Things You Can Do To Avoid Coverage Of That Guy

Seriously.  I've read like a million of these. 

 Words cannot begin to describe how much I detest campaign coverage, particularly of this year’s Republican candidate. The Douche Who Shall Not Be Named is plastered on the TV screen constantly and invades my eaholes seemingly every minute of every day.  We thankfully only have 50 or so more days to go until no one takes his calls anymore. While my wife is a news junkie, I must avoid such things to preserve my sanity and keep my anxiety from exploding all over the living room walls.

Here’s what I’ve been doing.  Also, here are a few things you can do while you avoid the din of modern discourse.

Reading.  I’d like to say I’ve been reading all the time, but it’s just not true. But I have read two books by Peter Clines, which I enjoyed and I reread the completely different author Ernest Cline’s Ready Player One again. I  finished The Passage trilogy by Justin Cronin, and sampled a few offerings by John Scalzi, David Wong and Hugh Howey. For the most part, I’ve we been reading comics on my Kindle.  I’m a noob, so I’m still sorting through seventy years of superheroes and I’m finding out all the good stuff I’ve missed out on.

Never in a billion years would I thought I would enjoy Captain America.  But I do.  The “boy scout” heroes always appeal to me.  I read Iron Fist, Hulk, Wolverine, Daredevil, X-Men, Avengers, Deadpool, Batman, Justice League and a few Spider-Man titles.  I am learning so much about plot construction that I plan to rip off in the future.  I also read Y:The Last Man, which was incredible.  It needs to be a show, not a movie. There are countless stories to sift through, and I’m glad I have comic nerd friends with endless lists of recommendations.

TV.  Of course I watch TV.  I won’t list every show I watch, (although Mr. Robot lives up to the hype).  The popular belief now is that there are too many shows out there, which is what I call a non-problem. The more shows, the better chance of good shows that are worth a damn.

Internet.  Well, it’s there. I don’t get into videos and clips and all of that shit, but I do find myself scrolling through Wikipedia for a trivia fix on a regular basis.

There’s outside.  I live in such a pretty place, but I also have a job where I am out of the house half the day, driving through the countryside half of that time.  I love it, especially this time of year, but I don’t feel as guilty letting some pretty days slip away.  My cup runneth over with natural beauty, and that is another non-problem.

Here’s some things you can do, (and I should follow suit):

If you miss actual news, you can scan the internet in a few short minutes to find legitimate sites for news organizations that report actual news and have some semblance of actual journalism.  (Start with Europe.)  You could also read historical biographies or watch appropriate documentaries.  You’re still somewhat in touch, but no one is screaming in your face.

Conversation with a fellow human being.  This is is tough for me, but that’s no excuse.  Talk about anything other than politics or religion.  Those used to be the two subjects withheld from daily conversation, out of a sign of respect for the other person.  There are a billlion things out there to talk about.  Football. Gardening.  Swedish Fish Oreos and why that’s a thing.

Here’s one:  Turn off the electronics and  just watch your pets run around. It’s quite silly how entertaining that can be.

Create something.  Honestly, I never believe it when people say they have no time. We all have time, we just use it for other things.  Instead of being passive, we can be active.  Build, write, play music and record, draw, paint...whatever.  No it's not for money or for public view.  It might be just for you, but I will invoke one of my favorite motivational phrases: “What the hell else are you doing?”

Almost anything is a better alternative to...him.  We are under no obligation to watch all of this stupid coverage.  It doesn’t make me any less of a citizen or an adult or an intellectual person to avoid the minutiae.  I don’t need to formulate an opinion on everything that ever happens, and there aren’t two sides to every story.  Some stories have one side only, and others have dozens of complicated sides that won’t be solved in two or three lifetimes.

In my adulthood,I’ve had a difficult time sorting out the things with which I need to be concerned. Anxiety does that to you. I think our language fails us when it comes to the word “care”.  We need to expand the definition of things that are truly meaningful to us and things that we care about...in a more abstract sense.  I care about my family my friends and my fellow man, but it’s a different kind of care for who is running what public office for the next term. My empathy has a far reach, but I don’t need it measured and judged.Yeah, so it will be over soon.

Until then, I will continue to peruse the works of Ed Brubaker. Look him up.

Judgey, or "Oh No! I'M the A**hole?!?!"

