
The Double Agent: Bea Trayer
The head of the Good Guy Agency: The Boss, Bob Boss.
The Informant: Guido D. Stoolie
A rival agent to the hero… Seymour Berkowitz… this one has a small story of its own. Very soon after this project was undertaken, we were having an unrelated “Evil Dead Marathon” (all 3 movies in a row). Myself and another friend (the one playing “Boss Bob Boss”) went walking around exploring the campus’ steam tunnel network, which was my first time doing it, and it was neat. (If your campus has steam tunnels, do yourself a favor and check them out. Just for the hell of it. So you can say you did.) When we finished, we went to the dorm room where the Marathon would take place, and our other friend started off with:
“Very funny, guys.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Real cute. My question is: Who’s Seymour Berkowitz?”
We looked at him very quizzically… “Huh?”
“The phone message you left… on my answering machine.”
“Uh… we didn’t leave any message. We’ve been in the Steam Tunnels for the last hour… right after we saw you at dinner.”
“Wait… really?
“Yeah. So what are you talking about?”
“Uh… then this makes NO sense. Listen to this.”
He presses ‘play’ on his answering machine and we hear:
“Yah, dis is Seymour Berkowitz, calling for ‘Da Boss’. Wanted to let him know I’ll meet him at his house at 9:00. Later.”
“I thought it was YOU guys, cause he said “the Boss” (as in Boss Bob Boss)… but I just didn’t know who Seymour Berkowitz was. So what the hell was that?”
*shrug* We never found out an explanation. Maybe just a very odd-yet-coincidental prank phone call? That’s the best guess I had. So, with such a random name as “Seymour Berkowitz”… we HAD to make him a character.
We even had a character we called “The Running Gag”. His main thing… go streaking across the screen, wearing a gag over his mouth.
We were ALL about the silly joke names.
The Hero’s partner we named Honesty Mace… a play on the name of an old spy-novel heroine named Modesty Blaise by Peter O’Donnell. (I have no idea how many of my friends knew the connection, other than myself. Yeah, I came up with this one.)
Finally, we got to the hero. When I asked, “Who should be the hero?”, everyone thought for a second, looking around. Then one of them said, (I don’t even remember who) “Well, this was all your idea… and out of all of us, you’re probably the best suited for it… so I say it should be you.” Next thing I know, everyone is agreeing… and it was then settled, *I* was the hero. (A nice unexpected compliment)
But what should we name the character? Someone mentioned “Victor”… because then, at the end of the movie, someone can hand him a granola bar and say, “Kudos to the Victor”.
Victor, it was. Last name? That took a little more thought. Then someone else said, “How about ‘Riley’?” That way if someone asks “Really?” You can respond with “No, Riley”. Then we got the inspiration to add in “The Running Gag” with it. So the full gag would be:
“Really?”
“No, Riley”
(Running Gag enters, exits)
“What was that?”
“A Running Gag.”
We loved this stupid joke so much, that before you know it, we were using it in our regular conversations. Since asking, “really?” was fairly common usage, it all flowed nicely… even if we weren’t talking about Victor Riley, or the movie, or anything related to it. “Really?” “No, Riley” “What was that?” “A Running Gag”.
Ultimately, the movie itself never got made. Frankly, we had more fun just talking about it and giggling over all the gags then actually doing the work to film it. But, this exchange would be repeated… for YEARS. Seriously. We’ve never had so much fun with a silly joke. It never got old. It went on so long, and so often, that even when I moved to Northern California, I was chatting with someone, and in response to something I stated, they said, “Really?”
I immediately, without even thinking just said, “No, Riley”.
Suddenly, I started to feel a little embarrassed, because I just pretty much blurted out a non-sequitor that doesn’t make ANY sense to the people now around me. But at that moment, a third person… one who didn’t quite hear what I said, asked, “What was that?”
Wow… 3 naked women inviting me to a foursome would not have been more tempting. The situation was too damn perfect. I tried to resist, but it didn’t work. I don’t care if I become “That guy that just *says things*”… it was truly the greatest Running Gag I’ve ever known.
But that’s where it stayed, for a good long while. Just an in-joke amongst a few friendly weirdoes. That’s where we liked it. It did start to bleed into our lives in other ways… whenever you ended up doing something *really cool*… like, say you’re walking and you trip, but on the way down, you just happen to tuck your head the right way, and next thing you know you’re doing a roll, and back on your feet… we called that a “Victor Riley moment”. (Because he was the cool, awesome hero Super-Spy) When a moment of absolute coolness or heroism comes your way, and you amaze even yourself… that’s the spirit of Victor Riley possessing you. Those… ALWAYS made for good stories.
Then, in 1999, I had a breakthrough. I was at my local Staples store, and happened to notice their prices on business cards. 9.99 for 1000 of them. That’s each one for a penny, and you buy 999 of them, you get 1 free! Neat! I had never had a NEED for business cards, nor could I fathom what to do with them, other than a joke. But for 10 bucks… that’s a joke I could do 1000 times. So of COURSE I’m going to do it. But what to get?
My initial idea was inspired by Wile E. Coyote. In some of his cartoons with Bugs Bunny, he presented a business card that said:
And I wanted a business card that said my name and “Super-Genius” right below it. That’s it. No number, no contact, nothing. I think that would be hilarious. But I wasn’t 100% with that idea… because it WAS done by Wile E. Coyote first, and no matter what, it’s just re-using that joke that someone else made up. As great as a joke as it is (to me), it’s not original. All the ideas I “wanted” to do… were already done in another cartoon or show… and it just didn’t feel right. I was wishing I could do something “original”, that wasn’t found anywhere else, something I could come up with that, suck or great, came from *me*.
Then, it hit me.
As I stood there, with the pen and the order form, half a second away from writing my own name and “Super-Genius” underneath it… it totally hit me. I then got 1000 business cards that said:
Has the inspiration of the Wile E. Coyote – Super-Genius… but was mine. Nay, OURS.
Because I shared this. As soon as I got that first batch of cards, I was going to see friends that night. I walked in the door, when right over to the living room, and started handing out chunks of cards with instructions:
“Whenever you do something nice for someone, whether they know it or not: Hand them a card. Leave it on their car windshield. Discreetly slip it to them, anything. When you perform a small or large act of daily heroism… let this be the mark of your “Victor Riley Moment”. Don’t tell them your name… don’t explain this. Just leave it, and walk away. Even if nothing remotely heroic is done… just hand them out to strangers.”
One day, in Northern California, I handed one to a guy I knew. He stopped, looked at me and said, “Where did you get this?”
“Huh? Oh, I made them.”
“No, seriously… where did you get this? Where did it come from? What does it mean?”
“It’s… just something I had made, kind of an in-joke. Why? What are you talking about?”
“Dude… when I was home in Los Angeles… I found one of these, and I’ve been wondering ever since where the hell it came from!”
Hehehehe… it was getting around more than I thought. How awesome is that?
We were now taking Victor Riley to the next level. Out of the realm of in-joke… and into the area of Urban Legend. Unlike other Urban Legends that are usually about death, pain, serial killers, kidney thieves, and whatnot… this would be a *good* one. One that people would like the idea of believing in, even perpetuating. How great would it have been if stories of heroic acts started sprouting up all over the place, being attributed to Victor Riley? Someone’s family is saved by an unidentified savior? That’s Victor Riley.
It wouldn’t be meant to diminish the heroism of the real individual that DID do the rescuing… but maybe give it a little more weight. Because when *I* think of what a “hero” is… I honestly think of people like Superman, Batman, Captain America, Spider-Man, etc. Not because they’re wearing spandex and brandishing super-powers… but the ultimate underlying message. They’re individuals who want to simply *help* people… and not get, or need, any thanks in return. They wear costumes, so they can do it anonymously. They don’t want rewards, they don’t need praise… just helping someone in need, solely because they need it. The whole idea of “virtue is its own reward”. I believe in that.
In Grad School, I remember reading, “Heroes represent to the values of society”… which kind of explains a lot… namely why people like Michael Jordan is considered a “hero”. A stance I passionately disagree with. I have a hard time buying that one, especially. Why is he a hero? Because he makes millions upon millions of dollars, throwing his face and name on every endorsement deal he can, retiring and re-joining his sport because he “feels” like it? If I absolutely had to, there are other sports stars I would place above the likes of Michael Jordan, Shaquille O’Neal, Kobe Bryant (a rapist and adulterer is considered a hero? Huh?), Barry Bonds… even Tom Brady (and I’m a die-hard Patriots fan). Talented athletes, yes. Heroes? No.
