So…Christmastime…

There is absolutely nothing not 1970's about this photo.

            I guess I do judge people on how they celebrate Christmas.  It is kinda stupid, and I make exceptions for obvious religious purposes, but I find that your attitude toward the holiday tells me a little about who you are the rest of the year.  There are the frazzled, the complainers, the overzealous, the perfectionists, the guilt machines and the rest of us, who fall somewhere in the middle.

            I can’t deal with psychos who overplan, but I really don’t get along with Grinches who are cheap and don’t possess a giving bone in their body.  I also don’t need to hear another syllable about the origins of the secular celebration of Christmas, commercialism and the nonexistent war on Christmas.  I am the most irked by the complainers. Shopping for gifts and making a few dinners isn’t like facing down ISIS in Iraq.  It’s just some comfy socks and assorted nogs.  Calm the hell down.

            Christmas was a time when my parents got their shit together.  Until I was around 11 or so, that time of year was as cool as it could get for my brother and me.  We had a few big surprises, my mom baked, we got into the Johnny Mathis on vinyl records, and we trimmed the tree within an inch of its life.  Best surprise gift?  Atari 2600 console.  Yes, I’m that old.  Matt and I lost our shit. 

            But it was the time of year that I loved.  It was at least a little cooler in Florida, which always made me feel better.  Neighbors put up lights and decorations.  There were parties and treats and days off and more time with friends and Frosty on TV and old movies and it was all…different.  I think that’s what has stuck with me.  This is just a different time of year.  Whether you celebrate the holiday in a religious or secular fashion, or an American combo of the two, the scenery changes.  Schedules change. The daily routine is altered to accommodate frivolous stuff like mistletoe and ugly sweaters and shopping and goofing off.

            I’ve always been the Christmas guy around here. My wife is no Scrooge; she was just born without a “making a fuss about things” strand of DNA.  I decorate inside and out.  I go find a tree, put it up, and decorate it.  I make plans for all the gifts, buy the gifts, and wrap, tag, and hide the gifts.  I adhere to the traditions and look to make new ones.  All me. My wife cooks the Christmas dinner.  (Standing rib roast.  Quickly becoming my favorite part of the day.)

            When my kids were tiny, this was an absolute pleasure.  You can feel a kid’s anxiety as the 25^th approaches. The 24^this a nightmare to them.  They watch the clock and do anything to make the day somehow go faster. Christmas morning was the absolute best thing about being a parent. I remember a million smiles and silliness and I’m proud that I was there for all of it.  But, now they aren’t little turds anymore.  They are big and old, and the boys are young men with hairy legs and my daughter lost interest in dolls a long time ago.

            Now what?

            So many people lose it right here. They break down because the little ones are gone. It’s another sting from an empty nest. You were lucky enough to realize the work that goes into preparing a Christmas for little ones is the best part of the holiday, and now it’s gone.  No gift was ever better than watching my boys open up their lightsabers.  That gift doesn’t exist.  But I’m still ticking, and the calendar rounds its way to December every year, so what do I do?  Flip through photo albums and cry like a mom in an Old Spice commercial?  No way.

            Just like you adjust your life when the kids arrive, and when they grow up, you adjust your holiday.  I’ve been running this show for twenty years, anyway.  Now, it’s for me. (Well, me and the Mrs., but since I’m the grand poobah of the season, it’s really my Christmas.)

            I do as much as I want or as little as I want.  If I wasn’t to change something, I do it. If I want to decorate, I do it.  If I feel like going overboard, I do that shit, too.  Define your own holiday.  I don’t expect all my kids to appreciate anything; that’s a fool’s errand.  I feel no pressure other that the pressure I wish to feel.  It is a gift I give myself and my blood pressure thanks me.

            So for anyone feeling the squeeze of the holiday, just define it yourself.  If you truly value the season you can still enjoy it on your own terms and take your loved ones along for the ride. It is still a weird, unique time of year and there are still people who appreciate it.  And to those to don’t, New Year’s Eve is a week away, and that completely meaningless and useless holiday is made just for you.

My Anxiety Files – Battling the Albatross of Negativity

This is as smiley as I get.

           It will take a few paragraphs to describe the smile on my face, and yes that is a smile.  I’m not good at the whole posing for the camera thing.  I don’t have a smiley-type face, either.  My default expression is one of slight disappointment, if I needed to define it.  Nothing too sad, just the look on your face when you thought they called your name to pick up your coffee, but it turns out it was someone else.  Aw, dude…

            I may have this puss on because I grew up in a negative home.  I’m not here to disparage my parents, but I have to set a stage.  The collective fears of the home manifested themselves into catch phrases, drinking, and not a lot of hope.  Life’s a bitch, then you die.  Shit happens.  You can’t win ‘em all.  My brother and I both characterize those times by doing an impression of my parents.  After telling a depressing story of something not working out in their favor; as they sipped a beer of took a drag off a cigarette, they would shrug their shoulders and say: Story of my life.