It took him five seasons to figure it out.

I actually went into the world recently and attended some writer's meetings. It's low-key. You read aloud what you're working on and then the rest of the group critiques it. There are enough people to make a consensus and there are also enough to get a few different perspectives. There are thousands of these groups all over. I never set foot in one of these environments because of fear and a healthy does of social anxiety. But my writing was in a bit of a stall, so I gave it a try.

The feedback was genuine and insightful. Te people there are real writers; in that they care deeply about writing, despite the amount of talent, experience or ideas they have themselves. They are attentive listeners and they give pertinent advice from a place of true support.

Except for one guy. There's this one guy who has so little experience listening to the work of others he rarely pays attention for a minute or two without losing focus. He's pretty negative, and if the work is outside of his comfort zone or field of experience he drifts into daydreams.

Yes, that asshole is me.

I'm the weak link in the group. I will have to work so hard to truly be present for everyone else. It is so difficult for me to listen attentively. It's harder than the act of completing a novel. I can blame a version of adult ADD or that I'm woefully out of practice. Those things could play a role. But I know the reason.

I am judgmental as hell.

It's my shittiest trait. It's brought me nothing but pain and suffering my entire life and it dangles off my body like a partially severed limb; something I've tried to saw off but it still clings to me by gnarled bone and sinew. It's fear. Of course it's fear. Fear is the reason for all the bullshit that happens in the world. Overcoming it is our job as humans. My fear manifested itself as judgment; either by sarcastic nitpicking or disparaging remarks about things I don't understand. I've seen it for what it is and it sickens me. It is so unseemly and gross.

One of the worst aspects of being judgey is that its as obvious as a boil on your nose. When you shit on something for no reason, everyone in the room knows you are expressing your fear of not knowing out loud. You could just shut the hell up and say nothing, but no...that's not what judgey people do. You compare it to something. You belittle it. You question its validity. You roll your eyes or fold your arms or give it a dismissive remark.

It's impolite. It's small. It's unattractive. It's a downer. It reveals a lot about you.

I grew up with it. There can be dozens of reasons for why it exists, but I always come back to fear. At least it didn't manifest itself in raw anger at the unknown. No, my burden is sniveling on the sidelines, while the brave or those without one thousand hang-ups go out there and try and experience and sample life.

Why stick your neck out? Why get in the game? Why care at all?

Because that is what I wanted to do all along.

TO BE SELF AWARE IS THE DEMARCATION BETWEEN LIVING IN A CONSTANT BLUR AND HAVING TRUE CLARITY. That sentiment is something I've wanted to say, to myself and everyone I meet. The reason I have a chance to improve is that I looked in the mirror and realized I was the asshole. Me. In this situation, I was the one that had to change. Mature. Work. It didn't me to feel these feelings because they were pure. This was the truth.

So I found another area in which I have to grow. One day, I won't be the asshole, and that is because I realized that I am the asshole today. 

On Wallowing

I'm finding that people prefer pictures to 1000 words.

Here’s the deal.

I’ve droned on and on about depression and anxiety.  Anyone who cares about the state of mental health in America knows it lacks real understanding, funding and research.  It is pivotal to human civilization that we understand how our brains work.  However, on a personal level, all I really have to understand is myself.  It’s the only change I have any genuine control over, and by nature of being human, I am a work in progress.

What is talked about even less then depression and mental health problems is the tendency to wallow in one’s issues.  It is a sensitive topic; something a lot of people would misinterpret as whining, but I think I have a shot of explaining myself. I am guilty of wallowing in my issues. I think way, way too much. I’ve been doing this since I was about sixteen or so.  Bored with life, I would lay on my bed and stare at the ceiling.  In my head, I was asking myself questions, interpreting the actions of others, judging, daydreaming, and a host of other activities that occur within the boundaries of my head.  In reality, I was just lying there. An observer would see a kid lying on his aging comforter in the bedroom of a tiny apartment with his hands tucked behind his head, silent. 

I wasn’t doing anything at all.

That’s the evil behind wallowing.  You convince yourself that thinking and analyzing and worrying are actions, but they’re not.  They are just thoughts; ones which you’ve probably dwelled upon dozens of times before.  It’s like watching reruns in your head.