I would not put sports stars on the same level as Superman, Batman, Spider-Man, and Captain America. Who WOULD I put in the same category as them? Firefighters. Police officers. EMTS and Paramedics. The altruistic individuals that tried to save lives during the Holocaust. The good Samaritans that help their fellow man and NOT feel the need to speak at a press conference or hire a Public Relations Manager so they can “take advantage of the situation”. When you try to profit by it… you lose credibility with me. Yeah, there’s always going to be a few bad apples in those bunches… the corrupt cops, or the EMT that just doesn’t care, or the firefighter that’s really a pyromaniac… but those are rarities as far as I’m concerned. Not reflective of the whole. Personally, I prefer to give the benefit of the doubt. (And for the record… I had this opinion LONG before 9/11. It wasn’t the tragedy that gave me this opinion… but in some ways it did become “fashionable” to honor them after that. It’s pathetic that’s what it took… which is more a reflection on the average joe than anyone else.)
But that’s a hero to me. Those that do good, and don’t want, or need, a reward. Those who prefer to stay hidden, because that’s where they do what they do best. The ones with a little Victor Riley in them.
So who is Victor Riley? Part in-joke. Part urban legend. Part philosophy.
Not a bad alias to have, if you ask me. :)
3.28.2008
Three Left...
I gave blood today.
Not that big a deal, really. Millions of people have done it. But this was my first time… also the first *real* opportunity I’ve ever had to do it.
I’ve been by Blood Drives before… but I was never able to give blood then and there when they had them… because by constant coincidences, I was usually on some kind of medication, or I had to be at an appointment, or out of town at that point, or whatever. I think the first time was in High School as a Senior, and I just missed the age cutoff because of where my birthday fell. I *wanted* to give blood… but couldn’t.
But today, when I went into work… there was the big Blood Drive Bus right there in front of the employee entrance. Then the HR woman stopped by and asked if I wanted to sign up to give blood. I thought for a second… I’m not on any medications right now, so I actually *can* give this time. There’s no reason not to. So I signed up for 2:45pm.
The partial-exsanguination itself was uneventful… or if it *was* eventful, I didn’t know… because I wasn’t looking. Yeah, I was weaned on Horror movies all my life… but I hate the real sight of blood. Especially my own. And needles? No thank you. (I don’t care if you think I’m a puss.) From the time they were wiping the iodine on my arm to after pulling the needle out and saying, “You’re done”… I did not look at my arm. Just concentrated on “gently squeezing” the little foam half-ball they gave me every 5 seconds, and looking slightly to my left, away from the needle and tubes.
Apparently, it took me 5 minutes and 12 seconds to bleed out the donation. Why they told me the exact time, I’m not exactly sure. Maybe next time, I’m supposed to try and beat my record and go for 5 flat.
I wasn’t that crazy about them telling me I was a “good bleeder”. Somehow, that’s not an accomplishment or title I was shooting for in my life. Kinda like when I’ve always been told by nurses that I have “good veins”… something a bit on the macabre side to those statements… the kind of macabre that I *don’t* want to hear.
So, I gave blood. Yay. Real American Red Cross Hero, here… whatever. I think I did it more for the fact that I’ve never done it… rather than the puff-your-chest-out-“I’m saving human-lives-with-this-benevolent-act” kind of thing.
The part that got me thinking was the pre-donation-interview they have to do. (As a personal kind of reflection… not a “quirky observation on society”) They ask you 50 health questions and give you a mini-physical. Now, the questions were pretty much all answered “No” for me… even the sexual ones. (I almost felt like I should flat-out admit I have a boring social life) They do an Iron-level test of your blood… apparently, I’ve got plenty to spare… take your pulse and your blood pressure. My pulse was completely normal… and my blood pressure was low. The nurse said I was in “perfect health”, and even remarked that I apparently “must have no stress” in my life.
And I… really don’t know what to think about that. Any of it.
First of all… I disagree… I do have stresses. The whole “living-at-home” thing stresses me to no end, and not to mention my near-constant conflicts with one of the ones I live *with*. My blood pressure and pulse aren’t showing it. My theory is that it’s because I’m working (even if only temporary). I like having something to do… even if it isn’t ideally what I want to do… its nice to actually be productive. It’s even charged me creatively in my other writing, and I’ve been doing THAT a lot more lately as well. I just need to be busy, I think.
So saying that my blood pressure and pulse is low/normal… *and* saying I’m in Perfect Health? Surely that’s a good thing, right?
But that’s what I’m so unsure of… because it was such a very long time ago when I last heard it. Plus, the last time my health WAS an issue… I was in a state that was the complete opposite of now.
I was diagnosed with Anxiety. Now a friend of mine pointed out that Anxiety and Depression are the same beast… “one just has a forked tongue”. Anxiety does sound a little nicer than Depression… almost like I could make a comedy routine about it. But it sure as hell didn’t feel like it. And it sure as hell wasn’t just an emotional/mental thing. No, I was feeling physical consequences on this puppy.
I couldn’t eat anything. Not that I didn’t have the desire or hunger… I literally *couldn’t eat ANYTHING*. It came back up soon after, and nothing would stay down. Even the liquid diet I eventually went to out of necessity wouldn’t always remain where I put it.
My stomach… or rather “abdominal area”, hurt so much I was doubled over most everywhere I went… I was walking like an old man, it seemed. It was a shooting, searing pain that would just pass through my gut at random and frequent intervals. I’d never felt anything like it. Less than a year previously, I had gone through stomach pains, and though these felt a little different, it seemed reasonable it might have been the same thing.
Nope. Wasn’t.
The only doctor I knew and trusted was down in San Diego (don’t ask why)… a 3-hour drive from where I was living in Los Angeles. So, when I wanted to see him… I had to take a day off work, drive down and back, using a whole tank of gas for the trip… it got expensive, quickly. I did that twice… and many phone calls in between. Every theory that was tried was disproved. Thought it might have been indigestion… nope, that medication didn’t work. Acid reflux (Indigestion squared)? Nope, that didn’t work either. Flu? Nope. Through all these constant calls, the Doctors and nurses kept saying they weren’t really sure what they could do… they couldn’t make any kind of decent guess unless I actually came in to be examined. That’s when I went the second time. The Doc checked me out… and admitted he was a little confused, but figured since Antibiotics worked last time… might be a good idea to try them again. I picked up the prescription, and that night… I actually stayed over in San Diego. A friend of mine invited me to stay the night at her house, in case I didn’t want to make the big drive back to L.A. right away… it’s a harsh drive, especially doing twice in one day. Searing pain still shooting through my gut… I accepted.
The next morning… I woke up in the guest bedroom, feeling right as rain! Seriously, I was feeling SO good, I felt like doing push-ups! (I even did a few) Thinking these Antibiotics were the miracle cure that worked, I was even happy to drive back to L.A. It had been several weeks (even months) before I had felt THAT good.
Got back to the City of Angels… back to my apartment, dutifully taking my Antibiotics on time and consistently… but then… over the next 2 days… the pains came back. With a vengeance. Call to the Doc… well, the antibiotics aren’t working, better stop them now. If I want another option/solution… I need to go back in again. Which I couldn’t afford.
It was around this time I started thinking… “Could this be… in my head?”
I called my friend up, the one I stayed with in San Diego overnight… and asked her, “What is so different about living down there… and me living here?” She said, “Stress.” I said, “What?” “Stress. You’ve got a lot of stress in your apartment, that you haven’t been able to get away from, and it’s a constant reminder for you.” “Uh… actually, I was thinking if I should take the Cat-box out of the bathroom so I’m not breathing in Feline Feces… but that actually makes more sense!”
So, I figured I need to start finding ways to reduce my stress. (And just to be safe, I moved the Litter Box out of the bathroom anyway) I also needed to find a new Doctor… because there HAS to be something else to all this… and I can’t afford to keep going to San Diego.
I talked about my Doctor dilemma with another friend… who recommended HIS doctor. He gave me his number and highly recommended him. Since I *had* to find a closer doctor (I have trouble finding ones I trust), I made an appointment.
First appointment… I arrive, check in. I’m taken into the examination area, they weigh me, the nurse takes my blood pressure, pulse, temperature, etc., then tells me the doctor will be in as soon as he can.
After waiting about 2 minutes, I suddenly hear this scream of bloody murder (this is NOT an exaggeration) of a man going, “OH GOD, IT HURTS!! AAAHH!”
The nurse pops her head back in and says, “Uh…yeah, don’t mind that.” And leaves again.