            As you may imagine this did not do much for our outlook on life.  It not only made me feel most things were unattainable and impossible; they weren’t even worth trying in the first place. Couple those happy thoughts with some anxiety and you have me.  I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was doing anything to not think about myself and the decisions I had to make.  I didn’t drink to distract myself, but I distracted myself nonetheless. (Thanks, TV.)

            Cut to me as a father of three and a mostly functioning, self-aware adult.   I don’t want my kids to think life is just endless limitations, nor or do I want to fill their heads with Pollyanna horseshit about ‘you can do anything you set your mind to’.  That sounds harsh, but belief that you can do something only gets you started.  I stressed that there are plenty of things you can attain in this country, but the work to get them varies greatly.  Basically, if you want A you have to work very hard.  If you want B, you won’t have to work as hard, but you won’t make the same money as A.  If you want to follow your dream and go after C, the odds are pretty tough, but if you are dedicated you have a shot.  It doesn’t fit on a bumper sticker; and it shouldn’t because we’re talking about children’s lives here.

            But above all else, I tried to be positive.  I struggled with my anxiety for so long as they were small, and there is a lot of crap I would like to take back.  I wasn’t anywhere near perfect.  But, I kept trying to be better.  I wanted them to tell me about how they were progressing. I wanted them to tell me their stories of their day, even though none of them are big talkers.   It was so important to me that they felt like they mattered, and they were allowed to screw up, but above all else, they had to keep trying. We never hounded them about activities.  Just find something and make a few new friends. You can quit, but you better have something else lined up to try, even if it’s just self -improvement like exercise, reading or getting better grades.

            Trying is a manifestation of being positive. Trying is an indicator of hope. 

            For me, I had to be medicated.  I know some people don’t like to hear that.  Some people think that’s cheating.  You are free to think whatever you like, I just know that without my pills, my life would be very different.  You see, that smile in that picture would not have happened a mere four years ago.  Going to a comedy show, which is still a rarity in my life, was like this: Sit down, the lights go dark. Then the thoughts roll in. Worry that I spent too much money.  Worry about going to my shitty job on Monday.   Wish I could get out more often but I’m too broke.  Regret that I never had a comedy career.  Get pissed at the guy in the corner who is shitfaced and is laughing like an asshole.  Get pissed at myself because I’m too negative.

            Notice I didn’t mention anything about enjoying the show?  That’s how life used to be, nearly every moment of every day.  Dread and despair. 

            The pills correct the chemicals in my brain so my ability to enjoy things is at a normal level.  They aren’t uppers or downers or goofballs.  They adjust an abnormality in my head.  Like my glasses help me see clearer.  The cushioning in my shoes protect me from calluses and foot pain.  My belt keeps my pants up.

When I went to the comedy club where this photo was taken, I just laughed like an idiot and had a good time. No negative, poisonous thoughts whatsoever. It was like normal people.  I laughed and my wife and I had a fun night out.  On the outside it looks as exciting as picking out butter at Albertson’s.

After the show was finished, we left the showroom into the hall where the Sklars were having a meet and greet and selling merch.  I walked right up to them and asked for a photo, and they complied because they are cool guys who have done this thousands of times.  I thanked them and left and smiled the entire drive home.  No big deal. Well, not anymore.

My Anxiety Files - Waiting For The Other Shoe

Meet my anxiety.  He's the law-talkin' guy.

             I am home today finishing the computer part of my job.  I am a little hungry, but not too much.  I finished some decaf, and now I am drinking ice water. I’m getting paid tomorrow, the money is okay, it’s not too hot, I feel okay, and all my laundry is done.  All that aside, there is a sensation in the bottom of my spine that to breathe a sigh of relief would spell disaster for everything.  I am waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Here’s the thing:  I feel pretty good.  It’s true.  We are climbing out of a financial hole caused by a few crappy years, are kids are in good health and heading in a good direction, and summer is giving way to fall.  I like my job, I’m in charge, I have a handle on some things.  My wife will soon be making more money and she is in good spirits.  My house is in good shape and I am thankful.

            But, I am so afraid to feel good about anything because of that other shoe.  Oh mercy, when will the bad thing happen?  When will the disaster happen that not only puts life into some kind of balance that’s completely constructed in my mind, but inevitably has to materialize because I had the nerve to feel good about my life for a few hours?