Aren’t you just tired of your problems?  Aren’t you just tired of the effort it takes to separate them from yourself?  You aren’t the sum total of your thoughts. They are just repeating synapses in your brain. They are just one stupid part of you that gets on your nerves on a daily basis. Your thoughts can be real dicks sometimes.

I’m a thinking person.  I know this about myself.  I’m not knocking the practice for most of humanity. But thinking about your mental health problems is a lot like bringing work home with you.  There are things you can do about it and things you can’t.  Your only job is to sort them.  There is work to be done.  Thoughts you can’t do anything about are to be accepted.  And the thoughts you can do something about, should cease to be thoughts. They need to become actions.  Decisions. Changes.  

It sounds easy, but we all know that this could mean a lot of ground to cover.  Especially if you’re not used to accepting or acting on anything.

I say all of this as one who still wallows.  Not as much, but to me there is no acceptable level of wallowing.  I have the day off today. I slated this as a non-work day.  An off day.  A day to do what I wanted.  Well, that was my mistake (a common one, at that). Wallowers freeze when faced with time alone.  Indecision kicks in.  Should I catch on work anyway?  Should I chill out and read?  Should I do more exercise?  Get more yard work done?  There’s also this bed over here that serves as prime real estate for good ol’ fashioned wallowin’…

When you are healthier and you sort your thoughts, this isn’t such a big problem.  You don’t second guess every move you make because you have strong decision-making muscles already in place.  But if you are just thinking about the same problems over and over again, life itself becomes immeasurably more complicated.

There is another path.  Do.  Yeah, that’s the answer.  We are discovering more that the key to happiness is to engage in activities in which you lose yourself.  You block out the rest of the world and concentrate on a single task, whatever it is. Why do we crave this? Because during those precious minutes (or hours if we’re lucky), we’re NOT THINKING ABOUT ANYTHING.            

We can’t let our problems paralyze us.  Depression zaps your willingness to do things. Whatever strength you can muster to just do something: Work, clean, play guitar, walk your dog, talk to your friends, help somebody out with…well, anything at all. It’s easy to say, I know.  But like anything, it takes practice to get better. We have to spend time away from our issues.  They will be there once we are done.  The hope is we might find some insight in experiences outside of our skulls.

 I’d like to think that writing this is an action.  Technically, it could be construed as wallowing about wallowing, but I did type all of this shit.  That counts.  Plus, I got it out of my system.  Don’t agree?  Then you write something, smart-ass!

Why Dudes Don't Like Me (And Why Alphas Don't Like My Dog)

Really...who could hate this guy?

            I took my dog to the dog park a few years ago.  He’s been back since, once or twice, but the truth is, he hates it.  It’s a lovely little park in Hillsboro, named in honor of a fire department dog named Hondo. It’s fenced so that you can let your dog walk without a leash and mingle with the other dogs. Donovan, our black Lab, ran into the fenced area and was so excited to see all the people and their pets. (Donz is a bit of a spazz.) He was almost immediately spotted by a group of five or six dogs or so.  As a pack, they chased Donovan to one corner of the park. They barked, and I could see that not only were the dogs pissed at Donovan’s brazen entrance into the park, but my dog has rolled onto his back.  He was submissive.  We and the other pet owners had to pull the pack off of him. He was fine, but I knew he would never be the alpha and it would never be in his nature to challenge the alpha.

            We returned to the same park a month or two later, and Donovan never left our side. We sat on a bench and he hid underneath.  Poor dude.  He’s a people-dog. 

            I thought of this incident last year while in therapy.  I actually spent a few minutes talking about it.  The similarity to my personality was worth examining.  You see, it is my assertion that guys hate me.  Guys. Dudes. Men with ample testosterone.  I have a lifetime of examples to back this up, all starting when I was a little boy.  It’s not such an obvious distinction, either.  It’s not that I didn’t share the same hobbies and interests with dudes.  Sometimes I did.  But often I would get a glare, a vibe or a shitty comment from a dude when I was in his presence.  He smelled something on me.  Just like the dog pack smelled on Donovan.  I was low on the totem pole.  I’m not a challenger, and I’m not the leader.  There are only two categories left.  Female, or non-entity.

            The sense is that I disgust them. I don’t belong there. I’m not a jerk or an asshole.  I’m just...not worth their time. Luckily, I don’t spend a lot of time in their proximity.