Don’t mind it??? The guy sounds like he’s getting a deep-tissue massage from Hermann Goehring himself! That’s a little hard to ignore! This is my first impression BEFORE I meet the Doc!
Thankfully, the actual meeting with the good Doctor dispelled that imagery from my head. He was a very pleasant Jewish doctor (making the Hermann Goehring comment a bit on the ironic side... I guess the other guy was just a wimp), and I soon started to feel that he was as good, and possibly BETTER than the San Diego Doctor. He listened to my whole story, even letting me finish all the details, didn’t seem to dismiss anything. I told him about the several tries with the other Doctor, and he thought that guy’s methodology was sensible, and trying the right things. I finished, he started to examine me… and eventually said, “Well, I’ll be honest… it looks like stress to me.”
(Hmmm… guess there really wasn’t “more to it”. *shrug*)
He asked me what had been going on in my life… so I started going back in the recent timeline. He kept saying, “hmm… okay, keep going.” I tell him the next thing, “Keep going”… then, I get to the clincher. The very stress that my friend was talking about when SHE said I was “living in stress”. (It’s something I’ve blogged about quite a bit before… and you know something? I don’t care to give it any more space.) Upon hearing that, the Doc said, “Yep, that’s it.”
Wow… an actual Medical Opinion telling me this. Hard to argue with that.
He said my stomach muscles were almost constantly clamped up. My hands were clammy, with constant adrenaline coursing through my body… and with no where to go, no other release, it makes you nauseous and sick. My resting pulse… was TWICE that of a normal person. I was clocking over 120 beats per minute… that’s relaxing. That’s why I couldn’t keep anything down, why I was always getting sick, why I was losing so much weight, and why I was having those searing pains in my gut. My body was beating itself up. It said to me, “Okay, you’ve put off dealing with these issues long enough… you’re going to attend to them… NOW!!”
First medication he gave me was two muscle relaxants for my gut. Then something for the nausea. Then something else that I don’t even remember, doing something that I forget. At the height of my daily medicinal cocktail, I was taking 6 different medications. And while I know some people that take more, and will continue so for the rest of their lives, it was a personal record for me. The big kicker, however… was an antidepressant.
Effexor XR. This is where the doctor stressed that he was diagnosing “Anxiety”… and Effexor was approved by the FDA for treating Anxiety. He also had tons of it for samples, so I wouldn’t ever have to pay for it. He loaded me up each time I went there. And I was taking a relatively low dose. The most was 75 milligrams… and there are many patients that take a few hundred a day. The purpose was to get the serotonin levels in my brain up just a bit, to help me deal with the issues that I needed to deal with.
The idea of being on an Antidepressant… Depressed me, ironically enough. Yet, since I find irony to be very entertaining… the existence of that irony made me happy, and then made me depressed to think that I was happy for being on an antidepressant… it was a vicious cycle.
He also told me I should “try to relax, maybe get out and meet new people”… which I think is the medical profession’s euphemism for “Chill out and get laid” (but I could be wrong on that). He’s also the one that suggested I “write about it”.
Seems obvious, me being a writer and all… but I had avoided doing so. For one, I was being defiant, because I didn’t want to give the respect to that situation, and therefore refused. But since the Doctor pretty much ordered it… I started to write. Didn’t go for fictionalizing it. I just wrote… the whole story from MY point of view. 20 pages later… “Oooch, that was longer than I thought it would be.” As an effort to “get away from it”; I posted it as my first blog on MySpace. Then the gossip started, and the story of that story, is a story unto itself. So many people had read it in such a short amount of time, I could only think, “Don’t you bastards have JOBS???” I didn’t think that *anyone*, much less so many people, would even have the time or interest to read it. Boy, was I wrong.
I was thankful that people were willing to read my soul-pouring… and since I never mentioned names, it was anonymous (the start of my practice of that)… so the only people that knew the names, knew the whole story already… and frankly, didn’t really care. But still, it was just simply my artistic expression to deal with my stress… and an effort for me, emotionally, to get away from the situation that was ultimately, and pretty directly, causing me serious physical pain. So, I looked at being on Effexor as simply helping me to do that. (Doc said one of the extra bonuses, it helps stimulate creativity)
It became a very heavy lesson for me… that sometimes, you just need Help. It doesn’t mean you’re crazy… doesn’t mean you’re less of a quality person… it just happens that way.
One thing that I didn’t want to happen… I didn’t want to be one of those people that quietly sits in their corner, takes their meds, and hides it from everyone. I had once known a guy for 3 years, only to find out he’d been taking meds for 5 years… and he never told anyone, and went out of his way to hide it. My thinking was… the more friends and loved ones that *know* about it… the more emotional support I’d be getting, and hence… the less time I’d actually be on them. I figured with this positive attitude… I’d be on Effexor maybe 6 months… tops.
I also consciously decided to start going to therapy… as an extra measure of helping myself. If I was going to enlist help in dealing with things… seemed useless to only do that medically… and talking to someone who’s only there to listen (not to talk about their own problems at the same time) was an idea that sounded really nice to me.
So that’s what I did… for the rest of the year. Yeah, it went a bit longer than 6 months. But when I decided to take my break from Los Angeles, I was already moved down to the lower dose… 37.5 mg… I was feeling comfortable to wean myself off it.
Stayed on that dose for a few months, but during the drive back to New Hampshire, driving cross-country with my parents in my packed-to-the-gills-car… well, my Dad can be a hard pill to take. So, when I started feeling the familiar gut-clenches and tiny pains in the abs… I re-upped the dosage back to the 75. It helped get me through the rest of the 10 day ride without puking from the stress again. This time, from an all-new source.
It was BECAUSE of that… that I decided to stay on that dosage for as long as I could. Realizing that this is a big adjustment that’s going to take a lot of “getting used to”… it seemed like the prudent course of action. Being on my own for 10 years… living in a different time zone for most of that, completely on my own… suddenly back under my parent’s roof? “Humbling” is not the most accurate term… nor is “Stressful”, but it’s a start.
Several times that year, when I was taking my daily pill, one of my Parents would ask me, “Why do you still take that?” When I tell them simply the medical reason it was prescribed… “It’s to help me deal with stress.” The answer was usually a snide, “What do YOU have to be stressed about?”
What am I supposed to say at that? A statement like that just felt like they were making no effort to try and understand me, the situation, or what I was feeling. To try and tell the truth would make them feel insulted, so I just said nothing. And it probably kept me on them longer.
Eventually, I ran out of the 75 mg pills. Yeah, the Doc loaded me up good before I left, but it was still a finite amount. So, I could either double-up the half-dose ones, and run out of the remainder in half the time… or I could go back to trying to wean myself off again. That seemed the better course of action. So when I finally got to the end of the line in the second week of November of 2007… I knew physically the withdrawal symptoms wouldn’t be as bad as going cold-turkey (mainly just headaches for several days)… and I just hoped that the stomach pains wouldn’t return.
Since then… they haven’t. I’ve been okay. I used up the Effexor until the end, and ready or not… I was finished with it.
Or so I thought.
Because not that long ago… I found a little foil-punch-out pack… the kind that always held the pills before I popped them out and popped them in my mouth… and this particular one was tucked down under some papers in a drawer, forgotten about while I was taking from the main stockpile. This little pack… has 3 little half-dose pills in it.
3 left.
Physically, I’m not “jonesing” for an Effexor fix… it doesn’t do that to you.
Rather, it was a surreal reflection… I thought I was finished with it, and here is the absolute last medical evidence of that time in my life. This pill that helped me, and I depended on in two areas of the country, for a year and nine months… short amount of time, maybe… but no less affecting to me.
And now I’m told I’m “perfectly healthy”… and “with no stress”.
Why doesn’t that sound right?
Probably because that situation-I-don’t-care-to-waste-more-space-on-detailing… I *do* feel like it still affects me. It still does upset me to some degree. Sometimes I think I’ll never fully be “over it”… and I seriously feel very scarred by it. While it does get better the further away I get from it… I think the scars will always be there.
And I know that’s not a healthy thought.
But I did get through it. Physically, I’m still standing… so maybe this means that I can take whatever pain can be thrown at me (even if it feels the opposite)… and that I finally have back what felt like had been definitively missing for so long:
My health.
Not that big a deal, really. Millions of people have done it. But this was my first time… also the first *real* opportunity I’ve ever had to do it.