            People with anxiety can’t help but internalize the events around them.  Accidents and unforeseen tragedies can’t just happen due to the randomness of the universe.  I must have willed it to happen.  I felt like life was okay, and that somehow was interpreted as thumbing my nose to the infinite wisdom of the universe or God or Buddha or whomever you feel would care about such things. The universe, in turn, created a disaster for me just to teach me a lesson.  So, to protect myself, I won’t feel good about anything.  That way, I won’t risk bad stuff happening.  That’s how it works, right? Life itself is a jack in the box, and every day we turn the crank, waiting for a stupid clown to pop out and scare the piss out of us.  (By the way, what a fucked up toy that was…)

            Are you thinking to yourself: Isn’t that a crappy way to live…?  You’re right.  It is a crappy way to live.  The other shoe is why so many people can’t feel joy.  It is as ingrained in our brains as fight or flight and peaches are sweet and delicious.  It is a defense mechanism that a lot of us spend our lives dismantling. Living in the moment, breathing, mindfulness are exercises to deconstruct that other shoe. Of course, others don’t realize it is a problem.  Others build entire thought processes and belief systems around fear of the inevitable doom around the corner.  I don’t want to live like that.  I’d rather enjoy all of the days between now and the possible day everything goes to hell, than stay in fear of that day for my life.

            But I have that feeling, though.  My anxiety just eats it up.  You feel fine, but what about that mole?  Should you get it checked out?  Your car is fixed and is running again, but what if something else happens this week?  Do you have the money? Is that person mad at me? It is comical how much my brain looks for potential flaws and pitfalls, even when the evidence doesn’t support a damn thing.  My anxiety is a low-rent lawyer with no legitimate case.  My anxiety is Lionel Hutz.

            You know that archaic and trite phase that is so overused yet is secretly some of the best advice in the world: Take it one day at a time?  My only advice to deal with the other shoe is a version of that.  Every time you feel that sense of doom lurking, don’t try to destroy it completely.  It’s too hard to do on your own.  Just put it off one day.  “I’ll feel like this tomorrow.  I’m not going to entertain this thought until tomorrow.”  Then, the next day, repeat the process. It’s as if procrastination can finally work in our favor.  Plus, you may get to feel the joy you’ve earned in your life.

Writing About Writing (This One’s About Writing)

Are you gonna write about it, or just take it in?

So I accidentally deleted all my blog stuff.  I had 5 or 6 finished pieces in there.  The sad part is, I really didn’t care.  I shrugged my shoulders and chalked it up to being a careless doofus.   It was a fair amount of work and editing, about 4 to 5 thousand words or so, but something in me just treated it like discovering a new stain on an old shirt I was ready to throw out anyway.

            I’ve been writing since 1989.  I’ve has spurts where I wrote every day, and droughts where I avoided it for three months.  I always came back. I always come back.  I do not know why.  Writing is not very rewarding.  I’ve used it for two reasons.  First, on a personal level, it helped many times when I needed to extract the evil ooze out of my brain and make sense of it on paper.  I used it instead of weeping or curling into a ball in the corner.  It helped some, and it hurt some, too.  Writing time should be paused occasionally for human contact and reaching out to others for help.  But that was my deal.  I bled it dry.  That use, the diary and confessional part of journal writing, really doesn’t work for me anymore.

            The other reason is my favorite.  I am an idea generator.  I wrote before that it is in the search of The Big Idea that I sit down and type all the time…alone…sitting…for free.  I still get the ideas and they still make me happy.  I can write about anything on my mind, as long as I believe I am bringing something new to the argument or observation.  That’s what this blog is.  I get nothing from it other than a sense of accomplishment.  Even that is pretty fleeting.  I get about a dozen views per post, sometimes less than five.  Sometimes I feel that I really nailed something and I put a lot of extra time in the piece to make it funny or more clear, and it’s a whiff.  Essentially nobody reads it.

            I’m a smart guy.   If no one is reading your stuff after 20 years, there are only a few options you can settle on.  The first is the biggest culprit.  I don’t promote my writing or myself.   I tried to get things published, but I quit after it was rejected.  That is on me.  I don’t have the thick skin required.  Then there are the more stinging realizations.  I may very well suck, and/or no one is buying what I’m selling. 

            I can accept it if I suck.  I know when I’ve put it out there and really tried hard to hone and edit and get it right.  If my best isn’t very good, I can still say I tried.  But to accept that people just aren’t into what I writing about is a lot tougher to swallow.  It jabs my in the ribs and triggers my deepest insecurities; and I’m right back to being a boney little kid with cowlicks that no one paid attention to.  Maybe I’m too late with my stories and observations.  Somebody already wrote about that and I’m late to the party.  It could be that I’m trite and passé and naïve and I just don’t know it.  Or, maybe nobody gives a shit at all.

            If I had one of my dream time machines and was able to go back in time to correct this, I would show up in 1989 right after I read The Catcher In The Rye.  I would tell myself this:  “I know you have a lot to say, and you are ready to start writing about everything that comes to mind every day, but practice the guitar instead.  You won’t be famous, you won’t be rich, but you’ll be able to express yourself and you’ll get to be with other people and have fun.  Writing is lonely.”  Then I’d buy some Apple stock and get the hell out of there.

           Now I have to get back to filling a new file up with stuff.