            I can’t help this.  There isn’t a way around it.  It’s trapped in our lizard brains.  It’s the same archaic stimulus that tells you that someone is strong or sexy or creepy.  It’s a feeling.  I can’t say anything to convince you that I’m not submissive.  To a dude, all my attempts are just squeals and buzzes.

            However, to many women, I don’t get that reaction.  The same vibe is interpreted differently.  I am a safe man to be around.  It must be a whiff of something not unlike estrogen.  I’m a good guy, a good father, a responsible guy.  Women confide in me more often than men. And the men who confide in me are more or less like me.  There have been a few women who have given me similar looks as dudes.  My guess is that they subconsciously know I ‘m not the type of man they are attracted to and thereby I’m not a likely suitor.  This goes on a few levels deep of course.  In reality, they’re cool.  (I’ve learned it’s not a good idea to speculate what women are thinking about. I’m not that dumb.)

            Regardless, my ego wants to emulate the alphas in different ways. Even though I know the reality…I still have a brain that dreams big. I want to write heroic stories and be cool in front of everyone and have a big personality. I daydream about being bigger than life.  Then and only then will the alphas understand my true greatness!  But then my daydreaming is over.  I slink back to my home.  It’s comfy and cool.  Time to read another novel about time travel.

            My therapist said that these members of societies all have their roles to play.  Behaviorists have studied pack animals and these scenarios occur with every generation.  The fighters, the leaders, the hunters, and the nurturers all contribute to the whole.  Although I believe a human being can rise above his station, there is something about their brain wiring that always knows what kind of person he really is, deep down.

            Donovan and I stay behind.  We aren’t fighters.  Others are designed for confrontation and slaying the enemy. Not us.  We hang back. I think and write and raise my kids and read and learn and create and watch superhero movies.  Donovan…well, he sleeps and eats.  And steals my spot on the damn couch. 

The Day I Almost Punched an Old Man in the Face

This is what fighting is, right?

            If you are offended by salty language, you have officially been warned.  Because I’m letting it fly.

            I must give a brief explanation of job before I begin.  I am an independent contractor that takes photos of homes for insurance companies.  There is a bunch of boring construction terms involved, but half the day is driving around the beautiful Pacific Northwest, and the other half is computer, form, sketching stuff. I like it.  I make my own schedule and it gives me time to write.  There is only one downfall. I have to occasionally deal with assholes.

            It’s very rare.  I would say 1 out of 200 visits to homes have any type of negative interaction.  That’s a good ratio. Mostly I show up, nobody’s home.  I take photos and measurements of the areas I’m allowed to go, then I split. Easy.  That is essentially all you need to know.

            Also, this post isn’t about a story of a possible fight, it is about something that occurred in my brain.  It is a new development.  It is something that could only have experienced though therapy and anti-anxiety medication. 

             I arrived at a home in a rural area.  I knocked on the front door.  No one was there.  The home was not fenced, so I could do my thing.  I prepared to take my photos. An old man, corn-fed, in his sixties or so, shouted at me from about fifty feet away.  I figured it was a neighbor.  The other option was that the home was on the same property as the old man’s home.  Turned out, that’s exactly the situation.

            I said to the guy “Is this so-and-so address?” He did not answer me.  He continued toward me, beet-faced, shouting incoherently about notifications, and what I can’t do, and I don’t know what.  Normally, if there is a misunderstanding, I explain who I am to the homeowner and what I’m doing there, and the person says: “Oh, my mistake. I knew you were coming.”

            But this crusty ol’ bastard still approached me and something different happened inside.  Previously, altercations meant my flight instincts kicked in.  My heart rate went berserk, I lost the ability to communicate clearly, and then I felt like a pile of dogshit half an hour later. This time, I was much cooler.  I felt the adrenaline kick in, but it was maintained.  I was floating on top of the wave, rather than being buried by it.

            For a split second, I was ready to take a swing at this festering shitbag. He was too close, with anger that was all his own.  I was speaking in my softest voice. Suddenly, a feeling popped up out of nowhere.  I didn’t have the urge to run.  I wanted to beat the piss out of this grizzled old fuck.  But I wouldn’t.  I don’t take swings.  I don’t have to.  Plus, I need to keep this gig to pay the bills.