I’ve been by Blood Drives before… but I was never able to give blood then and there when they had them… because by constant coincidences, I was usually on some kind of medication, or I had to be at an appointment, or out of town at that point, or whatever. I think the first time was in High School as a Senior, and I just missed the age cutoff because of where my birthday fell. I *wanted* to give blood… but couldn’t.
But today, when I went into work… there was the big Blood Drive Bus right there in front of the employee entrance. Then the HR woman stopped by and asked if I wanted to sign up to give blood. I thought for a second… I’m not on any medications right now, so I actually *can* give this time. There’s no reason not to. So I signed up for 2:45pm.
The partial-exsanguination itself was uneventful… or if it *was* eventful, I didn’t know… because I wasn’t looking. Yeah, I was weaned on Horror movies all my life… but I hate the real sight of blood. Especially my own. And needles? No thank you. (I don’t care if you think I’m a puss.) From the time they were wiping the iodine on my arm to after pulling the needle out and saying, “You’re done”… I did not look at my arm. Just concentrated on “gently squeezing” the little foam half-ball they gave me every 5 seconds, and looking slightly to my left, away from the needle and tubes.
Apparently, it took me 5 minutes and 12 seconds to bleed out the donation. Why they told me the exact time, I’m not exactly sure. Maybe next time, I’m supposed to try and beat my record and go for 5 flat.
I wasn’t that crazy about them telling me I was a “good bleeder”. Somehow, that’s not an accomplishment or title I was shooting for in my life. Kinda like when I’ve always been told by nurses that I have “good veins”… something a bit on the macabre side to those statements… the kind of macabre that I *don’t* want to hear.
So, I gave blood. Yay. Real American Red Cross Hero, here… whatever. I think I did it more for the fact that I’ve never done it… rather than the puff-your-chest-out-“I’m saving human-lives-with-this-benevolent-act” kind of thing.
The part that got me thinking was the pre-donation-interview they have to do. (As a personal kind of reflection… not a “quirky observation on society”) They ask you 50 health questions and give you a mini-physical. Now, the questions were pretty much all answered “No” for me… even the sexual ones. (I almost felt like I should flat-out admit I have a boring social life) They do an Iron-level test of your blood… apparently, I’ve got plenty to spare… take your pulse and your blood pressure. My pulse was completely normal… and my blood pressure was low. The nurse said I was in “perfect health”, and even remarked that I apparently “must have no stress” in my life.
And I… really don’t know what to think about that. Any of it.
First of all… I disagree… I do have stresses. The whole “living-at-home” thing stresses me to no end, and not to mention my near-constant conflicts with one of the ones I live *with*. My blood pressure and pulse aren’t showing it. My theory is that it’s because I’m working (even if only temporary). I like having something to do… even if it isn’t ideally what I want to do… its nice to actually be productive. It’s even charged me creatively in my other writing, and I’ve been doing THAT a lot more lately as well. I just need to be busy, I think.
So saying that my blood pressure and pulse is low/normal… *and* saying I’m in Perfect Health? Surely that’s a good thing, right?
But that’s what I’m so unsure of… because it was such a very long time ago when I last heard it. Plus, the last time my health WAS an issue… I was in a state that was the complete opposite of now.
I was diagnosed with Anxiety. Now a friend of mine pointed out that Anxiety and Depression are the same beast… “one just has a forked tongue”. Anxiety does sound a little nicer than Depression… almost like I could make a comedy routine about it. But it sure as hell didn’t feel like it. And it sure as hell wasn’t just an emotional/mental thing. No, I was feeling physical consequences on this puppy.
I couldn’t eat anything. Not that I didn’t have the desire or hunger… I literally *couldn’t eat ANYTHING*. It came back up soon after, and nothing would stay down. Even the liquid diet I eventually went to out of necessity wouldn’t always remain where I put it.
My stomach… or rather “abdominal area”, hurt so much I was doubled over most everywhere I went… I was walking like an old man, it seemed. It was a shooting, searing pain that would just pass through my gut at random and frequent intervals. I’d never felt anything like it. Less than a year previously, I had gone through stomach pains, and though these felt a little different, it seemed reasonable it might have been the same thing.
Nope. Wasn’t.
The only doctor I knew and trusted was down in San Diego (don’t ask why)… a 3-hour drive from where I was living in Los Angeles. So, when I wanted to see him… I had to take a day off work, drive down and back, using a whole tank of gas for the trip… it got expensive, quickly. I did that twice… and many phone calls in between. Every theory that was tried was disproved. Thought it might have been indigestion… nope, that medication didn’t work. Acid reflux (Indigestion squared)? Nope, that didn’t work either. Flu? Nope. Through all these constant calls, the Doctors and nurses kept saying they weren’t really sure what they could do… they couldn’t make any kind of decent guess unless I actually came in to be examined. That’s when I went the second time. The Doc checked me out… and admitted he was a little confused, but figured since Antibiotics worked last time… might be a good idea to try them again. I picked up the prescription, and that night… I actually stayed over in San Diego. A friend of mine invited me to stay the night at her house, in case I didn’t want to make the big drive back to L.A. right away… it’s a harsh drive, especially doing twice in one day. Searing pain still shooting through my gut… I accepted.
The next morning… I woke up in the guest bedroom, feeling right as rain! Seriously, I was feeling SO good, I felt like doing push-ups! (I even did a few) Thinking these Antibiotics were the miracle cure that worked, I was even happy to drive back to L.A. It had been several weeks (even months) before I had felt THAT good.
Got back to the City of Angels… back to my apartment, dutifully taking my Antibiotics on time and consistently… but then… over the next 2 days… the pains came back. With a vengeance. Call to the Doc… well, the antibiotics aren’t working, better stop them now. If I want another option/solution… I need to go back in again. Which I couldn’t afford.
It was around this time I started thinking… “Could this be… in my head?”
I called my friend up, the one I stayed with in San Diego overnight… and asked her, “What is so different about living down there… and me living here?” She said, “Stress.” I said, “What?” “Stress. You’ve got a lot of stress in your apartment, that you haven’t been able to get away from, and it’s a constant reminder for you.” “Uh… actually, I was thinking if I should take the Cat-box out of the bathroom so I’m not breathing in Feline Feces… but that actually makes more sense!”
So, I figured I need to start finding ways to reduce my stress. (And just to be safe, I moved the Litter Box out of the bathroom anyway) I also needed to find a new Doctor… because there HAS to be something else to all this… and I can’t afford to keep going to San Diego.
I talked about my Doctor dilemma with another friend… who recommended HIS doctor. He gave me his number and highly recommended him. Since I *had* to find a closer doctor (I have trouble finding ones I trust), I made an appointment.
First appointment… I arrive, check in. I’m taken into the examination area, they weigh me, the nurse takes my blood pressure, pulse, temperature, etc., then tells me the doctor will be in as soon as he can.
After waiting about 2 minutes, I suddenly hear this scream of bloody murder (this is NOT an exaggeration) of a man going, “OH GOD, IT HURTS!! AAAHH!”
The nurse pops her head back in and says, “Uh…yeah, don’t mind that.” And leaves again.
Don’t mind it??? The guy sounds like he’s getting a deep-tissue massage from Hermann Goehring himself! That’s a little hard to ignore! This is my first impression BEFORE I meet the Doc!
Thankfully, the actual meeting with the good Doctor dispelled that imagery from my head. He was a very pleasant Jewish doctor (making the Hermann Goehring comment a bit on the ironic side... I guess the other guy was just a wimp), and I soon started to feel that he was as good, and possibly BETTER than the San Diego Doctor. He listened to my whole story, even letting me finish all the details, didn’t seem to dismiss anything. I told him about the several tries with the other Doctor, and he thought that guy’s methodology was sensible, and trying the right things. I finished, he started to examine me… and eventually said, “Well, I’ll be honest… it looks like stress to me.”
(Hmmm… guess there really wasn’t “more to it”. *shrug*)
He asked me what had been going on in my life… so I started going back in the recent timeline. He kept saying, “hmm… okay, keep going.” I tell him the next thing, “Keep going”… then, I get to the clincher. The very stress that my friend was talking about when SHE said I was “living in stress”. (It’s something I’ve blogged about quite a bit before… and you know something? I don’t care to give it any more space.) Upon hearing that, the Doc said, “Yep, that’s it.”
Wow… an actual Medical Opinion telling me this. Hard to argue with that.