My (12) Favorite Episodes of The Simpsons

            I crunched the numbers!  I had a pretty lazy Labor Day weekend and I had to fill it with some nerdy stuff to keep from eating more potato chips. The Simpsons has infected everyone during the marathon, so its fresh on my mind. I won’t tell the story of how my love for this show developed, after being annoyed by its success during Season 1.  I won’t write about how it’s the funniest show, animated or otherwise, that has ever been on television.  I won’t talk about cultural significance, including humor, speech, language, cadence, story structure, character development and doughnuts.  I’m just here to list my favorites.

            The list is to twelve.  I wanted to be cool and shave it down to ten but it’s my list, these are all awesome, and what the hell is wrong with the number 12?  They are listed only in order of release, not preference or anything like that.  It was hard enough narrowing it down this much.

           

            Flaming Moe’s - Season 3.  This is the one that really got me, as I remember.  This was no ordinary cartoon.  Aerosmith did the guest voices and half the episode was a Cheers spoof.

            Last Exit to Springfield - Season 4. This one is on all the critic’s list as one of the best, if not the best of all.  Dental plan.  Lisa needs braces.  Burns as the Grinch.  The Big Book of British Smiles. Homer runs the union.  You know it.

            Rosebud – Season 5.  The Ramones sing Mr. Burns a birthday song and tell him to “go to hell you ol’ bastard.”  Burns turns to Smithers and says “Have the Rolling Stones killed”.  It’s Citizen Kane with Bobo.

            Cape Feare – Season 5.  Kelsey Grammer may be forever remembered as Frasier but his finest work will be voicing Sideshow Bob.  The one with the rakes.  Need I say more?

            Treehouse of Horror V - Season 6. I had to pick at last one of the Halloween episodes.  This one contains ‘The Shinning’ (No beer and no TV make Homer something something).  The time travelling toaster, and the one where the teachers ate all the kids.  (You might even say we’ve eaten Uter, and he’s in our stomachs!)

             Lisa the Iconoclast – Season 7.  A Lisa episode?  Yeah, but this one had all the Jebediah Springfield stuff.  (One, where’s the fife?  Two, gimme the fife.)

            Homer’s Enemy – Season 8.  I think I love Season 8.  Homer meets Frank Grimes.  This is one of those meta/self-referential episodes that was so smart when I first watched it.  Grimes is the only person that doesn’t understand why all these great things happen for Homer.  It is a look at the character if he lived in the real world.  He would have been fired and/or killed years ago.  But he’s in an animated world, so Homer wins and Grimey loses.

            You Only Move Twice – Season 8.  The one with Albert Brooks as Hank Scorpio.  I thought of this as an idea once for a short story.   I did! Really!  What would a Bond movie look like from one of the faceless tech people in the evil mastermind’s secret lair?  Of course, Homer has no idea what the hell is happening.

           

            Brother From Another Series – Season 8. David Hyde Peirce as Sideshow Cecil.  It’s another Bob episode but it is so packed with great stuff I had to include it. (Oh, Cousin Merle!)  Bob isn’t even trying to kill Bart this time, but his equally evil brother tries and fails.

           

            Maximum Homerdrive – Season 10.   Homer and Bart drive the 18-wheeler. (Well, I just ate an entire lamb, but I reckon I can take you to school…) There is something about Marge’s plea to Homer to not drive the truck; it was an acknowledgment that he never really thinks things through…  (And to drink…Meatballs.)

            Guess Who’s Coming To Criticize Dinner? - Season 11. Homer the food critic.  (I once saw this man eat a bowl of change! / This gets my lowest score yet… seven thumbs up.)  Every restaurateur in town tries to kill Homer after he learns too be too critical.  His review of The Frying Dutchman: “Thar, She Blows!”

            Simple Simpson – Season 15.  Homer as the Spider-Man-like superhero, The Pieman.  (Since when do I listen to cake?)

I Am Officially Done With These Plot Devices

         

          I watch my share of fiction.  In the last few years, TV has reemerged with a crop of new treats to enjoy, from the breathtakingly original, to the standard bubble-gum fluff we secretly enjoy.  My wife and I watch together at the end of the day, and it is nice to follow ongoing stories that still have the ability to surprise us every once in a while.  But there are times when I see a show heading down a familiar path and I get the same feeling when I have to sit down and hear and old joke told to me.  Heeeere we go. Do I really have to endure this tired shit again?  I know writers rely on standard devices and talent varies from show to show, but there are times when I cringe at what is about to happen. These are a few of my TV nightmares.

            Parents. Simply put, the protagonist’s parents are used too much in modern action and drama.  It started somewhere in the late 90’s, when it wasn’t enough that the hero was a spy; he had to come from a family of spies.  Or a cop has a parent on the force, or my mom is a powerful lawyer, too, or I have been searching for my long lost dad and here he is and somehow he is integral to the plot. Maybe the writers are of that divorced generation and they were looking for a way to connect with mom and dad.  I don’t know.  I seem surrounded by TV pilots were the overarching story is one of parental disconnection, and it was fine about 15 years ago.  Is there a character on Lost that didn’t have a mom or dad problem?  Some cops just join the force because they want to, not because they are trying to solve their parents’ murder. 