Instead, I broke his tirade by saying “Is this your house?”  It wasn’t twenty-first century, corporate friendly, Wal-Mart greeting in tone. It wasn’t receptionist at HR, clerk at the bank, all sugar-coated and empty. It was condescending.  I was cutting him off, because I wanted to get the hell out of there. It was 99% because the money’s not good enough to deal with country-fried pricks, and I’d like to think that the other 1% was because I wanted to pop this guy right in his dumb fuckin’ face. After he told me he owned the home, I got in my car and left without another word. (Okay, I said “Have a good day.” Doesn’t sound as cool, though.)

Remember, I’m not overjoyed by the violent intent, of which I had complete control. I don’t want to fight anyone.  It was the glimmer of self-value. I was happy that I walked away from this stupid situation doing exactly what I wanted to do. In the old days, my gut would make me slink away, feeling like I was at fault.  Now, there was something else in my body that told me that I didn’t have to put up with this shit.

            The moral is just that. Don’t put up with unnecessary shit. Say something or leave.  On your way home, you can imagine how you would have fought your way out of it. 

Sympathy: Redux

Insert snarky comment here.

            It started when David Bowie died.  Then Alan Rickman, Garry Shandling, and most recently, Prince. Wait, no, it began long before that.  Robin Williams. Maybe MCA. Jesus, maybe when George Carlin died in 2008? Kurt Vonnegut? Chris Farley, Phil Hartmann? Okay, well, at least we have a pattern.

            I never met any one of these people. Neither did you.  And if you did, it was a fleeting glance in public or maybe as an audience member.  I felt something when they died.  Not as much as when my grandmother died, but more then when I heard Nancy Reagan died. No offense to the former first lady, but truthfully I didn’t give a shit about her. 

            Is that cruel?  No.  Not really.  But it is my point.

            Something about these people touched us, even though we weren’t family or friends.  It was an artistic connection between artist and observer. It was through the mysterious impact of laughter. Or, as in the case with Prince, we have memories of our own lives tied with their work.  I own Purple Rain. That’s it. I always meant to buy 1999, but I never got around to it. I always thought of him as someone cool and there were dozens of singles I thought were awesome, but he didn’t crack my top 20 favorite musicians.  However, Prince was the 1980’s.  He and Madonna split the 1980’s by being everywhere all the time with new songs, new looks, and shitty movies.  You can’t explain the time in which I grew up without a Prince song in there, somewhere.

            So when he died I felt gut-punched.  I respected Bowie just as much, but I didn’t grow up with him. The image of Prince is permanently stamped in my brain; with all his weirdo clothes and his band of freaks backing him up.  I felt a loss of where I came from. Like having your old school torn down. (Which also happened, by the by.)

            The point?  This mass display of loss and grief, no matter how great or small, is a good thing.  Tears, swearing, dedications, memorials…it is all a good thing.  All of it.  It is something we need at our very core.  The benefits are innumerable.  My particular favorite is that these outpourings of emotion bring us together.  Even for a few days. 

            What grinds my soul like a pestle to mortar are the people who balk at these feelings.  They accuse others of piggybacking on a tragedy to get attention.  These cold, callus people question the so-called love or fandom of those of us feeling a sense of loss.  My retort to these heartless assholes would be one word: So?

            Who gives a shit whether someone is vicariously feeling something through a distant tragedy?  Why do you care?  Maybe these people need a release?  Maybe the tragedy brings something up inside them that you don’t see because you are hollowed-out husk of a human being.  The rest of us are overwhelmed, scared and sensitive people who desperately search for those few, beautiful, true moments in our lives that aren’t about bills and bullshit.

            Sometimes, I am so thankful that I wear my emotions on my sleeve.  I cry at movies.  Certain songs still give me goosebumps.  I get excited for things. Loud. Passionate. Goofy.  I makes me feel alive and awake.  It’s worth it to have to mourn the passing of some of the people that inspired or entertained me.  They left a mark on me and I don’t want to forget it.  

Attention Starved (Or, How I Failed Driver's Ed)

Lighten up, Francis.

I’ve told this story a dozen times in my life and everyone reacts in the same way. “How the hell can you fail Driver’s Ed?” I wish it was a simple answer, and one that was much funnier than what I’m about to lay down. 