He said my stomach muscles were almost constantly clamped up. My hands were clammy, with constant adrenaline coursing through my body… and with no where to go, no other release, it makes you nauseous and sick. My resting pulse… was TWICE that of a normal person. I was clocking over 120 beats per minute… that’s relaxing. That’s why I couldn’t keep anything down, why I was always getting sick, why I was losing so much weight, and why I was having those searing pains in my gut. My body was beating itself up. It said to me, “Okay, you’ve put off dealing with these issues long enough… you’re going to attend to them… NOW!!”
First medication he gave me was two muscle relaxants for my gut. Then something for the nausea. Then something else that I don’t even remember, doing something that I forget. At the height of my daily medicinal cocktail, I was taking 6 different medications. And while I know some people that take more, and will continue so for the rest of their lives, it was a personal record for me. The big kicker, however… was an antidepressant.
Effexor XR. This is where the doctor stressed that he was diagnosing “Anxiety”… and Effexor was approved by the FDA for treating Anxiety. He also had tons of it for samples, so I wouldn’t ever have to pay for it. He loaded me up each time I went there. And I was taking a relatively low dose. The most was 75 milligrams… and there are many patients that take a few hundred a day. The purpose was to get the serotonin levels in my brain up just a bit, to help me deal with the issues that I needed to deal with.
The idea of being on an Antidepressant… Depressed me, ironically enough. Yet, since I find irony to be very entertaining… the existence of that irony made me happy, and then made me depressed to think that I was happy for being on an antidepressant… it was a vicious cycle.
He also told me I should “try to relax, maybe get out and meet new people”… which I think is the medical profession’s euphemism for “Chill out and get laid” (but I could be wrong on that). He’s also the one that suggested I “write about it”.
Seems obvious, me being a writer and all… but I had avoided doing so. For one, I was being defiant, because I didn’t want to give the respect to that situation, and therefore refused. But since the Doctor pretty much ordered it… I started to write. Didn’t go for fictionalizing it. I just wrote… the whole story from MY point of view. 20 pages later… “Oooch, that was longer than I thought it would be.” As an effort to “get away from it”; I posted it as my first blog on MySpace. Then the gossip started, and the story of that story, is a story unto itself. So many people had read it in such a short amount of time, I could only think, “Don’t you bastards have JOBS???” I didn’t think that *anyone*, much less so many people, would even have the time or interest to read it. Boy, was I wrong.
I was thankful that people were willing to read my soul-pouring… and since I never mentioned names, it was anonymous (the start of my practice of that)… so the only people that knew the names, knew the whole story already… and frankly, didn’t really care. But still, it was just simply my artistic expression to deal with my stress… and an effort for me, emotionally, to get away from the situation that was ultimately, and pretty directly, causing me serious physical pain. So, I looked at being on Effexor as simply helping me to do that. (Doc said one of the extra bonuses, it helps stimulate creativity)
It became a very heavy lesson for me… that sometimes, you just need Help. It doesn’t mean you’re crazy… doesn’t mean you’re less of a quality person… it just happens that way.
One thing that I didn’t want to happen… I didn’t want to be one of those people that quietly sits in their corner, takes their meds, and hides it from everyone. I had once known a guy for 3 years, only to find out he’d been taking meds for 5 years… and he never told anyone, and went out of his way to hide it. My thinking was… the more friends and loved ones that *know* about it… the more emotional support I’d be getting, and hence… the less time I’d actually be on them. I figured with this positive attitude… I’d be on Effexor maybe 6 months… tops.
I also consciously decided to start going to therapy… as an extra measure of helping myself. If I was going to enlist help in dealing with things… seemed useless to only do that medically… and talking to someone who’s only there to listen (not to talk about their own problems at the same time) was an idea that sounded really nice to me.
So that’s what I did… for the rest of the year. Yeah, it went a bit longer than 6 months. But when I decided to take my break from Los Angeles, I was already moved down to the lower dose… 37.5 mg… I was feeling comfortable to wean myself off it.
Stayed on that dose for a few months, but during the drive back to New Hampshire, driving cross-country with my parents in my packed-to-the-gills-car… well, my Dad can be a hard pill to take. So, when I started feeling the familiar gut-clenches and tiny pains in the abs… I re-upped the dosage back to the 75. It helped get me through the rest of the 10 day ride without puking from the stress again. This time, from an all-new source.
It was BECAUSE of that… that I decided to stay on that dosage for as long as I could. Realizing that this is a big adjustment that’s going to take a lot of “getting used to”… it seemed like the prudent course of action. Being on my own for 10 years… living in a different time zone for most of that, completely on my own… suddenly back under my parent’s roof? “Humbling” is not the most accurate term… nor is “Stressful”, but it’s a start.
Several times that year, when I was taking my daily pill, one of my Parents would ask me, “Why do you still take that?” When I tell them simply the medical reason it was prescribed… “It’s to help me deal with stress.” The answer was usually a snide, “What do YOU have to be stressed about?”
What am I supposed to say at that? A statement like that just felt like they were making no effort to try and understand me, the situation, or what I was feeling. To try and tell the truth would make them feel insulted, so I just said nothing. And it probably kept me on them longer.
Eventually, I ran out of the 75 mg pills. Yeah, the Doc loaded me up good before I left, but it was still a finite amount. So, I could either double-up the half-dose ones, and run out of the remainder in half the time… or I could go back to trying to wean myself off again. That seemed the better course of action. So when I finally got to the end of the line in the second week of November of 2007… I knew physically the withdrawal symptoms wouldn’t be as bad as going cold-turkey (mainly just headaches for several days)… and I just hoped that the stomach pains wouldn’t return.
Since then… they haven’t. I’ve been okay. I used up the Effexor until the end, and ready or not… I was finished with it.
Or so I thought.
Because not that long ago… I found a little foil-punch-out pack… the kind that always held the pills before I popped them out and popped them in my mouth… and this particular one was tucked down under some papers in a drawer, forgotten about while I was taking from the main stockpile. This little pack… has 3 little half-dose pills in it.
3 left.
Physically, I’m not “jonesing” for an Effexor fix… it doesn’t do that to you.
Rather, it was a surreal reflection… I thought I was finished with it, and here is the absolute last medical evidence of that time in my life. This pill that helped me, and I depended on in two areas of the country, for a year and nine months… short amount of time, maybe… but no less affecting to me.
And now I’m told I’m “perfectly healthy”… and “with no stress”.
Why doesn’t that sound right?
Probably because that situation-I-don’t-care-to-waste-more-space-on-detailing… I *do* feel like it still affects me. It still does upset me to some degree. Sometimes I think I’ll never fully be “over it”… and I seriously feel very scarred by it. While it does get better the further away I get from it… I think the scars will always be there.
And I know that’s not a healthy thought.
But I did get through it. Physically, I’m still standing… so maybe this means that I can take whatever pain can be thrown at me (even if it feels the opposite)… and that I finally have back what felt like had been definitively missing for so long:
My health.
3.14.2008
Divining Definitions of Diversity
This comes from a request by an individual I’ll call “Candy Cane”… because she’s striped, can hang on a Christmas Tree, and when you use her to stir hot cocoa… it tastes better. (Better than saying, “No reason at all”)
She asked me to write about “What is Diversity, and what does it means to me?”
The simplest definition is just using a synonym. Variety. You know, variety is the spice of life… shall we go for Italian, Chinese, Indian or Mexican food tonight? We play a variety of hits from the 70s, 80s, 90s and today. Et cetera, et cetera et cetera. I like diversity in my food selections, I have more than one color of shirt, I love good cinema regardless of genre, and my music tastes range from Classical to Rock to Pop to Blues to Showtunes (with a spattering of Rap, and VERY little Country).
There we go, case closed. Have a nice day!
Only, to leave it there, that would get some people pointing the finger and saying, “You’re avoiding the real issue! You’re wimping out!” (poke poke poke)
Stop poking me! Chill out! Besides, my blog posts are never that short.
“Diversity” is one of those odd words in the English Language. Odd in a very particular sense… when the word “diversity” is used, people usually assume you’re talking about race and culture. When using other synonyms… variety, variousness, multiplicity, multiformity, heterogeneousness (yes, that’s a word… it means “diversity”), wide-selection… no one ever uses *those* words in that context… even though they mean the exact same thing. In the English Dictionary, that is.
In the Public Opinion Dictionary, however… “Diversity” is associated with the issue of race and culture. Always. Colleges advertise how they have a “diverse” campus; if they mention the word “variety”, it’s probably talking about the cafeteria menu.