            We live in a time when kids grow up and often move away; especially professionals that are at the heart of these shows.  It is still mysterious to me why so many parents are looped into the action.  You know why we didn’t see Walter White’s mother?  Because…who gives a shit?

            Are you old enough to have that job?  I get it.  Hollywood wants the young attractive people on the screen.  There are appropriate onscreen careers for someone who is 23. Sometimes I think they skew insanely too young for the role of CIA operative or FBI agent or ER doctor.  Maybe an FBI agent can be young, but perhaps it’s time to hear the stories of the people with a little dirt under their fingernails.  I’m not an old geezer here; I’m thinking someone who is 32 playing 29, instead of playing 25 and looks 19.

            Sacrificing love for safety.  Technically, this is rampant everywhere.  Spider-Man and Harry Potter did the same crap.  The hero’s life is so dangerous, and so fraught with uncertainty that he, in an act of nobility, breaks up with his true love to keep them safe from harm.  I realized that this is a classically romantic gesture and it goes back eons in the world of fiction, but this is 2014.  The truth is, when people are in love and they have other forces pulling at their lives, whether its careers or culture or insecurity, they try to have it all.  They stay together somehow.  The breakups occur when the love isn’t there anymore.  One person, desperately in love, just doesn’t quit the relationship because something might happen to the other person.  Maybe that is what makes it noble, but it does not say much for the other person, the relationship, or love as a whole.  Love makes you dumb and tends to help you make irrational decisions.  The other person has an entire life of their own. They would probably be more than a little pissed at the breakup and would not react well to hearing the excuse of “I’m keeping you safe from super-villains.”  If you truly love the person, you almost always find a way.  That is the messy, inconvenient, silliness of love.

            Rotten teens and kiddie drama.  If kids were as absolute shitty as they were on TV and in the movies than there is not an American citizen who would not offer themselves up for immediate sterilization.  I have never seen kids as sour, rotten and conniving as I have seen on TV.  Never.  I have teenagers and they are challenging, but they aren’t plotting and evil.  They don’t have established views on relationships and how the world works; those change every day.  They don’t make adult decisions or talk like adults or, for a lot of kids, care the least bit what the adults are up to. 

            If writers need a teen in the show, take a crack at making them somewhat realistic.  They have mood swings, sure. But it is not the sum-total of their personality.  You know what kids are usually doing when they aren’t in school?  Sleeping.  Doing insane amounts of homework.  They are friggin’ tired after a long day of either too many activities or avoiding going back home. It is not exciting.  The other half of their world is bullshitting with friends in their rooms or via text. 

            I understand there is a market for teen-based dramas.  I don’t watch that stuff, and it is not for me.  The irritation is when this need for adult themed-kid drama spills into my shows.  If I am watching a show with super-cops, spies, US marshals, mutant heroes, gangsters, lawyers, doctors, or meth-making chemistry teachers, and a scene pops up with two teens talking to each other, I tune out.  Your plots are inconsequential!  Your opinions are temporary and in flux and you don’t know shit about shit yet.

            Gratuitous head trauma.  If you watch dramas with any kind of action or violence, they inevitably use this plot device. The hero is whacked from behind and then the scene ends.  People are so easily knocked out with a rifle butt or a blunt object, and ‘come to’ in the next scene, groggy and unaware of where they are.  Human beings can be knocked out.  But they can also receive cracked skulls.  Some can even withstand the blow from the back of the head without losing consciousness.  Also, if the heroes on  Lost or the superhero shows really were knocked out as many times in real life as they were over the course of five seasons, they would certainly need to be hospitalized.  

            No one actually says these things.  This is my own beef.  I have never heard another human being refer to someone as their “lover” in my life.  I find it icky when there is a little boy at the center of a story and adults refer to him as “the child”.  “Once” is a word that is folded into a lot of dialogue lately, as in “you once told me I was meant to be someone special”.  Does anyone actually say “once” in that context?  Finally, what has to be my least favorite phrase that I’ve never heard outside of fiction is: “I want answers!”  Who the hell says ‘answers’? The only reason you don’t have ‘answers’ is that the writers feel it necessary to withhold certain information from your character!  If this was anything close to reality, you’d have the information already, dammit!

My Problem With Secret Identities

Hey Bruce.  What's with the mask?

            I am actually new to the comic book/superhero world.  I had the Spider-Man Underoos and some bed sheets with DC superheroes plastered all over them back in the 1970’s, but the only comics I ever bought were the aforementioned web-slinger and Mad magazine.  Most of the lesser-known characters and genres are new to me, which is fun, but I am also new to the world of the inherent tropes and concessions of this fantasy world.  I was mostly a sci-fi and action/adventure guy for most of my life.  Putting on the mask and tights was something I rarely ever entertained.  (Not literally. Well, you get it.)