I took Driver’s Ed in tenth grade.  In a half-year class, we would split between ridiculously easy and redundant classwork and driving cars in a parking lot.  Passing the class meant you would receive your Florida driver license, and all you would need is to go to the DMV and have a crappy picture taken. Everyone did it, and I took the class assuming I would do the same.  I aced the classwork, but when it came to going out to make sudden stop maneuvers and parallel parking, I froze.  I sat and watched as everyone else took turns slowly learning how to drive in leased Oldsmobiles.

The teachers were coaches first and foremost, and when I just sat to the side when it was time for practice, they just ignored me. I refused to go and they allowed me to do so. Day after day. For weeks.  When the semester was over, they gave me the failing grade I deserved.

Why didn’t I drive?  I was petrified.  Why didn’t anyone offer to help?  I don’t know.  I was fifteen and scared of everything.  I wasn’t just afraid of cars, I was afraid of adults, other kids, school, the world…  But it didn’t matter.  I did the same thing in my Chemistry class.  I remember a hand-written progress report to this day.  After an “F” was circled for my grade, it read: “Reads novels in class.”  He was right.  I was in my Stephen King phase.  It, to be specific.

So, what did my parents say when they saw my grade?  Ah, now we’re getting somewhere.  They said nothing because they never saw my grades. They never saw them because they never asked for them. My brother and I grew up in an environment where we weren’t exactly the focus of the household goings-on.  Sometimes, I believe, we weren’t even an afterthought.

But this isn’t about bashing my parents. It’s about attention.  I needed it and I never got it.  We like to believe as adults that there is a way we can suck it up and just own the shortcomings of our upbringing.  There is a strength is realizing what you lacked and then moving on with your own life as you see fit.  I’m on board with that.  But, there are a few wrinkles to that process.  The primary one is that if your ability to own your problems in itself was affected by the events of your past.  It’s like conducting brain surgery on yourself. (No, it’s not…terrible simile.)

When I was thirteen, a few years before my ill-fated Driver’s Ed class, in the snowy confines of Upstate New York, I was sledding with my cousins.  My brother and I spent the afternoon riding on snowmobiles, dragging behind them and having a good time.  When we were about ready to pack it in, I remember sitting at the bottom of a small incline in my aunt and uncle’s back forty.  I was alone; everyone else was heading inside.  For some reason, I feigned an injury.  I think I may have rolled my ankle, but I wanted to pretend that it was more severe. I wanted to wait right there until someone noticed I was gone.  Eventually, my cousin came back and gave me a ride on the snowmobile.  I think of that moment all of the time.  I wanted so desperately for someone to miss me.

When you need attention and you don’t get it, it is like you are a non-person.  You think of yourself as invisible and not worthy of anyone’s time.  If you take up someone’s time, you constantly feel as if you are intruding.  You don’t belong there because you don’t belong anywhere.

 I failed Driver’s Ed because I was anxious, and I accepted that no one helping me through it was how things should be. I was used to being unnoticed.  I look back and I’m pissed at those asshole football coaches disguised as teachers, but I mostly have a melancholy feeling. I was sitting there, alone. So many hours wasted feeling like a pile of dog poop.  For no reason at all.

If you’ve met me, it doesn’t take long to figure out I’ve lived a long life of attention- grabbing.  I loved comedy and comedians, I like to perform, I like to be funny and tell stories and be open and silly.  That’s not the entirety of me, but it’s a sizable chunk. I also married someone who requires almost no attention, leaving me to own the room, in a sense.  I might not need the attention like I used to, but it is so ingrained in my personality that I don’t know how I would separate it from myself.  Sooner or later, I guess we do become our defense mechanisms.

I hate projecting my issues on the world, but I have to think there are millions of people who would be convinced to make better choices if they just have someone listening to them. It’s not a universal cure; but just imagine if more people felt noticed, appreciated, heard.  This, in particular, kills me when I think of it because it is so easy to fix.  It doesn’t need congressional approval or a budget.  It’s a people thing. It can be accomplished for free.  Reach out to those who have a hard time doing so.  Communicate.  Listen.  These are all basic actions that we could all benefit from.

The following summer, I took Driver’s Ed and got an A.  I believe the way I got through it the second time was to think to myself: Failing Driver’s Ed is stupid.  Let’s not do that again.