“Diversity” is one of those political buzzwords… I almost think it was purposefully altered, by careful design, to be connected to that issue, solely. It’s now part of that “P.C. vocabulary”… and that’s just a notion that Lenny Bruce tried to nip in the bud long before the term “P.C.” was even thought of. Being “politically correct” was just an effort, by POLITICIANS, to make sure everyone liked what they said. You can’t make everyone happy… but it doesn’t stop them from trying. If they’re happy with what you say, they won’t complain when you pass crappy laws, raise taxes, or solicit prostitutes in your off-hours. So the word, “Diversity” became adopted into their fold… and now it’s permanently stapled to only one facet of its original meaning.
Despite my cynicism on its origins… I *like* the idea of diversity. No, I’m not saying that to be P.C… (I actually find the idea of being an “equal-opportunity offender” to be better than that) I’m saying it because it’s a fact. I love to personally explore the multiplicity of options this world has… how could you not? You want a thousand different blends of coffee, but want the sociological world to be just *one* way? That don’t make sense to me.
I’ve had an interest in Asian cultures since I was young. (Except for Russia… no offense, it’s just too cold there and too much like New Hampshire winters. Hey… Russia IS in Asia!) Sure, maybe it was sparked by Bruce Lee and Godzilla movies, but at least I got the interest. (Better than nothing) I’ve lived in several different types of neighborhoods, each one predominantly populated by a different race than my own… I have friends of all different colors and choices, and I’ve been rejected for dates by Blacks, Whites, Asians, Latinas, Armenians, etc etc.
In fact it was during a particular 2 month stretch, I realized I was being pretty diverse in my search for love… wherein which I was separately told by a short, white goth chick, and a subtly-thick black semi-professional that they were both going back to their Ex-boyfriends to “give it another shot”. So, while my choice of dates may be diverse… apparently the brush-offs I get are not so. Go figure.
Sometimes I wonder where I got such open attitudes. Naturally, we always look to the parents that raised us to see what our “normal” attitude to such things should be.
So let’s not mince words: My dad is a Bigot.
Okay, let’s mince them a *little* bit… I say he’s a Bigot, but I *don’t* mean he’s a Racist. The first time I ever put that concept to words, was in the presence of my first therapist. She asked, “What’s the difference?”
A Bigot talks the Talk. A Racist walks the Walk.
You see… my Dad talks a big game. He throws out the racial slurs and insults at will, and doesn’t really care too much. Only because his immediate family (all of us who are the same race as he is) are the only ones listening. (Somehow, he thinks we want to hear it… even after I’ve told him I don’t) Say he’s watching football, and a story comes up how a fairly new player to the league just suffered a really bad injury, and will probably never play again. If that player is black? He usually says something like, “and you *know* that he only went to college to play football… he doesn’t know anything else, and now look at him. Injured and his life is thrown away. Figures.” Oddly, I haven’t heard him say that about a white player that gets injured. (Gee, I wonder why?... he says rhetorically.) I’ve heard him say that on a few occasions, and I honestly never thought my eyes could roll that far back into my head. The idiocy of that statement is so much greater than any football player could ever be, even after 3,000 sacks to the head.
That’s a tame example… but he’ll never TREAT anyone differently who is of another race or creed. To their face, he’ll be decent, even friendly. Hell, he even voted for Obama in the Primary. (Though, I suspect it’s because Hillary *really* frightens him… not because she’s a woman… It’s just Hillary.) You might never know by his actions that his mind houses this prejudiced viewpoint.
In many ways, I consider the Bigots to be more dangerous than the Racists. It’s easier (comparatively) to see, recognize and stop Racist Actions… how can you see someone’s Bigoted THOUGHTS? Thoughts can be more dangerous… because it keeps that attitude in existence. You can arrest a Klansman, take him out of the equation, and tell his son, “Killing is wrong, it never solves anything blah blah”… and that boy could live the rest of his life and never kill or harm anyone different then him. But he can still THINK it… and there’s no way to know for sure if he is or not. Then, he can pass it on. That’s a scarier idea to me, overall.
I suspect my grandfather had some similarities in his attitude. Of course, as I remember him, he was old and chilled out. But apparently, the one complaint he did always make to people was about a neighbor of his… who was referred to as “that damn Cambodian”. Maybe he didn’t shovel the snow close enough to the curb, or he didn’t recycle his cans, or whatever… Grandpa bitched about “that Cambodian” a lot. Then, when my grandfather passed… “The Damn Cambodian” came to the funeral to pay his respects… and the rest of the family finally got to meet… “The Damn Cambodian”:
His name was Jesus (Hay-soos). He was from El Salvador.
Yeah… never let it be said that actual Logic dictated the thinking in my family.
As for other family members? Well… I have a vivid memory of one of my Uncles talking to me and my brothers (being the only males in the “league of grandchildren”, and the ones carrying on the family name, whether we like it or not) and saying, “Just so you guys know… you can date whoever you want, but when it comes to marrying, make sure it’s someone of your own race.”
I’m not completely sure if he was joking or being serious. This is the Uncle who keeps a straighter face than anyone I’ve ever met in my life, so it can be hard to tell.
Now the cycle of silly (and sometimes downright comical) prejudices has to stop somewhere, or it just keeps going and going, infecting everything. Now, that’s not something I want MY kids to have… so it has to stop with me.
I believe everyone would agree with that… anyone who reads this might say the same thing… “it has to stop with me”. And I think we all feel we’re up to the challenge. In fact, I think most people might even say, “I’ve never had a racist or bigoted thought in my whole life!” Trumpets blare, medals are handed out, etc…
But that’s an easy answer. TOO easy, in fact. And I’m far too introspective to just throw that statement out there willy-nilly, buy it and sell it at face value.
To be honest… I don’t know if I can say that.
When I was in Elementary School… girls were icky. No surprise there. They were for most little boys. Girls were icky, boys had cooties… there’s balance in the universe, that’s how it works.
There was one girl in particular. She didn’t seem to be friends with other girls… at least I don’t recall. Her name was Rachel. (Name not changed… because she was innocent. I don’t want protecting.) I’m sorry to say I don’t remember her last name. Though, this was about 25 years ago…
Rachel was the only girl in our class… nay, probably the only girl in SCHOOL… who was black.
Granted, our school was small… all 6 grades combined (Kindergarten through 5th) totaled about 200 kids, if that. But it was suburban Massachusetts in the early 80s… not a lot of “heterogeneousness” there.
I seem to remember we were particularly mean to Rachel… on a regular basis. I remember that if she touched one of us, one of the others would mime this imaginary “spray” to disinfect where she touched. We *did* do it sometimes when other girls touched us too… (the whole “icky” thing) but most often it was with Rachel. We never used names or specifically said any reference to her skin color… at least that I ever heard/recall… I think the most directly insulting thing that I recall was during Valentine’s Day when handing out your Valentines (You had to give one to EVERYONE or none at all)… on Rachel’s card, just above the “Please be my Valentine”, kids would put a strategically-placed “Don’t”.
I remember one time, she actually called me on the phone, just to talk. To say hi. I wasn’t a big phone talker, and wondered why this “icky girl” was calling me, preventing me from going outside to play. She only called once. (I think it was after the one Valentine’s Day I *didn’t* put the “don’t” in.)
Eventually, she just disappeared. A summer came and went… school started again, and she wasn’t there. Figured her family moved or something. No one ever seemed to bat an eye.
I think back on it now, and I feel bad… this girl just wanted a friend. I’m especially surprised that *I* took part in that behavior, because I wasn’t the most popular kid myself… I was pretty awkward, too. Maybe that’s why she called me that one time… she thought we had something in common.
Were my actions the seeds of true Racism/Bigotry? Were we treating her that way because she was black? Or was it just another of the “icky girls”, and I only remember it BECAUSE she was the only black girl in school? I honestly don’t know… and that uncertainty kind of scares me. To think that maybe those attitudes could have been in me at some point… really humbles me.
I hope she’s doing well. I hope she dreamed of touching the stars, and now gets to do so… on a regular basis.
(I mean that metaphorically… I know commercial space-travel isn’t up to an affordable level yet.)
But… if there’s one good thing that came out of that… it reminds me that all people are deserving of respect, and color ain’t nothing but a crayon name.
The only other “people of color” that I would have considered ever having a personal problem with… was after we moved to New Hampshire (an even LESS diverse neighborhood then in that part of Massachusetts, if that was possible). A few months after we moved in… on Halloween night, I remember… directly across the street, moved in a black family.