            Most of these observations are probably well-worn paths of superhero discussion, but they do necessitate updates in this modern 3-blockbuster-films-a-summer world in which we live.  There are new TV shows, comic book stories and internet series about to compete for our attention, so I’m guessing we will have thousands of new opportunities to critique and compare, which is truly our national pastime.

            Simply put, I cannot accept secret identities and masked superheroes.  I realize this is part and parcel with the foundation of the American super hero, but it is something as an adult that still irks me.  I am perfectly willing to accept mutant powers, gamma radiation turning scientists into monsters, crawling on walls, teleporting, travelling through time and space, evil plots to destroy reality, magic, an endlessly helpful utility belt, laser vision, telekinesis, pyrokinesis, flying cars, flying people, stretchy people, stone people, steel people, invisible people and talking raccoons. But I cannot accept that the loved ones of superheroes are completely stymied when they are face to face with the masked man; and have no idea that behind the mask or cape or cowl lies someone they’ve known for eons.  You can keep your face out of the public eye with strangers, but there is no way you’re fooling the people in your life.

            Here’s how I came to this.  I have three children.  I was there the first seconds they were born.  I watched them grow and develop and get bigger and form speech patterns and all that stuff.  Because of this, I can spot them in a crowd.  I can see, even with my horrifically poor eyesight, from across a darkened parking lot, the silhouette of my daughter from 40 yards away.  I could see my son in a football uniform from the stands, even though I couldn’t make out the names and numbers.  I know his stance, his gait, the way he holds his head.  I know the hair length; I know how big their feet are.  This is the same for my wife, my mother, my brother and probably most of my friends.  These are subconscious details we map over the years and they are intrinsic to our humanity; there is an entire science dedicated to studying the human face and the aspects out brain attaches to even the most minute changes. Facial recognition and facial processing are as human as opposable thumbs. This is why CG human faces never really work out; there is just too much information we glean from the face and alterations are just too wonky for our brains to reconcile.

            In short, I’d know it was Bruce Wayne under the cowl.  So would you.  Even with makeup, in the shadow and a guttural voice, a friend of Bruce Wayne would know.  If you saw him as close as the criminals or Commissioner Gordon, you would know his stance, his shoe size, his jaw-line, his chin, his lip shape and whether or not he was disguising his voice, and you probably wouldn’t even realize why.  With his full head mask, Spider-Man has a better chance of getting away with it; but a tight suit does not help.  Plus, Peter Parker never disguised his voice to my knowledge.  We recognize thousands of different voices!  We don’t need the face to match!

            The TV show Arrow features the Green Arrow with a black mask, a hood and some little tech to disguise his voice.  The voice might fool someone, but standing in the same room, dressed in basically winter clothes would not fool his ex-girlfriend for a hot second.  She knows how he holds his head on his shoulders and his speech patterns, how he walks, stands, turns… and a host of nonverbal cues I can’t even think of.  Also, please don’t mention Superman.  I can believe bulletproof skin and super speed, but glasses have never fooled anyone, ever.  If that were true, I could take off my glasses right now, go find my daughter and she would not know who the hell I was!

            The Fantastic Four was the first big Marvel comic of the ‘60’s.  This happened after Superman, Batman and Wonder Woman all had their own secret identities and the problems that come with them.  But in the books, the FF were famous.  Everybody knew them.  That has its own challenges as well.  The comic went on without masks, because it wasn’t necessary.  The X-Men are also mostly out in the open.  You just don’t need the masks.  I understand you get human stories out of them, and they are part of a tradition, but I think superheroes should come out of the closet.  The secret identities never work out anyway, some asshole with a death ray will be ransoming off your girlfriend sooner or later.

My Anxiety Files – Remember Kids, Almost No One Gives A S#!t

Oh Grimey, you never learned...

            (I hope this comes off right...)

            I have paid attention in my life.  I have tried to learn and grow, think and explore.  My goal has been to find pieces of wisdom along the way.  If my children ever ask me what is the most important life lesson I’ve learned, I will answer with these words: Almost No One Gives A Shit.

            It may sound depressing or angry or negative, but I believe it is just the opposite.  It is liberating and, most importantly, it is the truth.  It may be a bummer to look out onto the world and believe that almost no one cares about your life and what you do with it.  But think for a second, do you really care about their lives?  Sure, you don’t want bad things to happen, unless you’re a monster. Our human brains can only handle so many crucial emotional connections. When we look at the world, we have to be a strict pee-wee football coach.  We gotta make some tough cuts.

            This is not a modern phenomenon; it how human beings are.  It is neither a good sign nor a bad sign.  It just is.  It also can help you.  If you have trouble regulating your emotions, or you are overwhelmed by life in one way or another, it is a form of freedom. So much of our lives is spent predicting what others think, and making decisions based on those predictions.  As you grow older you realize that you aren’t that important in the grand scheme of things; just to that tiny little circle you’ve created.  The judgments we thought others were thinking were not only untrue, they never existed in the first place.  That guy whose opinion you don’t really care about isn’t thinking about you.  He never was.  In fact, those people you are very close to you aren’t thinking about you all the time either.  There is no reason to feel embarrassed, ashamed or self-conscious about your decisions.  It is proof that judgments are nothing but fleeting thoughts.  Because truly… almost no one gives a shit.

            The more people acknowledge this, the happier we’d all be. It is the cure for paranoia. I can’t tell you how many homes I’ve approached in my job that look like low-rent compounds out in the countryside.  Threatening security signs, video surveillance, no trespassing. They are all devices to fuel a belief of self-importance and the big Other.  Maybe it’s exciting to think someone is “after you.”  The truth is, no one is watching you. No one. Nobody gives a shit.  The government is the same.  They have records of phone calls and correspondence, and I believe it is an invasion of privacy.  But I also know that the government is another name for a group of human beings who do a certain group of jobs. They work Monday through Friday and don’t exactly get paid well.  Most of all, they are humans, and therefore almost none of them gives a shit.

            They don’t care.  They are just as busy as you are to care.

            Almost is the key word.  Because a tiny few people actually do.  That is important.  The comfort that comes from knowing there are people that care about you is incredibly powerful.  For some people there are only one or two.  Maybe, if you are lucky, you get seven or eight.  They do give a shit about the big stuff in your life, and if you are doing your job as a loved one, you give shit about them.   But this circle is small, and I think it has been scientifically proven that it is supposed to be small.  These are the relationships that are nurtured and carry the weight in your life.  The opinions you perceive of that neighbor down the street, or the dude at the Safeway, or that snotty kid at the movie theater have of you have no bearing on anything at all, for three reasons.  One, they aren’t in your circle.  Two, whatever perceived thoughts you had of their opinions aren’t valid to them because you aren’t in their circles.  And three, there aren’t really any opinions to begin with because…well, you know.

            Don’t worry about it.  No one is really paying attention.

            We expect way too much out of our fellow man and ourselves.   I think that is where we get into trouble. This illusion feeds anxiety and depression and that’s just not okay.  The expectations form judgments, and judgments mask the overwhelming truth of not giving a shit, otherwise known as NTA, or Near Total Apathy.  Self-improvement is fine and healthy.  But the influx of the opinions of others have no place in that process.  That’s why it’s “self” improvement.  Maybe you want to go back to school or lose 30 pounds or get a 10% raise or have a kid.  That is for you, and perhaps your partner.  But the truth is, almost no one gives a shit.  Do what you need for yourself.  I’m not favoring some Rand-inspired world of individualistic pricks; in fact I lean pretty socialist.  It is not a cold, heartless and disconnected world I envision.  It is one where we aren’t concerned with being better or worse than our neighbors.  You can be yourself, and strive if you want to, but we aren’t burdened with the perceived thoughts of others.  It is not based on what we are doing. My utopia is based on the fact that we have acknowledged to each other that for the most part, almost none of us give a shit about what the rest of us do, so follow you dreams or your heart, or your pancreas if it suits you.

            I don’t care also means feel free to do so.

            I have to make one addendum.  This acknowledgement of the limits of how may people we care about does not reflect a view of the people outside of our circles.  This isn’t a political or social stance.  It is a mental one.  I don’t believe that I just care for me and mine so fuck everybody else.  I have generalized hope for humanity, based on…well that is another piece altogether. I hope for good things to happen to people; I want a peaceful world.  If my explanation of Near Total Apathy means anything it is that humanity is a much more capable species; we just have to accept that most of what holds us back is in our stupid heads.

I Love Time Travel - Part 20 - Summer Movie Edition

            No major spoilers. I promise. Don’t freak.

            Two big blockbuster movies came out this summer and they had as a central conceit my favorite plot device.  I saw both of them and I enjoyed both of them.  I give them an A minus.  They were very good but there was an element or two that threw me off.  I won’t include details here; suffice to say the details were not about time travel.  X-Men: Days of Future Past and Edge of Tomorrow were both fun films about traveling through time and resetting history.  What I found interesting was just how many similarities these two 

unrelated films had with each other. 

            X-Men features the most famous mutant Wolverine and his attempt to alter the course of history.  Through the power of a fellow mutant, his consciousness is sent back through time to the 1970’s to prevent an event from happening.  Wolverine’s body in the future remains asleep, in a state of unconsciousness while his mind and full set of memories operates his body back in the days of furry moustaches and bellbottoms.  I love consciousness time travel.  I think of it as the purest state of time travel methods.  It is cerebral and it takes the tech out of the equation.  You have no worries of running into yourself, however it forces to rely on your memory to behave and interact as you did years ago.  It is Desmond’s journey in the Lost episode “Flashes Before Your Eyes”, where he is convinced by someone to not alter the crappy future he is supposed to have.  It is the embodiment of the phrase “if I had it to do all over again”.