Now the oldest brother and sister, were good people. At least when I got to know them. The sister was in my brother’s grade, and the brother was in mine. We became friends in the 6th grade. We even won a “contest” together… some book sale was coming to the school, and there was a competition to write an “ad” that you would get to say over the loudspeaker during the morning announcements. The winner… got a whole 5 dollar gift certificate. I actually suggested that we do it together. And we did. When we were presenting it in the “competition”, I was shocked that there was only 1 other kid, out of the whole school, that wrote a prospective ad. It was the team of me and my neighbor… against this one other kid. We won. That’s 2 dollars and 50 cents in free books apiece… yeah, baby! Though, in retrospect… I think I’m the one that actually did all the writing, and in the performing, he did ONE line. *shrug* Eh… what can ya do?
As we got into High School… we ended up not having any classes together… eventually, he melded into the “Jock crowd” (I think)… I remained my freaky oddball-among-oddities self.
The ones I DID have a problem with… were his younger brothers. They were truly little assholes. I’m fully confident, to this day, that the reason I didn’t like them had nothing to do with skin color… they themselves were 100% dicks. Yeah, punks… that’s what you get for calling me “Fat” on the school bus… you get “served” on my blog!
Okay, that didn’t sound as impressive as when I first thought of it…
My undergrad college was a slight step up from high school… in terms of multiformity. There were a few various ethnicities on campus, but again… central New Hampshire… take what you get. Race-wise, the strangest comment I ever heard came from a white girl. She was a DJ at the college radio station, and a small group of us were talking about being “open-minded”… the exact reason for the conversation escapes me… and I actually heard this girl say, “I’m very open-minded. In fact, I’m so open-minded, that I only date black men.”
Something… odd… about that statement, don’t you think? She wasn’t being sarcastic, or ironic… she was being 100% serious. Sometimes, I’m still trying to figure that one out.
But when I moved to Northern California for Graduate School… Oochie mama! So many different types of people… and so many of each kind! That was the first time I truly felt like I was in a “diverse environment”. I never felt uncomfortable, or out of place… in fact, I liked the variety. It was interesting, it was beautiful, it was so very different than what I grew up with. It was there that I had my first opportunity to even fall for someone of a different ethnicity than myself.
Now, it wasn’t because of that ethnicity that I fell for her. Though, for a while, I did wonder if I in fact “had a thing for Asians”… of which she is. Ultimately, I’ve come to the conclusion that I have a thing for “certain” Asians. Just like I have a thing for “certain white women”, “certain black women”, etc. Nothing about the DNA… she was just a quality individual.
Smart, funny, driven, responsible, beautiful… the kind of beautiful that’s worth taking a chance getting rejected. Ultimately, I was. Probably chalk it up to a case of “bad luck in the timing”… this was about the time my family was meeting “The Damn Cambodian”, so guess what I was going through?
But… and I’m very thankful for this… we’re still friends. She’s one of the few people I stay in fairly regular contact with from Grad School… and I always smile when I hear from her. While we’re now thousands of miles apart, geographically… sometimes I still wonder if things had gone a little different for us at the time… or even if I got another chance, what would I do?
But I digress…
When I got down to Los Angeles… this diversity thing was old hat. I pretty much started taking it for granted… because when I came back East… Holy Reverse Culture Shock, Batman! Why is everyone white? Not even a *little* variety, no? Oh wait… that’s right… this is New Hampshire.
I got spoiled. From college on up… not just diversity in race and color… but in attitudes and choices. Tattoos, piercings, gays, bisexuals, transvestites, transsexuals, bikers, actors; you name the subculture, I’ve probably got a friend in there… and all are people I would take bullets for.
That’s diversity to me. A bunch of people I love.
Variety *is* the spice of life.
She asked me to write about “What is Diversity, and what does it means to me?”
The simplest definition is just using a synonym. Variety. You know, variety is the spice of life… shall we go for Italian, Chinese, Indian or Mexican food tonight? We play a variety of hits from the 70s, 80s, 90s and today. Et cetera, et cetera et cetera. I like diversity in my food selections, I have more than one color of shirt, I love good cinema regardless of genre, and my music tastes range from Classical to Rock to Pop to Blues to Showtunes (with a spattering of Rap, and VERY little Country).
There we go, case closed. Have a nice day!
Only, to leave it there, that would get some people pointing the finger and saying, “You’re avoiding the real issue! You’re wimping out!” (poke poke poke)
Stop poking me! Chill out! Besides, my blog posts are never that short.
“Diversity” is one of those odd words in the English Language. Odd in a very particular sense… when the word “diversity” is used, people usually assume you’re talking about race and culture. When using other synonyms… variety, variousness, multiplicity, multiformity, heterogeneousness (yes, that’s a word… it means “diversity”), wide-selection… no one ever uses *those* words in that context… even though they mean the exact same thing. In the English Dictionary, that is.
In the Public Opinion Dictionary, however… “Diversity” is associated with the issue of race and culture. Always. Colleges advertise how they have a “diverse” campus; if they mention the word “variety”, it’s probably talking about the cafeteria menu.
“Diversity” is one of those political buzzwords… I almost think it was purposefully altered, by careful design, to be connected to that issue, solely. It’s now part of that “P.C. vocabulary”… and that’s just a notion that Lenny Bruce tried to nip in the bud long before the term “P.C.” was even thought of. Being “politically correct” was just an effort, by POLITICIANS, to make sure everyone liked what they said. You can’t make everyone happy… but it doesn’t stop them from trying. If they’re happy with what you say, they won’t complain when you pass crappy laws, raise taxes, or solicit prostitutes in your off-hours. So the word, “Diversity” became adopted into their fold… and now it’s permanently stapled to only one facet of its original meaning.
Despite my cynicism on its origins… I *like* the idea of diversity. No, I’m not saying that to be P.C… (I actually find the idea of being an “equal-opportunity offender” to be better than that) I’m saying it because it’s a fact. I love to personally explore the multiplicity of options this world has… how could you not? You want a thousand different blends of coffee, but want the sociological world to be just *one* way? That don’t make sense to me.
I’ve had an interest in Asian cultures since I was young. (Except for Russia… no offense, it’s just too cold there and too much like New Hampshire winters. Hey… Russia IS in Asia!) Sure, maybe it was sparked by Bruce Lee and Godzilla movies, but at least I got the interest. (Better than nothing) I’ve lived in several different types of neighborhoods, each one predominantly populated by a different race than my own… I have friends of all different colors and choices, and I’ve been rejected for dates by Blacks, Whites, Asians, Latinas, Armenians, etc etc.
In fact it was during a particular 2 month stretch, I realized I was being pretty diverse in my search for love… wherein which I was separately told by a short, white goth chick, and a subtly-thick black semi-professional that they were both going back to their Ex-boyfriends to “give it another shot”. So, while my choice of dates may be diverse… apparently the brush-offs I get are not so. Go figure.
Sometimes I wonder where I got such open attitudes. Naturally, we always look to the parents that raised us to see what our “normal” attitude to such things should be.
So let’s not mince words: My dad is a Bigot.
Okay, let’s mince them a *little* bit… I say he’s a Bigot, but I *don’t* mean he’s a Racist. The first time I ever put that concept to words, was in the presence of my first therapist. She asked, “What’s the difference?”
A Bigot talks the Talk. A Racist walks the Walk.
You see… my Dad talks a big game. He throws out the racial slurs and insults at will, and doesn’t really care too much. Only because his immediate family (all of us who are the same race as he is) are the only ones listening. (Somehow, he thinks we want to hear it… even after I’ve told him I don’t) Say he’s watching football, and a story comes up how a fairly new player to the league just suffered a really bad injury, and will probably never play again. If that player is black? He usually says something like, “and you *know* that he only went to college to play football… he doesn’t know anything else, and now look at him. Injured and his life is thrown away. Figures.” Oddly, I haven’t heard him say that about a white player that gets injured. (Gee, I wonder why?... he says rhetorically.) I’ve heard him say that on a few occasions, and I honestly never thought my eyes could roll that far back into my head. The idiocy of that statement is so much greater than any football player could ever be, even after 3,000 sacks to the head.
That’s a tame example… but he’ll never TREAT anyone differently who is of another race or creed. To their face, he’ll be decent, even friendly. Hell, he even voted for Obama in the Primary. (Though, I suspect it’s because Hillary *really* frightens him… not because she’s a woman… It’s just Hillary.) You might never know by his actions that his mind houses this prejudiced viewpoint.
In many ways, I consider the Bigots to be more dangerous than the Racists. It’s easier (comparatively) to see, recognize and stop Racist Actions… how can you see someone’s Bigoted THOUGHTS? Thoughts can be more dangerous… because it keeps that attitude in existence. You can arrest a Klansman, take him out of the equation, and tell his son, “Killing is wrong, it never solves anything blah blah”… and that boy could live the rest of his life and never kill or harm anyone different then him. But he can still THINK it… and there’s no way to know for sure if he is or not. Then, he can pass it on. That’s a scarier idea to me, overall.
I suspect my grandfather had some similarities in his attitude. Of course, as I remember him, he was old and chilled out. But apparently, the one complaint he did always make to people was about a neighbor of his… who was referred to as “that damn Cambodian”. Maybe he didn’t shovel the snow close enough to the curb, or he didn’t recycle his cans, or whatever… Grandpa bitched about “that Cambodian” a lot. Then, when my grandfather passed… “The Damn Cambodian” came to the funeral to pay his respects… and the rest of the family finally got to meet… “The Damn Cambodian”:
His name was Jesus (Hay-soos). He was from El Salvador.
Yeah… never let it be said that actual Logic dictated the thinking in my family.
As for other family members? Well… I have a vivid memory of one of my Uncles talking to me and my brothers (being the only males in the “league of grandchildren”, and the ones carrying on the family name, whether we like it or not) and saying, “Just so you guys know… you can date whoever you want, but when it comes to marrying, make sure it’s someone of your own race.”
I’m not completely sure if he was joking or being serious. This is the Uncle who keeps a straighter face than anyone I’ve ever met in my life, so it can be hard to tell.
Now the cycle of silly (and sometimes downright comical) prejudices has to stop somewhere, or it just keeps going and going, infecting everything. Now, that’s not something I want MY kids to have… so it has to stop with me.
I believe everyone would agree with that… anyone who reads this might say the same thing… “it has to stop with me”. And I think we all feel we’re up to the challenge. In fact, I think most people might even say, “I’ve never had a racist or bigoted thought in my whole life!” Trumpets blare, medals are handed out, etc…
But that’s an easy answer. TOO easy, in fact. And I’m far too introspective to just throw that statement out there willy-nilly, buy it and sell it at face value.
To be honest… I don’t know if I can say that.
When I was in Elementary School… girls were icky. No surprise there. They were for most little boys. Girls were icky, boys had cooties… there’s balance in the universe, that’s how it works.
There was one girl in particular. She didn’t seem to be friends with other girls… at least I don’t recall. Her name was Rachel. (Name not changed… because she was innocent. I don’t want protecting.) I’m sorry to say I don’t remember her last name. Though, this was about 25 years ago…
Rachel was the only girl in our class… nay, probably the only girl in SCHOOL… who was black.
Granted, our school was small… all 6 grades combined (Kindergarten through 5th) totaled about 200 kids, if that. But it was suburban Massachusetts in the early 80s… not a lot of “heterogeneousness” there.
I seem to remember we were particularly mean to Rachel… on a regular basis. I remember that if she touched one of us, one of the others would mime this imaginary “spray” to disinfect where she touched. We *did* do it sometimes when other girls touched us too… (the whole “icky” thing) but most often it was with Rachel. We never used names or specifically said any reference to her skin color… at least that I ever heard/recall… I think the most directly insulting thing that I recall was during Valentine’s Day when handing out your Valentines (You had to give one to EVERYONE or none at all)… on Rachel’s card, just above the “Please be my Valentine”, kids would put a strategically-placed “Don’t”.
I remember one time, she actually called me on the phone, just to talk. To say hi. I wasn’t a big phone talker, and wondered why this “icky girl” was calling me, preventing me from going outside to play. She only called once. (I think it was after the one Valentine’s Day I *didn’t* put the “don’t” in.)
Eventually, she just disappeared. A summer came and went… school started again, and she wasn’t there. Figured her family moved or something. No one ever seemed to bat an eye.
I think back on it now, and I feel bad… this girl just wanted a friend. I’m especially surprised that *I* took part in that behavior, because I wasn’t the most popular kid myself… I was pretty awkward, too. Maybe that’s why she called me that one time… she thought we had something in common.
Were my actions the seeds of true Racism/Bigotry? Were we treating her that way because she was black? Or was it just another of the “icky girls”, and I only remember it BECAUSE she was the only black girl in school? I honestly don’t know… and that uncertainty kind of scares me. To think that maybe those attitudes could have been in me at some point… really humbles me.
I hope she’s doing well. I hope she dreamed of touching the stars, and now gets to do so… on a regular basis.
(I mean that metaphorically… I know commercial space-travel isn’t up to an affordable level yet.)
But… if there’s one good thing that came out of that… it reminds me that all people are deserving of respect, and color ain’t nothing but a crayon name.
The only other “people of color” that I would have considered ever having a personal problem with… was after we moved to New Hampshire (an even LESS diverse neighborhood then in that part of Massachusetts, if that was possible). A few months after we moved in… on Halloween night, I remember… directly across the street, moved in a black family.
Now the oldest brother and sister, were good people. At least when I got to know them. The sister was in my brother’s grade, and the brother was in mine. We became friends in the 6th grade. We even won a “contest” together… some book sale was coming to the school, and there was a competition to write an “ad” that you would get to say over the loudspeaker during the morning announcements. The winner… got a whole 5 dollar gift certificate. I actually suggested that we do it together. And we did. When we were presenting it in the “competition”, I was shocked that there was only 1 other kid, out of the whole school, that wrote a prospective ad. It was the team of me and my neighbor… against this one other kid. We won. That’s 2 dollars and 50 cents in free books apiece… yeah, baby! Though, in retrospect… I think I’m the one that actually did all the writing, and in the performing, he did ONE line. *shrug* Eh… what can ya do?
As we got into High School… we ended up not having any classes together… eventually, he melded into the “Jock crowd” (I think)… I remained my freaky oddball-among-oddities self.
The ones I DID have a problem with… were his younger brothers. They were truly little assholes. I’m fully confident, to this day, that the reason I didn’t like them had nothing to do with skin color… they themselves were 100% dicks. Yeah, punks… that’s what you get for calling me “Fat” on the school bus… you get “served” on my blog!
Okay, that didn’t sound as impressive as when I first thought of it…
My undergrad college was a slight step up from high school… in terms of multiformity. There were a few various ethnicities on campus, but again… central New Hampshire… take what you get. Race-wise, the strangest comment I ever heard came from a white girl. She was a DJ at the college radio station, and a small group of us were talking about being “open-minded”… the exact reason for the conversation escapes me… and I actually heard this girl say, “I’m very open-minded. In fact, I’m so open-minded, that I only date black men.”
Something… odd… about that statement, don’t you think? She wasn’t being sarcastic, or ironic… she was being 100% serious. Sometimes, I’m still trying to figure that one out.
But when I moved to Northern California for Graduate School… Oochie mama! So many different types of people… and so many of each kind! That was the first time I truly felt like I was in a “diverse environment”. I never felt uncomfortable, or out of place… in fact, I liked the variety. It was interesting, it was beautiful, it was so very different than what I grew up with. It was there that I had my first opportunity to even fall for someone of a different ethnicity than myself.
Now, it wasn’t because of that ethnicity that I fell for her. Though, for a while, I did wonder if I in fact “had a thing for Asians”… of which she is. Ultimately, I’ve come to the conclusion that I have a thing for “certain” Asians. Just like I have a thing for “certain white women”, “certain black women”, etc. Nothing about the DNA… she was just a quality individual.
Smart, funny, driven, responsible, beautiful… the kind of beautiful that’s worth taking a chance getting rejected. Ultimately, I was. Probably chalk it up to a case of “bad luck in the timing”… this was about the time my family was meeting “The Damn Cambodian”, so guess what I was going through?
But… and I’m very thankful for this… we’re still friends. She’s one of the few people I stay in fairly regular contact with from Grad School… and I always smile when I hear from her. While we’re now thousands of miles apart, geographically… sometimes I still wonder if things had gone a little different for us at the time… or even if I got another chance, what would I do?
But I digress…
When I got down to Los Angeles… this diversity thing was old hat. I pretty much started taking it for granted… because when I came back East… Holy Reverse Culture Shock, Batman! Why is everyone white? Not even a *little* variety, no? Oh wait… that’s right… this is New Hampshire.
I got spoiled. From college on up… not just diversity in race and color… but in attitudes and choices. Tattoos, piercings, gays, bisexuals, transvestites, transsexuals, bikers, actors; you name the subculture, I’ve probably got a friend in there… and all are people I would take bullets for.
That’s diversity to me. A bunch of people I love.
Variety *is* the spice of life.
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