            The Tom Cruise sci-fi battle pic Edge of Tomorrow takes the same consciousness premise and speeds it up.  Cruise’s character is repeating the same sequence over and over again in the hopes of repelling an alien onslaught.  He dies at some point in the sequence, and actually needs to finally get it right.  In the process, he learns to become a soldier and a hero, and cease his life as a worthless schmuck.  It is Groundhog Day, but the mission is at the center and there is at least the perceived plan of the loops ending.  Becoming a better man was just incidental.

            There were no time machines in either movie.  In fact, all the travelling was created biologically; either through mutant powers or the influence of alien DNA.  When you take the tech out of the equation, it closes off a set of plot points but opens up a lot more.  I think it would be fascinating to try this more often in other films.  With a machine, it can be controlled and operated by human hands, without a machine the whims of time travel itself are in flux. 

            The most striking similarity is the style of time travel.  Both employ First Person time travel, where one person enters a new time without having actually been there before, either in life or through time travel (Marty McFly).  It got me to thinking, is First Person time travel actually time travel, or jumping to a parallel universe?  Single String time travel defines itself by assuring that if you are going to travel to 1940, you could conceivable find a picture of yourself from 1940 before you even go.  First Person contends that you couldn’t, because you haven’t gone yet.  But what if the sheer act of time travel is just a way to go to another universe, where you are born in 1972 yet can somehow interact with people in 1940?

            Does Wolverine enter into his life in the 70’s, or is it another universe, where he exists in the 70’s with all of the memories of his life right up until he travels back?  Is Tom Cruise altering the future every time or is he entering multiple universes where he dies in different but sometimes hilarious ways?

            Yeah, it hurts my head, too.

            Both of the heroes at the end are still the only ones who know what happened.  Their realities are ones of multiple timelines and all of the possibilities that could have happened, and actually did happen to the both of them.  It is good news for the people in their lives they were trying to protect, but it is kind of a bummer to the two heroes.  Time travel can be a lonely business.

I Loved It All

            I loved getting kicked in the nuts with thick Stride Rite shoes. 

            I loved stepping on tiny Legos on the floor of every room in the house; each one jabbing into my bare feet.

            I loved when there was a poop smear all over the crib.

            I loved discovering a missing bottle of formula wedged behind the crib; and the foul, cheesy smell that blasted my face as it was emptied into the sink.

            I loved carting that damned diaper bag everywhere.

            I loved all the clothes you had to buy for only a three-month period.  Only to buy more later.

            I loved how he threw up in my mouth.  I loved how he pissed on the couch.

            I loved freaking out when one slammed his head into a coffee table, and the other one scarred his head on the dining room table.

            I loved having to keep calm when I saw a lot of blood.

            I loved when she had such a weak stomach that she vomited if food was offered at the wrong time.

            I loved our disgusting carpet.

            I loved losing my temper and feeling like a monstrous asshole afterwards.          

            I loved when they screamed after stepping into an ant-hill.

            I loved how she twirled her hair so much she had bald spots.

            I loved because he got a cheap ring stuck on his finger so we had to take him to a jeweler to get it cut off.

            I loved how he slept on my chest because he was too afraid of the Disney hotel.

            I loved how he shot a Nerf gun in the other one’s face.

            I loved how she shrieked at the boys’ robotic bug toys.

            I loved reliving math homework and science projects.

            I loved school fees, field trip fees, locks, expensive calculators, folders, backpacks, paper, pencils, glue, crayons, and making lunches.

            I loved the terror of a dark, humid house without power as a giant hurricane roared through and we huddled in a tiny hallway hoping the roof would hold.

            I loved trying to prepare them for Middle School.

            I loved picking them up from baseball, football, track, drama and band practice.

            I loved the myriad of questions.

            I loved battling ambivalence toward school, checking homework, skipping chores and talking to teachers.

            I loved not knowing what was bothering them.

            I loved having to acknowledge we had to buy monthly “girl stuff”.

            I loved hearing the doors closed and having to knock before entering. 

            I loved the lack of chit-chat and when they left to hang out at other kids’ houses. 

            I loved that they were tall and in charge of their own time.

            I loved that I didn’t have as much to do anymore.

            Why?

            Because I wouldn’t get all the really good stuff.  And since this list constitutes about 7 or 8% of the total experience, it was mostly good stuff.

            You know what’s interesting?  I was going to write a list of the good things at this point, but I hesitated.  To me, it would almost feel like a rich jerk writing about how cool his vacation homes are and how many hot chicks he has around him.  Writing a list about all the great stuff my kids gave me feels like gloating.  Seriously.

            That's how good it was.